Vessel

by Andrew J. Morgan

  All at once, Sally felt something inside her, something she didn't understand. It was a warm uncertainty, a feeling that, even though her future was indistinct, everything would be okay. She savoured the moment, and the lingering warmth on the backs of her hands. 'How do you know all this?' she asked.

  Mikhail shrugged. 'I just do. I have these thoughts and ideas that appear in my head. One minute they aren't there; the next they are.'

  Sally wondered who Mikhail really was. Was he still Mikhail? Was he still human? Or was he something else? She realised she didn't care. She liked him just the way he was, whatever he was. They talked long into the night, sharing stories between them. Well, Sally told the stories while Mikhail smiled and laughed in the right places, frowned and shook his head with disbelief in the others. She poured herself out to him like she'd never done to anyone before, told him things that had been bottled up inside her for as long as she could remember. When she told him about the death of her mother, he leaned in towards her and held her for a few fleeting moments. She felt a tight knot in her shoulders that had gone unnoticed for weeks — maybe even years — unwind as if it were nothing.

  'You've been through a lot to get to where you are now,' Mikhail said, holding his untouched carton of apple juice.

  Sally smiled. She never saw herself as a martyr or a hero, or even a cause for sympathy, but it was nice to have her hardships recognised. She had fought with such defiance for so long to push through the barriers of gender and intelligence that contested her every move on Earth. It was a constant battle that never had any time for the weakness of emotion, so she had hardened herself without realising it, built up an armoured shell that was held in place by the twisted bindings of insecurity and stubbornness. But with Mikhail, that armour fell away, and she wasn't afraid to leave her weaknesses exposed to him.

  'Do you remember anything else about where you came from?' she asked him, to which he shuffled, looking uncomfortable.

  'I — I think I do. I can't be sure. When I think too hard about it, I get these headaches' — he rubbed his temples — 'but they're not that bad. It's a strain to think, but the more I do, the more I remember, and with it comes knowledge I never even knew I had.'

  'Can you tell me what it's like?'

  Mikhail looked confused. 'What do you mean?'

  'I mean, can you tell me what it's like to be — well, to be the first human to communicate with extra-terrestrial life?'

  Mikhail grinned. 'I'm not the first. And I won't be the last. They've spoken to you, but at the moment you just can't hear it. Give it time, and the words will come. Listen, and you will hear.'

  Sally hoped beyond hope that he would continue talking. She was enthralled.

  'It's like opening your eyes for the first time,' Mikhail said, 'when up to then you have merely been dreaming.'

  'Will my eyes ever be open?'

  Mikhail stroked her hair, running his fingers down her face and under her chin. 'Yes, they will. When you're ready.'

  * * *

  In downtown Moscow, Detective Inspector Yefim Banin flicked through a file that had been dropped on his desk that morning. It annoyed him, partly because he was already rushed off his feet, and partly because he hadn't done traffic incidents in nearly twenty years.

  Reopened case, the post-it note stuck to the front said. Chief wants you on it. Get it done quick.

  He took a sip of his watery tea and grimaced. As he read through the file, he built up the scene in his mind: Lev Ryumin, former RFSA Flight Director, got drunk and ran his car off the road and into a ditch, hitting a telegraph pole that collapsed the roof, killing him instantly. Bad luck.

  But the forensics department had found traces of someone else's skin on Ryumin's body, and now the case file was on Banin's desk. Why were forensics even looking at the body at this late hour? The case had been shut ages ago. What a waste of time.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the Chief's extension. It rang, and was answered by a young woman: the Chief's secretary.

  'Chief Inspector Azurov's office, how can I help?'

  'It's Banin.'

  'Oh, hello — how are you?'

  'I'm okay. Actually I'm not okay. I've been assigned to some goddamn re-opened forensic bullshit case, and I'm already up to my eyeballs in dead bodies.'

  'Oh dear — I suppose you want to speak to the Chief Inspector, then?'

  'That would be wonderful.'

  'I'll put you through. You mind yourself and don't go getting into any trouble.'

