Invaders Page 5

  Why would we go to that ice-locked island?

  Long ago, during a planetary warm period, Viking explorers, led by a man called Eric the Red, had settled on the southernmost tip of Greenland. Eventually, the Greenland Vikings had died out. Historically speaking, nothing else of importance had ever happened on Greenland.

  So why would we be headed down to the ice island? How could I help them recover a ship on a piece of land almost continuously sheathed in arctic ice?

  None of this made sense to me. If this ship was in Greenland, why had Z17 joined a bunch of aliens appearing in Nevada?

  I flexed my left hand and rotated my formerly broken ankle. The aliens had fixed me like a broken toy. Now they expected me to help them. They figured I would do so in order to escape more pain. At first, they had thought I could help because I was a Galactic agent in disguise. They no longer seemed to believe that. So how could I help them as a mere Earth creature?

  It seemed that I would find out when we landed. I needed a plan, but I had nothing. That meant I would have to wait for an opportunity. It didn’t have to be a good opportunity. Otherwise, I might wait too long to do something. It just had to be a chance to hurt these intruders.

  I vowed to myself that I would do exactly that when the moment came.

  -10-

  If the aliens had gravity control, it didn’t show itself on the long glide down to Greenland. The modified Learjet shook, and the roar became like a cyclone. I had to clamp my hands over my ears and clench my teeth together. By the time the shaking lessened into something bearable, my jaw muscles ached as if I’d chewed ancient bubblegum for a week.

  Z17 had never changed expression as he’d watched whatever he did on the darkened interior of the goggles. The noise hadn’t bothered him in the slightest, and he’d ridden out the shaking with what seemed to me as contemptuous ease.

  The Learjet skimmed across a vast field of ice and snow. We moved at nearly supersonic speed, rising a few times as we whipped past icy mountains.

  Finally, the jet began to slow. The landscape outside was as bleak and desolate as ever. I couldn’t see any sign of the sea, the ocean. I imagined we were in the middle of the monstrous island. I’d exchanged a desert of sand for a hellishly icy one.

  The landing gear must have finally deployed. The Learjet lowered, and the noise became slightly less invasive as we touched down.

  It was a hard landing as we bumped, rose, descended roughly again and skidded and slid for miles. Finally, we moved slowly enough for me to unhook myself and stare out my window.

  There were snow-cats in the distance, another midsized jet and a large white warehouse building. It looked exactly like the one in Nevada except for the color.

  Our pilot taxied us near the other Learjet. Finally, he shut down the engines. That allowed me to hear and feel the wind buffeting the plane.

  “Stand,” Z17 said.

  I glanced at him. He’d put away the goggles and earbuds. He seemed ready to go.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I said.

  He stared at me. I had no idea what he was thinking. “Speak,” he said.

  “Do you have parkas for us?”

  “Explain your meaning.”

  “Do you have heavy clothing?” I asked. “It must be cold outside.”

  “You desire space gear?”

  “No,” I said. “I need heavy clothing to protect me from the cold.”

  “That is illogical, as it is unlikely you will live long enough to experience any debilitation from weather extremes.”

  I let that settle in before I asked, “Don’t you need thicker clothing for outside?”

  I hardly saw his hand move as he pulled out the prod, lunged with a fencer’s speed and jabbed me in the stomach.

  A terrific jolt slammed me backward against the window. He held the prod against me longer than before—letting it zap repeatedly—and he seemed reluctant to remove it.

  I lay on the floor gasping.

  “Do not speak obscenely again,” he said.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Come,” he said, as he put away the prod. “Hurry to your feet.”

  I climbed slowly back to my feet.

  The former driver swept past the curtain. He barely gave me a glance as he opened the entrance. Bitter cold howled into the compartment. Without a qualm, the driver walked down the steps into the icy wind. He began crunching through the snow toward the warehouse.

