The Complete Aliens Omnibus, Volume 3

by Sandy Schofield

  “God,” Crespi whispered.

  The escaped drone hung upside down, perhaps supported by some unseen pipe overhead. First its shiny long head, the dripping teeth—and the spindly black arm as it reached—

  Church screamed first, the others in the room echoing the words. “Mortenson, get out of there!”

  Still, he didn’t know. The thin-faced man held up his hands in apology, addressed the com. “But, sir, I was just—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t finish, as those sharp talons wrapped around his throat and lifted him, as easily as a man lifts a feather.

  He let out a strangled cry, not knowing what had him, what pulled him closer to the extending jaws—

  His choked scream cut off as the rod of the alien’s inner teeth shot forward, into and through the back of his skull. It gave as easily as wet tissue and the image was suddenly blasted red, his blood on the lens.

  Then there was only red, and the vaguest image of movement behind the crimson veil. Sickening wet noises, the sound of gristle being chewed blaring out into the stunned room.

  Church reached over and shut off the audio. He looked away from the muted redness and spoke softly. “Hawkins, you and Stockdale suit up and subdue that creature.”

  Thaves spoke angrily, but his face was pale. “What was that man doing down there in the first place? Station’s orders, my ass.”

  Church glanced at him. “Sir, if I may respectfully submit—whatever he was doing there is now a matter of secondary importance.”

  Crespi wanted to be sick. Church’s voice was calm, only the slightest undertone of tension. The muted, bleary picture was one of gnashing teeth and thick, bloody wetness.

  Thaves turned toward the door, seeming to regain some of his bluster. “Church, I expect the results of a comprehensive investigation in my hands by 0800 tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” Church said quietly. He turned back to the screen, expressionless, watched the obscured movements for a moment.

  Finally, he sighed, pointed at one of the suited technicians. “Blackman, you and…”

  McGuinness had moved to join them. Church looked at her. “Who are you?”

  “Sharon McGuinness, sir. TFC.”

  Church cocked an eyebrow at her, and something like recognition flashed through his gaze. “McGuinness…”

  Whatever it was, it was gone. Church cleared his throat and went on. “Blackman, you and McGuinness confirm that the alien has been reconfined. And then I want you to cordon off sector SJ and begin a surface analysis.”

  He looked down at the tech who was seated in front of the monitor, a burly, dark-skinned man. “Williams, clean and close the lab. I want live guards at the kennel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Church stood for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, one hand against his chin. His shoulders were slumped, his face drawn. Crespi felt some sympathy for him; the doctor had done all he’d been able to do, and it wasn’t enough.

  And you know what that feels like, don’t you?

  Church glanced up at Crespi. “I’ll meet you in the lab in eight hours.” He seemed about to say more, but then turned and slowly walked away. He looked—beaten, a man who’d lost everything.

  “Certainly. I’ll be in my quarters,” said Crespi, and Church waved halfheartedly over one shoulder in response before exiting.

  Crespi stood there, feeling depressed and worn out. He glanced at his watch and sighed. Barely two hours into his new assignment, and more had happened already than had occurred in the last two years of his work on Earth.

  Suddenly he felt certain that he shouldn’t have come, that he was foolish to have taken an assignment he’d known nothing about. He felt almost nostalgic for that vague anxiety he’d had that morning on the transport ship, because at least he hadn’t been here, on board this station. There was something wrong here, something deadly wrong—

  Ease up, Crespi, things will work out. You’re just having a bad day—

  No. Lieutenant Mortenson had had a bad day; he was just in a very dark and shitty mood, and what he needed was to go sit down somewhere and try to relax.

  Crespi sighed again and went to find his quarters.

  * * *

  McGuinness hurried down the dingy corridor, her heart pounding. She mentally called out the numbers of each door she passed, praying that Crespi would be home.

