Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger (10 page)

If that vision was more than just a “vision.” If the aliens truly were trying to fix their communication. If this ship was in fact about to turn into a beacon. If this was the catalyst for an invasion. If all or any of those things were true.

Then Kseniya would be in the middle of it.

The bridge. Everything hinged on the bridge. Right then, Mikhail knew how to answer Nina’s question—the one she’d intended to be rhetorical. The inquiry as to whether or not he realized they were going to die if they went further.

“Yes,” he said to her. “Yes, I do.”

Nina’s gaze settled on his face. For several moments, even with the potential for chaos all around them, she stood still and silent. She was realizing where he stood. Did she stand there, too?

Reaffirming her grip on the M3, Nina turned to cover their rear. “We must move quickly.”

Closing his eyes, Mikhail whispered a
thank you
to whatever God was listening. He’d have finished this mission by himself if he’d had to, but Nina’s help would undoubtedly make it easier. “Do you have a family, Nina?”

Her expression changed somewhat as he addressed her by her first name, though it quickly passed. “No. Do you?”

“I have a daughter. She is six. Her name is Kseniya.” Seconds were precious—but these were worth it. He wanted Nina to know his motivation, in case there was any doubt.

The sniper nodded. “Let’s do this for your daughter, Mikhail.”

Save your daughter. Disable communications.
That was precisely what Mikhail intended to do.

Weapons raised and ready, they forged ahead.

5

1549 hours

THE CORRIDOR THAT led to the forward section of the spacecraft was angled upward, a result of the tilt of the ship. The pain that surged throughout Mikhail’s shoulder couldn’t be ignored—it could only be tolerated. With Nina at his side and both operatives making frequent glances behind them, the pair progressed up the ascension.

There was no turn to be seen ahead; the corridor simply ended at a metal door similar to those they’d passed along the way. Mikhail was fairly certain by that point that opening the door would not be an issue. It was what lay
behind
the door that was his concern. He needed it to be the bridge. It
had
to be. He was confident that it was. This felt like the right way to go, almost to a familiar degree. The feeling grew stronger with every step he took.

His palms were sweaty around the grip of his pistol, even though no hostiles were jumping out to challenge them. With droplets of sweat rolling down his temples, he glanced back briefly to survey the intersection they’d been walking away from. No aliens were there. He focused ahead.

As they drew to within ten meters of the door, Mikhail picked up his pace, trotting to the door until he was able to press his body against the wall beside it. Mirroring him, Nina’s focus shifted back to the corridor behind them. Eyeing the control panel, Mikhail placed his hand over the door mechanism. His gaze shifted to Nina, who briefly looked his way. There was no need for words—their expressions said everything. This was it. If Mikhail was right, the bridge lay on the other side of that door along with whatever forces were prepared to defend it.

Silently, Mikhail mouthed his countdown. “Three.” Nina wiped her hair back, gaze locked on him. “Two.” Mikhail’s heart rate intensified. His senses kicked in fully. It was time. Inhaling to say the inevitable, his hand pressed against the panel. “One.”

The mechanism was activated. The door slid into the wall. Simultaneously, Mikhail and Nina rushed into the room, weapons raised and ready to fire.

The moment they stepped inside, there was no doubt that this was the bridge. It was spacious—control panels were everywhere. Technology beyond their comprehension. Noise and light that had travelled across the stars. It was the heart of a technological behemoth.

Rushing into the room’s center, they spun in every direction to locate targets. There was only stillness. There were no living aliens—gray or otherwise—anywhere. Several corpses could be seen scattered across the floor, likely victims of the crash. The culmination of that crash, the American front outside, and his strike team must have dwindled the aliens’ numbers to the point where critical areas, such as the bridge, could no longer be defended. That was all Mikhail could surmise.

Alien hieroglyphics were everywhere, none of which seemed at all familiar to Mikhail, even with his echoed alien memories. “It is here. It must be.” Pointing to the door they’d entered through, Mikhail said, “Cover the exit.” Nina acknowledged and moved into a fortifying position, her M3 aimed down the corridor as she covered inside the door.

