The Complete Aliens Omnibus

by B. K. Evenson

  Allen nodded, filing the information away, and Beck went back to gazing upon Didi, thinking about the lacy black panties already packed in his duffel. He liked to pretend that she knew he had them. That she wanted him to have them.

  “That is untrue,” Chopra said. “I dislike disease-spreading whores. I have no issue with women.”

  “Will I be required to go outside?” Allen asked.

  “No,” Chopra said. “There are usually only three of us here at any time, overseeing production. Sometimes four. We don’t go outside. We’re only responsible for the maintenance and organization of the lab and the chemical output thereof. And we answer to the manager, no one else.”

  Didi Weber had fixed her attention to one of the new people, a handsome young man with an innocent look to him. Beck saw confusion and excitement spin across his face, saw that Didi had claimed another for herself. She took what she wanted, when she wanted it. Her power was awesome, her interest a focused beam of sensual energy that no man could resist.

  “I won’t be required to go outside, then,” Allen said, nodding to himself. “Right. That’s good. Not required to go outside.”

  Didi walked out of the room—she didn’t walk so much as glide—and after the briefest of hesitations, the young man left also, his gait unsteady, his eyes blind with her magic. Albert Beck had worked at Fantasia for almost seven months, and since the day he’d arrived, he’d been half in love with Didi Weber. Not that he had any illusions about indulging those feelings; he was beneath the interest of a creature such as her, a fact established long before he’d ever come to the compound, but that didn’t matter. He had his thoughts, intricate and detailed, as complex as the weave of those strips of black cloth that had cupped her most private place, and he was satisfied.

  “Is this fun?” Allen asked. “Is this what we do for entertainment?”

  Beck finally allowed himself to be drawn back in. “It’s what they do,” he said, nodding around them at the tables of drunk or otherwise altered sub-traders. He spoke clearly and plainly, aware that Allen’s disorder required as much. “They ingest chemicals, gamble, and have sexual intercourse. Sometimes, there is fighting. If you are ever confronted by anyone in an angry or violent matter, you are to report it to Trace Berdella, immediately. He’ll see that it stops.”

  Wes Allen seemed to be looking at Beck, though one eye wandered toward Chopra. He nodded, mumbling half under his breath. “See that it stops.”

  Beck thought about adding more, but decided it was probably enough. He’d be fine on Fantasia, as long as he didn’t interact too much with the workers. They were all crazy.

  “Whore,” Chopra spat, staring at the door, and Beck turned, saw that Jessa had come back to Ops. Her hair was kinked and knotted at the back of her head, and she kept smoothing her clothes. Chopra took a tube of antibacterial hand cleaner from a pocket and squirted some into his palms, rubbing vigorously, his teeth set in a grimace.

  Wes Allen laughed, probably not sure what else to do. Jessa walked over to one of the tables and sat down, automatically reaching for a drink. She was cheap and tarnished, her humor broad, her body perfect and false. Beck watched her for a moment, thinking of red transparent mesh, also packed carefully away in his bag. Of Taryn, he had a broken, bottle-green thong, one he’d retrieved from the incinerator pile. He’d carefully stitched the elastic back together himself. His keepsake of Ana’s was black, like Didi’s. In fact, Leona was the only woman he hadn’t worked into his rich fantasy life; he respected her as a co-worker, and also, her choice in undergarments were bland and asexual.

  “Do we need to stay here?” Allen asked, smiling brightly. “I would like to leave.”

  “We can leave,” Chopra said, finally tearing his gaze from Jessa. Now that Beck thought of it, the chemists were a little crazy, too. Chopra was pretty normal except for the thing about female sex workers. The short, dark-skinned man had actually come to Fantasia because of some tax evasion charge, he wasn’t dangerous or anything, but he had a fear of disease that bordered on the psychotic and was especially fearful of STDs. Leona never spoke of anything but work, flat out ignoring any attempt to engage her in unnecessary conversation. From his one trip to her room, Beck knew she slept with a plastic baby doll and kept a bible in her panty drawer, with huge passages crossed out in thick black ink. She was what Fantasians referred to as a “legal” hire, someone who had come up strictly for the money, but there was definitely something wrong with her.

