by Tim Lebbon
They moved deeper into the ship. Away from the scene of the big battle, they encountered nothing, and no one. There was an atmosphere here, but their suits still had to filter it and supplement them with extra oxygen.
Faulkner struggled on. Mains was amazed at his resilience. He knew the big man would grind to a halt soon, and that his suit’s ministrations could not continue indefinitely, but Faulkner’s doom was simply a more visible manifestation of their own. None of them would survive this.
Lieder took point and probed ahead, and ten minutes after entering the strange ship and forging onward and upward, she held up a hand.
“Johnny. Bridge.”
“And?”
“Another battle.” She disappeared through an opening, and Faulkner and Mains followed.
* * *
The android was pinned to the wall at the far end of the bridge, several yards from the floor. A wide, heavy blade had pierced its chest and held him there, its handle heavy with hardened drips of his pale gray blood. His head hung low, chin touching his chest.
The android’s legs had been ripped off, one arm crushed, stomach slashed open and emptied, so that his complex insides hung below him like some sick decoration.
It looked as if it had happened some time ago. Yet still his eyes watched them approach across the bridge.
“Who the hell are you?” Mains asked.
The android smiled. It wasn’t particularly human, neither in appearance, nor in that small movement. It had basic humanoid features, but there had been no real effort to give it a personality. This thing had not been made to fool anyone.
“Patton?” Mains asked.
The thing stuck on the wall tried to speak. Its jaw was broken and its tongue had been pulled out, teeth smashed in by a heavy weapon. It snorted.
Scattered around the bridge were a score of blasted, melted Xenomorph corpses. At the feet of the android were many more, a slick of destruction piled on and around the body of the one Yautja that had made it this far. Mains couldn’t help but admire the Yautja. Its body was hideously wounded and acid-burnt, and he guessed many of those had been inflicted while it was still alive. Its left arm was a pulped mess, its clawed right hand clotted with clothing and pale, raw flesh.
Before dying, it had pinned its aggressor to the wall and slashed him to pieces.
“Johnny!” Lieder said, staring past him at the android. “Comms unit.”
“Can you work it?” Everything here was strange, yet recognizable.
“Yeah, think so. It’s weird. This ship’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, but lots of the symbology and language on the control panels… it’s old English.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Mains said. “Prep a sub-space transmission to all Colonial Marine units. Open frequency. We want everyone to hear this.”
Faulkner sat gingerly next to Lieder, resting his head back against the unit she worked at.
“Why did you come here?” Mains asked the ruined android. “Who sent you? What are you doing?”
But Patton was mortally wounded, and between his fluid snorts and the quivering of his broken jaw, Mains saw nothing that made sense in those eyes. Perhaps given time, they might be able to wire up his head, give it a voice, and interrogate it.
But not yet. Now, there was a warning to send, accompanied by a mystery that others would need to work on and solve.
“Channel open,” Lieder said.
Mains waited until his suit signaled readiness for his message, and then he began.
25
ISA PALANT
Independent Research Vessel Tracey-Jane, Drophole Gamma-116
September 2692 AD
She was told that it had become the most famous and historic sub-space transmission of all time.
General Paul Bassett’s immediate reaction had been to initiate a mission to hunt down and capture Akoko Halley, her small crew of DevilDogs, and the survivors they had picked up from Love Grove Base, announcing them as deserters and conspirators with the “Yautja Incursion.” He’d even gone so far as to pull together seven crews and ships for the mission, but two hours after the message was received all across the Human Sphere, the Yautja attackers had signaled a ceasefire.
Palant’s message had been listened to over three billion times within the Sphere, and Gerard Marshall had already held a conference with the rest of the Thirteen.
He instructed Bassett to welcome Halley and Palant as heroes.
