The Complete Aliens Omnibus

by Michael Jan Friedman

  No answer.

  Suddenly, the thing did something that made Shepherd jump backward and go skidding across the deck: it pulsed. Just like an ugly, bone-encrusted heart.

  Shepherd cursed out loud, trying to come to grips with the evidence of his eyes. The thing was alive. But how had it gotten into the Domes? And what was it doing to Pandor’s face?

  Then he remembered—the cryo tube from Gamma. If Pandor had been poking around in it, he might have found something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  This thing, for instance.

  Making his way to the silver tube, Shepherd took a look inside. Most of the cargo was made up of violets, different colors and varieties. But at one end, there was something else—a leathery-looking, blue-black ovoid that had split open at the top to reveal its white, gooey contents.

  He wasn’t a botanist, but he had been around the Domes long enough to know this was something unusual. And it must have opened recently, or it would have spilled its guts out in stasis.

  Shepherd looked back at the thing on Pandor’s face. Could it have come out of the ovoid—and done it so abruptly, so explosively, that Pandor wasn’t ready for it? Or had it crawled and climbed until it could drop on Pandor from above?

  Either way, it seemed to him the ovoid was the source of the problem. And Shepherd had no way of knowing that a second thing wasn’t waiting inside it, waiting to spring on someone.

  Or, he thought with a wary glance at the ceiling, laying in wait among the chains. Unseen, in the shadows, until someone walked directly below it …

  No, he insisted, you’re not getting spooked by this shit. You don’t have the luxury. You need to do your job and help Pandor.

  With that in mind, Shepherd reached for the tube’s control pad and pressed the stud that would close the hatch. Then he backed up, step by step, ready for a spider-creature to come skittering out.

  Only when the hatch door had closed completely did he breathe easier. A little, anyway. He still had to deal with the thing on Pandor’s face.

  Fighting back a wave of apprehension, Shepherd approached it, wrapped his hand around its hard, smooth body, and tried to lift it off. But it clung so hard it brought the botanist’s head up along with it.

  Shepherd let it down slowly. Then he placed his cheek on the deck alongside Pandor and peered at him through the legs of the spider-thing. He’s still got color. The safety officer felt his colleague’s wrist. And a pulse.

  So Pandor was still alive. But it was difficult to imagine how, with his mouth and nose closed off.

  Clearly, this was a problem Shepherd had neither the skills nor the equipment to address. Whipping out his comm unit, he opened a link to Philipakos.

  “Yes?” came the response.

  “It’s Shepherd. I found Pandor.”

  “Is he all right?”

  What could Shepherd say? He’s fine, if you ignore the bony thing hugging his face.

  “I don’t know,” he said, and described the situation to Philipakos. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Is he conscious?” asked the administrator.

  It was difficult to tell. “I don’t think so.”

  A pause. “Don’t move him, Shep. We’ll be right there.”

  “We” meaning he and Angie, and anyone else Philipakos thought might be of assistance. Whoever they were, Shepherd would be glad to see them.

  “Hang in there,” he told Pandor, his voice echoing eerily in the confines of the supply bay. “We’re going to get you out of there, buddy.”

  If the botanist could hear him, he gave no indication of it.

  8

  My god, thought Hendricks.

  Somehow, she managed to stop short of saying it out loud. The other colonists already thought of her as the consummate ditz. She didn’t want to add any more fuel to their fire.

  But it wasn’t easy to be quiet now that she could see the thing on Pandor’s face for herself.

  “They’ve got to get it off,” said Gogolac, standing alongside Hendricks and gazing through the window of the infirmary.

  Hendricks was glad that someone had said it.

  “They will,” Shepherd assured them. “Don’t worry.” But his expression belied the confidence he espoused.

  Inside the infirmary, Pandor was stretched out on an examination table, surrounded by Philipakos and Angie. Every so often Pandor’s hand twitched, letting his colleagues know he was still alive.

  But it was hard to believe. With that horrible thing on his face, how can he breathe?

