his fingers began working the various inputs on its surface.
Mikhail’s vision was spinning—a combination of mental trauma and the attack from Hemingway. What is going on? Groggily, he placed his hands on the floor and attempted to push himself up. Blood trickled from his nose and ears. He felt faint.
The silence died as a resonating pulse emerged from every direction. Along the ceiling and walls, red lights pulsed with an almost organic rhythm. Every active monitor in the room flashed, their former screens replaced by red alien glyphs.
Hemingway…what did he just do? Rolling over awkwardly, Mikhail stared across the room at the American captain. Hemingway was standing over the console, staring down as if in some sort of trance. Then, ever so slowly, he turned his head to Mikhail. Raising his M3, the American marched toward him.
Panic struck Mikhail. “Captain…” Quickly, he reached for his own weapon, only to realize that it had fallen from his shoulder. It lay directly between him and the ever-approaching Hemingway. There was no way Mikhail could get it in time.
The look in Hemingway’s eyes was devoid of emotion. He looked like a zombie. Submachine gun in position to fire, he stopped within several meters of Mikhail. His dead stare locked onto his Russian counterpart.
It has control of him. The same presence that had control of me. Mikhail had merely been influenced. This was far beyond that. Before he’d ever set foot in Iceland, Mikhail had been warned about American treachery. Now he was facing it in a way he’d never expected. “Do not do this! It is not you!”
The shot rang out; blood splattered Mikhail’s face. But nothing had struck him. No bullet, no pain. By the time he looked back up, Hemingway was already falling. The captain thudded against the floor face-first. Behind him, her Makarov raised, was Nina. For several seconds the sniper remained frozen, her wide eyes locked with Mikhail from across the room. Then slowly, her shoulders released. Nina slumped back against the wall, exhausted but alive.
Mikhail’s reaction couldn’t have been more different. Growling in pain as he shoved up to his feet, he stumbled past the crumpled body of Hemingway to the console. The feverish pace of the act prompted Nina to sit up and take notice.
Mikhail scrutinized the display once more, the glyphs on its surface morphing and changing at a pace too fast to keep up with, flipping and spinning and shifting. Occasionally disappearing, like numbers in a countdown. Numbers in a countdown.
Hemingway had done it.
“Captain?” asked Nina exhaustedly, rising to shuffle toward him.
Looking around, Mikhail studied the other monitors in the room. What he saw was impossible to misinterpret. Red symbols in the shape of the alien spacecraft, set to loop with the same animation every few seconds. An explosion. The sense of urgency struck Mikhail immediately.
We need to get out of here. Down the corridors. Out of the entry hole. Across the mud field. With a ship this size, how big would the explosion be? They were standing in the heart of the whole thing. Even if the countdown was twenty minutes long, it might not be enough time to get out of range. I can’t stop the countdown—I can’t even recognize the controls. What is my plan? Between the lights, the sounds, and the chaos of the situation itself, the environment was anything but conducive to thinking clearly. Mikhail had never needed clarity more.
Nina repeated breathlessly, “Captain, what is going on?”
“This ship is self-destructing.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“There was no communication from the gray alien, there was no life flashing before my eyes,” Mikhail said. “I was under the influence of an alien presence. It made me think I had received privileged information that would help us defeat it. It made me think I had gained an advantage when in reality, it was influencing me to help it.” Stepping to the room’s center, he surveyed
Mikhail’s vision was spinning—a combination of mental trauma and the attack from Hemingway. What is going on? Groggily, he placed his hands on the floor and attempted to push himself up. Blood trickled from his nose and ears. He felt faint.
The silence died as a resonating pulse emerged from every direction. Along the ceiling and walls, red lights pulsed with an almost organic rhythm. Every active monitor in the room flashed, their former screens replaced by red alien glyphs.
Hemingway…what did he just do? Rolling over awkwardly, Mikhail stared across the room at the American captain. Hemingway was standing over the console, staring down as if in some sort of trance. Then, ever so slowly, he turned his head to Mikhail. Raising his M3, the American marched toward him.
Panic struck Mikhail. “Captain…” Quickly, he reached for his own weapon, only to realize that it had fallen from his shoulder. It lay directly between him and the ever-approaching Hemingway. There was no way Mikhail could get it in time.
The look in Hemingway’s eyes was devoid of emotion. He looked like a zombie. Submachine gun in position to fire, he stopped within several meters of Mikhail. His dead stare locked onto his Russian counterpart.
It has control of him. The same presence that had control of me. Mikhail had merely been influenced. This was far beyond that. Before he’d ever set foot in Iceland, Mikhail had been warned about American treachery. Now he was facing it in a way he’d never expected. “Do not do this! It is not you!”
The shot rang out; blood splattered Mikhail’s face. But nothing had struck him. No bullet, no pain. By the time he looked back up, Hemingway was already falling. The captain thudded against the floor face-first. Behind him, her Makarov raised, was Nina. For several seconds the sniper remained frozen, her wide eyes locked with Mikhail from across the room. Then slowly, her shoulders released. Nina slumped back against the wall, exhausted but alive.
Mikhail’s reaction couldn’t have been more different. Growling in pain as he shoved up to his feet, he stumbled past the crumpled body of Hemingway to the console. The feverish pace of the act prompted Nina to sit up and take notice.
Mikhail scrutinized the display once more, the glyphs on its surface morphing and changing at a pace too fast to keep up with, flipping and spinning and shifting. Occasionally disappearing, like numbers in a countdown. Numbers in a countdown.
Hemingway had done it.
“Captain?” asked Nina exhaustedly, rising to shuffle toward him.
Looking around, Mikhail studied the other monitors in the room. What he saw was impossible to misinterpret. Red symbols in the shape of the alien spacecraft, set to loop with the same animation every few seconds. An explosion. The sense of urgency struck Mikhail immediately.
We need to get out of here. Down the corridors. Out of the entry hole. Across the mud field. With a ship this size, how big would the explosion be? They were standing in the heart of the whole thing. Even if the countdown was twenty minutes long, it might not be enough time to get out of range. I can’t stop the countdown—I can’t even recognize the controls. What is my plan? Between the lights, the sounds, and the chaos of the situation itself, the environment was anything but conducive to thinking clearly. Mikhail had never needed clarity more.
Nina repeated breathlessly, “Captain, what is going on?”
“This ship is self-destructing.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“There was no communication from the gray alien, there was no life flashing before my eyes,” Mikhail said. “I was under the influence of an alien presence. It made me think I had received privileged information that would help us defeat it. It made me think I had gained an advantage when in reality, it was influencing me to help it.” Stepping to the room’s center, he surveyed
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