Crossover Earth '98

by Mike Cocker

A thunderous boom echoed from out of the loading dock, followed by a dull hissing sound, and then the spaceplane was still. For a while the party said nothing, then Nemo, the pilot of the spaceplane, spoke into his communicator.

"We made it."

"Status," Old Glory said, unbuckling himself from one of the rear seats of the plane.

Stronghold stared at nothing in particular, her eyes shifting. "We have established hard dock." Her eyes shifted some more, and Old Glory just then realized that her mind was telepathically jacked in the plane’s terminal. "We are attached to the derelict’s hull. Magnetic seals are on and registering a solid contact with the vessel’s airlock."

"So far so good," the patriot said with a nod.

Old Glory rose from his chair, admiring the looming, ridge-like façade of the alien hull through the canopy of the spaceplane. "Truly fascinating."

Up close, its exotic grandeur seemed to go on forever, a sprawling continuum of unearthly metal. The hole had been on the far side of the ship from the cameras, but according to Anchorman it was roughly ten feet high by five feet long and looked to be punctured by a humanoid of incredible power. The rim of the hole was a jagged, force-mangled gash along the aft, with clearly noticeable finger depressions.

Old Glory walked up to the front of the plane. "Nemo, are you picking up anything on the scanners?"

"Just a sec...," the pilot replied, switching a toggle on the console. "I’ve got nothing on our infrared and radar." He paused as his hand passed over another switch. "I'm picking up a low energy signature though. Most likely a reserve power source of some kind. But there are no signs of life onboard."

Old Glory unleathered his energy pistol, the sleek firearm looked like a toy in his hand as he checked its cartridge, then placed it back in its holster. "Alright, lets go in to take a look see."

Old Glory led his elite team to the plane’s pressure chamber. He started tapping the keypad on a small module built in the center of the dais, and the hatch door opened in response. The patriot stepped through the threshold, followed by Brainstorm, then Stronghold, the door automatically closing behind them.

"Alright, Nemo," Old Glory said. "Chamber’s hatch is closed." The pilot acknowledged, informing the team that their reception was breaking. On the vidscreen, their images became a flickering distortion, reduced to vague outlines punching through a snowstorm of static, as the spaceplane’s atmosphere washed into the pressure chamber.

Brainstorm looked at the outer hatch of the alien vessel, his polarized helmet concealing his studious expressions. "Our alien friends are either quite broad or this hatch was designed for group access. And notice the general shape. These aliens are definitely hominoid."

"Yes," Stronghold conceded, her multiple limbs working about the surface of the sealed door. "The hatch appears to be mechanically similar to our own. It appears to be locked, but I will be able to manipulate the system. I am about to open the hatch."

Stronghold worked on the outer hatch with machine precision; her human arms handling the locking mechanism while her bionic arms moved about the seal. Only after the airlock hissed open, and Old Glory let out a sigh of relief, did the patriot realize he was holding his breath.

Once inside, Brainstorm stuck a small radio relay on the inside of the hull. After a minute, his voice crackled in Nemo's ears. He fiddled slightly with the controls on the relay until the static faded. "We should be able to keep contact with Anchorman and Nemo for quite some distance now," he informed Old Glory and Stronghold.

Nemo changed frequencies, the vidscreen now showing him the view from the team’s helmet cameras -- the reception seemed nominal. Anchorman remained outside at a distance, a frozen ghost seemingly at home in the void of space, keeping in radio contact with them in case of emergency.

"Very good," Old Glory replied. "Okay, for two straight weeks we spent our mornings, noons, and nights roughing it through grueling simulators and crash-course scenarios. I’m taking point while you two follow close behind. We’re all armed because we aren’t taking any chances, but that doesn’t mean we’re looking for trouble either. You know the routine, so I know don’t have to waste my breath with the ground rules. Our first order of business is to get Stronghold to a computer terminal."

The group gingerly stepped through the inner hatch and entered a well-lit, all-too-clean corridor. Their first fifteen minutes aboard were uneventful. Beyond the inner compartment was another corridor, spanning fore and aft for several hundred meters, with intersecting corridors throughout it. It was high and wide, most likely designed for quick, easy passage through the ship. They spent the following endless hour walking through the corridor of the craft. They took their time, double-checking every move, and every step, studying the lay of the derelict’s interior. Eventually their steps took them to the end of the corridor.

"Here is something of interest," Stronghold announced, pointing at a door at the end of the corridor, a pictograph above it.

