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Into the Jaws of Death
The Earth ship settled
uneasily onto the dusty surface of the dark side of the moon.
Last second manual adjustments allowed it to set down not
far from the rim of an as yet unnamed minor crater.
Sensors blinked and glowed with information and warnings:
unknown life forms within 500 meters. Charged beamers
and Z-guns detected. Hostile intent had previously been
revealed when an alien tri-nuclear probe rammed the Field
Museum in Chicago and lodged in I-beams a few feet below the
domed roof. Presumably, what had been a second probe
crashed and exploded in a mushroom cloud of destruction deep
in Australia's Great Artesian Basin.
Vladimir Parsinov
turned to the American taming the instruments on the panel
to his right. His accent was thick and modified every
sound he made. "If they turn on us, we fire back?
Eh? No secret orders now that we're here?"
Colonel Underwood's
command-hardened features broke into a grin. A sniff
escaped his hawk like nose. "We brought you over,
trained you side-by-side with us for more than two years,
and you still don't trust us."
Boris Yornoff, the
mission's other foreign-born astronaut, gave out a throaty
scoff. His accent was similar to that of Parsinov.
"Is it not true that in these days of detente, a crumbled
wall, and the West's warming friendship with the Eastern Block,
it is still Vladimir and myself who will be taking all the
risks? Is it not just the two of us who will leave the
safety of this ship and face whatever is out there?"
A last thrown switch
and shut down was complete. Underwood closed the ring
binder on his lap and velcroed it to the wall next to him.
"Look, I don't like this setup either, but that's what
you agreed to. And both of you'll be well rewarded."
His empty gaze fixed
downward, Yornoff nervously ran his tongue over his lips,
undoubtedly pondering what might be awaiting him outside.
"Let's get the suits on and be done with this."
Repeated attempts
at contacting the alien base proved fruitless. Just
before Yornoff and Parsinov entered the air lock, Underwood
gave it one last try. Instruments showed the signal
was strong and clear. It was filtered through the universal
translator and interspersed with a number of formulas, chemical
and physical constants, as well as a binary code specifically
designed to make the Earth ship's peaceful presence clear.
An answer came in
the form of a brief bolt of energy. Sparks spurted from
the com-station like fireworks, and Underwood hurriedly yanked
out a circuit module to protect the system. "Bastards!"
he growled between clenched teeth. Then, spinning his
chair to face the departing pair of suited-up contactors,
"If whatever's inside that base so much as looks cross-eyed
at either of you, let me know." He glanced over
toward the weapons console and made a quick assessment.
"I'll hit 'em with a la-gun blast dead center.
If that doesn't fry their little green butts, then I'm authorized
to break out the... uh, other stuff."
Weaponless and displaying
what Underwood judged to be a less than wise degree of caution,
Yornoff and Parsinov advanced on the alien base. The
central building, a dome with triangular panels and irregularly
protruding pipes of varying lengths and radiuses, shone dimly
through the eternal blackness. The flickering glow outlined
indistinct forms moving in angle-distorted silhouettes.
What had to be missile-launching facilities were separate
cone-shaped configurations, constructed from lunar rock and
reinforced with some phosphorescent material that emitted
an eerie, pulsing reddish glow in the darkness.
A static hum, the
telltale signature of function-mode Z-guns, crackled over
the trudging astronauts' headsets. Beamers also gave
off a specific electronic whine when they were armed and set
in one of the upper discharge ranges. It, too, was unmistakably
present.
As Underwood alternated
between monitoring the onboard equipment and stealing vindictive
glares out the only window, he cursed under his breath.
"Orders! Damn Orders. They go out there while
I sit here on my ass and record what the invaders throw at
us. Arsenal Inventory. Dammit!"
"Underwood."
It was Parsinov. His tone betrayed usually cool nerves
abnormally agitated.
The colonel jabbed
at a lit spot on the com-panel and hoped for the best.
"Parsinov... Parsinov, you read me."
Nothing, only the
whine and static.
Before Underwood
could make any adjustments to the damaged equipment, the moon's
dark side exploded with brightness, Z-gun blasts traced precise
lines across the quiet surface, mountains shattered in silence,
and jagged fragments careened through the thin atmosphere
on high-speed, low-G trajectories.
Yornoff was hit
square in the chest during the first volley of blasts.
His suit was shredded down to the aluminum insulation layer
and his visor was scared, but still he advanced.
Struck from the
side by rocky debris set into motion by stray Z-gun blasts,
Parsinov stumbled, but never missed a step. A moment
later he and his companion disappeared into the alien dome.
Taken by surprise,
the two-headed creatures leveled their hand beamers at the
seemingly invincible Earthlings and gave them all they had.
But the white-hot rays only seared away portions of the space
suits. Immense organs of sight widened with amazement
and disbelief. Parsinov and Yornoff took advantage of
the creatures' temporary state of shock and finished them
off, savoring the spoils of victory as only they could.
“Exotic,”
you might say, Yornoff said afterward.
Parsinov
nodded, turning so that his comrade could see he was licking
his lips, savoring the moment.
Safely back inside
the ship, Underwood recorded the alien base disintegrating
from within, succumbing to the inevitable explosive effects
of overloaded Z-guns. "Got what they deserved,"
he remarked vehemently. His shipmates climbed
numbly into their wooden bunks and dug their nails into the
fresh, damp soil.
Wiping something
dried and green from his chin, Yornoff vented a sigh and slid
the lid into place.
Parsinov mumbled
something about NASA and the Red Cross and closed his own
lid.
Rubbing the gold
crucifix suspended by a chain over his heart, Underwood began
the preparation sequence for lift-off.
Donald W. Hornbostel
DHAZ3@aol.com">Donald W. Hornbostel
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