  85—87—there, A89. She stopped in front of his quarters, took a deep breath. She’d have to take it slow, no blurting out accusations that she couldn’t back up; what she knew, deep down, and what she could prove were still separate things…

  Another deep breath, and she punched the buzzer. After a brief pause, Crespi’s voice floated out over the com.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Lieutenant McGuinness, sir.”

  “Come in, McGuinness.”

  Crespi sat to the side of a small, faded couch against the wall of his room. She glanced around briefly; officer’s quarters were bigger, a few extra chairs, but nothing to write home about—

  “May I sit down, sir?”

  Crespi nodded, gesturing vaguely to the couch, his face pale; Mortenson’s death was only a few hours old.

  “I thought you’d still be at the accident site.”

  McGuinness sat down next to him, pushed her hair back behind her ears. “We did some prelim and specification, and now the sweeps are down there.”

  Crespi’s gaze sharpened, perhaps at the tension in her voice. “Find anything?”

  She spoke calmly and clearly. “The tracking device on the escaped alien had been partially cut off. Cut, as with a blade. We found it in the breaker room; no alien residue.”

  Crespi stared at her, then lowered his head into his hands. “Oh, boy.”

  McGuinness went on. “In the generator room we found a substance smeared on the pipes where the alien was hiding. Smelled like pheromone.”

  Crespi kept his head down. “I don’t think I want to hear this,” he mumbled.

  “It gets worse. Mortenson was there on station’s orders.”

  There.

  Crespi looked up, frowned. She met his gaze.

  “The kennel door was opened by the station, too.”

  “You’re saying that was a deliberate killing—?”

  “It sure looks that way, sir.”

  She waited, watched his incredulity turn, could almost see a sharp decisiveness come into his eyes. And then he asked the question that she had most hoped for, had desperately wanted to be asked.

  “Can you unscramble the station code and trace that order on the mainline?”

  She paused, not wanting to seem too eager. This was the tricky part, and she hoped that Crespi would bite; without him, she was strictly on her own. “Not without authorization…”

  He nodded, made the decision without blinking. “You have it. Sub rosa, McGuinness, and don’t get caught. Report only to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want this to be our little secret,” he said, and smiled briefly. Dismissively.

  She stood and walked out, waiting until the door closed before she let her own smile surface.

  The trap was set.

  Church would never know what hit him.

  * * *

  Paul Church steepled his fingers against his chin and nodded slowly, watching as Crespi brought his meeting to an end.

  “I want this to be our little secret,” he said, his low voice somewhat muffled-sounding as it crackled out over the video’s com. The microphone needed to be replaced; Church would have to see to that.

  Church leaned back in his office chair as McGuinness left Crespi’s room, still nodding. He’d figured on something like this from the good doctor—in fact, he would’ve been surprised if Crespi or one of his underlings hadn’t done a bit of digging. The question was, how to use it? It was moot at this point, not enough had happened to worry about trump cards… but all information was useful, and he filed it away under things t
o remember.

  A secret, to be sure; Church wouldn’t tell a soul.

  10

  Church closed his eyes and remembered.

  So many secrets…

  There had been nine on board when they’d set down, ten if he included Judith—and he had to include her, synth or no. He’d lost his virginity to Judith, and had loved her deeply, if blindly, since he’d been about twelve. She was there primarily to keep the small crew sexually satisfied, but had also been programmed as a botanist; she tended the small garden on board the Incunabulum, their ship, and usually prepared their meals.

  Jason and Lucian Church, his parents. The crew, three men: Taylor, Hewett, and Johanson. They did most of the heavy work. And for that last, happy month, three more—Quentin and Louise Clark, both scientists, and their daughter, Rebecca. Rebecca had been beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than Judith, who could never change, never grow older—never return Paul’s infatuation. Rebecca was only two years older than Paul, and seemed almost as interested in him as he was in her; almost was close enough for him to dream about her…

  So there had been ten of them, on their blissfully ignorant way to RLW 1289, a large settlement on a recently colonized planet where they would drop off the Clarks and then continue onward. Church’s parents were terraformers, “doing God’s work,” they used to say, then laugh, gazing at their young son and each other with fondness and affection.

