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Chapter Text

This is a labour of love borne out of frustration. Like a lot of fans, I've been disappointed with the state of the franchise for decades. Some entries have done a serviceable job. Others, we would rather forget. But precious few (Alien: Isolation) have recaptured the magic of the original movies.

So, we're going back to basics, and I set out to write the "AvP" we always wanted to see on the big screen, but never got. What "Aliens v Predator" should have been...

One where the characters matter. Where the xenomorphs are Lovecraftian nightmares again. Where the Predator is not another player you can add to your party, but a mythic, brutal, and unstoppable killing machine. If Alien v Predator was "WWE in an Antarctic pyramid" and Requiem was "Freddy v Jason with Winston Wolf from Pulp Fiction", then Aliens v Predator: Ghosts is Jaws via No Country For Old Men, with this Predator as my Anton Chigurh.

Does Aliens v Predator: Ghosts succeed where others have fallen short? That’s for you to decide.

This is a fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended.

Thank you, and enjoy.

Note from the author: Aliens v Predator: Ghosts is an ongoing project. New chapters will be uploaded as they are finalised. If you are enjoying the story, check back every couple of weeks for updates.

Chapter Text

Weyland-Yutani Research Outpost “Rayleigh’s Rest”

LV-784, Zeta Reticuli

October 24^th, 2237

  The distant lights of the towering atmosphere processor struggled to pierce the darkness as the rain and black ash battered hard against the windows. The wind howling as LV-784’s perpetual storm raged outside. Beyond the walls of the base lay nothing but hundreds of miles of barren black rock, stretching over the horizon under a black sky and stripped bare by eons of relentless wind and rain. But in the confines of his office, as the roar of the storm was reduced to a dull whistle, and the soft red light of a desk lamp cast the walls in a warm glow, Colonel Sanchez paced in front of the teleconference screen.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t accept that,” insisted Sanchez. The seated figure and soft, grandfatherly features of Brigadier General Greaves filled most of the screen, gently lit by the natural light of a setting sun.

  “We’ve been over this,” said the general. “Your orders are to maintain law and order, and defend against any external threats should they arise. Delta internal security will be handled by Wey-Yu personnel, as per your brief.”

  Private security. Nothing more than a gang of reprobates. Stone cold killers, every single one of them. Putting them in a uniform doesn’t change that. Sanchez snorted in disgust. Greaves either did not notice the minor insubordination, or did not acknowledge it.

  “Sir,” he pressed, “how are my Marines meant to maintain security when we don’t even have access to the entire base? I don’t even have access to schematics. There could be structural weaknesses, infiltration points, reactor containment, por Dios I don’t even know what the hell they’re up to,” and all the way out here, it sure as hell wasn’t on the level. There were dozens of barely habitable planetoids just like LV-784 in the direction of Zeta Reticuli. Any of them would serve just as well for a research outpost the company did not want looked at too closely, and were still much closer to Earth. What the hell were they doing planting a flag all the way out here?

  “Colonel,” said Greaves sternly, and Sanchez stopped pacing. “Your orders are to keep the peace and defend the outpost. Everything related to Delta Wing is classified, and that’s straight from the top.” The General’s face relaxed slightly, and Sanchez did the same, but he did not resume his pacing. “It’s all for show, Emil. Zeta Reticuli? There’s nothing out there. A few outposts have had trouble with yahoo pirates looking for easy marks, but the very presence of a Marine battalion on station is usually enough to make them think twice.”

  Sanchez sighed. Unless they’re already inside, he thought to himself. “What about my ordnance requisition, sir?”, he asked as he unconsciously rubbed at his left forearm.

  Greaves raised an eyebrow. “Denied, and you’re lucky it came across my desk first. Dammit, if anyone else saw that, it would be out of my hands. There could be an investigation, and that means both of us being recalled to Gateway. Oversight, all the way up and down the chain. Both of us would be under a microscope. What were you thinking requisitioning that kind of firepower?”

  He did not answer. Greaves knew why. He was the only one who had ever taken his claims remotely seriously, and over the years the General had become something of a confidant. More than that, he had gotten him information. Covered for him. But after decades of chasing down ghosts and shadows that had come to nothing, he was beginning to doubt if the General still believed him at all. He could count all suspected encounters in all of human-occupied space spanning the past twenty-five years on his fingers. On the fingers of one hand, if he only counted the reliable ones. The ones that had left survivors. A far-flung installation goes quiet or a ship goes missing, a contingent of Colonial Marines locates it weeks later and finds a charnel house. The Corps would sweep it under the rug to save face, send generic boiler plate letters to the families telling of their “heroic sacrifice”, while the company forced any civilian witnesses to sign ironclad NDAs. The ones that could, at least. The rest ended up in psych wards.

  “It’s been what? Forty years? Let it go.”

  Forty-four years, three months.

  “General, sir, at least grant my request for additional units,” said Sanchez, although he already knew it was useless.

  “Denied,” growled Greaves, any pretence of friendliness now gone. Suddenly, he did not look so grandfatherly. “You’ve got almost a hundred Marines under your command. There should not be a force in the galaxy you and your squads cannot handle, and you will handle it, Colonel, and you’ll do it with what you’ve got. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” said Sanchez, as he snapped to a salute. Greaves returned the salute before lowering it, and the screen blinked to black, the image replaced with a green flashing “End of Transmission”.

  “Damn it,” he swore as he kicked the waste paper bin. He had screwed up. He knew that. He had pushed too hard, and now they had put him out to pasture. They had dressed it up as a promotion with the bump up to “full bird” colonel, but it was still a dead end. A caretaker position in the ass-end of nowhere. He still had three years to retirement, and it looks like they wanted him to run out the clock. He slumped back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighed. The sound of the rain battering the windows grew louder as the storm outside intensified.

  He was used to being stonewalled. You didn’t serve forty-five years in the USCM Corps without running into bureaucracy. But this was different. They had ignored his concerns about the increasing frequency of encounters over the last ten years, but that was nothing new. Neither was running security for a Wey-Yu facility. They often contracted with the USCM, especially on these off-the-beaten-path outposts, and this was not his first posting of the sort. But never had one been shrouded in so much secrecy. Even with his top-level clearance he could not access so much as a personnel roster of Delta. The whole wing was completely locked down. No one in or out except for a select few dozen Weyland-Yutani white coats, and Sloan’s security goons. The former mostly kept to themselves, and the latter everyone else gave a wide berth. Even their cargo manifests were classified at a level he could not access. It was bullshit, all of it. He briefly considered filing another formal objection with his chain of command, but dismissed it just as quickly. They had already ignored his first two, and it was not his style. Sometimes he wished he was still an enlisted man, instead of a desk officer. Sixty-three years old, but he was still a Marine.

  He wearily eyed the perpetual stack of paperwork on his desk, and decided he would rather do a twelve-kilometre, high gravity march in full combat gear. Hell, he would rather walk unarmed into a xenomorph hive than do paperwork at this hour. Then again, he had never actually seen one. He had read all of the reports, of course. Even served with a Marine, when he was junior enlisted, that claimed to have been on a mission to clear out an infestation on some old orbital mining station. He had asked him about it once, and quickly learned not to ask again. He decided paperwork was not so bad. Marine or not, he was an old man. Let the young men have all the action.

  “Colonel Sanchez, sir,” the intercom buzzed, and he instantly recognised the voice of Master Sergeant Heller. The paperwork would have to wait.

  “Go ahead, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, we have a situation in the cafeteria. You had better come down here,” answered Heller.

  Sanchez ran his hand through his slicked back silver hair. It never ends, he thought to himself.

  “I’m on my way.”

*

  The harsh artificial lighting momentarily blinded him as he entered the windowless cafeteria. The rows and rows of neatly ordered tables could sit several hundred at a time, but now it was mostly empty. The half dozen Marines milling around straightened or stood as he entered, and a similar number of civilian staff he did not recognise simply nodded. The only two who did not acknowledge him were a Weyland-Yutani security merc whose name he did not know, and Doctor Cotillard who busied himself with treating what looked like a bad cut above the merc’s left eye.

  “Sir,” said Master Sergeant Heller as he approached to greet him.

  “Sergeant,” acknowledged Sanchez, who had to crane his neck to meet the big man’s good eye. At six-foot-six and two hundred and fifty pounds, he was a full head taller than Sanchez, and then some. He was probably the tallest man on the base, with the body of an athlete to match. His face was a different story. A horror story. Half still had the chiselled jawline and sharp blue eye that would not look out of place on a model. The other half looked like he had slept on a hand grenade, or gone toe-to-toe with a grizzly. Maybe he had. Sanchez would put his money on the Sergeant. The tight scars pulled his face into a perpetual scowl. Half of his slick blonde hair was missing and he made no attempt to hide it, and his greyed over asymmetrical eye looked as if he had been reset in place and they could not quite get it to sit right.

  “What’s the situation?” he asked, somewhat redundantly. The few overturned chairs and a tray with its contents still strewn across the floor painted a clear enough picture.

  “We had a confrontation, sir, between one of the Wey-Yu security and Private Jennings here. Jennings claims the merc started it, and I’ve got two civilian witnesses that confirm his story.”

  He sighed. This was the third incident in as many weeks. He and Sloan would need to have words, and he made a mental note to speak to him in the morning about discipline among the ranks. “I trust you can handle a bar fight, Sergeant,” he said, somewhat dismissively.

  “There’s something else, sir,” said Heller. “The merc pulled a knife. We’ve confiscated it. Quite a weapon.”

  Sanchez straightened. Strong words, a black eye or a busted nose were one thing. Lethal force was another. “Any injuries?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  He approached Private Jennings. The private may as well have been carved out of stone as he stood at parade rest, and did not flinch as he stared the young man down. An ugly bruise was forming around his left eye, but otherwise he seemed fine.

  “Does he need medical attention, Doc?” he asked, without breaking eye contact with the younger man.

  “No, they’ll both live,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “I’m done here,” he added as he stripped off his gloves with practised ease.

  “You’re confined to quarters, Private, and get some ice on that. Dismissed,” he barked, making himself sound angrier than he was. The private saluted and left without a word, and he turned his attention to the mercenary. He had not looked closely until now, and it was only now that he did recognise him after all. It was Morse, again. He had written him up for disorderly conduct a few weeks ago.

  “Don’t bother standing up,” said Sanchez, pausing to allow his contempt to seep through. “You’re a problem child, Morse. I don’t like problem children, and out here, I can do whatever I like, and if you think Sloan can protect you then think again, sweetheart. As far as you’re concerned, out here, I’m your own personal God. Now, I can be a benevolent God, or I can be your worst goddamn nightmare. I’ll leave the choice to you. In fact, why don’t you take a month to think it over?”

  “You, and you,” he barked, pointing his finger at two Marines who were still hanging around to watch the show, both of whom immediately froze stiff. “Escort this man to the brig. If he resists, murder him.” The two men immediately appeared either side of Morse.

  “Walk,” ordered one of the men. Morse looked at Sanchez expectantly, but the older man kept his face expressionless.

  “I said “walk”, or we’ll move you,” repeated the Marine, more forcefully this time. Morse snorted, shaking his head, but he rose to his feet without a word and stalked towards the exit, flanked by the two Marines.

  To hell with waiting. He was going to pay Sloan a visit right now.

*

  He moved briskly through the dim, mostly deserted corridors. Even though he knew the way, it still took nearly ten minutes to reach the security station outside Delta, where Sloan had set up his office. One of his men stood leaning against the wall chewing gum, a pulse rifle held at low ready. The man looked up as Sanchez approached, and almost moved to stop him, but he stormed passed without breaking his stride and burst into the windowless office without knocking. The stench of cigarette smoke immediately assaulted his senses as he slammed the door behind him.

  “It’s open, come in,” said Sloan nonchalantly, seated with his khaki boots resting on the desk, and seemingly unperturbed by the intrusion, nor surprised at his presence at such a late hour. Sanchez was equally unsurprised to find him here.

  “I take it you heard about the situation in the cafeteria?” asked Sanchez, maintaining his composure.

  “I did,” answered Sloan dismissively, putting down the datapad he had been reading and sitting up a little straighter, turning to face the older man. “Terrible business. I’ll be sure to get a full incident report to you in the morning.”

  “That’s the third time this month, Sloan,” he growled through gritted teeth.

  “I run my boys pretty tight, Colonel. They need to blow off steam,” Sloan shrugged as he rubbed the rough stubble on his chin.

  “Your boy drew a deadly weapon in a civilian area. He’s lucky I’m not indicting him for attempted murder,” bristled Sanchez.

  Sloan met his gaze coldly. “You don’t have that authority, Colonel. We may be stuck in this hole together, but me and my boys are not under your command.”

  Sanchez leaned in, placing both hands on the desk. “Now you listen to me, you son of a bitch. I don’t know what Frankenstein science experiment you and your pack of rabid dogs are guarding in Delta, and I don’t give a damn. Everything that goes on in this base outside of that is under USCM jurisdiction. My jurisdiction, and I’ll play hell with it until my superiors recall me all the way back to Earth. This far out, that could be a very long time.”

  It was Sloan’s turn to stiffen. “I think we understand each other.”

  “Your boy’s sweating it in the brig for the next month,” Sanchez said, cutting him off before he could ask.

  “But understand this, my Marines will be the only ones carrying weapons on base outside of Delta. If I catch any Weyland-Yutani employees with a weapon, I don’t care if it’s a potato peeler or a damn nail file, I’ll throw them in the brig to rot.”

  He turned to leave, satisfied he had made his point.

  “One other thing, Colonel”, said Sloan. Sanchez paused, looking over his shoulder but did not turn around. “I’m holding you personally responsible for anything that happens to my man while he’s in your custody.”

  Sanchez nodded, and left without another word.

*

  Back in his office, Sanchez finished reviewing the surveillance footage. There were no surprises; it only confirmed what he’d already been told.

  “Send him in,” he said into the intercom. Private Jennings entered and saluted. He returned the salute, but remained seated. “At ease, Private.” The young man relaxed, standing at parade rest, but keeping his eyes locked on the narrow window above Sanchez’s head.

  “All I want to hear, Private, is who threw the first punch?” he asked sternly.

  “I did, sir,” answered Jennings.

  He already knew that from the surveillance footage and two witness accounts, but he was glad the private was not dumb enough to try to lie.

  “Why?”

  “He insulted the Marine Corps, sir,” answered Jennings.

  That tracked, he thought to himself. The footage lacked audio, but it clearly showed Morse accosting the private, unprovoked. He had been looking for a fight and found one. Jennings’ takedown had been expertly done. It was then that Morse had pulled the knife on him, and Jennings had disarmed him in one, swift move. It had been impressive.

  “One more question, Private,” and he let it hang in the air for a moment. “Did you win?”

 The slightest hint of a smirk appeared on Jennings’s face, and the Colonel allowed it. “I believe I did, sir,” he answered confidently.

  “Outstanding,” Sanchez exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm. “I do believe you may be worthy of serving in my beloved Corps. Resume your duties, Private. Dismissed.”

  The private saluted, turned and left. Sanchez smiled dryly before relaxing back into his chair. The stack of folders on his desk remained untouched. He glanced at the old-style clock on the wall. It was almost midnight. A somewhat meaningless notion on a planet with a forty-seven-hour rotation. But the limits of human endurance, and USCM regulations, kept them on Gateway time with an Earth standard twenty-four-hour clock. Most of the staff here were civilians, and not used to the extreme challenges of living off-world. Little things like “a twenty-four-hour day” helped people maintain a sense of normalcy, even if the weak sun of LV-784 did not cooperate. Officially, he was back on duty in eight hours. Unofficially, of course, he was never off duty, but he did not anticipate any more incidents tonight. Another benefit of maintaining the Earth standard day; almost everyone was asleep.

  The events of the evening ran through his mind. Perhaps Greaves was right, forty-four years of looking over his shoulder and nothing had ever come of it. This was a quiet posting. Apart from the friction between the Marines and the mercs, they did not have problems out here. Being frozen out of Delta still didn’t sit right with him, but it was out of his hands. He had been following orders his entire life, few of them smart. This was just one more. Besides, whatever he thought of Sloan, the man was at least competent. In four years of running Delta Wing security there had not been a single breach, either in or out, and all cargo marked for them or Yau’s white coats was sealed up so tight you would need a tactical nuke to crack one open.

  Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad out here. Maybe he should just make the most of it. He thought about retiring to his quarters, but he was not tired. His confrontation with Sloan had gotten his blood up. He took his keys from his pocket and unlocked the secure drawer of his desk. The one that contained an antique revolver, a lone file folder, and a bottle of eighteen-year-old single malt. He took out the bottle, readied a single glass, and poured without measuring. Knocking it back in one go, he enjoyed the warmth before pouring a second, more measured serving and replacing the cap on the bottle. The rain had stopped, and even the wind had died down, although sunrise was not for another sixteen hours. He looked down at the still-open desk drawer, at the lone folder marked “Classified” in large red lettering, as he clutched at his left forearm with his free hand. What the hell. Withdrawing the folder from the drawer, he slumped back further into his chair and, taking a quiet sip of scotch, started reading.

*

  The air was cold as he lay on the bare steel table, not that he could feel it. The slow, rhythmic beep of the monitor that told him that he was, tragically, alive. This wasn’t the warm numb of a hit. Damn, a hit. Over a year clean, and he still missed it. The sting of the needle then nothing but the feeling of slipping into a warm bath made of air, letting it carry him away on a cloud. Not that his newfound sobriety was by choice, nor was he sure it had been a year. Down here, he only had one way to mark time, and the intervals seemed to be getting shorter and shorter.

  Down, he mused. A curious thought. For all he knew he was two hundred floors up, or in orbit of a gas giant, why did he think he was “down”?  God, he wanted a hit. Just enough to take the edge off. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Just a little of that warm numb embrace.

  This numb was different. Cold. Sterile. While alien instruments probed his disconnected body with clinical detachment. Even with his eyes closed, the theatre lights burned. The numbness had crept into his neck, making it almost impossible to turn away. Not that there was much to see. They at least had enough decency to erect a surgical curtain, although that was much more for their benefit than his.

  “It’s nice and clean in here. There’s no scar tissue from last time,” said a male voice that he recognised as Doctor Yau as the faint whiff of cauterised flesh assaulted his nostrils. “Okay, I have a visual on the sack. How are we looking?”

  “Vitals are low and steady. It’s still dormant,” answered a female voice that he did not recognise. The surgical masks made it hard to tell.

  “And the host?”

  “Holding at fifty-five bpm, blood pressure ninety over sixty. He’s stable,” confirmed the female.

  “Let’s get to work,” said Yau. “Make sure that containment unit is on standby.”

  Time passed. It may have been minutes. It may have been hours. With nothing to mark the passage of time except for the steady beep of the heart rate monitor, and no ability to move or even sleep, it all bled together. A numb head on a stick with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling.

  “Got it,” he heard a male voice that snapped him out of his trance. It was Yau again. The whirr of an unseen machine and the hiss of gas signalled the end of the ordeal. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the room.

  Very nicely done, everyone,” said Yau. Louie could hear the distinctive snap of rubber gloves being removed. “Doctor Challis, Doctor Mercer, I want a full work up done on the specimen asap, this time before it’s introduced to gen pop. What about him?”

  “Doing well,” said the female voice with a note of mild surprise.

  “How about that. Seal him back up, move him to recovery,” said Yau dismissively. “I want him ready to go again in ten weeks.”

  Lying on the table, Louie silently screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

Chapter Text

One Year Later

  Sanchez closed the folder as he finished the last of his biannual performance reviews. With a full company of Marines, it had taken several weeks, and this had been the most excitement he had had in months. Over the course of the last year, things had settled into a boring, predictable routine. The few problems that did creep up, most could be solved at squad level or by one of the junior lieutenants. Anything above that, Heller usually put a swift end to it. The ones that did reach him were of “the buck stops here” variety, and those were few and fewer. Even Sloan and his pack of wolves had backed off after that incident in the cafeteria. They kept to themselves, and that suited him just fine. There was tension, but no violence. Things ran themselves out here, and he had to admit he was starting to enjoy the peace and quiet. Having recently passed the forty-six-year mark, he was beginning to accept that perhaps he really had earned this semi-retirement.

  The reviews had all been positive, even a few promotions. A handful were due to rotate out and move on to their next assignment, which would mean he would have to break in a new batch of recruits, but they were not due to arrive for another month. His eyes drifted over to his locked desk drawer, but he thought better of it. He was on duty after all. He patted his lap with both hands and gave the chair a slow swivel. What the hell, he thought to himself. Orbital imagery had confirmed there was a pretty heavy storm due to hit them in about two hours, now was as good a time as any for a surprise inspection of the main hangar. He made sure his shirt was tucked into his fatigues as he stood, checked that his sleeves were rolled up to the same length, straightened his cover, grabbed his jacket and headed for the hangar.

*

  Louie bolted awake at the sound of a cell door slamming shut, the bright lights of his own cell momentarily blinding him until his eyes adjusted.

  “Hijos de puta!” exclaimed a breathless female voice from the adjacent cell. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wiping the sweat from his hairless brow and head. He pulled the sheet to his waist, damp with the same cold sweat, as he leaned his bare skin against the wall, allowing the sudden shock to waken him some more, and waited a few moments to make sure the guards had left.

  “Angel?” he asked quietly, not wishing to be overheard. The doors and walls were solid, but a small ventilation vent allowed for conversation between one cell and the next without someone in the corridor listening in.

  “Louie? Louie is that you?” asked Angel.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” said Angel as she caught her breath, and somewhat contradicted her statement with a spit.

  “What happened?”

  “Parker grabbed my ass again, so I slugged him.”

  He sighed. “Did they hurt you?”

  “Not as bad as I hurt them.”

  He shook his head. He had told her before, but she never did learn. It was always best not to fight back. The more you fight, the more they hurt you.

  “How are you, Louie?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Can’t complain.”

  Angel was quiet for several long moments before speaking again. “Did you hear about Babineaux?”

  “No,” he answered, somewhat redundantly. He hadn’t heard, but he knew what she was going to say.

  “He didn’t make it.”

  “Putain,” he swore as he slammed his head back into the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” said Angel softly, “I knew you two were close.”

  He didn’t know about that. No one was ever “close” in here. If they were not in their individual cells, they were escorted back and forth by the screws. With no time to socialise, stolen conversations through a ten-centimetre air vent with an adjacent cellmate were a rare opportunity to hear news or rumour, or just another human voice. At least one that was not issuing orders, or threats. He had only seen Angel in person twice, and only for a few seconds as they passed each other in a corridor, each escorted by a duo of guards. But still, he had enjoyed his conversations with Babineaux. It had been pleasant to converse in his native French again.

  “He was from Louisiana too, right?” asked Angel, trying to break the awkward silence that had built up between them.

  “That’s right.”

  “How many?”

  He knew what she was asking. “Six, I think. Do you know how it happened?”

  “He died on the table. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  Could have been worse, he thought to himself. He had heard of specimens “hatching” earlier than expected. Before the white coats could remove it. Before they could be anesthetised. Yes, it could have been worse.

  “How many are you on?” she asked.

  “More than six,” he said wistfully, absentmindedly looking down at his bare chest, the thick pale vertical scar especially vivid against his dark brown skin.

  “I bet. You’ve outlasted all of us, haven’t you?”

  He noted the slight accusation in her tone, but he did not rise to it. “How many are you on?” he asked, shifting the focus of the conversation away from himself.

  She hesitated. “This will be my sixth.”

  He straightened. “What do you mean “this”? Last time we spoke you were still in recovery.”

  “Didn’t you hear? Yau is bumping us up to a six week turn around.”

  So, this is how it ends, he thought to himself. They must be really desperate if they were rotating them that quickly. Or maybe they had just outlived their usefulness.

  “How long do you have?” he asked.

  “They’re taking me to Implantation tomorrow,” she said matter-of-factly. He shook his head, but said nothing. “This will be my last, Louie. It’s my sixth time, we both know what that means,” she said, and even through the wall he could hear her voice tremble slightly.

  “You don’t know that, Angel. I’ve done a lot more than six, and I’m still alive.”

  “Yeah,” she said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “Ssh, someone is coming.”

  The sound of heavy footsteps came to a halt outside of his cell door, and he could hear the distinctive beep of a keypad being punched. He did not react as the door opened, and the white clad figures of two guards filled the doorway. He immediately recognised both. Having spent so long in this place, he knew all of the guards on sight. The shorter one, Carter, was a mean, ugly son of a bitch. He had not even said anything and he was already looking at Louie like he owed him money. He was almost reassured by the presence of the taller one, Van Der Beek. He did not mind the big South African so much. It would be a stretch to call him “friendly”, but he was not sadistic like some of them. He even called him “Louie” from time to time.

  “Wakey wakey, Timex,” said Carter impatiently as he got out of the bed, “and put some fucking clothes on,” he added, even though he was already doing exactly that as he pulled his loose pants up to his waist.

  “Where are we going?” he dared to ask as he buttoned up the semi-translucent unisex white shirt. Carter looked at him like he had just made a vulgar comment about his mother’s virtue, but Van Der Beek interrupted.

  “Yau wants to see you in his office. He didn’t say why.”

  Louie nodded and stepped into the corridor, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact with either guard, which was made easier by the fact that even the shorter of the two was taller by a head.

  “Move,” growled Carter, who added emphasis with a hard shove to the back.

  I know the way, he thought to himself, but he did not dare say it aloud, and he made his way to Yau’s office without an upward glance.

*

  The office was small, but felt more spacious than it was due to being so sparsely furnished. No couch, no cot, no framed photos or degrees on the wall. Apart from the neatly organised pile of files on the single desk, no one would have thought it was in use. Louie stood staring at his feet, flanked by the two guards, waiting to be acknowledged by the man sitting behind the desk, who unhurriedly flicked through the file he held.

  “You,” said Yau, finally looking up as he pointed to Carter. “You’re dismissed.” Carter did not need to be told twice and promptly left without a word. Louie still did not look up, but he could still feel the towering presence of Van Der Beek over his shoulder.

  “Let’s see,” Yau laid the file flat on the desk in front of him, “Louis Laurent Lafayette” he said, sounding it out.

  Yeah, that’s me, Louie thought to himself. “Triple L”, three times a loser. As usual, with his American accent the doctor pronounced his middle name as “law-rent”, rather than the francophone “loo-wrong”, and as usual he did not correct him.

  “What is that, French?”

  It took him a second to realise it had been an actual question. They had been through this routine a dozen times, and he had never been asked about the origin of his name, or anything else for that matter.

  “Louisiana Creole,” he answered without looking up.

  “Hm,” acknowledged Yau, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Louie wondered if he had just passed some kind of test. “Born February twenty-two eleven. Parents unknown. Black male. Height, five foot five inches. Current weight, one hundred and twenty-nine pounds. Blood type, A negative. Orientation unknown. History of illicit substance abuse. Recent onset, full-body alopecia areata…"

  He tuned it out as Yau droned on listing extensive trivia about either his life history or basic facts that could be discerned just by looking at him. It was the same ritual every time. He was surprised the doctor could not recite it from memory at this point.

  “Our star patient. To date you have survived almost twice as many extractions as anyone else. It would appear you have an oddly resistant physiology. Well, I don’t see any reason to delay. Take him to Implantation. The staff will take it from there.”

  Louie kept his surprise well hidden. He had known it was coming. There was only one reason you found yourself in Yau’s office, but still, he hadn't expected it to be so…immediate.

  “Now?” asked Van Der Beek.

  “Now.”

  Louie felt the hand in his shoulder. The gesture was not rough, but the power was there. He would have had about as much luck escaping the clamps of a cargo loader. Van Der Beek could have carried him like a child if need be.

  “Let’s go,” said the big South African quietly, and with a hint of melancholy that his thick accent did not quite mask. Louie allowed himself to be led out of the office without another word.

*

  The room was dark, and the air was heavy and damp. A sickly, musty smell saturated his nostrils. The clamp on his head was too tight, and cut into his skin, as did the ones restraining the rest of his body. He was aware he was being observed through unbreakable glass, but he could not tilt his head to get a good look. In front of him, fleshy petals of the wet egg began to flex slightly, and the seal was broken with a hiss of escaping gas. His heart began to race as the petals spread like some obscene flesh flower, and the sac inside began to pulsate. Instinctively, he struggled against his restraints, but he could barely move a millimetre. He knew not to scream, since that just made it more excited and aggressive. Just let it happen, he told himself, but his body betrayed him with a rush of panic as the clawed fingers extended over the rim of the egg. He held his breath, sealing his lips as the creature momentarily paused, seeming to savour the moment between them. He knew it was pointless, but instinct had taken over. It always did.

  With a shriek and an explosion of movement the crab-like creature lunged at his face, wrapping its tail around his neck and spindly limbs across his head. That grip, like iron, so strong that he thought his bones would break. The fleshy proboscis excitedly felt around for his mouth, running across his lips as he kept his teeth clenched and his heart raced. A dozen times he had been through this, and a dozen times he had lost, and every time he still tried to resist. He felt his jaw being pried apart and the slimy phallic appendage was forced inside. He shook violently as the stalk hit the back of his throat, and kept going, reaching deep into his chest, the fight for air overriding all rational thought, and then everything turned to black.

*

  Sanchez ducked below the arm of a loader as the crew chief continued giving him his tour of the hangar. A hive of bustling activity as teams rushed to get everything locked down ahead of the storm. He had been doing his best to look unimpressed, but in truth he was. Four massive dropships sat side by side neatly in a row, and an equal number of APCs lined up at the far end. Adding to that a number of loaders and other vehicles that all navigated around one another in a well-choreographed dance. The hangar was run like a well-oiled machine. He would be sure to note that in his report.

  He was interrupted by a voice over the PA system. “Colonel Sanchez to Command. That’s Colonel Sanchez to Command, please.”

  “Carry on, Chief,” he dismissed the crew chief and headed in the direction of the Central Command building. The wind hit hard the moment he stepped outside. He yanked his collar up to his chin and broke into a half jog. He wondered what was so urgent they had not just left a message with his office. He would soon find out.

*

  “Commander on deck,” announced one of the operators as he entered the cramped confines of the windowless control centre. Banks of control panels lined the walls below banks of screens showing everything from weather reports to security feeds. The centre of the room was dominated by a large table that displayed an interactive tactical layout of the entire base, with the exception of Delta Wing which was represented by a set of solid blocks showing no internal detail.

  “As you were. What’s the situation?” he asked calmly.

  “Over here please, sir,” one of the console operators raised his hand. Sanchez joined him as everyone took their seats and focused back on their respective tasks.

  “What’s the problem?” Sanchez asked. It was not immediately obvious, and he could not make heads or tails of any of what was on the screen. But he did not want to appear ignorant in front of a junior warrant officer.

  “Right here, sir,” the young officer pointed to a seemingly random spot on what appeared to be a view of LV-784’s night sky. A couple of hours ago, we detected a hyperspace anomaly. The readings were…odd. Not consistent with a ship dropping out of FTL. For one, it is far too close to planet-side. Anyone attempting a manoeuvre like that would be putting their whole ship at risk. It’s way closer than protocol allows. Second, it’s tiny. Far too small to be a ship. It would have to be less than forty metres,” he explained.

  Forty metres? Even the newest tachyon hyperdrives would be forty metres long, never mind the rest of the ship. Forty metres was barely bigger than one of the UD-9 orbital dropships parked in his hangar. The smallest FTL capable vessels he had ever heard of were pushing two-hundred metres, and they were stripped to the bone.

  “Naturally occurring?” asked Sanchez. He was no expert, but he knew that natural background fluctuations were a real phenomenon.

  “No sir, it’s, well, it’s hard to explain, sir. The readings are not entirely inconsistent with a ship either. We kept an eye on it, but we had nothing further, until we got a second hit fifteen minutes ago. Something entered the upper atmosphere, behind the storm. There’s barely any heat signature, but it was definitely there, sir, whatever it was.”

  Pirates using the storm to cover their approach would make sense, but it still did not explain the readings. “Could they be running stealth? Making the ship appear smaller than it is?” he asked. Pretty sophisticated for a bunch of yahoos, but they were nothing if not resourceful.

  The operator shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s possible, sir, but if that’s a ship running stealth, it’s stealth we’ve never seen before. Not even close. Frankly, it’s something of a miracle we detected it at all.”

  He felt the hairs on his neck bristle. No, it couldn’t be. It was not possible. What were the odds? Out of all the goddamn no-name colonies, research stations, supply depots and Jonestown-style cult compounds in the galaxy, one of them would show up here? But no, he knew the truth. He had always known. It had been inevitable.

  “I know what this is,” he said softly, his stomach turning to a block of ice.

  “Sir?” the young man looked at him with a mixture of confusion and expectation as Sanchez unconsciously rubbed at his left forearm.

  “Yautja.”

Chapter Text

  Sanchez stood patiently behind his desk as he waited for the last of the department heads to file into his office. With eight people in the room, it was crowded, and everyone shifted uncomfortably. Not only because the room was too small, but because they were not used to all being in such close proximity with one another, and they had organised into a definite military and civilian split, right down the middle. Sloan and his lackey second-in-command Palmer were the last to arrive, bringing the total to ten, and hung back near the far wall.

  “Close the door,” ordered Sanchez, and Palmer did so, even though Sloan was closer. “I’m sorry for bringing you all in here like this but we don’t have time. Thirty minutes ago, orbital got a hit on what appears to be a cloaked ship headed this way. It appears to be using the storm to cover its approach, meaning we’ve got about forty-five minutes before it reaches Rayleigh’s Rest.” He took his keys from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out the lone file folder, and laid it flat on the desk.

  “Now, everything I am about to tell you is considered “code black” by the NSA and USCM brass, and will probably mean I’ll face a court martial when I get back to Gateway, but given the current circumstances, I don’t really give a damn. The approaching vessel appears to be…” he hesitated, unconsciously rubbing at his forearm, “of yautja design.”

  “Excuse me, sir, a what design?” asked Second Lieutenant Pryce.

  “Yautja,” he confirmed, sounding out the pronunciation. “A technologically advanced humanoid species.”

  Everyone exchanged concerned looks. Everyone had at least heard of the Arcturians. They had been discovered almost immediately after humanity became interstellar. But the notion that there was another sapient race out there that no one had ever heard of immediately set everyone on edge.

  “These hundred and fifty pages here,” he gestured to the file on the desk, “probably represents the most comprehensive set of records on them in all of human-controlled space, and I’m not even supposed to have it. I’ve called in a lot of favours over the years to piece this together. Fact is, we know almost nothing about them. Encounters are very rare. Some of these records go back to the late twentieth century. Everything further back than that is all just folklore and myth. Stories about ghosts or demons. What we do know is that they are strong, they are hostile, and they are extremely dangerous.”

  He waited a beat, allowing the words to settle.

  “Could I see the file please, Colonel?” asked a quiet voice from the crowd.

  He shot a look at the speaker, annoyed at the interruption. The unassuming face seemed unperturbed. Watson, was it? He struggled to remember. Assistant Head of Administration, he had had limited dealings with the man.

  “Of course,” he said and handed him the file. Watson took it without a word and began to flick through it. “I’ll see that you all get copies”.

  Heller brought him back to his train of thought. “The men are ready to go sir. Any intruders we will handle them. “Yautja” or otherwise.”

  “No, Sergeant. I’m ordering a general stand down.” A murmur went through the crowd as they exchanged confused glances.

  “Sir? We’re ready to fight. We’re trained for this,” protested the sergeant.

  “I know, and that is exactly what it wants. Based on all available records these things have…a code. You might even call it “honour”. It wants a fight. Sport, the “thrill of the hunt”. Something that can offer it a challenge. We’re not going to make it that easy. I’m putting the entire base on lockdown. I’m ordering all Marines to return any weaponry to the armoury, immediately. All firearms, knives, toenail clippers, I don’t care. Anything that could be interpreted as a weapon is not to be carried at any time. All non-essential civilian personnel are confined to quarters. All storm shutters and external doors are to remain sealed, and no one is to go outside unless absolutely necessary. If anyone does encounter the hostile, they are to kneel or lie down, and avoid eye contact. Do not do anything that could be interpreted as aggressive or defiant.”

  “Sir,” his other second lieutenant, Gutierrez, interjected, “how many of these “yautja” are we estimating to be on board the vessel?”

  “These things don’t play well with others. Every documented encounter involves a single hunter and the estimated size of the approaching vessel is concordant with that.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel,” this was from Nguyen, the head of civilian admin. A small middle-aged woman who was aggressively shaking her head. “But that is unacceptable. You have almost ninety Colonial Marines on station. It is your job to protect the men and women of this outpost, and you’re telling me you cannot handle one lone intruder?”

  “Ms Nguyen,” he said calmly, “this is not a band of pirates, or terrorists, or some lunatic off their meds. It’s a yautja. If we engage with force, it will turn this whole place into an abattoir. I do not want that any more than you do. The best thing we can do right now, is be boring. Without a challenge, it’ll leave. We just need to wait it out.”

  “What kind of injuries can we expect?” That was from Doctor McTaggart. As Chief Medical Officer she was a civilian, but she was as no-nonsense as any military doctor.

  “None,” answered Sanchez. “As I said, if we don’t present a threat, it will leave us alone”.

  “But if we do present a threat?” she pressed.

  “Then what’s left will be in pieces,” he said dismissively. She stared hard, unamused with his answer, and he relented. “They use plasma based projectile weapons, so you can expect burns, missing limbs and the like. They also like to get up close and personal with blades and other melee weapons, or their bare hands, and they do not have trimmed fingernails. Again, missing limbs, lacerations, puncture wounds, broken bones. What they do to their kills is worse. Much worse.”

  “I can’t believe Wey-Yu haven’t tried to capture one. This sounds right up their alley,” said Pryce.

  “It’s been tried. More than once,” said Sanchez. “The earliest attempts go back to the late nineteen nineties, even before Wey-Yu’s day. Over the centuries there’s been a handful of attempts to capture one, alive or dead. No one’s ever came close. Usually, it just ends in a bloodbath.”

  He glanced at his watch. This had taken longer than expected.

  “We only have about twenty minutes left on safe window of operation. Sergeant, I want all weapons stowed. Lieutenants Pryce and Gutierrez, brief your squads on the protocol. Under no circumstances are they to engage the intruder. Ms Nguyen, please do the same with the civilian staff, and please order the kitchen closed. We’ll have to make do with canned food for the time being. I don’t want anyone carrying anything sharper than a wooden spoon.

  “Sloan?” The merc had been quiet throughout the whole briefing. He had almost forgotten about him. “You do the same. Brief your men, and no weapons are to be carried under any circumstance. Am I clear?”

  Sloan merely nodded.

  “If there are no further questions then I will thank you for your time,” he said to the civilian staff before turning to his officers. “You have your orders, dismissed”.

  They quietly filed out of the room and Sanchez let out a long, slow breath. That could have gone better, he thought. They didn’t understand. A yautja? Here? The damage it could do did not bear thinking about. No, he had done the right thing. Without any “sport” on offer, it would leave. He looked up when he noticed one individual had not left, and stood looking at him with that same blandly friendly expression.

  “Yes, Mister Watson?”

  “Your file, sir,” he said politely, seemingly oblivious as he handed back the file. Sanchez accepted it, but Watson still stood with that same expectant expression.

  “Was there something else?” he asked, no longer trying to hide his irritation.

  “Sir, the available data suggests that a yautja would match its offensive capability to that of its opponent in order to make the encounter more challenging. I am considerably stronger than a human of equivalent size. If I were to challenge it, I may be able to best the creature in unarmed combat.”

  Sanchez raised an eyebrow. A synthetic, suddenly it all made sense. Watson was about the same height and build as he was, which was to say unremarkable. A yautja would be more than double his bodyweight, and probably have about a half-metre in height advantage.

  “It would tear you in half,” he said, shaking his head.

  “There was one other thing, Colonel. During the brief I read through the file, and over the past two hundred and fifty-one years, eighty-seven percent of all documented encounters have occurred on a planet, moon, or planetoid. Of those, ninety-eight percent have occurred in tropical or sub-tropical latitudes, with the singular exception being a suspected crash landing in-”

  “Your point, Mister Watson.”

  “Sir, all of the available data shows that yautja hunt almost exclusively in extremely hot climates. The average daytime temperature of LV-784 at our latitude is approximately nine degrees Celsius, and below zero degrees at night. It does not fit the profile; therefore, I conclude it must have other reasons for choosing this site. Do you know of any other reason why it would be here?”

  He held Watson’s unblinking stare as the first pitter-patter of hail began to tap the glass behind him.

*

  Sloan kept quiet as he marched down the corridor back towards Delta. Palmer did not say anything. He knew better. Sloan waited until he knew they were well out of earshot before speaking.

  “Get the men ready.” he ordered, keeping his voice low.

  “Yes sir, I’ll ensure all firepower is secured by-”

  “No, I said get them ready. Did you not see? The old man is scared. Gotta hand it to him, he hid it well, but he wasn’t fooling me. I could see it in his eyes. Whatever this thing is, it’s got him pissing his pants.” He stopped as a hurried civilian passed them coming the other direction. “The Company have been after one of these things for a long time. This could be a golden opportunity. With the lockdown in effect and every jarhead prick between here and Thedus disarmed, there’s no one to get in our way.”

*

  Van Der Beek stood quietly at the back of the dimly lit room. Sloan had ordered an assembly, and he was wondering what had him so agitated. A dozen men waited impatiently in the cramped confines of the briefing room, exchanging coarse jokes and insults, and although there were chairs, no one sat down. Gossip and rumours were running wild, and it seemed this had everyone on edge. His eyes locked on to Sloan as he strode into the room, followed diligently by Palmer, and lastly by Doctor Yau. That caught his attention. He could not think why the doc would be attending a security briefing. Sloan slapped a file down on the table.

  “Settle down, ladies, and pay attention,” growled Sloan. “You all know something is up, so here are the facts. An hour ago, orbital detected an intruder vessel of non-human origin and identified it as yautja design. Seems the Arcturians are not the only sapient life out here, and it just completely slipped their minds to tell the rest of us.”

  A ripple went through the crowd.

  “I’ve been told they are humanoid, and aggressive, and this one looks to be flying solo. The old man has ordered a station wide general lockdown. The way he explained it, it sounds like these things supposedly like a challenge, a fair fight, and won’t attack any target that it doesn’t perceive as a threat, so he’s ordered all USCM personnel disarmed. If we encounter it, we’re supposed to kneel or bow or offer it “tea and crumpets”,” he said mockingly.

  There were a few snorts and half-hearted laughs from the men, but Van Der Beek stayed quiet. Another known sapient race, and no one had ever heard of it. He didn’t like it, and the old man was no idiot or coward. If this thing had him concerned, then there was something to be concerned about.

  “Now the higher ups at the company have been after one of these things for a long, long time. Over a century, if you can believe that. So, we’re gonna give’em one. Gentlemen, what we have here is a golden opportunity. With the base on lockdown and the jarheads out of the way, we run this place. There’s twenty of us, and one of it, and when I look out at your faces, I see the meanest, toughest bunch of badass sons of bitches this side of Gateway.”

  That got a cheer from the men, but Van Der Beek was liking this less by the second.

  “If we capture this thing, dead or alive, the company is going to be grateful. Very grateful. So, we’re going to show this thing it picked the wrong planet for its summer holiday, and we’ll all be set up for life.”

  Another enthusiastic cheer from the men. They smelled money, and so were not keen on asking too many questions. Yeah, this job didn’t attract the best and brightest, Van Der Beek thought to himself.

  “North side of the base, there’s an old storage hangar. Decommissioned. It’s out of the way, and there’s nothing critical in there. If we can lure it in there, we can trap it. If it’s still alive, so much the better. Dead? Fine by me.”

  “Do we have a plan, boss?” asked one of the men.

  “This thing wants a fight; we’ll give it one. Everyone outside of Delta isn’t carrying anything more formidable than a spoon, so if we give it an armed target, it should zero in on them fairly quickly.

  “Take a civilian? Arm them up?” suggested a voice from the crowd.

  “No, that’ll cause too much trouble. We start disappearing base personnel, it’ll attract outside authorities.” He thought for a moment. “Parker, get one of the test subjects from downstairs. No one will miss them.”

  Parker grinned. “Know just the one, boss.”

  Doctor Yau, who had said nothing the entire time, piped up. “I’m sorry, Director Sloan, but I can’t allow that.” The room fell silent as Sloan raised an incredulous eyebrow.

  “I can’t?” He turned and shared an amused smile with the men.

  “No. Those patients are my responsibility. I will not allow them to be used as bait in some half-baked hunting trip.”

  “Patients?” Sloan laughed. “Don’t get self-righteous with me, you fucking ghoul. We both know exactly what they are. Now it’s either one of them, or one of your staff. I’ll let you decide.”

  The doctor shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet Sloan’s hard stare. “Fine. Just make sure they have not been recently implanted.”

  “Glad we’re all in agreement then,” he said sarcastically, and turned to face the room. “Carter, you’re leading the capture team. Kozlowski, Steinberg, Litvinenko, Miller, Rico, Christie and Lenny go with him. You’re cleared to take all of the equipment and firepower you want. We’re not clear on this thing’s capability so I want you overprepared. Van Der Beek, Morse, Parker and Weaver; keep an eye on things here. Delta operations are to continue as normal. Palmer, you can fill in McKenna and the rest at shift change.”

  “Sir, what about the Marines? Shouldn’t we send a team to secure the armoury?” The Irish accent gave it away, that was Lenny. The kid was smart, he mused.

  To his surprise, Sloan did not shoot him down.

  “Negative on that. Breaking the station lockdown, even firing weapons on station, the old man will be all fire and brimstone, but Wey-Yu will back us up. If we go after their armoury, that makes us mutineers. The station is under maritime law, and they still have hanging for that. Nah, Sanchez won’t do anything anyway. He’s too scared of this thing to arm up, and the jarheads won’t disobey orders. By the time they realise something’s up, it’ll all be over. You all have your assignments, get to it.”

  An enthusiastic “Oorah” went through the crowd. Van Der Beek said nothing.

*

  The “click-clack” of the pulse rifle’s loader was music to Carter’s ears as he cocked it. It had been a while since he, or any of the Delta Sec team, had had to suit up in full armour, and it felt good. The air buzzed with electricity as the eight-man team locked and loaded. A few passed around a container of illicit capsules, He didn’t partake himself, but turned a blind eye. If it helped them get their game face on, he didn’t care what they took.

  Parker walked in dragging one of Yau’s test subjects, and Carter shook his head in disgust. It was a woman, and a small one at that. He estimated she must have been about five-foot-four, and barely more than a buck wet.

  “You fucking idiot,” he swore.

  “What?” Parker shrugged.

  “The boss said this thing wants a formidable opponent, and you bring that. Some of the male subjects are over six foot. You didn’t think one of them would be better?”

  “She’s mean as all hell, and she bites,” Parker protested half-heartedly, and Angel gave a toothy grin.

  “Whatever. Just get back to work,” Carter dismissed him and looked Angel up and down.

  “See anything you like?” she said in a mock seductive tone.

  Maybe it’ll view her as a snack, he thought.

  “Put this on.”

*

  The hangar was spacious, with high ceilings and open spaces. Large shipping containers and other heavy equipment conveniently formed a ring around the main door. The only way in or out. It would have to come through the main door, and they would be able to trap it in the nets. The nets had originally been meant to hold “adult specimens” that were contained in the lower levels of Delta. Carter wasn’t sure what they were adult specimens of, but judging by how the white coats talked about them, he was sure they could hold anything.

  “Spread out,” he ordered. “Leave the door open a bit. We want it to take the bait. As soon as it moves on the woman, close the door behind it and be ready with the nets and shock sticks. If containment fails, light it up. Yau and his science pukes can pick through what’s left. Kozlowski, Steinberg, the net. Set up on top of those containers. Litvinenko, Rico, the second net behind the loader. We come at it from both sides. Miller, Christie, back up. Lenny, you’re on the door, and kill the goddamn lights first.”

  “Aww man, why do I get the door?” complained Lenny.

  “You wanna be the bait?” Carter shot him a hard look, and the young man looked away. Carter spat and walked up to Angel, whom they had dressed up in ill-fitting Colonial Marines garb. It didn’t look particularly convincing, but this “yautja”, whatever it was, was a goddamn alien. Somehow, he didn’t think it would notice. It would do. She looked up and gave him a humourless smile, and he slammed a pulse rifle into her chest.

  “Take this.”

  She accepted it hesitatingly, suspicious of the proffered weapon, before her eyes narrowed and she slowly turned the muzzle to face him. A loud click echoed as she pulled the trigger. He angrily backhanded her across the face, leaving her with a bloody lip.

  “No bullets. You thinking I’m fucking stupid, bitch?”

  Angel smiled thinly. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  She wasn’t bad-looking. Young, slim, with typical Hispanic features. She was nothing spectacular, but he wouldn’t kick her out of bed either. But that smile. He had been around some dead-eyed stone-cold sons of bitches in his career, and he had seen some shit. Done some of it, too. But that smile. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

  “Just stand here, and shut up. You play nice, you might even survive this. You try anything else, well, there ain’t many good-lookin’ women in this shithole, and my boys might not be so charming and gentlemanly as I am.”

  “And here I was expecting flowers,” she snorted.

  He resisted the urge to hit her again. It was a waste of time. He shook his head and walked away, climbing the ladder to the top of a containment unit, giving him a good view of the layout. The woman stood in the centre of the open area, a few metres from the slightly open door. Yeah, if she was a Marine he was fucking Santa Claus. But with the base on lockdown this was the only open external door, and she was armed. If this thing was as bristling for a fight as Sloan had made out, it would soon find them. With a loud clank, the lights went out. The only illumination now came from the floodlights outside. He lay flat on the roof of the container, and settled in. Nothing to do now but wait.

*

  The wind outside had picked up again, battering the thin walls of the storage hangar as stray flakes of black snow, illuminated by the grey light, drifted through the open doors. Carter exhaled slowly and watched his breath hang in the air. The cold had begun to seep into his body. Their armour afforded them decent protection, but it was mostly intended for indoor use. With the door open and no heating, it was barely above freezing. But still, he did not move. He had been in worse conditions than this. Whether that be a cold prison cell or the sweltering killing fields of a backwater civil war. His career as a soldier-for-hire had taken him across the world, and now halfway across human space, and eventually landed him here. The pay was sweet, and the irony of playing prison guard was not lost on him, but after two years in this dump, he was at his wits’ end. He needed some action, or he was going to go even crazier than he already was. So, when Sloan had told them about this “yautja”, he could barely hold it together. He had set up and executed dozens of ambushes, probably over a hundred by now, including live capture. Although those had been of humans, usually enemy VIPs for hostages or ransom, this was no different.

  A loud bang made his heart skip a beat. Carter rolled and immediately locked on to roughly where he thought the sound had originated. Something heavy had just slammed into the roof, and the sound was followed by a sequence of heavy footfalls making their way towards the front of the building.

