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,
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,
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