  The phone bleeped, then rung. What did she mean, don't go getting into any trouble? He was old enough to be her father, yet she was treating him like he was her son.

  'Azurov.'

  'It's Banin.'

  'Banin. I thought you might call.'

  'Then why did you do it? Why did you put me on this stupid case?'

  'I need this one out the door. Gone, and quick. You can do that for me, can't you?'

  'Why? It's been done already. Did you read the file? Drunk guy crashed his car. Died. End of.'

  'Come on, Banin — you don't think I know that?'

  'So what's going on?'

  Azurov sighed. 'This one's come from central. They've reopened the case. I don't —'

  'But what —'

  '— I don't know why, but they have, and so I'm passing it down to you. The main suspect is a fugitive by the name of Aleks Dezhurov, a friend and work colleague of the deceased's. Central says he did it, and now I need you to go and put the pieces together. That's an order.'

  'But I —'

  'No more buts. I need this done yesterday.'

  Banin wanted to tell him no, but he couldn't. 'Alright, I'll do it. But you owe me.'

  'I'll get the drinks in for the rest of the week, how about that?'

  'It's Friday already.'

  'Then you'd better get your drinking hat on.'

  Banin laughed and hung up. He flicked through the file once more, stopping at the picture of the car, upside down and mangled, wrapped around the telegraph pole.

  'What a mess,' he said, tossing it onto his desk.

  Chapter 23

  The weather flying home was not as calm as it was flying out. If it weren't for the constant battle to keep his innards down, Sean would have been terrified by the way the small plane was being tossed about by the angry sky. Death wouldn't have been unwelcome, and the journey was the longest, most torturous thing Sean had ever done. There was more than one occasion where he regretted the trip, and he had to remind himself over and over — between trying not to hurl — that the information he had uncovered, however small, was valuable beyond reckoning.

  The European coastline was a welcome sight, and Sean thanked every deity he could thing of for his safe arrival. From there, the hop over to Moscow was a breeze, and one that he slept through without stirring.

  'I hope I never meet you or your tin-pot plane ever again,' he said, shaking McBride's hand, 'but thank you for getting me there and back in one piece all the same.'

  'It was my pleasure,' McBride said.

  Sean had a bit of a walk to the nearest payphone — he'd decided not to use his satellite phone any more in case that too was being tracked — and his feet felt like two distant nubs by the time he reached it. Two miles, maybe four, he'd walked, on a stomach that could not be any emptier.

  'Aleks?' he said when the call was answered.

  'Sean — you're back! How are you?'

  'Come and get me and I'll tell you everything.'

  Sean wasn't true to his word. As soon as he arrived at Grigory's, he flopped onto the sofa and fell asleep, a state he managed to maintain for over fourteen hours. When he awoke, he felt better, but starving hungry.

  'Oh god …' he groaned, struggling to lift his aching limbs. He could still feel the plane tossing him about even now.

  'How are you this morning?' Aleks asked him from the kitchen.

  'Just south of dead,' Sean said, sitting, then waiting for his head to catch up.
'Would you mind getting me a coffee, please?'

  'Sure.'

  'Where are Novitskiy and Grigory?'

  'Out hunting.'

  Aleks heated the kettle on the hob and made Sean a fresh coffee. Sean sipped at it, relishing the soothing warmth as it spread to his extremities, chasing his aches and pains away. 'This tastes awful,' he said. 'When's Grigory coming back? His is much better.'

  Aleks snorted. 'I'm glad you like it.'

  Then it all came back to Sean in an instant: the plane, the taxi ride, the old people's home, the story Todd had told him — everything. He burned the roof of his mouth as he took an over-large swig of coffee in his surprise. 'Ow!' he said, fanning his mouth and blowing.

  'Are you okay?' Aleks asked, looking concerned as he put dry dishes away.

  'Yeah, fine. Just burned my mouth.'

  'Can I get you some water?'

  The heat tingled and stung Sean's skin. 'No, I'll be fine.'

  'So what did you find out in America?'

  'She's dead.'

  'Ruth?' Aleks asked, as he brought Sean a glass of water anyway.