  It was here.

  He gestured for the team to focus on the door, and his heart began to pound in his chest as he pulled the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. Fuck live capture, he was going to blow that thing away as soon as it stepped through the door. Whatever was on the roof sounded like it weighed a thousand pounds, and suddenly the nets did not seem sufficient. The woman would probably die. He was a good shot, but if she got in the way, then too bad. Yau would not be happy, but fuck him. Silence fell as the footsteps stopped. He did not take his eyes off the door for a moment. A minute passed, then two. Nothing.

  He snapped his fingers and pointed Litvinenko and Rico towards the door, ordering them to investigate. The two exchanged a nervous glance but obeyed, and slowly approached the open door. The woman had taken the opportunity to slip behind some storage units, but it didn’t matter. The two men stepped out into the storm, and a tense second passed, then another. Silence, except for the wind. He was about to climb down himself when the two men stepped back through the open door, shaking their heads. The door was the only way in. Had they been too obvious? Had it sensed a trap? With the lights out and their positioning, they were pretty concealed, and they had all limited themselves to hand signals. It couldn’t know they were there, could it?

  Litvinenko brushed at his chest plate as three red dots, arranged in a triangle, moved up his body, settling dead centre on his torso. “What the hell?” was all he had time to say before the hangar erupted in a deafening crack, a flash of blue flame, and his chest exploded in a shower of blood.

*

  “All teams report all weapons are stowed. All departments are operating on a skeleton staff only, and they’ve all been briefed on what to do should they encounter the hostile,” confirmed Heller.

  Sanchez breathed a sigh of relief and sat back in his chair. That had taken less time than expected. The sound of the wind outside grew louder. The storm had arrived, which meant it had too. There was nothing more to be done, they just had to wait it out.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” he nodded.

  The big man opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated.

  “We’re alone, Sergeant. Speak your mind.”

  “Sir, you seem to know a lot about these things. Is there something I should know?”

   This time it was his turn to hesitate. “I...”

  “Command to Colonel Sanchez, come in please,” his intercom buzzed, cutting him off.

  “Sanchez, go ahead.”

  “Sir, we’re getting reports of gunfire.”

  What the hell. “Where?” he demanded.

  “North side of the base, sir. In or near Hangar 7,” confirmed the voice on the comm.

  “There’s nothing there, sir,” advised Heller, shaking his head. “Hangar 7 was locked two years ago. No one’s been in or out since. It’s only used for storing decommissioned equipment.”

  “Copy that,” Sanchez spoke into the comm. “I’ll check it out.” There had to be a mistake somewhere. The lockdown had everyone nervous, jumping at shadows. Especially the civilians. It was probably nothing.

  “I volunteer to lead the team,” said Heller as he straightened and stood at attention.

  “Very well, Sergeant. Take a squad with you, check it out, and report back. Remember, no weapons.”

  The sergeant saluted, did an about face and left. It was probably nothing. Maybe some unsecured equipment had blown over, or hailstones hitting a roof, and one of the civvies had called it in. The armoury was secure, and civilians did not have access to firearms. That only left Sloan and his men. He didn’t think they be dumb enough to try and countermand his authority, but the thought made him uncomfortable. He could not dismiss it entirely. He decided he would wait to hear back from Heller. With luck, it would turn out to be nothing.

Chapter Text

  “Halt,” ordered Sergeant Heller. Corporal Jennings had to strain to hear over the howling wind, despite only being a few metres away. The doors of the hangar were slightly ajar, but there was only blackness inside. Cold sweat ran down his back despite the freezing temperature. They were all in full combat gear, but without a weapon in his hands he felt naked. They spread out to surround the entrance as the big sergeant cautiously approached the door, pressing his back flat against the metal.

  “This is the Colonial Marines. If there’s anyone inside, hold your fire. We’re coming in,” he barked, then spun around and stepped into the black, barely lit by the strobe effect of his shoulder lamp. For a tense second, they waited, but nothing happened. Jennings and the rest of the Marines filed in, forced into single file by the narrow gap. Beyond the beams of their torches there was only pitch blackness, but the areas illuminated by the harsh light showed nothing but blood. Pools of cold, dark red covered the floor, dripping from walls and storage crates.

  “What the hell happened here, Sarge?” muttered Davenport.

  “Okay, Marines, we’ve got casualties to locate. Search in pairs. Lowry, you’re with me. Spread out. If you see something, say something, and see if you can find a damn light switch,” ordered Heller, and the calm authority of his voice reassured the squad.

  “I found the power, brace yourselves,” came a disembodied voice from the darkness. A loud clank followed by a blinding flash forced Jennings to cover his eyes as the heavy-duty overhead lamps flooded the hangar in bright, white light. A few seconds passed as his eyes slowly adjusted, and for the first time he saw the true extent of the carnage. He had never seen so much blood. It was everywhere. A mangled, bloody arm lay on the floor ten feet away, and thirty feet from that, what looked to be someone’s guts were strewn across the concrete. Bullet holes punctured every surface, and countless spent shell casings were scattered across the floor. It had clearly been one hell of a firefight. He took a step backwards and stumbled, looking down to see the limp human leg that had been severed in mid-thigh, still in its fatigues and boot. Bloody human boot prints marked the floor, but what stood out were the other, far larger prints that looked like they had been made with a giant’s bare foot. A foot with five claws…

  “Jesus Christ, Sarge…” said Davenport, his voice breaking.

  “Keep it together, Marines. I still want possible survivors located, and if you encounter the hostile remember the protocol. No aggressive movements,” ordered the sergeant.

  “I don’t see any bodies,” said Jennings as he continued to survey the bloodbath.

  “He’s right, I don’t see any either,” said Molina.

  “Me neither,” added Gonzalez.

  Suddenly, he felt especially vulnerable. It was not that it had taken the bodies, or why, but rather he considered how far it could have gone dragging the bodies of a team of grown men. Fully armoured and armed grown men, and the thought that it might not have gone very far at all made a chill run up his spine, leaving him feeling like every shadow concealed a lurking monster waiting to rip his head from his shoulders.

  There was something else. He had not noticed it at first, but it had been there the whole time, barely audible above the wind and the rough voice of the sarge. A steady, wet, dripping sound. He craned his neck, looking up to the rafters that crisscrossed the underside of the corrugated roof some six or seven metres above them.

  “I don’t think there are any survivors, Sarge,” he said under his breath. Everyone stopped and looked up. Molina blessed himself. Davenport vomited, and no one laughed. Most of them stood frozen in place by the sight of more than a half a dozen bright red, freshly skinned human bodies hanging by their ankles.

*

  Jennings felt better as he operated the controls of the scissor lift and brought down another pair of bodies. Having a job to focus on took their minds off the horror, and while Sloan’s men were nothing more than a gang of thugs, they were still human beings. Cutting them down felt right. It felt human.

  “Yes, sir,” Heller spoke into his mic. “It’s a massacre. No survivors. No, no sign of the hostile. Wherever it went, it’s not here. Yes, sir, it’s bad. We need transport for…,” he did a quick count. “Nine casualties”.

  “Eight casualties, sir,” corrected Jennings as the lift brought them back to floor level. “The one at the end there is two halves of the same guy”.

  “Eight causalities,” he corrected into his mic.

  “Hey, we got a survivor. She’s one of us,” an excited voice interrupted as Private Lowry appeared around the corner of a shipping container, half-escorting half-dragging a female Marine.

  “She’s not a Marine,” corrected Jennings as he eyed up the small woman. All of the Marines knew each other by sight, and in the light, he could see her more clearly. Not only did he not recognise her, but the armour she was wearing was two sizes too large. A civilian? Why was she here? And why the hell was she dressed up like a Colonial Marine? The woman kept her eyes low as she continued to mumble something in Spanish.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am, do you understand me? Are you injured?” asked Heller. The woman did not acknowledge him, or any of the other Marines, and instead continued mumbling, or rather chanting, to herself.

  “Sir, we’ve got a survivor. Looks to be a civilian, made up as a Marine,” Heller gripped his mic as he spoke into it. “No, sir, I cannot explain that. She doesn’t appear to be hurt but she’s in shock. Non-communicative. Yessir.” He took his hand off his mic and addressed the squad. “Med team is on their way. They’ll take her and the bodies. Gonzalez, Molina, get those last two cut down. Davenport, Jennings, start bagging them. Lowry, stay with the woman. Just keep an eye on her. What’s she saying?”

  "She keeps saying ‘El diablo vino por ellas,’” said Molina, looking uncomfortable.

  “In English, Private,” growled Heller. 

  “The Devil came for them,” said Jennings.

  “And here I thought it might have been something to worry about,” said Lowry with a humourless laugh, shaking his head.

  “Knock it off,” barked Heller. “Everyone, get to work. We’re out of here in five minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jennings nodded and stepped off the lift. He was glad for the change from cutting the bodies down. That had been especially difficult and unpleasant. Putting them in the makeshift bags was almost a relief in comparison. He exchanged a glance with Davenport, who had gone pale. He had been on the first trip up the scissor lift.

  “Let’s get this over with. You get the feet, I’ll get the shoulders,” said Jennings as he laid out the open tarp before walking around to the head end. Working his gloved hands under the armpits of the skinless corpse, he wondered if holding the ankles would have been less nauseating. He nodded to Davenport.

  “Three, two, one…”

  With a heave the skinless body coughed and convulsed, spitting a mouthful of blood before shaking violently. Wide, lidless eyes staring right into his. Davenport immediately dropped his end and stumbled back in horror.

  “Jesus Christ, he’s alive. Dear God, this son of a bitch is still alive!”

*

    Sweat dripped from his forehead as Sanchez burst into Sloan’s office. The merc had been pacing back and forth with a cigarette, and looked up just in time to catch a right hook that knocked him to the floor.

  “Get up!” barked Sanchez. “Get up, you son of a bitch”. He was ready to hit him again. His nails dug into his palms as he fought the urge to do so. Angry as he was, he was not about to punch a man while he was down. Sloan shot him a cold look, and wiped the blood from his mouth before rising to his feet and tucking his shirt in, regaining a measure of composure.

  “Eight men. Eight men, Sloan. Goddammit, I told you what would happen. What the hell were you thinking?” he bellowed before pausing to catch his breath. The door was still open, and he turned to close it while Sloan lit a fresh cigarette, taking a deep, long drag.

  “Give me one of those,” he demanded, gesturing with his fingers. Sloan lit another and handed it to him as he paced back and forth.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” said Sloan.

  “I quit, twenty-five goddamn years ago,” he spat. “But recent events are making me restart some old bad habits.” He took long draw, holding it for a second before exhaling, allowing it to calm his nerves. A long silence passed between the two. Sloan sat leaning against the desk while he took another draw, and it was he who spoke first.

  “I haven’t been able to get consistent reports. What happened to my men?”

  “Seven are dead. Doc McTaggart tells me the eighth is in an induced coma, and probably won’t make it through the night. Based on what she told me about his injuries, that sounds like a goddamn mercy.”

  Sloan looked at the floor and took another drag.

  “It knows our blood now. Now it’s not going to leave,” he shook his head in frustration and disgust, and Sloan did not say anything. “There was something else,” he said quietly. “A survivor. A woman.”

  This time Sloan did look up. He would have been a good poker player, thought Sanchez. A real good one, but he wasn’t that good. He could not quite conceal the look of genuine concern on his face.

  “Yeah, you didn’t see that one coming, did you? She’s not a Marine, and I’m willing to bet my pension she’s not one of the civilian staff, either. I know for a fact she’s not one of Doctor Yau’s, and all of yours are male. That doesn’t leave many options now, does it? Doctor Cotillard is examining her just now. As soon as he gives the all clear, we’re taking her into protective custody for debrief, and I bet she has a lot of interesting things to say. Whatever you and Team Frankenstein are up to in there, I bet it’s illegal as all hell, and I’m about to find out what it is. When I do, you’re all going to prison.”

  The lights in the office turned deep red and an alarm began to wail, and he felt a deep rumble through his feet.

  What now, he thought as he pushed past Sloan and pressed the comm on his desk, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “Sanchez to Command, report.”

  “Sir, we have a breach, something just tore a three-metre hole in an outer wall.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “Delta Wing, sir.”

Chapter Text

  “Acknowledged,” Sanchez spoke into the comm. “Contact Second Lieutenant Gutierrez. Tell him his orders are to set up a cordon, but the protocol stands. No weapons of any kind. If it tries to leave, their orders are to let it pass.” He hung up without waiting for confirmation. They knew the drill.

  “Looks like you got its attention. That makes it our problem now,” he said, turning to face Sloan. “What’s in Delta?”

  Sloan blew a long stream of cigarette smoke. “Colonel, you know I’m not at liberty to disclose-”

  “I don’t give a damn,” he snapped, slamming a clenched fist down on the desk. “I’ve got eight dead men cut to pieces in Medical, a mystery woman under protective detail, and now the highest security building on base has a hole in it big enough to drive an APC through it. Now just what the hell is in there?”

  Sloan sighed. “Nothing.”

  “I mean it...” Sanchez growled menacingly.

  “I’m serious. There’s nothing in there. It’s empty. The whole building is a decoy. It’s plain steel and plastcrete. The door outside my office is just for show. The real Delta is underground. The access door is in the basement and that leads down to the lower levels, but your yautja is gonna need a hell of a lot more firepower to get through that,” said Sloan, taking another drag on his cigarette.

  “Keep going,” said Sanchez quietly. He had another thing coming if he thought that would be sufficient. “I need details.”

  Sloan gave him a long, hard look. There would be consequences for this conversation, for both of them, but Sanchez was not about to back down. “It goes down five levels. Keycard, palm print and retina scans at every checkpoint and between floors, and the security doors are five centimetres of tri-coated durasteel alloy. Like I said, it’s not blasting through those. First floor is mostly staff offices and briefing rooms. Second floor is some light labs, and equipment and armoury for my guys. Three is mainly medical, and that’s where we have the holding cells,” he said with a note of hesitation.

  “Holding cells for what?” pressed Sanchez.

  “People. That woman you picked up? She’s one of Yau’s lab rats.”

  “Jesus Christ…” Sanchez swore in disgust. “I knew it, goddammit I knew it. I knew this was not on the level. How many?”

  “Currently? Ten, maybe. Ask Yau if you want an exact count,” said Sloan matter-of-factly.

  “My God.” He had known from day one the whole outfit was sketchy. It always was when Weyland-Yutani got involved, but kidnap, involuntary medical experiment and possibly even murder? Even he never thought they would have gone that far. “You still haven’t answered my question. What the hell are you up to in there?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sloan.

  “I swear by the Virgin herself if you don’t tell me just what the hell is going on…” He found his voice had an edge he did not know he possessed. He had been a USCM Corps officer for twenty years, and in two decades of chewing out junior enlisted, his voice had never sounded as it did now.

  “Colonel, I don’t know.” Sloan held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Even my clearance only goes to Level 3. I’ve heard them talk about something called “Implantation” on Level 4. Level 5? I have no idea. Only Yau and his senior staff have Level 5 access.”

  “You expect me to believe you don’t even know what it is you’re guarding?” Sanchez snorted.

  “I never asked,” retorted Sloan, “and if you saw that they offered me for this contract, you wouldn’t have asked either.”

  Sanchez almost hoped he was lying. It would give him an excuse to beat it out of him, or order Heller to do it, but something told him he was telling the truth. Sloan didn’t even know why they were here; it was just an easy pay day. But then why would Wey-Yu pay for all that security to guard a handful of prisoners? A cold chill crept up his spine as he had the most terrible thought, and he grabbed the phone receiver on Sloan’s desk.

  “Do not even think about leaving,” he said as he jammed a finger at the man, before dialling for Medical.

  “Cotillard,” answered the voice at the other end of the line.

  “Doc, I need some details on the casualties from Hangar 7,” he spoke in a quiet, urgent tone, although it was not as if Sloan could not overhear.

  “Of course, Colonel. You’ll have a full report soon we’re just-”

  “Never mind that,” Sanchez cut him off. “Where any of the bodies missing heads or limbs?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” said the doctor, sounding somewhat puzzled by the morbid question. “Several of them sustained such injuries.”

  “But were the parts retrieved?”

  “Mostly, yes,” the doctor hesitated. “Although one is missing the head and both hands, and we have not been able to recover those. It was different in other ways too. The severing of the hands looks to be post-mortem. In the others, the injuries contributed to cause of death.”

  “What about ID cards?”

  “Seven out of eight were recovered, along with clothes and other affects. They will be returned to Security Director Sloan shortly. The missing one was for a “J. Carter”. We’re unable to determine at this time if the headless corpse here is this “J. Carter”, we’re still waiting on personnel files from Delta Security so we can match bodies to names via DNA typing.”

  “Something tells me it’s him. Thanks doc,” he said as a ball of ice formed in his stomach, and he hung up.

  “How do I dial through to Delta from here?” he demanded.

  “I’ll do it,” said Sloan, taking a step forward.

  “No, I’ll do it. Just tell me how,” insisted Sanchez.

  “Press “star” then “nine”, you should get Palmer,” said Sloan.

  He dialled, and a voice answered on the fifth ring. “Palmer.”

  “This is Colonel Sanchez,” he spoke with all the authority he could muster. “We believe the yautja has the means to access Delta Wing. I’m ordering all Delta personnel evacuated, official or otherwise.”

  “Colonel, this is highly irregular. I’d need authorisation from Director Sloan,” Palmer protested, as if he had not just heard what Sanchez had told him.

  He did not have time to argue. “Just do it,” he barked, and slammed down the receiver. He turned to Sloan, his cigarette now down to a stub, and not looking at all like his usual confident, smarmy self.

  “You’re coming with me,” said Sanchez sternly.

  “Where are we going, pray tell?”

  “Delta. He’s got himself a key, and you are mine. This might be our best chance. If he’s heading into Delta using stolen credentials, and we can get access to the security system, we can revoke them. Maybe we can start locking some doors behind him. We can trap him down there.”

  A cold, dry smile formed on Sloan’s thin lips. “Sounds like you need my help, Colonel.”

  “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot,” growled Sanchez. “But yes, right now, I need your help.”

  “Then lead the way,” he said, finally snuffing out the stub of a cigarette.

*

  Van der Beek leaned against the wall of the security office while Parker, Weaver and Morse amused themselves with some card game. He resisted the urge to pace. He did not want to look anxious in front of the rest, but it took considerable effort, and settled for a subtle glance at his watch. There was no real reason for them to be hanging around the security office. At this hour, Delta was running on a skeleton staff, but they could still be doing the usual rounds. Instead, they were eager for news regarding the yautja. Probably waiting to hear how big their cut was going to be, but he already beginning to suspect the worst.

  “What was that about?” he asked, as he watched Palmer replace the receiver on what had been a brief but apparently unusual phone call.

  “That was the colonel. He wants Delta evacuated. He says the yautja is heading this way,” said Palmer, and his expression gave Van Der Beek the impression of a dog trying to figure out how a magic trick was done. It was all the confirmation Van Der Beek needed. Carter and the team were dead. Calmly, he withdrew his sidearm and placed it on the table.

  “What are you doing?” asked Palmer.

  Van der Beek had to hide his incredulity. “The hell does it look like I’m doing? You heard the same brief that I did; no weapons. I don’t want to be that thing’s next target. If the old man says to evacuate, he’s not doing it to yank your chain.”

  “We evacuate when and if Security Director Sloan orders us to evacuate. Not before,” said Palmer coldly.

  He could not believe what he was hearing. “Sloan’s probably busy picking up the pieces of the capture team. You know it as well as I do, Palmer. They’re dead.”

  “That’s “Deputy Security Director Palmer”, soldier, and we don’t know that,” said Palmer.

  “You want to pull rank, sir?” asked Van Der Beek, allowing the contempt to hang in the air as he straightened to his full height.

  “I dunno, sir. Maybe we should just do as he says? I mean, Sloan’s been gone a long time,” said Weaver.

  “We don’t take orders from the Marines,” insisted Palmer.

  Apparently, we don’t use common sense either, Van der Beek thought to himself, and decided he had heard enough. “You okes can do what you want. I’m leaving.”

  “Stay where you are, soldier,” ordered Palmer angrily, but Van der Beek ignored him and continued to head for the door. He heard Palmer bark the order to stop him, but before he could react, he felt something hard hit the back of his neck, and he fell to his knees as his vision went blurry. He looked up to see Parker holding his own sidearm.

  “Jesus, Parker. Don’t kill him,” protested Weaver.

  Parker shrugged. “What should we do with him, boss?”

  “Cuff him,” ordered Palmer. “Take him downstairs, throw him in one of the cells. We’ll see what Director Sloan has to say about “desertion” when he gets back with the capture team.”

  Van der Beek spat as his vision returned to normal, and he felt his cold steel cut into his wrists as his arms were yanked behind him. “Take your hands off me you fokken bilksems,” he swore as he roughly hauled to his feet. He brought a big knee up and caught Weaver in the gut, winding him. He felt bad about hurting the younger man, but he wasn’t about to let himself be taken prisoner without a fight, until the feel of barrel pressed into his back made him freeze.

  “Go on, gimme an excuse,” said Parker. Van der Beek couldn’t see him, but he could have sworn that son of a bitch was smiling. Weaver gave him a hurt look as he straightened. The kid had always looked up to him.

  “Let’s go,” said Weaver, and this time all friendliness was gone. He allowed himself to be led as he silently cursed them every step of the way.

*

  Sanchez had always envisioned the inner workings of Delta Wing as hallways of gleaming, pristine white, illuminated by brilliant bright lights. In reality, he had the feeling of crawling through the bowels of some massive ship or submarine. The red-orange walls were barely lit by the sparse overhead strip lighting, and the air had a sterile, recycled taste to it that was only reinforced by the slightly too-warm temperature. The corridors themselves were a labyrinth, and did not follow any discernible layout that he could make sense of. Not so much as an “Exit” sign. Sloan had not been lying about the security. The doors had looked indestructible, but once inside it was a different story. There were no security cameras, no guards posted, and the internal doors were only the standard office kind. Nothing that would stop even a normal man, much less a yautja.

  The yautja. It was here. It was a chilling thought. He was unarmed, and so was Sloan. Logically, he knew he should be safe. But that was cold comfort. He knew what it was capable of, and after so many decades, the idea of running into one again had him more than a little on edge. His heart was racing, and his palms felt cold, despite being wet with sweat. A flicker caught his attention, and he held his breath, the moment stretching to agonising length, but it was nothing. Just a trick of light and shadow, playing tricks on his eyes, and he slowly exhaled.

  “This is taking too long. We need to get everyone out of here, now,” he whispered.

  “Colonel, Delta doesn’t have an evac procedure,” explained Sloan. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place is set up to keep people in.”

  “So, anything goes wrong, I take it everyone is an “expendable asset”? Typical Wey-Yu.”

  “The security office is just up ahead. Palmer should already have gotten the ball rolling,” said Sloan, ignoring the gibe.

  “Then why haven’t we seen anyone yet?”

  Sloan paused, and a faint glimmer of genuine concern flickered across his face. “Let’s just get to the security office.”

  They reached the office less than a minute later. Aside from the fact that the corridors were deserted, nothing struck him as out of place or unusual. Sloan opened the door without checking, and he followed him inside. It was mostly empty, and mostly unremarkable. It looked like a combination of a control room and a break room, with nothing that stood out as particularly nefarious. Palmer was sat tucked behind a desk in the corner.

  “Sir,” he stood as he greeted Sloan, and gave Sanchez a confused look.

  “Where’s the rest of them?” asked Sloan.

  “There was…an incident,” said Palmer, already sounding unsure.

   Sloan sighed. “We don’t have time for that. What about the evacuation?”

  “We haven’t ordered one, sir. The order came from Colonel Sanchez, not you, and as per Weyland-Yutani’s agreement with the Colonial Marines we-”

  “Enough,” snapped Sloan. “Do you need me to wipe your damn nose, too?” At least he had enough sense not to answer that, Sanchez thought to himself. Sloan shook his head. “Get Yau on the line tell him the order is coming straight from me. Everyone out, now. I don’t care what they’re in the middle of. Get Van Der Beek, Parker, Weaver and have them go room by room, floor by floor. Make sure we get everyone. Morse, you go too. Yau will have to authorise access to the lower levels himself. Once everyone is out, we’re gonna seal this bastard inside.”

  “Sir, Parker and Weaver are currently taking Mister Van Der Beek down to the holding cells,” said Palmer weakly.

  Sloan made no attempt to hide his incredulity. “Well, go and get them then. I need everyone, and when we’re done, you and I are going to have a chat.”

  “Surely you have some way of making public announcements? A fire alarm? Dammit, anything?”

  “You said it yourself, Colonel, we’re expendable,” he said sardonically as he picked up the phone, and Sanchez watched silently as Palmer slinked off. “Doctor, it’s Sloan. We have a problem. I need you to get your people out. Yes, all of them. I said “all of them”. The cat’s out of the bag. We’re on our way,” he said as he slammed down the receiver.

  “We need to hurry,” said Sanchez. Before Sloan could answer there was crash that sounded like the ceiling was coming down on them, even though it did not sound particularly close.

  “What the hell was that?” Sloan exclaimed as both men ran towards the noise. Half a minute later he rounded the corner to see an office door torn from its hinges and outwardly shattered to splinters, a dripping trail of blood leading away and deeper into Delta. Sloan pressed forward and charged through the open door. The man was no coward; he would give him that at least. Sanchez followed, careful not to step in the blood.

  The room was bigger than he expected, and he surmised it must be one of the light labs. A couple of banks of tables covered in machines whose purpose he could not begin to guess at. A dark-haired woman in a white lab coat knelt crying in the corner, murmuring to herself, and lying on the floor, the headless, handless corpse of a man, wearing the same kind of white lab coat. A giant dirty footprint easily visible on his back as the blood still poured from the raggedy stump of his neck.

  “It’s alright, ma’am,” said Sanchez as he knelt next to the woman. “Ma’am, I need you to look at me,” Sanchez reassured her. “You need to head to Director Sloan’s office, the one just outside the main door to Delta. There will be a detachment of Marines there. They’ll look after you.” The woman nodded and allowed herself to be led by the arm as she kept her eyes closed, and Sanchez escorted her to the door. She continued to mutter what he could now make out to be “oh god” over and over. He knew exactly how she felt. Once he had her over the threshold, he let her go, and watched as she unsteadily made her way back the way they had come, before turning his attention back to the body.

  “What a mess,” said Sloan.

  That was an understatement, but there was something about this that wasn’t right. “His hand was cut off. But look at the neck wound, see how rough it is? I think the head was torn off.”

  “Bare hands? Jesus, Colonel, how fucking strong is this thing?”

“Strong. But this is wrong. I knew they were brutal, but this? Something about this just doesn’t add up. This…this is sadistic.”

  “He’s a scientist. I thought you said they only hunt soldiers?” ventured Sloan.

  “I said they only hunt armed targets. I don’t know, there’s scalpels and the like on the table. Maybe he tried to attack it,” but even as he said it, he did not quite believe it.

  “I’m afraid we’ve got another problem,” said Sloan. “The name tag on the coat says “Dr A. Mercer”. I know him. He’s one of the senior researchers. It looks like your yautja has upgraded its access. It also means I don’t have the authority to revoke the credentials. Only Yau can do that now.”

  “Then we need to find him, fast.”

*

  He chaffed against his cuffs as they marched him towards the Level 3 holding cells. The whole thing was ridiculous. He would be out as soon as Sloan got back, and then he and Parker would settle up. But until then, he resolved to stay quiet. A young man in a lab coat hurried past them with a worried expression, but if the other two men noticed it, they did not comment. A few seconds later, a second, older man half-jogged past them with the same worried look. They rounded the corner and he instantly recognised Doctor Challis coming the other way, accompanied by a not-bad-looking young female doctor whose name he didn’t know.

  “Excuse me, doc,” he said as they met in the corridor, and the older man stopped while the young woman hurried ahead. Parker gave him a hard shove in the back, but due to his size he barely moved. “What’s going on?”

  “Everyone is being evacuated. The yautja is heading this way. Doctor Yau ordered everyone out,” explained the doctor as he tried to catch his breath. That meant Sloan was back. The sooner he was out of these cuffs, the better.

  A chilling high-pitched scream reverberated down the hallway and all four men turned to see the young woman running full pelt back towards them and behind her, towering in the doorway, stood a shimmer in the shape of a man, barely visible in the dim light. The doctor took a step back and tripped, falling to the floor. Parker grabbed the running woman and pulled her in front of him, using her as a shield while he aimed his sidearm over her shoulder. The woman screamed, struggling desperately as he closed one arm around her neck. In a movement almost imperceptibly fast, a metallic, disc-shaped object sliced through the air, splitting both Parker and his hostage in half at the midsection before embedding itself in the wall behind them. Parker had just enough time to look surprised as Van Der Beek could only watch as the two halves of both of them collapsed to the floor in a shower of gore. Weaver began shooting wildly, the deafening shots reverberating in the tight confines of the corridor. In the blink of an eye, it closed the distance between them, and grabbing Weaver by the throat, snapped his neck with a seemingly effortless flick of the wrist. Dropping his lifeless body to the floor.

  Van Der Beek stood motionless, arms still cuffed behind his back, and held his gaze at the floor. The briefing repeated in his mind like a mantra. No aggression, no defiance. He could feel more than see the yautja standing only a few feet in front of him. A moment passed, then two. He chanced an upward glance to see it standing right there, looking directly into where he estimated its eyes would be. Bad move. An arm shot out, lightning quick, and grabbed him by the throat, pulling him closer. A grip so strong he thought his neck would snap, just like Weaver’s, and he could feel his feet scraping the floor, despite his two-hundred-and-thirty-pound frame. His heart thumped in his ears and his vision began to darken as he struggled uselessly against his cuffs. It seemed to inspect him, producing a curious clicking purr sound while tilting his head one way, and then the other, its own head a full foot above his, even though he stood a solid six-foot-three. Satisfied, the shimmer shoved him stumbling back five steps, releasing its crushing grip as he coughed and gasped.

  He watched as the shape strode past him towards Challis, still sitting propped up on the floor staring in horror and disbelief, and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. The doctor cried in protest as he was half carried and half dragged down the dark corridor. The creature used its free hand to puncture and then tear open a sliding door at the end of the hallway, and disappeared out of sight, dragging the flailing doctor like a fish on a hook.

*

  Sanchez pushed past another scientist who was hurriedly making for the main exit. Level 2 seemed larger than 1, although he could not be sure. It was hard to get a sense of scale down here, he thought to himself. Warmer, too. Although, the yautja almost certainly had to have come this way. He chose to take the fact that they had not come across any more mangled corpses as a good sign. Sloan had broken into a something of a jog, and although he did not let on, he was feeling every one of his sixty-four years as he kept pace.

  “This is it,” said Sloan, and he had just enough time to read the plaque on the door, “Dr H. Yau”, before Sloan burst through without knocking. Sanchez came in just in time to see him put the phone down. The office was rather spartan. He didn’t know why, but he had always pictured something more “old fashioned”, or ostentatious. Not the cold, bare clinical space that this was.

  “Mr Sloan,” he said without a hint of surprise, although he immediately straightened when he saw Sanchez follow in behind him.

  “How many are still left in the lower levels?” asked Sanchez.

  “Colonel,” he acknowledged with a professional nod. “I’ve been able to contact all of my on-duty staff except for one, Dr Mercer, you haven’t seen him perchance?” asked the doctor. Sloan turned his back, rubbing his jaw, and gave Sanchez a knowing glance as he casually leaned against the wall. Clearly, he was going to let him take this one.

  “He’s dead.” said Sanchez matter-of-factly. “Which means the yautja now has Level 5 access, and we need to shut it down. Now.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, come again? How could it possibly know how to access our systems?” asked Yau incredulously.

  “It came here on a spaceship, doc,” quipped Sloan sardonically.

  Yau turned back to him, his face expectant. “This thing is damn smart. We have to assume it knows what it is doing,” confirmed Sanchez.

  He watched closely as the doctor turned pale, the blood draining from his face as realisation dawned. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Covering his mouth with his hand, he slumped into his chair. “Oh my god, no…”

  Sanchez pressed forward, leaning both hands on the desk, and spoke quietly. “Doctor, Sloan tells me you can use your clearance to revoke the credentials. We can trap it on Level 5.”

  “No, we can’t,” said Yau. “We need to get out of here right now, the yautja, if it’s heading for Asset Containment. If it releases the specimens…”

  “Specimens of what?” he asked, losing patience.

  “I can’t revoke the credentials from here. The security systems are partitioned, I can only do that from Level 5,” Yau protested, his usually ice-cold demeanour evaporating. “We don’t have time, we have to leave, right now.”

  “We’re not going anywhere, doctor, until we get everyone out and you answer my question. Specimens of what?” he growled.

  “You don’t understand. We have to abandon the outpost. Nowhere will be safe from them.” Yau was close to outright panicking at this point.

  Sanchez grabbed him by the collar and almost yanked him clear over the desk, his face mere inches from the doctor’s. “Doctor, I’ve had just about enough of Weyland-Yutani’s bullshit to last a lifetime, and I don’t give a damn about “proprietary research”. If the Corps wants my pension after this, they can have it. But if you don’t tell me what I want to know right the hell now, I might get mad.” He gripped the doctor’s collar, squeezing tightly as let his voice drop to a menacing whisper. “Last chance, I won’t ask again. Specimens of what?”

*

  Doctor Challis kicked helplessly as he was dragged along by his collar. He was going to die. He knew it. The yautja had not killed him yet because it was taking him to some secluded spot, where it could dine at its leisure. Like a leopard storing its kill in a tree. He had seen the colonel’s file. Seen the reports. The images of flayed bodies. The severed limbs, the decapitations, the spinal columns torn out, bodies turned into butchered meat. His stomach turned at the thought that it would soon be him. Although terrified, he was not lost, and recognised exactly where he was. The yautja was taking him down to the main Asset Containment loading access corridor, which would dead-end up ahead in a massive, acid-resistant alloy hatch some twenty centimetres thick. It didn’t make sense that it would take him there just to kill him. A glimmer of hope flickered in his mind. He was not armed. He was not a threat. It wouldn’t kill him It needed him for some other purpose, and then it would let him go. Its code of honour would demand it.

  The yautja stopped, and pulled him to his feet before shoving him into the wall so hard he almost lost consciousness as he fought to catch his breath. He stood and stared, squinting in the darkness. There were almost no lights in this area, no one ever came down here, and the hatch itself had been sealed on day one and never opened since. But even still, he could just about make out the shape of the creature. Its cloak was as good as any military stealth tech he had ever heard of, but it was not quite perfect, and he could discern the shape of a man, except it was too tall.

  The shimmer seemed to dial some command on its left arm, followed by an audible beep and the outline materialised into a solid, terrifying figure. He stared in amazement, his scientific curiosity overcoming any fear he had had up until now, at the monster that stood just a few metres away. He had been right about the humanoid part, but the head was too big, and the shape was all wrong. An angular metal mask covered a face that was framed by thick, fleshy appendages that looked reminiscent of dreadlocks. It was even taller than he first thought, and must have been almost seven and a half feet. Its body was athletic but powerful, rippling muscle visible underneath a netting material that covered most of its otherwise exposed sickly pale, mottled greenish coloured skin. Skin that was rough, twisted, tight, until he realised that was only its left side. Extensive burn scars, perhaps. No human could have survived such injuries. Shoulder guards, gauntlets, loincloth and shin guards gave it a vaguely samurai-esque appearance, but the angles and sharp edges made it look far more effective. Far more vicious. There was no mistaking it for anything else. This was a warrior. A predator.

  With clawed fingers, it pulled something from a pouch on its belt, and it struck him as strange that it should be wearing a belt, but then he recognised the small, orange object it was holding. It was an ID card, and the creature pressed it down on the console closest to it.

  “Welcome, Doctor Mercer. Awaiting second authorisation to confirm release of locks,” said an automated female voice. Challis felt his scientific curiosity flee as the creature turned to look at him, almost expectantly.

  “No,” he said, surprising himself with this sudden bout of courage. “No, you have no idea what’s in there. If we open that door…” The creature merely stared at him, its expressionless mask giving nothing away, but a series of quick guttural clicks gave him the impression it was losing patience. “Please, don’t do this,” he pleaded as he took one small step back. Instantly, the creature took one quick, purposeful step towards him, closing the distance between them, and he felt his resolve evaporate. He quickly fished his own ID from his pocket, hands shaking as he pressed his card against the scanner.

  “God forgive me,” he whispered to himself.

  “Welcome, Doctor Challis. Please submit simultaneous palm print and retina scan for verification,” said the automated voice. He could only watch in horror as the creature produced first a human hand, and then the lifeless, severed head of his colleague. The lidless eyes and open mouth frozen in a silent scream, and he felt the warmth running down his leg as he lost control of his bladder. More clicking, and the creature slammed the hand down on the scanner as it held the head up to human eye level. Challis did the same, trying not to blink as the tiny laser read his eye like a barcode.

  “Thank you, Doctor Challis and Doctor Mercer. Automated security locks will be released in sixty seconds. Warning, specimens are classed as “extremely hostile”. All personnel please vacate the area,” said the automated tone. Challis took a step back, and turned to the yautja as it casually dropped the head on the ground and looked at him. But it made no move towards him.

  “Are you letting me go?” he asked sheepishly. The question sounded ridiculous, but if it understood it gave no indication. It just continued to stare at him, still as a statue. He decided that was a “yes”. He bowed, which struck him as equally ridiculous yet oddly appropriate, and began to walk away. After a few steps, he broke into a run. It was letting him go. It only needed him for his access, and now that he had served his purpose, he would be allowed to live. He still had a few seconds to get out, he had time. If he could reach the surface, maybe he could be evacuated.

  A sudden, searing pain cut through his side, and he looked down to see bloody parallel twin blades protruding from his abdomen. The blades withdrew, and he staggered a few more steps before he fell to the floor, clutching at the wound. As a surgeon, he knew the damage was not fatal. The blades were so sharp, the wound so clean. Whether by chance or skill, it had missed his vital organs, and the blood loss was modest. But he would not be able to walk with such an injury. He watched as the yautja backed up and, with a few presses of a dial on its wrist gauntlet, it once again vanished into a barely visible shimmer.

  “You son of a bitch,” he spat defiantly, tasting the blood in his mouth. The creature took a few more steps back, and in the low light he could no longer follow its movements. The purring clicks fading into silence. It was gone. He rolled over to helplessly look back towards the hatch, the yellow klaxons flashing and alarm sounding. A loud hiss pierced the cacophony as the seal was broken, and a warm, damp, sickly-sweet stench wafted over him. The heavy door rumbled as it slowly lifted, the reinforced durasteel groaning under its own massive weight, and in the darkness, he could see them moving. Dozens of them. The yellow light reflecting off carapaces of chitinous chitin.

Chapter Text

  Sanchez burst into the Control Room. His chest burned as he sucked air into his lungs, although he forced himself to remain upright, hiding his exhaustion, while Sloan and Doctor Yau followed close behind. The doctor doubled over as he gasped for air. Sloan, being the youngest, had barely even broken a sweat, despite his constant smoking.

  “Commander on deck,” barked the senior warrant officer.

  “As you were,” ordered Sanchez, as he strode over to the nearest station and snatched up the receiver. “Station-wide alarm, now,” he ordered, staring down at the junior warrant officer. With the press of a button, lights began to flash red and a piercing siren echoed through the corridors of the base. He placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Partially to reassure him, but also partially for balance. “Put this on the public PA system.”

  “You’re patched in, sir,” said the operator with the press of a few buttons.

  “Attention all staff. This is not a drill. This is Colonel Sanchez. We have an emergency situation. I am ordering an immediate and complete evacuation of Rayleigh’s Rest. All civilian personnel, drop what you are doing and leave now. Make your way directly to Hangar 1.” He covered the receiver with his hand and took a much-needed breath. “All Marines, report to the armoury on the double. I want everyone in locked and loaded and I want it now. Full combat gear, weapons included. I repeat, all weapons are now free.” It would make them viable targets for the yautja, but he did not see any other choice. “Further orders to follow,” he barked before turning to the operator.

  “Play that back and put it on loop over the PA, and connect me to Lieutenant Gutierrez,” he ordered, and there was an audible click from the receiver.

  “Lieutenant, this is Sanchez, come in.” He waited a moment for the response, but none came. “Lieutenant, this is Colonel Sanchez, respond,” he said in a firmer tone, but the only reply was the eerie sound of static filling his ear. “Lieutenant, you are to abandon the cordon and proceed directly to the armoury, confirm. That is an order,” he growled through gritted teeth. Nothing. Just the same dead, static hiss. His heart sank as his mind began to race with possibilities. None of them good.

  “Sir, we have another problem,” called another operator from across the room. “Something is taking out external security cameras. It started just north of Delta, and it’s moving counterclockwise, so it’s heading this way.”

  “It’s the yautja,” explained Sanchez. “He doesn’t want us tracking him.” Two operators exchanged a concerned look. “It doesn’t matter,” he reassured them. Frankly, it was a relief; as long as it was hunting cameras, it wasn’t killing Marines. “Right now, our priority is to get everyone out. I need Control to coordinate the evac from here, then double-time it to the hangar. I want everyone here on the last flight out, understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the room answered in unison.

  “Doc, you stay here. We might need you. Sloan, you come with me,” he ordered before turning to the senior operator. “Lock this door behind me.”

*

  By the time he reached the armoury, he felt every one of his sixty-four years. His bones ached, his lungs burned, sweat soaked his back despite cutting across open ground in the freezing night air and howling wind of LV-784. Twenty-five years younger, Sloan didn’t even look out of breath. But still, he kept his composure. He already knew they called him “the old man” behind his back, and did not want to give them more reason than they already had. He made a mental note. When this was over, he was going to do a lot more PT. The armoury hummed with activity. Crowded, with every Marine on station crammed into the relativity small space as Heller and the quartermaster tossed out carbines and ammunition with machine-like efficiency. Armour was clipped into place and checked, and magazines were slammed home.

  “Is this everyone?” he asked Heller. He eyeballed the crowd, and estimated perhaps sixty. Even counting the operators in Control, he was missing almost twenty Marines.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Heller, still handing out mags as fast as he could.

  “Have you seen or heard from Lieutenant Gutierrez?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shit,” he swore under his breath.

  Sixty Marines to corral and evacuate five hundred scared civilians. In his long service, he had done more with less. With an ease that belied his age, he hopped up on to the counter, serving as a makeshift podium as his head almost scraped the ceiling.

  “Ten-hut!” he shouted, and every Marine in the room instantly snapped to attention. They could not have been more motionless if they were carved out of stone. “As you were, Marines,” he said, and the crowd relaxed a little, but did not take their eyes off him. “We don’t have time, so I’ll make this quick. We have a confirmed xenomorph presence on base.” A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Some stiffened, a few exchanged confused looks, some of the older ones didn’t flinch. Not one of them had ever seen a xenomorph. Forty-six years in the Corps, he had known only one Marine whom he could say for sure had faced them. More than a few probably thought they were a myth, so he gave them a moment to process the full weight of what he had just said.

  “In fact, based on estimated enemy numbers, we’re looking at a full-blown infestation. Therefore, I am ordering the entire base evacuated. We’re abandoning Rayleigh’s Rest.” He paused again, allowing the full magnitude of the situation to sink in. “But we are Colonial Marines, and that means we are the first ones in, and the last ones out. Is that understood?”

  An enthusiastic “Oorah” erupted from the assembly.

  “I can’t hear you. I thought you were Marines?” he hollered, making himself sound angrier than he was.

  “Oorah,” the crowd repeated, more forcefully this time.

  “That’s more like it,” he said approvingly. “Now, the point of origin is Delta Wing, therefore I’m considering everything east of the civilian research buildings to be lost. What’s most important now, is Hangar 1. Sergeant Heller, I want you taking the lead on this. Take Alpha and Bravo squads, and secure the hangar. It’s ours, and it stays ours at all costs. We’ve got some APCs. Use them. I want them manned and covering the eastern approach. Use them to block any ground level chokepoints.”

  “Yes, sir,” barked the sergeant.

  “I’m sending all civilian traffic your way, so for God’s sake watch your fire.”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “Lieutenant Pryce, go with him. You have Bravo squad. I want you and Bravo on the first flight out. You are to coordinate at the LZ. An FTL capable ship was already on route. I’ve sent the distress call, but it will still take them two weeks to get here. So, we’re setting up a tent city, five hundred kilometres due west. Pilots, you will be given landing coordinates by Control. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the lieutenant.

  “Sergeant Davis, take a squad, get a couple of vehicles. I want you to hit the kitchen stores. Load up on as much emergency food and as many blankets as you can. We’re gonna have a lot of cold, hungry people to feed over the next few weeks.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Corporal Jennings?” he hollered, trying to spot the young man in the crowd.

  “Yessir?” answered the young man nervously.

  “Congratulations, son, you’re promoted to squad leader. You’re now in charge of Charlie Squad. I want you to hit the civilian medical wing, and grab as much as you can. Antibiotics, painkillers, antiseptic bandages, whatever you can carry, and be careful. The medical building was pretty close to Delta.”

  He paused, and took one last, proud look at the Marines in front of him.

  “You all have your assignments, so move like you’ve got a purpose. Dismissed!”

*

  The corridor was dark as they advanced, the clanking of their boots against the metal grated floor impossible to silence, despite their best efforts to be quiet. Their orders had been simple enough, bag as much medical supplies as they could, but this was close to Delta, and he had heard the stories of the xenomorphs. He had always dismissed them as tall tales. A ghost story the old vets would tell to spook the rookies. A bogeyman. He had always laughed it off. Now, Jennings was taking no chances. The dimly lit, deserted corridor was oppressively foreboding. No staff, no patients, nothing. They approached the main door to Medical, and he gestured for the team to stop. The door was busted, and slightly ajar, a tiny sliver of red light seeping out into the corridor. A cold chill crept into his bones, and his mind flashed back to the massacre that had been Hangar 7. The blood, the carnage, and the skinless bodies hanging like so much meat.

  “Lowry, get the door,” he whispered, pulling his carbine up to his shoulder, and the private pulled the door open with barely a sound. Darkness inside, except for the dark red of the emergency lighting. Not a good sign. He slid inside, his finger on the trigger. A row of empty medical beds lined the wall, separated by translucent curtains. The squad filed in behind him.

  “Quarter and search by twos. Clean sweep,” he whispered, and the teams budded off, silently slinking through the darkness, weapons drawn.  His eyes drifted across the ceiling, and under the beds, across the large vent grates. If the attack was going to come, it would not be head on. Cold sweat enveloped him as he gripped his carbine tighter. Picturing long, black clawed fingers reaching up and pulling him through the floor, away from his squad, back down into the dark. There were signs of a struggle. Broken glass here, a clipboard lying on the floor there, but not a single sign of life.

  “Psst, psst!” Molina whistled through tight lips, waving him over. As he came around the end of the bed, every muscle in his body tensed. It was a med-tech, judging by his lab coat, lying sprawled in a pool of drying blood. One lifeless eye staring at the ceiling, and a gaping hole where his right eye and cheekbone had been. It looked, crushed, or caved in, like he had taken a sledgehammer to the face. Or maybe an icepick.

  “Stay frosty,” he said through clenched jaws.

  They rounded the corner, heading towards the ICU and surgical theatre. Blood, black under the dark red lighting, spread across the floor. Jennings knelt, dipping his fingertips. It was still warm. His eyes followed a trail of sprinkled blood drops that led away from them, towards the back of the bay.

  “Move up,” he gestured with his hand. “Watch your fire and check your targets. Remember, we’re still looking for civvies in here,” he whispered aloud, risking the noise. The blood trail led behind another bank of beds, disappearing behind a curtain. With Lowry at his side and approaching cautiously, the two men closed in.

  The curtain moved. Both men froze. It moved again, as something pressed against the material. It could have been human. In the low light it was impossible to tell, and the curtain was opaque enough to obscure the overall shape.

  “Hello?” said Jennings. The shape stopped moving. A tense silence filled the air as no answer came. “Doctor?” he ventured again, pulling his carbine tighter against his shoulder as he aimed down the sights. The curtain moved again, black mass pressed against the material, and a long, low hiss grew louder, and louder.

  “Hostile!” he screamed, and the curtain exploded in an inhuman shriek. Lowry’s carbine roared with a staccato pulse, panic firing as the rounds tore through the sheet and slammed harmlessly into the wall. Jennings dodged the curtain and refocused on the target just in time to see what had been a human body in a medical gown fly up into an overhead vent.

  “Did I get it?” asked Lowry, shaking as the other six members of Charlie squad came barrelling towards them, weapons ready.

  “I don’t know, I didn’t even see it,” said Jennings, his heart racing.

  “Where the hell did it go?” asked Molina.

  “Up there somewhere,” he said, pointing to the ceiling. “Man, that thing was fast. I’ve never seen anything move like that. Did you get a look at it?” he asked, turning to Lowry who was still staring at the bloodied vent, eyes wide.

  “No, not a good look. Just a flash. Looked, I don’t know, like a fuckin’ chainsaw with a tail,” he said, struggling to get the words out.

  A sharp hiss filled the air, accompanied by a burning, acrid smoke. They looked down to see the small hole forming in the tiled floor, rapidly widening to the size of a tennis ball as a sickly, greenish-yellow fluid frothed and bubbled, melting its way through ceramic and steel like wet tissue.

  “Looks like you winged it,” said Molina, as the squad exchanged uneasy glances.

  All of the old stories crystallised in his mind. Tales of creatures too nightmarish to possibly be real. One detail in particular had always struck him as too farfetched. Too much of a dead giveaway. The one that confirmed it was just a campfire story to scare new recruits. But here it was. Undeniably, terrifyingly real.

  “Acid for blood.”

Chapter Text

  Louie awoke with a gasp. The momentary rush of panic hit him, and subsided just as quickly. His first few times, he had woken up screaming. Now, he barely flinched. He thought he opened his eyes, only to realise they already were. It was not his eyes; it was the lights. They were off, and the recovery room was quiet as the grave. He sat up, gently massaging his throat. More from the thought of what had happened than actual discomfort. Every time, he would remember a little more of the process. Perhaps next time, he would be awake for all of it…

  “Doctor Challis?” he called, his voice still weak and dry.

  Silence. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling the gooseflesh texture of his skin. He wasn’t imagining it; it was cold in here. Delta was always a little stuffy, especially on Level 4, but now he was starting to shiver uncontrollably. A power outage, perhaps. He scanned the room, now that his eyes had adjusted to the tiny sliver of available light, and spied a lab coat tossed over the back of a chair. He hopped off the bed, the shock of the cold floor sending a jolt through his body as he padded over to the chair and seized the coat. Several sizes too big, the hem was almost down to the floor. More like a bathrobe than a coat. It must have looked comical, but it was better than nothing.