None of the panels anywhere near Mikhail looked familiar.
Look across the room.
Mikhail’s gaze shifted to a panel on the far side of the bridge. Immediately, familiarity clicked.

Gunfire erupted, yanking Mikhail away from his thoughts. Raising his Makarov, he took cover and watched as the door on the opposite side of Nina’s whisked open. All at once, Hemingway, Reed, and Sparks backed inside, each man firing his weapon ferociously. It was a desperate retreat. Within seconds, it became apparent as to why.

A guardian marched into the room, weapon blazing, as the three Americans dove for cover in different directions. The armored robot was identical to the one Mikhail had and his team had encountered—and it was right in the midst of them. As the guardian launched a volley, the Green Berets leapt over railings and dove behind consoles. Whipping his head to Nina, Mikhail instructed her to hold her position. Then he fumbled for his alien rifle.

A blast erupted across the room. Reed tumbled over a console. The soldier had been struck.

Mikhail knew he had no chance to fire his alien weapon accurately—not in the shape he was in. Earlier he’d had the benefit of perfect positioning and a wall to support his dead arm. The way he was now, the kickback alone would knock him off his feet. He had to get his weapon to Hemingway. “Captain!” As soon as Mikhail cried out Hemingway’s rank, he flung the alien rifle in the American’s direction. Hemingway watched it as it rattled toward him and dove to claim it.

“How the hell do you fire it?”
Hemingway demanded. The guardian set its sights on Sparks.

Mikhail was seeking his own cover now. Hands over his head, he screamed, “Use the…thing! The…” What was the right word for the firing mechanism? “The toggle! Put your hand on the toggle!”

Rising up from behind the console, Hemingway lifted the alien rifle against his shoulder. A bolt of blue energy exploded from its barrel, careening off to the side and madly off-target. A wall console shattered in a spray of sparks.

The guardian fired on, its relentless march taking it straight toward Sparks. The soldier grunted as an energy bolt connected squarely with his stomach. Bursting open, his body toppled.

From his position behind the guardian, Hemingway fired again. This time, his aim was true. A metallic groan emerged from the guardian as it stuttered forward, struck by its own technology. Before it could turn to face its human assailant, it was struck a second time. Smoke bellowed from its innards as it teetered backward like a falling tree. Crashing against an island console, it slid motionless to the floor. All was still.

Humming, almost pulsing, the consoles around Mikhail provided the only commentary to the final rush of the extraterrestrials—or what Mikhail hoped was the final rush. There wasn’t much more they could handle. Sparks was likely dead. Reed was injured enough to have not participated in the climax of the fight. Mikhail himself was essentially down to one arm. They were all battered. But not beaten.

Pushing up gingerly and wiping blood from his mouth where he’d nicked himself on a console, Mikhail scanned the bridge. Across the way, Hemingway was abandoning the awkward alien rifle for his submachine gun. Nina was darting between the debris toward Reed and Sparks.

“Captain Hemingway,” Nina said, looking across at the American. She was assisting a wincing Reed to his feet. “Sparks is dead.”

Hemingway said nothing in response; for the first time, the Green Beret leader looked genuinely tired. His focus shifted to Mikhail. “Do you think that communication relay is here?”

“Yes,” Mikhail answered painfully, the agony of his shoulder wound returning in full force. Limping across the room, he approached the console he’d recognized from before. “It’s this one.”

Propping Reed against the wall, Nina collapsed beside him. The female sniper was spent.

“We never ran across any other aliens,” Hemingway said. “Just that metal thing.” Looking at Mikhail in puzzlement, Hemingway approached him from behind. “You
sure
that’s the panel?”

He had no doubts. “This is the one.”

“How do you…?” Hemingway’s question trailed off as Mikhail reached for the console. He watched the Soviet captain begin to work.

In a way Mikhail couldn’t explain, everything about the console looked familiar. The hieroglyphs, the buttons, even the position his hands needed to be in to work the controls. It was as if his body was possessed.

Mikhail’s fingers flew from one end of the console to the other with lightning-quick efficiency. There were several displays on its surface, each flashing sequences of code that changed with every glyph Mikhail tapped. Chirps, beeps, mechanized alien voices. His hands were conducting an orchestra he couldn’t comprehend.