  “Why don’t they just cut the goddamned thing off?” Cody asked, his impatience evident in his voice.

  Normally, he was the most even-tempered of them, the guy who had a smile for everyone. But not now.

  Shepherd glanced at him. “Be patient, Earl. We’re all concerned about Elijah. And we’ll know more about how to help him once Angie’s finished examining him.”

  As if on cue, Angie left Pandor’s side and emerged from the infirmary. Removing her sanitary gloves, she tossed them in a refuse bin that came up to her waist.

  Angie looked tired. As tired as Hendricks had ever seen her.

  “Well?” asked Shepherd.

  Hendricks looked at him, thinking, Now who’s the impatient one? But she didn’t say that either.

  “Pandor’s alive,” Angie said in her odd, little girl’s voice. “but he’s in a paralytic coma—induced, apparently, by a toxin that thing injected into him.”

  “Paralytic … ” Cody repeated. “So how is he breathing?”

  Yes, thought Hendricks, how? That was what she had wanted to know all along.

  Angie frowned. “The thing is doing Pandor’s breathing for him. Bringing in oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide.”

  “Shit,” said Gogolac, her brow creasing down the middle. “So if you take it off … ”

  “Pandor dies,” said Angie. “Which is why we’ve decided to leave it on, at least for the time being.”

  “But not indefinitely,” Gogolac suggested hopefully.

  “Unfortunately,” said Angie, “it’s not just a respiration problem. Even if we find an antidote for the toxin, the thing has an appendage shoved down Pandor’s throat— all the way to his lungs, judging from our scans. If we try to yank it out, it could take half his throat with it.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Seigo, a razor-thin, balding man whose breath smelled like sour milk. “Why would something affix itself to Pandor’s face, put him into a coma, and then keep him alive?”

  “Oh my god!” said Hendricks.

  Everyone looked at her.

  She had tried so hard not to blurt it out, but it came anyway. And now she had to explain. “It just occurred to me,” she said as calmly and clinically as she could. “What if it wants to eat him?”

  Cody planted his hand against the wall and started to gag. Putting a hand on the botanist’s shoulder, Shepherd frowned at Hendricks. “No one’s going to get eaten,” he said. Then he turned to Angie. “Am I right?”

  Angie’s lips pressed together for a moment. “No,” she said at last. “There’s been no indication of a problem in that regard.”

  But she can’t rule it out. Hendricks could read that between the lines. It could be eating him.

  “As for why else the thing might have latched onto him,” said Angie, “your guess is as good as mine. This is some kind of alien life-form, however primitive. Its biological imperatives may be different from anything we’ve ever encountered.”

  “We’ve got to help him,” said Gogolac. “Somehow.”

  “What about the rest of us?” asked Seigo. “Are we in danger of the same thing happening to us?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Shepherd. “There was only one ovoid in the tube—I made sure of that.”

  That seemed to satisfy everyone except Seigo.

  “What if another one of those things crawled out before you got there?” he pressed. “What if it’s hiding in a corner, waiting for one o
f us to stumble on it?”

  “I searched the bay,” Shepherd noted. “There was nothing else in there.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” said Seigo. “The damned thing’s not that big. It could be hiding anywhere.”

  He’s right, Hendricks reflected. Shepherd can’t be sure. Just like Angie can’t be sure the thing’s not eating Pandor.

  She imagined herself in the dimly lit supply bay, looking for a set of pruning shears. She could see herself approaching the tool cabinet, pulling out the drawer where the shears were kept, and seeing something egg-shaped inside it—something leathery-looking that, as she watched, spellbound, split at the top and ejected something at her face. Something small and gooey and insanely strong—

  Hendricks shivered. It was too terrible to even think about.

  It was then that Angie’s father came out of the exam room. A gentle, paunchy man with a mane of gray hair and a beard to match, Philipakos looked stricken.

  “Angie’s told you Pandor’s status?” he asked.

