by Rick Barba
Rika nodded, watching the hooded trio with a hint of suspicion. The lead woman stepped forward.
“My name is Petrov,” she said. “Reaper clan.”
“Reapers!” said Mahnk.
“This is Vo and Epstein,” said Petrov, indicating them. They lowered their hoods too. “Are you Skirmishers?”
“We are,” said Darox. He introduced his fireteam and added, “Our gratitude for the assistance. It was timely.”
Petrov held up a small vial. “I have a salve that can leach out Chryssalid venom and help stabilize your comrade until a medical team arrives.”
She handed it to Rika, who took it but said, “Our blood is different from yours.”
“Not that different, I suspect,” said Petrov, again with a hint of a smile. “Apply it thickly. Trust me, it won’t hurt him.”
As Rika applied the salve, Darox gazed up at the cliff walls. He said, “The psionic units, were they your people? Where are they?”
Petrov looked surprised. “Ours? No. We assumed they were yours.”
“Interesting,” said Darox. “Did you see them?”
Vo stepped forward. “We keep eyes to target until the last one falls,” she said.
Petrov smiled. “True,” she said. “When the ravine stopped crawling with bugs, I looked around. I saw nobody. But I had a strange, dizzy feeling at that moment.”
“A psionic haze,” nodded Darox. “We felt it too.”
“So they covered their withdrawal,” said Petrov.
“Yes.”
Mahnk rubbed a small gash on his forehead. “I am sorry they are not your allies,” he said.
Epstein hacked a quick laugh. “If those were our allies, we’d be in New Denver right now,” he said. “Shopping.”
Darox shook his head. “I have never seen such a display,” he said. “I am sure the Elders are concerned.”
“Screw the Elders,” said Vo.
Amused, Darox said, “Agreed.”
Now they could hear the rising whine of the approaching Skyranger as it zeroed in on the smoke markers. Mox’s voice spoke in Darox’s earpiece: “Recon team, board the XCOM jump-jet. Medical personnel will tend to Koros as you fly to our rally point.”
“Acknowledged,” replied Darox. “He is in stable condition thanks to some . . . field medicine.” He glanced over at Petrov. “We have contact with a Reaper team.”
“What?” asked Mox, alarmed. “Hostile contact?”
“No,” said Darox. “They provided us with expert long-range support.”
“Eleven kills,” called Vo.
Mox grunted: “Reapers.” After a pause, he said, “It gets more interesting up here every minute.”
DR. MARIN HUNCHED over a console in the Avenger Research Lab, studying dielectric spectroscopy readouts of the psionic bursts on Whitehouse Mountain. Suddenly, the main lab door whooshed open. Central Officer Bradford and Dr. Tygan rushed in, talking earnestly.
“Will,” called Dr. Tygan. “We have news. Where’s your team?”
“Out in the field,” said Marin. “Trying to breathe.”
The Avenger had arrived in Colorado several hours after the base assault. Its initial landing site was a secluded mountain meadow deep in the back range. Bradford and Mox coordinated a round-the-clock surveillance of the shattered base site. But bizarrely, after a full week, it appeared that ADVENT was not returning . . . at all. It was as if the aliens had simply written off the base as a complete loss without a second thought. They conducted no recovery operations, no reconnaissance patrols—nothing whatsoever.
Bradford suspected a trap; he felt sure ADVENT was at least conducting satellite surveillance from their sky-net. As a result, he relied on his new Skirmisher allies, who were well trained in alpine camouflage and tactics, to keep a covert eye on the Yule Creek quarry. But finally, after days of overwatch in the Elk Mountains revealed no sign of aliens or ADVENT, Bradford flew the Avenger to an LZ closer to the base and released science teams with military escort to do a full inspection of the site.
Marin had sent Gilmore and Lopez up Whitehouse Mountain to scour the high couloir. Their job was to measure data points and collect samples and readings of the psionic activity that occurred.
Bradford pulled up a chair and sat, something Marin had almost never seen him do. Tygan grabbed a chair too, and they both faced Marin.