  All three men stood, made preparation to leave. Chopra cleared their table, while Allen looked around, smiling politely at the people who bothered to notice him.

  “How’d you end up here, anyway?” Beck asked.

  Allen’s eyes shone. “I’ll be able to do my research without interruption,” he said. “Unlimited biotechnical funding for batch fermentation and recovery.”

  Beck nodded. Figured, it was the science. Another legal hire.

  The three chemists headed for the door, entering the mechanized section of Ops just as the new girl, Ri-something, walked in, straightening her outfit, wiping at the corners of her mouth. She was something, almost as beautiful as Didi . . . Almost enough to make him wish he could stay another couple of weeks, watch her, offer to do her laundry, perhaps . . . Highcut thong, and she was shaved underneath, he could tell by the curve of her pubis, the way the microfiber hugged the skin—

  Chopra snatched for his hand sanitizer, and Allen looked in two directions at once, grinning, mumbling under his breath. Crazy. Beck looked forward to getting home and starting life in a new city with a new name, to which there was no list of embarrassing charges attached, no mandatory therapies to attend. He’d be able to secure another good job, a legal job, working R&D for one of the companies; he could be around semi-normal people again, could walk the streets and think his thoughts and have some real privacy. And he’d have his mementos of the Fantasia lovelies to begin a new collection, better than the one he’d been forced to leave behind. In all, his months on Msomi’s lonely, dark planet had been worth it, a fair price to pay for a solid, respectable identity in a new community . . . And his souvenirs were priceless. He thought of them now, each carefully wrapped in tissue and plastic, tucked in the pockets of his folded clothes, and shivered with pleasure, realizing that he should have left packing until the last possible moment. Now he’d have to fold everything again . . .

  * * *

  Finally free from his work in Ops, the party having disintegrated into a sloppy, shouting chaos, Stefan Rijke wandered the dark halls, half drunk, trying to decide if he felt like mourning. Raif was dead, torn apart by bugs; Mitchell was killed. Mighty Mitchell had been only a semi-closeted fuck-buddy, but Raif . . . Leslie Raif had been a real affair, hot and secret. There would be no more fevered caresses in the middle of the night, no more clandestine meetings in the gym or showers . . . On the other hand, Raif had been annoyingly homophobic in many ways, always struggling to come to terms with his own impulses . . . He mouthed off about fags more than Rijke cared to hear, as did many of the Fantasian men, who also sometimes liked to have a boy’s mouth on their cocks. Or up their asses. Raif had been from the United States, of course. This duality wasn’t a uniquely American problem, but Rijke did find that the most restricted closet cases he’d known had been from the land of the “free.” Their restrained morality caused them all kinds of difficulties.

  Rijke himself was proud to be from the Kingdom of the Netherlands, a forward-looking nation, where neither prostitution nor homosexuality were considered abnormal, where a man or woman could do as they pleased, within reason. He missed his friends, missed being around people of like mind, but was making such an amazing amount of money here, it was nearly impossible to walk away. He was the younger and better looking of the two male sex workers at Fantasia, blond and muscled with a nice-sized cock and shining white teeth, and he had the credit line to show for it. He could not count the number of big men he’d brought to their knees since his arrival, one way
or another. By personal preference, he was a bottom, but was comfortably AC/DC for his paying customers, of which there had been many.

  Besides, there’s more room up here. Rijke’s people were originally from Friesland, in the grand capital city of Leeuwarden, but now there were only pictures and films to remember it by, historical references, a language few used anymore—Mata Hari had been from Friesland, and the artist Escher. Most of the Kingdom that bordered the North Sea had been drowned by the melting cap, over a period of several generations—the Hollands, Zeeland, Groninggen, Flevoland . . . of course, the West Frisian islands . . . all underwater now, since the time of his great grandparents. Rijke had grown up in Limburg, along with about an extra three million displaced Dutch, all crowded together so that they could retain their national autonomy. Gelderland and Noord-Brabant were likewise overcrowded. Fantasia wasn’t really so spacious, but at home, there was only the studio he shared with two other homofiels, also both sex workers. They’d had to work in shifts.