What happened next was even more out of the ordinary.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Halley asked. She had hardly left Palant’s side since their arrival on the Tracey-Jane. Seven days’ travel and a drophole jaunt had lifted them nine light years across the sphere, to this ship orbiting a planet which was unexplored, in a system barely touched by humanity. The Tracey-Jane’s crew were roughneckers, independent contractors, salvagers.
Pirates, Halley had said, though the name held many connotations, depending on who spoke it.
Whatever they were, theirs was about to become one of the most famous ships in the galaxy.
“Absolutely not,” Isa Palant said.
“Nope. Not ready. Not at all. Very, very unready.” Milt McIlveen had also rarely left her side, though she suspected that was more for his own reassurance than hers. A Company man, still he’d never felt this much attention before.
Certainly not from the Thirteen.
“Well, they’re ready,” Halley said. She was a no-nonsense woman, and the idea of pausing for a deep breath didn’t seem to appeal to her. She swiped her hand over her datapad, and around the small, scuffed dining table in the Tracey-Jane’s galley, thirteen shimmering holograms appeared.
Palant had seen their images before, and had conversed with Marshall, but she’d never believed she would one day be in the presence of the Thirteen. It shocked her, conversing in real time with people spread across hundreds of light years of space. Yet it did not surprise her. The Company had always been rumored to have technology that could bring sub-space communication closer to face to face, without the frustrating time lag of processing, transmission, and receipt. That it kept such tech to itself only reinforced her opinion of Weyland-Yutani.
“Isa Palant,” Gerard Marshall said, “and Milt McIlveen. I’m so pleased to see you both well. You’ve been through a lot, but if I may intrude upon you again, myself and the rest of the Thirteen have a few things to discuss before today’s conference.”
I’ll just bet you do, Palant thought. McIlveen held her hand, surprising her. They both squeezed.
“After all,” Marshall continued, “along with my old friend Major Halley, you do seem to be the history makers.”
* * *
The “history makers” made their way toward the Tracey-Jane’s hold.
It had been cleaned out for the meeting. There were other places they could have met—in rec rooms, on the ship’s cramped bridge, and in bedrooms or storage spaces scattered around the huge central area—but the hold was what this ship, a transporter, was built for, and a sense of occasion and grandness was desired. After the Yautja had requested the meeting to be on neutral ground, the Tracey-Jane had been the best the Colonial Marines could find in the time given to them.
Though cleaned out, the hold could hardly be called pristine. A stale stench lingered, perhaps old cargo burst from packaging, or the torn metal and leaking fuel of salvaged ships. The floor was rough and scarred, the walls tall and rising into shadow. The hold would have held the Pixie five times over.
Colonial Marines were in evidence everywhere. They were heavily armed, and a few of them appeared jittery, but all weapons were stowed or holstered, and Palant could see that Akoko Halley engendered a huge amount of respect from these warriors. They weren’t from her DevilDog regiment, but the Snow Dog’s reputation seemed to precede her.
At the hold’s center, a strange scene awaited them. A large square of plastic flooring had been laid out, programmed to show a gentle green, like close-t
rimmed grass. Several heavy seats had been removed from the bridge and dragged down, arranged in a rough circle with a round table in the center. Drinks and food were waiting on the table. Behind these seats were ranks of smaller, less comfortable chairs.
All of those currently present chose to stand.
Four Yautja stood in a line behind one of the big chairs. Fully armed, exuding menace and bearing scars old and new, they held their hands down by their sides. Their helmets hung from their belts, exposing their peculiar, grotesque faces. They looked around, moving slowly, jaws flexing as if always on the verge of speech, but they remained silent, and Palant guessed it was in deference to the much older Yautja who was standing before them.
He held onto the back of one of the big seats, and if some chose to see that as a sign of weakness, Palant knew they would be mistaken. Her heart skipped a beat when she first saw him. She had already been told his name and position, but even if she hadn’t she would have recognized him as the leader among them. He carried himself with pride, displaying a cool intelligence and even grace. He exuded age and knowledge, and a simmering violence which was as much a part of his existence as breathing. He was the star around which those in the room—Yautja and human alike—were now orbiting.