  Only one stop before RLW 1289, a routine data pickup, a time box from a small moon that had been terraformed fifteen years before. Paul had looked forward to the stop, had hoped that perhaps he and Rebecca could slip away, walk together through the man-made Eden and share some of their secrets with each other. Paul wanted to be a scientist, had even gotten a small grant from the government at the age of nineteen, for immunization research. His parents had been so proud! And he so full of youth, of ideals and questions and the desire to be loved…

  And God help them, they’d set down.

  * * *

  Lucian Church couldn’t seem to stop frowning. “Do you think it’s safe?”

  Paul’s father shrugged easily, but he sounded a bit tense. “I’m sure it’s nothing. And if they’re not supposed to be there, we can lift off again, okay?” He smiled reassuringly at her before turning back to the controls.

  “Everybody hold on, we’re going in.”

  The Incunabulum swept down through the clear and set down near the Genesis station, only a few hundred meters from the strange ship. Jason Church was a superlative pilot, only the barest jolt as the landers touched the ground.

  Paul and the others unbuckled their harnesses, stood, and stretched. Rebecca smiled nervously at Paul and he returned it, trying to look calmer than he felt. Terraformed worlds were off-limits to general travel, and he shared his parents’ concern; there wasn’t supposed to be anyone here, and yet the sensors had picked up a ship—a ship that hadn’t responded to their hail.

  Paul heard Rebecca’s mother whisper anxiously to her husband. “Smugglers?”

  The scientist shook his head. “I don’t know, love. I hope not.”

  Paul’s father walked to the door and then smiled tightly at them. “Judith, why don’t you and I go see what there is to see? The rest of you, just hold tight, we’ll be right back—”

  Lucian Church frowned again, but nodded, and Paul felt somewhat relieved; Judith was as strong as any of the three crewmen but with better reflexes, designed not to let any bodily harm come to her human shipmates. If any harm was to be had.

  The two left the ship, the door sealing behind them. Paul and the others crowded up to the console to watch on the small viewing screen.

  It was hard to imagine anything bad happening in such a beautiful place. Paul had seen over a dozen planets and moons just like it, but each time he was struck by the sight—a new world, untainted by humanity. The Genesis programs were truly amazing, and his parents were good at what they did—each project created an untamed wilderness, green and bursting with life.

  Judith and Paul’s father reached the strange ship, a basic low-grade class-nine jumper. The ramp was down, and Judith went in first; after a moment, Jason followed.

  After only a few seconds, they reappeared, Paul’s father making exaggerated shrugging motions toward the Incunabulum. The group sighed collectively, and Paul felt Rebecca’s hand catch his own and squeeze it lightly before letting it go. He felt a sudden flush of warmth for her, as well as a slight stirring in his groin.

  Jesus, Paul, grow up! He grinned at her and hoped he wasn’t blushing. Almost twenty-one and responding like a virgin. True, she was the first girl he’d really spent any time with since puberty (well, not including Judith), but still…

  His father was waving for them to come down, and Paul felt his heart leap in his chest; he loved their life, their travels and all that, but to set his feet on the ground again—there was nothing like it, nothing at all. They usually stopped for an hour or two, spent some time just lounging around outside, breathing real air, the only human beings on an entire world—

  Well, maybe not this time. Where were the pilots of the other ship? Weird.

  Josh Hewett, the oldest of the three crewmen, broke out their small weapons cache and distributed the half-dozen stun-wands among them. Paul tucked his in one of his vest pockets, vaguely excited at the prospect of trouble. There wouldn’t be any, of course, there never was, so he allowed himself the fantasy of taking out bad guys, saving Rebecca from a fate worse than death—

  “Sweetheart, are you coming?” His mother stood at the door, smiling gently at her son. God, she was actually beaming, and Rebecca was watching, a smug little smile on her own dark, pretty face. That smile was too much, it just screamed, aw, isn’t that cute.