  Sean drank it, the cool liquid soothing his mouth. 'Yeah. Died in her sleep apparently.'

  'Natural causes?'

  'I asked, they said yes.'

  'Do you believe them?'

  'I think so. There was no need to lie.'

  Aleks folded his arms, looking thoughtful. 'Is it true? Do you think she was there?'

  'At Roswell? Yes. She saw UV One, or something like it. But they destroyed it.'

  'Why?'

  'It was doing things to people, turning them crazy. They must have all died because of it — Bales' father included. Well, all except Ruth.'

  'Why wasn't Ruth affected?'

  'I don't know.'

  'How did they destroy it?'

  'I don't know that either. But Bales does. He knows what happened, he knows it killed his father, and he wants revenge at whatever cost.'

  Aleks flopped down next to Sean and folded his arms. 'That confirms it,' he said. 'Bales wants to destroy UV One, and the station with it.'

  'It certainly looks that way. And we've only got a week left until it happens.'

  'What are we going to do now?'

  'I think we've done enough research,' Sean said. 'Now it's time to get this story on the front cover of every newspaper, magazine, blog and pamphlet before it's too late.'

  * * *

  'What a dump,' Banin said, pulling his all-weather coat tight around him. It was raining that fine kind of rain that soaked through even the most waterproof of materials. He knew it was raining when he left the office, yet somehow he'd still forgotten his umbrella. Stupid case, he thought. I should be back at my desk, where it's dry. He blew at the bulging drop hanging from his nose, only for another to take its place. 'So this is where it happened?'

  He needn't have asked: the long row of neat telegraph poles was interrupted by one leaning at a drunken angle. At its base, the dull, fume-stained wood had fresh scars gouged from it, and a few red paint streaks, too. The car that did the damage was long gone.

  'That's right sir,' the accompanying police officer said. 'Came straight off the road about here' — he pointed to a scuffed section of kerb — 'and down into this ditch here. Poor bastard. Such bad luck to hit this pole. If he'd stayed on the road a fraction longer or come off a fraction earlier, he'd have missed it.'

  An articulated truck whooshed by, spraying them both.

  'Is it okay if I go and sit in the car while you look, sir?'

  Banin nodded, and the police officer darted back to the cruiser.

  Bad luck indeed, Banin thought, stumbling down the roadside ditch to study the pole. The officer was right. It wasn't in the base, it was sprouting from the bank, and hitting it was the worst feat of bad luck imaginable. The road was dead straight, too, and quiet. How had he come off in a straight line?

  He trudged up the bank, his boots sinking into the slimy mud, back to the road where Ryumin's bad fortune had started. The rain would have washed any skid marks away by now, but he knew from the file photos that there hadn't been any, which struck him as odd. There was, however, the section of kerb that had been chewed away, the sign of a car hitting it at speed and grinding straight over the top. Tracing an imaginary line from the pole to the damaged kerb, he waited for a car to pass before following it into the road, where something caught his eye. He bent down to pick it up, then jogged heavy and wet back to the verge before a truck ran him down. He opened his hand and turned the object over. It was a fragment of broken headlamp glass, clean, sharp and fresh.

  * * *

  Sean's stomach churned as he watched the passing metropolis through the taxi window. He hadn't been this nervous in a long time — scared, yes, but not nervous like this. He shifted on the cracked leather, looking but not seeing, his mind distracting his thoughts elsewhere.

  He was due to meet an old friend, James Aspen, who was working as editor-in-chief at the Moscow Times. Not only did James have control of the Moscow Times, he was also well loved and respected throughout the industry, and had the potential to be a valuable tipping point in getting the story out. Aleks and the others had offered to come with him, but he was glad he'd refused them. It wasn't safe in the density of the city with nowhere to hide, but the risk he was running wasn't what made his stomach turn: it was UV One.

