by Tim Lebbon
“Given those reports, why bother?” someone asked. “This broadcast is costing more credits per second than you make in a year, General.”
“Why bother? Because I’m a Marine,” Bassett said, “and in these matters, what I know is more important than your damned credits.”
“I agree,” Barclay said. “Please proceed, General.”
Bassett gathered himself, and continued.
“We know that whoever they are, they’re attacking drophole locations, taking out control bases, and securing the dropholes for their own use. They flip out of warp very close to these installations, then launch lightning attacks. Surprise has been their main weapon, but even when we’re prepared, our forces have been largely usurped. Some of those dropholes taken by the enemy have been used, and they’ve commenced further movement into the Sphere.
“That is a great cause for concern, because although our systems can remotely indicate those holes that have been used, the codes the enemy is using are somehow masking their targets. For each drop, there are up to four potential emergence sites, often up to twenty light years apart. They’re disappearing… presumably until they attack somewhere else.
“They shouldn’t even have access to the drop codes, but that’s for our intelligence agencies to figure out as they’re trying to discover the identity of the attackers. My main concern is the immediate conflict. If we can shed more light on who they are, and what their aims may be, there may be some way to exploit that information.”
“We’re losing every battle?” another of the Thirteen asked, an edge of fear in his voice.
“Not every drophole that’s been attacked has ended up being taken, but they’re assaulting with overwhelming and brutal force.” He paused, then added, “We simply weren’t prepared.”
“Are they more advanced even than the Colonial Marines?”
“First indications confirm that, yes, they are,” Bassett admitted. “The larger ships they’re using are some of the old Fiennes ships. They’ve been radically upgraded, with deep warp drives and weapons systems beyond our own, both in range and payload. There are also escort ships of unknown design. Not human or Yautja, but something we haven’t seen before. All of their ships are protected by advanced shields beyond anything we’ve ever been able to construct.”
“Any first-hand sightings?” another woman asked. “One-on-one contacts? Are there any images available of the bastards who are doing this?”
“Their close-quarter assaults are carried out by weaponized Xenomorphs.”
At that Marshall sat up straighter.
“You’ll have seen my report concerning this,” he said. “It looks as if the Xenomorph battalions are under the control of androids.”
“We’ve read all this in the report,” Barclay said, “and it makes for grim reading, indeed, General. However, you have yet to tell us anything new. What are these insights you tout so highly?”
Bassett frowned at that, and when he spoke, his tone was crisp.
“I do have some new information,” he said. “A Marine squadron has located a Fiennes ship emerging from drophole Gamma 77. It was accompanied by four escort vessels. The squadron was orbiting Gamma 77’s control station at the time, and within the hour they were in full combat with the attacking force. We lost three frigates and an Arrow-class ship, but the Fiennes vessel and its escorts were destroyed.”
“Which Fiennes ship was it?” one of the Thirteen asked.
“Initial indications suggest it was a ship called the Harmes-Cox.” The General paused, then added, “It was launched over four hundred years ago. Nineteen thousand souls were aboard.”
“It’s obscene,” the woman said, although Marshall suspected she was referring to the fact that Weyland-Yutani was being attacked, and not the loss of life. “Who’s doing this? Did the encounter with the Harmes-Cox yield any clues?”
“None,” Marshall said, “but if you’ll let the General continue…”
The other twelve faces flickered and faded in and out of focus, ripples in sub-space giving them animated expressions. He saw Barclay as a twenty-year-old man, and an aged, wasted scarecrow. A lifetime of possibilities, or perhaps a timeless collection of truths.
“The ship and crew involved in the recent Yautja peace initiative were also at a base that came under attack,” Bassett said. “They were crewing my own Arrow-class vessel, the Pixie. Isa Palant sustained injuries before she made peace with the Yautja Elder Kalakta, and she has been recuperating on LV-1657, a Colonial Marine base close to drophole Gamma 116, around seven light years from the Outer Rim. The Fiennes ship Susco-Foley dropped in-system and immediately attacked. Thanks to the actions of Major Akoko Halley and her DevilDogs, the Pixie was able to take off and destroy most of the attackers. At first the android controlling the attack was believed to be killed, but then he was seen fleeing into a cave system, protected by a few remaining Xenomorphs.”
“So we have them trapped,” Barclay said, becoming excited. “Do we have a Xenomorph sample?”
“No,” Bassett said. “Two things were made clear by this attack. First, the Xenomorphs have something in their system that causes a complete meltdown the moment they’re fatally injured or killed. Occasionally some of their hide survives, but no whole samples remain, and no retrievable samples of their blood.”
“And the android?” Barclay asked.
“It also self-destructed,” Bassett replied, “but with much more force. At least two megatons.”
Barclay’s face dropped. Other members of the Thirteen faded in and out, as if to transmit their disappointment.
“And the Susco-Foley?” Barclay asked.
“Several minutes after the android self-destructed, the old Fiennes ship executed a dive into LV-1657’s atmosphere. It came apart and burned up. Nothing was left.”
“It’s a loss, but we’ve also gained important intelligence,” Marshall said.
