The Complete Aliens Omnibus

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Think Murakami threw in some violets?”

  Philipakos cast a look back over his shoulder. “If he knows what’s good for him.”

  His daughter was on the opposite side of the colony’s spacious, white disc of a control center, standing at an open stretch of counter between two black computer stations. She was inserting pink-and-white roses into a clear plastic vase, having picked the flowers just that morning in Dome Twelve.

  It was difficult for Angie to reach over the lip of the vase, but she managed it by standing on her tiptoes. And of course, her specially made shoes contributed a couple of extra centimeters to the effort.

  Philipakos didn’t know why Angie, now twenty-four, was so small—not much more than a meter in height. She had been tested for genetic abnormalities in utero, just like every other fetus in regulated space. But nothing had turned up, so Philipakos and his wife had gone on with the pregnancy.

  Their only one, as luck would have it.

  After Angie was born and they saw how tiny she was, they subjected her to any number of tests. However, as far as they could tell there wasn’t anything wrong with her. Every gland, every organ was functioning perfectly.

  She was just little. Some people are, one of Angie’s physicians had commented, as casually as someone else might have spoken of his cat.

  Philipakos could have accepted the doctor’s conclusion more easily if anyone else in his family had approximated Angie’s stature. Or, for that matter, anyone in his wife’s family. But for generations, no one had been less than average height, and some had been well over two meters.

  Fortunately, Angie had never been as perturbed by her stature as her father was. As bright as she was, she could hardly have missed the fact that she was different. But she had never complained about it.

  Not once.

  “You know,” said Angie, in that tone of voice that sounded so much like her mother’s, “you’re too good to that weasel.”

  Philipakos knew exactly which weasel she was talking about. “He’s my friend,” he said, not for the first time.

  “Still. If he screws up, he should have to face the music like anyone else. By protecting him, you’re just making the others resent him.”

  It was an old argument, one they’d been having since Angie was a teenager. And Philipakos knew she had a point.

  But he had grown up with Benedict in the Chicago centerplex. They had played together, gone to school together, gotten laid together. He couldn’t abandon the poor bastard now.

  Even if Benedict had gotten too lazy for his own good. Even if he had become a drag on the colony.

  Fortunately for Benedict, his friend was the administrator of the facility. Had someone else been in charge, he would have been out on his tailbone a long time ago.

  “Your old man’s been running this place for a dog’s age,” Philipakos said. “He knows how to handle Tristan Benedict. And anyone else, for that matter.”

  Angie shot him a discouraging look. “Too bad he doesn’t know how to speak in the first person. Then he’d really be impressive.”

  Seen behind Angie through a concave observation port, the gigantic white oak in Dome Four moved restlessly in the thrice-daily artificial breeze. The tree’s elephantine immensity made Philipakos’s daughter look even smaller by comparison.

  He feigned indignation. “Whatever happened to filial piety?”

  “It’s still alive and well,” said Angie, “back on Earth, where it belongs. Out here in the boonies, it’s every man for himself.”

  Philpakos smiled. Like her mother indeed.

  “Be an exception to that rule,” he said, “and see if you can put together a few pear trees. I think Murakami would consider them just recompense for his trouble.”

  “Only if he sent Gogolac her violets,” Angie stipulated.

  Her father chuckled and turned back to his humidity readings. But before he could delve into them again, he heard Angie cry out in pain.

  Before he knew it, he was halfway across the control center, his hands on Angie’s arms. “Are you all right?” he asked, his heart slamming in his chest.

  “I’m fine,” she said, holding up a forefinger. There was a dark red bead of blood on it. “Just stuck myself with a thorn.”

  Philipakos felt a hot surge of anger at the offending rose, which had fallen onto the counter. It took an effort for him not to grab the flower and crush it.

  Stop it, he told himself.

  He had always been that way about Angie. He couldn’t see her injure herself—even in small ways—without a fire rising inside him, burning away all reason.

