древний чужак

Top Soviet military officials gathered around a table in a bunker deep beneath the cobbled streets surrounding the Kremlin. Voices murmured in a dozen discussions as they pored over the latest intel from the United States. Grainy images, hastily captured on microfilm, documented the Americans’ first disastrous encounter with extraterrestrials. Already, the cover-up had begun. The American government was quick with a barely believable lie: weather balloons.

Comrade Tsarevich, Minister of Exo-Science, knew the truth. His operatives had given their lives for it: they had received a distress signal from an otherworldly craft and had been in the process of directing it where to land safely on Russian soil -- when the Americans had shot it from the sky. The crew died on impact. The pilot escaped, but vanished into the chill New Mexican night; and with him, their final chance at stopping the Cold War.

Hushed voices began to rise in heated debate. What was to be done? Sooner or later, the Amerikanski would decipher the coded messages and discover that Mother Russia had been in contact with Comrades from beyond the stars for some time. And then? America would not tread lightly, but would thrust her boot into the face of a Motherland still recovering from the toils of global war until there was nothing left. They would do it with a smile, arrogant in their insane justification that the Communist way must be obliterated; that only the perpetual enslavement of Capitalism would cut the future, bloodied and screaming, from the womb of Time.

“I will go myself,” he stated softly -- and the room grew deathly silent.

“You mustn’t,” rejoined one voice in quiet protest. “You are needed here, Comrade Tsarevich.”

The scientist glanced up into the dark eyes of the Soviet Premier.

“I am needed there, Comrade Stalin. If the alien survived, someone must collect him before the Americans do. If not, we need to know, so that we can tell his compatriots what happened. I am best suited to the task.”

“It isn’t as if the Americans will just allow a Russian national to roam freely in their land, not even if you defected.”

“I have no intention of defecting. Nor of presenting myself as a citizen of the Glorious Union of Soviet Social Republiks. As you know, my mother was from Greece. It is a small matter to arrive there in secret, then use altered documents to gain entry to America.”

Stalin’s heavy brows knit together in consternation as he regarded the scientist. At last, he gave a perfunctory nod.

“Go, then. Go and find our alien comrade. Do not return until you have some conclusive proof.”

“As you wish, Premier Stalin.”

“One thing before you go, Comrade. Your wife and son; they will be moved here. For their own safety, of course.”

Tsarevich hesitated, a chill coursing through his veins. But there was no turning back now. He sighed in acquiesence.

“...of course, Premier.”





Tsarevich never made it back to Russian soil. His wife lived out her days, kept in style but yet a prisoner, under Stalin’s watchful eye. The boy was raised as one of the Premier’s own, educated at the finest schools and given a quick promotion through the military ranks. That boy had a son of his own, a promising academic and adventurer in his own right; who volunteered to act as a sleeper agent so that he might discover what had become of his grandfather. A shadow of doubt hung over the family. Was Tsarevich a defector, or simply a failure? Georgiy would find out, not for himself, but out of loyalty to the Party. A loyalty so deep that he would allow the mind-shapers to forge him an identity even he wouldn’t recognize.




There was no celebration in Las Vegas that night. Viktor didn’t see the point. They had done the expected. Obliterating a couple of Capitalist imbeciles didn’t rank highly as an accomplishment. A shot or two of vodka before a mandated six hours of sleep. No more, no less. It was imperative Irina and Magnus maintained a competitive edge.

For her part, the young, pretty Kommissar had begun to wonder what she’d feared about the Siberian Lion all these years. Perhaps it had been the stories Viktor had told when she was a child in the compound. He’d painted a legend, a godlike figure who spilled the blood of the unjust to water the fertile soil of Communism. A man without mercy or remorse or any of the many failings of humanity. He knew violence and slaughter and how to be utterly loyal to Mother Russia.

But to Irina, he simply appeared tired. He had the air of a man who had lived too much. His body kept going only out of sheer Russian stubbornness. Sleep claimed her before she could think much more deeply on the subject. In the morning, they packed their meager belongings in silence; ate a breakfast of flavorless scrambled eggs that Viktor had proudly proclaimed his mother’s own recipe -- which explained a lot about his personality; and took a bumpy ride in an armored truck through what remained of Las Vegas. The sights weren’t what she’d been expecting. Vegas was always a vibrant, neon dream of the dizzying heights anybody could aspire to with hard work and good fortune and a dedication to the grift. Now, it was a smoldering wasteland like something out of a Mad Max film, with higher production value.

Their vehicle was part of a convoy, and ahead, Irina knew, were the others. Competitors held figuratively captive to their own greed, whether for money or prestige; and literally held captive to the company spearheading the Black Pyramid Wrestling endeavor. Von Brandt and his Jabberwock thugs saw to that, riding escort alongside the convoy as it wound its way further South, across the border and toward Mexico City.



The tiny, arid desert of Cuapiaxtla is nestled in the heart of a verdant landscape; a geographical oddity perfect for some kind of extraterrestrial encounter. Or at least, that’s what he’d told his producers. He would find something, he assured them; worst case, he’d invent something. It didn’t matter. His purpose was to obfuscate and confuse. Believers would hang on his every word because he confirmed any notions, no matter how wild. Skeptics would watch and scoff and ridicule, because that’s what they did. And in-between, only he knew the truth.

A hot, dusty wind stirred the wild, curly hair of the man known publicly as Giorgio Tsoukalos. He paced impatiently across the sands, waiting for inspiration. Hoping for a clue as to what had brought his grandfather out here all those years before. Could the lone survivor of the Roswell crash have made it this far? And if so, why? Squinting against the afternoon sun, he again cast about in growing despair for the clues that should have been here. Something. Anything.

His phone rang.

For an instant, he was annoyed. Probably the producers calling to check on his progress, as if he didn’t know his job by now.

Then he realized the ringtone was different. It was the other phone. Hurriedly, he answered it.

“Da?”

The voice on the other end was electronic, stilted.

“...and miles to go before I sleep…” he murmured in a monotone, then disconnected.

Moving automatically, he prised open the case, removed the battery from the phone, and smashed it on a nearby rock. Then, walking back to his rented Jeep, he mindlessly discarded the rest of the device, got in, and started the engine.




Irina was alone in the hotel room when he arrived: half-mad and disheveled, Giorgio Tsoukalos burst through the door, ripping the chain from the wall like paper. He smelled of tequila and rank sweat. She was on her feet in an instant. Lightning fast, she moved, and had him pinned against the lumpy bed, arm twisted behind his back and a gun at his temple.

“What are you doing here?” she growled.

“It’s a long story, Comrade. My name -- my real name -- is Georgiy Tsarevich. I am a deep cover agent for Soviet Space Program. I have orders to be here, now.”

At that precise moment, Viktor Romanov walked through the busted door, teeth bared in a chilling grin.

“Ah, good. You’ve met. Put the gun down, Angel. And you, Comrade -- tell us everything you know about… aliens.”