  Rijke had heard about Fantasia through his MX7 connection—he didn’t use himself, but had a number of clients who expected him to have access—and that the pay was worth the trip, and had applied. He’d been waitlisted, but only for a short time; he was attractive and fun and willing to be versatile, he had a clean medical record and team spirit. He had come up on the cattle run from last year, and had not regretted it; he’d never had to go outside, either, having struck up a deal with Leslie Raif almost immediately—Raif had been a big dombo, but he’d loved his kontneuken, his ass fucking, and had been willing to trade pen duty for the pleasure.

  Rijke had reached the western end of the main corridor. After a moment’s hesitation, he tapped up the blast door and headed for the viewing hall. He had nowhere he needed to be, there had been no date for him among the newcomers . . . although he saw that at least one of them would be visiting him, soon enough. Rijke could spot them in seconds, and would bet money on his predictions; he often had. The young street talker M-Cat was a 49er with an active-passive split—one of those who believed that if you were the fucker rather than the fuckee, you could still safely claim the title of “not queer.” Top all the way, you couldn’t force-feed that one a cock. Rijke knew exactly how to play it, too, assuming M-Cat had the credit . . .

  He leaned against a wall for a moment, rolled his tired shoulders. Too bad about the pilot. Rijke loved that kind of man, deep and moody and responsible, perhaps secretly desperate for a little release from the pressures of his life . . . Rijke felt a stir, considering it, picturing the blue-eyed hetero in a uniform of some kind . . .

  He started walking again. It was dark and cool in the halls, pleasantly quiet after such a long stint with the party crowd. Between his morning shift, running the screens for the pen runs, and looking over the new prospects, he’d spent most of the day and night in Ops, not even leaving for dinner; Taryn had brought him a plate, which had been friendly. She wouldn’t normally have bothered, but she’d been close to Mighty, they’d painted their toenails together or whatever, bonded, and she’d probably thought that being nice now would get her a shoulder to cry upon. Usually, she acted like the rest of them, bitches and hookers, jealous of the attention Rijke commanded. Troittoirteef. Whatever.

  He’d toasted the fallen workers with everyone else, plus had a few extra shots to curb the mild sensation of unhappiness he’d felt, thinking that Raif had been on today’s run in his stead. He’d left the party unsteady from drink and possibly traumatized; he wouldn’t be sure until the shock of it passed. Would he miss Raif? Not really. There were always more like him, willing to trade favors for favors with a pretty boy. But he hadn’t wished the big dombo any harm, either, him or Mitchell. It was sad that people died. It was rotten and awful. It sucked assholes.

  “Da’s kloten van de bok,” Rijke muttered, turning into the viewing corridor. He rarely spoke in his native tongue, but it was an expression he’d been unable to give up, partly because he loved to translate it to anyone listening. Literally, “That’s testicles of the goat.”

  He walked directly to the middle of the hall before turning to face the panels, to watch the creatures slithering past, the boeman and his dark brothers. On the screens in Ops they seemed small, most of the cameras angled down, wide shots, distorted views. Here, standing on essentially the same ground, their rough passage lit by dark red light like fire, they were towering and terrible. Two of them were hunched in the tunnel, hissing, streams of watery goo running over their teeth. They were eyeless and soulless and bleak, crawling through their dark holes, spitting their babies into living things. At least Raif and Mighty had been spared that much.

  Rijke came here to watch them, sometimes, drawn by the stories he’d have to tell when he returned home, rich enough to buy his own apartment, to fuck only for pleasure. He could hear himself telling his friends about the nightmare creatures over cocktails, recounting the hours he’d spent watching them, learning about them . . . It was all very romantic, but in truth, the only thing he’d ever learned was that they frightened him.

  A voice from the shadows. “Hey.”

  Rijke turned, saw Mac Simpson stepping out of the dark, and forced some casual into his posture. “Hey, yourself.”

  Simpson stood next to him, his expression as carefully blank as usual. Poker face. A man’s man.

  “You working?” He asked, his tone a bit too tight.

  Rijke considered the possibility. He’d sort of planned to take the night off . . . But he’d also made it a habit to wander down to the viewing hall on nights he was available, and everyone at Fantasia knew it. He’d had more than one impromptu exchange here, in the late hours, bugs shrieking through the red tunnel while he earned his keep. If he hadn’t wanted to suck dick, he would have gone to his room.