  “She did,” said Shepherd.

  “I have some concerns about there being more of those things around,” said Seigo, “Shepherd’s precautions to the contrary.”

  “The question,” said Gogolac, who could be relentless when she wanted something, “is what we’re going to do for Pandor, here and now.”

  Philipakos nodded. “I feel the same way. But he’s stable, at least. And until we know more about this creature, it would be unwise to do anything that might jeopardize Pandor’s survival.”

  Cody shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

  “None of us does,” said Angie. “But we’ve got to think with our heads, not our hearts.”

  “What if your tests don’t turn up anything useful?” asked Gogolac. “What do we do then?”

  Angie started to answer, then seemed to think better of it. It was her father who said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  No one had a better idea, so it ended there. But with the exception of Seigo, who said he had work to do, none of them left. They stayed and peered through the observation window, alone with their respective thoughts.

  Hendricks’ was: At least I kept my mouth shut most of the time.

  * * *

  Simoni hadn’t been able to get Ripley or Call to tell him where their ship was headed. However, he hadn’t tracked down a legend strictly through luck.

  He was good at biding his time, and he was even better at keeping his eyes and ears open. And eventually, those qualities stood him in good stead on the Betty as well.

  Simoni had just come from another one-sided conversation with Krakke and was on his way to his room when he heard voices coming through its open doorway. Stopping just shy of it, he listened more closely.

  There’s only one voice, he decided. Vriess’s. But there were deep moans of satisfaction alternating with the little man’s remarks, and those seemed to be coming from someone else.

  At least, Simoni hoped they were.

  “Makes my blood boil,” said Vriess.

  “Umm,” said a feminine voice. “Mine too.”

  Bolero, Simoni thought. Definitely Bolero.

  “I’m talking about the aliens,” said Vriess. “After what happened on the Auriga—”

  “Yesss,” Bolero hissed. “Keep going … ”

  “—you’d think nobody would be stupid enough to mess with the slimy sonsabitches again. But I guess there’s no shortage of stupidity out there.”

  “If you say so,” Bolero responded. “A little to the right, lover. That’s it … ”

  Simoni wondered if they knew the door was open. And he wondered even more what Bolero saw in a paraplegic. But he could ponder those questions later.

  “Some good people got snuffed by those monsters,” said Vriess. “Elgyn, for instance. I told you about Elgyn.”

  “You did,” Bolero groaned.

  “He’s the one who got me interested in this … ”

  Bolero gasped.

  “And this,” said Vriess.

  “God,” she whimpered.

  “And they goddamn killed him. Me too, almost. And now the same thing’s going to happen all over again unless we stop it.”

  “No,” she said in a high, thin voice. “Don’t stop it, lover. Please don’t stop it … ”

  Simoni swallowed. He felt like a peeping Tom—which wasn’t altogether a bad thing. Besides, he had no choice. He had to listen, to pick up whatever tidbits they gave him.

  “You like it this way, don’t you?” Vriess asked.

  “Oh god,” she said, “I do … ”

  “How about like this?” he asked, his voice thickening.

  “Yes,” Bolero breathed “yes, more than anything … ”

  Simoni was so absorbed in their sex play, he didn’t know he was being watched as well—until someone behind him bellowed with indignation, spinning him around.

  Without meaning to, he had also taken a step backward. It placed him directly in line with the open doorway, through which he got a clear if undesired picture of Vriess and Bolero.

  The pilot was lying on the little man’s bed, face down, with one of her naked feet in his lap and the other in his attentive hands. A foot massage, Simoni thought, feeling foolish as all hell. He’s giving her a goddamned foot massage.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Vriess demanded.

  “I’d like to hear that myself,” said Bolero, dragging a sweaty lock of hair from her forehead.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. Because it seemed Johner was the one who had yelled at Simoni, and he was striding down the corridor to confront him. Or worse.

  Simoni turned back to Vriess and Bolero and said, “Sorry.” Then, before Johner could reach him, the reporter made a beeline for the room Ripley shared with Call and Bolero.