  Z17 shoved me from behind so I stumbled to the entrance. I climbed down the steps and immediately began shivering from the cold. Icy particles struck my face and began numbing my skin. I turned up to Z17 in the Learjet’s doorway.

  “I’m going to freeze to death before I can deliver the ship to you,” I said.

  “Hurry to the snow-cat,” he said. “You can wait in there.”

  I picked the closest one, staggering through the snow and bitter cold. I’d started last evening in the Nevada desert. Now, it was morning, and I was in the middle of Greenland. My body was acclimatized to hot weather, not to this mind-numbing cold.

  My teeth began to chatter and my shivering inhibited my progress. I soon stumbled and hugged my arms against my body, rubbing myself to generate a modicum of warmth.

  I hardly remember reaching the cat. Z17 opened the passenger-side door. Hot hands grabbed me, throwing me inside. He slammed the door shut, remaining outside.

  While my teeth chattered, I looked around. Unbelievably, there was a parka in here. I put it on, even though the sleeves were too short and it bound tightly against my chest. With the hood over my head and my freezing hands in front of my mouth, I tried to warm myself the best I could.

  It finally occurred to me that Z17 wasn’t watching me as closely as before. He kept his gaze on the warehouse. He had to look over the cat’s hood to do that. He only occasionally glanced to the side at me.

  When he looked over the hood again, I quickly searched the forward compartment. This seemed like an ordinary Earth-made snow-cat. Slowly, I opened the glove compartment. A mid-sized screwdriver lay there among folded papers and an unopened package of Certs.

  I stuffed the mint-flavored Certs and the screwdriver into a parka pocket. The screwdriver wasn’t much, but maybe at the right moment I could jab it into one of the aliens.

  I recalled how densely meaty the aliens had been. Z17 had seemed to imply earlier that he did not possess a spine or bones of any kind other than the skull that I’d blown away in one of them last night. That likely meant it would be hard to drive my screwdriver into one of them. If an opportunity presented itself, I’d have to plunge the screwdriver in as if I were trying to shove it through a concrete wall.

  I kept searching the compartment, finally spotting a flare gun. It seemed too big to hide on my person. I picked it up and checked the load. There was a capsule in the tube. Maybe if I could get Z17 or the driver to bite down on the end of the tube, I could launch the flare into his gullet. Otherwise, would the flare incapacitate either one enough to do me good?

  Maybe it could disable them long enough for me to grab one of their rayguns.

  Z17 had made it plain. I was disposable, unlikely to last the morning. That meant I had to make my move soon.

  Before I could formulate a plan, Z17 opened the passenger-side door. Fortunately, I’d already set the flare gun aside.

  “Climb into the back,” he said.

  Without going out into the icy wind, I climbed over a seat, sliding in back.

  Z17 climbed in, shutting the door. A few seconds later, the driver opened the other door, hoisting himself inside.

  The driver looked at me before looking at Z17.

  “The creature is weaker than we suspected,” Z17 said. “It cannot tolerate the slight chill.”

  “Then it is indeed an Earth creature,” the driver said.

  “That is my conclusion as well.”

  “Kill it,” the driver said, as he reached for the door handle.

  “Is that prudent?”
Z17 asked.

  The driver froze, slowly turning to face Z17.

  “We have used a transport vehicle to move to Location One,” Z17 said. “The Organizer might note this if he demands an audit after the mission.”

  “The Earth creature is of no value to us if he lacks Galactic agent codes,” the driver said.

  “Is that precisely the case?” Z17 asked.

  “A non-Galactic guard logically does not possess Galactic Guard codes,” the driver said. “We need the codes to bypass the auto-defenses.”

  “That is true,” Z17 said. “But we have noted the Earth creature’s cleverness in Location Seven-A. That exhibition of cleverness was not natural to the species.”

  “This is interesting,” the driver said. “Continue with your analysis.”

  “You noted this incongruence in the creature. To your astute mind, it suggested a Galactic agent in disguise.”

  “You agreed with my assessment,” the driver said.