  “Doctor Challis?” he called again, more forcefully this time. Still, nothing but silence. It didn’t make sense. He should be in pre-op, with half a dozen doctors fussing over him, and at least one of the screws standing guard, just in case. Power outage or not, they would not have just left their prize asset unattended. Something was definitely wrong. Suddenly, he felt rather vulnerable, and a quiet, uneasy thought formed in the back of his mind. It was distant, and muted, but it was there. Some long-forgotten feeling that was now scraping at the edge of his consciousness: fear. He placed his hand on his chest, tracing his scar with his fingers.

  He tried the door, and found it unlocked. The corridor was barely lit, and cold, and there was something else. Delta always had a bleached, sterile scent to it. One he had long since grown accustomed to, but now the air was tinged with a hint of putrid rot. Like roadkill baking in the Louisiana summer sun. He crept along the deserted corridor, the cold metal of the grated floor chilled his bare feet, but something deep inside his gut told him to move quietly. He stopped when he reached the wreck of what had been an internal door. It occurred to him that perhaps someone had escaped, but he dismissed that as an impossibility. Besides, it hadn’t just been kicked in. Rather, it had been smashed in and torn from its hinges, and it folded inwards, towards him. No, something had come in from outside. Something strong. He slipped through, careful not to cut himself on the mangled plastic and sheared metal.

  Ordinarily, his time on Level 4 would have been spent strapped to a gurney, so although he had been here more than a dozen times, he was not overly familiar with the layout. Instead, he followed the path of destruction, retracing the steps of whoever, or whatever, had rampaged through Delta, and it did not take him long to find the security door that led up to Level 3. He had no means to open it, not that it mattered. The massive hatch stood wide open; its locks disabled. Or, rather, destroyed. It did not make any sense. Delta was a fortress, and while they might not have given a damn about him, or Angel, or Babineaux, or any of the other poor lost bastards down here, if there was one thing they did care about, it was security.

  The sound of breaking glass somewhere in the distance made him freeze. It was the first sign of life he had come across since waking, but now he was not so sure that was a positive. It sounded like it was above him, somewhere on L3. He pondered for a moment, considering his options. He looked uneasily over his shoulder, down the dark hallway from which he had come, and shuddered. He would take his chances on 3. Besides, what did he have to lose. He had to find Doctor Yau, or Challis, or Mercer, and he had to find them fast. The clock was ticking.

*

  He slinked along the empty corridor of L3, and continued to follow the sound of crashing lab equipment and breaking glass. Whoever or whatever it was, clearly was not concerned with stealth. Now on 3, he had a better sense of his bearings. The holding cells were on the far side from here, which meant this was Medical. Not the claustrophobic super-max facility that housed Implantation down on 4, the L3 med bay was just that, a med bay, and was almost welcoming in comparison. He followed the noise to a half-open door, and spied the beam of the flashlight as it cast a frantic white circle across the floor. Like a moth, the light drew him closer. Slowly he pressed on the door, only to be immediately betrayed by a loud creak that echoed like a whip crack in the empty darkness of the corridor. A large, shadowy figure froze, and Louie was temporarily blinded the bright light.

  “Timex?” came a human voice, and he was immediately filled with relief. Not only was it human, but with the distinctive accent it was instantly recognisable.

  “Van Der Beek?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” said the big man, turning his flashlight towards the floor.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked. He almost had to suppress a nervous laugh. Asking it out loud made the question seem woefully inadequate for the situation.

  “We’ve got an intruder. A “yautja”,” he explained as he continued to rummage through drawers and cabinets. “Yeah, I’d never heard of it either, but trust me you do not want to meet it.”

  Van Der Beek was right, he had never heard of such a thing. But right now, he had more pressing issues.

  “Bingo,” said Van Der Beek, holding up his prize. Louie thought it looked a bit like a laser scalpel, and it was only now that he could see that his hands were cuffed. Things were making even less and less sense. “Gimme a hand here, would you?” he said, laying his wrists flat on the counter. “Trust that idiot Parker to die without his own goddamn keys on him.”

  Parker was dead? He did not think Van Der Beek would kill him. Not without reason, anyway. Had it been the “yautja”? Louie approached cautiously. He did not dislike the South African, but that did not mean he trusted him either.

  “I ain’t gonna bite,” he said, seeming to sense his apprehension. “Grab the flashlight, and take this,” he held out his hand, confirming it was indeed a laser scalpel. Just cut the chain, and be careful. I like my hands where they are.”

  Shining the torch, he took the scalpel and pressed the cutting tip to the chain. After a few seconds the polished steel began to glow, and then drip, but this was still going to take a few minutes. This was already by far the longest conversation he had ever had with Van Der Beek, or any of the screws for that matter, but so far, the man had been relatively forthcoming. Besides, they had a couple of minutes.

  “Where are we?” he asked quietly.

  “Level 3 Medical.”

  “No, I mean, we’re not on Earth, are we?” He could feel Van Der Beek raise his eyebrows, but he did not dare take his eyes off the chain.

  “Jesus, Timex, you don’t even know where you are?” asked the big man incredulously.

  “I don’t even know what year it is,” he replied, without a hint of sarcasm.

  “Twenty-two thirty-eight. November tenth, or eleventh. We’re in Rayleigh’s Rest. It’s a Wey-Yu research outpost. LV-784, Zeta Reticuli. Brah, how can you not know this?”

  Three years, Louie thought to himself. He could not decide if it had seemed shorter, or longer.

  “I was on Earth. I volunteered off the street for some Weyland-Yutani backed medical trial, and I woke up here,” said Louie flatly. He could feel Van Der Beek studying him, trying to decide how much of his story to believe.

  “So, why did you sign up?” he asked, after a pause.

  “Got it,” said Louie and the chain snapped with an audible ping.

  “Nice work. I’ll get the bracelets later,” said Van Der Beek, rubbing at his wrists, and took the scalpel and flashlight without asking. It seemed the big man did not trust him either. Louie did not protest. He was almost a foot shorter, and not much more than half his bodyweight. A laser scalpel would not have done him much good, even if he had intended to use it.

  “I need to find Doctor Yau,” he said.

  “He’s probably dead, and we will be too if we don’t get the fuck out of here. I think I know where that big bastard is heading, and I don’t want to be here when whatever the hell Frankenstein and co were cooking down on Level 5 gets loose. Shit, they’re probably loose already. Feel free to come with, but I ain’t sticking around,” said Van Der Beek. Louie had never seen him so agitated, but it did not change anything.

  “I can’t,” he said weakly.

  “Suit yourself,” said Van Der Beek, and turned to leave.

  A loud crash caught their attention, Van Der Beek instantly swinging the beam of the torch around to rest on a bent vent covering that had clattered on to the floor. They stared as a wet dripping filled the silence and a translucent, viscous liquid trickled from the hole where the vent had been. A long, raspy hiss emanated from the void as black clawed fingers appeared at the rim, and Louie could only watch as a demonic black shape slithered down from the ceiling, landing on the floor with a heavy thump. The shadow uncoiled, standing to its full height it towered over even Van Der Beek, extending twisted biomechanical limbs and rearing its grotesque phallic-shaped head. Louie instinctively took a step back, and hit the wall, only to realise he had backed up into Van Der Beek’s chest.

  “Don’t…move,” he growled through gritted teeth.

  He stood frozen as the monster glided towards them. Its spindly limbs moving with an unsettling, almost feminine grace. Its black carapace glistening in the beam of the flashlight. It leaned in, its face inches from his, his eyes and throat burned as its acrid breath saturated him. Its bare teeth stuck in a permanent, malevolent grin. It seemed to assess him, by sight or smell he could not tell. He could discern no visible sensory organs at all. The metallic teeth parted, and a wicked set of secondary inner jaws extended menacingly, stopping mere centimetres short of his head. His heart pounded and cold sweat dripped down his back, but he did not dare move, instead keeping his eyes fixated on a spot off to one side, as if to look directly at the creature would send him mad. The nightmare hissed again, and its inner jaws retracted. It turned, tail brushing against his legs as it snaked behind it. The creature turned its eyeless head and took one last brief look at them before it crouched, and with an explosion of movement, rocketed back up into the vent and disappeared. The scrape of its claws on metal growing more faint by the second. Louie let out a long, slow breath. All this time. All this time that is what they had been growing inside of him. Infant, or larval, versions of them anyway. Over and over again. That was what was inside of him right now. He clutched his chest gently as he felt the bottom fall out of his stomach.

  “Fuck me,” cursed Van Der Beek quietly. “Fuck me, I think that was a xenomorph. Jesus Christ, those crazy bliksems were breeding them. We should be dead,” he said with a slight, humourless laugh.

  “It was me,” said Louie.

  “What?”

  “It was me. It didn’t attack because of me,” he said, looking at the floor.

  “What you on about brah?” asked Van Der Beek, regaining his composure.

  “I…I have one inside of me,” he said, as if confessing to some shameful crime.

  “Implantation…” said Van Der Beek, as the pieces fell into place.

  “I need to find Doctor Yau, or one of the other senior surgeons. I need one of them to take it out of me soon, or I’m going to die,” he said meekly.

  “How soon?”

  “Pretty soon,” he said with a whimsy he did not feel. “If I can find some gestacyn, it’ll buy me some time,” he said, allowing himself a glimmer of hope.

  “Gesta-what?” asked Van Der Beek, but something in his voice made Louie uncomfortable. A note of irritation, or impatience.

  “Gestacyn. I know, I think it’s meant to be some kind of joke. It’s a suppressant. It delays the… “birth”. Without it, I’ve got an hour, maybe two, then the embryo is going to chew its way out through my ribcage. It’s happened to others before,” he explained, conscious that his time was already running short.

  “I ain’t going back down there,” he said coldly.

  Louie nodded. He understood, and he hadn’t expected help anyway. It was his problem. A weak “Good luck,” was all he could manage to say, and he headed for the door. If he couldn’t find one of the senior doctors, this was his next best hope. It would mean going back down to 4, and the thought of running into that thing again terrified him, but it wasn’t as if he had much choice. He was almost to the door when the weight of Van Der Beek’s hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

  “Nothing personal, Timex, but I need you,” said Van Der Beek, and his voice had a hardness to it that he had never heard before.

  “Let me go,” he protested. “I don’t have time.”

  “No, you don’t. But until then, apparently, you’re xeno-proof, and as long as you’re standing next to me, it looks like I am, too. You’re my good luck charm,” he said calmly.

  Louie struggled, but it was pointless. The big man’s strength was incredible. “Then you’ve only got your “good luck charm” for an hour,” he spat, trying a different tact.

  “That’s all I’m gonna need,” said Van Der Beek coldly.

  “You’ll never get off the base. You said this was a Wey-Yu outpost. That means there are Colonial Marines here, right? Turn yourself in. They’ll protect you,” he said, trying to bargain.

  “I ain’t going to prison, Timex. Prison’s been trying to get me my entire life, and I ain’t about to give up now. I hand myself in, the old man will slap the cuffs on me and leave me to rot in a cell.”

  A numb despair overtook him as Van Der Beek marched him out into the corridor. It wasn’t happening to him; he was just watching it happen to someone else. Don’t fight back, it just made them hurt you more. Twelve times he had been implanted, and twelve times he had been spared. Twice as many as anyone else, and any one of them could have been his last. Lucky number thirteen, he thought to himself. Of course it was always going to be this one. That really would be the perfect, ironic end to his pathetic life.

  “I’m sorry, Timex,” said Van Der Beek. “But you’re my ticket out of here. I promise when the time comes, I’ll do it myself. Quick, easy, and painless.”

Chapter Text

  The hangar was a sea of barely contained chaos as the first dropship was escorted out towards the landing pad. The howling wind and torrential rain only made matters worse, as half-heard orders were shouted back and forth. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the evacuation order. Not only were panicked and confused civvies getting underfoot, but he could not help but think he had just created one giant larder. He knew from past reports that xenomorphs preferred tight, enclosed spaces. They wouldn’t prance around in the open if given a choice, but this many warm bodies all in one place might be just too tempting a target. Charlie Squad had already called in one confirmed sighting outside of Delta, although, mercifully, Hangar 1 was on the southwest of the base, and not particularly close to either Delta or civilian medical. He hoped it was far enough to give them time. At least there had been no further sightings of that damn yautja.

  “We don’t have enough ships for everyone,” said Heller through gritted teeth as he continued to wave civilians through.

  “They can sit on the floor. We can get close to a hundred if we pack’em in tight enough. The pilots will just have to go easy with the g’s,” said Sanchez, holding on to his cover. 

  “That’s still two trips per dropship,” said Heller.

  It would take an hour to launch all four, and about ninety minutes return trip for each ship. It was going to be a long night.

  “We might have to hold this position until dawn,” he said, knowing that was probably impossible. Massive, with high ceilings and huge doors at either end, and dozens of other access points, “tactically disadvantageous” was an understatement. He took Heller’s silence as tacit agreement. “As soon as Charlie and Gamma squads get back, assign them to the eastern perimeter.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant without question. Based on the numbers estimate Yau had given him, Sanchez doubted they could hold out that long. But he would be damned if he was going to abandon anyone to the xenomorphs. He knew what they did with the people they captured.

  “Colonel,” a breathless Doctor Cotillard spotted him in the crowd and ran towards him. “Colonel, have you seen Marion?”

  “You mean Doctor McTaggart? No, I haven’t seen her. She wasn’t in Medical?” he said, trying to hide his concern. If people were going missing, then it was already worse than he thought.

  “She may have been. I was down in the morgue when, I don’t know, something broke in upstairs, so I hid. One of your Marines found me, told me to head this way,” explained the doctor, struggling to catch his breath.

  If McTaggart had been taken, then that made Cotillard the last senior doctor on the base. The last one he trusted, anyway.

  “Doc, see that dropship on the landing pad?” he said, pointing towards the mass of people pushing their way on to the loading ramp. “I need you on it. You there,” he said to the nearest Marine, “escort this man to the dropship I want him on it right now. Priority passenger.” The Marine silently nodded. “Doc, I need you to set up a receiving hospital at the LZ. Speak to Lieutenant Pryce when you get there, he’s already on board.”

  “This way please, sir,” said the private, who proceeded to force march the doctor to the head of the line. Angry shouts erupted from the crowd as the doctor was pushed to the front of the ramp, several were shoved to the ground as people jostled for position. The sound of distant gunfire echoed over the gale, and screams erupted from the crowd as the throng surged forward, hundreds of people fighting to get on to a dropship that could hold a fraction of their number. Marines struggled to hold them back, clear of the launch pad. Orders to stand back went unheeded. The staccato roar of pulse rifle fire boomed and the screaming crowd ducked as a warning round was fired into the air.

  “Hold your fire, goddammit! That’s an order,” he barked into his mic. “The next Marine to discharge his weapon will wish they’d been left to the xenomorphs!”

  “Colonel, this is Dropship One,” his headset squawked in his ear. “Sir, we’re at capacity. Control is giving us the all clear, but I need your verbal authorisation to launch.”

  “Confirmed. Launch, and godspeed Dropship One,” he answered, regaining his composure.

  The crowd backed away from the pad as the engines roared to life, quickly replaced by a high-pitched scream as they reached full throttle, and the dropship began to rise. Its landing gear retracting as it climbed into the black clouds of the night sky, buffeted by the storm the pilot expertly held it steady, until barely an outline of the hull was visible except for the blinking red and green of the landing lights.

  “Dropship One is away,” he spoke into his mic. “Get Number Two rolled out I want it loaded and in the air in ten minutes. Double-”

  From some far-off point in the distance, a bolt of blue-white plasma shot almost vertically into the air, covering the distance in a fraction of a second and slamming into Dropship One’s starboard intake. He could only watch in horror as the ship exploded in a massive yellow-orange fireball that momentarily turned the sky brighter than the day, forcing him to shield his eyes. A deafening boom thundered across the base and a wave of intense heat washed over him. Chunks of fiery mangled wreckage plummeted a thousand feet to the ground, smashing into the launch pad. People fled as pieces of flaming metal and burning jet fuel rained down on them. A massive section of tailfin landed close to the hangar, instantly crushing several people, including a Marine. Others burst into flames as they were soaked with burning liquid, screaming as the flailed helplessly. A few brave individuals and Marines tried to help put out the flames. The crowd erupted into chaos. All semblance of order now lost. Screams and cries drowned out orders. People were trampled as the throng pushed backwards away from the pad, swallowing the Marines with sheer weight of numbers. The crack of a single shot reverberated through the air, and the crowd fell silent. The only sound came from the patter of rain on the metal roof and the crackle of the burning fire. Even the wind seemed to go quiet. The smoke emanated from the barrel of the massive revolver Sanchez held aimed at the sky, before he calmly reholstered the weapon.

  “Perimeter units, maintain your positions!” he barked into his mic, before addressing the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please allow my Marines to escort you to safety. Walk, don’t run. Assist the injured if you can, but only if you can do so without risking yourself. Sergeant Heller, get these civilians to the Marine barracks. We’re aborting the evac and falling back to Marine HQ.”

*

  He was outside. An inexplicable wave of peace washed over him as he closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the rain on his skin. Above, the black sky was a mosaic of clouds. The air was bitingly cold, but fresh. Although the wind was almost strong enough to knock him off his feet, even Van Der Beek shielded his face as they marched through the mud that formed a “street” between the buildings, he did not care. He was outside. If he was going to die, at least it would not be in that place.

  A flash caught his eye, and a fireball appeared in the sky like a second sun. It must have been almost a kilometre away, and several hundred metres in the air, but he felt the heat of the blast as the deep, rumbling boom shook the ground. Louie watched in stunned silence as the burning wreck of dropship plummeted towards the ground. Was it an evac ship? How many people had been on it? Had Doctor Yau been on it? He felt a pang of guilt about the last part, and silently condemned himself for the selfish thought. He glanced at Van Der Beek, who stood transfixed as whatever hopes he had of leaving were dashed. There was no mistaking it. It hadn’t been an accident. The ship had been shot down.

  “I guess we’re not going anywhere,” he said quietly. Van Der Beek didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. He just continued to stare at the orange glow that the flaming wreckage was now casting on the low clouds. He glanced again, and the merc still didn’t react. Unbidden, a thought formed at the edge of his consciousness, prompted by some suppressed instinct. A will he had long since forgotten he even had; a will to survive.

  “It looks like you are going to need me a little longer,” he said cautiously, hesitating a little, waiting to judge the reaction. The big man turned to him, uncomprehending, still too shocked to speak. “If I die, you die.”

  The merc’s face hardened. “Are you threatening me, little man?”

  Louie felt his stomach churn, but he stood firm, using every ounce of strength he could muster. For the first time in a long time, he had something else, something besides will. He had leverage.

  “No, but I can’t be your “good luck charm” if I’m dead. It’ll only be a matter of time before they find you.” He paused, allowing him a moment to process what he was saying. The merc was pissed, that was obvious. His eyes burned with rage at this unexpected defiance. Fists clenched, he stared at Louie, but did not strike him.

 “If you want to keep me around, I need that gestacyn. Without it, I’m fucked. Without me, you’re fucked,” he said pointedly, his confidence growing. His heart raced, and a tense moment passed between them as Louie held his gaze, and behind the anger he could see the cogs turning. See the odds being calculated, before the big man relaxed ever so slightly.

  “Where?” muttered Van Der Beek.

  “Delta. Level 3 or 4. I don’t know exactly. Believe me, I don’t want to go back down there any more than you do.” Probably a lot less, he thought to himself. Van Der Beek shot him a dirty look. His icy blue eyes seemed to pierce right through him, and he felt a chill that was nothing to do with the cold.

  “Lead on,” he said, his tone thick with mock deference.

  “We need to hurry,” said Louie. “I just felt it move.”

Chapter Text

  The six men gathered around the tactical map display that dominated the centre of the control room, their faces illuminated by the soft white glow. The conspicuous absence of certain faces made the meeting feel all the more unsettling, and Sanchez was sure the others felt it too. Heller dialled in and the map expanded to give a detailed view of their wing of the base. The wing which was now dangerously overcrowded with civilians. They didn’t have enough beds for everyone. With over four hundred people crammed in, they barely even had the floor space. But right now, there were more urgent problems.

  “How many of those robot sentries do we have?” asked Sanchez.

  “Eight,” confirmed the quartermaster.

  That was better than he had hoped, those things packed a punch. “Good. East Corridor connecting us to the rest of the base is too wide to barricade effectively. That’s our most obvious ingress point, and it isn’t going to take them long to figure that out. I want four sentries guarding that corridor. What’s the ammo capacity on those things?”

  “Two thousand rounds each.”

  “We’ll have to hope it’s enough. Get on that as soon as we’re finished here, and por el amor de Dios make damn sure they are set to “selective fire”. I don’t want some innocent lost civilian we’ve left stranded out there getting blown away just for knocking on the door,” he ordered. As much as it pained him, anyone who had not made it to Hangar 1 would have to make their own way here. He simply did not have the manpower to do a base wide sweep. Everyone nodded in agreement. They all understood, and no one had to say it.

  “Put another pair outside the garage covering the north and south approaches. I don’t want them coming up under our feet. But just lock the door, don’t seal it. We might need to leave here in a hurry. Put the last two here,” he said, tapping his finger on the schematic. “Basement access corridor. Two sentries in there, and seal the door behind them. Barricade the stairwells with heavy equipment, anything we can spare.”

  “Sir,” Jennings, who had been quiet so far, chimed in. “The one we saw in Medical was able to squeeze through a vent shaft I don’t think I’d fit through in my armour. No idea how it managed it, but it did. Lightning quick, too. We need to look at unorthodox points of entry.”

  The kid was smart, Sanchez thought to himself.

  “Agreed,” added Heller.

  Sanchez nodded. “I want four teams. Sergeant Heller, you have oversight on this. Take copies of these plans and you go deck by deck, room by room and you seal every airshaft, maintenance access point, electrical junction, sub-basement and water drainage point. Everything. If you can fit your head in it, I want it sealed tighter than an airlock. Once you are done, swap with another team and check all of their work, and they check yours. We can’t afford to let one of those bastards in here.”

  More nods of agreement. They had a plan now. A mission.

  “Some of the civilians have tech skills. Put them to work. Mechanics, engineers, anyone who knows how to do a decent weld. Anyone with a strong back can help build the barricades, and move fast. We don’t have much time. If this place isn’t buttoned up tighter than your date on prom night within the next two hours, you’ll find me and the xenos have something in common. Dismissed.”

  Thirteen days, he thought to himself. They only had to hold out for thirteen days. By now, the USCSS Argos would have received their distress call, and would be heading towards LV-784 at top speed. It would be crowded, and they would not have enough cryo-beds, but it would be able to get everyone off world. Just thirteen days. He had faced worse odds. He looked up to see Sergeant Heller, who had not left with the others.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Give us the room,” ordered Heller, and the half dozen operators dutifully filed out and closed the door without a word.

  “There were nineteen Marines onboard that ship, sir,” said Heller, with a note of accusation.

  “I’m aware of that,” said Sanchez, unsure where this was going. His tone was borderline insubordinate, but the sergeant had never been anything other than an excellent NCO. That earned him some leeway.

  “Sir, at the briefing you assured us that the yautja only hunted armed targets. It just shot down a dropship full of civilians,” said Heller. His tone was measured, but Sanchez could see the restrained anger in his face.

  “I know,” he said with a sigh. “This one isn’t playing by the usual rules. I don’t even think shooting down the dropship was a hunt. I think it was a message. “No one leaves”. They’re brutal, but there’s no precedent for anything like this.”

  The big man did not speak, but in the glow of the table display Sanchez could see his jaw tightening.

  “Speak your mind, Sergeant.”

  Heller hesitated. “Is that an order, sir?” he asked, speaking through tight lips. Sanchez stared at him for a moment, but the big man did not avert his hard stare.

  “Yes, it is.”

  The sergeant straightened to attention, towering over him. “With respect, sir. We should never have laid down arms. We should have hunted that fucker down the moment it showed up.”

  “You’re no match for it, Sergeant,” he said pointedly. “You saw what it did to Sloan’s men. You know what it’s capable of.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I think you’re letting your personal feelings influence your judgement,” growled Heller, his fists clenched.

  “Are you calling me a coward, Sergeant Heller?” Sanchez bristled.

  “Sir, as Senior NCOIC it is my duty to represent the enlisted personnel, almost forty of whom are now either confirmed dead, or MIA,” argued Heller.

  Sanchez said nothing. Did he have a point? Had he made the wrong call? In the space of a couple of hours, he had lost two junior officers, and almost half of the enlisted personnel of Rayleigh’s Rest. He had lost men under his command before, it came with the job, but never like this.

  “Sir,” said Heller, his voice softening. “You’re no coward. You’re a fine officer. But something about this yautja has you spooked.”

  Sanchez relented, and let out a long sigh as he leaned both hands on the table. “Do you remember the Fourth Indo-Pacific War?” he asked quietly.

  “A bit before my time, sir,” said the sergeant. Sanchez gave a small, mirthless laugh. He really was getting old.

  “I was nineteen at the time. Just a wet-behind-the-ears private barely out of Basic. We were on a recon mission in Thailand. It was supposed to be a simple in-and-out. Instead, we encountered one of his kind,” he said, rubbing his forearm without thinking. “I was the sole survivor, and I got damned lucky. I’ve seen up close what they can do. Trust me, if you go toe to toe with one of these things, you die.”

  A stillness settled over the room. Heller kept his face a mask of military professionalism, and Sanchez could not tell if the sergeant now agreed with him, or if he really did consider him a coward. A knock at the door almost startled him, shattering the tense silence. He was grateful for the interruption.

  “Come in,” he hollered.

  It was Nyugen. The woman was perhaps ten years younger than he was, and six inches shorter, but she had always carried herself with a fierceness and authority that made her formidable. Especially for a civilian. Now, she looked smaller. Older. Her face ashen as she looked at the floor, and Sanchez saw streaks of grey in her jet-black hair that he had never noticed before. She approached the two men with her arms folded protectively around herself, and Watson filed in behind her.

  “Yes, Ms Nyugen? What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

  “Colonel, we’ve done a headcount. We don’t know exactly how many died in the…” she trailed off, her voice cracking. “Even with that, we’re still missing at least forty people. Possibly fifty.”

  His heart sank. That was worse than he had estimated. Much worse. By the time the Argos reached them, there might be no one left.

  “And we are going to get them back,” he assured her. “I will be briefing my Marines in two hours. I’d like you both to attend. In the meantime, please help however you can.”

  Nyugen nodded without looking up, and left without another word. Watson remained, his face that same perpetual bland expression.

  “Mr Watson?” he asked.

  “Colonel, I would like to be involved in any rescue effort,” said Watson.

  “Out of the question. You’re a civilian,” said Sanchez flatly.

  “Sir, as an artificial person, I am bound by my core programming. The First Law of Robotics states that no artificial person may harm a human being or, through omission of action, allow a human being to come to harm. I have to help them, with or without you. However, cooperation ensures the highest probability of success,” said Watson, with a degree of earnestness that surprised Sanchez.

  “Where was that “First Law” when a hundred people were killed in the crash?” snorted Heller.

  “They were already dead. The First Law does not apply to non-recoverable personnel,” said Watson in a friendly tone, seemingly oblivious to the sergeant’s sarcasm. Heller stiffened as his eyes narrowed, but Sanchez held up his hand.

  “Are you trained?” he asked.

  “As an off-world model, I am programmed with the USCM Uniform Regulations, a full knowledge of tactics and procedures, as well as a detailed understanding of weapons handling and combat,” Watson explained without ego. “As per regulation, and Weyland-Yutani’s contract with the USCM, in an emergency situation we are under martial law. I am technically under your command, sir.”

  Sanchez considered it. He had never fully trusted synthetics. A prejudice that he could not shake, despite having worked alongside many of them over the years. It was not logical, he knew that. The First Law meant they could not hurt people, and their artificial nature meant they followed orders to the letter unquestioningly, but something about just that never did sit right with him. Their cold, unfeeling logic and programmed faux civility. The bland non-threatening smile that never did quite reach the eyes. But, right now, lives were on the line, and he needed all the help he could get.

  “Very well, welcome to the Colonial Marine Corps, Private Watson. Sergeant Heller will assign you to a squad. First, we get this place locked down, then we are going to get our people back.”

*

  His heart pounded in his ears as he frantically searched through drawers and cabinets, gripping his flashlight between his teeth, ignoring the pain in his jaw, only to come up empty handed. He could feel the squirming in his chest, his own adrenaline feeding the thing inside him, hastening the birth. Perhaps it was already too late. Even Van Der Beek pitched in, but in the cold darkness of Level 3, it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them, and progress was painfully slow. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not as if he had anything to live for anyway. He had never been a fighter, so why fight this? Just...let go. Van Der Beek would do it for him. He wouldn’t feel anything…

  But he couldn’t do it. Not now. Some tiny, dormant spark within him had become a raging fire. A deep, primal instinct. Survival, at any cost.

  “Hey,” hollered Van Der Beek. He stood in front of a doorway, and as Louie drew closer, the beam of his flashlight swept over the words “Medicine Storage”. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Not for him.

  “Locked,” he said, and he felt his chances of survival slipping away. Van Der Beek easily pushed him aside, squared his shoulders, and kicked the door in with one massive swing of his boot. The frame shattered and the crash echoed like a gunshot in the unnatural stillness. It was sure to draw attention. He stepped aside as Louie brought up the flashlight, and the beam illuminated floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with enough pharmaceuticals to supply a mid-sized hospital.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Louie swore under his breath, but a hard shove in the back propelled him forward.

  “Start looking,” snapped Van Der Beek.

  Together, they began to tear through box after box, shelf after shelf. Medications he had never heard of, and whose purpose he could only guess at. Reading labels that he could not even begin to pronounce. It wasn’t helped by the fact that these are not over the counter meds, and so didn’t have branded packaging. This shit all looked the same.

  Then he saw it. A perfectly neat little pile of yellow rectangular prism shaped boxes, each no larger than his little finger. A goldmine. Enough to last him a year, he estimated. Longer, if he paced himself. He picked one up, twirling it lovingly between his fingers, and the bright red lettering “MEDICAL MORPHINE” printed on the side. He was freezing, the cold was seeping into his bones now, and with just one of these, he wouldn’t have to feel cold any more. He could take just one, just to take the edge off. Just one…

  A hard smack across the back of his head abruptly brought him back to his senses.

  “Snap out of it, Timex,” barked Van Der Beek. “I said is this it?”

  He looked down to see Van Der Beek holding out an innocuous looking amber pharmacy vial. He took it and held it up to his flashlight. An unpronounceable scientific name took up most of the label, but beside that in quotations, the word “Gestacyn”. He immediately popped two and swallowed hard. At least he knew the correct dose. He gripped the shelf for balance as the room spun, feeling lightheaded as he forced himself to slow his breathing. He had not realised he had been hyperventilating.

  “Did it work?” asked Van Der Beek.

  “I think so,” he said, speaking between slow, deliberate breaths. “There is a point of no return. Where even gestacyn won’t work. It happened to one of us before. But I can feel it settling down. I think we just caught it in time. I just…I just need a minute.”

  Van Der Beek did not look happy, but he did not press him either. The room stopped spinning as his heart stopped thumping in his chest, and slowly but surely the world began to reorient itself. He took one more deep breath and exhaled slowly. The gestacyn was working.

  “Feeling a little tempted there, eh?” said Van Der Beek.

  Louie had never been the kind of person to ask “what?” when he had understood perfectly well. “Why, you want it all for yourself?” he asked, and immediately regretted it. His nerves were frayed. The adrenaline comedown had him jumpy, impulsive. He had to stop antagonising the big man. Van Der Beek needed him alive. That didn’t mean he needed him to have all of his teeth.

  Van Der Beek shot him a disgusted, contemptuous look. “I never touch that shit,” he said with a shake of the head. “So, that’s how they got you, huh?”

  Louie nodded. “Yeah, that’s how they got me. That’s how they got all of us. We’re all addicts. I signed up for some Weyland-Yutani medical trial. I didn’t care what it was, I just wanted the drugs. Either they would supply them, or I could steal them. There was no medical trial, obviously. They “took some blood samples”, I blacked out, and I woke up here.”

  “Come on, Timex. It’s always sketchy with Wey-Yu, but this? I don’t buy it. They start disappearing people, someone is going to notice,” said Van Der Beek.

  “Why do you think they targeted us? A few homeless addicts disappear from cities all across the world, and the world carries on. What’s one more missing junkie?” said Louie. Van Der Beek didn’t say anything, but he could tell this time, he believed him.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?” said Van Der Beek, somewhat defensively.

  “You already said it wasn’t drugs. So, what brought you here?”

  “What’s it to you?” said the South African. It wasn’t a question, and the menacing tone had crept back into his voice.

  “Just making conversation,” Louie added quickly.

  “Let’s get one thing straight here, Timex. We’re not friends. The only reason you don’t have a hole in your chest, or your head, is because I need you alive,” Van Der Beek growled. “So, drop it.”

  Louie looked at his feet. It had been stupid of him to try to make conversation. Van Der Beek was one of the screws. You didn’t antagonise the screws, that was the rule. The more you pushed back, the more they hurt you, and not just here. Everywhere.

  “How long does that stuff last?” asked Van Der Beek, changing the subject.

  “Two capsules every six hours,” he said, without looking up. Van Der Beek did not speak again, and Louie decided to chance a question. “How much is there?”

  Van Der Beek held out his hand. Three pill bottles total. He did some quick mental arithmetic and factored in the dose he had just taken. Two weeks’ worth, barely. He could risk stretching out the time between doses to seven hours, which was dangerous, but it would buy him an extra day. He reached out to take them, but Van Der Beek pulled his hand back, pocketing the vials.

  “I’ll hold on to these,” he said, his tone clipped. “Time to get the hell out of here. You good?”

  “For now,” said Louie.

  “You sure you don’t want one for the road?” the big man asked sarcastically, and nodded at Louie’s side. He raised his hand and realised he was still holding the small yellow box. A single syrette of morphine. Just one, and he wouldn’t feel cold any more. He wouldn’t feel scared any more. He wouldn’t have to worry about xenomorphs, or yautjas, or the time bomb still ticking in his chest. At least, not for a while. He looked up, locking eyes with the big man. A tense moment passed, then two.

  “No,” he said, “I’m good.” Despite every screaming fibre of his body trying to stop him, he dropped the syrette to the floor.

Chapter Text

  He stood at his office window, staring out at the bleak, grey landscape. Heller had reported the wing was now locked down tighter than a drum, and they had done so in record time. Even the civilians had pitched in however they could. Every Marine under his command had given their all, and now he had to ask even more of them. He had to steel himself for what had to be done. The storm had abated, and the weak sun of LV-784 struggled to break the deep grey of the perpetual cloud cover. In the distance, the odd shaped semi-cone of the atmosphere processor that towered hundreds of metres towards the sky was barely visible through the thick fog that had descended over the outpost. With the press of a button, the heavy blast shield descended with a shudder, sealing them in. Thirteen days. He took a breath, straightening his shirt, and headed for the briefing.

*

  “Commander on deck,” barked Heller as he entered the room, and every Marine snapped to attention with a near audible whipcrack. Nyugen and Yau nodded in acknowledgement, and he was relieved to see Doctor McTaggart. She looked haggard, but not worse for wear. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sloan, leaning his back against the wall, watching. What was he doing here? They didn’t have access to the brig to throw him and his mercs in, but that didn’t mean they were free to walk around either. He would deal with him later.

  “As you were,” he ordered, taking his place on the small stage at the head of the room. He took a moment before speaking again. “I know these last few hours have been exhausting, and we’ve lost people. Good people. Civilians and Marines. Colleagues, friends, and believe me when I say I feel every single one of those losses. Now, some of you may have noticed that even with the loss of Lieutenant Pryce and Bravo Squad, we’re still a squad short. Lieutenant Guitierrez and Alpha are officially MIA. Ms Nyugen from Administration has also informed me that a headcount of civilian survivors is coming up close to fifty short. But we are Colonial Marines. That means we do not leave our people behind, and I have a pretty good idea where they are. We are going to get them back.”

  A rustle of approval rippled through the crowd, and he allowed them a moment to process.

  “Most of you will already know Doctor Yau. For those of you who don’t, he is Head of Research for Delta. Doctor, if you would, please tell my Marines everything that you told me.” He had told the doc about the briefing, but he still made sure to give him a look at that made it clear in no uncertain terms, this was not a request. He stepped aside to make way as the doctor took centre stage, and he exchanged a knowing glance with Heller, who stood flanking the doctor like a bodyguard. The sergeant gave him the slightest of nods. Things were about to get tense.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” said the doctor, clearing his throat and looking at the floor rather than the crowd. “Six years ago, we established this outpost, and the maximum-security Delta facility, in order to study Species XX121. You all more likely know it as “the xenomorph”.

  A tense silence descended over the gathered crowd. Sanchez could see the hostile glares and tightened jawlines in the faces of every Marine. They wanted to tear him apart, and if not for the presence of Heller and himself, they would have.

  “Five hours ago,” Yau continued, seemingly aware of the hostility as he stammered through his prepared lines, “Delta suffered a catastrophic containment failure.”

  “You ain’t half kidding, chief,” muttered a young private under his breath.

  “You secure that, Private Lowry. Right now,” snapped Heller, and the private meekly lowered his gaze.

  Yau shifted uncomfortably before continuing. “We estimate their numbers at around two hundred. Population control is, was, one of our security protocols. We artificially suppressed their lifecycle in order to prevent the emergence of a queen. The eggs we used were supplied to us in sealed containers and kept in cryo-storage. Even I don’t know how or where Weyland-Yutani procured them.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Jennings, “but if you’re the one breeding them, how can you not know exactly how many you have?”

  “Without a central regulating authority, they can be unpredictable. Feral, even. They kill each other sometimes,” explained Yau.

  “The good news,” said Sanchez as he stepped forward, reasserting control, “is that this means there is a good chance most if not all of our people are still alive. Instinct is driving them to collect live hosts, but they have no means of impregnating them. It’s not too late. Now, most of the Delta facility is underground, and Doctor Yau informs me that the main hive is on Level 5. That’s where the xenos are, and that’s where our people will be.” Looking out at the faces gathered in front of him he could see the looks subtly change from anger to cautious optimism. 

  “I won’t order you to do this. Make no mistake this will probably be the most dangerous mission you’ve ever undertaken, and not all of us will make it back. Anyone who does not wish to participate will not face any action, official or otherwise. I will not stand for it. Anyone wishing to volunteer, please take one step forward.” Almost in unison, every Marine in the room took one step forward, and an indescribable swell of pride welled up within him. “It is a privilege to serve with you all,” he said proudly. “Sergeant Heller will assign teams. Be ready to move in five minutes. Dismissed.”

  He noticed the slightest hint of a smile on Nyugen’s lips as she was gently escorted out of the room along with the rest of the Marines. Just sit tight, he thought to himself. We are getting them back.

  “Sir, I volunteer to lead the rescue mission,” said Heller.

  Of course he would, thought Sanchez. “Not this time, Sergeant. They’re my responsibility. I’ll take the lead on this one. I want three squads. Two with me, one stays here to hold the fort.”

  The big man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “If we don’t come back,” he said quietly, “don’t come after us. The Argos will be here in thirteen days. You hold out to until then, and you get these people out. That’s an order.” The sergeant looked as if he was about to object, but Sanchez had made his mind up, and they both knew it.

  “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, and left.

  That had gone better than he had hoped. They hadn’t murdered Yau, and two squads of Marines against two hundred xenomorphs was better odds than he had banked on. If they could somehow bottleneck them, force them into kill zone, it could be done.

  “Quite the rousing speech there, Colonel,” said Sloan as he slinked off the wall. Sanchez had forgotten about him, and he certainly did not have the time or patience to deal with him now.

  “What do you want, Sloan?” he growled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s not about what I want, it’s about what I can give you,” he said, his usual demeanour having returned.

  “Get to the point,” he snapped.

  “Guns. I can give you guns, and not those shitty standard issue pulse rifles your jarheads use. I mean the real deal. Serious firepower,” said Sloan.

  “Where?”

  Sloan gave a thin, predatory smile. “Armoury. Delta Level 2. I can give you my access code.”

  “No deal.”

  “Come on, Colonel. You’re completely reliant on robotic sentries. How much can you trust those really? One glitch, and you’re up to your ass in xenos,” pressed Sloan.

  He hated to admit it, but he did have a point. If they somehow got passed the sentries, he wasn’t sure they had enough firepower to hold off a full-blown assault.

  “I know you’ve been trying to requisition more formidable weaponry for your Marines. Benefits of the private sector, I don’t need to go through channels. I can give you everything you wanted, and more,” said Sloan, trying a different tact.

  Sanchez raised an eyebrow. Just how the hell did he know about that? It certainly raised some damn pertinent questions about security.

  “Sloan, all I need to do is give the order and I can have a half-dozen Marines drag you outside, and shoot you. You’re in no position to bargain,” said Sanchez.

  Sloan was unperturbed. “We both know that’s not your style, Colonel. So, let’s make a deal. Access to my armoury, and in exchange I want immunity for me and my men, and we want our guns back”

  Sanchez almost laughed. “I don’t have that kind of authority, and even if I did, why would I?”

  Sloan’s grin flickered out as he dropped the salesman persona. “Look around. You don’t have a choice,” he said, and met Sanchez’s hard stare with cold, narrowed eyes.

  “I’ll speak to my superiors on your behalf. It’s the best I can do,” said Sanchez.

  “And my men?”

  “Them too.”

  “What about our guns?” pressed Sloan.

  “No,” snapped Sanchez. “I give you my word I’ll testify in your defence but you’re still under arrest. I catch you or any of your men trying to access firearms, “style” or not, I’ll have them shot.”

  Sloan gave him a long, hard look. Sanchez could see he wanted to argue more. Push for a better deal, but this was the best he was going to get, and he knew it.

  “Deal,” said Sloan, and he turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” said Sanchez, “and this is non-negotiable.” Sloan stopped in his tracks, turning back only slightly. Sanchez waited, allowing the silence between them to stretch out just a heartbeat longer than necessary. “You come with us.”

*

  The air crackled with anxious energy as magazines were slammed home, and the Marines traded jokes and boasts. Jennings checked his ammo counter and confirmed a full mag, before stuffing three more into his belt. Four of the Marines were smartgun operators, the long weapons harnessed to their bodies. They were using the new A7’s. Heavy firepower. This wasn’t just a rescue mission. This was a war. The only way they were walking out of there was if they exterminated every last one of those alien bastards.

  “Commander on deck,” barked a Marine, and the room snapped to attention. He watched as the colonel strode in, followed closely by Director Sloan and one of his goons, and he recognised him instantly. It was Morse. They had given each other a wide berth since the incident in the cafeteria, but he knew Morse had never let it go.

  “Carry on,” ordered the colonel, who busied himself with donning his armour. The man must have been in his mid-sixties, but age did not seem to slow him down as he slipped into his battle gear with practiced ease, and handled a pulse rifle with equally expert familiarity. Sloan did the same, although not with the same finesse. Had the colonel ordered him to come along?

  “You look nervous, soldier boy,” came the voice from behind.

  He turned around, and was unsurprised to see Morse. He had borrowed some Marine armour, and was holding a pulse rifle, but there was no mistaking him for a Marine.

  “Not at all,” said Jennings. “Just itching for a little payback.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Morse with a razor-sharp glare, allowing the double meaning to hang in the air. The merc took one step towards him, closing the distance. Jennings tensed, but was careful not to let it show. He was not an especially tall man, but he was still a few inches taller than Morse, and he knew the merc felt it. “I hope there’s no hard feelings?” Morse said quietly, his voice cutting through the din like a knife.

  “None at all. I won,” said Jennings with a smirk, and he patted Morse on the shoulder before turning his back. He could feel Morse’s presence like a weight pressing against him, his eyes burning through the back of his helmet. Had they been alone, Morse would have unloaded a magazine into his back. But in a room of thirty armed Marines, he was not going to do anything, and after a few seconds even over the din he could hear Morse slink off to a corner away from the rest. He was going to need to keep an eye on him.

  The colonel had almost finished with equipping his gear when he noticed his sidearm. Most officers carried one, but this was not standard issue. In fact, it looked like an antique. An old-fashioned six-shooter revolver. He had never even seen one outside of a museum.

  “Is that a late twentieth century Colt Python, sir?” he asked, and immediately chided himself for speaking out of turn. But the old man seemed pleasantly surprised.

  “Good eye, Corporal,” said the colonel. “You’re close. Colt Anaconda. Six-inch barrel, forty-four Magnum variant,” he said with pride as he drew the revolver, and handed it over to Jennings. He accepted it carefully. There was no doubt the weapon was loaded.

  “Dinosaur stopper,” said Jennings with a whistle. “This must have cost a fortune.”

  The colonel smiled. “It’s a replica. I had it made when I was twenty. Still, it cost me six months’ salary as a Lance Corporal.”

  Replica or not, it was still a thing of beauty. It was heavier than he expected. Solid, sturdy. The stainless-steel barrel was well polished, and the grip was made with real wood. The initials D.A were carved into the grip in ornate lettering. A previous owner? But the colonel had said it was custom made.

  “Quite a weapon, sir,” he said, handing it back. “But, why not use a standard issue side arm?”

  “Something an old CO of mine used to say. He hated tech. Considered it all “fancy toys”. Always insisted old ways were the best ways,” said the colonel as he reholstered the weapon and slammed home a magazine into his pulse rifle. “Let’s move.”

  “Ten hut!” he hollered, and Jennings along every Marine in the room snapped to attention. “Get on the ready line!” ordered the colonel, and in seconds they formed two neat rows along the wall.

  “What are you?” he demanded as he stalked back and forth, inspecting each Marine in the formation.

  “Lean and mean,” chanted the Marines.

  “Bullshit, I didn’t hear you. Sound off,” demanded the colonel.

  “Lean and mean!” they repeated, more forcefully this time.

  “Goddamn right you are,” he growled. “Corporal Jennings?”

  “Sir!” shouted Jennings.

  “You have Alpha Squad. We’re taking the APCs. I want you in the lead vehicle. Sergeant Williams? You have Bravo Squad. Second vehicle, watch our ass. We’re heading towards the south wall of the Delta Wing. The yautja was kind enough to leave an entrance, so that’s our way in. Move out!”

*

  The APC door slid open and the cold air slapped Sanchez in the face. His boots hit the ground with a splash as he landed in the thick, waterlogged mud. He had not done this in a long time. Behind him, Alpha Squad spread out to secure the area as the second APC pulled up behind the first. In front of him, the gaping hole in the south wall beckoned. Jesus, he thought himself. The wall had not just been blown open. It looked like it had been vaporised. The outer rim of the hole was charred, and melted plastcrete had hardened into jagged, twisted chunks. No lights were on inside, and nothing moved. Just an empty, black maw.

  “Mic check,” he ordered. “All units, I want open comms at all times. Doctor Yau, are you receiving?”

  “Feed from your helmet cams is coming through nice and clear, Colonel,” the doctor’s voice buzzed in his ear.

  “Area is secure, sir,” said Jennings.

  He nodded. “Three Marines from each squad stay with the APCs. Keep the engines running and be prepared to receive casualties, and keep those damn turret guns on a swivel. Remember, the xenos aren’t the only thing out here.”

  “Private,” he said, turning towards a smartgunner. “Take point.”

  The private nodded and stepped through the hole, flanked by two of his squad mates. The rest of Alpha Squad filed in behind. He placed a firm hand on Sloan’s shoulder as the merc walked past, and covered his mic with his free hand.

  “I’m watching you. Your boy, too,” he growled as he leaned in close, dropping his voice to barely more than a whisper. “You try anything, anything at all, I will put you down.”

*

  The faint whistle of the wind was the only sound in the eerie stillness of the dark corridor. The weak light of their shoulder lamps highlighting their breath as it hung in the air, reflecting off the faint white patches of frost that had begun to creep up the walls.

  “Use your motion trackers,” ordered Sanchez.

  Jennings unstrapped the portable device from his shoulder while he kept his carbine at the ready. The rhythmic blip echoed unnaturally loud in the narrow confines of the corridor. In such a tight space, the tracker would be able to pick up on a bee at fifteen metres.

  “Nothing,” said Jennings, keeping his voice low. “Not a goddamn thing.”

  “We move. Slow and steady,” said Sanchez quietly. “Doctor Yau, where to from here?”

  Jenning’s headset buzzed in his ear. “Straight ahead. You’ll find the L2 stairwell.”

  “Copy that,” said the colonel. “Move up.”

  Sure enough, they quickly found the L2 security door sitting wide open, its mechanism destroyed, the heavy durasteel hatch now permanently stuck in place. They descended the stairs slowly, and Jennings silently cursed his boots for clanking on the metal steps, swinging around to check beneath the stairwell. A perfect spot for an ambush. But it was clear. No claws, no gnashing teeth, no shrieking beast. Just shadows.

  “Check your corners,” he ordered. “These things can come at you from anywhere.”

*

Level 2 felt larger; its corridors even more labyrinthine than the floor above.

  “Which way to the Armory?” asked Sanchez.

  “Right,” whispered Sloan.

  “Bravo, take the left path. You find anything, sound off, and take Morse with you,” ordered Sanchez, and Jennings caught Morse giving him a sharp look. Better luck next time, punk, he thought to himself.

  “That wasn’t part of our deal,” snapped Sloan, but the colonel ignored him.

  “Jennings, lead the way,” he ordered.

  A short walk then they rounded the corner, and there it was. The heavy door with the words “Armory” and “Restricted” stencilled in bold black and red letting. Sloan pushed past him and punched a code into the keypad. The door slid open with a rush of air, and the tracker momentarily pinged before settling back into its regular rhythm. Inside, racks of weapons gleamed under the red emergency lights. All top of the line. Plasma rifles, auto-shotguns, heavy sniper rifles, and heavy flamethrowers. The rest, he had no idea.

  “Quite the arsenal,” he muttered.

  “As promised, Colonel” said Sloan, his tone clipped.

  “We’re bringing this stuff with us, sir?” asked Jennings.

  “No, leave it,” ordered Sanchez. “We’re not going into battle with untested weapons. We’ll come back for all of it on the way out.”

  The colonel was right. The plasma rifle would be a lot more formidable than his carbine, but all the firepower in the world would not save you if it failed at the fatal moment…

  “Colonel,” Sergeant Williams’ voice cracked over the headset. “We’ve got a body here, sir. A Doctor Mercer. Had to ID him from his nametag, on account of his head being missing.”

  “XX121 doesn’t do that,” chimed Yau. He didn’t sound particularly upset about his colleague. “They will take you alive if they can.”

  “It wasn’t a xenomorph,” said Sanchez. “Acknowledged, Sergeant. Continue your sweep. We’ll rejoin you at the L3 stairwell.” He turned to face the team. “Next floor.”