Violence hung heavy in the air, and Palant breathed it in. This was not a peace conference. It was an invitation to embark on an even deadlier war.
His name was Kalakta, and his weapons were older than those carried by the others, all of them shining and bladed. He seemed to wear no blasters. Unlike the four Yautja behind him, he wore a bandolier of trophies across his right shoulder. As Palant drew closer, she realized that at least one of these was a human jawbone.
On his left shoulder was affixed a cleaned, pristine human skull.
McIlveen walked beside her. He carried the datapad they had been using. They’d rejected the idea of using a different machine. Although the program they’d developed had been copied and uploaded to a quantum fold, they both agreed that the original computer should be used. It wasn’t like Palant to be superstitious, but this machine had saved their lives.
Now if only this old bastard speaks the dialect we’ve come to know, she thought, and she let slip a manic laugh. She bit it back, glancing sidelong at McIlveen. He, too, seemed on the verge of hysteria. Neither of them was meant for this, but at the same time she realized that this might well be the culmination of her dreams.
Halley remained behind at a respectful distance, and as Palant and McIlveen stepped onto the temporary flooring, she recognized what a task they had been given. It should be military leaders or politicians doing this, she thought. A complex negotiation even when conducted in the same language, a ceasefire discussion had the potential to go sour at any moment.
Kalakta had asked for them.
Their conversation was being recorded and transmitted by several sources, but its conduct was down to her and McIlveen.
The four Yautja and their leader watched them approach, every part of their expressions exuding aggression. As they drew near, Kalakta spoke, his words deep and grinding, more like industrial machinery than a voice.
Palant closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and hoped that they were as clever as they thought.
* * *
I am Kalakta… six hundred and seventy-seventh Elder clan. The words appeared on the screen. They continued, missing some of what he said but still managing to make sense.
It’s working! Palant thought, almost slumping with relief.
… born long… ten thousand suns. My parent group… Ascendance was on your Earth, in a city of… and heat. A man with dark skin… worthy opponent. I have hunted through… and taken many human trophies.
She glanced up at this, meeting Kalakta’s gaze. It did not waver. Not a challenge, but also shameless. He continued speaking.
I have risen through the clans. I speak… all Yautja civilization, and have… respect for them to listen to me. Right now we are at a ceasefire. This… give us time to prepare. We are always ready to fight. One wrong move… humans… begin again. A greater darkness.
He made a gesture behind him, one of his companions touched his forearm, and a holographic projection appeared from nowhere between them. Palant took a step back, but then the image darkened into a starscape, and she could only watch the awful scene unfold.
The footage shifted and bounced, as if taken from a combat camera of some kind. A planet or moon, desolate, whipped by cruel winds. Several low buildings, angular and functional. Two ships, probably Yautja, some distance apart.
The view shifted upward as the viewer lifted its head, and then the sound came in. A loud roar accompanied a dark shape approaching quickly from the blood-red sky. It parted clouds, growing rapidly in size and then slowing to a standstill.
A hundred small objects dropped from the vessel in bursts of smoke or steam. They were compact, falling quickly toward the ships and buildings.
Palant cringed, expecting explosions. But none came.
The barrage landed in showers of sand and stone. The viewer drew a weapon that shimmered past the camera, and from the left a trio of lasers cast about the clouds of dust thrown up by the impacts.
Several shadows emerged at the same time, scampering across the rough ground toward the camera. One of them went down, struck by a blaster, but there were a dozen more to take its place.
The image twisted and turned, and a loud screech was cut off as the hologram flickered to nothing.
You said that you knew… fire lizards, Kalakta said. Speak of what you know.