“How about the crew of the Pixie?” Barclay asked. “Palant and McIlveen? Did they survive the explosion?”
“They survived,” Marshall said.
“Good,” the leader of the Thirteen said. “Then you know what orders to issue to your forces, General. They’ve let an android give them the slip once already, but they can correct that error. If they can gather us a sample of these weaponized Xenomorphs, good, but their priority has to be to take one of the androids prisoner.”
“They’ve been fighting for their lives, Barclay,” Marshall said. He heard a grunt from Bassett, and hoped it was approval.
“As are we all,” Barclay responded. “Make it happen, Gerard, General. Knowing the enemy is defeating them.”
Marshall nodded, but the holo images had already started flickering to nothing. Moments later they were gone.
“Fucking idiots,” Bassett said.
“Careful, General,” Marshall said. “I’m one of those fucking idiots.”
Bassett’s mouth twitched into the semblance of a smile, but not for long.
“I’ll contact Major Halley,” Marshall said. “I can speak to Palant at the same time. You have plenty on your plate, as well.”
“Just fighting for the future of the Human Sphere,” Bassett said. He stood and gestured at the door. “We should leave.”
Of course. It was his holo suite, after all.
“We’re on the same side, Paul,” Marshall said.
“Yes… Gerard.” The General waited for him to leave before following him out.
Never turn your back on an enemy, Marshall mused.
* * *
“Major Halley,” Marshall said. “I hope you’re well.” He was transmitting from his office now, via a holo frame, but still using the Company’s instantaneous tech. The situation was evolving too quickly for him to send a recorded message.
“Marshall,” Halley said brusquely. Her image shimmered, but her voice was clear. He only wished her hatred for him wouldn’t taint every conversation they had. He knew of her history as a phrail addict, but that didn’
t mean he didn’t respect her as a soldier, and a person. Why couldn’t she understand that?
“Really, Akoko,” he said, “how are you and the crew?”
“We lost Nassise and Gove,” she said.
“My commiserations,” he said, “but I’m afraid we don’t have time to dwell on that.”
“You have new orders for me?”
“I’m afraid so. These are terrible times,” Marshall said. He meant it, and wondered for a moment if that was a softening he saw in Halley’s expression. Or was it just a quirk of the sub-space connection? “Terrible times, and they call for desperate measures.”
“I take it the wider battle isn’t going well,” Halley responded.
“We’re suffering defeats,” Marshall said. “Dropholes taken, enemy ships infiltrating deeper into the Sphere. The more drops they make, the more we lose track of where they might emerge next.”
“We’re pretty bashed around here,” Halley said. “The blast knocked the Pixie from the sky. A couple of broken bones among the crew, but they’ve been fused. It’s the damage to the ship that might take longer.”
“We don’t have longer,” Marshall said. “We need you to find one of their androids, and take it alive.”
“Right,” Halley said, not even trying to disguise her skepticism. “You mean one of those androids that just self-destructed in a massive nuclear blast?”
“One of those. Yes.”
Halley nodded, smiling. “Why us?”
“Because you’re out there. You have the Pixie. You’re the best I have. If we find one, discover how its self-destruct works, it might give us the advantage we need. And… I’ll admit that assigning you the mission was my idea, as you have Palant and McIlveen with you. My hope was… is…”
“Yautja,” Halley said. “Your thinking is that we can team up.”
“They did storm in to rescue you,” Marshall said, “and I’ve been led to believe they’ve remained in the vicinity. Is that the case?”
“Yeah, they’re still close,” Halley confirmed. “Palant and McIlveen had some small success communicating with them after the battle. They’re as hard to read as ever, but they admitted that they’ve been shadowing us, ever since the peace treaty with Elder Kalakta, with orders to ensure Palant’s safety.”
“So Kalakta’s taken a shine to our Yautja expert,” Marshall said, smiling. “Maybe that will help.”
“I can’t see us teaming up with the Yautja,” Halley said.
“Yet where you and Palant go, they’ll follow.”
Halley nodded slowly. “And how are we supposed to find one of these androids. You know, the ones with nukes in them?”
“Look for another Fiennes ship.”
“Seriously?” Halley asked.
“Major, I couldn’t be more serious,” Marshall said. “At the moment they seem to be everywhere. Take advantage of that.” Without waiting for a reply he signed off, then leaned back in his chair, enjoying a moment of silence.
He feared it might be his last for quite some time.
14
JOHNNY MAINS
Othello, Outer Rim
November 2692 AD
He knew the sound, and it brought nightmares into his waking world.
“Xenomorphs!” Mains whispered. “We have to run.”
“We can stand and fight,” Durante said.
“Eddie, listen to me—we have to run!” Mains hissed. “Even if there are only a few of the damned things, and we shoot them down, the sounds will bring more, and more.” He knew this from experience. He also knew that they were in a giant hold containing tens of thousands of people, most of them impregnated with Xenomorph embryos.
Fighting the beasts in their own nest would be suicide.
“We… we know where to go,” the one-armed woman said. The three newcomers were still staring at them with open shock and wonder, but now wasn’t the time for questions and explanations.