Even as his fingers darted from one end of the display to the next, the thought emerged in his head: how could this be? He didn’t remember any of this from the gray’s memories, yet he was operating this console as if he’d operated it his whole life. The panel shifted again, a blue triangle in the upper corner morphing into a red circle. The lines of code faded, replaced by a row of hieroglyphs.

Mikhail’s eyes darted to one of the overhead displays. The power conduits were rerouted. All remaining energy was now transferred to the core. The overload sequence was ready to engage. Hand gripping a lever at the top corner of the console, he pressed it forward until it clicked into place. It was almost done.

Then he stopped.

Ever so slowly, he looked at the overhead display again—the one he’d just interpreted as a core overload. Except now, he was interpreting it differently. Now he was interpreting that all remaining energy had been transferred away from the communication relays, not
to
the core. Overload sequence? No, this was a communication shutdown. It was all clear again—everything he was doing. Why had he discerned it in a totally different way mere seconds before? It was as if his mind had corrected some sort of error in perception. Overload sequence…overload sequence…where had that even
come
from? Hands easing away from the console, Mikhail took a step back.

Power conduits transferred to the core. Not away from communications. To the core.

A series of visuals flashed through his mind. Kseniya screaming. More spacecraft were landing; they were invading Zossen. Storming into Mikhail’s home. Kseniya’s body erupted as their energy weapons tore through her. The images faded; the console was in front of him again. In the midst of Mikhail’s silence, his mission—as direct as it had been since the moment it first came to him—resurfaced.

Return to the console. Shut down communications. Save his daughter. It was a simple task; his only task. Nothing else mattered. Not heeding Colonel Dorokhov’s original orders, not defeating capitalism. There was but room in his mind for one thing and one thing alone. There was only room for…

…there was only room for…

What am I doing?

Brow arched, he looked up at the display again. The depiction no longer registered as a communication shutdown, nor as a core overload. It was now completely undecipherable—a language he’d never seen before. Sweat poured down his forehead as he stepped back.
What the hell is going on?

Deep within his consciousness, something roared. A scream of pain. Mikhail felt a wave of agony that was not his own.

Standing from the floor, Nina looked at him strangely. “Mikhail?” Behind Mikhail, Hemingway cocked his head.

With every second, the throbbing grew worse. The roar became louder. Pain struck him, as if knives had been thrust into his cerebral cortex. Mikhail doubled over forward, only his palms stopping him from hitting the floor face-first. Clasping the sides of his head, he screamed.

He felt a mental curtain fall; he perceived a presence he’d never been aware of until then. Separate from himself. His head pulsed, it pounded. The presence was grasping at him, fighting for him. But it was losing. Mikhail’s vocal chords unleashed a screech the likes of which had never escaped him before. It sounded inhuman, and for a moment—the faintest of moments—he felt the other presence’s mind.

It was wounded. Crawling. It was trying to escape. The presence had never been prompting Mikhail to disable communications; communications had never been lost. It was trying to get Mikhail to blow up the ship.

Suddenly, Mikhail was forced out, the fallen curtain replaced by a solid wall. He felt a tangible release. It was gone.

Nina and Hemingway were gathered around him as he struggled to stand, just as they’d been when it’d first touched his mind. Back when Mikhail thought it was a gray’s dying memory. Their voices emerged again.

“Mikhail!” Nina said. “Quick, lean him against the—”

She never had a chance to finish her sentence. Grabbing Nina by the back of the head, Hemingway slammed her face-first into the wall console. In the next second, Mikhail himself was grabbed by the American captain and flung across the room, where he crashed against the wall.

Reed clambered to his feet in alarm.
“Captain?”

Without a second’s hesitation, Hemingway aimed his M3 at Reed’s face and pulled the trigger. The back of Reed’s head burst open. He fell lifelessly to the floor.

The bridge went still.

Hemingway’s eyes focused on the console Mikhail had left behind. Approaching it, his fingers began working the various inputs on its surface.