Palant tried to set her shock aside. Now was the time to see whether she knew enough to maintain this ceasefire, and perhaps even turn it into something different. Only a day ago, just before her audience with the Thirteen, Akoko Halley had played her a transmission received from an Excursionist unit. Trapped on a Yautja habitat for weeks, reduced from their usual contingent of eight down to three, they had witnessed something horrific and intensely troubling. Their story, and the footage she had just seen, at last gave a name to the Yautja’s fire lizards.
She typed.
“We call them Xenomorphs,” the datapad chimed. She saw recognition in Kalakta’s eyes, and a gentle nod. Such human characteristics gave her pause, but only for a moment. This was important, and every moment wasted might mean more lives lost.
She wrote what she had gleaned from Shamana back on LV-1529, about how the Yautja had been attacked, how they had traveled to regroup. She did not use the word retreat—she doubted there was such a word in the Yautja language. The last thing she wished to do was challenge some personal or species pride.
Kalakta nodded slowly as the datapad translated and spoke, but he said nothing.
The Thirteen were being relayed the conversation through their secretive two-way sub-space tech. In her ear she heard Gerard Marshall’s voice.
“Tell it we know where their home planet is.”
Palant felt a flush of shock pass through her, and she looked down at the datapad to try and hide it. No one knew where the Yautja home planet was. She had long suspected that their planet of origin was lost in the mists of deep history, and that they were a nomadic species, spread far wider across the galaxy than the humans they sometimes chose to hunt. So much about them suggested that they were older, far older than humanity.
If Marshall and the Thirteen did know, it was knowledge that they had kept to themselves.
“I’m instructed to tell you we know where your homeworld is,” she typed, and the machine spoke.
“You knew of this?” she whispered harshly to McIlveen by her side.
“No,” he said. A pause. “It’s bullshit. Has to be.”
“Maybe.”
Kalakta’s expression didn’t change, but his bearing altered subtly. He seemed suddenly taller, wider, as if he had puffed himself up ready for conflict. His hands dropped slightly toward his belt, where weapons almost as long and heavy as Palant hung.
“And tell him we’ll nuke
the fuck out of his homeworld if this ceasefire doesn’t take effect immediately,” Marshall said.
Palant paused. She could almost sense Marshall’s anger as he watched. Because she had no doubt that he was watching this exchange, somehow, along with the rest of the Thirteen.
“We hold you in great respect,” the device said as she typed. “Some of my kind hate you because they don’t understand you. Others fear you for the same reason. I fear, but I also want to learn more. You fascinate me.”
“Palant!” Marshall said. She took the small pod from her ear and dropped it on the floor.
“The Xenomorph army are driven by something else, a greater power. On their own they are formidable. With organization and order behind them, they might be unstoppable.”
Kalakta nodded again, slowly. Then he knelt before Palant and McIlveen, groaning like an old man as his knees clicked and popped. The long spear on his belt touched the floor and he grabbed it, leaning on it as he sighed heavily. He had brought himself down to their level.
We have lost much. Several habitats. Many ships. Two moons, three asteroids, one planet. Not… homeworld… settled millennia ago. Your elders… threaten war, which we… But this threat… all of us.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Palant replied. Kalakta stiffened as the datapad read the translation. Then he tilted his head and actually laughed, a soft, rattling sound.
We have… only enemies, the Yautja elder said. But some… worse than others. So… work together.
Palant smiled. She hoped Marshall could see and hear this. She doubted the Thirteen’s intentions and their word, but she hoped that they appreciated the honor here, and the historical decision this moment had inspired.
Kalakta leaned forward, reached out, and closed his hand around the back of Palant’s head.
She sensed people bristling behind her, and behind Kalakta his accompanying Yautja brought their weapons to bear. But she, and he, did not shift their gaze from each other’s eyes.
He pulled her head toward his and their foreheads touched. She smelled his breath, warm and spicy. She felt the heat of him, and the depth of years and experience in his eyes. His trophy belt swung before her, and she could have reached out and touched the skull of a human she had never known, or the jawbone of a creature from beyond the Human Sphere.