Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 4, July 2014 (11 page)

“And if it’s just a mountain?”

Huntington sighed. “Then we go rock climbing.”

#

Within a day, the pterodactyl had freed its legs, and Yasmine pushed the remaining rocks away. It clambered over rocks with a grace that belied its large, awkward frame.

Yasmine sat beside it at the cave opening, looking out at the Mediterranean. Clouds filled the sky, and sheets of rain moved across the beach and surf. She inhaled the smell of the downpour. The pterodactyl’s head swung slowly from side to side, scanning the horizon.

She stroked its wing gently. “Can you fly?” she asked.

Its eye looked at her, and she leaned closer.

Looking into the eye, she saw an image of herself and the pterodactyl, sitting in the cave. In the image, the pterodactyl spread its wings, and the girl climbed onto its back. The pterodactyl stepped closer to the edge, the girl on its back, then leapt outward from the cliff, soaring across the water.

The images began to repeat.

Carefully, Yasmine climbed onto its back, holding tightly onto the bones at the front of its wings.

“I’ll be late for supper. Not that anyone cares.”

#

Trafalgar
was near Malta, cruising outside the twelve mile limit. The data from Huntington’s instruments puzzled him. The readings were clearer, but the mascon seemed to be moving.

He needed to get closer to the island, but he knew better than to ask the Luddite captain. He finally tracked down Lieutenant Spencer.

“I need to fly to Malta.”

The lieutenant gave him an incredulous look. “You think I can just fly you there?”

“You’re a pilot.”

“Mate, this is a warship, and those are warplanes. The natives get sticky about that sort of thing.”

“The mascon coordinates are shifting. I have to follow it.”

“Your mountain’s moving?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we can talk to the radar officer. A moving mountain should show up on radar, right?”

“Not necessarily.”

But it was better than talking to the captain. They took the stairs to the flight control tower. The tower swayed with the sea, rain beating against the metal.

“Show me on the charts,” said the radar officer.

Huntington pointed. “This is where it was earlier.”

“What altitude?”

“Sea level.”

“Like a truck?” The officer shook his head. “I can’t pick things like that out of ground clutter.”

“Is there anything unusual at all?”

He studied the radar screen. “We have one UFO. Small footprint, low altitude. Maybe an ultralight, though he’d be bonkers in this weather.”

“What’s his vector?” asked the lieutenant.

“Appears to be heading out to sea.”

The lieutenant cleared his throat. “Clearly a search and rescue situation.”

#

Beneath darkening storm clouds, the pterodactyl landed on a tiny outcropping of rock out at sea. An island large enough for a palm tree, but with a navigation beacon instead. There was no sand, only rocks slippery with algae. Waves crashed against the island, sending sea spray high into the air. Rain matted Yasmine’s hair against her face, and she tasted salt water. She was too exhilarated to be frightened. Shivering, she crouched at the leeward side of the creature.

“You were supposed to flap your wings,” she shouted over the sound of the surf. She made flapping motions with her arms.

The pterodactyl had soared, but however it flew, wing motion had nothing to do with it.

“You need to look more natural, so you don’t attract attention.” She realized how absurd that sounded.

#

“Just a spot of weather,” said the captain.

The waves were over ten feet, and rain slanted across the flight deck. Huntington, the captain and Lieutenant Spencer were preparing to take off in one of the
Trafalgar
’s helicopters. Huntington was in a jump seat in the back, and the other two were up front. Having the captain along wasn’t Huntington’s choice. He checked his equipment and put on a pair of headphones.

“Wind zero-one-zero, gusting twenty-four,” said a voice from
Trafalgar
’s flight control tower.

Rain streamed like tears across the helicopter canopy as wipers fought to keep up. The sky was dark with clouds. Red and white flashes from the helicopter’s lights reflected off the rain-slick deck.

“Swordfish one-four, you’re cleared for takeoff.”

The cabin shuddered, vibrating with power. Members of the deck crew crouched low as the Swordfish climbed from the flight deck. Through the window, Huntington saw whitecaps rushing toward the
Trafalgar
. Malta was hidden by clouds and rain.

“Sir,” said the lieutenant, “Malta flight control wants to know what’s going on.”

“Tell them we picked up a garbled transmission and we’re doing a search, possible rescue. Give them our destination vector.” He turned to scowl at Huntington. “This had bloody well better be worth it, Doctor.”

“It is.”

In front of the lieutenant, GPS showed the carrier falling behind them, and Malta ahead.

“Do you have it on radar?” asked the captain.

After a moment, the lieutenant replied, “Not anymore, sir. I think it’s gone down. Should I go back for a water rescue team?”

“Do an aerial survey. We don’t even know what it was.”

Huntington saw a beacon ahead of them through the rain-swept canopy. He checked his instruments.

“It’s there!” he said. “The mascon!”

“What?” asked the lieutenant. “That’s a rock, not a mountain. I’m not sure it’s even big enough to set down on.”