  The more he thought about it, the more ludicrous it seemed. An old woman, dead of course, who'd had a UFO encounter, and a young woman, who no one knew or cared about, having the same experience all over again. He knew it was true in his heart, yet he couldn't douse the rising feeling of doubt in his guts that made him want to tap the driver on the shoulder and ask him to turn the taxi around. He sat back in his seat and dabbed nervous sweat from his cheeks with the back of his sleeve.

  When the taxi pulled up outside the Moscow Times building, he checked his watch; he had an hour to kill before the meeting. He paid the driver and got out, crossed the street to a ream of blaring horns, and slipped into a coffee shop. No sooner had he ordered a coffee and sat down when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He had an email from James.

  Can you meet me somewhere else? I don't think it's best we meet at head office.

  James

  That was fair enough. Sean tapped out his reply and sent it.

  The earthiness of his coffee soothed his nerves as he waited, and when the phone buzzed again, he wasn't feeling anywhere near as bad.

  Great. Meet me at The Beijing Tiger restaurant in ten minutes.

  James

  Sean looked at his watch; it was half eleven. Taking a last mouthful of coffee, he gathered up his phone and his bag, and left the shop. Ten minutes was enough time to walk to The Beijing Tiger, so he threaded his way through the streets and alleys on foot. He could get a bite to eat while he was there.

  Nestled between a fabric shop and a Jewish deli, The Beijing Tiger was a sorry sight. The plastic golden tiger above the sign was as faded and cracked as it had ever been, and the waft of hot sweet-and-sour sauce hit him as soon as he opened the door. The restaurant may have been old, but it was a place he knew well, many a hazy memory gathered under its eaves. The maître d' bowed his head, and Sean nodded in return. 'Good afternoon.'

  'Good afternoon, sir. Would you like to eat in or take away?'

  'I've got a lunch with James — James Aspen. Is he here?'

  'Yes sir. Come right this way.'

  Sean followed the waiter into the bowels of the dark, empty restaurant. It was a strange atmosphere: it wasn't exactly dingy, but this was no family eatery. In the corner, he could just about make out James sat at a table, and he gave him a nod. James looked grim.

  'Hi, James, how are you doing?' Sean said, shaking his hand as he rose to greet him.

  'I'm good, Sean, I'm good,' James said, although his usually friendly face was a little ashen. Perhaps it was the light, or lack thereof.

  They sat, and the waiter gave Sean a menu, then left them t
o decide. James already had a menu, but he seemed to be looking through it rather than at it.

  'How have you been?' Sean said, and James gave a small sideways jerk of his head.

  'Not bad,' he said. 'I understand you've been getting involved with the US Department of Defence?'

  He looked at Sean, his eyes hollow and searching. Sean struggled to read whether they expressed concern, or whether they were admonishing him.

  'That's right …' he said, the uncomfortable feeling building in his stomach again. 'How do you know about that?'

  James slapped his menu on the table. 'Come on, Sean, everyone knows. You've practically got a price on your head. What are you doing messing around with high level stuff like this?'

  Sean couldn't believe it. This didn't seem like the James he knew. Something had spooked him. 'This is what we do, remember? We investigate, we report, we make public the affairs that concern the people and their future — is that something you've forgotten?'

  'No,' he said, 'but this is too much. You've got to know when to draw the line.'

  'You don't even know what's going on here,' Sean said, struggling to keep his building frustration under control.

  James looked him in the eye with a stare that took him aback. There was fear in it. 'I know what's going on. The whole board does. I don't know whether to believe it or not, but frankly, if we are on the brink of some alien invasion, I think the public would do better to be kept in the dark.'

  Sean shook his head, flabbergasted. He couldn't believe it — he'd respected James for a long, long time. The man sat in front of him could've been someone else by the way he was acting. 'You've given in too, huh?'

  'Sean, don't …'

  'Tell me, James,' Sean said, leaning close and jabbing the table with his finger, 'what happened to the dignity of professional journalism? Why are you, and everybody else in this damn industry folding like a wet deck of cards?'

  James balled his fists, and at first Sean thought he was going to strike, but then he realised he was trying to hold back tears.

  'They said they'd take my family away,' he whispered. 'They said they'd take them away if I didn't do what they told me to do …'