  At times he had taken it out on her, as if it were her fault that she had gotten hurt. But he always felt guilty afterward, knowing his outbursts had perhaps inflicted a deeper and more lasting kind of pain.

  “Dad …?” said Angie.

  He drew a breath, let it out. “Be careful, for godsakes.”

  “Hey,” she returned with a smile, “botany’s a dangerous business. You should know that better than anyone.”

  And with that, she chased all the anger out of him. Angie had developed a knack for it, in recent years. It was one of the things Philipakos loved most about her: that talent she had for putting everything in perspective.

  Again, so like her mother.

  5

  Call sighed, pulled out her fake mole for the second time that day, and flipped open a panel beneath a small yellow readout.

  At the moment, all it displayed was three zeros. That would have to change if she and her compatriots wanted to get off Byzantium with their hides relatively intact.

  “Hey, Call,” growled Johner.

  He and her other companions had posted themselves on either side of the eight-sided entrance to Immigration’s control center, their backs against the wall, their weapons pointed at the ceiling.

  “What is it?” asked Call, removing a coil of access cord from the compartment and plugging the end of it into her forearm.

  Suddenly, a blue-white energy salvo came whipping through the open doorway, throwing Johner’s seamed features into sharp relief. Ripley and Johner returned fire for a few moments, then pulled back out of sight again.

  “You just take your sweet frickin’ time, Call,” said Johner, “and don’t worry about us flesh-and-blood types!”

  “Bite me,” Call told him, and entered the data stream.

  Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to plumb another abyss to open the doors to the holding bay. Just paddle around near the surface a little. All she needed was a simple, three-digit password, generated at random twice a day and entrusted only to the guards on duty.

  Not that security was such a big deal there. Haulers went back and forth to their vessels every minute of the day. It just made the guards feel better knowing they could deny access.

  To normal people maybe, Call allowed, rifling through protocols one after the other. Not a second-generation android.

  Abruptly, she found it—the code that would open the door. “Three-six-two,” she said out loud.

  Then she punched it in. Three. Six. Two. And somewhere down the corridor, the door opened. Call could hear the creaking sound.

  “It’s open,” said Ripley, whose hearing was even better than the android’s. “Move. I’ll cover you.”

  No one argued with her. They knew better.

  Besides, as good as Johner or Krakke or even Vriess was with a burner, none of them could hold a candle to Ripley in that department. Or any other, Call added silently.

  “See you on the Betty,” Vriess told Call as he trundled by in his chair, following Krakke to the holding bay.

  “Not if she sees you first,” said Johner.

  Saying goodbye with a couple of bursts through the doorway, he took off after Vriess and Krakke. Then it was just Call and Ripley lingering in the control center.

  “Let me know when,” said Ripley.

  Eagerly, Call slipped the needle out of her forearm. Leaving the damned thing dangling
by its cord, she replaced her mole and glanced at her companion. “Now.”

  And she began running in the direction of the docking bay, knowing Ripley was right behind her.

  * * *

  Bolero stared at Corcoran’s face on her vidscreen. “Run that by me again?” she said, manipulating her controls out of his sight as she said it.

  “There’s been an incident,” said Corcoran, his face a lot grimmer than the last time Bolero saw him. “Some crazy haulers trying to steal station property. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to withdraw that clearance I gave you—at least until we straighten everything out.”

  Bolero knew who those haulers were and what they were up to. And she knew she couldn’t wait for her clearance to be reinstated.

  “I understand,” she told Corcoran, hoping he wouldn’t look too closely at the Betty’s status.

  “Thanks,” said the traffic officer. “Corcoran out.”

  As his image blinked off the screen, it was replaced by the rear view from Vriess’s chair—which showed Bolero that her comrades were on the move again. Ripley and Call were lagging behind—probably because Call needed a moment to unhook herself.

