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
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
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