“This looks important,” said Marin.
Bradford managed a tight smile. “It is,” he said.
“How important?”
“Like, game point,” said Bradford.
Tygan put his hand on the console. “We just had a quid pro quo meeting with our new friend Mox,” he said. “And it turns out that, as a former high-ranking ADVENT officer, he may have information that could give XCOM an immeasurable boost in operational potency.”
“It could turn the tide against these scaly bastards,” said Bradford.
Marin raised his eyebrows. “Wow,” he said. “But . . . why are you talking to me? Does it have to do with psionics?”
Bradford and Tygan glanced at each other.
“Well, yes,” said Tygan. “But indirectly.”
Bradford leaned toward Marin. “Mox has the quid,” he said in a low tone. “You need to find the quo.” He held out his hands. “Then we trade.”
Marin smiled. “Fill me in.”
Bradford was blunt. “You need to locate the ADVENT Network Tower,” he said.
Marin almost gasped. “Holy crap,” he said.
“How long would it take?” asked Bradford with urgency. “If the Network Tower’s as powerful as everyone says, wouldn’t it pop off a map scan like a freaking clown’s nose?”
Marin pointed at his console monitor.
“Given the risk of detection by ADVENT,” he said, “we keep our sky-net access time extremely limited. That’s why it took us almost four months to scan and plant sensors in a narrow swath of North America. Yes, we could get lucky and find the Network Tower signature in one of our scans tomorrow. Or it could take a year. Or more.”
“Okay,” said Bradford. He folded his arms and stared darkly at a console monitor.
Marin looked at Tygan. “So . . . what do we get in return?”
“We find the Commander,” said Tygan.
“What?!”
Still staring at the monitor, Bradford said, “We’ve long suspected that he’s still alive and being used by the aliens for intelligence purposes. Plenty of clues point to that, but I won’t get into those details.” Now he turned to Marin. “But the data we’ve analyzed . . . and my gut . . . tell me it’s true. He’s out there, imprisoned somewhere, and those psionic bastards are mining his brain for operational knowledge of XCOM, among other things.”
Marin was stunned. “The Commander? After twenty years?”
Tygan smiled. “Hard to fathom, isn’t it?”
Marin blinked. He said, “It’s like finding out Napoleon is still walking around Saint Helena.”
This amused Bradford. “That’s good,” he said.
Marin took a moment to compose himself. Then he asked, “So the Skirmisher can find him?”
Bradford stood up slowly.
“Mox was an upper echelon guy at ADVENT command,” he said. “High-security clearance. He says he once reviewed documentation of a secret alien intelligence program called XCOM Live Analytics. It made reference to things like soft tissue archives and cortical processing.” Bradford stared at Marin. “Mox heard rumors about what exactly that meant.”
“A living brain,” said Marin.
“Yes,” said Bradford. “Inside a living person, hopefully.”
“So Mox knows where he is?” asked Marin.
“No,” answered Bradford.
Here Tygan stood up too. He said, “However, there is a highly restricted ADVENT security facility called Omega Station that maintains all of ADVENT’s classified databases. We’ve known about its existence for years, but our intel network never could find it.”
Marin said, “But Mox can?”
“Yes,” said Tygan. “He says if we infiltrate the Omega Station data core, we’ll likely find exact coordinates for the black site that hosts the XCOM Live Analytics program. Along with loads of other good stuff.”
“Just infiltrate the data core,” repeated Marin. “I’m sure it’s a piece of cake.”
“Mox will help direct the strike team,” said Bradford.
“Okay,” said Marin. “But he wants to know where the ADVENT Network Tower is first?”
“Actually, it’s a good faith offer,” said Bradford. “Mox and his Skirmishers are ready to embark for Omega Station immediately . . . like, now. In return, he wants us to guarantee a concerted joint effort to find and destroy that tower.” Bradford watched one of the console readouts, thinking for a second. Then he added, “You know, my old friend Volk and his Reapers despise the ADVENT Tower too. I really should put these guys in touch with each other.”