*

  Level 3 was freezing. Jennings could feel the cold seep into flesh, all the way to the bone. For a moment, he envied Watson. The synthetic had opted to stick with his civilian coveralls, insisting that he did not need armour, that it “restricted his functionality”, and did not seem remotely bothered by the cold.

  “It’s like an icebox down here, Doctor. Is there a reason it’s this cold?” he asked.

  “LV-784 is not geologically active. With the power off, the surrounding rock is conducting heat away faster than the air,” explained Yau.

  “Look on the bright side, maybe the xenos have all froze to death,” quipped Lowry.

  “So will our people,” growled Jennings, and Lowry lowered his head in embarrassment. Jennings sighed. At least the kid had enough sense to cover his mic before cracking jokes on an open comm. Jennings placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Just stay frosty,” he said with a smirk. Lowry rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, but still squared his shoulders before pressing on.

  Yeah, stay frosty, Jennings told himself. At this depth, ventilation meant that a ceiling grate was spaced one every twelve metres. Each one large enough to conceal a lurking xenomorph. The tracker continued its reassuring steady pulse, but it would not pick up on a xeno if it remained perfectly still. So instead, he watched for telltale signs. A glint of a carapace in the shadows, a pool of viscous saliva forming on the floor beneath an open vent. Visions of the thing behind the curtain seared into his imagination. Cold sweat trickled down his spine from anticipation. They should have found something by now.

  “Corporal Jennings, you should be coming up on the holding cell area,” the voice of Yau buzzed in his ear.

  “Holding cells for xenos?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He reached the open door. Inside, a row of a dozen cells lined each wall. Some of the doors were open. Or, rather, had been torn open. Right out of their frames. No human could have done that. He froze as his light came to rest on the floor. The bodies of two people, a man and a woman, lay cleanly split in half above the waist in a pool of dark blood, their faces frozen mid scream.

  “Doc, confirm visual?”

  “Confirmed. This was not XX121,” said the doctor with clinical detachment. Jennings knew exactly what had done this. He had seen its handiwork firsthand. He stepped forward cautiously, careful to step around the bodies, peering into the cells he noted the single cot and stainless-steel toilet in each.

  “Doctor,” said Jennings coldly, “just what were you keeping in these cells?”

  “What do you think, soldier boy?” Morse interrupted over the comm.

  “Focus on the mission at hand, Corporal,” the voice of the colonel crackled in his ear before he could say anything. “Second squad, sound off. Anything?”

  “That’s a negative, sir,” answered Williams. “Medical looks like it has been ransacked, but no sign of hostiles.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” said Lowry. “Seeing them, or not seeing them.”

  Seeing them. Definitely seeing them.

*

  Level 4 felt different. It felt wrong. Apart from the holding cells, Level 3 had been in strangely ordinary. Corridors, labs, medical storage. But now, the true horror was beginning to sink in. This was a place where bad things happened. The steel doors, the observation areas with unbreakable glass, the gurneys with thick, leather straps. The surgical operating room that could only be opened from the outside. This place was built with one consideration: containment. The thought of what had gone on here made his skin crawl. It violated some deep, primitive part of his psyche. This had gone beyond science. Beyond good or evil. This was where nightmares became real.

  “Talk to me, Jenny,” said Molina, his voice wavering. Clearly, he could feel it too. The wrongness.

  “Still nothing on the tracker. Just keep moving, and watch the vents.”

  The pair approached a large door, more imposing than the rest, a thick layer of frost obscuring the signage. Jennings wiped away some of the frost, revealing a bright red warning.

  “What is this?” he muttered

  “Cryo-storage,” said Yau flatly. “That’s where we keep the eggs.” Both men instinctively stepped back. “The cryo-unit is on its own independent power source. At that temperature the eggs will remain inert indefinitely. I assure you, it’s quite safe.”

  “I bet someone else said that exact same thing about your pets, doc,” muttered Molina.

  “Keep moving,” ordered Jennings and the squad pressed forward.

  “Williams here,” the voice came over the comm. “We’ve found something. Looks like someone might have injured a hostile. Parts of the floor are corroded right through, but no sign of any bodies. Whatever happened here, I think we missed it.”

  “Acknowledged. All units, proceed to Level 5 access point,” ordered Sanchez.

  Jennings turned to wave the rest of the squad forward, performing a silent headcount as each Marine passed him. He could not say why he felt the need to, until the count came up one short, and his stomach turned to ice. Carbine at the ready, he retraced his steps back towards cryo-storage only to find Watson at the keypad, his fingers moving with inhuman speed and precision.

  “What are you doing?”

  Watson looked up; his expression blank.

  “I said, what are you doing, Private?” he demanded.

  “Given the potential threat should the cryo-storage system fail, I was ensuring that the door lock was secure, sir.”

  If he did not know better, he would say the synthetic almost sounded offended. “It’s secure,” he growled. “Now fall in.”

  Watson gave a polite smile before doing a slight half-jog to catch up with the rest of the squad, and Jennings watched him carefully. Once he was out of sight, he gave the door a hard shove. Locked tight. He sighed, and cursed himself for being so suspicious, before he jogged after them.

*

  Level 5 opened up into a large downward spiralling access corridor. Wide enough to drive an APC down, the Marines could comfortably walk six abreast. They moved cautiously, the bend concealing what lay ahead, and the possibility of coming face to face with dozens of screaming nightmares grew ever more likely with every step. Hundreds even, each just like the one they had encountered in Medical. But instead, the only sound was the steady blip of the tracker. The same sound it had been repeating since they entered Delta. He could smell it now. Thick and pungent. The acrid rot. Like death crossed with a burning car battery. It was almost enough to make his eyes water.

  They rounded the last bend, and the corridor straightened out into a fifty metre long, low ramp. There was blood on the ground, but no body. This was it, the end of the line. Ahead of them the gaping open mouth of the hive beckoned, and beyond that something dark and wet glistened, highlighted by the still spinning yellow warning lights.

  “Any movement?” Colonel Sanchez asked as he appeared beside him.

  “No sir, still nothing,” he confirmed.

  “Good,” said the colonel. “They can only come straight at us. I want a six-man fireteam to take point. Two smartgunners. As soon as you’re dry, you cycle out. Second team at the ready. I want a continuous steam of fire. As soon as they move on us, let them have all of it.”

  The Marines nodded in agreement as two of the smartgunners took centre position, flanked on each side by two riflemen.

  “Weapons free, and dammit watch the ceiling. Here they come,” Sanchez barked, no longer concerned about stealth. Drawing his revolver, he fired a single round into the hive. In the dead silence of the corridor the shot was deafening. The reverberating echo seemed to go on and on forever. The fireteam tensed as they braced for the first wave. The last of the echo died out, and silence once again descended over them. They stared at the open maw of the nest, waiting, but nothing came.

  Sanchez turned to Jennings. “Corporal?”

  Jennings swallowed, staring at the readout on his tracker “No, sir.”

  “Doc?” he spoke into his mic.

  “I don’t know, Colonel. They should perceive you as a threat.”

  “Could they be trying to lure us into an ambush?”

  “Doubtful. The queens are capable of strategic thinking, but the average warrior drone would struggle to keep up with a dog. They’re purely instinctual. They are not smart enough to try to trick you,” explained the doctor.

  The colonel looked unconvinced as he took a long, hard stare down the corridor.

  “Follow me,” he ordered, and marched towards the open hatch. Jennings gripped the tracker tighter.

  “Sir,” said Molina, nodding towards the corner of the door frame. A severed human head and hand lay by the door controls. The rest of the body upstairs.

  “Move in,” said the colonel, who took point, flanked by two smartgunners. Jennings, Molina and Lowry followed close behind. Their boots squelched on the wet floor as they pushed deeper inside. It had gotten warmer again, and moisture dripped from kind of resin that caked the walls. The warmth of decomposition.

  “Don’t touch anything,” growled Sanchez, “and watch your fire.”

  The walls seemed to narrow, closing in on them as the alien secretions grew thicker, forcing them into single file.

  “Tighten it up. We’re getting a little too spaced out,” said Jennings, eyes continuing to monitor for any flicker of movement. The smell was unbearable now. It was thick, cloying, seeping into his clothes, his hair, his skin. The passage opened up again into a large chamber, allowing them to stand together forming a defensive circle. A half-dozen more passages branched off; leading down tunnels even deeper into the hive. He had the feeling of being inside the stomach of some great, alien creature. One that blurred the line between the mechanical and the organic. The walls were plastered in a sickly, semi-translucent gum in patterns that appeared to be at the same time both random and deliberate. That seemed to absorb their lights rather than reflect, and ropey tendrils of similar material covered the floor.

  “I don’t see any bodies,” said Molina.

  “Doc, are you still receiving?” Sanchez gripped his mic.

  “It’s breaking up but yes, I’m still receiving. I can’t explain it,” said Yau, his voice thick with static.

  The colonel drew his revolver and fired a round into the floor, obliterating a chunk of resin.

  Jennings gripped his pulse rifle. His finger on the trigger, bracing for the inevitable attack. A heartbeat past, then two, then three. No sound came. No shrieks or claws ready to drag him away. The squad chanced taking their eyes off the walls in order to exchange uneasy glances that confirmed what they were all thinking, but no one wanted to be the one to say it.

  “I’ve got nothing,” whispered Molina, unblinking.

  “You don’t think…” Lowry began, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Quiet,” hissed Jennings as he gripped the motion tracker, staring at it. Willing it to give him a reading, but the damnable steady blip continued uninterrupted. Not a single shadow so much as flinched. The hive was still. Impossibly still. Dead. Empty.

  “They’re not here,” Sanchez growled, and everyone exchanged an uncomfortable look as the full implication set in. “Doc, where the hell are they?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel. I don’t know,” said Yau defensively, and for the first time his voice was tinged with a hint of fear.

  “Then figure it out quick because they have seventy of our people. The clock is ticking, Doctor,” he cursed into his mic.

  “This isn’t normal, Colonel. They would not willingly abandon the hive,” insisted Yau.

  “Maybe they knew this place was a prison,” Jennings ventured, and the thought chilled him to the core. It meant they were smarter than they thought. In the black depths of the hive, the ever-constant blip of the tracker was deafening, and more ominous than ever. The hive had been abandoned. The xenomorphs, and their people, were gone.

Chapter Text

One Week Later

  Sanchez sat in the chair of his office as he gulped down the last of his coffee. Over the course of the last week, things had settled into an almost predictable routine. But that could change at any moment. The Marines were forced to snatch an hour or two of restless sleep in fits and starts, and he slept the least of all. A knock at the door snapped him out of his reverie, and Sergeant Heller entered without waiting for permission. If the big man was tired, which he surely was, he didn’t show it.

  “Shift report, sir, before I hand over to Sergeant Davis,” said Heller.

  “Just give me the short version,” said Sanchez, massaging his temples with one hand.

  “Morale among the Marines is good, considering. A couple of brawls broke out between civilians. We put a quick stop to it. A few bruises, nothing serious. Doc McTaggart advises that she has enough medical supplies to last until the Argos gets here, but we’re cutting it fine,” said Heller.

  Sanchez nodded. Nerves were frayed, and tempers were short. Fistfights they could handle, and so far, none of the civilians had tried to gain access to weaponry. But they outnumbered the Marines almost ten to one, and he was not about to order them to open fire on civilians. If they got it into their heads that they would be better off if they were the ones with the guns, he wasn’t sure he would be able to stop them.

  “We’ve had two more encounters in the past twenty-four hours. Their scouts are testing the perimeter. No visual contact yet. The robotic sentries are seeing them off for now, but it doesn’t look like they’re giving up. But Doctor Yau did spot a pattern. Most of the incidents occur at night.”

  With the shutters sealed, there was nothing to mark the passage of time. He had no idea if it was day or night; those words had become meaningless. There was only the perpetual twilight created by the low, artificial lighting of the complex.

  “When is nightfall?” asked Sanchez.

  Heller checked his watch. “About an hour ago, sir.”

  “Double the patrols,” he ordered. “Effective immediately.”

  Heller nodded in agreement, and Sanchez leaned back in his chair. He was tired. So very tired, and old.

  “Are we any closer to finding out where they are coming from?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer to that question.

  “No, sir,” said Heller flatly. “With most of our security systems disabled, tracking them is impossible.” Sanchez let out a deep sigh. The missing personnel were surely dead by now. If not at the clawed hands of the xenomorphs, then they succumbed to LV-784’s equally inhospitable environment. Exposure, hypothermia, and dehydration would have picked them off until there were none left.

  “And the yautja?” he asked, almost hesitantly.

  “Still no sign of it.”

  Sanchez raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t tried to hunt any of the xenomorphs?”

  “As far as we can tell, no sir, it has not.”

  “Goddammit,” he muttered, slamming his fist on the desk. “He shows up here, the middle of nowhere, cuts his way through a dozen people to release an entire hive of xenomorphs, and then doesn’t hunt any of them. He shoots down a dropship loaded with civilians to enforce a no-fly zone, and then doesn’t hunt any of us. It doesn’t make sense. What am I missing here, Sergeant?”

  It did not change their immediate circumstance, but it irked him nonetheless. As enigmatic as the yautja could be, their motives were simple. Straightforward. Direct. This one was different. It had its reasons, he was certain of that, but not knowing what they were made it even more dangerous.

  “Maybe it bit off more than it can chew? Realises it’s outgunned,” ventured Heller.

  “Unlikely. If he wanted us all dead, we would be dead. Besides, these things live for the hunt. He would welcome the challenge,” said Sanchez.

  “Maybe it’s dead,” suggested Heller, without the slightest hint of a jest.

  “No, no he’s still out there,” said Sanchez quietly. “I just don’t know what the hell kind of game he’s playing.” An uncomfortable silence descended over the room as Sanchez tried to put the pieces together over and over, but every time he came up emptyhanded.

  Heller was the first to speak. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Thank you. Dismissed,” said Sanchez, and Heller turned to leave. “Actually, one more thing. The woman that you rescued from Hangar 7. With everything that’s happened, I still haven’t spoken to her. Now is as good a time as any. Please have her brought to me for debrief.”

  “Yessir, will you require me to sit in on it?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Let’s try the gentle approach. See how a one-on-one goes. We might get more information that way. Just have someone escort her here, then get some sleep.”

  Heller nodded and left. Sanchez rubbed his eyes. He needed more coffee. This was going to be interesting.

*

  “Come in,” he hollered as he remained seated behind his desk. A PFC entered escorting a young woman. She wore navy Weyland-Yutani branded coveralls, but still managed to look out of place as she took in the details of his spartan office in subdued, furtive glances.

  “Please wait outside, Private,” he said, addressing the Marine, “and close the door behind you.” The private left without a word while the woman locked eyes on Sanchez, sizing him up.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said as he gestured to the empty chair across from him. She hesitated, eyeing it and then him with cold suspicion before gently lowering herself into the seat. “I apologise for not doing this sooner, but I am sure you understand the situation we are all in.”

  She did not react, continuing to regard him with the same unreadable expression.

  “My name is Colonel Emil Sanchez,” he continued. “I am the commanding officer of the Colonial Marines detachment assigned to this outpost, and I’m afraid that you now have me at a disadvantage Miss…?”

  The woman did not speak. Instead, she allowed the question to hang in the air, unanswered. This was going to be harder than he thought. Twenty years as a USCM officer he was used to issuing orders, not coaxing information from an uncooperative witness.

  “You have to at least tell me your name,” he pressed.

  “No tengo que decirte nada, cerdo,” she hissed.

  “¿Podemos hacer esto en español si lo prefieres?” he asked, ignoring her insult. The young woman looked away. It was the first time she had taken her eyes off him.

  “Whatever,” she said with a shrug.

  “In English then. Look, it can’t hurt to tell me your name, can it?” he implored.

  She gave a theatrically exaggerated sigh. “Angel.”

  “First name or last?”

  “It’s whatever you want it to be,” she said wistfully.

  “And how old are you?”

  “Old enough,” she said with a hint of mock seduction.

  “For the record,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “And do you know where we are?” he leaned in slightly.

  “Some shithole,” she swore.

  Sanchez sighed. He did not mean to, but he was tired. He was bone tired, and this was going nowhere. “Respectfully, Miss Angel, I did not bring you here to play guessing games,” he said, while not entirely concealing his exasperation.

  “I know why I’m here. You’re tense. On edge. You need a release. That’s why you had your soldier leave us alone, isn’t it?” she said seductively. He noticed the pitch of her voice had changed. Had become lighter, more girlish. It made her sound younger. Too young. “You’re a little older than my usual customer, but you’re kinda handsome for a grandpa.” She parted her knees, one hand running up her thigh as she used the other to undo the top three buttons on her coveralls, exposing the top of her breast, and a glimpse of a long, red, vertical surgical scar…

  Sanchez leaned back in his chair. “If you are trying to make me uncomfortable, Miss Angel, it’s not going to work. You can stop embarrassing yourself now,” he said sternly. In his frustration, it had sounded harsher than he had intended, but he could not let her gain the upper hand. She snorted in disgust. Her demeanour instantly changing as she gave him an angry, contemptuous look.

  “Then what do you want, old man?” she spat.

  “Yau, Miss Angel. I want Doctor Yau,” he said flatly.

  Angel gave a cynical half laugh. “I knew it. It’s always something. This was never for my benefit. You just thought you could use me,” she said, the voice of the woman-child having vanished as quickly as it appeared

  “I am on your side here, Miss,” he said as she shook her head, rubbing her arms defensively. “But I can’t help you unless you help me. I can indict Yau for illegal research, breeding dangerous xeno species, interstellar smuggling of biohazardous materials, a dozen other things, but I will never be able to make any of it stick. Wey-Yu lawyers will tear through that like armour piercing rounds through paper. But involuntary human medical experiments, kidnap, detention and murder? They won’t be able to make that just go away.”

  Angel said nothing, looking unconvinced.

  “I know you were one of his test subjects,” he said quietly, leaning in. “Do you think I don’t know how you got that scar? If you tell me what happened, it’s admissible as evidence. I can hand him over to the JAG division before Wey-Yu get their claws into him, and they will never get him back. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. But I can’t do that without your help.”

  She looked down, and for the first time she looked genuinely uncomfortable.

  “You can button up, by the way,” he said gently, nodding to her coverall that still hung open, and she did so without a word.

  “Did you find anyone else?” she asked quietly, so much so that he had to strain to hear.

  “No. You were the only one. I’m sorry.” He thought back to the mission into Delta. The holding cells. The cells with the doors torn off. A pained look flickered across her face. Only for an instant, and obscured by her hair, but it was there. Had she known the other prisoners? Did she have friends?

  “Please, Miss,” he implored, struggling to hide his frustration as he tried to press her as gently as he could. “You have to give me something.”

  Angel seemed to shrink into her chair, holding herself just a little more tightly, making her appear smaller. A dead end, he realised.

  “Perhaps you can help me with something else then,” he said, hoping a change of subject would help. “You are the sole survivor of the incident in Hangar 7. That makes you the only person who has seen the yautja in action against armed personnel and lived to talk about it.”

  Her eyes went wide at the mention of Hangar 7. “I didn’t see anything,” she said earnestly. Her voice contained a note of rising panic, and the high, girlish tone had returned. She wasn’t just uncomfortable. Now, she sounded scared.

  “Heard something then? Anything you can remember could prove useful,” he pressed.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” she said, and then began muttering to herself in Spanish too quietly for him to hear, pulling her legs up to her chest and rocking almost imperceptibly. He knew a trauma trigger when he saw one. She had seen things no one should ever see.

  It’s okay, I believe you,” he assured her, and that seemed to have the desired effect. He leaned back in his chair. Angel had stopped muttering, but still would not look at him. This was a waste of time. Too scared of Yau to testify, and whatever she had seen in Hangar 7, she was blocking out. He could sympathise, especially with the second part, but it didn’t help him. He could feel his frustration boiling over. He wanted answers, he wanted Yau, and he wanted some goddamn sleep. He took a breath, forcing himself to remain composed.

  “I won’t keep you any longer, Miss Angel,” he said softly. “Thank you for your time, and if you do remember anything, please do speak to me or one of my NCOs.”

  “Are we done?”

  “Yes, we’re done. Private, come in,” he hollered at the door. A moment later the PFC entered and stood at attention. “Please escort the young lady back to the barracks.”

  “I know the way,” she spat as he brushed away young Marine, who gave a quick glance towards Sanchez. He gave the young man a nod. Let her go. The private nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

  He stood, and began pacing the breadth of his office, fist clenched. He had banked on her being more forthcoming. His star witness. Instead, he had nothing, and that meant Yau, Sloan, the whole lot of them were going to get away with it, even if they somehow survived that long. He was so tired, but now he could not sleep. The debrief had been the last straw. Suddenly, his office felt too small. Too confined. A week in this place had everyone wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. Himself most of all. If stayed here a second longer, he was going to lose it. He needed some air. He threw on his cover and pushed past his desk, hissing through clenched teeth as he smacked his hand hard off the corner. He closed his eyes and took a breath as he waited for the pain to subside, before stepping out into the cold air of the corridor.

*

  The corridor was dimly lit, and noticeably cooler than his office. Quiet, except for the constant, barely perceptible thrum. He took a breath, allowing the cold air to calm his frayed nerves. It was late, so the place was mostly deserted. All of the civilians huddled together in the barracks, which was on the other side Operations from his office. A lone Marine stood slumped against the wall, casually holding a plasma rifle with one arm. He looked up at the sound of Sanchez’s approaching footsteps, and bolted upright when he saw who it was. Sanchez gave him a sharp look, but let it slide. He remembered all too well his days as a grunt, made to stand guard for hours on end.

  The corridor opened up into the open plan Operations centre. A large, unremarkable room used more for day-to-day running than for tactical planning. It was empty, except for one lone figure, poking around a rat’s nest of cabling beneath the hastily set up terminals that controlled the robotic sentries. With their back turned, and the lights low, he could not tell who it was, but he was immediately suspicious as to why would anyone be sulking around sentry gun control terminals unsupervised. He approached cautiously, and as he drew closer and his eyes adjusted, he recognised him.

  “Sloan,” he bristled.

  The merc did not acknowledge him, and instead continued his nervous search.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded sternly.

  “I’m looking for a cigarette,” said Sloan without standing or turning.

  “A cigarette?” asked Sanchez incredulously. He had heard him perfectly well, but the answer caught him off guard.

  “Yes, Colonel, a cigarette. I’ve gone four days without a drag and I’m fucking tense,” Sloan grumbled.

  He was glad Sloan could not see his face as he struggled to supress a wry smile. “You know what they say about quitting; no time like the present.”

  “I don’t want to quit. I want a goddamn cigarette,” cursed Sloan.

  “Well, you’re not gonna find one under there. Get up,” he ordered, but Sloan ignored him. “Maybe you could send another team of men to Hangar 7. See if they find anything.”

  Sloan froze. Sanchez stiffened as the younger man slowly stood and turned to face him. His face was even more drawn than usual. His scruffy stubble was becoming a full beard, and had more visible grey than usual. Tall as he was, he was staring down his hawk nose at him, as his narrow blue-grey eyes burned with a cold fire. For a moment, Sanchez wondered if Sloan was about to strike him, and for a moment, part of him almost wished he would.

  “Clearly, I’ve been too lenient. I’ve turned a blind eye to you and your men sulking around, but that ends now. This area is restricted. If I catch you or your men poking around critical systems again, I’ll throw you to the damn xenos,” he growled. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

  Sloan didn’t react. His expression unreadable. Sanchez could not tell if he believed him or not, but in that exact moment, he really did not care. He turned to leave, and could feel Sloan’s gaze burning into the back of his head as he walked away.

  “There is…just one other thing, Colonel,” said Sloan nonchalantly.

  Sanchez stopped, mouthing a silent curse before turning back to face him.

  “Me and the boys, well, we’ve been wondering about this since day one. Why did they send you?”

  Sanchez’s eyes narrowed.

  “You see,” Sloan continued, “usually for a gig like this they would send a junior officer. Some West Point prick who just got his captain’s bars. So, imagine my surprise when they send a bona fide, honest-to-God, genuine full-bird colonel all the way out here to manage a single company.” He trailed off, allowing the implication to hang in the air.

  “What do you want, Sloan?” he growled through gritted teeth.

  “The truth, Colonel,” said Sloan, his sales pitch persona having returned. “What happened? Did you fuck a general’s daughter? His granddaughter? Something worse? Sending a senior field grade officer all the way out here, that’s a long way to go for a cover up. Whatever it was, it must have been bad.”

  Sanchez said nothing.

  “You act like you’re so much better than me, but we’re both out here for a reason. Neither one of us is innocent, but at least I’m honest about it,” said Sloan with a pitiless smirk.

  “Are you finished?” said Sanchez flatly.

  “For now,” said Sloan, smiling like a shark.

  Turning on his heels, Sanchez left without another word. He did not need to turn around to know the bastard was grinning from ear to ear.

*

  “I’ll call,” said Morse as he tossed the chips into the small pile at the centre of the circle. The deck of cards had been a lucky find. He and the boys had gone through the place when the Marines weren’t looking and “appropriated” anything of value. Cigarettes, a couple of Playboy magazines, a half-full bottle of vodka that must have cost its original owner an arm and a leg, and one poker set that had been their sole source of entertainment for the past week. The Marines either did not notice, or did not care, and no one else dared to challenge them. The civvies had always kept their distance from them anyway, and that suited Morse just fine. Four hundred people crammed into a space meant for less than half that, yet he the boys had a whole corner all to themselves.

  They had been playing for over an hour when he looked up to see Sloan return from his search for more cigarettes, and looked to be in an even worse mood than when he left. Morse knew better than to immediately speak up.

  “Find any cigarettes, boss?” asked Santino.

  “What the fuck do you think?” scolded Sloan as he took a seat. “Deal me in.”

  “Small blind is fifty. Big blind is a hundred,” said McKenna, tossing out the cards.

  “Ah shit, I fold,” said Santino, tossing his cards in disgust.

  “No surprises there,” said Sweeney with a smirk.

  “Just was a dealt a bad hand is all,” Santino protested weakly.

  “Story of your life, mate,” said McKenna. “I’ll raise.”

  Morse let the game go a few more rounds, peering over the cards as he carefully watched Sloan. The man was jonesing hard. The sweat on his brow, the way he constantly bounced his knee. He would need to choose his moment carefully, but in the end, it was McKenna who beat him to it.

  “You know, boss, me and the boys were talking,” he said, keeping his voice low and quiet while still being conversational. “We don’t reckon they’ve got much of a chance here.”

  Sloan looked up from his cards, but did not speak.

  “Some of us think we should make a break for it,” he whispered, leaning close.

  “Even if we get out, then what? We all go to prison? Fuck that,” added Santino.

  Sloan shook his head as he threw more chips into the growing pile. “Even if we can get to the hardware, its eight of us against almost fifty of them. I don’t much like our chances. Then there’s still that thing out there enforcing a no-fly zone over the base. Just sit tight for now.”

  “These people are fucked. I say we take our chances. It’s gotta be better than waiting here to die,” protested Morse, matching Sloan’s call with another handful of chips. “You gotta play the cards you’re dealt.”

  “Too rich for my blood. I fold,” said McKenna.

  “Same, I’m out,” said Santino, throwing down his cards.

  “All in,” said Sloan, tossing the last of his chips into the pile as he stared hard at Morse. “You in or out?” he asked with a quiet confidence. One thing about Sloan, he was good, but not that good. Morse could always tell when he was bluffing. He always slightly oversold it. A little too confident. A little too smugly sure of himself. The smirk, the gleam in his eye, there was always a giveaway that he was overplaying his hand. He never could fully hide his liar’s smile. But this time, there was none of that. Morse looked down at his own hand. Two pairs. Good, not great, and knowing Sloan, the son of a bitch probably had a straight flush.

  “Na, I fold,” he said, laying his cards on the table. Sloan smiled as he laid down his own cards. One pair. Morse watched in stunned silence as he raked in his winnings.

  “It’s not the cards,” said Sloan. “It’s how you play them. We sit tight, for now. The jarheads are tired. Stretched thin. We’ll get our chance soon enough.”

*

  Morse paced near the edge of the room. It was after midnight, station time, and the lights throughout the barracks were dimmed or off. Almost everyone, even the lads, were asleep. But he was still stewing over his losses. When this was over, Sloan would collect. That was for damn sure. Anyone else, he would have slit their fucking throat in their sleep and been done with it, but the boss was the boss. Besides, the boss had a plan.

  He looked up to see a woman enter the barracks, silently gliding between the cots, and even in the darkness, he recognised her. It was one of Yau’s pets. Angel? Yeah, that was it. He had seen her skulking around the past week, and although she had kept her distance from everyone; him, the Marines, the civvies, he had not been able to get her alone. He had wanted to tap that since she had got here. She was nothing special. Bit rough around the edges maybe. But Hispanic, slim, and with tight ass, she was better offerings than most of what was available in this dump. She had been here, what? Over a year, at least. A long time, and she was only human too, after all.

  He followed her from a distance, careful not to step on any of the sleeping civilians who had been forced to opt for the floor. She disappeared around a corner, and he hurried to catch up as he broke into a half-jog, rounding the corner just in time to see her enter the female restroom. He paused, leaning against the wall, pretending he was waiting for someone. It wouldn’t do much good if one of the Marines saw him now. A minute passed, and no one came. Sensing his chance, he pushed open the door, stepping into the restroom and locking the door behind him.

  The lights were marginally brighter, momentarily blinding him as his eyes adjusted. A row of cubicles lined the wall on his side, and a row of sinks lined the other. Angel stood hunched over the middle one, washing her hands.

  “I’ll just be a sec,” she said, locking eyes with him in the mirror and seeming unbothered about his presence. Playing hard to get. He liked that. He took a step towards her.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “This is the ladies’ room, isn’t it?”

  He felt the corner of his smile dip by a hair, but he forced himself to maintain the friendly façade. He couldn’t let her needle him. She was just pushing his buttons. Testing his resolve.

  “If you need to take a piss, just go. You’ve got nothing to hide,” she said with a smirk, turning as she dried her hands on her coveralls. He felt his face flush red with anger, and with a great effort he forced it back down to the pit of his stomach.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” he said, striking a conversational tone as he took another step towards her. Angel leaned back, bracing her hands against the counter as she raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I can help you,” he said, taking another step.

  “Oh really?” she said with mock intrigue.

  “Yeah,” he said, regaining his swagger. “People like us, we know how this ends. These folks don’t have a chance.” He took one more step forward, bringing them face to face. “But I can protect you,” he said softly.

  “You can protect me?” she said sweetly. Her voice suddenly light, almost girlish, as she looked up at him with big brown eyes.

  “Yeah, baby, I’ll protect you. It’s you and me,” he said as he brushed her hair out of her face with one hand.

  “You can’t even protect yourself,” she snorted.

  Morse straightened and stepped back as a cruel smile formed on Angel’s lips.

  “You can stop embarrassing yourself now,” she spat, all hint of the girlish tone gone in an instant. “Whatever happened to that big South African friend of yours? Now that was a real man,” she mocked, her voice dripping with venom.

  “I’ll show you a real man right now, bitch,” he swore, grabbing her by the collar. A flash of blinding pain paralysed him as Angel brought one swift knee up into his groin, forcing him to double over as the jolt settled into a dull, debilitating throb.

  “Go on. Do something, tough guy,” she hissed as he gritted his teeth. “Better men that you have tried it, and they are all in the ground. I wouldn’t let you fuck me if you were the last man on the planet, and you almost are.”

  “I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking junkie whore,” seethed Morse as he held his groin, waves of pain keeping him doubled over.

  Angel smiled. “I’m already dead, you idiot. I’ve died half a dozen times. You think there’s anything left you can do to me? Neither one of us is getting out of here. But I promise you; you’ll die screaming.”

  “The Marines aren’t always going to be here to protect you,” he spat as he struggled to stand up straight.

  Angel gave a humourless chuckle. “There’s no Marines here right now, dumbass.”

  Defeated, he relented.

  Pushing away as he turned to leave, fumbling with the lock as he struggled to regain some composure.

  “Was it good for you, too?” she called after him as he stormed back to the barracks.

*

  Sanchez waited until he was back in his office to let out a long, deep sigh. He should never have left. Letting Sloan get the better of him like that was stupid. He sighed again. He couldn’t think straight. That wasn’t good. He was a command officer; he needed to stay sharp. Exhausted, he collapsed into his chair. Every muscle in his body ached. Even his bones ached. They could manage for a few hours without him, he told himself. Sergeant Davis had the night watch, and he was a fine NCO. He closed his eyes as he leaned back, settling into his chair. Yeah, they would manage just fine. He barely had enough time to finish the thought before falling fast asleep.

*

  He bolted awake to the piercing shrill of the alarm. His eyes quickly adjusting to the flickering red emergency lighting. He was on his feet in a flash even as his joints screamed in protest. Adrenaline instantly erasing all notion of sleep, bursting out into the corridor as pairs of panicked Marines thundered past him. He rushed for the Operations room to find it in chaos as Sergeant Davis barked orders, while rifles and magazines were frantically handed out.

  “Report, Sergeant!” demanded Sanchez.

  “We’ve got a perimeter breach, sir,” replied Davis, who had to shout to be heard over the blaring alarm.

  “Location?”

  “Unknown,” hollered Davis as Heller burst in accompanied by a handful of off-duty Marines.

  “Sergeant Heller, lock and load. I want teams with trackers patrolling the corridors, move! Smartgunners, get yourselves suited up, check for ingress points. You see anything, you light it up. Sergeant Davis, secure the barracks. They’ll be coming for the civilians,” he barked, struggling to catch his breath, “and someone kill that damn alarm.”

  The two sergeants nodded in acknowledgement as Heller and his men donned their armour and primed their weapons. Sanchez accepted a plasma rifle and activated it with a high-pitched metallic ping that he felt more than heard. He had never fired one of these outside of training, but they were far more formidable than a standard M47A pulse rifle. He hated to admit it, but Sloan had come through on his end. But there were not enough to go around. Slipping on a headset, he gripped the mic with his free hand.

  “All units, this is Colonel Sanchez. We have a perimeter breach. Prepare to engage hostiles.”

  “How the hell did they get past the sentries?” shouted a private whose name he could not recall.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re here now,” said Heller as he slammed home a magazine.

  “Let’s rock n’ roll,” said one of the smartgunners.

  “What’s happening, Colonel?” It was Sloan. Sanchez hadn’t noticed him in the chaos, but somehow, he was never far from it.

  “We’ve got a perimeter breach. Get back to the barracks,” ordered Sanchez.

  “We can help,” said Sloan.

  “No dice,” snapped Sanchez as the alarm died. “Now get back to the barracks, or I’ll have you removed.”

  “Colonel, sir, we have positive contact,” said Private Davenport. His hands shaking as he hunched over the motion tracker, his face lit by its harsh blue-white glow as its constant blip now replaced with a steady, high-pitched beeping. “Fifty metres. It’s definitely inside the perimeter.”

  “Give me position and bearing,” he demanded.

  “I don’t know, sir, I…I mean, I’m not sure. I…” the private stuttered, wiping the sweat from his brow as he struggled to hold the tracker steady.

  “Goddammit, Private. Take a breath,” he growled. Davenport looked from the tracker, to Sanchez, then back again, as if he could not believe his own eyes.

  “Just…tell how many we’re dealing with,” he said, with as much calm as he could muster.

  Davenport gulped, his hands trembling.

  “All of them, sir.”

Chapter Text

  “That’s the last of them,” said Jennings. “Molina, help me with the door.” The steady beep of the tracker filled the room as the two men slammed the door shut. The bright blue beam of his pocket welding laser flared, melting the seam. But even with two of them, it was slow going.

  “Thirty metres,” said Davenport.

  “Bearing?” demanded the colonel.

  “From the east, sir.”

  Good, Jennings thought to himself. With the civilians on the west, it put Operations between them and the xenos. At least they would have to get through them first.

  “Twenty-five,” confirmed Davenport.

  “Listen up, Marines,” barked Colonel Sanchez. “It’s gonna be close quarters, so watch your goddamn line of sight. Controlled bursts only. Remember, they’ve got acid for blood, so beware of spray or blowback.”

  “Twenty metres.”

  “Okay, they’re in the corridor. You two, get back from the door,” ordered Sanchez.

  “Almost there,” Jennings hollered over the sound of sizzling metal. The acrid smell of the melting steel triggered memories of what he had seen in Medical. Of the burning acid on the floor. Just a few more inches.

  “Now, Corporal,” growled Heller.

  “Got it,” Jennings exclaimed as he backed up from the door, raising his plasma rifle. It was a flimsy barricade, but it was better than nothing.

  “I don’t hear anything,” whispered Molina. Jennings strained his ears, but he was right. Apart from the rhythmic beeping of the tracker, it was eerily silent.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Remember Marines, there’s four hundred civilians counting on us. We cannot let the xenos reach them. This is where we hold them. This is where we fight,” said Sanchez.

  “Thirteen.”

  The sweat ran down the back of Jennings’ neck and his heart slammed in his chest. He struggled to hold his rifle steady, and the tracker continued its inexorable countdown. Any second now, hundreds of screaming nightmares would burst through that door.

  “Twelve metres,” said Davenport.

  “That’s right outside the door. Safeties off. This is it,” barked Heller. There was no point in being quiet. The xenomorphs already knew they were here. Lowry wiped the sweat from his brow. One Marine kissed his crucifix as he mouthed a silent prayer.

  “Nine metres. Eight. Seven. What the hell?” said Davenport.

  “That’s inside the room, Private,” growled Heller.

  Even in the dark red glow of the emergency lighting, the Marines exchanged confused glances.

  “Five metres, sir…they’re in here,” said Davenport, his voice quivering.

  Jennings felt his eyes drift upwards, as if by instinct, towards the crisscross of plastic tiles that formed a false ceiling.

  “Oh shit…” Lowry swore as he realised what Jennings was looking at.

  “Four metres. Three…” Davenport could not keep the terror out of his voice.

  “Give me a flashlight,” demanded Jennings as he hopped up on to a console.                    

  “Two metres.”

  Slowly, he nudged one of the tiles aside with the barrel of his rifle and poked his head through the gap, shining the light into the darkness. Silence, except for the beep of the tracker, and the sound of his own breathing.

  “One.”

  The white beam of the flashlight passed over electrical wiring, metal pipes, foil air ducts, and nothing else. No black carapaces. No claws or gnashing teeth lunging at him. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. He felt his shoulders drop just a fraction as he looked back down at the Marines, giving them a confused shake of the head. With all eyes on him, he was the only one to notice the black taloned fingers rising up through the metal grating of the floor, right between a Marine’s boots.

  “Connelly!” was all he had time to say before the grating was torn away, and the screaming Marine was dragged down into the black.

*

  Lowry panicked as the floor exploded and dozens of shrieking, black, biomechanical nightmares leapt into action.

  “They’re under the goddamn floor!” cried a Marine.

  “Kill them. Kill them all!” yelled Jennings as he fell from the console and the room erupted into a cacophony of shouts, gunfire and alien screams. The deafening staccato roar of pulse rifles drowned out confused orders and cries for help. In the dark, the pulsing rhythm of the plasma rifles echoed, their searing purple bolts creating a disorientating strobe effect as he saw flashes of xenomorphs clutching or dragging screaming Marines as they dived back into their holes.

  “Watch your crossfire!” barked Heller through the chaos, and Lowry struggled to hear over the thunder of the carbines. An alien exploded in a hail of plasma fire, the cauterising effects of the plasma protecting them from the worst of the acid spray. Instead, the creature collapsed in a heap, sinking into the floor as its caustic blood created another opening. The smartgunners were going near full auto, their fire tearing the xenos limb from limb as they relied more on their auto-targeting systems to lock on to hostiles through the smoke and the screams.

  “Shit,” cursed one of the smartgunners as the weapon ran dry, before dropping the ammo drum and slamming another one home, resuming their sweeping arc of death as the gun roared to life.

  “Get out of the centre. Put your back to a wall!” ordered Heller.

  Lowry tried to focus as he backed up, struggling to see through the haze. Trying to pick out glimpses of hard carapaces slipping between the shadows. They were so fast. Movement, in the corner of his eye, briefly lit by the strobe of gunfire. The shrieking beast leapt towards him; talons extended as its outstretched arms reached for him. He screamed, raised his rifle, and fired. The plasma bolts struck the creature dead centre, sending it flying back over a console in a shower of yellow acid as a second leapt out of nowhere.

  “Die, motherfucker!” he bellowed as he unloaded into it at full auto. The creature collapsed, thrashing wildly in its death throes, and he narrowly missed having his head taken off by its blade-like tail.

  “Jennings,” hollered a Marine. He looked up, he could not see who had said it. It sounded like Molina, but he couldn’t be sure, and he couldn’t see either one of them.

  “They’re fucking everywhere, man. We need to get the fuck out of here,” yelled a Marine.

  To his right, a grotesque head rose up from the floor, grabbing a Marine and pulling her down. Lowry dove, tossing his rifle and grabbing her arm just in time, holding on for dear life as the woman looked at him with wide-eyed terror. He could feel his grip slipping as a second Marine dropped to his knee and grabbed her other arm with both hands.

  “Oh no you don’t,” exclaimed the Marine as he strained to pull the woman out of the creature’s grasp, but a single taloned hand reached up, and closed over her face. With a single hard yank, the woman was torn from their grip and vanished. Her screams fading as he was dragged to her doom. Lowry exchanged a horrified look with the other Marine, only to see the man spasm as a huge black blade, the stinger of a xenomorph tail, erupted from his chest plate, soaking Lowry in a shower of blood before it pulled back, dragging the man up into the plenum.

  “They’re in the ceiling,” he screamed as he fired a volley in the general direction of where he thought the creature was, and felt a moment of guilt and disgust as he caught himself hoping he hit the man as well. He saw another Marine fire as a xeno launched itself at him. The blast blew it to pieces, but it was too late. Too close. The main raised his arms to shield himself as a spray of acid peppered his armour and began to sizzle. Desperately, the Marine frantically unclipped his armour as he grunted in pain, dropping the smoking armour to the floor as it continued to dissolve.

  More xenos dropped from the ceiling, only to throw themselves headlong into the fray at close range. They weren’t even trying to capture them anymore. Their assault had taken the form of kamikaze-style attacks. The acid. They just want us dead now, Lowry realised. Eliminate the threat, then they could capture the civilians for the hive…

  “Fall back to the barracks,” roared Heller in-between bursts of pulse rifle fire. “Stay low. Aim low. Shoot of the legs. Disable them,” he ordered.

  Lowry turned in the direction of the barracks just as a whip-like tail slashed across his chest, his armour saving him from being cut open like tin can, and knocking him to the floor. The xenomorph dropped from the ceiling, pinning him down. It was his first close up look at one, and it was even worse than he imagined. Massive, yet lithe. Disjointed, spindly limbs, razor-sharp claws, and an elongated, eyeless head. Its tight lips peeled back, exposing silvery teeth and giving the creature a cruel, malevolent grin. He brought up his rifle, but he was right under it. He couldn’t fire. So instead, he kicked and punched at the creature with all of his strength. His boots smashing into the alien limbs hard. He might as well have been hitting a plastcrete wall.

  Frantically, he looked for anything he could use as a weapon that would not drown him in acid. Out of the corner of his right eye he saw Sergeant Heller take aim at the creature, and hesitate. He knew. The big man flipped his rifle in the air and grabbed it by the barrel before charging at the xenomorph, wielding the rifle like a club. Fuelled by rage and with a swing that would have killed a human, he brought the weapon down on the creature’s skull so hard it bent the frame.

  The alien let out a piercing inhuman shriek as a drip of sickly yellow dripped down the side of its head, and it spun to face its assailant, completely forgetting about Lowry. Grabbing the sergeant by his shoulder plates it slammed him to the wall, claws digging into the metal as its face leered half a foot above even his. Its lips peeled back and the teeth parted, and a vicious set of inner jaws shot forward like a piston. With lightning reflexes that belied a man his size, the sergeant was able to move just enough to dodge the appendage, but he could not break free of its grip. A second lunge, and again he dodged.

  “Sarge, I don’t have a clear shot,” yelled Lowry as he retrieved his rifle.

  The jaws shot forward a third time, but this time he was ready for it. The sergeant grabbed the jaws with his free hand, gripped its throat with the other, and pulled. Hard. There was a sickening snap, and the big man ripped the inner jaws from its mouth as acid blood poured forth, but most of it landed at his feet. The alien tossed him away like a ragdoll as it unleashed an ear splitting skreich of pain. Seeing his chance, Lowry opened fire, blasting the beast to pieces. He looked to his sergeant and cried out as he saw three more aliens swarm the man.

  “Sarge!” he cried as they dragged him down into the floor. Heller struggled, trying to wrench himself free as the claws raked over his armour. Three men could not have restrained him. But the xenomorphs were inhumanly strong, and even he was no match for them.

  “Get out of here,” roared Heller as he pulled a grenade and popped the cap before vanishing.

  “Fire in the hole,” yelled a Marine as they dove for cover.

  A second later the ops centre was rocked by the explosion. Lowry was knocked to the floor as the deafening blast wave hit them, and his world went silent. Floor panels were launched into the air and fire erupted from two dozen acid eaten craters. He came to, dazed as he saw an alien seize a Marine from behind, punching its pharyngeal jaws through the back of his skull and out through his face in a burst of gore before it was gunned down. The ringing tinnitus in his ears bringing a surreal unreality to the carnage.

  Out of the burning smoke a Marine grabbed his shoulders with both hands, screaming words he could not hear. It was Jennings. His face was black with dust and ash and slick with panicked sweat.

  “…arge? Wh…is…arge?”

  “What?” asked Lowry, the ringing in his ears finally beginning to fade.

  “I said where is the Sarge?” Jennings cried.

  “He’s gone. The Sarge is gone,” said Lowry quietly. Still too numb to process as he adjusted his helmet.

  “What are our orders?” yelled a Marine.

  “All units. Abandon Ops. Fall back,” hollered Sanchez, his own rifle mowing down one alien after another in a hail of plasma fire. “Jennings, get on the other side of that door, and seal it. Don’t wait for me.”

  “Sir,” Jennings implored.

  “That’s an order, Corporal. Move!”

*

  Everyone held their breath as they listened to the distant sound of screams and gunfire. With four hundred civilians jammed into a space meant to hold half of that, there was nowhere to hide, and everyone knew what it meant if the xenomorphs made it passed the Marines in Ops. But there was nothing anyone could do but sit and wait, and hope that the Marines prevailed. About twenty Marines had escorted them, gesturing for everyone to stay low and quiet, but as the sounds of the war raged just a few corridors away, a single squad felt woefully inadequate.

  Angel strained to hear a hushed conversation between two Marines. She did not know what ranks their insignia patches denoted, or quite make out what was being said, but the meaning was clear based on body language alone. The younger Marine was imploring the other, probably his sergeant, to join the melee in Ops, and was being rebuffed. She felt a sudden pang of guilt at that, for being relief that the Marines were staying to guard them while their compatriots fought and died down the hall, but inadequate as it was, twenty armed Marines were not nothing.

  There was a piercing scream, somewhere off to the far side, closer to the east door. Although she was at the opposite end of the room, she instinctively backed up, watching as a panicked mob formed around the origin point of the sound. It was hard to see in the dark red light, but there seemed to be some kind of struggle. More screams, a metal crash, and this time it was punctuated by the short burst of pulse rifle fire. The whole barracks erupted into chaos as floor panels were launched into the air, and huge, black nightmare shapes leapt from the pits. People ran blind, screaming, only for a gaping hole to open beneath them and drag them down. Angel stood frozen, watching as dozens of people vanished through the floor, carried off by grotesque, biomechanical demons. Tall, lithe, predatory, like some fever dream amalgamation of a raptor and wasp. Oh God, she thought to herself, are these what they had been taking out of her? Using her body as an incubator to breed these…things. She watched as a woman was effortlessly pulled up into the rafters, her legs flailing. A massive, bladed tail punched through a Marine’s neck, the tip erupting from his mouth. His death spasm causing his pulse rifle to jerk, and a civilian was blown to pieces in a spray of hellfire. More shapes dropped from the ceiling. Dozens of them. Too many to count.

  She turned and ran, half-expecting spidery black hands to descend from the ceiling at any moment, claws digging into her flesh, as the screams, gunfire and alien cries of pain drowned out everything else. Rounding the corner, she burst into the women’s restroom. Her sanctuary. It was dark, but she could still just about see where she was going. More importantly, it was empty. Diving into a random stall, she slammed the door shut and locked it. A tiny metal snib the only thing holding it in place. She sat on the cistern, pulling her feet up on to the seat as she curled into a ball, pressing against the cold tiles, as if she could just melt into them if only she pressed hard enough.

  “Is someone there?” came a small voice from the neighbouring stall.

  Angel froze.

  “Please, is someone there?” asked the voice again, pleading.

  “Be quiet,” whispered Angel.

  “They got him. Oh God, they got him,” mumbled the voice, dripping with barely contained hysteria.

  “Shut up,” Angel hissed.

  There was a crash as a metal ceiling vent cover felt to the floor. Angel’s heart began to race as she felt more than heard the creature descend from the ceiling. Wide-eyed as she clasped both hands over her mouth, she watched the crest of the elongated head appear above the top of the door as the alien stood to its full height. Had this one came out of her? Could it sense her? Some kind of instinct driving it to reunite with its “mother”?

  The creature let out a long, slow hiss before it began skulking around the restroom. Investigating, searching. Its heavy footfalls terrifying as Angel used every ounce of strength not to scream. Its wicked tail appearing beneath the door as it snaked along behind the creature. Another hiss, and the crested head reappeared on the other side of her stall door. Barely a centimetre of cheap plastic between her and the creature, its clawed feet visible through the gap between door and floor.

  Tears streamed from her eyes and she squeezed her hands tighter as the alien pressed against the door. Testing it. She had no doubt it could tear it apart like tissue paper if it wanted to. Go away, she pleaded silently. Go away. But the feet did not move, and the door rattled hard as the creature tried the door again, more forcefully this time. A hiss, and the door began to shake violently, the plastic and hinges audibly cracking they began to give.

  Angel felt sick as slowly, silently, she slipped off one of her white sneakers. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she repeated to herself, and she tossed the shoe over the divider into the other stall. It landed with a quiet thud, and in her surprise the woman let out the tiniest of gasps. The alien screeched in rage, and Angel closed her eyes tight as she listened to the creature tear the door off the other stall. The woman let out a blood curling scream before the wall was rocked again and again by the fury of the attack. The scream died, replaced by a wet gurgle.

  I’m sorry, Angel repeated like a mantra, and she tried not to wretch as an expanding pull of blood spread across the floor, creeping into her stall. There was the sound of something heavy and wet being dragged across the tiled floor, followed by the clang of metal as the creature leapt back up into the airshaft, dragging its gruesome prize. Angel listened as the rapping of its claws grew fainter and fainter, but still did not dare move. Did not dare make a sound. Curled up in the bathroom stall, all she could do was hope it did not come back for her. She did not ask for forgiveness.