  “I did indeed,” Z17 said. “I am not attempting a blame-shift.”

  “It appears to me that you are.”

  “Bear with me, Q11.”

  “Continue,” Q11said.

  “You rightfully connected the link between the Earth creature and the Guard. In some manner we have not yet discovered, the Galactic Guard used the Earth creature toward its hindering ends.”

  “That is an interesting speculation,” Q11 said. “You have a subtle mind, Z17.”

  “At first, I wished to have an explanation in mind in case of an audit. Now, I have begun to wonder whether my subconscious mind has not stumbled onto the truth.”

  “This is not stumbling,” Q11 said. “This is a stroke of genius. With it, you have divined the Galactic agent’s technique. We will continue with our original plan, using a slight modification with the aboriginal.”

  “We will insert a Bemis Six tracker into it?” Z17 asked.

  I held my breath as I slowly moved my right hand into my parka pocket. The fingers curled around the screwdriver handle.

  “Yes,” Q11 said. “I will insert a deep tracker in the Earth-creature’s intestinal track.”

  “Deep trackers are exceptionally painful to the host,” Z17 said.

  “That does not matter to us.”

  “It could,” Z17 said. “The Earth creature might not survive such a placement long enough to perform its task.”

  “If it might not survive, that logically means that the Earth creature might survive the placement. You will inject the Earther with—”

  “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting.

  Q11 shifted in his seat, looking back at me. I lunged at him with everything I had. I struck his head with my body, using my left hand to clutch the back of his head. Then I shoved the screwdriver as hard as I could at an eyeball. For once, I had perfect targeting. The tip of the screwdriver smashed into the eye. It was softer than the rest of his body. With my weight, I shoved the screwdriver blade deep into his brain.

  Q11 violently jerked away from me. Because of my left hand on the back of his head and my fierce grip on the screwdriver handle, he dragged me over the front seats.

  Z17 reached up, grabbing my legs.

  I shoved my feet against his torso. Given my position, that propelled him hard against the passenger-side door. Maybe it hadn’t latched properly before. The door swung open and the alien tumbled out of the snow-cat into the snow.

  Q11 was twitching violently in his seat. I released him and felt an elbow smash against me, driving out my breath, but I still managed to draw his raygun from its holster. I beamed Q11 at pointblank range. He twitched even more violently and then sagged as if deflating.

  I twisted around as Z17 climbed to his feet. For a second, our eyes met.

  “See you later, dude,” I said, beaming him in the chest.

  He disintegrated in seconds, his fumy ashes sprinkling onto the snow outside.

  By that time, black gunk from Q11 had soaked my parka.

  My chest heaved as I sucked down air. This was an insane situation. These two freaks had been about to put a tracker in my gut—

  I shook my head. I didn’t have time to worry about that. I had to act while I could. With an effort, I pulled my thoughts together, formulating a rough plan. It didn’t matter if it was freaky, practically impossible. I was in this mess, and unless I kept everything together, I would die, possibly in a hideous manner.

  Aliens were real. Rayguns were real. I actually was in the middle of Greenland. If I played everything straight, I just might get out of here alive.

  That helped me control my breathing and put the situation into perspective so my mind could continue to function. I had taken my opportunity, and it had worked twenty times better than I’d expected. Now, I had to keep doing that. I had to keep taking whatever these space bastards gave me.

  I checked the warehouse. No one came running out of it. Luckily for me, the snow-cat’s passenger side was on the opposite side as the building. Thus, the cat had blocked some of what I’d done.

  I dragged Q11 from the snow-cat, dumping him onto the snow. One thing I learned then, these aliens were heavier than they looked.

  I left the screwdriver in his brain, but I kept his raygun. Then, I checked his pockets, coming away with a communicator and a small device with several buttons on it.

  I stared at him, looked over the hood at the warehouse and decided I couldn’t stay here. If I could have, I would have liked to head back to Nevada in the Learjet. But I had no idea if I knew how to fly it. I was fairly certain I could drive the snow-cat, though.

