Operation: Siberia

- 18 -

The squad reacted as one; smokes got ground out under heel, and weapons were raised and in position without Banks having to give an order. They all stood, silent and still, listening. The sound outside repeated, a double whuff this time, and Banks knew exactly what it was—he’d seen a chimp been shown a magic trick in a Lagos market years ago, and the laugh it made at the joke had sounded remarkably similar, just not as low pitched.

The bloody thing liked Wiggins’ joke more than we did.

The next whuff came, closer now, just beyond the door. Banks’ hand tightened on his weapon; he expected the door to be pulled open at any moment. But there was only a soft, almost gentle scratching, as if the beast pawed at the door asking to be let in. Then there came another whuff, a softer, more pleading sound, until that too was gone, and silence fell in the corridor.

The squad didn’t relax for more than a minute after the last sound, and finally it was Wiggins who broke the silence.

“What do you reckon, Cap? Has it fucked off?”

Waterston answered, having come along the corridor while they were occupied with looking the other way.

“Would you, if you came home to find somebody was in your house and had locked you out?”

“Come on, Prof,” Wiggins said. “It’s just a fucking animal.”

“It’s a fucking animal that can paint, that can make a flute, and knows where its house is. It’s as smart as you.”

“Smarter,” Hynd said.

When McCally laughed, there was an answering double whuff from outside again before everything went quiet.

There were no further noises from beyond the door for several hours. Banks had the men try to get some sleep as the evening wore on, and even managed to snatch a few hours of his own before McCally woke him near midnight.

“Still all quiet, Cap,” the corporal said quietly.

Wiggins was already getting settled down across the fire, and when Banks got to the front doorway again, he found Hynd already there, lighting up a smoke.

“Do you reckon there’s another plane on its way, Cap?” the sergeant said.

“I think it’s probably fifty-fifty, knowing the colonel. Despite the fact that you’re a bunch of wasters, he’s got this idea that we’re a crack unit, big boys that can fend for ourselves. I guess we’ll know by morning whether we need to test that or not.”

“And if there’s no plane?”

“Then we’ve got a yomp ahead of us; fifty miles to the nearest fishing town, if I remember rightly.”

“And with some big hairy beasties chasing our arses all the way?”

“I never said it was going to easy,” Banks replied.

“Actually, you did,” Hynd said, smiling. “A cushy number. Those were your exact words, back in the mess.”

“Don’t remind me,” Banks said with a groan. “I’ll never volunteer us for babysitting duty again.”

“We volunteered?”

“Aye, more fool me. Damn, it’s either the memory of my stupidity, the stink from the beasties, or your bloody fag smoke, but I’m getting a fucker of a headache. Can we crack the door open a tad?”

“The lads said it’s been quiet for hours. Should be okay, as long as we’re careful. I could do with some air myself.”

Banks stood, rifle ready, as Hynd heaved the door open, only by six inches, but enough to let a welcome rush of cool, fresh, air into the corridor. They let something else in too. Outside, distant but clear, two voices were raised in a wail that was almost musical. The wolf wasn’t joining in this time, but the Alma were carrying the tune just fine on their own.

Banks saw a flickering light in the gap in the doorway, and remembered his past experiences in the Yukon.

“Open the door, Sarge,” he said. “You’ll want to see this, I promise.”

The flickering got more pronounced the further open they pushed the door, and the source was obvious as soon as they stood outside.

The sky danced under colored silk that whispered and rustled as it moved in an aurora that covered the stars, shimmering with green and blue and yellow fires. Somewhere to the north beyond the domes, the Alma sang a song to its glory as cascading waterfalls of color lit the heavens.

Banks and Hynd stood in the doorway in silence for long minutes as the Alma song rose and rose, almost operatic in its intensity.

“Cap,” Hynd said quietly. “It was worth your volunteering, just for this. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet, man,” Banks replied. “Hear that?”

There were more than two Alma voices in the night; a chorus, distant, as if far off in a wind, raised to join those nearby. A choir, almost human, sang into the night sky, a discordant melody that was strangely apt for the ever-changing shimmer of the curtain of aurora.

“What does it mean, Cap?” Hynd asked.

Banks hurried them both into the cave system and made sure the door was heaved tightly shut behind them.

“I think we’re in trouble,” he said, and went to wake Galloway.

“How many could there be?” Banks asked.

Galloway was still coming awake, groggy and complaining loudly at the stiffness in his muscles and the pain in his ankle.

“How many?” Banks asked again.

“You’re sure of what you heard?” the scientist said finally.

Banks nodded.

“Sure as eggs is eggs.”

Galloway stood, stretching his back, and groaned again before replying.

“There’s really no way of knowing. It depends on how they get their food, how much shelter they might have, how long they’ve been here… there are too many unknown factors.”

“Aye, you’re right there,” Banks replied. “Could there be a dozen of these buggers do you think?”

“If it’s been a viable population all these centuries, then I think, yes, there would have to be.”

“Bloody marvelous,” Wiggins said. “That’s all we need. A whole fucking rugby team of big ginger hairy fuckers.”

Everybody in the chamber was awake now, and it didn’t look like sleep was going to be an option for anybody.

“Wiggo, Cally, get some grub in you, and get a brew going. The sarge and I will be back at the door. Galloway, you and the prof put your heads together—see if you can come up with anything that might help us.”

“Help with what?”

“Getting out of here with all our bits intact would be a start.”

Banks and Hynd returned to the doorway. With the metal door fully shut, all sound from outside was dampened, but the song of the Alma was definitely still there, a whispering, ringing quality that was almost dreamlike, almost wistful.

Think of them as relatives.

That’s what the prof had said, but Banks knew that the ethereal singing, however seductive, wasn’t anything he could consider as familial. And he couldn’t afford the luxury of too much reflection on it; he had people in his charge here, and they were his first priority, far and above any qualms of the prof or needs of science.

“We need to be ready to move fast,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Another of your hunches, Cap? Are we betting your pension on this one again?”

“My gut’s playing up,” Banks replied. “You know what that means.”

“Trouble, usually,” Hynd said. “I’ll make sure everybody’s ready to go at short notice.”

“Right. And if I shout, come running.”

Banks was left alone in the corridor, and after Hynd’s footsteps receded, all he could hear was the song of the Alma.

Everything went quiet. He strained to hear, but the hiss in his ears was only his own blood pumping, not the dance of the aurora outside. He moved closer to the door. At the same time, he felt—sensed—a similar movement on the other side, as if something mimicked his movements. Then the silence broke, and he heard a soft scratching on the metal on the outside, then a whimper of longing and loss.

The Alma had come home.