The captain pointed at the infrared monitor. “Someone’s down there. The pilot.”

#

Yasmine saw the helicopter’s searchlight through the storm before she heard it. It took a minute before it dawned on her that it was coming to rescue her. She tried to make herself as small as possible.

“Go away,” she shouted desperately. “Go away!”

Beside her, the pterodactyl studied the beating machine approaching beneath the clouds. The searchlight played over the rock, illuminating the crashing surf and sea spray.

Without warning, the creature shot straight upward into the clouds, past the helicopter.

“No!” screamed Yasmine.

#

“What the bloody hell was that?” exclaimed the captain.

“Some kind of signal rocket,” said the lieutenant. “The pilot’s still down there.”

Pressed against the side window, Huntington saw a solitary figure on the rock.

“Swordfish one-four,” radioed the flight control tower. “We have a possible SAM launch from your location. Do you–”

The captain interrupted. “Scramble a Harrier.”

“I’m setting down for the pilot,” said the lieutenant.

The captain opened the helicopter’s survival kit and took out the pistol.

On the navigation system, grid-lines appeared on the island, suggesting a landing spot. Huntington noticed it was nearly on top of the figure on the island. But as the Swordfish descended, the figure scrambled away.

The helicopter yawed from side to side in the wind. The lieutenant cursed, trying to keep centered over the rock. Finally he landed with a jarring bounce that rattled the cabin. The engine RPMs dropped.

The captain shoved the door open and leapt out onto the rock. Huntington followed. Whatever was going on, the answers were here. Wind howled. Rain pelted his face.

A girl cowered at the edge of the helicopter downdraft, backed against the crashing surf. What was she doing in the middle of the sea?

The captain was still holding the pistol, and probably regretting it. “Hello?” he shouted over the roar of the engine.

The girl didn’t answer.

“Ciao?” he tried.

“Go away!” shouted the girl, in accented English.

“What happened?” called Huntington.

The girl looked up into the sky desperately, as if hoping for an angel to rescue her.

“Come along,” ordered the captain. He lunged forward and grabbed the girl by the arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked.

The captain dragged her into the helicopter. Once they were inside, he slammed the cockpit door shut. When he released her, she fled to the back of the cabin.

“Who is she?” asked the lieutenant.

“Damned if I know,” said the captain, “but it wasn’t safe there.”

“Swordfish one-four. UFO descending toward you at high velocity.”

“We’re returning to
Trafalgar
. Where’s my bloody Harrier?”

“Lifting off now, sir.”

The lieutenant increased power to the engines, and the Swordfish rose from the island, snatched away like a leaf in the wind.

Huntington removed his headphones, offering them to the girl, but she shrank away from him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

In the roar of the engines, she didn’t answer.

“What was it?” he asked. “The thing on the island with you.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally said, “Pterodactyl.”

Between her accent and the rotor noise, he thought he’d misheard, but when he repeated the word, she nodded.

“They’re extinct,” he said.

She nodded again.

“How’d you get here?”

“It carried me.”

Huntington wasn’t even sure there was a connection between the girl and the mascon. She must be delirious. “I came here looking for an anomaly,” he said. “But I don’t know what it looks like. I need more data. Were you on Malta an hour or two ago?”

She nodded.

“Harrier to Swordfish,” said the radio. “UFO closing. Permission to engage, sir?”

The captain turned to look at Huntington.

“I…I need more data.”

“Permission to engage?” repeated the Harrier pilot.

“
I’m
your data!” cried the girl.

The captain turned away. “Permission granted.”

“There it is!” said the lieutenant.

Huntington leaned forward to see out the canopy. There was a blur of motion and the vapor trail of a missile.

The explosion tore a hole in the clouds like a curtain being ripped away. Huntington saw a cityscape of lights, as if the sky had turned upside down. Then he realized it wasn’t a city. They were stars, packed close together like the heart of a galaxy.

The curtain snapped shut, clouds spiraling like a hurricane.

“The target’s gone!” said the Harrier pilot, then with a curse, “The plane’s tearing apart!”

The Swordfish bucked wildly as the sky convulsed, and Huntington saw the pilot’s white knuckles on the controls. There was a loud bang.

“We lost our tail rotor!” shouted the lieutenant.

The helicopter began pinwheeling, losing altitude. The captain jumped to his feet, yanking open the compartment for the life raft.

Huntington realized that the mascon visitor had left; whatever force had powered the wormhole or whatever it was gone. They were going to land in the sea, and there would be no more data. “My God, they must think we’re monsters.”

The girl looked at the scars on her hands. “I showed it who we are.”

###

George Walker lives near Portland, Oregon, USA.

He has sold stories to 
Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Stupefying Stories, Abyss & Apex, Electric Spec, Ideomancer, Wildside Press
, and elsewhere. Anthologies containing his stories include
Mothership: Tales from Afrofuturism & Beyond, Bibliotheca Fantastica
, and others. His website, containing links to his stories, is at 
https://www.sites.google.com/site/georgeswalker/

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