The first time Nikolay Demidov saw an alien, he shot it.
The moon was hiding behind a light cloud cover.
Kolya glanced towards the American MP on the other side of the barrier. He could have sworn that the man had given him a small nod, so he reciprocated by tilting his chin down a few degrees. Even this was technically forbidden (No communication of any sort with NATO service members!) but did help a little to ease the boredom of standing guard at the border. Speaking of which: If his sense of time was correct, his shift was about to end. As expected, he soon heard heavy boots on the pavement and turned to face his replacement. A rigid salute, and he was on his way.
It was the perfect weather for a head-clearing walk before he’d have to return to the barracks. Technically, anything but the shortest route back to HQ was unacceptable, but Kolya knew no one would notice or care if he took a few extra minutes to enjoy the crisp atmosphere that had settled over the city after an afternoon downpour. Maybe it’d even help him sleep better.
Berlin had always struck him as a lonely city, and this was especially true at night. He was alone as he walked down a brightly lit street, and he watched his shadow shorten and lengthen with every streetlight he passed. A lonely city. For the encircled west, this was a more literal statement, but he felt it too. Why?
A bang interrupted his philosophical pondering. He recognized it as a sonic boom, eyes immediately darting skywards. In a split second, his pistol was in hand.
This could be it. This could be how it starts. He recalled the MP’s nod. Maybe they knew something he didn’t. Maybe it was the kind of nod a boxer gives his opponent before going for the knockout.
A fireball split the clouds above. The shock wave that followed broke the windows on the office building next to him, showering the street below with tiny shards of glass. The ground shook from an impact. Just a few blocks away. Kolya lost his visor cap as he sprinted towards the site. Howling air raid sirens reverberated through the city. This is it. This is it.
It hit a grocery store. Smoke billowed from the hole in its roof. A police car, tires screeching, halted on the curb. Two German officers jumped out, pistols drawn, and began moving towards the store’s entrance. Through the opaque glass doors flared the effigy of a fire. Something didn’t add up here. If this was a military attack, it was a very ineffective one. The only weapon that could have done this type of damage would have been an artillery shell, but those don’t glow red. And what would be the point of firing just one round? No, this had to be something else.
One policeman shouted something in German. He could hear the sirens of a fire engine in the distance. Kolya ran up to the men, just in time to see complete darkness settle inside the store where the fire had raged seconds before. Something stirred beyond the doors. Steps. Dragging, slow footsteps. One wing flew open, and in the doorway stood a man, wisps of smoke escaping outside from behind him. He was a janitor, going by the mop in his hand. Eyes vacant like glass marbles. His lips slid apart to reveal bloody teeth.
“Alles in Ordnung, meine Herren.”
The voice was a low, raspy hiss. Then, as if an electrical shock had hit the man, he jolted together once and collapsed. His head hit the ground with a hollow thud. His head was hollow. Empty. The back of his skull blown off. One of the Germans knelt to check the man’s pulse, operating on reflexes alone. His partner cocked his pistol and took cover next to the door. Kolya joined him. He was not afraid. He couldn’t afford to be.
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He pushed the door open and moved inside.
“Polizei!”
The policeman’s voice trembled, and so did the tip of his sidearm. A heavy, metallic smell hung in the air. The store divided into three aisles of nearly empty shelves. The German signalled that he’ll secure the leftmost one, while his partner, having found out that the janitor was indeed dead, covered the middle.
Kolya had his back to the rightmost shelf and moved towards the back where it had impacted. He could hear the fire truck arrive out front. Then, an odd, electric noise. As if someone had turned on the world’s loudest CRT screen, immediately followed by a flash of green light and a guttural, dying scream. That’s one of the Germans gone. The other, shouting panicked commands, ran to help his partner.
Idiot.
The Russian kept his pace and flinched when the electric noise rose again, this time from the aisle next to him. No scream followed, but gunshots. The German unloaded his gun in a frantic burst of fire.
Idiot.
He could feel burning heat as the noise answered and found its target. A sound that reminded him of meat searing in a pan, followed by a thud. So much for the Germans. He reached the end of the aisle and took cover behind the row of shelves.
He was afraid.
Kolya popped out from cover, saw it, fired twice, saw it drop, fired until his pistol clicked empty, swapped mags, and ran up to it. It and the egg-shaped chrome object that had cratered the tiled floor. The object had no noticeable surface features.
It was the size of a large dog with wrinkly grey skin. Its head, shaped like an engorged tick, sat on top of a frail body with long, thin limbs that possessed long digits. In its hands was what looked like a weapon, chrome, ending in three inwards-pointing claws and with a pistol grip to suit its appendages. It had no visible trigger mechanism. No sharp edges, no switches, no sights, nothing. As if something had machined the whole construct from a single block of the chrome material.
The two Germans were laying on the floor just a few meters apart, grimaces of terror frozen on their faces. Kolya had never seen injuries like theirs before, even after two tours in Afghanistan. Perhaps getting hit point-blank by a red-hot cannon ball would have had a similar effect: large, burned, gaping holes in their chests.
Kolya felt sick.
He watched a mass of blurred vehicles gather outside, their sirens painting the scene blue, then red, then blue, then red, then blue, then red-
The colonel looked more grave than usual, with the bright lights of his office giving his face a waxy sheen. Kolya cleared his throat and glanced towards the figure behind his commander. An unreadable face in an unrecognisable uniform: grey beret, grey coat, grey trousers, black boots, black suitcase. No rank insignia.
“Nikolay Demidov-“ the colonel began, sliding a piece of paper across the desk. “Please sign here.”
Kolya didn’t bother to read the contract. If a senior officer tells you to do something, you do it.
With a stiff nod, the colonel took the paper and promptly handed it to the man behind him, who let it vanish inside his suitcase.
“Follow me, Lieutenant.” He said, a hint of an accent hidden behind his otherwise clear Russian.
Kolya tried not to think too hard about what he saw that night as he watched the city lights shrink into a blur through the helicopter’s window. Even so, he knew all too well what was going on below: Clean-up at the grocery store. The first draft of a letter to the policemen’s families explaining what cannot be explained through the usual set of lies. A cover-story to be published by every newspaper first thing in the morning. Stern warnings to any witnesses. The system working as intended.
As for himself, it was smartest not to ask any questions.