Marin stood up. “I’ll order my team back and get started immediately.” He nodded at Bradford. “Tell Mox I personally guarantee we’ll find that tower.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Bradford. “Your team is doing a great job.”
Marin grinned. “That last psionic incident dropped right into our backyard,” he said. “We should have some interesting findings shortly.”
“Those guys laid waste to an entire Chryssalid regiment,” said Bradford.
“It was truly impressive,” said Tygan.
Bradford started to walk away but then stopped.
He said, “Look, I know this whole thing probably seems like a long shot. But getting the Commander back would be worth it.” Anger suddenly lit his eyes. “I know what people think. They think, who cares, we lost. Why bring back the leader of a failed effort? But goddamn it, we didn’t lose. We were winning. The Commander was orchestrating a brilliant defense of the planet against a vastly superior enemy. And then we got stabbed in the back by political leaders who sold us out.” He grabbed a digital caliper and looked for a second as if he would fling it into the nearest wall. But then he set it back down. He said, “We didn’t lose. We were betrayed.”
“I know,” said Marin.
“But nobody else does, apparently,” said Bradford.
He stared at the floor for a moment. Then he pivoted and headed for the exit.
“Good luck, doc,” he said.
* * *
Outside the Avenger in the Skirmisher camp, Darox stared into the crackling campfire holding a nearly full bowl of elk stew and a spoon. Alexis Petrov sat on the log next to him with her empty bowl in her lap.
Darox glanced at it. “You ate that swill?”
Petrov smiled. “I’ve had worse,” she said.
“Really?” said Darox.
“Okay, no,” she said. “This was the worst.”
“It is not easy to ruin elk stew.” Darox scooped up a spoonful, then dumped it.
Petrov dug into her hip pouch. “I’ve got some good jerky,” she said. She offered him a slice, and he took it.
“Thanks.”
“Man’s gotta eat,” she said.
Darox bit off a chunk. “Even if he is only half man.”
“Right.”
It had been a long hard day, and both soldiers were exhausted. After the base assault, everything was a kinetic blur, busy every waking hour—securing the site, tech salvage, camp setup, high pass patrols. Sometimes it didn’t even end at night; Mahnk and Rika had drawn sentry duty and were posted south of camp. The worst of course was burial detail—many ADVENT and Chryssalid corpses to incinerate but also several comrades to lay to rest. XCOM had lost four soldiers KIA and the Skirmishers three.
Now the word going around was to gear up for another big combat operation.
“Any word yet from your crew?” asked Darox, chewing the jerky.
“Joe and Mia?” she replied. “No, but they’ll be back soon.” She smiled. “With a rifle platoon for the ages. Lots of good shooters in New Samara.”
Now Darox smiled. “I am a big fan of Reaper accuracy,” he said.
Petrov gazed over at the Avenger’s silhouette, barely visible across the meadow in the day’s faded light.
“I’ve never seen such a big aircraft,” she said.
Darox glanced at it too. “Hard to believe it actually flies,” he said.
They sat quietly for a minute. At ten thousand feet, the clean, dark sky glittered with two thousand sharply etched points of light. Pans clattered in the mess tent down the row. Groups of Skirmishers sat near lanterns or fires and talked quietly, cleaning their weapons. Petrov was the lone non-Skirmisher in camp. All XCOM personnel bunked aboard the Avenger, and as Petrov mentioned, her Reaper comrades had caught a Skyranger ride back to New Samara. They would report the situation to Volk and deliver an invitation from XCOM’s Central Officer Bradford as well.
“I hear Central Officer Bradford wants everyone working under the auspices of XCOM,” said Darox. “Reapers, Skirmishers. All the Resistance groups.”
“No chance,” said Petrov. “Volk takes orders from no one.”
“But coordinated efforts might be more effective,” said Darox.
“Sure,” said Petrov. “Maybe we could all get psionic implants, and Bradford could move us around like a bunch of chess pieces.”
Darox squinted at her. “Isn’t that what you humans would call a low blow?”
Petrov waved her hand. “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry.” She set down her bowl. “What was it like, being in ADVENT? Working for them?”