  Which meant they would reach the Betty in a minute or two, at which point they would want to leave as soon as poss-ible. Bolero wanted that too, more than anything in the galaxy. But Corcoran’s clearance withdrawal complicated things a bit.

  With a tapped command, she switched the view on her vidscreen. It enabled her to look outward through the Betty’s open cargo doors and see the ramp that bridged the gap between the docking bay entrance and the ship. It was one of three such ramps in this ninety-degree quadrant of the station’s larger bay structure, each one extending from Immigration to a visiting vessel like a spoke in a mammoth wheel.

  Bolero had expected to find the ramp empty, as the first of her comrades was a good thirty seconds away. But someone was halfway across it, headed for the Betty at full tilt.

  And it wasn’t anyone she knew.

  “Hey!” she said out loud.

  As she watched, the stupid bastard darted through the open cargo doors. Then he veered out of sight, no doubt meaning to conceal himself somewhere.

  Once in a while, someone tried to stow away on a cargo hauler—someone desperate. But if the guy knew what the Betty was about these days, he would never have considered it.

  Unfortunately, it was too late to tell him. And with the others on their way, it was also too late for Rama to eject the stowaway as he might an enterprising rodent.

  Rotten timing, Bolero thought. She would just have to let it go and sort it out later.

  * * *

  Simoni had never seen the hold of a cargo hauler, but it was pretty much the way he had always pictured it.

  A kraken’s nest of black chains hung from the ceiling, creaking with the heavy-looking machine parts that descended from them. Each chain was joined by a quartet of moving shadows, doppelgangers coaxed into being by the harsh light of ceiling fixtures or the glow from ventilation grids in the floor.

  The bulkheads were a dead, pale gray, except where rust had blossomed and eaten through the thick, lumpy paint. A cloying, silicon-based scent, strong enough to sting the sinuses on contact, made Simoni grimace. But mostly he was concentrating on finding a hiding place before anyone came after him.

  A stack of shackled containers in the corner of the room looked promising, if only for a moment. Then something else caught his eye and he made that his objective instead.

  It was a handle, belonging to a door set into the bulkhead. That suggested a storage compartment, maybe big enough to accommodate a person. If it wasn’t already too full, it would probably be the way to go.

  Negotiating a path among the hanging chains, Simoni got to the handle as quickly as he could. There wasn’t anything tricky about opening it—just a clockwise twist of the wrist and a yank.

  Behind the door was a dark, empty space. Definitely big enough for a guy my size. He was in luck.

  But there was also the matter of getting out again. Simoni didn’t want to suffocate to death, giving away his whereabouts only when his corpse started to stink. In the interest of survival, he would leave the compartment door ever so slightly ajar.

  Turning about and squatting in front of his hiding place, he inserted one foot behind him and then the other. Next, he slid himself backward until his feet hit the compartment’s back wall. Finally, scrunching up just a little, he pulled the door mostly closed.

  There, he thought, as he narrowed his view of the hold to the thinnest sliver. Nice and comfy. And if no one looked too closely, he could stay hidden for as long as he needed.

  Suddenly, he heard a series of footfalls, clanking one after another on a metal surface. But not the level Simoni was on—somewhere above him. A catwalk, he decided.

  The newcomer remained silent for a moment, but Simoni could feel his presence. He’s looking for me. But he’s not having any luck.

  “All right,” the guy said in a deep, sophisticated drawl— the kind that belonged in the patrician solemnity of a university lecture hall, not the hold of a banged-up old cargo hauler. “You’ve had some fun, haven’t you? But you need to know you’ve stowed yourself aboard the wrong vessel.”

  I don’t think so, Simoni mused. I think it’s exactly the vessel I want to be on.

  “Our captain,” the voice continued, “isn’t exactly what you’d call even-tempered. She won’t look at your presence here with anything even approaching good humor.”

  Simoni smiled grimly. No problem, pal. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  “There’s still time to make the wise decision,” said the voice, “and vanish before we take off. No harm, no foul, forget our faces and we’ll be sure to forget yours.”