*

  The barracks was in chaos as civilians disappeared left and right, pulled down into the sub-flooring or up into the ceiling void. The staccato strobe of pulse rifle fire gave brief flashes of screeching black demons as they pounced on their defenceless prey. Morse kept low, ducking behind cots, but the damn things were coming from everywhere.

  A long, whip-like tail descended from the ceiling. Positioning itself behind a Marine, he did not see it coming as one quick slash decapitated him, and the headless corpse fell lifelessly to the floor. Morse spied the Marine’s pulse rifle dropping next to the body, momentarily debating whether or not to make a move for it. The xenos seemed to prioritise the armed Marines, but it didn’t stop them from snatching unarmed civilians by the dozen. Fuck it, he thought to himself. He wasn’t going out like a pussy, and he dove for the rifle, rolling on to his feet in one smooth motion. An alien dropped from the ceiling, and his pulse rifle roared as he blasted it in a hail of bullets. Hell yeah, he thought to himself.

  “Yo,” someone called from behind. He spun to see Santino, his chest heaving and stolen carbine in hand.

  “Watch my back,” demanded Morse as he let it rip with the carbine. He probably hit a civilian, maybe two, but too bad for them. No way was he gonna play momma to one of those fucking things. If that meant a few civilians had to bite the big one, tough shit for them. They shouldn’t have been in the way.

  “Behind you,” yelled Santino as he shouldered Morse out of the way, unloading into a leaping alien. But Santino did not see the alien skitter like a spider across the ceiling, dropping down on him like a giant bat, slamming him to the floor.

  “Get this fucking thing off of me,” he screamed as the alien clawed at his armour. Morse aimed down the sights.

  “No, wait!” screamed the pinned merc, but Morse unloaded a burst of ten-millimetre caseless rounds into the creature’s carapace. Shards of slick black chitin and sickly yellow acid blood gushed as the alien’s body tore apart, drenching him completely. He screamed in agony as the acid ate through his cheeks, teeth and eyes. His outstretched arm reached for Morse; bone visible where the fingers had already been eaten away. The screaming stopped as the acid reached his larynx, but he continued to thrash and moan as the acid took a second to eat through his chest armour. The outstretched arm fell as it melted off completely, and mercifully he finally stopped struggling as blood bubbled up through the holes in his armour.

  “Sorry, mate,” said Morse as he watched the whole boiling mess of alien corpse and melted human folded in on itself and began to sink into the floor, “just the cards you were dealt.”

  The gunfire was dying down as Morse backed up. Sizzling acrid smoke from what was left of Santino burned at his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Lone Marines here and there continuing their valiant last stand as the xenos continued their relentless assault, but the humans were taking heavy casualties. He had to get out of here. Too late he saw the xeno leaping towards him, mid-scream, arms outstretched, only for the creature to die shrieking as it was pummelled by purple plasma fire. It collapsed in a heap barely a metre from him, the sealing effect of the plasma saving him from a gruesome death. He looked up to see Jennings, the barrel of his rifle still smoking, as he gave the merc a slight nod.

  “This changes nothing, Soldier Boy,” said Morse. Jennings said nothing, turning his attention to the civilians. Prick, Morse seethed. His time would come, and boy would he enjoy it. But right now, they had other problems.

*

  “That’s an order, Corporal. Move!” barked Sanchez as the last of the Marines retreated. The Ops centre was filled with burning smoke from gunfire and acid melted steel and plastcrete. Combined with the dark red of the emergency lights it was almost impossible to see beyond a couple of metres. He struggled to see moving shapes in the fog, firing wildly into the din. A piercing shriek confirmed he had hit his mark, but whether or not he had killed it, he could not be sure.

  A black bladed tail slashed at him from above, sending sparks flying as it raked across his chest plate, knocking him to the floor. He sat up to see a bleeding xenomorph drop from the ceiling, landing at his feet. He aimed his plasma rifle and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  The sound was deafening in the sudden silence. Sanchez felt the bottom fall out of his stomach as the weapon clicked empty. The alien seemed to grin at him, as if it understood its prey’s newfound helplessness. Crawling on all fours, it slowly put one hand forward, and then another. Drool poured profusely from its mouth. Its lips pulled back in a snarl, savouring the kill. Drops of acid dripped on to the floor, sizzling away. The creature opened its mouth and extended its secondary jaws menacingly as it closed the distance between them. He took a breath, and steeled himself for the inevitable. Locking eyes on the chitinous black carapace. If this was it, he wanted to see it coming.

  With a sudden, violent snap the xenomorph was yanked backwards. Its head wrenched left, then right, before being torn completely off. A fountain of acid blood spewed from the headless corpse, but was redirected away from him, and the severed head was casually tossed to one side.

  He froze as the air shimmered, and the yautja decloaked, materialising barely two metres away from him. A towering vision of hell itself, the top of its head almost reached what was left of the ceiling. It made no move towards him. Instead, it seemed to study him. Its expression inscrutable, hidden behind an angular metallic mask, and framed by a ring of fleshy dreadlock-like appendages. It wore the typical armour of a yautja, leaving most of the torso and thighs exposed except for a crisscross of netting and…scars. Old scars. Very old. Ugly, extensive, and covering the entirety of the left torso and thigh. Wounds that had been stitched and cauterised without any consideration for pain or aesthetics. Sanchez knew explosives and shrapnel damage when he saw it, except no human could have survived such horrific injuries.

  No, he thought to himself as cold realisation struck him. No, it can’t be. It wasn’t possible…

  The yautja raised its left arm, punching buttons on its wrist gauntlet with its right, and a sound came from behind the mask. A voice. A human voice. A recording.

  “Mijo, help me!” cried the voice.

  He felt the blood drain from his face and the world began to spin. A dizzying sense of vertigo that made him nauseous. No, no, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Could not…

  A gunshot rang out, and the yautja flinched as the round ricocheted off of its mask. It spun with a roar as a second round pinged off the mask, and a third. Sanchez watched as Watson emerged from the smoke, sidearm drawn.

  “Run, sir,” he said with a calm that only a synthetic could manage as he fired off another round, but this time the yautja dodged it. With inhuman speed it moved to grab Watson’s gun hand. With equally impossible reflexes Watson dropped the gun and caught it by the wrist, his knees buckling under the impact, but it was a feint by the yautja. Watson had overcommitted, and with its other hand the yautja brought down its blades, slicing off Watson’s right hand before ramming them into his abdomen. Milky white synthetic fluid leaked from his stump of an arm and soaked his coveralls as the crumpled body was hoisted into the air and tossed like a ragdoll.

  Transfixed by the nightmare in front of him, he did not see the pair of hands reach down and grab his shoulders. Sanchez startled. Human hands, and a human voice.

  “Sir, we need to go. Now!” screamed Corporal Jennings. The young man hauled him to his feet in one swift move and half-dragged him in the direction of the barracks. Sanchez did not turn around, but he knew the yautja was not pursuing them.

*

  Jennings stumbled into the barracks; the colonel’s weight heavy across his shoulders. The screaming had stopped. No more gunfire. No more shrieking beasts. Just the wet coughs and muted cries of the wounded, and the creaking groan of cooling metal. He leaned the old man against the wall and slammed the door shut. No way it would stop the thing he had seen in Ops, but it made him feel better. Hands shaking with adrenaline, he took out his pocket laser welder.

  “He’s not coming,” said the colonel, catching his breath.

  “Respectfully, sir, you don’t know that,” said Jennings.

  “Trust me, son. If he wanted us both dead, we would be.”

  Jennings was not entirely convinced, but did not question it further and pocketed the welder.

  “Are you alright, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” said Sanchez as he straightened, placing a hand on Jennings’ shoulder. Probably more for balance than comfort. “I thought I gave you a direct order to abandon Operations?”

  Jennings stiffened. “That is correct, sir. You did,” he said nervously. The old man smiled dryly as he patted him on the shoulder, before turning his attention to the room. With the emergency lighting and the smoke, it was impossible to see very much.

  “Someone give me a goddamn sit-rep,” he demanded, regaining his composure.

  Two shapes cut through the haze. It was Molina and Lowry. Coughing, bruised, covered in sweat and soot, but alive.

  “It’s fubar, sir. Bastards came through the floor and the ceiling. No way to hold a line or field of fire. Goddamn free-for all,” explained Molina.

  “They got Sergeant Heller,” added Lowry quietly.

  “It was a trap, wasn’t it,” said Jennings. “The whole attack on Ops was a distraction. This is what they wanted.” A heavy silence descended over the group. He was right. They all knew it. They had underestimated the xenomorphs. Again.

  “Corporal,” said Sanchez, addressing Jennings. “You have casualties to locate. You two, go with him, and whatever is left of Charlie Squad. Set up a triage unit. Find Doc McTaggart if you can, and anyone else with medical training. If you see Sergeants Williams or Davis, tell them to find me. Get to work,” he demanded before stomping off to speak to another Marine. “I want some lights on in here, now,” he hollered.

  “We beat them back, but it doesn’t feel like we won,” said Lowry quietly, his voice thick with melancholy.

  “We didn’t beat them. They just got what they came for,” said Jennings flatly, glancing up at the gaping holes in the ceiling. “They’ll be back.”

Chapter Text

  The last six hours since the attack had been a blur as Marines frantically worked to secure the perimeter. In the harsh bright light, the true extent of the damage was apparent. The ceiling was mostly gone. The floor was worse. The spots where xenomorphs had died had left gaping craters that went straight through two decks and into the foundations. Plate steel was welded across the largest holes, and the smaller ones they filled in however they could. Anything you could fit your hand in. That was the rule. He had never actually seen one, but he knew xenomorphs had a precursor form, and they were just as deadly as the adults.

  Despite the sweat running down the back of his neck from exertion, he was cold. They had sealed the biggest gaps, but a freezing outside breeze still penetrated. Some of the civilians clutched blankets around themselves, although they did not have enough to go around. To make matters worse, they had been forced to crank the ventilation to maximum, before the fumes from the corroded metal permanently damaged their lungs.

  They had erected a curtain at the far end of the barracks to create a makeshift triage area, and he felt a pang of guilt as he looked at the several rows of hastily covered bodies that now lined the wall. It was his fault. All his fault. He pushed through the curtain into the improvised “hospital”, which was little more than two rows of beds, all occupied by bloodied and broken civilians. Some conscious, some not, and a ragged looking Doctor McTaggart hopped from one bed to the next as she singlehandedly tended to more than two dozen patients. She did not acknowledge him, and he did not interrupt. He was just glad to see her still alive. It took him a second to notice the figure seated in the corner.

  “Mr Watson?”

  The synthetic looked up, and Sanchez could not be sure, but the faintest hint of a smile seemed to twitch across his bloodless lips. He was shirtless, and awkwardly trying to use surgical staples to seal two savage twin gashes across his abdomen with his remaining hand.

  “Do you need any help?” he asked gently. He would never have thought it possible, but he was genuinely glad to see the android.

  “Yes, please,” said Watson. “If you could hold the wound closed that would be most helpful.”

  Sanchez knelt, pinching the edges of the gash closed with his fingers while Watson stapled it in place. It was unnerving how much like real skin it felt. If not for the milky white flesh showing through, he would never have thought otherwise.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said.

  “If I were human, I would be,” said Watson. His tone was matter-of-fact, but it contained the barest intimation of what almost sounded like relief.

  “You’ll be okay?”

  “I underestimated the yautja’s strength. The damage is severe, and I will require extensive repairs once we return to Gateway Station. However, I remain sixty-eight percent functional, and I can continue to operate at this level indefinitely. Hold here, please.”

  Sanchez was more relieved than he cared to admit. Synthetic or not, Watson had almost given his life to save him.

  “You saved my life.”

  “It’s what I am programmed for, sir,” said the android. “But your gratitude is appreciated.”

  “Does it hurt?” asked Sanchez, and for the first time, Watson actually looked touched. The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

  “My body is equipped with an extensive network of artificial nerves. I am capable of experiencing what a human would call “pain”. However, I have disabled this function for the time being. No, Colonel, it does not hurt.”

  “Goddamn synthetics,” swore a civilian in the adjacent cot. White surgical burn wraps covered half of his torso and face, including one eye.

  “I prefer the term “artificial person” myself,” said Watson, sounding almost wounded.

  “Colonel Sanchez, sir,” Corporal Jennings announced himself, datapad in hand. “I have that, er, report you were asking for.”

  Sanchez appreciated the corporal’s tact. He knew exactly what the report was. He gave Watson a quick glance.

  “I can complete the rest of the repairs on my own, sir. Thank you for your assistance.”

  He took the young man off to one side, ensuring they were out of earshot.

  “Just give me the short version, Corporal. How many?” he demanded.

  “Amongst the Marines; six missing. Seventeen KIA,” said Jennings.

  Sanchez felt his jaw clench but kept his composure. That had been worse than he was expecting. A lot worse.

  “Sloan lost two of his,” Jennings continued. “For the civilians we’ve got nine dead and twenty-nine wounded. Eleven seriously. Doctor McTaggart is not optimistic about those ones, and…” he hesitated, “one hundred and fifty-three missing.”

  “Madre de Dios,” muttered Sanchez. “What about Sergeants Williams and Davis?”

  “They are on the list, sir,” said Jennings.

  “Corporal, are you telling me that all of my NCOs are missing or dead?” he demanded.

  Jennings did not flinch. “Yes, sir.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “At least tell me we are close to figuring out just how the hell they got in here in the first place?”

  “We’re still investigating, sir. We should have answers soon,” said Jennings.

  Sanchez let out an exasperated sigh. “Please ensure that Ms Nyugen gets a copy of this list. These are her people too.”

  Jennings looked at his feet. “She is also on the list, sir.”

  He took a slow, deep breath. “Understood. Give it to Watson, and Corporal? Report to my office in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jennings saluted. He returned the salute and dismissed him before heading to the restroom.

  He was relieved to find it deserted. The lights flickering but enough to see by. Running the tap, he splashed cold water on his face, allowing the sudden shock to focus his attention. Gripping the sides of the sink he looked into the mirror, and saw a tired old man looking back at him. More than three-hundred people dead, because of him. All over something that happened almost half a century ago. There was only one thing left to do, and may God have mercy on his soul.

*

  Jennings stood outside the colonel’s office. He did not know why he had been summoned, but the colonel seemed more pissed than usual. He had every right to be, he reasoned, but wondered what he had done to draw the commander’s ire. Heller had chewed him out once or twice, but being chewed out by the sarge, and being chewed out by a senior officer were two very different things. Last time he had been called to this office, it had been over that fight in the canteen. This felt different. He took a breath, steeled himself, and knocked.

  “Come in,” shouted Colonel Sanchez.

  Jennings entered. The colonel stood with his back turned, hands clasped behind his back. He closed the door behind him and stood at attention in front of the desk.

  “Corporal Jennings reporting as ordered, sir,” he said, hiding his nervousness behind a mask of military stoicism.

  “At ease, Corporal,” said the colonel, turning to face him. Jennings stood to parade rest, but he was far from at ease. “How long have you been stationed here?”

  “About sixteen months, sir,” said Jennings.

  “Then you knew Master Sergeant Heller quite well. What was your opinion of the man?” asked Sanchez, his expression neutral.

  Jennings tried to hide his surprise. He certainly had not expected questions about the sergeant, but now he felt the absence more than ever. “He was the best sarge any Marine could ever hope to serve under, sir.”

  “I agree,” said Sanchez. “I’ve been in the Corps twice as long as you’ve been alive, son, and he was the finest NCO I’ve known.”

  “He was irreplaceable, sir,” Jennings concurred, unsure where this was going.

  “Yes, he was,” the colonel said quietly with a nod, seemingly more to himself before he did a slow walk around the front of his desk, bringing them face to face. He was shorter than Jennings, but there was an intensity behind his eyes. The weight of years and experience that Jennings did not have.

  “Do you think you could ever fill the role that he did? Could you lead, as he did?” asked the colonel.

  He let the question hang in the air, allowing him time to consider his answer carefully.

  “I…I don’t know, sir,” said Jennings hesitantly.

  A hint of a dry smile appeared on the old man’s cracked lips, and Jennings wondered if he had just passed some kind of unspoken test. Was that the answer he had been hoping to hear?

  “Master Sergeant Heller is gone. As are Sergeant Williams and Sergeant Davis. I need a clear second-in-command, and you’re it, Sergeant Jennings. As of now, you are Acting NCOIC.”

  Jennings was in shock. This was everything he had ever wanted, but now that he had it, it did not feel like a victory. He hadn’t earned it. He had only been in the Corps for five years. Heller had been in longer than he had been alive.

  “I don’t think I’m ready, sir,” he said earnestly.

  The old man smiled, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “No one ever is, son.” 

  With that, he walked back around to the other side of his desk. Jennings started to speak, but thought better of it.

  “Was there something else, Sergeant?” asked Sanchez, and Jennings silently chided himself.

  “Sir, I…,” he stammered. It had all been so much so fast, he scarcely knew where to begin, but he could not contain it any longer. “Sir, back in Ops. The yautja. It made you. I mean, it knew you. As my first official act as Acting NCOIC I have to ask, sir…just what the hell is going on?”

  Sanchez sighed as he leaned on his desk with both palms. Jennings had expected him to be angry at the question, even reprimand him for insubordination, but rather he seemed saddened by it. Or ashamed.

  “That does deserve an explanation,” he said, lowering himself into his chair. “I’ve been racking my brain for the past week trying to figure out why that son of a bitch was here, and no answer I could come up with made any sense. Turns out, it was staring me in the face all along. It was so obvious,” he said as he unconsciously rubbed at his left forearm.

  He paused, and Jennings did not dare interrupt as the man took a second to compose himself, almost as if saying it aloud would give it form.

  “He’s here for me.”

Chapter Text

Colonial Marines F.O.B “Camp Juno”

Approx. 65 miles west of Jakara, Indonesia

August 19^th, 2193

  Sweat trickled down his back, plastering his shirt to his skin. This damn heat, you could cut it with a knife. The relentless jungle sun was already oppressive, and it wasn’t even midday. The humidity was even worse. It was cloying, inescapable. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he bent to pick up the next crate of munitions. He would have been done already if he had used the loader, but McCaffery wanted it done by hand. The Colonial Marines long range reconnaissance teams were the elite, they didn’t rely on conveniences or technology, or so McCaffery insisted. So here he was, in sweltering jungle heat and humidity that defied all laws of nature, very “elitely” moving crates from truck to pallet by hand.

  “Ten-hut!” barked a voice from over his shoulder, and Private Sanchez almost dropped the crate on his toes as he snapped to attention. A rush of sweat that was nothing to do with the heat joined the rest as he stood frozen in place until the unseen figure casually strolled into his field of view.

  “Pendejo” he swore as he half-heartedly shoved his friend. “You nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack.”

  “Is that insubordination, Private?” said Danny, sporting a stupid grin. “We can add striking a superior officer to the list of charges. You’re looking at a full court martial.”

  Only a few months older, Danny Alvarez had grown up in a town only fifty or so miles from Sanchez, and had gone through Basic at the same boot camp. The two had become instant friends. They had both been overjoyed when their orders came down and they found out they were both being assigned to the same LRS team. Danny had been promoted to lance corporal a week ago, making him officially the second-lowest-ranked member of the unit. Right above Sanchez. A fact which he had taken every available opportunity to tease him about. He was happy to see his friend get promoted, but he would be lying if he said he was not just a little bit jealous.

  “You can court martial me after I get these crates stowed for aerial transport, otherwise McCaffery will have my ass, and yours, so give me a hand” he said as he grabbed one end.

  “I don’t think that’s appropriate work for an NCO” said Danny, feigning indignation.

  “Just help me, asshole.”

  Danny laughed as he relented and, grabbing an end, helped Sanchez load the crate. With the two of them, things went more quickly. Within thirty minutes the last pallet was fully loaded and Sanchez waved to the rig master to signal that he was done.

  “Gracias a Dios that’s done,” said Sanchez, catching his breath. The sun had risen in the cloudless sky and it was now almost high noon. Its rays weighing on him like a backpack made of hot lead.

  “Yeah, and you know what that means? It’s Miller time.”

  Sanchez snorted. “You wish. Underage drinking on base? Sarge would have us strung up by the cojones. Nah, we’d better check in see what else he wants us doing.”

  Danny smiled a mischievous grin. “The captain didn’t, specifically, order you to check in with him once you finished loading the pallets, did he?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Then let’s go. Come on, mijo, I’m sweating my balls off out here. Let’s go get a drink. You can get a lemonade. I’ll get you a little umbrella for it and everything.”

  “Attention, Vulture Six,” the harsh voice of Captain McCaffery boomed over the PA. “Report to Briefing Room 7. Ten minutes.”

  The two boys exchanged a nervous glance.

  “I guess that drink will need to wait” said Sanchez as they headed for the briefing.

*

  The boys entered the small briefing room as Captain McCaffery stood next to an old-fashioned projector. His blank, serious expression and cold grey eyes gave nothing away. The only noise coming from the whirr of the small metal ceiling fan in the corner that meekly tried to combat the sweltering heat. It was not quite so oppressive indoors, but even in here everyone’s brows were thick with sweat. Despite still being a few minutes early, they were the last to arrive, and the only available seats were in the front row. It was closer than they would have liked, and they sheepishly filed in, careful to avoid eye contact with McCaffery.

  “Gentlemen, glad you could join us,” he said sarcastically. As usual, Sanchez noted the captain’s accent. Or rather, his lack of one. He had an ear for languages and accents, and beyond generic “American”, the captain had no trace of a regional inflection in his voice. A lifetime in the Colonial Marines would do that. But it also gave the captain a certain lack of affect that made his skin crawl.

  “Orders came down from Command. Intel has confirmed the location of one Doctor Vasili Toptunov,” he pressed a clicker and the projector screen lit up with the image of a middle-aged man in glasses. The captain was nothing if not consistent, thought Sanchez. “The good doctor doesn’t know it yet, but he has decided he is going to work for us. We have it on good information that the doctor is operating in a small forward operating base here.” The screen went black, then lit up with an aerial view of green jungle canopy, with a tiny light brown square cut out of it.

  “This was taken above Thailand, so it is deep inside UPP territory. All intel shows that this base is tiny, only about a hundred metres on each side. It’s lightly guarded and is manned by a skeleton crew, meaning we have a golden opportunity. This is a snatch and bag, gentlemen, simple as that. A one-day operation. We go in, sit the doc down and have a friendly chat with him about why he should work for the USCM, and get out. We are wheels up at nineteen-hundred hours. I want full weapons strip and equipment check completed by seventeen-hundred.”

  “What if the doc doesn’t want to come with us?” whispered Danny. Sanchez responded by elbowing him in the ribs.

  “Then convince him, Corporal,” snapped the captain, and Danny turned pale. “Any other stupid questions?”

  “Sir,” Sanchez began, immediately regretting it as he realised what he had just owned up to, but it was too late, “what is the doctor’s field of expertise?”

  “That’s classified “need to know”, Private, and you don’t need to know.” That had been a more civil response than he had been expecting.

  “Sir, what’s our infil-exfil strategy?” asked Sarge.

  “We’re going in low and quiet. We’ll be taking one of the new hypersonic stealth skiffs. The flyboys will drop us off about ten clicks south of the base. Tree cover means we cannot properly recon their surface-to-air capability, so that’s a close as we can risk getting. We proceed on foot, and should reach the base by morning. Our exfil is here,” he gestured with his finger. “The river another nine clicks east. The river bank is the only place clear enough that the dropship can come in low enough for a hot pickup. We need to be there by sundown.”

  Straightforward enough, Sanchez thought to himself. It might even be fun.

  “Sir,” this was Spook, “rules of engagement?”

  “Everyone of military age who is not us is to be considered hostile. We need the doctor alive. All other base personnel are expendable,” said the captain matter-of-factly.

  “Jesus, let’s hope we don’t run into some rice farmer out walking his goat,” whispered Danny, prompting another elbow in the ribs.

  “I repeat, everyone not us is expendable,” growled McCaffery. “The UPP boys don’t always wear uniforms, and they recruit young. Someone sees us, we take them out. No exceptions. We were never there. Do I make myself clear?” the ice in the captain’s voice made Sanchez’s blood run cold. A weak “yessir” was all Danny could manage.

  Sanchez remained quiet. He had never even fired a weapon outside of a training environment. Although he had known one day he might have to point it at a person, he had never given it much thought until now. The notion that he might have to point it at an unarmed civilian…

  “If there’s no further questions, dismissed. You all know the routine, so get to work. Sergeant Foster, I want everyone on the line at eighteen-thirty hours.”

  Everyone left without another word.

*

  The air buzzed with unspoken anticipation. With the eight of them crammed into the tight confines of the skiff’s personnel bay, it wasn’t exactly comfortable. Especially not in full recon gear, but he didn’t care. Besides, it was a short flight. McCaffery hadn’t been lying about the new hypersonics. The skiff had made the three-thousand-kilometre trip in under two hours. He looked around at everyone’s faces, all older than his, except for Danny’s, and while everyone seemed nonchalant as they checked their weapon again or fidgeted with a cigarette, he could feel the tension. A few wore masks, preferring that to the camo paint he had used to cover his face, but he still knew everyone by name, rank and callsign, and trusted them completely. He would be fine. He had their back, and they had his.

  Everyone was seated except Captain McCaffery, who paced up and down while an old-style stereo blared some twentieth century rock music Sanchez had never heard of. Although he had to admit, it was having the desired effect. Maybe he would look it up when they got back.

  “Man, I’m dying for a piss,” complained Danny.

  “You should have thought of that before we left. Go on ask the cap if he’ll lower the loading ramp for you,” egged Sanchez with a grin, fairly confident that McCaffery couldn’t hear them over the music and the engines as long as he kept his voice low.

  “You know what, I’ll hold it,” said Danny.

  “Go on, ask him nicely he might even hold it for you,” pressed Sanchez, his grin widening.

  It was his turn to get an elbow in the ribs, and both laughed, but immediately cut it short when the captain turned to walk back down the aisle. He settled back into his seat, nervously rubbing his hands as the levity instantly evaporated.

  “Nervous, rookie?” asked Red, the team medic, who was seated across from him.

  “No, not at all, sir,” he said with unconvincing forced bravado.

  “He’s about to have kittens,” Danny interjected. “Was it an immaculate conception? It’s a good thing you’re here, sir, I wouldn’t know what to do if we went into labour.”

  “Sir, if Corporal Joker here should get his ass bit by a venomous snake, I recommend we leave him.”

  Red smiled. “No one is getting left behind. It’s a first drop for both of you. Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”

  Sanchez appreciated that. He didn’t know how Red knew it was his first drop, or Danny’s, but he was not about to turn down the offer of support. Maybe it really was just written all over his face.

  “Ten minutes to drop point,” barked McCaffery. “No talking from now on unless absolutely necessary. Suppressed weapons only,” he ordered as he killed the music. A moment later the lights in the cabin went out, the yellow overheads replaced with a deep red. There was a click, and the roar of the engines faded to little more than a whisper.

  This was it. No more training. This was the real deal. A few more minutes and he and his compatriots would be dropped in the middle of the jungle in the dead of night. He could not stop himself from grinning.

  A small green light came on above the loading ramp, and McCaffery gave the signal. He secured the clip to the safety line, and checked Danny’s while Danny checked his, and then Red checked both of them, while McCaffery made the gesture for “thirty seconds”. The ramp lowered, and the humid night air wafted in, hitting him like a wall of heat. Madre de dios, it was even worse here than it was in Jakarta. But even with the ramp open, the engines were barely more than the sound of a hairdryer. The Sarge and Spook were up first, abseiling out the back of the skiff and dropping out of sight. Red and Crow went second, the latter having to duck until he was clear of the skiff, which meant he and Danny were up next, with Reaper and the captain bringing up the rear.

  He inched closer to the end of the ramp, daring to peer over the edge. To his surprise, the skiff was almost skimming the top of the trees. A pat on the shoulder told him to go, and he stepped off into air. For a split second his stomach lurched into his throat, but almost immediately the brakes kicked in, and he silently slid down the cable through the canopy, and before he knew it his feet where on the ground. Red was there to greet him, lit cigarette already hanging from his lips. He gestured for him to be quiet as he expertly unhooked both the boys with practiced ease, and the cables disappeared as they were reeled back up into the skiff. In near silence, McCaffery and Reaper landed and did the same.

  “Package deployed,” the captain spoke into his headset. “Radio silence, out.”

  With barely a sound the skiff took off at a speed that was hard to follow. The moon was near full, and the entire forest was bathed in an eerie glow that gave it an almost otherworldly feel. The effect was immediately ruined as Sanchez pulled down his lenses, and suddenly the whole jungle was as brightly lit as a summer’s day, but with all of the colour bled out. Sarge gestured for a final equipment check, which took less than a minute, and Red snubbed out his cigarette. The sun would be up in about eight hours; with luck they would reach the outpost by then.

  “Private Sanchez,” whispered the captain, who seemed to just materialise by his side. “Give me a heading.”

  Sanchez fished in his pocket for his compass.

  “No,” said the captain.

  Sanchez gulped. No tech. He looked up, the colourless moon just visible through the canopy. Using that as a reference, he estimated the direction of “north”, gestured with his palm, and prayed he was correct.

  McCaffery looked satisfied. Turning to the rest of the unit, he made the gesture for “move out” and pointed in the same direction as Sanchez had just done. Moving silently, they vanished into the jungle.

*

  “What the hell happened here?” said Crow as they surveyed the destruction. The early morning sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt floor of the outpost, but the heat was already rising fast, and the smothering humidity with it.

  Finding the base had been simple enough. They had located it just before dawn, and had spent an hour scoping it out for signs of activity, sentries, exploitable weak points, and the most likely location of the target. In the end, they had just walked right through the front gate. No sentries, no guards, no alarms, not a single sign of a living human soul anywhere. Now, in the full light of day, it was obvious what had happened. Smoke still emanated from a dozen small fires that had almost burned out. Shell casings and empty magazines littered the ground. Tents and sheet-metal buildings were riddled with bullet holes. The sound of countless buzzing flies filled his ears. An acrid, metallic smell filled his nostrils, and it was not gunsmoke. The underlying smell of rot gave it away. It was blood, human blood, turning in the heat.

  “It was a firefight. We’ve got small arms damage here, here, here and here,” said Sarge, pointing out the damage in a slow circle. “They were shooting in all directions. Someone hit them hard. It was fast too. It doesn’t look like they were able to break out any of the heavy stuff, and all their vehicles are still parked.”

  “Whatever happened, looks like we just missed it,” added Red. “The humidity will keep the blood from drying out, but I’d say this is twenty-four hours. Thirty, at most.”

  “Night before last?” ventured Sanchez.

  “That fits,” agreed Red.

  “Enough,” barked McCaffery. “Intel shows there’s thirteen personnel on station including the package. They didn’t just vanish into thin air. This place isn’t that big. Find them. Crow, Spook, clean sweep. Red, Alvarez, locate their armoury and make sure all of the hardware is secure. Reaper, take the rookie and check out that hangar. Sergeant Foster and I will take that comms shed and see what intel we can find. If anyone sees anything, sound off. I want open comms at all times. Move out.”

*

  The whole outpost looked like it had been thrown up in a day or two. The hangar was the closest thing it had to an actual building. Even so, it was only big enough to house a few medium sized vehicles. There were not many places to hide, and this would be one of the few. He followed Reaper’s lead, and approached the building with his weapon ready.

  “We haven’t seen any bodies yet,” he said nervously.

  “Shut up,” growled Reaper quietly.

  He silently chastised himself for being an idiot. He was letting his nerves get the better of him. Reaper stopped a couple of metres short of the door, and waved for Sanchez to open it. He gripped the handle with both hands, nodded, and yanked the heavy door to one side in one smooth motion. The stench of rotting meat hit him like a wall, and he fought the urge to retch. The sound of the flies was deafening. There must have been millions. Even Reaper moved to cover his mouth with his free hand, taking a second to compose himself before silently slipping passed him into the hangar, weapon at the ready. Sanchez pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose and followed suit. He waved away stray flies but the swarm mostly ignored them. Small, square skylights permitted some daylight to leak in, and as his eyes adjusted, he got a better idea of the layout. A row of storage lockers ran down the left-hand side, and the rest of the space was mostly taken up by storage crates stacked three metres high. Right in front of him was a line of fly-infested blood forming a pool that stretched from wall to wall, turning a sickly brown in the jungle heat. He looked up, mainly to take his eyes off the pool of blood, and froze. Hanging from the rafters by their ankles, a line of almost a dozen wet, skinless human bodies hung like slabs of raw meat.

*

  “My God…,” whispered Sanchez, and Reaper gestured for him to be quiet. Crates and equipment created a lot of dark corners. They could not be sure they were alone. Reaper waved him left while he went right, and slipped out of sight. He kept his weapon tight to his shoulder and his finger on the trigger as he silently crept forward. His boots sticking to the floor as he crossed the pool of half-dried blood while his eyes scanned for any sign danger. The constant drone of the flies covered the sound of his footsteps, but there was something else. A faint whimper, somewhere off to his left. Coming from inside one of the lockers. Once he was sure he had the right one, he cautiously put one hand on the handle, holding his carbine at the ready with the other, and threw the door open.

  The man fell to the floor at his feet and he took a step back. He was mumbling in what sounded like Russian. The man looked up, pushing his thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. It was Toptunov. He looked exactly like his photo from the briefing.

  “What the hell is going on here, rookie?” demanded Reaper as reappeared from behind the crates, then looked down at the kneeling man, whose eyes frantically darted back and forth, oblivious to the pair of armed Marines. “Sir, we’ve got a positive ID on the target. He’s alive. Shaken, but he doesn’t look injured, and…we’ve found the rest of them.”

  “Doctor Toptunov?” asked Sanchez. “Do you speak English?” he asked slowly, careful to enunciate each syllable. If the doctor understood, he did not acknowledge the question. Reaper didn’t bother with the pleasantries.

  “On your feet, Doc,” he demanded as he grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him up, only to take three steps back as the doctor produced a large revolver from under his lab coat. Sanchez tensed.

  “Now Doctor, you lay that gun down,” said Reaper quietly, making a placating gesture with his hand, but Toptunov ignored him, and continued babbling in rapid-fire Russian. “I said drop it, Doc” he repeated, and this time the threat was there. English or not, the meaning was clear. This time the doctor did look up, and for the first time he acknowledged the two men. He continued to speak in quick, hushed tones, only now he seemed to be pleading with the them. Something in his tone seemed even more urgent. But he did not drop the gun.

  “Last chance, Doc. Drop the fucking gun,” growled Reaper, as he brought his carbine up to a low ready. Sanchez stood frozen, transfixed. The doctor’s eyes were mad with fear, but he did not think he was afraid of them. No, he was trying to tell them something. The doctors’ eyes went wide as he let out a terrified scream, bringing the gun up to fire, and managed to get a round off that went over their heads, before Reaper emptied half a magazine into his torso. The man dropped limply to the floor as Sanchez still stood frozen.

  “Contact report!” shouted McCaffery. “What the fuck just happened?”

  The captain was close enough now that they did not need to use their headsets. “He’s dead, sir. Crazy, he opened fire on us.” Reaper suddenly standing in front of him snapped him out of his trance, and before he could say anything the big man grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “Next time you freeze, I’ll fucking shoot you myself,” he whispered menacingly, and shoved him away in disgust.

  “Sergeant, what the hell is…,” the captain stormed in followed by Sarge, with the rest not far behind, but was cut short as he saw the hanging bodies.

  “I guess we know what happened to the crew,” said Reaper. “The doc was hiding in one of the lockers. He was armed and crazed. Tried to get him to stand down but, he didn’t leave us much choice,” he said unapologetically.

  “Shit,” spat the captain. “There will be questions when we get back, Reaper”.

  “Gave him every chance, sir. He even got a shot off. Private Sanchez will confirm everything.”

  Sanchez squirmed.

  “We’re missing two,” said Red. “Twelve personnel plus Toptunov. I make that ten hanging from the ceiling, plus the doc on the floor. That leaves two.”

  “They’re back there,” Reaper thumbed over his shoulder. “What’s left of them, anyway. They’ve been boned like fish. Looks to be a major and a staff sergeant, judging by their uniform insignia.”

  McCaffery sighed. “Did anyone else find anything?”

  “Nothing useful, sir,” answered Red. “But whatever they were doing here, it doesn’t add up. They’re packing all kinds of weird shit. Tranquiliser darts, nets, cages, full spectrum googles, anti-thermal stealth suits. It’s less a military operation than it is a goddamn safari. I think they were hunting something.”

  “Hunting what? Tigers?” asked Crow.

  “No, the dosages in those tranq darts would knock out a rhino. Plus, they’ve got serious firepower to go with it. Armor piercing rounds, plasma rifles, particle beams. They were hunting something a lot more dangerous.”

  “What about genetically-modified super tigers?” asked Danny, trying to inject some levity.

  “Knock it off, Joker,” snapped the Sarge.

  “It still doesn’t explain who did this,” said Crow. “It sure as hell wasn’t Colonial Marines. Pirates or an independent guerilla faction maybe, but that hardware would be worth a fortune on the black market. Whoever did this, wasn’t in it for the money.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said the captain. “Our mission was to secure Doctor Toptunov. The doctor is confirmed dead, along with all other base personnel. Who did it and why is immaterial. Spook, pull the memory core from the main computer in the comms shed, we’ll take that with us. Everyone else get ready to move. We’re out of here in five minutes.”

  The team dispersed, but Sanchez remained at the hangar, despite the smell and the gore. There was something about the doctor that just did not sit right with him. He went back to the body, and stood facing the door, exactly the way Toptunov had done. Sanchez estimated roughly where he and Reaper had been standing, and mimed a pistol with his finger and thumb. He was about the same height as the doctor, and raised his arm to what he thought was about the same angle as the doctor had done.

  He and Reaper had been standing less than three metres away. Point-blank range. A blind man could have made that shot. The angle went way over where their heads had been, even though Reaper was a few inches taller than he was. It was not even close. In fact, his finger was pointing directly at the satellite dish on the roof of the comms shed. He was willing to bet that if he was to check now, there would be a single neat bullet hole going right through it. The realisation hit him hard. Toptunov had not been aiming at them…

  “Snap out of it, mijo” hollered Danny as he slapped the door. “El Capo says “move out”. Vamanos.”

  “Yeah, I’m coming,” he said quietly, but he did not take his eyes off the roof of the shed. There had been something there. He was sure of it.

*

  The leaves of the canopy appeared black, silhouetted against a blood red sky as the setting sun sank below the horizon. The trek towards the riverbank had been harder than the previous night. The closer they got to the river, the thicker the jungle became, and with the river at the bottom of a shallow valley, the uneven ground slowed them down even more. With still a kilometre or so to go, they were cutting it fine. At least the night brought the cooler air with it, Sanchez thought to himself as he hacked away at the bush. The sweat pouring from his brow.

  “Pick up the pace, men,” ordered the Sarge. “The extraction team isn’t going to wait.”

  He also didn’t mention it was going to be pitch black in ten minutes, and the jungle would come alive with its exotic nocturnal wildlife. Despite the tyrannical heat, a cold shiver ran up his spine as realisation dawned.

  “Sarge, sir,” whispered Sanchez.

  “What is it, rookie?” he growled.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  Sarge shook his head. “Anything else you feel the pressing need to share with the class, son?”

  “No, sir, I mean, I don’t hear anything,” explained Sanchez. “Listen. It’s dead silent. No animals, no birds, nothing. Not a damn thing.”

  Sarge looked thoughtful for a second, then his face hardened. “You’re right”, he said, and Sanchez did not try to hide his relief when the Sarge started giving orders. “Form up, men”. The squad immediately gathered round, even the captain. “We might have picked up a tail here. Lenses on. We move quick and quiet and we stick together. Sappers will try to pick off any stragglers, so keep your head on a swivel. If you see anything, you light it up.”

  “Sarge,” said Red quietly, a hint of alarm creeping into his voice. “There’s only seven of us.”

  The squad exchanged concerned looks then immediately checked their magazines and cocked their carbines.

  “Spook? Has anyone seen Spook?” demanded the Sarge. “Spook, sound off,” he said, grabbing his mic, but there was nothing but a silent hiss in response.

  “I want Spook found,” order McCaffery. “Sweep pattern, double back, one hundred metres. Double-time it.”

  Sanchez gripped his carbine as he aimed down sights, sweeping back and forth across a wall of grey. With his lenses down he could see clearly, but it did not let him see any further, and with the forest as dense as it was, he could not see more than a couple of metres. It occurred to him that he was, for the first time, afraid, and he struggled to prevent his hands from shaking. They were looking for a body. He knew that. Something had gotten Spook, and it had done it so quietly that no one had even noticed. Something, he caught himself. Not someone. Unbidden his mind flashed back to the outpost, to the swinging bodies in the hangar, strung up like slabs of beef. To whatever it was that had been on the roof of the comms shed…

  A deafening crack and a flash of blindly bright white temporarily overloaded his lenses before they could adjust.

  “Contact!” he heard someone shout, followed by the roar of full auto gunfire. He charged towards the sound and found Crow, with the body of Sergeant Foster at his feet, his chest blown open with a smoking basketball-sized hole that went through to the other side. He was just in time to see the flash of some bladed metal projectile take off the top of Crow’s head, and watch him drop limply to the floor.

  “Contact!” he screamed as he opened fire. The image enhancing effect of his lenses highlighted the ethereal shimmering outline of a humanoid figure as it leapt from branch to branch with inhuman power and speed. He tracked it as best he could, but he knew he had hit nothing but air and trees. “They’re running camouflage!”

  “All units on me,” barked McCaffery, and Sanchez bolted back the way he had come, retracing his steps with relative ease he almost collided with the captain. He was relieved to see Danny and Red already there.

  “Where’s Reaper?” asked Red. As if by way of mocking response, a round, wet object slammed into Red’s chest, staggering him. It was Reaper’s severed head.

  “Motherfucker!” screamed Danny, firing off a volley of rounds in the rough direction that the head had come from.

  “Ceasefire!” barked McCaffery. “You’re wasting ammo. We need a defensive position-” Sanchez noticed the three red dots forming a neat triangle on the side of the captain’s head, and before he could say anything his head vanished in a cloud of plasma, splattering them with gore and skull fragments. Sanchez desperately wiped the blood from his lenses as his heart pounded and his hands shook uncontrollably.

  “Boys,” said Red with surprising calm. “On my “go”, make a run for the river. Don’t look back. No matter what.”

  “No chance, old man,” said Danny, and Sanchez’s eyes widened as he watched Red pull the pin on an incendiary.

  “Go, now!” he roared as he cocked his arm back. A flash of metal whipped through the air almost imperceptibly fast, and sliced off Red’s arm at the bicep. Sanchez could hear the air whine as the razor-sharp blade passed within centimetres of his head. Red screamed as the arm, still clutching the grenade, fell to his feet, and before anyone could react, they were engulfed in flame.

*

  He gasped, then coughed as he cleared the ash from his throat. Searing pain filled his lungs as he slowly opened his eyes. The blast had knocked him out cold. His armour still smoked and he did not need to look at his hands to know they were burned. His lenses were gone, but had saved his eyesight. He lay on the ground as it sizzled beneath him while a dozen small fires burned around him. His armour the only thing keeping him from being cooked alive by the scorched ground, and the jungle was lit up in a soft orange-red glow. Twenty-odd feet away lay the charred body of Red, his face mercifully turned away from him. Another ten or so feet from that, just outside the fire zone, lay the body of Danny.

  A purring, clicking sound from behind him made him freeze. A low, satisfied rasp, followed by more clicking. He lay motionless as the figure strode into view. Still camouflaged, the shimmer distorted the fires around it, like watching a flame through cut diamond, but he could make out a lithe human shape. There was an audible beep and suddenly the shimmer materialised into a solid figure.  He stared at the monster that stood just a few metres away, not daring to move a muscle. It was humanoid, but massive. Easily over seven feet. An angular metal mask covered a face that was framed by thick tendrils. Its body was lean, powerful, and mostly exposed except for a netting material that its pale, mottled skin. Shoulder guards, greaves and gauntlets bristled with weaponry. A pair of wicked-looking twin blades on its right wrist dripped blood as the creature hitched the strange bladed disc to its left hip. He watched as the creature casually strode through the carnage, seeming to survey the battlefield, and utterly unfazed by the scorched, burning ash beneath its bare feet.

  A mote of ash caught in his throat, and he did not quite stop himself from making the slightest cough. With a snarl the creature’s head whirred round, dreadlocks flowing, and the twin blades extended to double their previous length, but it did not approach. It was staring right at him…but it did not move. A tense moment passed, then another, then the creature seemed to relax, and turned its back to the massacre. Could it not see him? It did not make sense, it was looking right at him, but rather than attack it merely continued its unhurried investigation. Heart pounding, he slowly raised his carbine, bringing his other hand up to clutch the underslung grenade launcher. With one big foot it rolled the red-black charred corpse of Red on to his back, then abandoned the body, seemingly disappointed with the result. It approached the limp body of Danny and bent down, placing one clawed hand on the back of his neck before yanking him off the ground, holding him at its eye level with one arm as if he weighed almost nothing.

  “Die, you hijo de puta!” screamed Danny, half his face badly burned, as he jammed his carbine forward. But the creature effortlessly caught the barrel with its free hand, and redirected the volley to spray harmlessly into the trees before tearing it from his hands. Seemingly amused, the creature paused for a moment, and Sanchez hesitated. Frozen in fear, he watched the two figures, until he caught Danny’s eye, and his friend’s expression turned from rage to terror to hope.

  “Mijo, help me!” he screamed, and Sanchez froze, eyes wide and hands shaking as the creature threw Danny face down in the mud. “No, no, please,” he cried as the creature placed one big foot on his waist, and slashed him from shoulder to tailbone with its twin blades. Slicing cleanly through flesh, armour and bone, the blades drew a bloody parallel streak down his back. His dying eyes locked with Sanchez. In one quick move and with impossible strength, the creature punched its clawed hand deep into the small of Danny’s back, and pulled, tearing out his spine and skull. Holding its gruesome trophy aloft, it let out a deafening, inhuman screech of triumph.

  “No!” screamed Sanchez, and he pumped the launcher. The creature dropped its trophy and instantly three red dots appeared on his chest as some sort of weapon on the creature’s shoulder swivelled into place, aiming directly at him. But it momentarily hesitated. It still could not see him. The heat, he realised. It could not see him because of the heat. He pulled the trigger, and the round slammed into the creature’s left side. The blast almost knocked him unconscious again, and he squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of heat washed over him. The ringing in his ears was stinging, but fading fast, and he slowly pulled himself up. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the ash as he crawled towards the mutilated body of his friend. He knelt beside him and clutched his charred arm, ignoring the searing pain in his own. He kept his eyes closed. He could not bear to look at what was left. He tried to think of a prayer, but all he could think was “I’m sorry” as he mumbled it over and over. How long he knelt there, he could not say. A minute, an hour. It didn’t matter. His friend was dead.

  A click-click brought him back to his senses. Then again, this time a click-click-click. He watched in horror as, wounded and unsteady, the creature slowly rose to its feet. Hunched over and drenched in glowing green blood, clutching its side with one hand. Its mangled left arm hung lifeless. The sound of deep, guttural, ragged breathing sounding unnaturally loud in the night air. A gaping, ugly gash of shredded and scorched flesh covered its flank. The mask was caved in, and sat at an awkward angle. With its good arm the creature tore the mask from its face and tossed it, and although it was too dark for him to see clearly, he could make out the glint of sharp, pointed fangs, on the end of what were possibly mandibles, and then it locked eyes with him. Dark, deep-set yellow eyes that burned with rage and hate. The creature was furious. Without thinking Sanchez aimed his carbine and pulled the trigger, and felt his stomach turn to ice as the sound of a hollow “dead man’s click” echoed in his ears. The creature let out a bellowing roar as it stood to its full, towering height.

*

  He was running blind. Mad with fear and pain, the leaves and branches slashed at his face and arms. He had hurled his useless empty weapon at the creature, and tossed more pieces of his armour as he ran. He knew the creature was behind him in hot pursuit, although he had no idea how close it was. He had seen how fast it could move, but how much would its injuries slow it down? Every second he expected to look down and see razor-sharp twin blades burst from his stomach. With no lenses he could barely see, the light of the moon struggled to penetrate the canopy. All he knew was that as long as he kept the moon on his right, he would reach the river soon. As if answering his prayers, the sound of flowing water became audible over the sound of his laboured breathing. He picked up the pace, and the rainforest began to thin out, and the ground beneath his feet became wetter, the sparkle of water in the moonlight catching his eye. He had made it, but he had no idea whether the rendezvous coordinates were upstream, or down. He picked down for no reason other than he could run faster downhill, and prayed it was the right choice.

  A black shape passed overhead, and he braced for the searing bite of a blade, but then he heard the whirl of an engine. It was extraction team, here to pick up his squad. A seam of red light widened into an open square as the boarding ramp lowered, the skiff hovering a few feet above the riverbank. Two airmen beckoned him as he powered along the bank as fast as his legs could carry him. From the darkness behind him, an inhuman roar filled the night.

  “Go, go, go, go,” screamed Sanchez as he waved frantically, running so fast he could barely keep his balance as he charged through the now knee-deep water. With a final leap he threw himself forward and slammed into the loading ramp, winding himself as each of the airmen grabbed one of his arms. The air screamed and the metal disc sliced through his left forearm, barely missing the airman who fell back still gripping his severed arm, and burying itself several inches deep in the inside wall of the bay. Sanchez stared in shock at the stump of the arm as the other airman was almost pulled over the edge but, gripping with both hands, he heaved Sanchez into the skiff.

  “We’re in. Go,” screamed the airman as he slammed the door controls and threw Sanchez into a seat. Below, a thunderous roar of frustration and hate echoed through the jungle as the ramp closed. He gripped his severed stump of an arm as he felt the skiff accelerate high into the atmosphere. It didn’t hurt. Not really. He stared blankly at the empty seat opposite him as the airman applied a tourniquet. The other still held his severed arm, as if unsure what to do with it. The man was saying something to him as he fixed the tourniquet, but Sanchez could not hear. Numb shock has taken over his body. His eyes fixed on the alien weapon still embedded in the hull, and he half-expected it to come flying at him of its own accord, taking his head from his shoulders, but nothing happened. Danny. Danny should be sitting in that chair across from him. Why wasn’t he with him? He should be here. No, Danny was dead, and it was his fault. He felt warm as the airman gave him a shot of emergency pain meds. “Danny” was all he could manage to say as the drugs took effect, and everything went black.

