Revenge of the Spiders Read online

  “Glory awaits us,” shouted the captain over the noise of the turning rotors. His body leaned forward in its seat, both hands on the gear strapped to his chest. He was ready to disembark the moment the helicopter touched the ground.

  No one tried to hail them on the radio, and no voice warned them to get clearance first. There was a disturbing absence of life at the camp; no soldiers walked outside on the field to confront them. Zero resistance thus far, and that unsettled the Russians even more than a big show of force would have done. This didn't feel right to the mission's captain or his team.

  The two flying machines landed on the soft field of snow to the left of the laboratory, sinking into powder before hitting the frozen ground beneath. The blades spun the top layer of snow around them like a swirl of cold dust.

  The helicopters shut down slowly; the last blade gyrated to a stop, and a strange silence moved in to take the place of the motors. The soldiers stepped from the machines in single file and fanned out across the white plain. Their boots crunched into the ice and echoed across the landscape. No Americans, Dutch or Swedes came out to oppose their incursion. The Russians had crossed over restricted airspace and landed in a highly controlled zone, but no one tried to stop them. Not even a radio warning.

  Is this a trap? Do they know who we are?

  The captain's concerns deepened.

  Two faces appeared in the window, visible through filmy glass, staring back at the invaders. They watched the Russians with no expression or movement. Two soldiers raised their rifles and aimed for the faces, but did not shoot. They waited for orders.

  The captain was first to enter the laboratory building, followed by his right guard. He spouted a few words in Russian, and the two Americans raised their hands, noticeably frightened. They looked to be in their thirties, but the lines at the corners of their eyes were those of an octogenarian. Whatever had happened in this place, this had been a bad week for them – for everyone here.

  “We're just scientists, here on research,” one of them said. “We don't want any trouble.”

  “Trouble?” the captain asked.

  “Are you back from Elk station? You have some information for us? What's happening back home?”

  “What you are babbling about...?” asked the captain. “Is what? Where is the artifact? You know what I mean.”

  One of the Americans asked: “The artifact? That's why you're here?” As he spoke, he glanced out the window. To the Russians, he had betrayed the base's biggest secret with a single look in the wrong direction, but the Americans still seemed confused about the Russians' presence, why they were here.

  “Now we know direction to look,” said the captain's right guard lieutenant.

  “Thank you.” The captain smiled widely to the two American scientists. “You look tired. Please rest.”

  He raised his rifle and fired two bullets. Both of the American scientists fell dead to the ground, each with a hole in the head. The captain turned to his guard and said in Russian, “Precision. I am the best shot. The best.”

  The right guard emphatically agreed and called in two men to help remove the dead bodies.

  Outside, the captain took three of his men and trekked forward on foot across the ice into an expanse of nothingness. The cold sweeping wind bit at their faces, bitterly so, but they did not even adjust their thick parka hoods. They forged on, tracking their target. An orange rectangular flag in a snowbank proved they were on the right trail.

  After an hour of trudging through the snow, they could see a dark shape in the distance. Little doubt remained that this was where the artifact was buried. The captain could feel success within his grasp. On this day, he still thought a promotion was waiting for him back home. For that matter, he still thought a home was waiting for him back home. Clueless, they marched on.

  As they closed the distance, they could see the shape they chased was a dark-green tarpaulin covering something the size of a passenger jet, with a dozen tent poles underneath to prop up the corners and the center area. Upon reaching the first opening, the soldiers stood on either side and waited for their commander. It was his privilege to go inside first.

  The captain lifted the tent flap that opened into the giant tent, pulled it back and shined his light inside. The bright white beam flickered off something bronze, and the captain's smile grew. This was the glory of their mission.

  They had found it.

  “The artifact, Comrades. It is ours.”

  His lieutenant stared ahead into the tent, his eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and fear, and he whispered, “Victory is ours, my Captain.”

  Another man made the sign of the cross. And silently prayed.

  Chapter 3

  Dexter's compound lay nearly empty, abandoned like an amusement park at the end of summer. Closing time, go home. See you next year. Bring the kids again!

  Except there would be no new season, and this wasn't a carnival. It was a place of hardship and torment. For Dexter, it served as a refuge and a workplace. The moment the invasion started, the minute he saw the clouds of green, he knew what was happening, and he had grabbed his gear. He had moved quickly to secure this place, and to employ the bottom-feeding Grinners. He always knew the invasion would come. His doomsday plan had taken shape over a year ago, and unfolded like a road map: easy to open, difficult to close back up.

  He hoped to never see any of the Grinners again, ever. Those men were a blight on the world, at least as bad as his brother, the great and powerful Loxtan Vhar of Neptune II. Maybe the Grinners were worse, in a different way. But now they were far up north in Buffalo, or somewhere near there, and he was glad of that. If any returned, he would kill them.

  Or maybe he wouldn't.

  He would let the moment guide itself. But he held those men in a special position of disregard. The invasion had saved some of the worst of humanity by sheer coincidence, or by reasons of geography. The fact that he had used them for his own means, that was something he was not proud of, but they had been so easy to manipulate. Those men and women resided one IQ point above a tadpole. And they disgusted him.