“How do you—”
“We’ve survived for over a standard year,” the burned man said. Behind him, from far along the corridor, the scuttling sound was coming closer.
Mains and Durante shared a glance. Mains nodded.
“We’ll follow you,” Durante said to the woman. “Any bullshit and we’ll blow you into a smear.” It didn’t seem to faze her.
“You’re really from outside?” she said, but Durante raised his weapon and pointed it at her.
“Now!” he said. She just glanced at the weapon. Mains wondered what terrors she had faced, that she could be so calm.
“This way,” the man said. “I hope you’ll fit.” He looked Durante up and down before heading to the right. He and the two women led the way, with Mains, Lieder, Durante, and Moran following, and Hari bringing up the rear. They skirted the edge of the big hold, passing several thick branches and hundreds of gel pods, each nursing a human held in suspension.
Mains noticed a couple of pods where the gel was clouded and the person inside had shriveled, shrunken into the size of a child and quite obviously dead. In one, a body floated along with a deceased baby Xenomorph, the gel clouded with black blood set in solid waves. But most people seemed alive, fit and healthy, except for the feathery remains of the facehuggers that had impregnated them, and then died.
The sounds behind them continued, and Mains guessed the Xenomorphs would soon be upon them. The three people they’d met looked terrified, but perhaps it was all an act—a way of luring them into a trap where they’d be taken down by the beasts, stripped of weapons and clothing, forced into a gel pod, and then impregnated. He’d had nightmares of becoming a breeding ground for Xenomorphs. The suffocation, the pain…
He began to slow, ready to express his doubts, when the two women in the lead dropped to their knees. With the man’s help they eased up a panel in the floor. A stench rose up so shocking that Mains almost gagged, despite his suit’s face mask. Eyes wide, they gestured inside, and the man hauled himself through first, moving effortlessly in weightlessness. Moran followed without pause.
“It’s safe,” Hari said behind him.
“How do you know that?”
“Because that way isn’t.” She indicated behind them, where shadows already danced across the doorway through which they’d accessed the big hold. “We’ve only got seconds.”
They pulled themselves down through the hole, one by one, into the blackness. Durante had to contort to make it through. Hari came last. The women slid the panel back over the hole, then in the complete darkness one of the men whispered, “Quiet.” Despite a shallow layer of some sort of viscous liquid, their boots kept them tight to the floor, none of them floating in the zero gravity and knocking against each other.
Apart from their heavy breathing, there was silence. Mains’s suit switched to infrared. The other Excursionists had done the same, but the three people they’d met had no such technology. They stood together, pressed close for comfort, eyes wide in the pitch darkness, as the monsters they hid from passed overhead.
Softly at first, Mains heard them. Their limbs connecting with walls, floor, and ceiling as they pulled themselves along the hallway. Then a soft, low hissing as they passed close by.
Can they smell us? he wondered. Will they taste us? But if they could, these people surely wouldn’t have survived for so long.
One of the women still carried a metal bar, and at first Mains had assumed it was a weapon, but as the sounds of Xenomorph pursuit faded above them, she twisted its end and a soft blue glow lit their surroundings.
“Oh, shit,” Moran muttered. Mains heard others catching their breaths.
“Sorry,” the one-armed woman said. “We didn’t have time to warn you.”
They were in some sort of drainage channel, just tall enough for Durante to stand in without crouching, narrow enough that if Mains reached out his arms, his fingertips would touch both walls. All of the surfaces were caked in dried material, streaked with rot. Droplets of fluid still floated, a thick jelly-like substance m
oving slowly in one direction and carrying with it more solid objects. Down here the stink was powerful, and it indicated what those objects were before Mains could quite make them out—even with the combat suit’s face mask, and he had to concentrate so that he didn’t puke.
He switched to his internal oxygen supply. A few deep breaths, and his stomach calmed.
Human parts drifted by. Arms with skin shriveled and gray, part of a head with an eye rolled up to white, a hand with fingers clawed like a dead spider. A lot of the flesh had rotted from these parts, hanging in pale clumps or unattached completely and slicked across the walls. Mains heard gasps of disgust and uttered one himself, but they all knew better than to knock these sickening objects aside. One gentle shove could send a limb bouncing from a wall. Exposed bone might scratch or bump. Any loud noise might give them away.
“We need to move,” the burnt man said.
“Through this?” Hari asked.
“It keeps us safe,” the man asked.
“How do you know?”
“It’s worked for three months. Come on. It’s not all this bad.”
“What is this place?” Durante asked.
“Waste channel for the pods that fail,” the one-armed woman said. “If a host dies, the pod’s vented down here. It flows away.”
“To where?”
“Somewhere none of us wants to go,” the man said. “Please, we should move. We’ve got so many questions for you.”
“Same goes,” Mains said, “but I don’t think we need to hide. We have a ship, and once we get back there we’ll blast this place to hell.”
“General Jones knows you’re here now,” the man said.
“How?” Lieder asked.
“He’s not stupid. He’ll be planning an assault.” As the man led them along the rank tunnel, splashing gel-caked things aside and releasing more stench of rot to the air, he glanced back over his shoulder. “You should probably warn your ship.”