Nemo viewed his monitor via Stronghold's camera headset. "I can't make any sense of it. Is that script?"

"I'm attempting to open the door," Old Glory said, keeping Nemo and Anchorman informed of his actions.

The patriot tried to insert his fingers into the seal of the door and pry it open. "It's too snug -- vacuum sealed. Probably because of the depressurization from the rend in the hull." Old Glory then reached for a small cutting torch from his utility belt. After several minutes cutting at the seal of the door, he managed to get it open.

"Bingo," Old Glory stated excitedly as he stepped through the portal.

The patriotic hero beheld a large room combining an odd utilitarian layout with tactile indulgence. Several cubicles sat along the lateral bulkhead, flanking a central console built on a superstructure. Secondary consoles lined the rear bulkhead. Just behind what Old Glory believed to be the control bridge was a circular shaft leading down to a subordinate compartment.

Stronghold approached the main console and got to work while Brainstorm analyzed everything else in site.

"I can not decode the alien script," Stronghold said in a voice lacking any signs of emotion.

Brainstorm withdrew a device that resembled a portable computer, and pointed to a jack on the back. "Pipe it through this universal translator."

Using other advanced analysis tools, Brainstorm and Stronghold worked through deciphering the alien's data encoding scheme. After several minutes Brainstorm managed to convert the alien scripting into complex machine language while Stronghold tried to transfer the data into her mental database.

Meanwhile, Old Glory looked down the corridor. He wasn’t expecting any trouble. The spacecraft was so huge, so empty; subconsciously, he started believing that the ship was deserted.

As if on cue, Old Glory suddenly heard something. He couldn’t make it out at first, but as he waited the noise got louder, closer. His heart started to race and his stomach felt knotted, the kind of sensation one feels when something very bad is about to happen.

"I think we’ve got company," the patriot said in a hash whisper.

"Christ!" Nemo hollered. "I’m now picking up bio-signs down there with you! Sensors are reading six, I read, six life forms in the derelict."

"Damn it all to high heaven!" Old Glory cursed. "I better make the initial contact. Wish me luck."

With his sidearm at the ready, Old Glory tapped his foot gently against the floor. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose as he took quick breaths. Then he saw what was making the noise. For a moment, his mind refused to function, only instinct prompted him to shift his body and roll into the computer room. For just over an hour the group wandered the length of the ship wondering what it’s masters looked like and what had happened to them. Now both questions had been answered.

The aliens lined the middle of the corridor, barely four meters from the door to the computer room. There was six of them standing upright, armed with what looked like weapons ready and pointed forward. They wore suits quite similar to the ones the away team wore. And if looks meant anything, they were very, very angry.

The aliens were very much reptilian, resembling some sort of freakishly evolved iguana. Their faces and, Old Glory presumed, their bodies underneath their spacesuits, were covered by a fine layer of scales. He noted subtle patterns of green and brown to their plated skin, each very unique to the next. They had snouts that jutted out farther than a human. Their ears were very small, almost none existent, and from what the patriot could tell they had no tails. They were taller than Old Glory and their bodies were husky and hard, bulging muscles shifting underneath snug uniforms.

These guys are definitely built for strength, Old Glory thought to himself, certain that they matched his speed and physical prowess. Unarmed combat right off the bat could get ugly.

Just as Old Glory tried to sneak another peek at the aliens, one snarled and fired his energy rifle. Part of the blast careened off Old Glory's personal force-field and knocked him back into the room.

"Our hosts aren’t too friendly," Old Glory said jokingly, hiding his concern for the integrity of his suit’s life support system. He wondered how these bipedal lizards ignored the spaceplane’s bioscans.

"Do you detect anything outside this derelict, Anchorman? Any probes, shuttles, anything?"

"Nutteen, comrade Glory," Anchorman replied with a Russian accent, his voice superimposing the faint sounds of a sonar blip. Then the sound effects died and the spectral hero continued with a more eloquent-sounding voice, very much like an Oxonian scholar. "Apparently, the vessel you are on is not derelict. My originally supposition was based on the fact that this damaged vessel did not proceed with the other ships. In actuality, the vessel simply was not atmosphere worthy after its first encounter with Armature. I must therefore hypothesize that the full crew complement that was onboard heretofore vacated to another vessel. Consequently, the troglodytes you are encountering were most likely ordered to guard their damaged spacecraft."