  All except for Mitch, still useful. That scruffy nine-fingered man continued to lurk somewhere within the compound, and Dexter was almost happy to have him around. Happy was too strong a word; nothing made Dexter happy anymore. These days, he was just shooting for being “content.”

  Now Dexter was back in the basement, again.

  It was his third time today.

  Under the dim light of a dirty glass hexagonal lamp hanging precariously from the ceiling, Dexter glared down at his communication box. He stared as if he might sear holes in it with his eyes. As of yet, he had received no reply from his message to his wife, and no reply to a second message sent to his brother – the President of Neptune's moon.

  He waited.

  Hour after hour, the box remained silent.

  Something is not right.

  While he understood that his brother might not be so keen to send a quick response, formulating a calculated reply with care, there was no reason for the silence from his wife. She should have answered the call immediately – and would have, if she could – he was certain of this. Something had gone very wrong on his cold homeworld moon. His wife was in trouble, restricted in some way, another fact of which Dexter had no doubt.

  Earth was not the only planet in the middle of a major transformation. With the invasion in full swing, political changes back home would be inevitable. The opposition to war had obviously lost, and the pro-invasion party was surely in control. Dexter thought his brother was pro-invasion, so now he wondered what his silence meant. Perhaps a third party was now in power.

  War brings forth chaos on all sides.

  He fidgeted with a coin, rolled it in between his fingers, shifting it back and forth like a magician. Missing his wife was natural, but now he wondered why he started to miss his brother. If given the chance, he would certainly kill his sibling, but now he didn't understand his mind's maudlin state.

  Is it possible to miss someone you hate?

  He brushed the thought aside and focused on a picture of his wife that was burned into his eye. An image of her holding a fabric flower, fashioned to mimic those on Earth – something most Sayans only ever saw in photos. How he longed to show her a real one. The plants here offered no disappointment – they were far more marvelous than any Sayan could imagine.

  An idea then occurred to him. He crafted another coded message and sent it to the Sayan Council itself. Some tricks he had brought with him to Earth included codes to reach the very highest members of his government. If those had not changed in a decade – a great likelihood they had – he might be able to reach someone else on the Council.

  Dexter sent a general message to his government, informing them of his identity, and promising them some inside information on the Earth invasion. A promise of war secrets would get someone's attention.

  The message was sent.

  It would take a day to reach Neptune, and a day for any reply, assuming a reply was sent right away. Dexter tucked the small box into a satchel and brought it back upstairs with him. He hid it among other pieces of equipment scattered around his lab.

  Now I wait.

  Again.

  For a man uniquely and markedly endowed with the gift of patience, this particular waiting game was wearing thin on his skin. Once more he felt the anger building up inside his soul, threatening to bloom or burst. A decade of hate was in danger of getting loose, and that disappointed him. He had just gotten it bottled up again, and the killing of Kiern had done so much to cleanse his inner darkness.

  I can't go back to that state.

  Move forward. Backward is only a dead-end.

  The future. The future only.

  “Positive thinking,” he told himself. He wanted to hear the words, not just think them. “I will see you again, my dear, my wife. Soon you will send me a reply. I know it. We will be together again.”

  The scientist was not a sentimental man, but in this moment, he felt deeply wounded.

  Chapter 4

  The group agreed that Sam, Shane, and Bohai would take the van to find Dexter. They would be escorted by George in one of the tanks. Even though they were not sure it would be able to take down a spaceship, they wanted the tank beside them. Everyone else would stay at the Peak and make preparations for a possible attack. They had no idea what the Sayans' next move might be, but some kind of assault was a safe bet.

  “If you're not prepared for the worst, you're not prepared at all,” Stu told them. He also told them it was his dad's old saying, which – they would come to find out – applied to a lot of what he said.

  The group said their goodbyes, and Tina hugged everyone in that tight way she did, like a mother or older sister. Camila passed on a few curses for Dexter. Lucy woke up in time to wave sleepily from her second-floor window. Lily, accompanied by snowball, kissed everyone on the cheek.

  Mark handed out his own advice on being careful and shooting first, and then solemnly and seriously – like a young adult – he wished them Good Luck.

  “Take care of this place,” Sam told Jason. They fist-bumped, and then he shook hands with Stuart.

  “You're in charge while we're gone,” he told Stu. “Whatever happens, I'm glad you joined us.”

  “Right,” said Stu. He was a man of few words.

  Jason said, “If you need our help, use the flare gun. I don't know if we'll see it, or if we'll be able to come to your rescue, but we'll try.”

  “Damn right you will.”

  “Let's roll,” George said, and made a loud whistle sound with his fingers in his mouth – the kind of sound only soldiers and football coaches know how to make, then he descended into his tank and closed the hatch.

  Shane took the driver's seat in the van, and the two-vehicle patrol headed down the road with high hopes and mediocre expectations. Sam watched the Peak get smaller in the mirror. He thought he saw Mark waving from the main tower, until they turned the corner and the Peak vanished from sight. He prayed for their safety.

