by Alma Boykin
Almost an hour later, a tiny yellow speck appeared in the soft blue spring sky. It grew larger and dove for the aerodrome as if to land. Andrew felt his heart nearly stop as the plane smoothly zoomed up and rolled before circling around and coming in to touch down. As it taxied up, Wales could hear Spots and Cdr. Na Gael laughing. “You minx!”
“Me or Phoebe?” the xenologist challenged.
Spots folded himself out of the plane as the airscrew clunked slower and slower, then stopped. “The pair of you. You really were a fighter pilot, weren’t you?”
“Does it show?” The silver-grey eye danced with mischief as Na Gael accepted his hand getting out of the bird. “You of all people should know that there’s no cure for an addiction to aviation, Spots.”
He started to answer, then saw Lt. Wales walking towards them with Rachel’s cane in hand. All laughter drained from his face and he started stepping backwards. Rachel rested her hand on his arm, speaking quietly and quickly as Wales stopped. Spots tried to relax, and his passenger handed him something, hugging him quickly before limping over to meet the watching soldier. Spots turned back and began looking over the plane as Rachel all but dragged the younger man behind her.
“Nothing personal, Wales,” she assured him, taking back her walking stick, “but your uniform calls up too many memories. Spots served with the regiment in the early 2000s. We had a rather nasty mission and he was one of three survivors of the rear guard, and that barely.”
“Understood, ma’am.” They trotted back out the aerodrome gate to find an Athelstan waiting for them.
Corporal Patel waved to them. “Got radio contact and a report of missing people north of the Border, so the colonel went ahead, ma’am. Left orders for you.”
“I’m sure she did.” Wales helped her into the back of the scout vehicle and then clambered in, wedging himself onto the softest thing he could find. They raced up the A-56 as Rachel spoke quickly with Col. Selassie. Wales couldn’t hear anything over the road noise, so he closed his eyes for a moment.
Quiet enveloped the vehicle and Wales startled, only to find three people grinning at his expense. “Wakey, wakey, Lieutenant,” Na Gael ordered. “We won’t tell—promise.” He felt his face burning, and he tried to gather a little bit of dignity about him. “All right gents, back to work,” Rachel said, and the quartet piled out of the vehicle. They’d parked at the edge of a valley, along a gravel track leading into green-black pine trees. Around the stand of trees, bare moorland rose into rocky cliffs, and brown and white dots drifted over the grass and heather. The wind brought a faint “baaaaa” from the sheep.
“Wonder ‘ow many there are,” Corporal Patel half-asked, looking from the sheep to Lt. Wales, who felt himself turning warm again. Before he could sputter a response, Rachel cleared her throat, saving him from further teasing. The soldiers and their advisor walked to the waiting Col. Selassie.
“Good. Manx One, you stay here for now, until the perimeter and approaches are secure. You others catch up with your groups.” She waved Wales and his charge over to the command vehicle. “Here’s what we’ve found, Manx One. It landed on the edge of a marsh in the center of the forest, doing some damage but not a great deal. Only one, though. What you thought might be outriders seem to be containers of some sort, but we’re just watching them for the moment. ‘No poking it’ this time,” she said, quoting one of the alien’s oft-repeated phrases. “We’ve been unable to establish communications thus far, but we’re still trying. No energy shields yet, and nothing has emerged from the main ship.”
The two women’s matter-of-fact attitude helped settle some of the young soldier’s nerves. Only then did it strike him that this was a real extraterrestrial vehicle, with real space aliens in it! He also realized for the first time just how short Commander Na Gael was. Desta Selassie stood at least twenty centimeters taller than her advisor, probably closer to thirty. Equally lean, the two women sported nearly opposite coloring—Na Gael so pale as to be nearly white, but with brown-black hair and eyebrows, and the Ethiopian officer with dark brown skin and black hair touched with gray. They made a striking pair of opposites, Wales thought. Then the radio coughed, pulling everyone’s attention away.
“Command Two, Boer Three, over.”
Selassie gestured for Rachel to listen in as she replied, “Boer Three, go ahead.”