Old Glory shook his head and sighed.

Brainstorm looked up. "Keep them busy for a minute or two, won't you? We almost have it."

Old Glory looked at Brainstorm with surprise. "Yeah, no sweat. Should be piece of cake." I’m going to get us all killed. He blindly snapped off a stun shot from his pistol at the aliens only to have them return fire.

I wish I had Liberty here as my second set of eyes. "Nemo, I have a plan."

Old Glory detached the buckle from his belt, removing the magnetic faceplate from it, and attached the magnet to his camera headset which he removed from his helmet. This better work, he said inwardly as he reach around the corner, placing the headset on the wall of the corridor.

"Nemo, do you see our friends?" Old Glory asked.

"Yeah," The pilot replied. "Raptors in a spacesuits."

"Okay. You’re my eyes." Old Glory stuck his pistol out and started to released more stun bolts at the aliens.

The patriot unloaded his weapon’s entire clip into the hallway. "How am I doing, Nemo?" He instinctively reloaded his gun.

"One of the aliens went down, but the others are getting closer."

Okay. One. Two. Three. Old Glory suddenly dove into the hall, landing on his stomach as he released more stun bolts at the aliens. With marksman accuracy, he dropped two more reptilians as energy hit them flush on the chest. Before he could reduce the numbers any more, the three remaining aliens rushed him. The quarters were now too close for the use of firearms, so the aliens took to unarmed combat.

Old Glory sprang to his feet, delivering a palm strike to the leading alien’s midsection, knocking him to the ground. The next two lizard-men pounced the hero. He parried a sledgehammer fist from the alien on his left, but the one on his right managed to knee him in the ribs. The grounded alien got back to his feet as Old Glory cartwheeled forward, distancing himself from the three reptilians. The patriot was stronger, but not by much.

The aliens moved about Old Glory in a swirl of movements and flailing limbs, their outlandish jabs and kicks punctuated by sibilant grunts. The reptilians were well-versed in combat and this made the hero believe that he might be dealing with some sort of warrior race. The aliens staggered Old Glory a few times, but he quickly adapted to their exotic fighting styles.

Old Glory crouched, dove, and struck, then parried, rolled, and countered. His strikes were delivered with significant force. Finally, two aliens tumbled, one somersaulting into a wall, the other sliding down the corridor.

The last remaining lizard-man hissed furiously, his forked tongue slipping past an arsenal of pointed teeth, and then pounded Old Glory in the small of his back with two fists. The hero’s knees buckled from the blow.

Old Glory let out a wincing breath of air. Alright, that hurt. I have enough back problems. I don’t need Lizzy adding to them. He then pivoted to face his scaly opponent in a martial arts stance. His leg exploded outwards, the wet snap of bone and cartilage echoed hollowly as the heel of his heavy boot connected with the alien’s knee. Old Glory then landed the finishing blow, a straight, solid punch to where he believed the creature’s sternum was.

By the time Old Glory took down the last alien, Brainstorm and Stronghold exited the room they were in.

"We have problems," Brainstorm said. "I found some files belonging to the leader of this expedition. They're looking for an artifact of some sort. Once they have it, or once they're convinced they won't find it, they intend on sending shock troops down into the cities they have ships over, and taking as many prisoners as they can carry. The numbers could run into the millions."

"The files say humanoids make excellent slaves," Stronghold added.

"Oh my god...," Old Glory gaped.

Brainstorm nodded, but his concern was evident even through the polarized shield of his helmet. "Also, there's a general security alert out on us. Those six guards will be followed by many more pretty soon."

Old Glory walked over to the unconscious reptilians, picking up two large but rather outlandish assault rifles off the ground. "Okay," he paused, tossing one of the weapons to Stronghold and the other to Brainstorm. "Gather your things. We're leaving this giant bucket pronto."

Old Glory brought his wrist up to his mouth and started to speak into his communicator. "Get ready for four passengers, Nemo. We're hauling butt in two minutes."

Brainstorm cocked an eyebrow and looked at Stronghold. "Four?"

Old Glory pulled out a pair of reinforced handcuffs from his utility belt and shackled one of the alien's wrists behind his back. "Okay handsome," he said as he picked up the bound alien in a fireman’s carry. "You're coming with us."

As the three jogged down the corridor, Old Glory cursed aloud. "Damn it! We’ve got a fleet of hostile geckos with a serious Manifest Destiny complex."

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