  The road held no surprises. They had traveled this route three times by now, except this time there were no obstacles or creatures in their way. Any dead lizards were routinely being hauled away and eaten by the spiders. The spacecraft still remained in the open field halfway to Dexter's place. It continued to spy on the world around it, like a colossal dragonfly on a lily pad surveying the pond it rules. While it made no sound or motion, the lights on the wings continually blinked. It served as a stark reminder to Sam's group that they were now on occupied land.

  “We should have George blast that ship,” Shane said, as they passed it. “Just one big pop might do it. That thing creeps me out.”

  Sam shook his head. “Let's talk to Dexter first.”

  “You assume he wants to help us, Sammy.”

  “We're assuming a lot of things, brother. And I know about assumptions making an ass of you and me, but it's all we've got.”

  Bohai cleared his throat, and said, “So tell me, where would an alien park his spaceship?”

  Sam shrugged.

  “At a parking meteor.” Bohai smiled, pleased with his joke. “Get it? Meteor! Okay, so what was wrong with the restaurant on the moon?” He paused, “No atmosphere!”

  “How long have you been holding on to these?” Shane inquired.

  “Too long. But I've got one that strikes closer to home, as of today. What kind of songs do planets sing?”

  “Moon river?”

  “No, they sing Nep-tunes!”

  “Kill me now,” Shane groaned. “Please.” But he was glad someone was trying to lighten the mood. His nerves were on the very edge.

  They reached the dirt road that led to Dexter's compound, but no guards met them, not even at the front gate. Most of the men had already left, leaving an empty cluster of buildings only manned by half a dozen men, maybe less.

  The gate lay wide open, completely unattended, so they drove the van inside and parked it near the first building. The tank remained outside with George. He jumped out of the hatch and planted himself firmly next it, just in case one of few remaining Grinners might get the bright idea to steal it.

  The others stepped out of the van and started walking along the lonely street. A bearded man with a dew rag on his head and a sleeveless leather vest walked past them. As he passed, he spat on the ground, fully intending to walk on and ignore the intruders.

  Sam tried to get his attention. “Excuse me! Where's Dexter? Can you tell us?”

  The man pointed to a small two-story building tucked into the middle of the block. He glanced at them, but kept walking. He didn't care, anymore. This camp was a skeleton of its former hell-raising glory.

  Sam walked cautiously to the building, and the others followed, keeping an eye on their flank. The entire setting was off-beat and gave them a sense of vulnerability. Nothing looked right anymore, but this place looked especially bleak.

  Sam knocked on the door. When no one answered, he turned the handle and found it unlocked. Warily, he pushed the door in, and the hinges complained with a high-pitched squeak. The boys crossed the threshold on light feet.

  Dexter sat behind his desk, poring over papers and muttering to himself. Test tubes bubbled and steamed on a workbench to the left. He didn't look up. He was in a foul mood today – partly because of no reply to his messages to his home, and partly because of his sour personality for the past decade. Bitterness was his new mantra.

  “What do you want?”

  “We want your help,” Sam said.

  “With what?” He made a note on a paper, but still hadn't looked up.

  “It's me, Sam.”

  That brought Dexter out of his paperwork. He looked up as though he had just been swimming and now surfaced for air, realizing he wasn't where he thought he was. His eyes focused and just stared at the three boys for a moment.

  “You're here,” he said. “I wondered if I would see you again.”

  “We are here,” said Sam. When no one else replied, he continued, “We need to talk to you, Sir.”

  “Of that I am sure,” Dexter snickered, leaning forward. “You have some questions, no doubt. Maybe questions about your father.”

  “Well, that and other things...”

  “But I have no answers for you, Samuel. I had no personal acquaintance with your father. Soren Jayden and I never met, neither on Earth nor Neptune. Sorry, I cannot help you.”

  “At the moment, we have other concerns, Sir.” Sam hesitated, then pushed on. “What are your plans for helping Earth? How will you continue to spread your chemicals... or your formula?”

  “My anti-X02, you mean. There's not much I can do, kid. I've spread it as far as it will go, and please stop calling me Sir.”

  “But you said it will only affect a hundred miles or so,” Bohai said, stepping forward to stand beside Sam. “What about the rest of the planet?”

  “What about it?” Dexter asked plainly. “I intend to keep this area safe, don't worry. But I cannot help the rest of your world. It is simply too vast.”

  “There might be other survivors,” Shane protested. “We need to help them, in other parts of the country.”

  “We were thinking about an idea,” Sam said. He nudged his brother aside to get him to be quiet. Hot heads would not prevail here. “We thought we might take that dead commander's ship, Kiern's ship. Fly it around the globe and spread your... anti-X02. To free the world from the mutations.”

  Amused, Dexter sat back in his chair. “Interesting. And you can fly a Sayan glider?”

  “Well, no, but... you can. Can't you?”

  Dexter smiled and put a pen in his mouth. “I can indeed. But you do not have a glider, am I right?”