  Shivering, I climbed back in and slammed the passenger-side door shut. I slid to the driver’s side while putting the raygun on the passenger-side seat.

  The key was in the ignition. I turned it. The engine roared. I immediately turned on the heater to full blast. Precious and most welcome warmth blew out of it.

  I glanced at the warehouse again. No one had come out of it since the last time I looked. Was anyone even in there?

  I lacked the balls to go check. Instead, I put the snow-cat into gear and hit the gas. The treads began to churn, which made the main vehicle lurch. It was easy to decide where to go. I would follow the tracks in the snow heading out.

  As the heater began to fill the cab with warmth, I wondered what I was going to do next. I was no longer a prisoner, and I’d killed two more aliens, but I was stuck out here in the middle of Greenland with no way home. I had an ill-fitting, bloody parka, a snow-cat and a raygun. How could that help me survive the next few hours? It was time to do some serious thinking.

  -11-

  I almost stopped the snow-cat and ran back to Q11. I might need his hat. The aliens wore them to look more like us—it seemed like a reasonable conclusion anyway. Maybe I could wear one to look more like them.

  I peered back at the dwindling warehouse. Despite the wish to have an alien, Earth-looking hat, I couldn’t force myself to turn around and go back.

  The way I saw it, I had three options. I could follow the tracks and try to find this Galactic Guard-ship. Maybe I could worm my way onto it and contact Galactic Guard Headquarters. That seemed very chancy at best. The bad aliens had hinted that weapons or traps of some sort protected the ship. Why would I have any more luck getting past those weapons than the creepy aliens?

  For the sake of argument, I would ditch option one. That left the last two. I could take the cat and head for the coast. I would have to hope the coast was near enough, that I had gas enough, and that I could find a human-owned ship or settlement to take me in.

  That option seemed almost as risky as the first one.

  Option three was heading back to the warehouse. That option had two variants. I could try to kill everyone in the warehouse, or I could try to slip onto a modified Learjet and fly out of here.

  That option had far too many iffy variables to seem worth the effort.

  So where did that leave me?

  It would appear that I had selected option four:
freeze to death in the middle of Greenland.

  I shook my head, disliking option four the most.

  Before I could reassess the options, the flat-shaped communicator buzzed. It lay beside the raygun on the passenger-side seat. I picked it up and realized my mistake right away.

  The entire flat area showed me another alien, a spitting image of Z17. The aliens all looked alike to me. Maybe they thought the same thing about humans.

  The alien on the screen opened his mouth and made the obscene buzzing sounds at me.

  I stared dumbly at him, revolted almost as much as the first time I’d witnessed this.

  “Who are you?” he asked, switching to slightly accented English.

  “Ah…this is Z17,” I said.

  “Answer me correctly,” the alien said. “Who are you?”

  I depressed a button to no effect as I repeated my answer.

  “Z17?” the alien said. “Why have you transformed into that hideous Earther shape?”

  “I, ah, have devised an option to our original plan,” I said.

  “Speak further of this,” the alien said.

  I nodded, deciding to run with it. “In case the Galactic agent’s protective devices kill the Earth creature, I will make a second attempt as an Earther.”

  The alien stared out of the screen at me. “That is illogical. My analyzer has also detected your falsehood. You are indeed an Earth creature as I first suspected. Give your device at once to Z17.”

  “Yes, at once,” I said.

  I opened my door and pitched the communicator outside. Quickly, I slammed the door shut. Then, I put my foot on the accelerator, increasing speed. I figured the aliens could track me through the communicator.

  Twisting back in the seat, I could barely make out the warehouse. It seemed as if dots ran out of the building, but it was difficult to be sure. Soon, I saw puffs of smoke chugging from two snow-cats. That was certain. Clearly, the aliens had decided to give chase.

  That would severely limit my options.

  I shrugged fatalistically.