“Roger. Boer Three has strangers in sight. They appear humanoid. Three thus far. No signs of hostility or of equipment yet, over.”
“Roger. Confirm the strangers are humanoid?”
“Affirmative, Command Two.”
Selassie muted her mic and she and Rachel conferred quickly and quietly. “Boer Three, Manx One and Two are inbound. Standard protocol pending Manx arrival, over.”
“Command Two, Wilco, Boer Three.”
Wales followed the xenologist from tree trunk to bush as she moved through the shadows of the pine plantation. She set a rapid pace, and he struggled to move as quietly—he seemed to be following a ghost. They stopped at the edge of the trees and peered into the bright, open area of the marsh and stream. Na Gael pointed with her stick toward a hummock of grass. Something flashed in reply and she led Wales along the tree line, then dropped into a crouch and eased up into contact with Boer Three. “Whatcha’ got?”
The scout corporal pointed toward a matte silver-and-black shape that took up much of the marsh. Commander Na Gael studied it, then pulled her PDA out of the pouch on her belt and tapped the screen with a stylus. She flicked through a few images before finding the right one. The woman frowned, waved away some midges, then frowned again before turning the box off and putting it back. “No help that.” She froze, and Wales swore that he could see her hair trying to stand on end. She radiated tension, and all her attention locked onto the ship until she practically vibrated, like a hunting dog on point.
“What is it, Manx One?” the scout whispered, reaching to ease the safety off his rifle, just in case.
“Someone’s just left from inside the ship.” She dug out the PDA and whipped through the screens until she found what looked like the read-out on a music mixer. She looked at the two men and showed them the display. “That red spike is the departure energy disturbance.” Again she cleared the screen and stowed the device, then propped herself up on her elbows, trying to get a clearer view. “Where’s the entrance?”
“Unknown, Manx One. Three humanoids walked around this way, then went back inside or are on the other side of the ship,” the scout said. “Here.” He showed Wales and the xenologist a picture.
“Can you enlarge that?” Wales asked. Something about the armor seemed wrong. “The upper body part,” he specified. Boer Three fiddled with the image and zoomed in on the black-and-matte-silver chest plates and shoulders. “Yes,” the officer hissed, “that’s it. That’s Russian. Brand new design, first reported back in February.”
“Can’t be, Manx Two. They came from the vehicle and the vehicle came from outer space,” the corporal protested quietly.
The men looked at the woman stretched out between them. She’d pulled a monocular from another belt case and studied the ship. “Down,” she ordered, reaching over and pushing Wales with her free hand. He peered through the damp grass, forgetting to breathe as the figure from the photo appeared. If only he could get a better look! Then he remembered the zoom feature on his helmet rangefinder and used that to magnify the bipedal figure. And to magnify the grass, which promptly blocked his view until Andrew pushed a few errant blades out of the way with his fingers. Sure enough, he recognized the dimpling around the neck opening, and the odd shoulder-mounted latch in the left side top of the chest plate.
He felt a hand on his upper arm and heard the xenologist’s voice in his head. «Can you hear me? Raise two fingers if you can.» Both he and Boer Three signaled affirmative and the voice continued, «Good. Manx Two, is that Russian armor? Think your answer as clearly as you can.»
«Yes,» Wales replied. «It is Russian.» The individual t
hey were watching made a perimeter sweep, disappearing around the far side of the ship again.
«Boer Three, nothing is impossible. And I really need to get into that ship.» The scout made some hand motions and Rachel responded in kind, then began sliding backward through the grass. Wales followed as she picked her way as far along the woods as she could, then scooted along the brush. He glanced back to see that Boer Three had risen up and was obviously studying the ship through binoculars, acting as a diversion.
“All right, Manx Two. I have point, follow close. I need to download data from the ship’s computers if at all possible, and to confirm what it was that left.”
“Ma’am, you’re supposed to remain clear. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it,” he protested quietly.