*

  “That thing killed my entire unit. It butchered my best friend right in front of me, and he might still be alive today if I hadn’t hesitated.” He shook his head in disgust. “After getting back to Jakarta, there were all sorts of questions. Almost none of them were about us. They wanted to know about the yautja. Its strategies, its capabilities. They didn’t give a damn about the team. Wey-Yu got involved too. More of an inquisition than a debrief. They even offered to pay for the surgery to reattach my arm. In exchange for my “cooperation”, of course.”

  “And you took it?” asked Jennings accusingly. It was out of line for him to take that tone with a colonel, but Sanchez let the insubordination slide. It was nothing he had not said to himself every day since that night.

  “No, I told them to go to hell. But then my chain of command got involved. Ordered me to get the surgery. I guess they had no use for a crippled one-armed jarhead. Wey-Yu still paid for it. Lord knows what it cost. It sure as hell wasn’t any VA doctor that did that. You can’t even see the scar, they’re that good,” he said, holding up his arm for effect before he slumped back in the chair, defeated.

  “After that, I decided I was going to quit the USCM. I had two years left on my enlistment. I was planning on running out the clock. But about a year later, my abuela passed away, and she was the last living family I had left on Earth, so I ended up staying in the Corps. I drifted from assignment to assignment, moved up the ranks, more down to seniority than anything else. Eventually, I became an officer.

  “About twenty-five years after the Thailand incident, I had made major, so I used my clearance to pull some strings and get the files on that mission. They had been scrubbed. Officially, Vulture Six recon were killed-in-action by UPP forces. Their bodies were never recovered, and one PFC Emil Sanchez listed as “wounded-in-action” and reassigned. Absolutely no mention of Toptunov, my debrief, Wey-Yu’s involvement, or any hostile alien species.”

  “Weyland-Yutani were working with the UPP,” said Jennings.

  “I can’t prove that, but yeah, that’s my guess too,” Sanchez agreed. “I think they were hunting it. That’s why the outpost was so makeshift. They knew they didn’t have much time. Wey-Yu supplied the hardware, the UPP supplied a team, and Toptunov. I’ve never found anything on him. He’s a ghost. But my guess is he was some kind of “yautja expert”, if such a thing is possible.”

  “And it got them first,” Jennings snorted.

  He nodded. “I think when they lost contact, they knew what had happened. But they also knew there was a good chance Toptunov was still alive. So, they slipped the intel to the USCM, knowing we would go in to retrieve him. If they couldn’t have the yautja, they could at least get him.”

  “I guess that makes you the resident expert now, sir. You said it yourself; it’s flesh and blood. It must have weaknesses.”

  “Not many,” Sanchez shook his head. “I have spent the last forty-five years scraping together every last piece of information on the yautja that I could find. My white whale. But these things are so goddamn careful, that still amounts to almost nothing. Nothing useful, anyway. Just a trail of mutilated corpses. They show up in some backwater, kill a handful of people, take a few “trophies”, and vanish again for years at a time. By the time it’s investigated, they’re long gone, and what’s left gets written up as an accident, or pirates, or some maniac gone loco, and quietly buried. Most people don’t even know they exist. Nobody wants to know. You and I might be the only living Marines in the galaxy that have seen one up close,” he said with a frustrated sigh.

  “I don’t get it, why the cover up? Why all the secrecy?” asked Jennings.

  “No one in the know wants to risk open war with them. We know how formidable they are in close combat. You’ve seen what they can do. But we don’t know anything about their military capabilities, or if they even have a conventional military. We don’t know how many there are, or how many ships they have. We don’t even know where they come from. Humanity can’t afford to start a war it might not be able to win. Try to capture a lone one, maybe, but we can’t risk provoking an interstellar conflict. Much easier to just turn a blind eye to the occasional “hunt”, and clean up the blood afterwards.” He shook his head. Just saying it made him feel complicit.

  “I’ve spent a lifetime looking over my shoulder. I always knew I’d run into them again. Don’t ask me how, but I knew. But the same one? Hearing Danny’s voice again, it was like a message from beyond the grave. It was like a flick of a switch, and I was back in that jungle. It’s not a coincidence, it can’t be. He's here for me.”

  “But it still doesn’t explain why,” said Jennings. “Why come after you now, after all these years?”

  “It’s a big galaxy. I think it has taken this long to find me. Turns out, I’m not Ahab. I’m the whale. You see, I’m the one that got away. I almost killed him back on Earth. I humiliated him. Dishonoured him, and now he’s here to settle a half-century old score.”

Chapter Text

  Jennings did not speak. He wasn’t sure if the colonel was waiting for a response or lost in memory, as he gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. A heavy silence had fallen over the room, so thick that he could feel the gentle ever-present thrum of the distant atmosphere processor through his boots. In the end, it was Sanchez who spoke first.

  “There is only one thing left to do,” said the colonel as he stood, his tone becoming more formal. Jennings straightened to attention. “Sergeant Jennings, I’m giving you command of all operations.”

  “Sir?”

  “The Argos will be here inside of a week. You hunker down. You get everyone out. Then, you tell them to nuke the entire site from orbit.”

  “What about you, sir?” he asked again as his mind raced to catch up, but a growing knot was steadily forming in his stomach as the grim implication dawned.

  “I’m going to hand myself over to the yautja,” confirmed Sanchez.

  Jennings was incredulous. The colonel was so calm, so matter-of-fact, discussing how he was going to hand himself over to be killed. Not just killed, but butchered. “With respect, sir, you can’t be serious.” His tone was measured, but he knew he had just stepped over the line.

  Sanchez didn’t flinch. “This isn’t a war, Sergeant. It’s a vendetta. I won’t let any more die for my sake. It’s my head it wants, and sooner or later it’s going to get it, so let’s just get it over with.”

  Jennings stiffened. His throat was dry, and the sweat ran freely down the back of his neck, but he could not remain silent. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you do that.” The colonel’s eyes narrowed, and the knot in Jennings’s stomach had become a bottomless pit. If looks could kill, his body would be a small pile of smoking ash.

  “I’m sorry, son, I seem to have given you the impression that I was asking for a favour. You are to assume command of the remaining forces, and that is a direct order. If you can’t follow that order, you can surrender your weapon right now and I’ll find someone else who will. Is that clear, Sergeant?” he growled menacingly.

  Jennings swallowed, and kept his eyes locked dead ahead. “Crystal clear, sir. But as Acting NCOIC it is my duty to inform my commanding officer that it is a dumbass order, sir.”

  “You are relieved, Mr Jennings,” Sanchez snapped.

  “Sir,” said Jennings, the razor-thin ice now cracking beneath his feet, threatening to swallow him. “You said it yourself. It’s a hunter. A warrior. It has been nursing this grudge, this blood debt, whatever you want to call it, for almost fifty years. It doesn’t want you staked down like some sacrificial lamb, or handed to it on a silver platter. If we just hand you over, I think it would be insulted, and then who knows what it might do.”

  The colonel’s eyes bore into him. His clenched fists strained with barely contained rage. The stale air that had once felt too thin now felt cloying. But behind the rage, Jennings could see the cogs turning as the older man considered what he had said. He was getting through. Sanchez sighed, and his shoulders relaxed slightly.

  “Sir,” he pressed gently, sensing it was safe to speak. “We’re barely holding together as it is. If you surrender to the yautja, what do I tell the rest of the company? What do I tell the civilians? That you just gave up? I can’t do this job without you, sir. Without you, I don’t think we’ll make it.”

  “It has to end here,” he said quietly, seemingly more to himself than Jennings.

  “Then I say we end it on our terms, sir.”

  A moment passed, and the colonel seemed to consider it.

  “Alright, Sergeant. The job is still yours. What do you suggest?”

  This time, it was his turn to relax. Though he remained at parade rest as he quietly released a breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

  “This thing wants a fight? I say we give it one. But this time, we’re ready for it. Sloan’s men were over-confident and under-prepared. But we know what we are up against,” he turned his head slightly, meeting the old man’s gaze. “You’ve seen it in action, sir. You know how to beat it. It’s not a ghost. It’s not a demon. It’s flesh and blood. If it bleeds, we can kill it.”

*

  “Commander on deck,” barked Jennings as Sanchez entered the dark, cramped confines of Command, and all present snapped to attention. Ops would have given them more room, but following the xeno attack it was still barely functional, and still undergoing repairs. Besides, the colonel had ordered that this briefing be kept quiet.

  “Give us the room,” ordered Sanchez, and the handful of remaining operators silently filed out, leaving only Jennings and six handpicked Marines. “Is this them?” the colonel asked quietly, although still within earshot of the group.

  “Yessir,” he confirmed. They had less than thirty marines left, and most of them were young, like he was. Only eight had graduated from MOS sniper school, and only one of those had completed the MARSOF advanced marksmanship. These were the six with the highest scores.

  “At ease,” said Sanchez, and everyone relaxed slightly. “You’re probably all wondering why you are here, and it’s probably not lost on you that the six of you share a particular skillset. But, first things first. This op is classified. Everything said from here on does not leave this room, understood?

  “Yessir,” the group responded as one.

  “We’re going after the yautja. Now, I cannot stress how dangerous this thing is. However bad you think it is, it is worse. Full disclosure, I have history with this bastard. Personal history. You might say “unfinished business”, and that means I will not order anyone to participate. If anyone wishes to leave, do so now.”

  Not one of the Marines moved.

  “That son of a bitch killed our friends, sir. It’s personal for all of us now,” said the female marine.

  Sanchez gave a silent nod.

  “To business, then,” he said, leaning over the central console. Jennings hung back a little as everyone crowded around the illuminated tactical display showing the layout of the entire base, and the surrounding terrain for a couple of clicks in every direction. “We’re going to set up here,” the colonel tapped his finger on a non-descript part of the map, about a kilometre west of the perimeter wall. “Our intel is limited, but it shows the xenos always seem to approach from the east, so we should be on the other side of the base from where they have established their new hive. But they’re still out there, so don’t get complacent.”

  He glanced up before continuing.

  “I want three sniper teams. Set up here, here, and here,” he explained as he traced a rough triangle, about four hundred metres on a side. An easy shot for a trained sniper. “The plan is simple. We establish an overlapping field, and we lure it into a kill zone, here.” He tapped the dead centre of the triangle. “That’s where I’ll be.”

  Jennings quietly tensed as the team glanced from the colonel, to him, then back again. He still wasn’t fully onboard with the old man’s plan to use himself as live bait, and it still unnerved him how matter-of-factly he spoke about it, but in the end he had insisted.

  “Excuse me, sir,” one of the older men interjected. “But there’s no cover out there. You’ll be completely exposed. What is to stop the yautja from just taking a shot at you from the top of the atmo processor?”

  The colonel shook his head. “That isn’t how he operates. This is personal for him, too. He’s going to want to look me in the eye when he takes my head.”

  “Sir, permission to speak freely,” requested the female Marine.

  “Granted,” said Sanchez.

  “It’s pretty fucking obvious this is a trap, sir. Unless this yautja is dumb as shit, it isn’t going to just waltz right into our crosshairs,” said the woman.

  “You’re right, he’s not stupid,” Sanchez agreed. “He’s bigger than us. Stronger than us. Faster than us, and that makes him arrogant. He will see a mile off that it is a trap, and take it as a challenge. He’s going to think he can just waltz in while still coming out on top. Hubris. That’s how we’re going to beat him. Trust me, he’ll take the bait.”

  A round of nods from the Marines signified their agreement.

  “You all know what he can do, and that means we’re going to need something way beyond standard issue firepower. You can thank Security Director Sloan, who in a fit of patriotism has decided to loan us some equipment from Delta Sec.”

  That got a chuckle from a couple of the Marines.

  “Keep your pulse rifles with you, as I said we cannot be sure we will not encounter xenos, but on top of that each team will be issued an L33E fifty cal sniper rifle. You’ve all been trained on the standard L33A? Meet its big brother. One of these will put a round clean through the door of an APC, so be ready for the recoil. Each will be equipped with a full-spectrum night scope. It won’t completely mitigate his cloak, but it will make him a good bit more visible than he would be to the naked eye, so look for distortions or shimmers,” explained Sanchez. “But make damn sure you have the shot before you take it. You won’t get a second,” he added quickly.

  “Yautja see primarily in the infrared, which means we’ll all stick out like sore thumbs out there,” continued Sanchez. “To counter that, everyone except me will be wearing ghostweave ghillie suits.”

  “Squid suits? Fancy,” said one of the Marines.

  Cuttlefish, Jennings thought to himself, but said nothing.

  “Even fancier,” said Sanchez. “These are the new Mark VI variant. Top of the line. They’ll mask your body heat, even in sub-zero environments. But if anyone needs to take a piss, do it before we disembark. You need to relieve yourself out there, the thermal sig will be like ringing the dinner bell.”

  “What about comms, sir?” someone asked.

  “Sergeant Jennings?”

  That was his cue. He stepped forward to address the squad. “We’re going to use direct laser pulse only. No open mics. That means line-of-sight. The yautja won’t be able to eavesdrop or triangulate your positions. The only way it’ll be able to intercept comms is if it is standing in the beam between you and Colonel Sanchez. The only downside is you’ll be able to talk to the colonel, and he will be able to talk to you, but you will not be able to talk directly to one another. It also means no comms with HQ. Once you’re out there, you’re on your own.”

  “This is getting better by the minute,” said one of the younger Marines with a grin.

  “It’s a small price to pay,” said Sanchez. Everyone nodded in agreement. Jennings even allowed himself to feel a slight pang of optimism. They were trained. Prepared. This could work.

  “One other thing,” said Sanchez, his tone harsh. “If you have a firing solution on that hijo de puta and you cannot take the shot without going through me, I’m ordering you to pull the trigger.”

*

  The air in the garage was freezing. Usually, before an op, there was a tension in the air. A vibration that hovered just outside the range of human hearing. But not this time. The air felt empty, still, dead, as the squad donned their squid suits. Even in the dim light, the loose-fitting coveralls almost shone, with the iridescent green catching the meagre light the overheads could put out. Loose enough to wear over their standard issue armour, which Sanchez had insisted on, the suits looked comically oversized. Indeed, standing there in what looked like glowing surgical scrubs five sizes too large, they looked borderline ridiculous, and a cold, cloying doubt began to creep in.

  “On the ready line in two minutes,” he barked. “Right, callsigns, I need to be specific. So, left to right, name, callsign, and role. Starting with you,” he gestured towards a tall, lean man with rough greying stubble and a gold crucifix hanging from his neck.

  “Sergeant Dawes, sir. Callsign “Preacher”. Shooter,” the man confirmed in a thick, southern accent.

  “Sergeant Dawes,” said Sanchez, sounding it out. “You’ve completed advanced marksmanship?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You’re running top on this op, understood?” said Sanchez.

  Preacher nodded, and Sanchez turned to the next member. A short woman in her mid-thirties with her hair tied back in a tight bun.

  “Flores, sir,” she confirmed. “Callsign “Mouse”. Spotter.”

  He nodded and turned to the next. A younger, blonde-haired, blue-eyed man.

  “Murphy, sir. Callsign “Lucky”. Spotter.”

  “Lucky?” Sanchez raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  Murphy gave a half-hearted shrug. “Murphy. Murphy’s Law. Lucky. Got it my first day at sniper school.”

  “Right, and what about you, Private,” he addressed a young man with slicked back black hair who looked barely old enough to be out of college. But if he had graduated SSBC, at his age, that made him every bit as dangerous as the rest.

  “Chico, sir. Callsign “Joker”. Spotter,” confirmed the young man.

  “Don’t let the name fool you, sir,” Mouse chimed in. “He’s not funny.”

  “Hey, Mouse, spot this,” Chico spat, grabbing his crotch.

  “Simo Häyhä couldn’t make that shot,” she clapped back.

  “Bigger than yours.”

  “That’s enough, both of you,” snapped Dawes. Mouse and Chico both turned away, but stayed quiet.

  “Corporal?” Sanchez continued, addressing a pale man with a do-rag sitting on a crate as he chambered a massive round into his rifle. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty-five, thought Sanchez. Possibly on the younger end of that, but something about his eyes made him look older.

  “Casey. Callsign “Reaper”. Shooter,” said the man quietly.

  Sanchez winced slightly at the mention of “Reaper”, and memories of Vulture Six came flooding back. The jungle. The base. The hanger. The smell of the blood turning in the heat. With tremendous effort he pushed it down into the pit of his stomach, maintaining his composure with by sheer force of will. Mercifully, no one seemed to notice.

  “Hey, Casey, what’s the count?” asked Chico.

  “Eighty-three,” said Reaper coldly, his voice barely audible.

  “How many misses?” Chico followed up, sporting a wolfish grin.

  “I don’t miss,” said Reaper, and Sanchez believed him. Eighty-three. That meant he had seen combat. Real, bloody combat. Good.

  “And you?” Sanchez addressed the final member. A man of apparently Japanese heritage whose age Sanchez could only guess at.

  “Watanabe, sir. Callsign “Tallahassee”. Shooter,” he confirmed in oddly accentless English.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Florida,” said Chico. Watanabe stared back, his face giving nothing away, until Chico looked away.

  “That’s enough with the friendly introductions. On the line for inspection,” Sanchez barked, and the six Marines formed a perfectly straight line in front of the APC. “Hoods up and masks on,” he ordered, and their faces disappeared behind featureless white masks. “Power up.”

  One by one, they vanished. The absurd shining green replaced by empty space. With the APC visible behind them, it was like looking through light drizzle as the suits projected the background image around their bodies. Eerily reminiscent of the cloaking tech the yautja used, though not quite as good. The physics of their cloaks was still not fully understood. But it was damn close, and the loose fit made them formless, blurring their outline, concealing their human shape. If he had not been looking right at them, he might not have noticed them at all.

  “Remember, the target uses thermal imaging, so that means no exposed skin, no cigarettes, no flashlights. Nothing.” He had even insisted they only carry standard carbines rather than plasma weapons. Against the freezing rock and ice of LV-784’s terrain, he was concerned even a tiny bit of bleed from a plasma rifle’s power core would give them away. “Spotters, keep an eye out for xenos. Remember, they’re still out there.”

  Without warning, he pulled out a pair of IR glasses. This would be the ultimate test of the suits’ efficacy. Putting them on, the world morphed into a mass of cold blues and blacks. But he could still see where he was. The outline of the APC, crates and vents were all clearly visible, and the weak overhead bulbs glowed a soft orange. But the team were gone. The effect of the suits was even more impressive in infrared. Not even the hint of an outline. His earlier doubts about the suits evaporated. To the yautja, they would be completely invisible.

  “Listen up. Assignments as follows. Preacher, Joker; you’re on north overwatch. Reaper, Mouse; the west. Lucky and Tallahassee; the south. You all have your exact coordinates. I’ll give you all a ten-minute lead, then I’ll proceed to the target point. Once we’re set, I’ll call him in. No chit-chat. Speak only when necessary. Comms checks and sit-reps at ten-minute intervals. Move out.”

  With that, he yanked down the control lever for the shutter, and the large door began to rise. He struggled to follow the barely visible shimmers as they filed out into the night, disappearing completely the instant they stepped beyond the threshold of the lights. Satisfied he was alone, he pressed his comm to his ear.

  “Sanchez to Jennings. Sniper teams moving into position. Heading for the target point. You have your orders. Radio silence. Sanchez, out.”

*

  The frost crunched beneath his boots as he trudged through the darkness across the open ground to the centre point. It was here that all three lines of sniper fire converged, forming a kill-zone, with himself at the centre. With no cover, there would be no escape. Not even for that thing. The wind had died down a bit, but it was still enough to kick up a steady pitter-patter of razor-sharp dirt and grit, forcing him to shield his face with his gloved hand, while clutching his pulse rifle in the other. It wouldn’t do him much good, but it gave him peace of mind.

  “Okay, sir, you’re on the X,” the voice buzzed in his earpiece. It was Preacher.

  “Copy that,” he replied, throwing down a couple of flares. The pinkish purple glow did not provide much illumination, the light dying after only a few metres, but it was something. “All sniper teams, confirm visual on me.”

  “North watch in position. Good visual on you, sir,” Preacher confirmed. The rest did the same. With the optics on their scopes, he would have stood out like a neon sign. The yautja would not be nearly so obvious, but they would still be able to see it coming long before he did.

  “Okay, I’m going to call it in. Remember, line-of-sight comms only,” he ordered as he flicked the pulse rifle to full auto. He took a breath and readied himself before firing a full magazine straight into the air. “You want me? Here I am!” he bellowed as the deafening roar of the pulse rifle echoed into the night before he slapped home a fresh magazine. Now, all they had to do was wait.

  His eyes scanned the darkness for any trace of movement. A distortion of the light, the flicker of three red dots, the glint of a blade. His ears strained for the crunch of footsteps, or the purring “click click” of fangs. Nothing, except for the howl of the wind and the hiss of the flares as they burned at his feet. He half expected a burst of blue-white plasma to come from nowhere, blowing him to pieces, but none came.

  He struck another two flares as the first pair burned out, the soft light providing no warmth. He was already shivering. He had only been outside less than thirty minutes, and the cold had already chilled him to the bone. Old bones, he thought to himself. His knees hurt from the kilometre long hike, and the cold was making his other joints stiff. Holding one gloved hand up to the light, he could see it was shaking slightly, unsteady, and not from the cold. There was a time when he would have been able to hike in cold like this all night. Not anymore. He held his rifle at a low ready, his arms now too tired to hold it in a shooting stance, but he kept his eyes and ears open for any hint of company.

  A glance at his watch confirmed ten minutes had passed.

  “Sniper teams, status update,” he whispered into his comm.

  “North watch”, Preacher cleared his throat, “negative.” His voice was barely audible in his ear.

  “West watch, confirmed, sir. Negative contact,” whispered Mouse.

  South watch confirmed the same, and he gripped his rifle tighter. It would come. He was sure of that.

  He struck another two flares just to provide some more light. It didn’t help much. The darkness almost seeming to mock the flare’s feeble attempts to push it back. The lights of the perimeter wall equally impotent as twinkled in the distance, and behind those the towering cone of the atmosphere processor. He had almost ten minutes until next check-in, which gave him time to think. Too much time.

  He thought of Danny. For forty-five years that mission had haunted him. Like a dead hand gripping his shoulder, no matter how many decades or light-years he’d put between himself and Danny Alvarez’s ghost, he could not outrun the memory of him. Had it been tormented too? Both of them defined by a mission, a hunt, gone wrong a lifetime ago? Two old warriors, locked together in mutual hatred. He wondered, if their roles were reversed, what he would have done differently? What if he had found him first? Would he have done anything differently? He shook his head, sobering himself. He had to stay focused. His watch confirmed they were coming up on twenty minutes.

  “Sniper teams, twenty-minute check-in. Sound off.”

  “North watch,” Preacher cleared his throat, “negative.”

  “West watch, confirmed, sir. There’s nothing out there,” said Mouse.

  Lucky did the same.

  “Dammit,” he swore under his breath. There was no way it had not heard the gunfire, and he knew there was no way it would be able to resist such a blatant challenge. He could almost feel it, watching him, surrounding him, looking for an opportunity. It was out there.

  “Okay, next check-in in ten minutes. Stay frosty,” he added, more to himself than the team. The last of the wind died down, making the night air oddly still by LV-784’s standards. The only sound the hiss of the flares as they burned at his feet, and his own breathing.

  He hadn’t told them about the claymore he had strapped under his chest plate. It wouldn’t have been good for morale. “Survivor’s guilt” the psych boys had called it. But it was more than that. He hadn’t just survived, where others had died. He had failed. He had spent a lifetime looking over his shoulder, waiting for the day a yautja’s blade would come to claim his skull. He had always been willing to die. It came with the job, and he had long since made his peace with that. But out here, alone, he had time to think, and long dormant thoughts came unbidden to the fore. Now faced with the very real, very imminent prospect of becoming another trophy, he considered that perhaps some deep, buried part of him had prayed for it. Prayed for the punishment he deserved. Heller had been right. He was afraid of the yautja, and out here in the dark, for the first time since this whole mess began, he felt the icy grip of fear. He felt exposed. Isolated. Vulnerable in a way that he had not felt since that night.

  His watch hit thirty minutes.

  “All teams, sound off,” he spoke quietly into his mic.

  “North watch”, Preacher cleared his throat again, “negative.”

  “That’s a negative sir,” rasped Reaper

  “Freezing my fucking balls off, sir, but no sign of the target,” whispered Lucky.

  Sanchez let out an exasperated sigh. “Doesn’t look like the bastard is falling for it. Good plan, bad bait. Stay alert, we’ll give him ten more minutes then I’m calling an abort.”

  He almost took his finger off the comm, but he hesitated. Something just didn’t feel right. Something about the way Preacher cleared his throat. He didn’t know how a cough could sound “wrong”, but it did, and a voice in the back of his head told him something was off. A voice he had long ago learned to listen to.

  “North watch,” he said firmly. “Negative copy on your last transmission. Confirm negative contact.”

  “North watch,” Preacher cleared his throat, “negative.”

  Sanchez felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as an ice-cold chill ran down his spine. “North watch, this is Ulysses Grant. Stonewall Jackson wants to know if you’re coming for Thanksgiving?”

  “North watch.” The words buzzed in his ear, followed by the sound of Preacher clearing his throat. In the exact same manner. The same tone. The same timing. The same cadence. “Negative.”

  A recording.

  “Contact!” he barked into his mic. “He’s at north overwatch. All units the target is at north overwatch!” he thundered as he broke into a run and bolted towards north watch’s position, his legs burning and his aging lungs struggling in the low oxygen atmosphere.

  “I don’t see a goddamn thing,” exclaimed Mouse.

  It still took him almost a minute of hard running to reach the coordinates. He slowed as he approached, his heart racing as he held his rifle at the ready, but instinctively he knew it had moved on. The first signs of blood, glistening black against the ice, reflected back in the weak beam of his flashlight. He popped a flare for more light. There was blood everywhere, and lying on the ground were the ruined bodies of Preacher and Chico, their remains barely recognisable as human, if not for the small gold crucifix. Both of their heads were missing.

  “All units, on me. Do you have visual on a trail?” With their scopes, they might be able to see details he could not. Perhaps a blood trail they could follow.

  “South watch, negative, sir. There’s just…nothing. No sign of it,” Lucky’s voice quivered.

  “Mierda,” he swore. What had they done to give themselves away? “West watch, do you have a visual on anything?”

  Silence.

  “West watch, sound off. Over.”

  Nothing but the dead hiss of static in his ear.

  “South watch,” he yelled into his headset mic. “You’ve been made. He can see you. He sees the damn scopes. Ditch it and get out of there. Move, move now!”

  “I still don’t see a fu-” the answer was cut off with a sickening gurgle, and in the distance a piercing inhuman screech filled the void.

  Not again, thought Sanchez. Not again. He gripped his rifle, and hip fired a burst randomly into the darkness.

  “Come on, you ugly hijo de puta,” he demanded as he fired another volley. “Come on! I’m right here. Kill me. Come on, do it! Kill me, you cobarde.”

  Another volley of random fire and the gun clicked empty. He tossed it to the ground, throwing down another flare as he drew his combat knife, all fear replaced with a burning hatred like he had never felt before. His heart pounded in his ears as he strained to hear the slightest sound of its approach. His breathing was laboured as his knuckles turned white around the hilt of the blade, but his eyes still struggled to make out anything beyond more than few metres in any direction.

  Something hit him square in the chest with the force of a cannonball, knocking him to the ground so hard he struggled to catch his breath. If not for his armour, such force would have shattered his sternum. He crawled to his knees as waves of pain radiated through him as he gulped down air, clutching his chest with his free hand, and it came away slick with bright red. Blood, but not his. A few feet away, the severed bloody head of Preacher stared back at him with frozen, lifeless eyes. The mocking, demonic, half-human laugh filled the night, dying out as it faded into the distance, leaving him alone, kneeling in the frozen mud. He rose to his feet, and braced for the next assault, but it was gone. It had won this round, but the message had been clear.

  This was not over.

Chapter Text

  Jennings checked his watch again. He leaned back against the APC, before changing his mind and resuming his pacing. He did not, strictly, need to be here. The team could still open the door from the outside themselves. If necessary it could be operated from Ops. But he felt that someone should be here when they got back. When they got back. Another glance at his watch confirmed that he had been pacing around the garage for the last forty-five minutes. They should have been back by now.

  A knot was beginning to form in his stomach. Scenarios ran through his head. None of them good. Had they failed? He didn’t see how. Had the xenos gotten to them? There had not been any signs of them since the last major assault. Uncertainty gnawed at him. Threatening to eat him alive from the inside out. This was taking too long. The garage was not heated, and he felt chilled despite his inability to sit still. The temperature outside was well below freezing. If they stayed out there much longer, the cold would get them before anything else. He took a long look at the APC. One of the old M580 variants. A massive, angular, brick of a vehicle, and probably about fifty years old. But sturdy, with massive turret guns mounted both front and on the roof. Five more minutes. He would give the team five more minutes, and then he was taking the APC and going after them.

  He was startled by the sudden flashing yellow-orange strobe of the klaxon as the garage door began to rise. He braced as a sudden gust of icy cold air hit him, and a lone Marine stumbled out of the darkness before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

  It was Sanchez.

  “Jesus,” muttered Jennings. The colonel was covered in blood. Frozen bright red and flecked with white frost, it stood out against the drab green of his armour. He helped the older man to his feet while he smashed the door controls with his free hand, sealing the garage.

  “He killed them,” said the colonel through chattering teeth. “He killed them all.”

  Jennings said nothing as he unclipped the colonel’s helmet, which was so cold it threatened to peel the skin from his fingers.

  “He even took the dog tags. Dios mío, no quedó nada,” muttered the colonel, still shivering uncontrollably.

  His Spanish wasn’t great, but he understood “nothing left” well enough.

  “Sir, are you injured?” he asked firmly, trying to get the older man to focus on his voice.

  The colonel did not answer. His breath shallow and ragged.

  “Sir, the yautja. Did you manage to kill it?” he pressed.

  Sanchez sighed, and took a deep breath, as if willing himself to stop shivering. “I didn’t even see it,” he said quietly. “He made us right from the start. He let us think we could win, but the bastard was just toying with us the entire time. We never stood a chance.”

  “What happened out there, sir?” Jennings asked softly.

  Sanchez sighed again, his breathing slowly becoming steadier. “The scopes. I should have seen it. The full-spec scopes on their rifles are powered. Their suits insulate all of their body heat but there’s still a tiny bit of bleed from the scope’s power pack. It isn’t much, but the ground is so cold, it was enough of a contrast…” he trailed off.

A pang of guilt stabbed Jennings in the gut. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Jennings quietly. “You were right. I shouldn’t have pushed. I honestly thought we could beat it.” He bet Sloan had thought the same thing.

  “Not your fault, Sergeant. It was my call. My command. My responsibility,” said Sanchez sternly as he stood, unclipping his armour and letting it fall to the floor. “Get me a towel or something would you? I can’t let them see like this.” Jennings grabbed a mechanic’s rag. It was black with oil stains, but the colonel didn’t object, and began wiping the blood from his face.

  “Ops to Sergeant Jennings,” his walkie talkie buzzed on his hip.

  “Go ahead, Molina,” he said, bringing it to his ear.

  “Console’s showing an external door was opened at your location. Sniper team RTB?”

  He swallowed. “Confirmed,” he said flatly. It was not his place to give them the news, and certainly not over comms.

  “Copy that. Tell the Colonel he needs to get up here ASAP. We’ve got a problem,” said Molina, sounding uncharacteristically agitated. Jennings looked at Sanchez, who simply nodded.

  “Xenomorphs?” Jennings asked.

  “That’s a negative,” answered Molina. “You’d better come too, Sarge.”

  He flinched. He still wasn’t used to his friends calling him by rank.

  “Tell him we’ll be there in a minute,” ordered Sanchez, tossing away the rag. He brushed back his thinning silver hair with one hand and donned his cover, and in that moment, he was “Colonel Sanchez” again.

  “Acknowledged. We’re on our way. Jennings, out.”

*

  The lights were harsh in the cramped confines of the small room. It may once have been used for storage, Jennings had no idea, but now it was being used for this meeting. The cold, bare plastcrete walls and recycled air added to the unwelcoming, sterile feel. He stood flanking the colonel, staring at the large table that dominated the centre. Across from him stood Doctor McTaggart, who looked like she had not slept in days. Dark bags hung under her eyes and her silver-grey hair was tied back into a tight, practical bun. Molina, Lowry, and for some reason Watson the synthetic, accompanied her. Lying on the table, the bodies of two dead Marines, still in their armour.

  “What the hell is this?” the colonel hissed through gritted teeth. Jennings was glad the question was not directed at him.

  “We think we know how the xenos managed to breach the perimeter, sir,” said Molina.

  “The yautja let them in. Yes, we already knew that, Corporal,” Sanchez snapped.

  “No, Colonel,” Doc McTaggart stepped forward, positioning herself between them. “This wasn’t the yautja.”

  She positioned herself at the head of one of the corpses, still wearing her surgical gloves.

  “Do you see this?” She pointed to a large, bloodied bruise on the side of the man’s head. “This is blunt force trauma. A single blow to the head with I would guess a wrench or a crowbar. Something straight, and heavy. Death was instantaneous. But look at the angle, do you see how it is angled upwards? Whoever did this was strong, but of normal height for an adult male. I can’t give you an exact estimate, but they were not seven feet tall. I can say that for certain.”

  Jennings risked a sideways glance at the colonel, but there was no reaction from him.

  “This one,” the doctor continued, gesturing to the female Marine, “was strangled. See the contusions on both sides? Her assailant had to use both hands, and judging by the bruises, they were human hands. There are no claw marks or broken bones, and there are defensive bruises on her wrists and forearms. She put up a fight.” She paused, seeming to hesitate. “Colonel, these Marines were murdered.”

  Sanchez said nothing. He was so still, he almost looked like he had been carved out of granite.

  “There’s more, sir,” said Molina, breaking the silence. “While checking the remote sentry control terminals, I noticed that the telemetry feed for the sentry units guarding the lower levels was odd, so I ordered Private Lowry here to accompany me and we went to check it out. Sir, the sentry units had been disabled, as in “deactivated”. The control terminal had been hacked to play false telemetry on loop. That’s why it didn’t look right. It was subtle though. I almost didn’t notice it. That’s where we found the bodies. These Marines had been ordered to walk perimeter in that area. Mister Watson helped me purge the code and get the sentries back up and running. We’re buttoned up again now, sir. But, it still leaves the question of who did this.”

  “Are you saying we’ve got a saboteur?” Jennings asked incredulously.

  Molina nodded.

  His mind raced. None of it added up. But the evidence was undeniable. The yautja hadn’t walked in undetected, reprogrammed their sentries from the terminals in Ops, and walked out again, had it? Could it?

  “Sloan…” growled Sanchez, his knuckles straining white as his hands balled into fists. Jennings could almost feel the curdled rage radiating off of him in waves. He was no longer carved out of granite. He was a volcano about to erupt.

  “We don’t know that, Colonel,” the doc interjected.

  “If I may interrupt,” said Watson, in that excessively polite, slightly oblivious android way. “I did see Security Director Sloan returning from the lower levels shortly before the xenomorph attack, and he was carrying a large wrench. A twenty-four-inch adjustable with a red handle, I believe.”

  Sanchez pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

  “And you only thought to mention this now?” he asked, his voice low, tight with barely contained anger.

  Watson tilted his head in a fashion that reminded Jennings of a giant bird. “Director Sloan had ordered his men to assist with securing the perimeter; therefore, it did not seem suspicious at the time to see one of them carrying maintenance equipment.”

  He let out a breath, long and low. Jennings exchanged a quick concerned glance with Molina. He could feel it too. Lowry looked nervous.

  “Corporal,” Sanchez spoke to Molina, and his voice no longer sounded angry. Now, it sounded cold. A chill that Jennings had never heard before. “Fetch six marines not currently on perimeter watch, quietly. Ensure they are fully armed, and report back here in ten minutes. We are going have a word with Security Director Sloan.”

*

  Operations was eerily quiet, and poorly lit. A slight acrid smell still lingered in the air if he tuned himself to it. The ops centre was still mostly a ruin since the xenomorph assault, and so wasn’t used much anymore. A far cry from a week ago. Barely a thirty-six hours ago it had been a free-for-all, and when he closed his eyes Jennings could still see nightmarish black shapes moving in the smoke. He leaned against a console, surveying the proceedings from what felt like a safe distance. The colonel was off to one side, engaged in a hushed conversation with the doc, and in the middle of the room stood Sloan. He was in cuffs, and flanked by more than a half-dozen armed marines. A nasty burst lip that had not been there previously was just starting to swell.

  In the end, Sloan and his mercs had offered no resistance. Unarmed and outnumbered, they knew a losing battle when they saw one, and had surrendered without a fight. Each of the five mercs under Sloan’s command had been interrogated separately, and each had sworn complete ignorance of any sabotage plot. Watson had again proved remarkably useful. As a synthetic, he was able to read subtle changes in pulse or eye movement, making him something of a walking lie detector, and he had confirmed that all five men were telling the truth.

  That left Sloan.

  He stood head bowed, and his shirt was saturated with sweat despite the chill. He certainly had the look of a guilty man. But then who wouldn’t in his position?

  “Let’s get this over quickly,” the colonel strode into the centre of the room, bringing him face to face with Sloan. “Before we get started, do you have anything you would like to say in your defence?”

  For the first time, Sloan looked up. His stare locking with the colonel’s, a mix of weariness and contempt burning behind his eyes.

  “There’s no point wasting everyone’s time, Sloan. I’ve got two dead marines in the other room. I have a witness who can put you at the murder site. I have evidence that the sentry gun control terminals were tampered with. “Looking for a cigarette,” Dios mío I can’t believe I bought that one,” Sanchez scoffed. “The only question left is what to do with you?”

  “I say we waste him,” said Molina, and Jennings was shocked by his eagerness. His expression caught Molina’s eye, and the other man looked away, refusing to hold his gaze.

  “I’m not really supposed to allow that, Corporal Molina,” interrupted Watson. “The First Law of Robot-”

  “No one gives a shit what you think, Pinocchio,” Molina snapped.

  “Stow it, both of you,” demanded Sanchez. “This isn’t up for debate.”

  Sloan’s lips cracked in a slow, wry smile. “This is a drumhead trial, Colonel.”

  That hit Jennings like a punch in the gut. Sloan was a slimeball, but he wasn’t wrong. This was a drumhead trial, and he was part of it.

  “I have all of the evidence I need,” said Sanchez, undeterred. “I have medical reports, eye witnesses and I personally saw you screwing around with the terminals.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel,” the doctor interjected. “But I will not allow my reports to be admitted as evidence in these proceedings. Director Sloan is correct. This isn’t a real trial, and while I might not be able to stop you, you cannot order me to testify. You should also know I will be formally noting my objections in the official log.”

  “That is your prerogative, Doctor,” said Sanchez.

  Sloan raised a sceptical eyebrow. “It sounds like your case is falling apart, Colonel.”

  “I can still put you at the scene. Mister Watson saw you returning from the lower levels with the murder weapon,” said Sanchez, undeterred.

  “That is a goddamn lie,” swore Sloan, and this time his voice cracked a little.

  It was Sanchez’s turn to smile. A tight, humourless gesture. As if Sloan had just given himself away.

  “He’s a synthetic, you idiot. He can’t lie.”

  “That is not strictly true, sir,” said Watson. “I cannot lie of my own volition, but I can lie if you directly order me to do so.”

  Sanchez gave an exasperated sigh. “Shut up, Watson,” he snapped.

  “So, he can lie. Imagine that. That’s starting to sound like “reasonable doubt”, Colonel,” said Sloan, his voice thick with venom.

  “Last chance,” said Sanchez menacingly.

  Sloan merely looked away. The verdict was already in, and he knew it. Jennings clenched his jaw, and shifted his weight uncomfortably. It was all very circumstantial, and deep in the pit of his stomach it still gnawed at him. The colonel was within his rights under martial law to dispense summary justice, but it was cold comfort.

  Sanchez straightened, his tone formal. “Security Director Sloan. For the crime of espionage, for providing aid to the enemy, for endangering the lives of civilians and for conduct that indirectly led to the deaths of one hundred and eighty-five personnel, I sentence you to exile.”

  Sloan snorted in disgust. “You don’t even have the balls to do it yourself, do you? It’s a death sentence either way, but you’d rather feed me to those fucking things than get your hands dirty.” His eyes locked on Sanchez. “I’m not the one you need to worry about, Colonel. You want to know who the real threat is? Look in the mirror.”

  Jennings watched the lines of the older man’s face tighten almost imperceptibly. A shift so subtle it was unnerving, but it was there. He wanted to object, but his hands were tied. They were in the field, under combat conditions, and the colonel’s authority was absolute. It was the colonel who was in command, not him, and Sloan certainly had it coming. But, still. What would he say at his debrief? That he was only following orders? His stomach twisted at the thought.

  “We’ll give you a weapon. Some rations. Survive until the Argos arrives if you can, but you’re on your own.”

  Sloan didn’t even flinch.

  “We will reconvene in one hour. You grab your gear, you say your goodbyes, and you’re out of here. Corporal Molina will escort you,” he said, not breaking eye contact with Sloan. “If he tries anything, shoot him.”

*

  Jennings hung back, flanked by a couple of additional Marines as Sanchez undid Sloan’s cuffs. The East Corridor was spacious, the largest one leading into their wing. A row of four remote sentries panned back and forth, maintaining their constant vigil. They were set not to fire on humans, but still, Jennings was careful to stay behind them. This marked the very edge of the perimeter. The intact ceiling of the corridor meant it was well lit, but the lights seemed to die towards the far end, smothering everything in shadow. Everything beyond this point belonged to the xenomorphs, and the yautja.

  The colonel unceremoniously handed Sloan a pulse rifle. “Don’t get any ideas,” he added quickly. “It’s not loaded. There are a couple of magazines in your bag, and they stay in the bag until you’re out of sight. Understood?”

  Sloan gave no reply. His eyes burned with contempt, but beneath it was something colder. Not fear, but a grim detachment. For his part, the colonel did not seem to be relishing the proceedings. He seemed to treat it just as another necessary, mildly unpleasant task.

  Jennings felt a pang of guilt for just being glad it was almost over. His ears pricked up at the sound of approaching boots, and he gripped his rifle tighter as he turned around to face it. He was immediately relieved, and confused, when he saw Molina and a retinue of Marines escorting the rest of Sloan’s men. If they had come to plead his case, he did not expect they would get very far.

  “What is the meaning of this, Corporal?” demanded Sanchez.

  “Sir, they wish to join the prisoner,” said Molina.

  Jennings watched silently as the colonel raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  “You do understand what this means?” he addressed the men directly.

  “If the boss goes, we go,” said the tall, blonde one with the slicked back hair. Jennings struggled to remember his name. McKenna, was it? He noticed Sloan’s jaw tighten slightly. If it was surprise, he hid it well.

  “We’ve given them a primary, unloaded, two mags and a few days’ supply of rations, same as the prisoner,” explained Molina.

  “Very well,” said Sanchez, turning to Sloan. “You inspire a singular loyalty in your men, Sloan. You should have been a Colonial Marine. You would have made one hell of an officer.”

  He did not react when Sloan spat at his feet.

  “Let’s go, boys,” said Sloan, his voice low and raspy, and turned to leave. He did not look back. One by one, the other mercs filed past Jennings. Morse made a pistol gesture with his finger and thumb pointed at him, whistling as he fired off an imaginary round.

  “Be seeing you, Soldier Boy,” he said with a smirk.

  Jennings’ jaw clenched as he held back a retort, gripping his rifle a little tighter as he held it between himself and the merc, but Morse kept walking, and the mercs made their way down the corridor. After a hundred metres or so, the darkness enveloped them. The sound of their boots fading into the distance, leaving only the sound of the motorised sweep of the sentries.

*

  He was tired. Bone-tired. He was only twenty-three, but the day’s events felt like they had aged him by a lifetime. But he could not sleep. Not yet. Instead, he found himself walking towards the colonel’s office, making his way there with hardly an upward glance. Stopping at the threshold, he took a moment to compose himself before knocking.

  “Come,” hollered Sanchez.

  He entered, careful to close the door behind him, and stood before the desk at attention. The colonel was in his chair, datapad in hand, and a glass of whisky on the desk.

  “I’ve increased the perimeter patrols to monitor for any sign of the yautja, as per your orders, but so far it doesn’t look like he’s interested in testing the defences” he said formally.

  “Very good. Thank you, Sergeant,” said Sanchez.

  Jennings paused. “Sir, did we make a mistake?” he asked quietly.

  Sanchez looked up, placing the datapad on the desk. “We?”

  He stiffened, feeling his throat go dry as he forced himself to speak clearly. “You, sir.”

  “No. It had to be done,” said Sanchez flatly.

  “What if you were wrong?”

  “You want me to be wrong.”

  The words stung. The colonel spoke without emotion. He was neither angry nor offended, and that was almost worse.

  “It wasn’t real justice, sir. The accused has a right to the benefit of the doubt,” he said, but even as he said it he was starting to doubt himself.

  “Sloan had means, motive and opportunity. He knew getting out of here alive would only mean he gets to spend the rest of his life in prison. His only hope was to roll the dice and burn everything to the ground. If I was dead, along with anyone else who could contradict him, he would be free to make up any story he wanted. Who else could or would have disabled the sentries?”

  Jennings pondered that. It fit the evidence, and he could not offer a better alternative, but it still didn’t sit right with him.

  “You know something? I’m relieved. I had assumed it had been the yautja that had disabled the perimeter defences. But turns out, he can’t just come and go as he pleases. Human evil? That we can deal with.”

  “It didn’t feel clean,” said Jennings, defeated.

  “It never does, son. But “clean” is a luxury we do not have, and you’d better get used to the idea,” he said as he topped up his glass. “It was my call. One day, you’ll have a command of your own, and it will be you that has to make the tough decisions. When that day comes, I’ll be happy to debate the finer points of “clean” with you.”

  Jennings lowered his head.

  “If Sloan wants to turn himself in when the Argos arrives, I will not stop him,” said Sanchez, his tone softening ever-so-slightly. “But until then, I just can’t take the risk.”

  He still didn’t like it, but the colonel was right. It was not his call, and that was that.

  “Sir,” he said, keeping his head down. “Permission to speak freely?”

  “You’ve been speaking freely since you walked through my door, Sergeant,” snapped Sanchez.

  He gulped, but decided to take that as tacit permission. “Sir, did you order Watson to lie?”

  Sanchez’s eyes narrowed. “You were by my side from the moment I got back until the moment we exiled the Delta Sec personnel,” he said coldly. Cold enough to freeze him solid.

  “That will be all, Sergeant.”

*

  McKenna sat on the edge of the bunk, repacking his bag. The jarheads had at least given them enough food and water to see them through the next few days. They only had two mags a piece, though. It wasn’t nothing, but they’d be fucked if they ran into those things in any significant numbers. He also hadn’t forgotten about the other one. The one that got Carter and the lads…

  “Perimeter is secure,” said Sweeney, settling down on the opposite bunk. They had temporarily set up in the civilian barracks. Not too close to the Marines, but not too close to Delta. “Secure” was probably a bit of a stretch, but there was no sign of any activity and that would do for now. At least until they figured things out.

  “So, what’s our next move?” he asked, lighting a small portable stove they had found, casting a soft orange glow as the others gathered round. Sloan kept his distance, seeming lost in thought. He had been quiet since it all went down. McKenna couldn’t blame him.

  “The Marines have an FTL capable ship en route. We sit tight until then,” said Palmer.

  “You think they’ll just let us onboard?” asked Sweeney.

  “Maritime law. They have to,” confirmed Palmer.

  “Yeah, in handcuffs. Fuck that,” spat Morse.

  “I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas,” said McKenna.

  It quickly descended into an argument. He was aware that the noise was likely to attract unwanted attention, and he protested in vain for them to keep their voices down. Accusations of cowardice or complicity flew back and forth, and insults turned to threats in short order. Morse was on his feet, yelling at Cohen as McKenna tried to calm him before he brought the whole damn nest down on their heads.

  “I say we blow the atmosphere processor’s main reactor,” said Sloan quietly, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. A tense silence instantly fell over the six men as all heads turned to look at Sloan, who sat resting his chin on his fist, his eyes fixed on the glow of the stove.

  “Boss?” said Sweeney.

  “We can’t take off with that thing controlling the airspace, and we can’t leave the system without an FTL-capable ship. I say we scuttle the reactor,” his voice was low and dry. Quiet even in the deathly silence of the abandoned barracks. “That’ll force the yautja to flee the area, unless it wants to go up with the rest of the outpost, and that’ll give us enough time to get to a dropship and make orbit. The blast will destroy the outpost, the xenos, and everything else for a hundred kilometres in every direction. All evidence of what happened here. Weyland-Yutani can suck it. I’m not dying here and I’m not going to prison for their bottom line. Once we break atmo, we’ll have a few days in orbit to get our stories straight, and there’s no one left to say otherwise.”

  “That includes the remaining Marines, and over three hundred civvies,” said McKenna. He didn’t have many moral lines left to cross, but "mass murder" was still one of them, and as much as Sloan was making sense, the way he so calmly laid it out unnerved him.

  “Fuck’em,” said Morse without hesitation.

  “I don’t like it, boss. But I don’t see any other way. Count me in,” said Cohen.

  “They chose their side,” said Sweeney.

  “We’re with you, sir,” said Palmer.

  McKenna could feel all eyes on him. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t like how readily they had all gotten onboard with the plan. But Sloan was right. There was no other way. It was either this, or they were all going to prison for a long, long time.

  “I don’t know about this,” he said weakly.

  “They’re already dead. They just don’t know it yet. You said it yourself; they’re not going to make it. Now you can either die with them, or you can come with us,” said Sloan coldly.

  McKenna closed his eyes, and he felt his resolve crumbling.

  “I’m in,” he said under his breath.

  Sloan smiled. That thin, dry, humourless smile of his. “Then we’re agreed. Sun won’t be up for another thirteen hours. Those things seem to come at night, so we’ll hunker down here until then. Get some rest. As soon as the daylight is on our side, we move.”

Chapter Text

  His boots squelched as he pushed deeper. The narrow confines of the corridor forcing the squad into single file. The walls, floor and ceiling caked in wet, sticky alien secretions, arranged into strange, repeating patterns that defied human logic. It was dark, yet he could still see. The lack of overhead lights replaced by a weak, blue-grey glow emanated from walls that pulsed with a heartbeat rhythm. It gave him the feeling of being swallowed by some giant, eldritch monstrosity.

  The nest.

  “Tighten it up back there. We’re getting a little thin,” said Jennings.

