Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger (8 page)

The sensation struck Mikhail suddenly—before he had even turned fully around. It was like a pulse, a grab. Different from anything he’d ever felt before. Panic swept over him as a voice emerged in his mind.

Listen.

Then the shot rang out. As the alien’s head rocked backward, Mikhail found himself stumbling against the wall of the room, as if the bullet had impacted both he and the creature. Pain swelled in his mind; it was unbearable. Grabbing his head, he screamed through clenched teeth.

Something was in his head. A sound—a piercing ring that reverberated from one side of his mind to the other. Everything and everyone around him faded away. Images sparked through his brain like an avalanche of memories, none of which were his. Outer space. A small blue planet. An eruption of fire, then a crash. Communication was down. A loss of signal. His job—that was his job. Then they would come.

In the immediacy of the moment, none of it made sense. Then, as the endless seconds passed, the thoughts melded together. The planet was Earth. It was being approached. The explosion was the American nuclear missile, followed by the crash. He’d been inside the alien’s mind.

Communication was down, there in the ship. The aliens couldn’t contact their homeworld. That was what that particular gray alien was working toward: repairing communications. He was one of many focused on the task. Once their relays were back online…

…then the rest would come.

Hands grabbed Mikhail; he was expelled from the thoughts. Eyes blinking, he focused ahead. It was Nina. The others were behind her. They were all looking at him. Mikhail could see her mouth the word
captain
, but no sound came out. He only heard one word, repeated over and over.

Listen. Listen. Listen. Listen.

Then it stopped. The sounds of the present washed in like a great rushing of water. Mikhail’s motor function returned, and he swatted Nina’s hands away.

“Listen!” Mikhail shouted, blinking confusedly as the word came out. He tried again. “Listen!” Gritting his teeth and growling, he forced out something else. “I’m all right!”

Hemingway and Sparks stepped away as Nina rose to her feet. Even from the hallway where they were supposed to be keeping post, Nikolai and Reed’s eyes were fixated on Mikhail.

Back-stepping from him, Nina asked, “What happened?” Next to her, Hemingway’s finger rested on the trigger of his submachine gun. He, too, stared at Mikhail in bewilderment.

In Mikhail’s mind, things were starting to make sense. Pushing up to his feet, he looked at the fallen gray alien. There was a look of open-mouthed finality frozen on the being’s face. It was trying to communicate with him. Through his mind. It had only managed to get out the word
listen
before Hemingway’s weapon silenced it for good. But what was everything else? What were those flashes, those glimpses at the alien’s memories and purpose? No sooner was the question posed, the answer came. Those were the alien’s most recent experiences with life. At the onset of death, they had flashed—and Mikhail had been caught up in it.

“What just happened, Kirov?” Hemingway asked. “You still with us?”

Nodding, Mikhail answered, “Give me a moment to clear my head.” His brain was throbbing with the worst pain he’d ever experienced. It had to be due to the mental connection. “I know what they’re doing.”

Nina cocked her head strangely. “What do you mean?”

“The aliens.” He looked at the gray’s corpse. “Or at least, this one.” How was he going to explain this? From the beginning. “I think it tried to communicate with me, right before Hemingway shot it. I felt it speak in my mind. It said ‘listen,’ then you pulled the trigger.” He glanced non-accusingly at the American captain. “I know it was from the alien.”

The looks on the other six’s faces were far less skeptical than Mikhail had anticipated. Perhaps in the wake of UFOs, giant reptiles, and strange energy weapons, they were more open to what would normally have been considered lunacy.

Shaking his head, Mikhail tried to explain further. “I felt it, for the quickest of moments—a connection. It is difficult to explain, but it was a presence in my thoughts that was not my own. And when you killed the alien, it was like a floodgate opened, even if just for a moment. I saw the alien’s memories, what it was doing.” He looked at the corpse again. “He was helping to restore communication to the ship. That was the priority task. If communication was restored, they could contact the others—I presume that meant other extraterrestrials.” He wasn’t sure how else to interpret it.

Hemingway seemed to be taking everything in at face value. Kneeling down several feet away, he looked at Mikhail stoically. “So you’re saying that’s what this ship’s crew is currently trying to do? Restore communication to signal the rest of their…whatever. Right?”

“I can only tell you what I experienced,” answered Mikhail. “I have never felt anything like this before.” He resisted the urge to say,
you have to believe me
. It would have made him feel crazy.