  The door was closed, of course. But it would slide aside at his approach, offering him shelter.

  Unless Ripley or Call was inside and had activated the lock. Then he would be stuck out in the corridor with Johner—and he really didn’t want to think about that.

  Unfortunately for Simoni, the door didn’t budge when he got near. As Johner approached him, a savage smile on his face, the reporter pounded on the metal door with the flat of his hand. Please, he thought, let Ripley be inside.

  Johner put a hand on Simoni’s shoulder and spun him around. “Where you going, pervert?”

  “I didn’t mean to—” Simoni began.

  Before he could finish, he heard the door slide open behind him. Thank god, he thought.

  But when he turned to explain the situation, he realized it wasn’t Ripley who had opened the door. It was Call.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Why, nothing,” said Johner, putting his arm around Simoni’s shoulders. “Me and the sneak here, we’re just having a little heart to heart.”

  Call frowned. “Ripley will be pissed if you kill him. Even by accident.”

  “How about if I just pull his arms off?”

  “Go back to your cage,” Call told him.

  Cursing to himself, Johner went back where he came from. Simoni turned to his savior. “Thanks.”

  “The next time I catch you eavesdropping,” said Call, “I’ll pull your arms off myself. Understand?”

  The reporter nodded. “Absolutely.” But he was thinking, If you told me what you were up to, I wouldn’t have to eavesdrop—would I?

  Pandor opened his eyes and cursed. But instead of a sound coming from his mouth, a bubble squirted out.

  God, he thought, where am I?

  He was immersed in water, somehow—water that was warm and red like blood, if a little thinner. And his lungs were screaming for air. If he didn’t get some soon, he would drown.

  He didn’t know how he had wound up there. He just knew he had to find the surface. But which way was up?

  Spinning around frantically, Pandor caught sight of a patch of light. It was vague, diffuse, but it seemed to h
im it might be the sun. And he had to try something, dammit. He couldn’t just hang there until his goddamned air ran out.

  Swimming as hard as he could, he speared through the water in the direction of the light. But he didn’t seem to be making any progress. The light just shimmered in front of him, teasing him, leading him on.

  Redoubling his efforts, he became less streamlined, less efficient. And his efforts depleted his oxygen even faster. His arms and legs got weak, rubbery, and he felt the urge to pull something down his throat.

  But he didn’t want to die. And more than that, he didn’t want to die with his throat full of water. So he hung on, and kicked, and stroked for the light while darkness closed in around the edges of his vision.

  Suddenly, without warning, he broke the surface. Unable to help himself any longer, he sucked in as hard as he could, making a keening sound like a soul lost in the depths of hell …

  And found himself sitting upright in a bed, cold sweat bathing his face, white light all around him. Squinting, he discerned shapes in the light. Or maybe just one shape, it was hard to tell.

  “Pandor?” someone said.

  The voice was feminine, girlish in pitch. And he recognized it. “Angie?” he returned.

  Then his eyes began to adjust to the light and he saw he was in the infirmary, with someone in a white lab coat standing beside him. It was Angie, all right. And she looked deeply concerned.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Am I okay … ? Pandor echoed stupidly, taking stock of himself. Not completely. He felt bruised, beaten. His muscles were trembling. And his throat hurt like a thousand flaming hells.

  He was dry too. So dry that it felt as if all the water had been sucked out of him.

  “Are you all right, Elijah?” Angie pressed, a little more concern in her voice this time.

  Pandor tried to tell her but his throat wouldn’t cooperate. It was too parched, too swollen for him to push any words out.

  Finally, with a considerable effort, he managed to whisper a single urgent word: “Water.”

  “Get him some water,” said Angie, looking back at someone.

  A moment later, she raised a yellow plastic cup to his lips. As she tipped it, Pandor felt a cool, wet trickle in his mouth, and gulped it down greedily. But it wasn’t enough—not nearly.