  The heat was unbearable. The smell was worse. Sweat combined with the thick, cloying humidity, saturating him. Invading his every pore. It also cut visibility down to barely a couple of metres, and every shape and shadow seemed to move just outside the corner of his eye. He gripped his pulse rifle tight as the blip of his tracker assured him there was no movement. It was asleep. For now.

  “Talk to me, Jenny,” whispered Molina.

  “Just keep coming. I think it opens up just ahead.”

  Sure enough, after a few more tens of metres they emerged into a large chamber, and the choking mist thinned out. He felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. People. Dozens. Hundreds of them. All cocooned. All dead. Faces contorted in fear and agony. Faces he knew. He saw Lieutenant Gutierrez, and Ms Nguyen, and Connelly, and dozens of others he knew by name. Marines and civilians. Some he had called his friends, and dozens more he knew on sight but could not put names to. All with their chests ripped open…

  “Holy shit…” muttered Lowry, his voice cracking.

  Think. What would the Sarge do?

  You’ll never be him.

  “Keep it together, Marines,” he ordered. “We’ve got survivors to locate. Spread out, but stay frosty. Smartgunners? Watch our backs.”

  He pushed deeper, past the bodies. Their eyes seeming to follow him, and resin-bound arms seeming to reach for him. Pleading for mercy. Or pulling him in…

  A whimper off to one side cut through the darkness. Barely audible above the thrum of the reactor above them.

  “Hello?” he said quietly.

  The whimper came again, and this time accompanied by a single word. “Please.”

  He approached cautiously. He had seen the yautja play back recorded human voices. Could the xenomorphs do the same? The beam of his shoulder lamp passed over mutilated corpses until it landed on a figure, cocooned like the others, but this one was looking right at him. Skin pale and eyes wide and alert. A woman. A civilian.

  “Don’t panic. We’re getting you out,” said Jennings as he knelt next to her and pulled out his combat knife. His heart leaping into his throat as she unexpectedly grabbed him by his armour.

  “Please. Kill me,” she muttered weakly. Her half-crazed eyes burning into his.

  “No one is killing anyone. You’re going to be alright,” he assured as he started cutting.

  “Henry, please,” she pleaded, and he paused.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  The woman jolted, and screamed as her chest exploded in a shower of bright red. Collapsing limply as a screeching larval xenomorph emerged, snapping and snarling at him. e plunged his knife into its carapace, killing it. Acid hissed, dissolving the blade in seconds.

  A hiss from somewhere caught his attention. Not close, but not far either. Low, and deliberate. Then another. His tracker burst to life with a piercing, high-pitched beeping.

  “Movement!” said Lowry.

  “Bearing?” demanded Molina.

  “Multiple. They’re closing in,” Lowry’s voice cracked with barely contained panic.

  He checked his own tracker. The screen lit up with hundreds of signals approaching from all sides.

  “We’re fucking surrounded, man!” cried Lowry.

  “Stay calm,” Jennings ordered. “Form up.”

  The squad fell into a defensive formation in the centre of the chamber as the trackers continued to sound the alarm. Flashlights and carbine muzzles swept back and forth, searching for any sign. In the gloom the bodies seemed to move, as if trying to peel themselves free.

  “I can’t see shit,” swore Molina.

  “They’re right on us,” cried Lowry, dropping his tracker.

  Too late, Jennings saw the impossibly long bladed tail descend from the ceiling. He didn’t even have time to call out to Lowry before the stinger punched through the young man’s torso, effortlessly pulling him into the unseen darkness.

  “Let’s rock!” yelled one of the smartgunners. Their weapon roaring to life as it laid down a sweeping arc of death. Hundreds of chitinous black carapaces illuminated by the strobe of the muzzle flash. A marine screamed as they were pulled into the floor, desperately clutching at slick wet tendrils before vanishing. The other smartgunner shredded an alien, but it was too close. The screeching creature exploded in a shower of chitin and acid, completely soaking him. He didn’t even scream as armour and flesh sloughed from bone, the whole bubbling mess melting into the floor.

  A crab-like creature leapt from the shadows, slamming itself into Molina’s face. Its tail wrapping around his throat. He struggled momentarily, then went still, and the remaining smartgunner was set upon by a dozen xenomorphs, screaming as they were lost under the black biomechanical mass. Jennings fired frantically, rational thought gone. A continuous stream of fire, never stopping, never reloading. But they just kept coming. Taloned hands reaching out to tear him apart, or worse.

  He was running. He must have tossed his empty weapon. Charging blindly down a random corridor. He had no idea where it led. The walls grew narrower and narrower. The entombed bodies pressing in. Pale arms reaching out to him as he struggled to squeeze past. Dead hands clutching at him, grasping as kept pushing forward.

  Jennings. The corpses seemed to whisper his name in unison. You let me die. You’ll never be him. Help me, please! Who put you in charge? Oh my God, please no! Sergeant? What a joke. The voices a cacophony of pleas and admonition. The cold, dead faces and empty eye sockets staring down at him in judgement. He burst into another, larger chamber, and the voices instantly fell silent.

  Eggs. Thousands of them. Impossibly many. Each about thigh high and leathery, and seeming to go on forever. In front of him, unbothered by the eggs, stood the yautja. All seven and a half feet of it. A towering vision of hell itself. Bristling with violence. In its right hand it held the severed head of Colonel Sanchez. The flesh and skin still intact, and a ragged portion of the spine dangled from the stump of the neck. It casually tossed the head at his feet, lifeless eyes and limp mouth screaming up at him, before dialling a command on its left wrist gauntlet. From behind the mask came a sound. A recording of a human voice. The voice of the colonel.

  “You’ll never have what it takes,” said the voice, thick with disdain.

  He fell to his knees, staring at the head, then the yautja. The mask stared back, unreadable. Whatever alien expression it had concealed behind metal. His stomach ached and his chest burned. Burned so badly he clutched at it with his free hand. The pain intensified, becoming unbearable. Oh God. No. No it wasn’t possible. The colonel’s head watched with indifference as he felt the newborn tearing its way out of him, before erupting free in a shower of blood.

*

  “Jennings!”

  Jennings bolted upright, panting, Molina’s hand on his shoulder. Sweat clung to his brow. His heart was pounding. Instinctively, his hand went to his chest. But there was no gaping wound. No shattered ribs. Just skin, and damp fabric. Nothing more.

  “You were talking in your sleep again,” said Molina without reproach.

  He took a moment to compose himself, willing himself to slow his breathing, and Molina stepped back as he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. Lowry sat watching silently from the opposite cot, pretending to be cleaning his sidearm.

  “I’m fine,” he said between ragged breaths. His voice raspy. Man, he didn’t even convince himself. “Have you seen the Colonel?”

  “The old man was making his rounds a couple of hours ago, but I haven’t seen him since,” said Molina.

  He stood, holding on to the edge of the top bunk for balance while the last vestiges of the nightmare faded.

  “Bad dreams?” asked Lowry.

  He nodded. His throat was dry. Too dry to speak properly.

  “Yeah, me too,” said Lowry. “Since the Sarge, you know?”

  He did, and placed a reassuring hand on the young private’s shoulder. Four more days. They only had to hold out four more days.

  Without another word he made his way to the restrooms. What he wouldn’t give for a shower and a clean set of fatigues. The shower and laundry facilities were outside the perimeter. A necessary sacrifice, but right now he would have been willing to risk it. Over a week without a shower or change of clothes, and all of the sweat, blood and grime had left everyone smelling more than a little ripe. He was glad to find the men’s room empty. It was gloomy. Most of the overheads were still out, and the ones that worked flickered incessantly, casting the tiles in a dank blue-grey. Lingering damage from the xenomorph assault. Fixing the bathroom lights had been pretty low down the list of priorities.

  He splashed cold water on his face, allowing the shock to chase away the lingering fog. He looked old, he thought, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Older than twenty-three, anyway. Unconsciously, one hand came to rest on his chest again, as if checking one last time. What would it be like to have one of those things growing inside of you? Knowing what would happen? He resolved to never find out. If it came to that, he would not be taken alive.

*

  He sat on the cold floor, back against the wall, as he rolled the yellow vial between the fingertips of one hand. The other drifted across the fabric of his coveralls, tracing the raised line of his scar beneath. He could hear the quiet rummaging somewhere behind the forest of cargo crates. A rare moment of separation, that left him alone with his thoughts. He didn’t like it. It reminded him too much of the past three years. Sitting, back to the wall, with nothing to do but mark time. He read the label again, as if it would say something different from the last time, confirming how many doses the vial contained. He hated taking it. His dependence on it. The need. At least this time, he told himself, it wasn’t by choice.

  He didn’t feel cold. He couldn’t exactly say when he had stopped feeling cold, but he knew that he should. He stared at the vial as he continued to twirl it. Perhaps it was never meant to be used for this long. How long had it been? Ten days? Two vials worth. He had been stretching out the time between doses, making each go as far as possible, but it was becoming less effective. He could feel the embryo in his chest stirring, as if rising from a drunken stupor. He would have to be stricter from now on. Six hours, no more.

  Ten days. It had felt like ten years. It certainly felt longer than the three years he had spent in that underground cell. Thankfully, they had managed to avoid any close calls since running into that thing in Delta. Three or four days ago they had heard what to him sounded like an all-out war. It hadn’t been particularly close, but they had thought it best to move to the far end of the base. Putting just a little more distance between them and the chaos.

  “Nothing,” said Van Der Beek as he emerged from behind the crates, slumping against the adjacent wall.

  Louie didn’t acknowledge him as he continued to roll the vial back and forth.

  “That’s the last one?” asked Van Der Beek.

  Louie nodded. Over the past few days, the big man had allowed him to hold on to the vials. He wasn’t sure if the merc trusted him, or if he just could not be bothered anymore.

  “How long?”

  “Ninety-six hours,” said Louie flatly. He did not look up, but he could feel the merc staring at him. “Is that offer still good?”

  “It won’t come to that, Timex. I’ll think of something,” said Van Der Beek.

  “Yeah, I think you better,” he said wistfully. “Four days, and you won’t have me around to watch your back.”

  “I said I’ll think of something,” the merc snapped.

  He was about to say something, but thought better of it. It was not as if arguing would make his supply go any further, and the man was still almost a foot taller than he was.

  “We’ve got other problems,” said Van Der Beek. “Those ration packs were the last ones. We’re out of food.”

  Louie shrugged. “We can survive without for a few days. I’d rather not risk running into one of those things for the sake of a ration pack.”

  “We’re out of water, too, smartass. How long do you think you can go without that?” he scolded.

  “Keep your damn voice down,” Louie hissed.

  “Fuck you,” growled the merc.

  “Va te faire foutre aussi!” he swore under his breath. He sighed. Cursing himself for not holding his tongue. He looked up as the shadow of the towering merc leaned over him.

  “Seventy-two hours without water,” said Van Der Beek softly. “And you’ll be begging me for that bullet.”

  Louie looked away. It chaffed to admit the merc was right, but they couldn’t stay here.

  “So, what’s the plan?” he asked.

  “It’ll be daylight soon. There’s a cafeteria in a building not far from here. We’ll head there, so get your shit together.”

  He stood, breaking the seal on the last vial, and threw back two of the pills, swallowing hard. He decanted two more doses without thinking, depositing them in the breast pocket of his coveralls, before replacing the lid and shoving the vial into his hip pouch. He stiffened slightly as he caught the merc observing the unconscious ritual out of the corner of his eye.

  “Old habit,” he said, downplaying it with a shrug. He was grateful when the big man didn’t press him for details.

  Ninety-six hours.

  “Let’s go.”

*

  Jennings stood anxiously across the table from Doctor McTaggart. The last time he’d been here, it hadn’t gone well. This time, there were no bodies of dead Marines lying on the table, but that didn’t completely set him at ease. The good doctor hadn’t called him for nothing.

  “When is the last time you got any sleep, Doc?” he asked, trying to break the silence while they waited for Colonel Sanchez. He guessed she was about the same age as the commander, but she looked like a walking corpse. Her face was gaunt, eyes sunken with black bags under them, and her silver-grey hair, pulled back tight, looked thinner than before.

  “I don’t sleep anymore,” she said.

  “Why not get Doctor Yau to take a shift? I don’t like him any more than you do, but he is a surgeon. Let him pull his weight for once,” he suggested.

  The doctor gave a thin smile. “I appreciate your concern, Sergeant Jennings. But I’ll be damned if I let that monster anywhere near my patients.”

  Before he could speak again, Colonel Sanchez entered. He looked even more ragged than the doctor.

  “You asked to see me, Doctor?” Sanchez asked.

  “Yes, gentlemen. Thank you both for coming,” said McTaggart, her voice flat. “I’ll get straight to the point: we’re running out of medical supplies.”

  “I thought you said we had enough?” asked Sanchez.

  “I did, and we did. But that was before the xenomorph attack. With this many wounded, we’re burning through the remaining stock,” explained the doctor. “At this rate, I’ll be out of essential medications in twenty-four hours. Thirty-six at most. I have nine patients that will not survive without them.”

  “Nine?” asked Jennings. “I thought we had eleven critical cases?”

  “Two passed during the night.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask,” she continued. “But the East Medical Wing is still well stocked. I need your Marines to bring back what I need. I can give you a list. I would go myself but I cannot leave my patients unattended.”

  Okay. Simple enough, Jennings thought. A kilometre there. Grab the supplies. A kilometre back.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Sanchez. “But I cannot authorise that action.”

  “Sir?” Jennings raised an incredulous eyebrow.

  “We’re running low on manpower, and we cannot leave the perimeter undefended. I will not jeopardise four hundred lives to save nine.”

  “There has to be another way,” he protested.

  “We’re in a combat situation, Sergeant. If we have to start battlefield triage…” he trailed off, taking a breath. “I am sorry, but you’ll have to make do with what you’ve got.”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Leave the dying to die, is that it, sir?” he spat.

  “You secure that attitude, Sergeant. Right now!” Sanchez bellowed.

  “Yes, sir!” Jennings snapped to attention as the colonel glared at him.

  “Doctor,” Sanchez nodded, before turning on his heel and marching out without another word.

  Jennings exchanged a quick, concerned glance with the doctor before he silently mouthed, “Wait here,” then went after the colonel, jogging to catch up to the commander.

  “Sir, may I speak with you privately?” he asked, making an effort to maintain a formal tone. Sanchez nodded, and gestured to his office. Jennings followed, careful to close the door behind him as the colonel settled into his chair behind the desk.

  “Well, let’s hear it,” said Sanchez, sounding impatient.

  “Colonel, I—” he began.

  “Stand before me at attention!” barked Sanchez.

  Jennings took a step forward and snapped to attention, stamping his foot down as his heart pounded. The colonel had a way of making himself sound angrier than he really was when chewing out a subordinate. Jennings had always found it amusing. But this wasn’t that. This was the real deal, and for the first time, he was genuinely afraid.

  “Sir,” he gulped, eyes locked on the shutter above the colonel’s head. “As Acting NCOIC it is my duty to offer you an alternative course of action.”

  The colonel raised an expectant eyebrow.

  “Send me, sir,” said Jennings. “I’ll go alone. If I don’t come back, you can scratch one jarhead.”

  “If you don’t come back, McTaggart’s patients are no better off, and I’ve lost another NCOIC. Morale is hanging by a thread as it is. I need my Marines sharp,” countered Sanchez.

  “It’s worth the risk, sir,” he said.

  “And I disagree. We are in a war here, Sergeant. In case you haven’t noticed, they’re winning,” said Sanchez. “I’ve made my decision.”

  “Jesus, sir, what’s happening to you?” he muttered before he could stop himself.

  “Come again?” snapped Sanchez.

  Oh shit. Now he had really done it. He struggled to keep his expression a mask of military professionalism, his insides turning to water as the colonel’s razor-sharp stare cut through him.

  “I will not wager hundreds of lives against less than a dozen,” said Sanchez, his voice icy cold. “And I have to live with that. Not you. Dismissed.”

  Is this what command meant? Cold, hard logic. Raw numbers. Sacrifice ten to save a hundred? It had to be more than that, he decided. But it gave him an idea.

  “What about the next time, sir?” he ventured.

  “I said you’re dismissed, Sergeant,” Sanchez barked.

  “Sir, just, hear me out,” he pressed. “Today, it’s nine. If there is another perimeter breach, it could be dozens. Hundreds. We won’t have the meds to treat them, and even fewer Marines to protect them. We should go now, while there is still time.”

  He half-expected the older man to shoot him on the spot, but he had come too far to back down now. Instead, the colonel seemed to ponder what he had said. Resting his chin on one hand and rapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, staring into the distance as he considered the options.

  “You’re on thin ice here, son,” he said, his voice low. “Alright, what do you suggest?”.

  Yes!

  “The sun will be up in twenty minutes. Those things seem to stick to the dark so we’ll stick to daylight as much as possible. Me, and one other Marine. We take an APC; we can spare one. We go in, get what we need, we get out. Couple of hours, max. Nice and easy,” said Jennings.

  “Overconfidence gets people killed, Marine,” said Sanchez.

  Jennings flinched, but he was right. Things were never that straightforward. But still, he had to try.

  “If we’re doing this, we do it right,” said Sanchez. “I’m not sending two men. When you move, you move with force. Take a full platoon. Two APCs. I want everyone armed with as much as they can carry. That leaves us with a skeleton crew, but you’re right about the daylight. I’ve never heard of a xenomorph to prance around in the open. Nightfall will be just over ten hours. You must be back by then. Supplies, or no supplies. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” said Jennings with a firm salute.

  “Remember,” said the colonel quietly. “Just because it’s daylight, doesn’t mean it’s safe. They’re out there. He is out there.”

*

  Louie shielded his eyes as the overheads flickered to life. Rows of long tables stretched across the massive, empty hall. He reckoned it could sit five hundred, maybe more, and it was quiet as the grave. The odd overturned chair or tray of an abandoned, half-eaten meal were the only signs it had ever been inhabited. It reminded him of some cheesy, post-apocalypse holo. Like he was walking through the ruins of civilisation, with him and Van Der Beek the last two people on Earth. The kitchen was at the far end, and much the same story. Rotting food and burned ingredients, abandoned mid-prep.

  “Check the freezer,” said Van Der Beek, who proceeded to check the larders of dry food.

  He found it easily enough. A massive, steel sliding door clearly marked “Freezer”. It was hard to miss. He heaved the handle with both hands. The door groaned and slid open. A blast of icy air hit his face. He took that to be a good sign. If there was food, it hadn’t spoiled.

  Steak, he thought to himself, as he stepped inside. He was going to find steak. A huge, premium T-bone, and not that reconstituted crap either. The real deal, and a thousand-dollar bottle of wine to go with it. Instead, he found only disappointment as his eyes drifted over shelves of non-descript packaging with bland, generic labels, until they came to rest on a massive twenty-five litre container.

  “Score.”

  “You find something?” hollered Van Der Beek.

  “Hell yeah,” announced Louie, awkwardly lugging the oversized plastic tub into the kitchen and dumping it on the counter “Ice cream.”

  “Is it strawberry?” asked the merc.

  He glanced at the label. “Yeah.”

  “Tastes like shit.”

  “More for me then,” Louie shrugged, and started looking for a spoon. Screw it. Three years in an underground cell, he had earned this, and right now he felt like he could work his way through the whole carton.

  “Knock yourself out,” said Van Der Beek, shaking his head as he opened the next storeroom door. Neither had time to react as the screaming figure lunged at the big man. Eyes wild, carving knife flashing as it slashed at his arm. The merc wasn’t quite fast enough to dodge the blade, but he was still fast. One massive fist crashing into the side of his assailant’s head, sending them sprawling.

  “Argh, you fokken bilksem!” he swore as he clutched his blood-soaked sleeve.

  “What the hell happened?” demanded Louie as he vaulted over.

  “Crazy bastard attacked me,” said Van Der Beek through gritted teeth as blood ran down his hand.

  “Let me see,” said Louie, prying the big man’s hand away from the wound. He was lucky. A half inch to the right, he would have severed a nerve. “Looks worse than it is,” he explained. “But it’s still going to need stitches.”

  “Motherfucker,” Van Der Beek growled, his face red.

  Louie knelt beside the one on the floor. It was a young man. Gaunt and emaciated. He was wearing a dark navy blue Weyland-Yutani jacket, but beneath that, he wore semi-translucent thin white coveralls. Just like him.

  Another Delta test subject.

  Louie pressed two fingers to the man’s neck.

  “He’s dead,” he said flatly, looking up at the merc. For the briefest moment, he saw the flicker of something behind those cold eyes, and then it was gone.

  “Christ, you didn’t have to kill him,” admonished Louie.

  “It’s not like I planned it, brah. He attacked me,” said Van Der Beek.

  It occurred to Louie that he didn’t know his name. Had he heard his voice, he may have recognised it, but faces? He very rarely actually saw other test subjects, and he had never seen this one.

  “Don’t suppose you know his name?” he asked.

  “No.”

  No name. No tags. Nothing. Just a generic Wey-Yu jacket. Not him. He wasn’t going out like that. Although, if he was a Delta test subject…

  He sighed, rummaging through the jacket pockets.

  “Not your first time looting a corpse, eh?” said Van Der Beek.

  “He might have some gestacyn, connard,” he snapped.

  The big merc snorted in disgust.

  “Empty.” Louie stood, dusting himself off. “It doesn’t matter. I need to clean and stitch that arm or it’s going to get infected.”

  The merc gave him a cold, hard look, as if he was about to argue.

  “There’s a medical building northeast of here. It’s not far.”

Chapter Text

  The early morning air was biting, and the mile hike had done little to warm him. The massive cone of the atmosphere processor stood cathedral-like before them, its peak reaching up into the grey sky. Even the lower archways of the ancillary cooling towers stretched out over a hundred metres above his head, while the weak sun struggled to penetrate the ugly black clouds that were already forming. McKenna had never been this close to it. An oppressive, ever-present feature that dominated the barren landscape, only now did he truly appreciate the scale.

  The hike had taken longer than expected. An unpaved “road” for vehicles ran back and forth between the processor and the outpost, but Sloan had insisted on avoiding that. Too obvious, and while he did not think the Marines were specifically monitoring it, the boss wasn’t taking any chances. The jarheads also weren’t the only things they had to worry about.

  Their boots were unnaturally loud as they marched up the south ramp towards the main gate. The sound reverberating off of the durasteel walls, and he found his eyes drifting across the ledges and dark crevices. Suddenly the hair along his arm rose and a cold chill ran down his spine. It was nothing to do with the weather, and nothing to do with the intimidating scale of the processor. It was the stillness. Despite all that had happened, this was still a working installation, yet it felt long abandoned. He could not explain it, but he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched.

  “McKenna,” barked Sloan, snapping him back. “Get your head back in the game, and get the door.”

  “Right,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry, boss.” He stole one last upward glance, but there was nothing there. Punching the door controls, the huge door rose with a clatter and they quickly filed inside. Instinctively, he closed the door behind them. It was a flimsy barrier, but he nonetheless felt better to be on the other side of it. Relieved to be out of the cold, the entrance, though hardly warmer, felt more like a street than a corridor. Easily wide enough to drive an APC down, with a three-storey-high ceiling and walls covered in a maze of old pipes. The anaemic light of the overheads reflected off of the wet concrete floor, providing barely enough to see by.

  “Form up,” said Sloan as the men huddled round, flicking on torches. “Cohen, this is your show. What’s our next move?”

  “This whole station is one big fusion reactor. So, I’ll need to disengage the magnetic confinement coils and direct the coolant loop—” Cohen began, but Sloan cut him off.

  “Skip the jargon. Give it to me in plain English.”

  “I need to get to the Control Room. Should be up on Level 25,” he explained, tapping his datapad.

  “We’re really doing this,” McKenna muttered under his breath.

  “We’ve been over this,” snapped Sloan. “You don’t want to be a part of this? You can stay here with the rest of them.”

  McKenna felt his jaw tighten as he fought the urge to protest.

  “The problem is the backups,” Cohen continued, breaking the tense silence. “As soon as I override the system, the emergency venting will kick in. That’ll keep the reactor going maybe another four hours. Long enough for the jarheads to reestablish control. I’ll need someone to manually disable the safeties.”

  “Where?” asked Sloan.

  “Sub-Level 3. Right under the primary heat exchangers.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “You’d know them if you saw them. Engineering crews have to disengage them for maintenance. Look for a big handle on an electrical junction box. They’ll be clearly labelled and probably locked. There’ll be six. One under each cooling tower. You need to hit all of them,” Cohen explained.

  “You sure you can pull this off?” asked Sweeney, who had been quiet until now.

  “Gimme ten minutes in that control room, and I’ll make this reactor get up and dance,” said Cohen.

  “Hang on,” McKenna interrupted. “Once we light the fuse, how much time do we have?”

  “Without emergency venting? An hour, give or take,” said Cohen with a shrug.

  “What if we have to abort?” McKenna asked.

  “No such thing. Once I hit the override, it initiates a cascade failure. No brakes on this crazy train.”

  Great, McKenna thought. At least thirty minutes to get back to the main hangar, and at least ten minutes to prep for launch. They would be cutting it damn fine.

  “We better move fast then,” said Sloan, seemingly unperturbed, although McKenna knew he was doing the same mental math as he was. “Cohen, you take the Control Room. Palmer, Sweeney, Morse, go with him. McKenna, you’re with me. We’ll take Sub-Level 3.”

  Smart, he thought. Very smart. Apart from Sloan, he was the only other one who could pilot a dropship. He wanted to keep him close. “We’ll definitely know the safety switches when we see them?”

  “You can’t miss them,” said Cohen. “Here, take this,” he handed Sloan his datapad. “It’ll give you a map of the sub-level.”

  Sloan nodded, satisfied. “I want open comms throughout. We’ll be in and out before anyone knows we were here. As soon as you’re done, head for the landing pad. We’ll all meet there, and we all get out together.”

  “We’ll lose comms for a bit. The signal won’t get through thirty floors of plastcrete,” corrected Cohen.

  “Keep’em open anyway,” said Sloan.

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “Move out.”

*

  The two hulking APCs growled to life, engines settling into a low rumble as they idled. The blue beams of their headlights flickering on as nearly twenty Marines cut back and forth in a well-choreographed dance. Armour was checked, extra magazines were packed, and then checked again. Two Marines hefted an additional crate of ammo for the turret guns. It may have been overkill, but Jennings was taking zero chances.

  No one was. Everyone was strung out. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, he was sure they could have slept the next eighty hours. But they were still Colonial Marines. The first ones in and the last ones out. They had all been briefed, and they knew what the stakes were. People were counting on them. One last push to get them over the line before the evac arrived. But they knew what was out there, and they were going out armed to the teeth.

  “How we looking?” he asked Molina.

  The Marine pumped the grenade launcher on his pulse rifle. “Locked, cocked and ready to rock, Sarge.”

  Jennings nodded. “I’m giving you second squad. Take the rear APC and watch our asses. Lowry, you’re with me in the lead vehicle, and you’re driving.”

  Lowry nodded. It was time.

  “Alright, Marines,” Jennings barked. “On the ready line!”

*

  The Control Room was not what Morse had expected. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Something grander, maybe. It was smaller than he had imagined. Less than twenty metres across, with two long banks of consoles facing a giant display on the far wall that showed an elevation schematic of the processing tower. It was mostly dark, except for the faint glow of some displays, and the sterile tang of recycled air hung in the room. It looked like it had never been used. That suited him. If they had to start executing staff, the noise would draw unwanted attention.

  “Area secure,” said Palmer, and Morse rolled his eyes. Of course it’s secure. Three days stuck in a dropship with this idiot and he was going to go batshit crazy.

  Cohen beelined for one of the consoles and pulled out a chair for himself. Morse propped himself up on an adjacent desk, foot dangling while he kept one eye on the door. Sweeney leaned back against the wall near the door, pulse rifle at a low ready, while Palmer continued to act as if he had never seen a control room before.

  Cohen cracked his knuckles. “Time to go to work.”

*

  Sanchez’s footsteps echoed unnaturally loud in the empty corridor. With two squads leading the raid on Medical, and dozens more missing, the corridors were eerily quiet. Missing. Dead, he corrected himself. Marines under his command. It would be the end of his career, not that that mattered. He was tired. So very tired. He could not remember the last time he had slept. Thirty-six hours at least, probably more. But he would not allow himself to rest until Jennings and the rest were safely back inside, and so he found himself patrolling the perimeter like a junior enlisted. He guessed some old habits never die.

  “Colonel Sanchez to Command, please. Immediately,” a nervous voice sounded over the P.A. He broke into a jog and reached the command centre in under a minute. The small, dark room felt even emptier than the corridors outside, despite the consoles and tactical display table. Usually staffed by five or six operators at a time, now it had only one.

  “What’s the problem?” he demanded.

  “Sir, we have a breach of the atmosphere processor’s security systems. Someone is trying to hack the reactor controls.”

  “From where?”

  “Looks like…the main control room. It’s over at the processing station. Level 25,” confirmed the young man.

  “Sloan…” he growled, and rage turned to dread as realisation dawned. “Madre de Dios, he’s trying to scuttle the reactor. Lock him out, now.”

  “I can’t, sir,” said the operator apologetically.

  “Get Watson in here,” he ordered.

  “Who?”

  “The synthetic. One hand. He’s helping Doc McTaggart. Get him in here on the double,” he barked. The operator took off running as Sanchez grabbed a headset.

  “Jennings, come in,” he spoke into the mic.

  “Jennings here, sir. Go ahead,” the voice of the sergeant buzzed.

  “Change of plan. Sloan is trying to sabotage the main reactor. Processing station. Level 25. Get over there. Now,” he barked. He did not wait for the response as he stood helplessly watching warning after warning flash up on the screen.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he didn’t hear Watson until the synthetic pushed past him and assumed the operator’s seat, his one remaining hand moving so quickly over the keys that Sanchez could barely follow the movement.

  “Can you stop them?” he asked.

  “No,” said Watson flatly. “They have on-site control. I can stall them, but I cannot freeze them out of the primary system from here.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” confirmed Watson.

  He already knew it wouldn’t be enough.

*

  “This is taking too long,” Sweeney spoke through gritted teeth as he paced. Sloan and McKenna were probably already halfway to the landing pad. It wasn’t like he didn’t trust the boss, he just wasn’t sure he trusted him that much.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” said Cohen, not taking his eyes off the screen as his hands furiously moved over the keys. “They’re trying to lock me out. Whoever it is, they’re good.”

  “There’ll be two dozen Marines here any minute,” he pressed.

  “Relax, we’ll be gone by then. They can slow me down but they can’t stop me. Ten minutes, tops, and we’re outta here.”

  “Let them come,” seethed Morse. “I’ve got a score to settle.”

  “Since when did you become so fucking gung-ho?” Sweeney snorted in disgust.

  “Since you became a fucking pussy,” spat Morse.

  “Whatever,” Sweeney shrugged. “I’m going for a piss.” Turning towards the door, he just barely clocked the shimmer before the twin blades punched through his eye sockets.

*

  Morse bolted upright as he saw Sweeney impaled mid-step. Two wicked blades protruded from the back of his head as he gasped for breath, hands desperately clutching at the forearm of some ghostly apparition before his body went limp. A deafening crack and a flash of blue-white light filled the control room as a bolt of plasma slammed into the console, blowing it apart and sending both him and Cohen sprawling. His ears rang as he struggled to his feet. His skin singed and his lungs burned as smoke billowed from the fiery remains of the destroyed console.

  “We’ve got a hostile,” screamed Palmer as he fired a volley at the doorway, but hit nothing.

  Yeah. No fucking shit, dumbass, thought Morse.

  “I don’t see a goddamn thing,” said Cohen, coughing, face burned from the blast.

  Morse saw the flicker of shimmering movement just a split second before Palmer was caught by a net that took him off his feet, carrying him across the room and slamming him to the wall with a bone-rattling thud. A criss-cross of bloody lines began to appear on his forehead and across his legs, before a torrent of blood gushed down the front of his armour. The net had pulled tight under his jaw, garrotting him, his body going limp as he bled out. Fuck. Two down in seconds. He almost shot Cohen when the tech reappeared beside him, and he silently cursed him for being such an idiot. He even had half a mind to kill him anyway. Then his ears pricked up. It had stopped. The attack had ceased as quickly as it had begun, and now the only sound was the crackling of the fire and his own laboured breathing, leaving the place eerily still. He eyed the door several metres away.

  “Get behind me and watch my back,” he ordered Cohen, whispering through gritted teeth as the smoke stung his eyes. “Start heading for the door. Slowly.”

  The sound of a faint purr caused him to whirl around to face it, only for another from a different direction to do the same. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere.

  “Morse…” whispered Cohen.

  “Shut up,” he hissed.

  “Morse, it’s got me” said Cohen, his voice trembling.

  “I said shut the fu—”

  The low purring sound came from behind, this time much more distinctive, and now punctuated by the occasional sharp click. He turned to face Cohen who stood, frozen and wide-eyed, and he saw it. The slight refraction effect in the shape of fingers wrapped around Cohen’s throat. The distortion made it hard to judge exactly where the top of its head was, but it was big.

  “Don’t move,” he whispered, as if the creature could not hear. But it did not react. He could not see any details but he could almost feel its gaze assessing him. Sizing him up.

  “This thing’s grip is like a vice,” rasped Cohen between quick gasps.

  He tensed, and although the movement was almost imperceptible, Cohen’s eyes widened when he realised what he was about to do.

  “Don’t...” he pleaded weakly as the hand on his neck squeezed harder.

  “Nothing personal,” said Morse with a cruel smirk.

  With one quick motion he brought the pulse rifle up to hip-firing position. It would be inaccurate as all hell, but at this range it wouldn’t matter. But before he could get a single round off, there was another blinding flash and thunderous roar as another searing bright blue bolt shot from the apparition’s shoulder, the steep downward angle obliterating his gun before striking him in the upper thigh. He was sent tumbling to the floor, his ears ringing as his vision teetered on the edge of consciousness. Then the smell of burning meat made him come to, and he looked down in horror at the stump of his right leg that ended in a ragged, charred mess after six inches. Too stunned to scream, he watched as Cohen’s head was twisted one-hundred-and eighty-degrees with a sickening snap, before the shape casually tossed his limp body aside.

  There was an audible beep and suddenly the shimmer materialised into a solid figure. Morse lost control of his bladder as he stared, mouth agape, at the towering nightmare figure. This was the thing that had got Carter and the boys…

  “Holy shit…” he muttered, and the yautja immediately locked its attention on him. The laser points on the side of its mask lit up, casting three red dots dead centre on his chest as an odd projectile weapon on its shoulder swivelled into place. A moment passed, only for it to seem to change its mind. The dots vanished, and the strange weapon lowered. He was still in too much shock to be in real pain, and in his daze he wondered if it had decided to spare him. Then it took a step forward.

  “No, no, no, no, no, wait, wait!” he pleaded, holding out a placating hand as he tried to pull himself across the floor, dragging his useless stump of a leg, but it effortlessly closed the gap in a few unhurried steps.

  “Nothing personal,” repeated the yautja, playing back a distorted echo of his own voice as it placed one massive foot leisurely on his head. His piercing, ragged scream was cut short as it pressed down with its full weight, and crushed his skull like an eggshell.

*

  Sanchez watched as Watson’s hand froze, and the synthetic stared unblinking at the screen.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong, sir. They stopped,” said Watson.

  “What do you mean, ‘they stopped’?” he demanded.

  “I mean they…stopped, sir. The intrusion halted mid-command, and disconnected a moment later. It appears they have aborted their attack,” explained Watson, with the matter-of-fact calm only a synthetic could manage.

  The room felt suddenly larger, the hum of the servers filling the silence. Sanchez stared at the screen for a long moment, the words “CONNECTION LOST” flashing in red. He held his breath, waiting for the attack to resume, almost willing it to, but the screen kept repeating its ominous message.

  “They didn’t abort anything,” he said as he picked up a headset. “Sergeant Jennings, come in.”

  “Sir,” the static-filled voice buzzed in his ear. “We’re en route to intercept. ETA ten minutes.”

  “Stand down, Sergeant. False alarm. Resume your supply mission. Double-time it. Sanchez, out,” he ordered before taking off the headset.

  “Colonel,” Watson tilted his head, the faint imitation of confusion flickering across his face. That was part of his social programming; technically, he could not be confused. “That was not a false alarm. There was a security breach, and I cannot guarantee that they will not reattempt—”

  “They’re dead,” Sanchez cut him off. He didn’t need to see it. He already knew. “Thank you for your assistance, Mister Watson. You may resume your normal duties.”

  The synthetic regarded him for a moment longer before turning and leaving without another word, the door hissing shut behind him, leaving Sanchez alone in the room. He leaned on the desk, watching the blinking screen.

  “What are you planning?”

*

  Sub-Level 3 was a labyrinth of pitch-black corridors and maintenance tunnels that branched off the main spokes like a spider’s web, and Sloan clutched the schematic like a lifeline as he pushed deeper. Truth be told, he couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but his gut told him they were on the right path. The deeper they went, the hotter it got. Simple enough. He might not have been hot shit with a computer, but he understood basic thermodynamics. The atmosphere processor was one giant reactor, and all that excess heat had to go somewhere.

  There was something else. Faint, right at the very limits of his senses, but it was there, and growing stronger. The smell. Not an industrial smell. Not metal, plastic, or oil, but organic. A sort of acrid, sickly sweetness that wormed its way into his nostrils despite its faintness. His boot almost went out from under him as he stood in a pool of clear, viscous fluid.

  “Shit,” he swore under his breath as he caught himself, and knelt to inspect the puddle. Glinting in the light of his flashlight, it looked almost like saliva…

  “You hear that, boss?” McKenna interrupted his train of thought. Sloan stood, straining his ears, but he heard nothing beyond the ever-present thrum of the processor. He shook his head.

  “Thought I heard something,” said McKenna, his eyes still locked on the ceiling above them.

  “Heard what?”

  “Gunshots.”

  He strained again, but hard as he tried he could not hear anything out of the ordinary.

  “Let’s just get this done,” said Sloan.

  “Copy that,” said McKenna. “Being down here gives me the creeps.”

  The walls began to drip with condensation, and a now constant drizzle fell like underground rain, soaking his already sweat-drenched shirt. Something must be seriously wrong with the environmental controls, he thought. It didn’t matter; it shouldn’t be much further.

  Sure enough, another few dozen metres and the corridor widened into a crossroads, with one larger corridor cutting across their path, and curving round in both directions. Both men stopped at the edge, and stared in disbelief. The opening to the junction, and everything beyond that they could see, had been transformed. Alien patterns sculpted out of some sort of secreted resin caked every available surface, forming what looked like the maw of some giant, subterranean nightmare. It was obvious what had done this.

  “Busy little creatures,” he muttered.

  “I don’t like this, boss,” said McKenna nervously.

  He held up a hand, bidding him to be quiet. Nothing. Apart from the hum of the reactor, the hiss of steam vents, and the constant pitter-patter of moisture, he couldn’t hear a goddamn thing. Silent as the grave.

  “Doesn’t sound like anybody’s home,” said Sloan, keeping his voice low.

  “Or just sleeping,” McKenna countered.

  “Works for us,” said Sloan. “It’s not like we have a choice. We do this quick and quiet. In and out, and no one has to be any the wiser.”

  McKenna nodded.

  “According to the schematics, this is one big loop. Three cooling towers each side. Keep your comm open. You go right; I’ll go left. We meet up at the north exit, and we get the fuck out of here,” said Sloan.

  “Sounds good to me,” said McKenna, sounding relieved. He was too, although he did his best not to show it. Three cooling towers. It was only a few hundred metres to the other side of the ring. Ten minutes, and they were heading to the landing pad.

  “Stay alert, and if you see one of those things, blast it,” he cautioned. “They’re tough, but they still die to bullets.”

  McKenna nodded. “See you on the other side, boss,” he said with a half-hearted smirk, and took off down the east passage, vanishing into the fog.

  Sloan set off in the opposite direction, gripping his carbine as he waded across the wet, uneven floor. Eyes scanning for any sign of movement. Within a few minutes, he found the first switch. A massive orange junction box covered in buttons and lights whose purpose he could only guess at. A large lever sat locked under a clear plastic cover, plastered with warning signs. Cohen did say he would know it when he saw it. The alien material was hard, but brittle, and snapped off easily enough. Smashing the cover with the butt of his carbine, he yanked the lever down hard with a mechanical clank, and a dozen warning lights flashed an angry yellow.

  One down. Two to go.

  He found the second switch another couple of hundred metres around the bend, and the process was equally straightforward. Nice and easy. He also didn’t get the impression that he was heading any deeper into the hive. The middle ring seemed to form the outer edge, and that suited him just fine. One switch box left. He still remained vigilant as he traced his way to the third control panel. The walls themselves seemed to pulse, and even through his gloves the resin felt slick and disgustingly warm. Deep shadows and billowing steam vents provided plenty of hiding spots for an ambush, but the hive showed no reaction to his presence. That’s it, he thought, allowing himself a hint of optimism. Sleep tight. Don’t mind us. Five minutes, and we’re out of here…

  He found the third switch box with no more difficulty than he had found the first two, but this one was fully encased in that same translucent resin. This was going to take a minute. He smashed away some of it with the butt of his gun, pulling off large wet chunks with his hands, but it was slow going, and he was making too much noise. He wondered if McKenna was having more luck. The younger man should be at the exit by now, and two of them would make this last switch go that much faster. They were so close…

  “McKenna,” he whispered into his headset. “How’s it coming? Over.”

  His ear buzzed with static. Damn walls down here, playing hell with the signal.

  “I said how’s it—” he was cut off by the sound of a hiss. Not from his headset. Not from one of the countless vents. This one was different. Low, quiet. Deliberate. Suddenly, every shadow seemed to move. The walls became black carapaces and gnashing teeth. The hum of the reactor became the heartbeat of the hive. Every sound covered the approach of a closing predator.

  He spun, carbine at the ready, as he caught the flicker of shadow out of the corner of his eye, but there was nothing there. Had there been? He couldn’t be sure. A hiss from behind, and he spun again, only to be confronted by nothing. All of his usual bravado melting away, a deep, primal chill gripped him. Fuck the switch. It was time to leave. Now. He would take his chances with the dropship. Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end as a dark shadow enveloped him, and he felt drips of thick saliva falling on his shoulder. The acrid smell was suddenly cloying. Suffocating, and the thrum of the hive now pounded inside his skull.

  He froze as he looked down to see the black blade of a tail emerging from between his knees, curling back to point towards him as it reached his chest. Slowly, he brought his pulse rifle up, careful not to make any sudden movements. He tightened his grip, steeling himself. He could almost feel its breath on his neck, his heart hammering in his chest. He mouthed a silent prayer before spinning on his heel, pulling the carbine to his shoulder. But before he could fire, long black taloned hands clamped over his mouth, and his cheeks burned as razor-sharp claws dug deep, cutting off his scream and dragging him down into the darkness.

Chapter Text

  Medical smelled like death. The red emergency lighting casting long, black shadows across every surface. There were signs of a struggle, and they had even come across a body that had been hastily covered with a sheet. Neither one of them looked too closely. Whatever had happened here, it looked like they had missed it.

  “This place is a tomb,” said Van Der Beek, still clutching his bleeding arm.

  “I’ve got what I need,” said Louie, wheeling a Mayo stand over to the side of the bed. “Let’s do this fast, this place is giving me the creeps. It’s just a little too familiar. Get comfortable.”

  The big merc swung his legs on to the bed, propping himself up as Louie snapped on some rubber gloves and pulled an articulated examination lamp into position. Under the harsh light he could see the wound clearly for the first time. A sharp fifteen-centimetre laceration running down his forearm. Van Der Beek had been lucky. A centimetre to the side and he’d have lost the use of his fingers. As it stood, it looked worse than it was, although he bet it still hurt like hell.

  “Hey, do you know what you’re doing?” asked Van Der Beek.

  “Yes, I’ve done this before,” said Louie flatly.

  “How the fuck—you know what? Never mind. Forget I asked.”

  Here goes, he thought, as he cleaned away the blood with an antiseptic wipe. Van Der Beek hissed through tight lips.

  “Big baby,” Louie said with a smirk.

  The merc shot him a cold look, but said nothing.

  Cleaning it took time. It wasn’t too deep, but the blade had nicked a vein, which was why it had bled so profusely. The cold air had slowed that, but it still had not fully coagulated. He worked fast while Van Der Beek kept staring at the ceiling. Jaw tight and fist balled.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him, you know,” said Van Der Beek, eyes still staring upwards.

  “Not the first time you’ve accidentally killed someone, I bet,” quipped Louie, instantly regretting it. The merc shot him a look, but his expression was not angry, just disappointed, before settling back on his spot on the ceiling.

  After a few minutes, the bleeding finally stopped, and Louie was able to properly clean the area. Thankfully, the blade had been razor-sharp, leaving a single, neat gash. Now came the hard part. He sighed as he picked up a syringe and bottle, and aspirated what he hoped would be enough for someone the merc’s size.

  “What are you doing?” Van Der Beek asked as he straightened, his accent failing to conceal an uncharacteristic note of concern.

  “It’s remifentasyn,” he explained. “I need to sedate you while I stitch your arm. Relax, it won’t completely knock you out, and it’ll wear off in an hour.”

  “You’re not jabbing me with that shit, brah,” Van Der Beek said coldly.

  “Look,” said Louie, exasperated. “Your arm needs thirty-odd stitches. You barely survived the disinfectant.”

  “No drugs.”

  Louie sighed as he placed the syringe back on the tray. “Fine, you’re the boss. But this is gonna hurt.”

  He pinched the two sides of the cut and pushed the needle through both layers with a wet pop.

  “Argh, fuck. You dirty bliksem,” he hissed through gritted teeth as his face turned bright red.

  “Keep it down,” snapped Louie before taking a breath. This was going to take a minute, and he needed the merc calm, so he decided to try a different tact.

  “So, Van Der Beek, you got a first name?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You didn’t want the anaesthetic. I need to do something to take your mind off it,” said Louie.

  Van Der Beek just snorted. He got two more stitches done as the merc snatched quick, shallow breaths.

  “Jansen,” said Van Der Beek.

  “What?”

  “My name. It’s Jansen.”

  “Any family?” asked Louie. He had asked just to distract the merc while he worked, but now, he was genuinely curious.

  “A sister back in Johannesburg, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if you have a sister?” asked Louie, raising a credulous, hairless eyebrow without taking his eyes off the task at hand.

  “We haven’t spoken in seventeen years. Last I heard, she married some rich asshole. A doctor, I think,” he inhaled sharply as he pulled another stitch closed.

  Seven. Eight.

  “Where are you from? You don’t sound French,” asked Van Der Beek.

  “Shreveport,” said Louie.

  “No shit?” Van Der Beek grinned. “I was there maybe six, seven years ago, coming off a job. Right around Mardi Gras. Man, that was a wild night. Small world, eh?”

  Louie pretended the question was rhetorical. He remember those nights. Years of addiction had not dulled his memory. Cheap bourbon and cheaper aftershave. Neon lights and dark alleys. Cash up front. He had always been good at what he did, and made his “employers” a lot of money. Sometimes five-figures a night.

  Van Der Beek bit the glove of his free hand as Louie pulled the thread tight.

  “Listen, I’m not even half-way yet. Let me give you the shot, and it’ll be over before you know it,” he said, trying to reason with him.

  “No,” growled Van Der Beek.

  Louie shook his head, and went back to stitching.

  Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

  “What’s the deal with that, anyway?” he asked.

  For a long moment, Van Der Beek didn’t answer, continuing to grit his teeth, and Louie did not press.

  Seventeen. Eighteen…

  “So, what’s your story?” asked Van Der Beek, breaking the silence.

  “I already told you.”

  “You told me how you ended up here. What about before? Any folks back on Earth?”

  “Nobody,” said Louie sharply.

  “Come on, everyone at least has parents,” Van Der Beek pressed.

  “They sold me for drugs when I was seven, or eight. I don’t remember them,” said Louie without emotion. He wasn’t lying either. Sometimes even now, almost twenty years later, he would catch himself trying to picture their faces, and every time they came up blank.

  “Jesus, that’s…” the merc trailed off.

  “That’s just life,” he said too quickly. Life had winners and losers, and he’d always just figured himself one of the latter. Born under a bad sign, even his own name had thrice damned him. Ruminating on it didn’t change that.

  Twenty-one. Twenty-two. His gloves now slick with blood; he struggled to keep the needle steady. Focus. Almost there.

  “I had a brother,” said Van Der Beek, still looking at the ceiling. “A little younger than I was. I kinda looked after him. He got hooked on that shit because of me. By the time he was sixteen, he was too far gone. He was nineteen when he OD’d.”

  “That’s not your fault. Trust me, I know,” said Louie quietly.

  “Yes, it was,” insisted Van Der Beek. “I got him into the life. I was working for some local organised crime. Just hired muscle. I tried to get him a job. Instead, he found that. I tried to get him off it, but it was useless. I always swore that would never be me. After he died, I hooked up with a PMC outfit running ops mostly off-Earth, and I never looked back.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Louie. Van Der Beek turned his head to face him, and for the first time, he saw the merc’s cold features soften slightly.

  “I really didn’t mean to kill him,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” said Louie, and he continued to stitch in silence for a few minutes while the merc endured without a sound.

  Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three.

  “All done,” said Louie, exhaling slowly as he snipped the end of the thread. “You’ll have a scar, but you’ll live.”

  “One more for the collection,” the merc shrugged, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Louie quickly wrapped some surgical gauze around the wound before taping it off. “We’ll need to change that daily.”

  “That’s a good dressing,” said the merc, flexing his arm as he stood. “Thanks.”

  “Take these,” said Louie, offering him a bottle of pills. Van Der Beek eyed them warily. “They’re antibiotics, it’ll prevent infection. You can either take these, or I can cut your arm off.”

  “Never liked that arm anyway,” he japed, but still cautiously accepted the proffered bottle. “We should look around. There’s a ton of stuff back there, and there’s a basement to this place, we should check it out. We might even find more of that stuff for you.”

  “I doubt that,” said Louie dismissively. “But you’re right, we should check it out.”

  “Ssh,” snapped Van Der Beek, his attention suddenly drawn towards the door. “You hear that?” he whispered.

  Louie strained his ears. Yes, he could hear it. Distant, but closing. The sound of approaching footsteps. Something was coming, and whatever it was, it was trying to do so quietly. Did it already know they were in here? He frantically looked around, but the infirmary only had one way in or out. They were trapped, and had nowhere to hide.

  “Stay close to me,” he ordered in a hushed tone. Van Der Beek picked up an amputation saw. A gnarly looking blade whose razor edge gleamed in the red light. Against a xenomorph, it would be about as useful as hurling insults at it.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Timex,” said Van Der Beek, gripping the saw tight.