  Sheeit. Paul nodded, tried to look like the scientist he was in spite of the fact that he suddenly felt about nine years old.

  “Uh, yeah, I just wanted to grab some juice. I’ll be right down.”

  His mother nodded, then walked down the ramp, Rebecca behind her. Paul rolled his eyes, then went to the cooler.

  Just him left on board, except for Taylor. The crewman was digging through his pack, probably looking for one of his stinky cigars. He smirked over at Paul.

  “Got a little girlfriend, Paul?”

  Paul scowled. “Shut up, dickhead. At least I wouldn’t have to share.”

  Taylor smiled innocently. “Hey, Judy don’t mind. And who says Rebecca wouldn’t share? Who says she hasn’t already?”

  Paul tried to look angry, but he couldn’t pull it off. He laughed, and after a second Taylor joined in.

  Paul grabbed a juice bulb and walked out onto the ramp. It was a gorgeous day, perhaps midafternoon on this one’s cycle. The air was cool and crisp, with just the faintest undertone of—

  Paul frowned, sniffed. Decay? That was unusual after only fifteen years—maybe a storm had killed something recently, though it didn’t smell like plant matter exactly…

  “Hey, you want to move or do I knock you off?”

  Taylor stood behind him, an unlit cigar in his grinning teeth.

  “Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, then hurried down the ramp, suddenly not in the mood for banter and not certain why. He walked quickly to meet the others, who stood gathered near the station, by the box holder.

  He’d read about Eden in the history modules, the garden that the original man and woman had supposedly been ejected from—and surely the writers had imagined a place as beautiful as this as they had penned those words. Lush with bounty, as pure and fresh as a new thought—it was the stuff of waking dreams, those light, sweet fantasies just before consciousness reared. It was Eden, or as close as humanity could ever come—

  Beware the serpent…

  Paul grinned at his own pessimism; a downside to every perfection, of course. His father had entered the code for the release and was chatting with the Clarks when Paul caught up.

  “—not a clue. Looks like the ship’s been deserted for at least a
couple of years, by the dust. Plenty of supplies, too.”

  Louise Clark had her arms crossed tightly. She looked nervous.

  “Maybe some sort of sickness, the crew got sick and died here. Do you smell something? I noticed it when we got off, like mold of some kind, organic. But perhaps—human?”

  I noticed it, too,” said Paul. “It does seem different.”

  Jason Church removed the slim box from the holder and then nodded. “All right. We’ve got what we came for—we’d better just leave, contact the Company when we get back in range, and tell them about it; it’s not our job to check this out.”

  He smiled at Paul and then raised his voice for the others to hear. “No picnic today, folks! Sorry!”

  A few good-natured groans from the scattered crewmen, but Paul felt something in his chest loosen: good. That ship and that weird odor had put a damper on things. He and Rebecca would just have to—

  He heard something then that froze his thoughts, froze everyone around him into tense silence.

  Chittering. An animal sound, definitely not human—and like no animal he’d ever heard.

  But there aren’t any animals—

  Now a sound like metal on metal, but not mechanical. Alive.

  “What the—” Taylor, behind him.

  A flash of movement from behind the Genesis station, dark and incredibly fast. First one, then another—then a dozen, darting into view faster than his stunned mind could count.

  Rebecca screamed, pointed, but they could all see.

  Alien drones. Paul had heard of them, they all had.

  Johanson pulled his wand, but it would be useless if the stories held any merit whatsoever.

  Paul spun, looked back at the ship, suddenly too far away. Three or four of the dark, twisted shapes capered and crouched around it.

  He turned back, this time as Quentin Clark screamed out his wife’s name. One of the impossibly formed creatures had dropped down, grabbed Louise Clark, and held her pinned with its spiny arms.

  Paul heard the blast of a stun-wand, then another, and only the angry, high-pitched squeals of the unharmed drones in response.