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The Transport -
It's all true. The USA found a crashed alien spaceship in the 1950ies and hid it from the world...
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Dr. Simmons led them once around the spaceship. The feeling of sucked-out energy from the room and her body did not leave Sina. This thing was... What? Alive? Active? She couldn't tell.
The sight was so unreal, and the thing appeared so dark that it felt like a black hole had been punched into the retina of her eyes. So black.
"Are we allowed to touch it?" she asked.
"No problem, you can't break anything, soldier," the old scientist chuckled.
"I was more worried about radiation, coming from space and all that," Sina pointed out.
"Nope. Nothing active. It only takes. Never gives."
Someone has his philosophy down.
Sina and her three companions stepped closer and laid their hands on it. Like Simmons had mentioned, the material seemed to have the temperature of whatever was around it, so it felt neither cold nor warm to the touch. No vibration, no humming, just solid material. Extremely smooth. Sina caressed it several times. Major Bristol made a fist and hammered against it, all that came back was the sound of flattened flesh.
"Impressive," Mac said, stepping back.
Kimmig just surveyed it in reverie, his head craned upwards.
"You look starstruck, Lieutenant," Sina called over to him.
"I am," the young officer admitted. "Think about it. All we've done so far, as a species, was to visit the moon. We sent out some simple robots to other planets, and even a few pieces of metal and silicon to endless journeys outside of our solar system." He patted the hull. "A ship from space, from God knows what star, on our firmament. Here, on our Earth."
"What's inside?" Mac asked.
"We don't know," Dr. Simmons said. "Seventy years of probing and we don't know. About time another generation has a crack at it." He gave a barking laugh that turned into a brief coughing fit. "Crack at it, got it?" Another cough.
No one laughed.
Simmons clapped his hands. "Will you follow me, please, you are ready for the spook."
They assembled in a cramped conference room that held a relatively modern-looking video system. The soldiers sat around a pockmarked conference table and Simmons pressed a few buttons. The camera on top of the monitor lit up red and another conference room appeared on the screen. A chime announced that audio was connected, too.
Now, that is what I call an unimpressive James Bond, Sina thought. A man around his early thirties, lanky with well-cut black hair, in a three-piece suit stepped into the picture and sat down on his end. He had a friendly, open face but looked tired. And nervous; his furtive glancing eyes gave him away.