  The sound grew clearer as it drew closer, despite the obvious attempt at stealth. It wasn’t one set of footsteps, but many, too many to tell exactly. Maybe dozens. His “immunity” had protected him from a lone xenomorph. Would it save him from a whole pack? The door slid open with a metallic grind, and Louie was blinded by the sudden explosion of bright white light.

  “Drop the weapon, now!” barked a voice. A human voice. He heard it clatter on to the floor, and his eyes adjusted as the bright beams were turned away from him. In front of him, more than half a dozen Colonial Marines stood in full combat gear.

  “Sarge,” said one, calling over his shoulder. “You’re going to want to see this.”

  A young man stepped forward from behind them. Another Marine. Louie presumed this was the sergeant, he didn’t know military insignia, but he was struck by the Marine’s youth. He estimated he was barely into his mid-twenties. As he approached, the light from their flashlights allowed him to read the name “Jennings” stencilled on his armour. He glanced at Louie, and seemed to conclude he was not a threat, ignoring him as he focused his attention on a stone-faced Van Der Beek.

  “He’s one of Sloan’s,” said Jennings, speaking over his shoulder before tilting his head to look the merc dead in the eye. A dry smile, thick with faux civility, forming on his lips.

  “You’re under arrest.”

*

  “Yes sir, damn jackpot,” Jennings had to shout over the drone of the engine as he spoke into his mic. The lower level of Medical had been stocked full of everything they could possibly need, so much so that they had all had to crowd into the rear vehicle. But loading it all had taken longer than intended, and he was anxious to get it back to McTaggart. “We also picked up two survivors. We are RTB. ETA five minutes. Jennings, out.”

  Survivors, or prisoners? They could figure it out later. He glanced over at them as he hung on to the handrail. Locked into their seats, with their hands cuffed, neither had said a word the entire time. The first one was small, skinny, dark-skinned and completely hairless, giving him a slightly unnatural appearance, wearing ill-fitting clothes that he must have scrounged any way he could, and probably not much older than Jennings himself. He felt a twinge of guilt about cuffing him, he had a fair idea what he was, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The second one, he had no such qualms. He was one of Sloan’s men, and one big one at that. He had made sure the cuffs were on tight. It would be up to the Colonel to decide his fate.

  “Sarge.” Molina placed a hand on his shoulder as he leaned in. “Mind if we take the Alternate?” he said quietly despite the noise, clearly not wishing to be overheard.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, I just have a bad feeling. Call it a hunch. I don’t think we should take the same route twice.”

  He considered it. In the end, it would only add a few minutes to their journey.

  “Vehicle 2 to Vehicle 1,” he spoke into his mic. “Lowry, do you copy? Change of plans. We’re going to be taking the Alt—”

  A deafening crack ripped through the interior and Jennings’s stomach lurched as he was sent sprawling to the floor. The hulking vehicle shook violently as the blast reverberated through the interior. His head spun as he gasped for breath, the taste of smoke on his tongue, and the ringing in his ears was gradually replaced by the sound of grinding metal.

  “My fucking ears,” cursed one Marine.

  “What the hell? Did we just hit a landmine?” exclaimed another.

  “Is anyone hurt?” said Jennings, rising unsteadily to his feet as silence fell over the cabin.

  “We’re still in one piece,” said Molina, coughing as he adjusted his helmet. “Are we under attack?”

  “I don’t think so. They would have hit us again by now,” said Jennings, waving the smoke from his face.

  He leaned over the console that lined the side of the APC’s interior, switching from one external camera to another, giving him a three-sixty view of their surroundings. But there was nothing there. Buildings, a muddy road, the lead APC as Lowry backed up to rejoin them, and nothing else. Had some improperly stored ordnance gone off? Unlikely, he decided. They were still alive. The impact had come from outside.

  “Everyone just sit tight,” he ordered. “Molina, with me.”

  Molina nodded as Jennings slid open the main hatch and stepped out into cold air. It was twilight, and the threatening dark clouds that had shadowed them on their way over to Medical were now bearing down on them. He quickly scanned the rooftops, staring down the sights of his pulse rifle for any sign of movement, but it was eerily still. When he turned back to the APC, the true extent of the damage was obvious.

  The rear wheel, taller than he was, had been almost completely split in half, with a huge, ragged crack straight up the middle. The surface was scorched black, and the air reeked of burning rubber, hissing as molten slag dripped onto the wet ground. The massive rear turret gun had been completely sheared off, its twisted wreckage lying upside down in the mud some fifty metres behind them.

  “Looks like it’s burned straight through the transaxle. We’re dead in the water,” said Molina.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Suddenly, he felt exposed. With two-storey buildings either side of them providing elevated vantage points, this was a good spot for an ambush. Neither man said what they were thinking as thunder rolled in the distance. They knew what had done this.

  “We need to get out of here,” Jennings muttered with quiet urgency.

  “We can’t fit in the lead APC unless we ditch the supplies,” said Molina.

  He was right. They had filled the lead vehicle to bursting. Unloading it now, even moving them to the disabled APC, would mean abandoning them, and it would mean being out in the open…

  “I don’t believe this,” whistled Jennings as he rubbed his temples. “Okay, we’re burning daylight, so we need to move fast. I want you and Lowry to take the two prisoners in the lead vehicle. Get them back to McTaggart, unload the gear, and then come and pick us up. We’ll hold position until you get back.”

  “Sounds like a plan, sir, except you’re the one going. I’ll stay here,” said Molina.

  “If it makes you feel better, I’ll make it an order,” said Jennings.

  “You could,” said Molina with a dry smile. “But we both know that’s not your style. I’m staying.”

  Dammit, Jennings thought. Molina could be a stubborn son of a bitch.

  “Okay, fine, bring them out,” he ordered. “Lowry, get out here on the double.”

  He waited as the first drops of rain hit his face, gooseflesh rising as the temperature suddenly plummeted.

  “I said, ‘Move!’” barked Molina as he pushed the mercenary out of the APC with the barrel of his pulse rifle.

  “Lowry, load these two into the lead vehicle, we’re taking them with us. I’ll drive,” said Jennings, not taking his eyes off of the prisoners. “Watch them. Especially the big one. If he tries anything, shoot him.”

  Lowry gestured with a tilt of his head, pulse rifle held low as he followed them into the lead vehicle, leaving Jennings and Molina alone.

  “Stay in the APC,” said Jennings. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in one hour.”

  The two men engaged in a quick arm clasp before parting.

  “One hour,” Molina acknowledged.

  He watched for a moment, waiting for Molina to seal the door of the disabled APC before turning to the lead vehicle. He didn’t like it. Hated it, in fact. But what other choice did they have? He stepped into the APC, awkwardly pushing past Lowry to the front compartment, and settled into the driver’s seat as rain began pelting the windshield.

*

  The mood inside the APC was subdued as the sound of the rain drummed against the roof. Jokes and insults were swapped in clipped, hushed tones while Molina paced back and forth. The air was stifling. Without the engine running they had no environmental control, and with sixteen warm bodies sealed inside a steel coffin, it was rapidly transforming into a sweat box. Still, no one suggested opening the door for air.

  He checked his watch again. Jennings had been gone almost thirty minutes. He would be back soon, and Molina felt himself relax ever so slightly. Rayleigh’s Rest was not that big a place. Whatever had laid the trap they had set off, apparently it wasn’t interested in following up. He listened as the drum of the rain intensified, relentlessly battering the hull. At least they were dry.

  “It’s hot as hell in here,” grumbled Rojas.

  “It’s not the heat that’s gonna kill me,” said Leider. “It’s the smell. Jesus, you never heard of a breath mint?”

  A few of the Marines chuckled, and even Molina allowed himself a smirk.

  “Hey, Leider, I’ve got something you can chew on right—”

  Something heavy slammed into the roof. Molina froze; his eyes locked on the ceiling as the shudder faded.

  “Quiet,” he whispered.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Heavy footfalls echoed through the interior. It was right above him. He held his breath as the footsteps paused, and a chill ran through him. The air suddenly cold. A quick glance at the ammo counter on his pulse rifle confirmed a full mag, and he flicked the safety off. The footsteps resumed, steadily making their way towards the front of the APC. He gestured for two Marines to flank the door. It was three inches thick, but suddenly that didn’t seem sufficient. The sound reached the far end, and ceased.

  Silence, except for the rain.

  He nodded to Leider, the closest to the driver’s compartment. Without a word she leaned in, wiping condensation from the narrow windshield with a gloved hand, tilting left then right before turning back, shaking her head. Nothing. One Marine exhaled too loudly. Another shifted nervously. Molina caught their eyes in the dim light, raising a hand for quiet.

  The hull shrieked. A sound so piercing it felt like it was scraping the inside of his skull. He clamped a hand over his ear as his teeth shuddered. A slow, deliberate grind of metal on metal as a razor-sharp blade was raked across the door side of the hull.

  “What the fuck…” cursed Doyle, voice trembling.

  “On your feet, Marines,” ordered Molina, not taking his eyes off the door as the grinding stopped. “Flores, check the cameras.”

  The young Private leaned over the console. “I don’t see anything, sir.”

  Likely not gone far, he decided. But it hadn’t found a way in either…

  “Help me,” cried a voice from outside. Not close, but not distant. The two Marines flanking the door looked to Molina, but he shook his head. He had seen this before. Wound one man. Leave him alive. Make him suffer. Make him call for help…

  “Help me,” cried the voice again.

  One of the young Marines gave him an earnest look. “Sir, if that’s a wounded Marine out there we have to—”

  “Secure it, rookie,” hissed Molina, cutting him off. “That out there? That’s bait.”

  The young Marine looked hurt, but turned his attention back to the door, leaning up against it as he shifted uncomfortably. Yeah, I don’t like it either, kid, he thought to himself. Besides, there was something not right about that voice. Something…artificial.

  “Help me,” the voice repeated, now right outside the door, followed by the unmistakeable bark of Colonel Sanchez. “That’s an order, Corporal. Move!”

   Every hair on Molina’s neck stood on end.

  “That’s the Colonel!” exclaimed the rookie, already pulling the door handle.

  “Rookie, wait! It’s not him,” Molina lunged, but the door was already open, and the young Marine stepped out into the rain.

  “Colonel?” he hollered, turning in place until he was facing back into the APC.

  “Get your ass back in here, now,” Molina snarled.

  The young man’s gaze lifted above the door as a shadow fell over him. His eyes went wide, his jaw slack. His scream was cut short as he was wrenched skyward by a massive clawed hand. Legs flailing as he vanished from sight.

  “Help me with this door,” barked Molina as he slammed it shut, yanking the lock into place with both hands. Goddammit, kid. That was stupid. “Flores, you got anything?”

  “A flash of something, sir, but it was too fast to see,” said Flores, unsteady.

  “This door stays locked until I say otherwise, understood?” roared Molina. “I don’t care if it’s your mother out there. Flores, patch me through to Sergeant Jennings and the Colonel. The rest of you just sit tight.”

  He grabbed his headset. “Mayday. Mayday. This is Vehicle 2. We are under—”

  Glass exploded across the cabin. Shards of what had been the windshield scattered across the floor, accompanied by a bloody red ball that landed with a wet thud. The rookie’s head. A grenade stuffed into the mouth. The pin was gone.

  Molina didn’t hesitate.

  “Move!” he bellowed, ripping open the door and shoving the first Marine out.

  Time slowed to a crawl as he waved one Marine after another, but in the cramped confines of the APC they could only move in single file. Doyle, then Flores. That made eleven.

  Leider and Rojas locked eyes with him. A flash of mutual understanding; they weren’t going to make it. Rojas grabbed Leider, heaving her out the door, before throwing himself at Molina as the grenade detonated.

*

  The rain felt cool on his face. He forced his eyes open. The world spun before settling into black clouds. He was on his back, wet mud seeping through his armour and clothes. Deaf to all but the ringing in his ears, he rose unsteadily. Wiping the rainwater from his eyes, his glove came away bloody. A handful of Marines to his left, some still on the ground, and the flaming, twisted wreckage of what had been the APC to his right. The raging heat forced him to take several steps back.

  “Where’s Rojas?” he asked with a croak, his throat raw. The ringing in his ears fading.

  Leider could not meet his eyes as she shook her head.

  Goddammit.

  He did a quick headcount. The rain was so heavy he could not see all of their faces. Thirteen, including himself. Out of sixteen. He did not look back to the APC.

  Elevated positions either side. No cover except for the APC wreckage. Limited visibility. This was a murder hole. They had to move. Now.

  “Fall back to Medical,” he ordered, yelling over the storm. “Get Flores on his feet.”

  “He’s out cold, sir. Looks like a concussion,” called the lone Marine attending to him.

  “Then we’ll carry him,” barked Molina. “Move out!”

  A flicker of light caught his eye. A laser skittered across the ground and settled dead centre on a Marine’s chest as three red dots. A lightning crack, a bolt of blue, and the man’s torso exploded in a cloud of red, sending three Marines tumbling to the ground.

  “Contact!” yelled one Marine. Molina could not tell who, as he stared down the sights of his pulse rifle, trying to trace the origin point of the blast, but saw nothing.

  The sky erupted in an ear-splitting inhuman war cry, and Molina spun to see the yautja leap from the roof of a two-storey building, plunging forty feet to the ground, a terrifying double-ended glaive fully extended. One Marine barely had time to look up as the yautja landed on his shoulders, crushing him. The creature allowed its own weight to drive it as it brought the glaive down in a vertical slice, splitting a second Marine from clavicle to groin while Molina struggled to get a clear shot. The two halves of the Marine went either side of the yautja as it grabbed a third Marine by the head. Doyle opened fire, but the creature was too fast, holding the Marine as a human shield, the rounds tore his body to pieces.

  “It’s clear,” yelled Molina as he opened fire. His own pulse rifle roaring to life as the creature spun, leaping ten feet in the air and landing somewhere behind the APC. Impossibly fast.

  “Did we hit it?” cried Doyle.

  Not a chance, he thought. He saw the shimmer through the flames a split second before it decloaked, shrieking as it spun the glaive one-handed in a three-metre arc of death, taking off both of Doyle’s legs at the mid-thigh. He collapsed to the ground screaming as it allowed momentum to carry it, decapitating another Marine with the gauntlet blades on its free arm. He fired again, rounds tearing through the still collapsing headless body, but the yautja was too fast. A blue shot slammed into his pulse rifle, blowing it in two as shrapnel struck his right arm, knocking him to the ground in a daze.

  Leider and another Marine opened fire, hitting nothing but air as it hurled the glaive like a javelin, impaling the Marine and driving him hard into the APC hull. His body jerked once, then went limp. Leider flinched, giving the yautja the split-second it needed to close the gap. Grabbing her by the face, it snapped her neck before effortlessly tossing her body at two more, knocking them to the ground as it vanished again.

  “Fallback,” cried a Marine, almost entirely drowned out by the sound of the storm and Doyle’s screams, a moment before he was engulfed in a net that swept him off his feet, pinning him to the wall. The man screamed as red marks appeared across his face, straining as he used his pulse rifle as a shield to hold the net away from his body.

  One man managed to get clear of Leider’s body. Rising to his feet just in time to have the yautja appear in front of him. He fired, but it was too close, and casually redirected the fire while slashing him across the mid-section, blades slicing through armour and flesh like tissue paper. The man fell to his knees, blood pouring on to the ground, before it grabbed him by the neck and threw him into the fiery wreck of the APC. His screams mercifully short-lived as the flames consumed him.

  Molina awkwardly drew his sidearm with his left hand, taking aim as the yautja snatched up the last man by the back of the head, casually smashing his face into the hull of the APC with a monstrous roar. A quick stomp silenced Doyle’s screams, crushing his skull, and a single blast from its shoulder vaporised the pinned Marine.

  He fired.

  The first two rounds pinged harmlessly off of its mask, but the third struck it in the arm, drawing fluorescent green blood. It roared in pain, cloaking as it leapt for cover, and his eyes quickly lost track of it. Rising to his feet, struggling to focus, his bloody right arm hung useless by his side as he looked at what remained of the squad. The whole massacre had lasted less than thirty seconds. They had never stood a chance. No one did. Not against that thing.

  Suddenly, he felt warm, and the world went quiet. A strange, unnatural stillness. Almost peaceful. The carnage before him seemed unreal, the rain fading to a hushed whisper, like the sound of gentle waves. He looked to the sky, the cooling rain soothing on his burned skin. The warmth in his chest spread, and he looked down to see the two blades protruding from his torso. He didn’t feel the pain. Not even as he was hoisted into the air. His vision fading to black, the last thing he heard was the alien scream of triumph.

*

  The garage thrummed with activity while the rain battered the heavy doors. They had almost emptied the APC in record time. Volunteer civilians carried off box after box, and even Colonel Sanchez had pitched in. Sleeves rolled, he had been the first one there. Jennings glanced at his watch. It had been thirty minutes since he had left the squad. Another ten and they would be done here, and he could take the vehicle back out to retrieve them.

  Sit tight guys. I’m coming.

  He paused as thunder rolled in the distance. It didn’t sound right. Too low. Too…close. He held his breath and waited. Another crack, sharper now, followed up by the distant echo of pulse rifle fire.

  Everyone froze.

  “It’s him,” said Sanchez.

  Jennings felt his stomach turn to ice. He grabbed his own pulse rifle. It wasn’t far. He would go on foot.

  “Stand down, Sergeant.” The Colonel’s voice was flat, unreadable.

  He stared back. Those were his men out there. He had to do something.

  “Sir, I—” he began.

  “That’s an order,” said Sanchez, already donning his own chest plate.

  Jennings wanted to argue, but knew better, and Sanchez held out an expectant hand.

  “Your weapon, Sergeant,” he demanded.

  He hesitated, then handed it over. Sanchez checked the mag with practiced ease.

  “It’s me he wants,” he said matter-of-factly. “You have your orders.”

  Jennings said nothing. The garage door shuddered open, and a wash of cold air rolled in, carrying the sound of distant screams and gunfire. He could only watch as, pulse rifle in hand, the Colonel charged out into the downpour.

*

  His lungs and legs burned as he powered through the mud and pouring rain. A thick fog had descended over the outpost, and he struggled to see more than a dozen metres, but he knew the way like the back of his hand. One way or another, he had to finish it. A distant orange glow bled through the fog, faint at first, but sharpening as he drew closer. He slowed his pace, and raised his pulse rifle. His approach cautious. As if it would make a difference, he chided himself. The fog affected him, not the yautja. It could see him clear as day, if it was still nearby. The orange glow materialised into the flaming wreckage of the other APC. Hissing and crackling as rain struck burning metal.

  The mud was stained with blood. Everywhere he looked, the rainwater ran red. Pools of it forming in giant footprints, bubbling away as rain beat the water to a froth and thunder rolled in the distance. A pair of legs. An arm. An unrecognisable head. Half a dozen pulse rifles, or pieces of them. Enormous gashes carved into the armoured hull of the APC itself. But no bodies.

  He was too late. Again.

  He tensed. A sound. Barely audible above the sound of the rain, but it had been there. He hadn’t imagined it, had he? It had sounded like a moan. A survivor, perhaps. He moved slowly, deliberately, and found himself standing between two buildings, effectively forming a narrow alleyway. Perfect spot for an ambush. The sound came again, and this time he was certain he had heard it, and that it was human. He was also certain that he was walking into a trap.

  He crept forward, carbine at the ready, his boots squelching unnaturally loud in the narrow confines of the alley, and eyes fixed on the unmistakable bloody drag marks that laid out a path in front of him. His stomach turned at the thought of what he might find, but there was no turning back. It had to end here. Is that not what he wanted? To be punished? For the yautja to finish what it should have, all those years ago? If that was true, why was he so afraid? He almost didn’t see the hanging Marine until he was right on top of him.

  The young Private was strung up by his ankles, dangling helplessly in the middle of the alley. It felt staged. The yautja had run a crossbeam between the two buildings, positioning the Marine dead centre for him to find. His clothes were bloodied, and a gaping crack on his helmet suggested a more serious injury, but even in the low light, Sanchez could see that he was breathing. More than that, despite being upside down, he could see the young man bore something of a resemblance to Danny Alvarez.

  “Colonel?” muttered the young man, voice strained and teetering on the edge of consciousness.

  “Stay with me, son. I’m going to get you out of here,” reassured Sanchez, slinging his carbine as he glanced around for anything he could use as a ladder. He was just about to settle on a small, civilian excursion vehicle carelessly parked at the far end when three red dots appeared on the hanging Marine’s chest.

  “No!” was all Sanchez had time to scream before the blue bolt of plasma obliterated the man’s torso in a shower of blood, knocking him to the ground as a wave of heat washed over him.

  “You sick, twisted bastard!” he screamed at the sky as he rose to his feet, caked in mud and gore and wiping the blood and rainwater from his eyes with his free hand. His pulse rifle in the other.

  “Enough,” he demanded. “Come out and face me, you coward!”

  His eyes scanned the edges of the rooftops for any telltale sign of a shimmer, and his ears strained, but there was nothing but the drumming of the rain.

  “Mijo…” the sound of Danny’s voice echoed through the alleyway. It was above him. Ahead of him, maybe. It was hard to tell. He squeezed tighter. His pulse hammering.

  “Mijo…” it repeated, from behind this time. He spun, carbine at the ready, but there was still nothing there. It was everywhere, and nowhere at the same time. Surrounding him. Taunting him.

  “Mijo,” the voice whispered sharply in his ear.

  He whirled and thrust his carbine forward, but the yautja, uncloaked, effortlessly caught the barrel with its right hand, redirecting the volley to slam into the wall. The movement was lightning fast as its palm struck him in the chest, shattering his chest plate and knocking him back fifteen feet. If not for his armour, the blow would have killed him. Aching, he struggled to his hands and knees, gasping for breath as he sucked in lungfuls of cold air.

  “No more,” he muttered quietly. The words snatched between ragged breaths. Fingers digging into the blood-drenched mud. “No more. You win.”

  He looked up. The yautja was just standing there, a mere fifteen feet away. A towering demon, filling the alleyway, and still holding his rifle by the barrel.

  “Do you hear me, you son of a bitch? You win.”

  The yautja stared back. Motionless.

  “What are you waiting for? Do it. You’ve waited forty years for this. Do it,” he demanded, his voice rising.

  Still, it did not react. Its metallic mask expressionless. Silent.

  “Damn you! Do it! Just end it!” he screamed, slamming his fist into the mud. He could not hold back any longer. A lifetime of guilt. Of sleepless nights. Of waiting for a reckoning that might never come. No more. The tears welled in his eyes.

  “Please just kill me,” he pleaded.

  Finally, a sound came from behind the mask, but it wasn’t a recording. A voice. A deep, guttural, inhuman tenor. The sound of air being pushed through alien anatomy that was never meant to produce words, resulting in a chilling, garbled approximation of human speech.

  “Not…yet,” said the yautja.

  He stared in mute disbelief, freezing and soaked, as it inspected his carbine before casually tossing it towards him, conveniently landing just outside of easy reach. Turning on its heel, dreadlocks spinning, the creature walked away. Blue sparks dancing across its body as it recloaked, before those too faded and died, leaving him alone.

Chapter Text

  Sloan jolted awake. It was the smell that hit him first. A sickly, wet rot that assaulted his nostrils, shocking him into full alertness. His throat burned as he desperately gulped down a lungful of air, and then another, despite his conscious mind screaming in protest. He fought the urge to wretch, focusing on his breathing. Forcing himself to be more measured, lest the stench overwhelm him. Jesus, it was unbearable. A stomach-turning mixture of ammonia, metal, shit and rotting meat. He felt saturated by it. The way it clung to his skin and clothes. Hot and cloying. God, the heat. That only made it worse.

  There was the sound of dripping water and hissing steam. Thick dampness filled the air, and a warm trickle ran down the back of his shirt. He shifted uncomfortably, only to find he could not move. His limbs were locked in place, and his chest was constricted. The more he struggled the more it pulled tighter. He gritted his teeth and tried to yank his right arm free. Blinding pain shot through him, and he instinctively choked back a scream, gritting his teeth as he waited for the pain to subside. It was definitely broken.

  He forced himself to open his eyes, only to find they already were. It was just dark. He squinted, willing his eyes to adjust, and shapes began to form in the gloom. Wet, glistening patterns. Biomechanical, yet organic. Irregular, yet ordered. The walls almost seemed to pulse with a thick coat of greyish translucent resin that caked the walls, ceiling and floor. Every inch of metal was covered in the stuff. He looked down to see his own body had been cocooned in the same material, his boots high off the floor. He could move his head, at least. Steeling himself, he looked at his right arm, and instantly turned away. His forearm had been broken in order to set it in place, and it now sat at horrifically unnatural angle. The jagged edge of his shattered ulna protruding through the skin.

  He took a breath, pushing through the burning in his throat, and opened his eyes again. Then he saw it. A body. A man. It looked like one of the missing civvies. Plastered to the wall in the same resin-like material that held him. His face was contorted in agony, frozen mid-scream, with a huge, ragged crater where his chest used to be. Then he saw another. A woman he vaguely recognised. Then another, and another. All with the same tortured expression. All with the same shattered ribcage.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His pulse quickened. Choking down a wave of panic as he realised where he was. He had heard the stories. What the xenomorphs did to people. The hosts. His breathing became quick and shallow. No. Think. He had to think. Had to focus. He had not been impregnated yet, or whatever the fuck they called it. Some kind of spider-like intermediate stage. He was no xenobiologist, but he knew that much, and he would remember an encounter with a giant fucking spider. He had time. He just had to find a way out of here…then he froze. At the feet of each of the dead hosts lay the spindly, desiccated carcass of a larval xenomorph. A “facehugger”. Splayed on the ground in front of him, its “fingers” curling upwards in a death pose, appendage hanging limply to one side, was a fresh one.

  Suddenly his throat felt even more raw. It wasn’t the air that was burning. It had been that thing. The thing that had forced itself down his oesophagus, laying the embryo that was now growing inside of him. He vomited before he could stop himself, and continued to dry heave long after his stomach was empty. Oh God, what had happened to them was now happening to him. Panic set in as he thrashed against his bindings, ignoring even the agonising pain of his broken arm.

  No. Stay calm. Yau. That was it. The doc would know what to do. His knife. He just had to reach his knife. Cut himself free. Find Yau. He could do that. His fingers strained for the combat knife on his left hip, so close they almost brushed the hilt. But it was useless. He might as well have been encased in plastcrete.

*

  A minute. An hour. He had no way of knowing. His broken arm had long since gone numb, and his whole body just felt cold. Despair had taken root deep in the pit of his stomach, along with a ravenousness like he had never felt. Two opposing forces threatening to tear him apart, and every attempt to focus on something, anything, was foiled by the constant drip, drip, drip of warm water down his back.

  He silently raged against the xenos. Against Yau. Against Weyland-Yutani. Against the whole damn lot of them, for fucking with things that should have stayed buried. Goddammit, it wasn’t supposed to go down like this. A few years at the ass-end of the galaxy, babysitting an off-the-books science project involving a handful of junkies and hookers and no questions asked, in exchange for the biggest paycheque of his life. Only an idiot would have turned it down, and now here he was, he thought bitterly.

  He felt it move.

  He froze. No, he hadn’t been awake that long. It couldn’t happen that quickly. It wasn’t time yet. He was just imagining things.

  It moved again.

  This time it was undeniable. A strange, queasy squirming deep within his chest, like fingers caressing his insides. The blood drained from his face, and a cold sweat broke out, defying the smothering humidity. He could feel pressure. Not pain. Not exactly. More like a coiled spring being wound tighter and tighter. He gritted his teeth as the tension became unbearable, the unrelenting winding threatening to snap something inside of him…

  Crack.

  He inhaled sharply. The impact taking his breath away. He felt like he had just been punched from the inside by a bare-knuckle boxer. He gasped for air as the waves pain subsided and he struggled to catch his breath.

  Crack.

  This time, he screamed. A piercing, high-pitched wail. Every fibre tensing, threatening to tear muscle from bone as the pounding in his chest went from a punch to a jackhammer.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  Blinding white flashes cut through every thought as his chest burned in indescribable agony. Ribs groaning as they were stretched to breaking point and beyond. He screamed again, tearing his throat as a spray of blood escaped through his teeth, and a dark red stain began to form on his shirt. The corpses around him looked on, their shrunken eye sockets and frozen expressions bearing mute witness.

   Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

  He let out a final, blood-curdling scream as his body jolted and sternum split with an audible snap. His chest erupting in a shower of blood and gore. The hive fell silent as his lungs collapsed. His ruined chest unable to draw breath. His limbs twitched in their death throes as the infant xenomorph emerged from its warm sanctuary. Slowly, almost hesitantly, taking in its surroundings before slipping out through the gaping hole and dropping to the floor. He watched, his consciousness fading, as the cat-sized creature slowly sloughed off its blood-soaked embryonic sac and, rising unsteadily to its feet. Taking a moment to orient itself before it slinked away into the darkness. Instinct driving it deeper into the hive.

  He hung there for a few more moments. His head hanging limply. Lifeless eyes staring down at his ragged, soaking shirt. His heart struggled weakly, vainly trying to pump what little blood he had left, before it finally fluttered and died.

Chapter Text

  The grey lights flickered as he gripped both sides of the cold porcelain sink. Hands trembling as dark shadows caused the room to spin. His breath came in desperate, short gulps. The echo of the dripping tap piercing through the otherwise empty silence.

  The colonel had returned. Shaken, but alive. His report, before he had vanished into his office, had been terse. Deliberately light on details, it had still told Jennings everything he needed to know. They were dead. They were all dead. Not just dead, but butchered. Memories of what he had found in Hangar 7 flashed through his mind. Hellish visions of a human slaughterhouse. Nightmarish fever-dream images of blood, severed limbs, and rows upon rows of bodies, flayed alive and screaming. Strung out by their ankles and left hanging like so much meat. Every time he closed his eyes he saw their fates twist into something ever more horrific.

  Molina.

  God, Molina. He should never have agreed to let him stay behind. Should have ordered all of them to return to the safety of the perimeter. He should have been the one to stay behind. Perhaps the yautja would not even have bothered to attack one lone Marine, and even then, what did it matter? What was the life of one Marine against sixteen? Some of them his friends. He left them behind, and now they were dead. He looked up, shaking, to see hollow, guilt-ridden eyes staring back at him. The reflection of his face split and distorted by a huge crack in the mirror. You have no right to wear those sergeant’s stripes, he told himself. He closed his eyes again. The incessant flickering of the lights was making him even more nauseous. He took one long, slow, unsteady breath. Then another. He had to focus. Willing his body to stop shaking as he gripped the sink even tighter.

  He jerked at the sudden banging. The sound of someone insistently pounding their fist against the door.

  “Sarge? Sarge, you in there?” called a voice from the other side. It was Davenport.

  “It’s open,” Jennings hollered back.

  Davenport entered, looking flustered. “Sarge. Lowry sent me to find you. We’ve got a situation in the… ‘infirmary.’”

  Jennings nodded, turned back to the sink and splashed icy cold water on his face, allowing the sting to steady him before he straightened his armour and headed after the private.

*

  Jennings picked his way through the ruins of the barracks. Most of the civilians were asleep at this hour, and he had to be careful not to trip over the bunks, bodies, and shoes that carpeted the floor as he made his way to the improvised triage unit they had set up at the back of the room. Stepping through the makeshift curtain, he found Lowry slumped against the back wall. He wore a look of exhausted disdain as he held his pulse rifle at low ready. Doc McTaggart was with him, and Jennings immediately noticed Sloan’s mercenary seated on the edge of a cot, hands still cuffed.

  “Is there a problem, doctor?” he asked, eyeing the merc suspiciously as the big man stared right back with a cold glare.

  “This one refuses to let me examine him,” said the doctor.

  Jennings raised a quizzical eyebrow as she gestured not at the merc, but at the other one. The slight, dark-skinned, bald guy they had also picked up in Medical, seated across from him.

  “Is there a reason you won’t let the doc examine you?” he asked.

  “Don’t like doctors,” said the man, his tone clipped.

  “I have basic field medical training,” offered Jennings. “Would you allow me?”

  “Don’t like cops, either.”

  Jennings sighed. This was getting them nowhere. “What about this one, doc?” he thumbed towards the Delta Sec guard.

  “He has a laceration on his left forearm, but it has been well stitched and dressed. Other than that, he’s in perfect health,” said the doctor with a shrug.

  “Lowry, get him out of here,” he ordered. “Keep the cuffs on for now.”

  The big merc stood without being prompted, silent as he let Lowry lead him away.

  “Could you give us the room, please, doc?” he asked McTaggart, who nodded and pulled the divider over.

*

  Louie watched as Van Der Beek was led away, leaving him with the young Sergeant, whom he recognised from Medical. He wasn’t sure what to make of the Marine. He was not a day over twenty-five, yet he carried himself with the manner of a much older man. His accent was generic American Midwestern, probably Nebraska, and his young face and farm-boy good looks looked out of place with his weathered expression.

  “I apologise for not doing this sooner. As you can imagine things are…a little tense around here. We haven’t had time for an official debrief, so I guess this is it. Maybe we can try this again. Get off on the right foot,” he said as he sat down on the opposite cot. He sounded tired. Worn out. But, Louie noted, not insincere.

  “My name is Sergeant Henry Jennings. I’m the NCOIC here. What do I call you, mister…?” he trailed off. Louie had no idea what “NCOIC” meant, but it sounded senior. That meant they had taken casualties. Probably a lot of them.

  “Lafayette,” he said quietly. His name couldn’t hurt. “Louis Lafayette. Most people just call me ‘Louie.’”

  “Louie,” repeated the sergeant, sounding it out. “Back in Medical, I could have sworn I heard your big friend call you ‘Timex’. Something to that?”

  Timex. More like “Timebomb”, he thought to himself.

  He shook his head. “Just a dumb nickname.”

  “Okay,” Jennings sounded thoroughly unconvinced. “’Louie’ it is then. You can call me ‘Henry’, or ‘Jennings’, whichever you prefer.”

  Louie just nodded.

  “What I want to know, is just how the hell you two managed to survive this long?” asked Jennings.

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Louie shrugged. He was failing hard, and he knew it. The Marine wasn’t buying it.

  “And the reason you won’t let the good doctor give you a check-up?” he pressed.

  “Like I said, I don’t like doctors,” but even he knew how unconvincing he sounded. Maybe it was the gestacyn. Maybe it was the embryo. Maybe it was just living under a death sentence, but his nerves were shot, and it made it pretty damn hard to be a good liar.

  Jennings sighed, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned in. “Mr Lafayette,” he said softly. “Louie. I’m not a cop. I’m not a lawyer, and I’m not a priest. I’m just a grunt, and I have two-hundred and fifty scared civilians on the other side of that curtain that are relying on me and my Marines to keep them safe. I’m on your side here, but there’s something you’re not telling me. All I want is the truth.”

  He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like sand. The sergeant wasn’t letting it go, and probably wasn’t about to let him leave either. But more than that, despite a lifetime of experience screaming otherwise, he wanted to trust Jennings.

  “I’m infected,” he muttered quietly, staring at his feet.

  “Come again?”

  “I’m infected,” he said, more forcefully this time. “Impregnated. Whatever you call it.” He tried not to react when Jennings stiffened slightly, but something had broken inside him, and the words came pouring forth. “That’s how we made it. Adult xenomorphs, they won’t attack if they sense you have one inside you.”

  “Yau…” Jennings muttered under his breath.

  Louie nodded. “They would impregnate us. Cut us open. Take it out. Stitch us back up. Rinse, repeat. Most people don’t survive more than five or six implantations. The body just gives out. This is my thirteenth. Always was my lucky number. That’s why they call me ‘Timex’. You know, the jingle? ‘Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’’? Yeah, that’s me.”

  Jennings listened as Louie laid it all out. His past as an addict. The phony Wey-Yu medical trial. The three years of purgatory in a secret underground lab. It felt good. It felt like confessing. He made sure to include names of those he could remember. Babineux, Angel, scores of others who had come and gone. Mostly faceless voices, now all long dead.

  The young sergeant waited until he was finished before speaking. “One thing I don’t understand, and I’m no expert, but I’ve heard xenomorph gestation times are hours, not weeks. How are you still alive?”

  He had left that part out. His shame. His dependency. His lifeline.

  “This,” he said, fishing his vial of gestacyn out of his pocket and holding it up to the light. “It’s a suppressant. One dose every six hours. As long as I keep doing this, it stays dormant.”

  “And when it runs out?”

  “I die.”

  Jennings took a breath, and Louie waited while he composed himself. “How much do you have left?”

  “About eighty hours’ worth,” said Louie. His tone was resigned, but even just saying the words, he could feel his life slipping away, one hour at a time.

  Jennings smiled. “Well, Louie, I guess ‘thirteen’ really is your lucky number, because we’re getting rescued. There is an FTL-capable navy cruiser en route with a full company of Colonial Marines. I can’t promise they’ll be able to remove it, but they’ll have cryo-facilities on board. We’ll be able to freeze you until we get back to Earth, and they can get someone who can take it out of you.”

  Louie felt his heart skip a beat.

  “They should arrive in,” Jennings glanced at his watch, “about sixty-two hours.”

  “Sixty-two,” Louie repeated, barely above a whisper.

  “Sixty-two,” confirmed Jennings.

  Louie felt the floor being pulled out from under him and the room began to spin. Sixty-two hours until rescue. Eighty until he ran out. He had almost accepted the inevitability of it all. Now he was being given a reprieve? His heart began to race and he found himself gripping the edge of the cot for balance, his legs turning to jelly. His mind rebelled. He wasn’t getting out of here alive. He would run out of gestacyn, and he would die. But no matter how many times he ran the numbers, eighty was more than sixty-two. He was going to make it.

  “In the meantime,” Jennings interrupted, snapping him back to reality. “I have to put you in quarantine. For your own safety as much as everyone else’s. I’m sure you understand.”

  The words hit him like cold water, and he felt a wave of panic rise. Not another cell. He wouldn’t go back. Anywhere but another cell.

  “Please don’t,” he protested weakly.

  “I’m not going to throw away the key. But I just can’t have a xenomorph running around inside the perimeter,” said Jennings.

  “Please,” he pleaded, no longer able to keep the desperation out of his voice.

  Jennings stared at him hard, and seemed to consider it for a long moment, before finally relenting.

  “Okay, I’m going to trust you on this. Here’s the deal, and it’s non-negotiable. Doc McTaggart is going to give you the once over. You tell her everything that you’ve told me. You report in to the doc every six hours to take that wonder-pill of yours, and you make sure she sees you take it. You do what she says, when she says it. You do that, and we all get out of here together.”

  Louie breathed a sigh of relief as he clutched at his chest, his racing pulse returning to normal. He still didn’t like doctors, but he could live with it.

  “What about the man who was with me? Van Der Beek?” he asked.

  “The mercenary? I haven’t decided yet,” said Jennings.

  “He’s not a bad guy. If it means anything, I can vouch for him,” offered Louie.

  “I still have some questions for him. What happens after that depends on whether or not I like his answers. Do we have a deal?”

  Sixty-two hours. Louie smiled.

  “Deal.”

*

  It was well past “midnight”, and a strange peace had settled over the complex. The low lights and quiet hum had plunged the world into a deceptively calm twilight. Almost everyone else was asleep, or trying to, but not him. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He had spent the last hour or so in a surreal semi-trance, drifting through the mostly empty corridors of what Sergeant Jennings had called “the safe zone.” He had not seen him, or Van Der Beek, since his debrief, and the few Marines he did see patrolling did not try to stop him. He was, as far as he could tell, free to wander. Free. For the first time since he could remember, much longer than three years, no one was pulling his lead. Not only that, but he was going to make it. He could scarcely believe it, but he had no reason to doubt what Jennings had told him.

  He was going to live.

  He found himself following signs more or less at random. Figuring since this was going to be his home for the next couple of days, he may as well get the lay of the land, until he saw the sign directing him to the restrooms. Perhaps they had a shower he could use. That would be lucky, but then his luck had taken a turn as of late. He saw a woman coming from the opposite direction. In the low light he could not quite make out her features, but he could see that she was young. About his age. Small stature, with raven-black hair and a Latin American complexion, wearing a navy-blue Weyland-Yutani coverall that identified her as some sort of manual worker. Then he froze. Seeming to sense that he was staring, the young woman stopped in her tracks and locked eyes with him, her jaw falling slack.

  “Angel?” he whispered.

  “Louie?” she said with equal disbelief.

  “Sé to menm?” he asked, then shook his head. “I mean, you’re alive?”

  Angel only gave a weak smile, her eyes darting away quickly. A near imperceptible flicker of something unspoken. He could not tell if it was sadness, or fatigue. Perhaps both.

  “I don’t understand. How did you get out?” he asked. His mind racing. He had so many questions. If he and Angel both survived, did that mean there were others?

  “Carter,” said Angel. “He wanted to use me for some half-baked mission. It didn’t end well for him.”

  Louie knew better than to press for details. “I’m glad you’re alive, anyway.”

  Angel gave another forced smile that failed to reach her eyes.

  “How did you get out?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “It’s a long story,” he said with a smile.

  “It’s going to be a long night.”

  She had a point there. The slow planetary rotation and their high latitude made the nights unbearably long.

  “I woke up down on L4. Everyone else had already bugged out. They just left me there, and forgot to lock the doors. I just…walked out, if you can believe that. It’s just been me and Van Der Beek, of all people. We got by.”

  “Have you seen them?” she asked quietly.

  He didn’t need to ask who, or what, she meant by “them.” He knew exactly what she meant. “Yeah. I’ve seen them. Up close and personal.” He gulped. The hairless skin on his neck turning to gooseflesh as he remembered that first encounter. “I try not to think about it.”

  “Do you think they recognise us?” she asked, her voice low.

  “No,” he said without hesitation. “They would have killed me. Or taken me, or whatever it is that they do. This is what’s kept me alive,” he said as he produced his vial of gestacyn. “The big ones. They leave you alone if they…” he trailed off.

  Angel didn’t react. She only watched him intently as he stuffed it back in his pocket.

  “Anyway, did you hear the good news?” he asked, trying to be more upbeat. “We’re getting rescued.”

  Again, she said nothing. Her expression was unimpressed, but something about the look in her eyes made him uncomfortable.

  “Come on, remember how we used to talk through the walls about how we were going to bust out of here? Well, it’s finally happening,” he said, trying to keep his voice low.

  Angel snorted. “You’re a fool if you think we’re getting out of here alive. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. We’re all already dead,” she said coldly, and it unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He wasn’t superstitious, despite his roots, but just something about her quiet conviction unsettled him to his core.

  “You can believe that if you like,” he said, and he hated just how defensive he sounded.

  “Hey, um,” Angel shifted awkwardly. “Do you have any?”

  “Do I have any what?” he asked pointedly.

  “You know…”

  Louie’s eyes narrowed.

  “I know what that is. It’s gestacyn, right? You must have found a lot of other good shit,” Angel pressed.

  “Oh, yeah, we found it alright. Fucking lifetime supply, just lying there, and no, I didn’t bring any. I didn’t use, okay? I’m clean.”

  Angel stiffened, and he noticed her teeth digging into her bottom lip.

  Fuck.

  “In any case, it’s gone,” he added too quickly. “It might as well be at the bottom of the ocean.” But he could see that she wasn’t listening.

  “Where did you say it was?” she asked, feigning a casual tone.

  “I didn’t,” he snapped. “I said forget it.”

  “¿Te crees mejor que yo?” muttered Angel, looking at the floor.

  “Hmm?”

  “I said ‘well done’,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “On not using, I mean.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but remained silent, and an awkward silence descended, with Angel refusing to look at him.

  “Hey, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Let’s see if we can scrounge a midnight snack,” he offered cheerfully.

  “Actually, it’s late. I’m gonna turn in,” said Angel without looking up.

  “Okay. Another time,” said Louie gently.

  “Yeah,” she said, still not looking at him, before throwing her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. He froze stiff, unsure how to respond to the unexpected gesture and sudden intimacy of their stance.

  “Goodnight, Louie. I’m glad you’re alive,” she said before breaking away and marching down the corridor. She did not look back.

  No, to answer your question, I don’t think I’m better than you, he thought to himself, and watched her disappear into the gloom. His prior elation draining away, replaced by a cold emptiness.

  “Goodnight, Angel,” he said quietly.

*

  The faint sound of the wind howling outside blew down the empty corridor as Jennings made his way to the colonel’s private office. He did not look up. He didn’t need to, he knew the way, and there was no one else here. His interrogation of the Delta Sec merc, Van Der Beek, had gone more smoothly than he had expected. He had anticipated stonewalling, resistance, but in the end it had been straightforward. His story lined up with what Louie had told him. He had not spoken to Sloan since before the outbreak. Watson, with his preternatural lie-detecting abilities, had once again proven indispensable. He had sat in on the interrogation, and confirmed that he was telling the truth.

  He wasn’t sure about that; he was positive the merc was not being entirely forthcoming about all of the details of their miraculous survival. But then, he hadn’t outright lied either. In the end, he had decided to cut the big man some slack and released him. He would keep an eye on him until rescue arrived, then he would be someone else’s problem.

  He found himself standing in the antechamber to the office sooner than expected, and he briefly considered walking another lap of the perimeter. It would buy him another fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. But he decided against it. Procrastinating would not make any difference. He knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, more forcefully this time, and waited. Still, no answer. He waited a few more seconds before he took a breath, steeled himself, and opened the door. The smell hit him first. The sharp, sour reek of whisky. It was dark. Low lights casting the small office in a murky gloom that his eyes struggled to penetrate.

  “Close the door, Sergeant,” said the voice, low and quiet.

  He did as he was bid, and stepped into the centre of the office, standing at attention before the main desk as his eyes adjusted. The glint of reflected light on the bottle. The scattered paper. The revolver on the table. Colonel Sanchez sat slumped in his chair. His shirt hung open down to his navel, and his cover was missing, exposing his thinning, slicked-back silver hair.

  “I meant from the outside,” he growled as he threw back a large measure in one gulp.

  “Sir,” Jennings ignored the comment as he stood, hands clasped behind his back. “I have ordered the Marines to set up perimeter alarms. We no longer have the manpower to have all potential ingress points guarded around the clock, but it should give us some advanced warning if one of their scouts manages to slip past the sentry guns.”

  “Very good. Dismissed,” said Sanchez without looking up.

  Jennings didn’t move. Instead, his eyes settled on the revolver laid out on the table.

  “Sir, is that weapon loaded?” he asked hesitantly.

  “It’s always loaded, son,” said Sanchez. His voice was so low that Jennings had to strain to hear, even in the quiet of the office, but the tone was as cold as ice.

  He stood frozen on the spot as his mind raced, frantically searching for the words and coming up empty, but in the end it was Sanchez who broke the silence.

  “If you’re not going to leave, you might as well pull up a chair,” the old man said wistfully as he produced a second glass.

  “No, thank you, sir,” said Jennings.

  “Too good to drink with a coward, Sergeant?” said Sanchez with a venomous smirk as he poured another without measuring and tossed it back.

  “No, sir. I’m on duty, and technically so are you,” said Jennings, doing his best to keep his voice neutral.

  “No,” Sanchez shook his head. “No more duty. No more orders. It’s over. We’re all going to die.” His words slurring slightly as he stared into the bottom of his empty glass, gripping the half-empty bottle with the other.

  “The Argos is less than seventy-two hours away,” Jennings pressed.

  Sanchez slammed the bottle down hard. “You think he doesn’t know that?” he snapped. “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m marked, Sergeant. So are you. He’s not going to let us leave. Me and you? We are dead men.”

  Jennings struggled to keep his voice steady as his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I don’t believe that, sir. We just need to hold out.”

  “Ha,” Sanchez scoffed. “He tracked me across decades and half a galaxy. You think a few centimetres of plastcrete and some sentry guns are going to stop him?”

  “It has so far,” said Jennings quietly, gritting his teeth.

  Sanchez snorted, his voice softening. “I’m sorry, son. I really am. You don’t deserve to be here. None of you do. It should be Danny Alvarez in this chair, not me.” He stared off into the distance, momentarily lost in some old memory. “But it is me, and now that bastard is going to kill every single one of you. It’s my punishment. I get to watch all of my Marines die. Then he’ll come for me.”

  Jennings’s eyes narrowed as they rested on the revolver. Cold realisation gripped him, forming an icy knot in his stomach.

  “Sir,” he began quietly. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

  Sanchez picked up the revolver, staring at it as he absentmindedly swirled the contents of his glass with the other hand while he allowed the question to hang in the air between them, before knocking it back with a grimace. “Something I should have done a long time ago.”

  Something snapped inside him. He couldn’t stand to listen to this. Not another word. “So that’s it? You’re going to take the easy way out?” he demanded, all pretence or acknowledgement of rank gone.

  “I’m saving your life, Sergeant!” bellowed Sanchez. “There’s no winning this. All I can do is beat him to it.”

  “No, sir,” Jennings spat. “You don’t get to put that on us. If you do this, then I say you really are a coward.”

  Sanchez didn’t flinch. Instead, he calmly set his glass down as he locked eyes with Jennings. “Careful, son,” he growled. “I allow you more rope than most, but tread carefully.”

  Jennings held his gaze. “Then I’m sorry, sir, but you leave me no other choice. As Acting NCOIC, I am relieving you of command, and I order you to hand over that weapon.”

  Sanchez bolted upright, suddenly clear-eyed. Jennings was not a big man, but he was still taller by a few inches, and had a solid thirty pounds of bodyweight on the old man’s wiry frame. But in that moment the colonel cut an imposing figure. A fierce resolve raged behind his eyes. All the years and command experience that he had and Jennings did not, all bearing down on him with a weight that threatened to crush him.

  “Mutinous insurrection is punishable by death, Sergeant Jennings,” whispered Sanchez. The revolver hanging by his side.

  “The Colonel Sanchez I know would never make that threat,” Jennings snapped back, refusing to be intimidated. “I would prefer to allow you the dignity of returning to your private quarters alone, but so help me I will have Lowry and Gonzalez detain you if I have to.”

  “You wouldn’t dare…” Sanchez’s voice cut through him like blade.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Jennings shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe that fucking yautja will kill me, and Lowry, and Davenport, and save you for last, but that’s why we need you. When it all goes to shit, when people start dying, you are the one we look to. That’s the job, sir. You’re our fixed point. Our North Star. The last man standing.”

  He swallowed as his fingernails dug into his palms. He wanted to rage. He wanted to yell more. He wanted to grab the old man by the shirt and shake him until he saw sense, but he didn’t. He didn’t have to. Sanchez stood there, silent, head bowed, and he knew he had broken through. He watched as the old man gently laid the revolver flat on his desk, and slowly pushed it towards him.

  “I think it would be best if you hold on to this, Sergeant,” he said quietly before stepping out from behind his desk, leaving the half-empty bottle sitting open. Refusing to meet the young man’s eyes as he slipped past him, the colonel left without another word. Jennings released a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding, and did his best not to shake uncontrollably as the adrenaline drained from his body.