Nodding his head, Hemingway rose. “If that’s what it said, that’s what we go by.”

The look on Mikhail’s face must have echoed his surprise. Hemingway believed him, without question. Why? Without Mikhail needing to ask aloud, the American captain addressed it.

“You’re the best your country could send for this mission. I’m gonna take a step of faith and trust you’re not crazy or an idiot. Because, frankly, if you’re right, we don’t have much time.”

Reed stepped into the room. “And if he’s wrong, sir?” His gaze stayed on Mikhail.

“At this juncture,” Hemingway answered, looking at his soldier, “I don’t think it matters.”

Trust. Even with an extraterrestrial spacecraft looming over the hills, trust had been the biggest question mark throughout this operation. But that was starting to change. If the Americans wanted an excuse to take control of the operation, this would have been the perfect opportunity. But Hemingway didn’t. Mikhail’s stare lingered on the Green Beret leader, eye contact maintained between the two of them. Nodding his head appreciatively, Mikhail readied his M3.

“I don’t suppose that thing told you where we need to go?” Hemingway asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” said Mikhail. “Your bullet was a little too fast for that.”

The American captain waved his soldiers onward, then looked at Mikhail. “We should split up. Two teams will move through the ship faster. Find whatever communication system they’re trying to restore.”

“I agree,” answered Mikhail. He and his fellow humans had been thoroughly outmatched at the outset—but the outset had passed. The last thing Mikhail had seen the aliens do was bleed. Three and four-man teams suddenly didn’t seem so insignificant.

Sparks angled his head to one side. “How will we know what their communication system looks like?”

Indicating for Nina and Nikolai to approach him, Mikhail answered, “Ask every hostile you see. If they don’t answer, shoot them.” Hemingway cracked the faintest of smirks. “One team should press forward. Continue in the direction we were all heading. The other should backtrack to the hallway where I threw the grenade.”

“We’ll do that,” Hemingway said.

No—go that way yourself.
“No, we will,” Mikhail said. Green Berets present or not, if any side was returning to a known hot zone, it was going to be Soviet. “Continue down this corridor. Create as much damage as you can. We will do the same in the other direction.”

Hemingway seemed to hesitate. “You sure?” Very briefly, his eyes shifted to Nina.

The sniper noticed. Her brown eyes narrowing, she set her jaw and tied her hair into a ponytail. “Don’t worry, capitalist. The team with the woman will do fine.”

“We will head back, then progress beyond the turn we abandoned,” Mikhail said. “If you see a gray one, kill it first. Who knows what they could do if they get inside your head.”

“Aye, aye.”

“We may end up running parallel to each other. If so, we will see you on the other side.” No room for failure. “Make them hurt.”

Raising his M3, Hemingway motioned to his men. “Let’s move, Berets.” Offering Mikhail a final nod, the Americans flitted around the corner, toward the downward slope to the ship’s rear, leaving their Soviet counterparts behind.

Mikhail surveyed his team. Himself with an American M3, a GRU medic with a PPsh-41, a sniper legend with a Makarov pistol, and an executive officer who could barely fight at all. Even still,
unconventional
wasn’t the word that came to mind. The word that surfaced in Mikhail’s head was
professional
. “How is everyone on ammunition?”

“Good,” answered Nina.

Nikolai half-frowned. “Good enough.”

Even without elaboration, Mikhail knew the difference between “good” and “good enough” was significant. But any degree of
good
was better than
bad
. Kneeling briefly, he said, “Nikolai, you move forward with me. Nina, watch our rear.” With the Americans storming the other direction, attacks from the rear shouldn’t have been huge threats. But even a small threat, if not kept in check, could take them all down.

“I should take point, captain,” said Nina.

“You have a pistol,” Mikhail answered. “What we need up front is firepower.”

She stood her ground. “What you need in front is the conservation of ammunition. No one else can kill more hostiles with as few bullets as me.”

Did it matter that Nina was carrying a pistol instead of a sniper rifle? Perhaps she had a point.

Studying Mikhail’s expression, Nikolai tilted his head warningly. “Captain…”

“Take point with me,” Mikhail said to Nina. He shifted to Nikolai. “Conserve your ammunition, watch the rear.” For a moment, it looked as if Nikolai would argue. But the Spetsnaz kept silent. Speaking to Nina again, Mikhail said, “I will give you first opportunity to fire, but only for a second. Hit your marks.”