“You can’t, because I don’t know precisely which equipment to look for. Watch—don’t touch unless I tell you it’s OK,” the woman ordered, her tones cutting off further protest. “If things go balls up and I tell you to run, get out of the ship as fast as possible.” They slunk along until they reached the still-warm hull of the ship. Scorch marks from reentry blended into the torn, scorched marsh plants around the vessel, and Wales wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench. Rachel studied the vehicle closely, especially around the entry hatch, and she leaned her cane against the metal. Then the small xenologist flashed a hand signal for “follow,” and he did his best to ease along in her footsteps.
Part of the soldier’s mind screamed that they were violating at least half a dozen of the rules of combat practice that he’d been taught, including not clearing a doorway before entering a structure housing known hostiles. Instead Rachel just eased in, ears alert and rotating, head moving as she looked for any presence, living or robotic. Wales concentrated on what happened behind them and on trying to hear anything over his pounding heart and fast breathing. The metallic panels lining the walls of the ship magnified any sound, including that of his boots on the perforated floor. Wales crouched down and brushed the floor with his fingertips, feeling a rubbery coating that should have muted sounds instead of amplifying them. Ahead of him, the xenologist paused and studied her PDA again, while her escort watched behind them.
“This way,” the small figure gestured, tipping her head toward a bend in the corridor. They slid around the curve and found a welcome committee. She spoke in a guttural-sounding language, addressing the five men standing in a larger open chamber.
“Try again, bitch,” one of them replied in Russian-accented English, raising a pistol. “You’re ours.”
This was not supposed to be happening! Wales managed to keep his head as Rachel snarled, “Manx Two, how much have you trained in close quarter combat?”
“Very little,” he admitted reluctantly. Five to two seemed like acceptable odds, maybe. The other men started raising their weapons, apparently reluctant to fire first.
“Thought so. Keep any more from coming through the hatch!” She charged the humans, catching them by surprise and pulling their attention away from the officer. Wales desperately wanted to go after her, but stayed where he was and kept his attention on the hatch, rifle at the ready.
Rachel, despite her handicaps, tore into the gaggle of fighters. It wasn’t pretty, not like the choreographed violence of a film or training exercise. She drew a concealed knife and threw herself onto one of the smaller men, knocking him backward, out of the loose half-circle. Her right hand moved twice, and he gurgled as blood fountained up from the gaping wound in his throat. Rachel kept moving, back on her feet, lunging into a gap between two of the remaining men. The third, now separated from the others, started to go after the woman, but then hesitated. Thunder roared and he dropped dead as Wales shot the stranger before returning his attention to the hatchway.
Rachel’s lips pulled back in a feral snarl as she waded back into the horrified humans. They had not anticipated an attack, and she used their shock and lack of training against them. She drew and fired as she moved, and the biggest man’s head vanished in a mist of red. She ignored the spattering and sizzling remains, but the dead man’s associates could not. One soiled himself as he fled, leaving Rachel facing a single opponent. The Wanderer debated for an instant, then offered, “Surrender?”
“No,” and he reached for something in his jacket pocket. The alien fired as she moved, putting a shot into his chest as she knocked his arm away with her knife hand. The body hit the deck and twitched a little. Rachel glanced over to make sure that Wales was still watching the entrance before activating her pistol’s safety and holstering it. She pulled the device out of the man’s pocket and studied it: cell phone. On a hunch, she prized the back open and removed a short-range signal transmitter, which she deactivated and then crushed under her boot heel.
“Good work, Manx Two,” she said, then hid a smile. “Yarf in the corner please, out of the traffic lane,” she instructed the young man, busying herself with stripping the dead of their weapons and any other useful items while the officer lost his breakfast, dinner, and possibly the previous night’s supper as well, going by the sound. “Never seen a knife-fight, have you?”
Wales wiped his mouth and scrubbed the back of his hand against his leg. “No.” He didn’t trust himself to say more at that moment, afraid to open his mouth in case he got sick again. Rachel wiped her knife carefully, checking the blade for something before sliding it back into the top of her boot. She held up a set of spare magazines and tossed them to him. They matched his pistol, and he tucked them into a pocket without thinking. He didn’t want to think, and forced himself to forget that four bodies—which had very recently been living men—lay in a messy sprawl in the corridor. “You’ve done th-this before, ma’am.”