The distilled hatred in the way she said “them” was unmistakable. Darox’s heavy alien brow wrinkled a bit.
“Some memories are good,” he said.
“But they created your memories,” said Petrov.
“True,” said Darox. “The historical memories, yes. But I am talking about my actual memories of ADVENT life. There were friendships. We . . . played cards in the barracks.” He suddenly dumped his stew into the fire, which hissed and smoked. “I would feed this to the dogs, if we had dogs.”
Petrov laughed a bit but kept pressing. “I guess I’m just wondering what it’s like to be you.”
Darox said, “You mean to be a half-breed?”
Petrov frowned. “Did I say that?”
“No,” said Darox. “Look, Petrov, I have actually examined a great deal of the original, unaltered documentation of your human history. I do not think it is ADVENT propaganda to suggest that human culture is filled with examples of brutality, racism, and sectarian violence.”
Petrov folded her arms defensively. “So?”
“So, when I was ADVENT,” said Darox, “I believed I was helping stamp out the worst human tendencies in the name of peace and a better world for everyone.”
“But you don’t believe that anymore,” said Petrov.
“Of course not,” said Darox. “I would not be here if I did.”
“What changed your mind?”
Darox frowned. “The moment my Skirmisher brothers disabled my neurochip, I began to see differently,” he said. “For days, I sat and reexamined my interactions with extraterrestrial troops. And it became clear that every one of them was, at the core, a drone.” He glared into the fire. “Unfeeling, pitiless. I saw their vicious handiwork up close. They spread terror by design. They slaughtered innocents. Firebombed population centers! All of it enforcing the psionically transmitted will of the Elders.”
Petrov nodded. “So, what’s the true agenda?”
Darox frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Why are they here?”
Darox looked troubled. He said, “Have you been to a New City?”
“Never.”
Darox looked up at the sparkling night sky. “It is quite beautiful,” he said.
“Which one?” asked Petrov.
“Any one,” said Darox. “They are all the same. Clean. Efficient. Everybody’s children are safe. Each city has an ADVENT gene therapy clinic that will scrub disease
from your DNA.” He pointed at the sky. “Are the Elders actually benevolent? Do they have humanity’s best interests in mind as the Network Tower tells us every day?” He shrugged. “I do not know, Petrov. But I have seen the way their Chryssalids and Berserkers operate in the streets. That tells me something about their ‘true agenda.’ ”
Petrov noticed a familiar figure moving toward them down the tent row.
“Captain Thibideaux,” she said, rising in greeting.
“Sit back down, soldier, you’ve had a hell of a day,” said the XCOM captain. He turned to Darox. “Honestly, son, I’ve never seen soldiers work as hard as you people.” He looked around. “Your camp logistics are damned impressive.”
Darox smiled ruefully. “We were genetically engineered to be the perfect garrison troop,” he said.
Thibideaux chuckled. He turned to Petrov. “So, Gunner,” he said. It had become his nickname for her. “What do you think of these hybrids?”
Petrov leaned forward and poked a stick into the fire, stirring up embers. She said, “Their eyes glow at night. It’s creepy.”
“Yes,” said Thibideaux, grinning at Darox. “I imagine your ocular structure affords you enhanced night vision.”
“It does.”
Thibideaux gestured to the log. “Can I join you for just a moment?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Petrov, sliding over.
The captain sat and turned to Petrov. “I understand you recently met my superior officer.”
Petrov nodded. “Yes, back in New Samara.”
“You came here looking for someone,” said Thibideaux.
Petrov didn’t hesitate. “I did.”
The captain turned to Darox. “And a primary Skirmisher objective in hitting this ADVENT base was to lure out someone.”
“Yes,” said Darox.
“Unsuccessfully, it appears.”
“Sadly, yes.”
Thibideaux nodded. “Someone deadly, murderous, nine feet tall,” he said. “Lot in common.”
Darox frowned. “Are you suggesting they are the same entity?”
“That’s one theory, son,” said Thibideaux.