“Thank you, captain.” She dipped her head appreciatively.

Lastly, Mikhail’s focus shifted to Sevastian. The morphine was kicking in, and Sevastian seemed to be moving in less obvious pain. It was a far cry from being wholly effective, but Mikhail would take what he could get. “Are you all right, Tyannikov?”

Sevastian nodded. “I am still your senior lieutenant.” Readying his pistol with his left hand, he waited by the door. “I am ready to fight, captain.”

Of all the personnel involved in this operation, Mikhail respected Sevastian the most. The man was determined, even in the midst of near-incapacitation. That was what they needed. “Cover the rear with Lukin.”

“Yes, captain.”

It was well past time to get going. They needed to move. He spared one last glance at the dead alien on the floor—the alien that had tried to tap into his mind at the wrong time. The alien that might have just given them an edge.

Indicating for Nina to take to his side, Mikhail raised his weapon and exited the room.

As the four-person Soviet team made their way back to the elongated chamber, Mikhail found himself leading the group through the haze of smoke created by the grenade he had thrown. He hadn’t waited around long enough to see if it’d done any damage, though the lack of an alien presence in the chamber itself told him that if nothing else, it had staved off an advance. Whether the aliens had fallen back or taken cover nearby was yet to be determined.

The Soviets were nearing the turn where Mikhail’s grenade had gone off, their weapons raised and ready to fire. Through the light smoke, the green-bloodied body of one giant reptile could be seen slumped against the wall.

Raising his hand to signal a slowdown, Mikhail pushed himself against the wall as he and Nina neared the corner. M3 ready, he approached the turn. Spinning around it, he raised the submachine gun and scanned the hall, Nina making the turn with her pistol a split-second later.

Thank God
. Sprawled out in the hallway, several meters down, were the mangled bodies of the other three reptiles. His grenade had been true—none of the reptiles had escaped its blast.

“Captain,” whispered Nina behind him. Mikhail looked back, where the sniper was crouching down by the first fallen reptile’s body. As soon as Mikhail focused on the alien, he knew why she was calling him.

The fallen reptile was still breathing.

Nikolai raised his PPsh-41 to fire a kill-shot. “Wait,” said Mikhail, motioning for the Spetsnaz to lower his weapon. The reptile was bleeding heavily, parts of its body reduced to mangled pulp. Even a side of its face was deformed, one eye clearly missing from a socket. “Save your ammunition for the ones that can fire back,” Mikhail said. This one was no longer a threat.

The Spetsnaz nodded.

Focusing down the corridor, Mikhail motioned for his comrades to follow him. There was a four-way intersection ahead. Mikhail quickly assigned each operative a direction to cover. No reptiles or gray aliens were anywhere to be seen.

“Which way?” asked Nina.

“This way,” Mikhail said, pointing to the forward section of the ship. He was completely confident that the bridge was in that direction. It was the strangest gut instinct he’d ever experienced—his only explanation was that it was related to the connection he’d experienced earlier. That didn’t make it any less unsettling. Mikhail made his move to track down the corridor, his comrades following. Nothing popped its head out, nothing challenged them. It was as if all the ship’s occupants had been dealt with.

Suddenly, a new sound emerged—one unlike any they’d experienced in the ship before. A rhythmic, repetitive clanking. Something solid, with weight. A lot of weight.

Up ahead of them, a new adversary rounded the corner. All four of the Soviets stopped. Like the reptiles they’d fought previously, this enemy carried a large energy rifle. But this was no reptile. It was massive; its body was covered from head to toe in metallic viridian armor, like some kind of mechanical guardian. Raising its rifle, it marched straight toward them.

Both it and the Soviets opened fire.

The Soviets’ bullets ricocheted off the walls and floor, and most alarmingly, off the guardian itself. Nina’s headshots bounced off the machine’s helmet as if she was slinging pebbles. As the guardian opened fire, Mikhail and company dove aside to avoid its blasts. “Fall back! Fall back!” Scrambling to their feet, the Soviets sprinted for the four-way intersection. But they wouldn’t all reach it. Sevastian, the wounded senior lieutenant, took an energy bolt square in the back. Spewing blood, he fell forward onto the hallway floor and lay still.