“Yes. Talk later—we need to get the data and get out,” she reminded him firmly, tipping her head toward the side-chamber. “Keep your eyes and ears open, and don’t let anyone interrupt me, please. There are re-enforcements coming.”
Ours or theirs? Wales wondered a little plaintively.
The next corridor opened into a space roughly five meters by five meters, empty aside from a small box resting on the floor. The xenologist ignored the box, instead studying the wall, opening a loose panel and muttering to herself. “Get behind me, Manx Two,” she said, raising her voice a little, then went back to looking inside the panel. Wales skirted along the wall until he could take up a position between her and the two entrances to the chamber. He heard footsteps coming from where they’d just been and crouched, raising his rifle to cover the door.
“Whisker,” a voice spoke in Wales’s earpiece.
“Hairball,” he confirmed.
Behind him, an annoyed voice muttered, “Disrespectful bastards.” Louder, she warned, “Do not touch the beacon in the middle of the floor unless you want hostile company.”
Lt. Calhoun and three soldiers made their way cautiously into the chamber, avoiding the center of the room. “Report,” Calhoun said, and Wales gave a highly condensed version of the past half hour.
“Blaze One, the engine room is in the next compartment. I recommend securing it,” the Wanderer advised, still not looking up from whatever she was doing with the thing inside the panel.
“Manx One, Command Three wants to know if this will lift off with us inside.” Calhoun waved his squad on towards the designated compartment as he waited for an answer.
“It can’t—the navigation center went out for lunch.” She looked over to find the two officers staring at her. “What?”
“The navigation center went out for lunch?” Calhoun sounded incredulous and Wales hid a smile behind his free hand.
Commander Na Gael nodded. “The power plant could still explode if someone bumps the wrong thing, but the nav system was slaved to a secondary telemetry controller and . . .” A fog of confusion settled over the humans and Rachel cut the explanation short. “The nav system has been removed. The ship can’t leave until it’s returned.”
“Understood.” Blaze One relayed the information to Major Sigurdss
on before following his troopers into the next room. “Don’t touch that!” Wales heard the American insisting.
“Egress,” and Commander Na Gael matched actions to words, at least until they reached the remains of the four humans. “Go on. I need to get samples to confirm their genetics.” She removed a tool and glassine baggie from one of the pouches on her belt, then knelt down beside the closest body. Wales continued on far enough to be able to watch the passageway but not see what the xenologist was doing. “Still feeling peaked?”
“A little, Manx One,” he admitted, teeth clenched.
She finished tucking her tools and samples out of sight and reconfirmed the shots remaining in her blast pistol. “That’s normal, Manx Two. You should feel queasy.” The small woman took the lead again, passing members of the tech-salvage group on the way in. The xenologist and her escort emerged into the warm early-summer sun, and it took Wales a moment to reorient himself. Commander Na Gael rustled around in the grass until she found her walking cane. “Let’s go harass Command Two and then get some tea, shall we?” He stared at her, amazed at the rapid changes in her personality and demeanor, shook his head at the bizarreness of it all, and followed, mindful of all the activity around the ship.
They emerged from the woods to find three senior officers waiting to debrief them. Col. Selassie and Major Sigurdsson stood next to the command vehicle, the Icelander shaking his head at something. “You’re sure it is Russian?”
“Very sure. At least the armor is—it’s the latest from the government development lab,” a female voice reported. “The dimples around the neck are part of an experimental cooling system. They are the only ones who use it at the moment.”
Wales smiled at having his judgment confirmed, and the xenologist slapped him on the shoulder. “Good call, Manx Two.”
Command Two and Three spun around at the sound of Rachel’s voice. “You,” Selassie barked. “And your guard. Over here.” She led the way around the back of the command vehicle. Rachel and Lt. Wales turned the corner to find General Khan waiting for them.