  The guy didn’t sound any closer to Simoni than he was before. Obviously, he has no idea where I am. Looks like I’ve managed to stuff myself into the right cranny.

  “Last chance,” said the voice.

  Shove it, thought Simoni. After what I’ve been through, you think I’m going to leave just because you tell me to?

  There was an audible sigh. “Fine. Have it your way, musa. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Simoni heard footfalls again, but this time they were in full retreat, and soon they faded into nothingness.

  That was way too easy, he told himself.

  It was as if the guy didn’t care if Simoni was aboard when they took off. As if it really didn’t matter to him.

  No doubt, he figured Ripley would take care of it. But that was more than fine with Simoni. Hell, Ripley was the one he wanted to see.

  Settling back into his nook, he closed his eyes and waited for the shiver in the deck plates that accompanied clamp removal. After that, the hauler would be moving under her own power, and there would be no returning him to the station.

  And he would come face to face with a legend.

  * * *

  Mere seconds after Bolero saw the stowaway invade the Betty, the trio of Krakke, Vriess, and Johner come roaring onto the ramp. And seconds after that, Call and Ripley followed.

  Bolero waited until they were inside, then closed the cargo hatch. Using a toggle switch, she opened an intercom link and said, “Hold on. It’s going to get a little rough.”

  Even as she voiced the warning, she saw a squad of security guards swarm onto the ramp cradling burners. As they got close enough, they started firing blue energy bursts at the Betty.

  Bolero didn’t like the idea. My pilot’s seat, my ship, my damned paint job. But she knew the barrage would ultimately prove futile. The energy assault couldn’t penetrate the vessel’s triple-thick hull. At worst, it would short out a light fixture.

  “How are we gonna blow the clamps?” Johner asked from down in the cargo bay.

  “Already blown,” Bolero assured him.

  She heard the rash of skepticism that followed and was happy to ignore it. After all, it was true that ships typically sat in their clamps
until their crews were aboard, and it was equally true that Corcoran had withdrawn their clearance to leave the station.

  No clearance, no clamp release. That was the way it worked.

  But as soon as Bolero had gotten an inkling of the trouble they were in, she had inched the Betty backward. So by the time Corcoran reactivated the magnetic fields around the clamps, the ship was already clear of them. Except she was hovering so close to the ramp, and maintaining such an even keel, it was impossible for Corcoran or anyone else to figure it out.

  It was a trick most pilots wouldn’t even have thought of, much less been able to pull off. Especially with crew about to board. One miscalculation, one slip, and her com-rades could easily have gotten dumped into the depths of the bay.

  But if Bolero were just any pilot, she would never have gotten the chance to work with Ripley.

  Applying thrusters, she backed off even further from the clamps. Then, like a hawk that had sighted her prey, she dipped her starboard wing and swooped around the section of cylinder extending downward from Immigration, headed for the bottom of the bay.

  Two-thirds of the way, the image on Bolero’s vidscreen changed. It was her pal Corcoran, and he didn’t look happy in the least. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Leaving,” she said. “Sorry, lover.”

  “There’s no way out,” said Corcoran. “The gates are locked. You can see that for yourself.”

  Indeed, the massive retracting gates at the bottom of the docking bay were closed, blocking the Betty’s exit. “That would be a problem,” said Bolero, “if I didn’t have explosive devices that will wreck the gates and shut down your station for months.”

  The traffic officer went white. “You wouldn’t do that. It’s a capital offense.”

  “What the hell,” she said. “What’s life for if not to take chances?” Accessing the intercom system while maintaining the link with Corcoran, she said, “Got those bombs ready?”

  “Say the word,” came Johner’s response.

  Bolero started to respond—but before she could get an entire word out, she heard Corcoran protest. “All right,” he said, “you win. Just give me a moment to evacuate the bay and I’ll open the gates.”