  “Yes,” he said, and Simpson unzipped himself, and Rijke stepped forward. One of the aliens let out a scream, and both men laughed, but for a change, it wasn’t the slightest bit funny. Mac took twice as long as usual, and Rijke lacked his usual artistry, only going through the motions, effective but uninspired. He kept thinking that perhaps it was time to put in notice, have a replacement sent up on the next run.

  Mac finished, ejaculating with a shuddering cry, and Rijke made his decision, even before his trick had zipped up, before they both turned to watch the creatures for another moment before heading back to the main compound area. Two more of the animals had joined the first while the men had been occupied, as though they’d sensed humans nearby, as though the live feed panels worked both ways. He felt it strongly then, gazing upon the grinning monsters, that his decision had come too late, that he would not survive another quarter at Bug Rock . . . But of course, he was drunk, and probably in mourning.

  “What a day, huh?” Simpson said.

  “Da’s kloten van de bok,” Rijke said.

  8

  WEDNESDAY

  The team was ready, outfitted and standing by. John Kaye had uploaded the basic tactical plans into the ship’s system, and everyone had seen them. Memorized them, if they were as thorough as he believed, which was ideal; the drop could come at any time, and there wouldn’t be room for hesitation.

  Kaye waited in Ops, along with Shaw Puente and Anne Simmons. Not that he was needed there—the drug supply ship might leave in an hour, or in ten, they couldn’t know and wouldn’t move until they picked up the ship’s drive sig off the satellite—but he had nothing else to do. He’d already slept and eaten and triple-checked his gear, and was too wired to sit in his small room, or wait in AcelDecel with the others, listening to the pre-op banter of people he didn’t know.

  The final briefing had gone well; the team understood the plans, understood what needed to happen in order for them to survive the XT threat, and it was too late to do any more training—they’d all played with the C-Cube trainer in the gym on the ride up, practicing sweep and shoots, and while they weren’t the best he’d seen, they were close enough. Everyone seemed clear on the possibility—the pr
obability—that they wouldn’t make it through Fantasia’s defenses without sustaining casualties, but of course, no one thought they’d be the one to get hurt.

  If they got in close enough, they’d likely be fine, Kaye reminded himself, looking at the ship’s view screen. Fantasia spun far beneath them, a small, ugly, gray-brown world, hidden in the deep dark. Simmons had already laid in navigation for what appeared to be their best option, a short, flat stretch between the compound’s two buildings—the plant’s main drop lock at the compound’s west end and the animal pens to the north, if the informants were right. Depending on how the drop went, there were two other likely spots programmed in as backups—one, near a smaller ATV lock further east, the other, roughly over the garden rooms on the compound’s south side.

  They’d go in fast and low, straight to the site, screens and jammers running; Grant could afford the best, and the ship was equipped with it. Aaronson would put a block between the ship and the compound, too, scramble every possible frequency between the two. If they timed their attack well, the Fantasians wouldn’t know they were there until they had set down. The Neo-Pharm ship was built for combat drops, a wide exit wall-lock in AcelDecel—as soon as they touched ground, they could be outside in the time it took them to step away from their seats. The weapons were top-grade, better than anything the government had, local or federal. Neo-Pharm was one of Grant’s primary investments, and Msomi’s operation was big enough to put a dent in their bottom line; they’d spared no expense. Besides which, a sudden dramatic surge in MX7 prices meant that some addicts might be forced to kick—likely using one of Neo-Pharm’s fine new withdrawal-friendly substitute medications, available by prescription.

  Kaye tried not to think about that aspect too much, the profit Neo-Pharm would make were this operation successful. He’d hired on as a freelance advisor, he didn’t have to cop to the company line. After Jack had died, he’d taken an honorable discharge from the Corps and joined the police, worked international trafficking. It had become his personal mission to take down every drug dealer he could find—but after two fruitless years on the force, every spare minute he had trying to get something going with his old military contacts—an independent op, maybe—he’d had to face facts. Only the big companies had the means to burn out the Msomis of the world. Signing his name to the contract had hurt; he’d spent his entire adult life watching the corporations take over, make their own law, and he’d always resented their behavior deeply, as a good soldier and again as an honest cop.