The Complete Aliens Omnibus, Volume 3

by Sandy Schofield

  As if on cue, the aliens shrieked en masse and leapt forward to take the others, their horrible, ridged tails whipping behind them.

  Paul cried out, turned to run—

  —and dark, cold arms snared him, forced his struggling limbs to his sides.

  They were doomed, all of them, only brutal, terrifying death to come, their bodies ripped to bloody pieces by the alien monster…

  * * *

  Church opened his eyes.

  If only we had been so fortunate.

  11

  They had cleaned up Mortenson as best they could, but even the plastiskin patch that covered most of his face couldn’t hide the brutal truth—that the lower half of the man’s head was gone, and (Crespi thought uneasily) resting in the bowels of a kenneled drone.

  Well, at least the bag is mostly zipped.

  Mortenson’s corpse lay on a gurney in front of the small assembled group, the body bag fastened all the way up to a technician’s facsimile of his nose. Not many had chosen to attend the funeral, and Crespi was starting to wish that he’d opted out as well; even patched up, the lieutenant was a mess.

  Crespi was exhausted already, and it was only 0900; he had slept for shit the night before, even though he’d turned in reasonably early. Church had buzzed him shortly after McGuinness had left his quarters and canceled their meeting in the lab, saying that the investigation report for Thaves was going to keep him up late. Crespi had choked down dinner and gone to bed, where he’d been haunted by Mortenson’s dying face all night long, the dreams tinted a wet shade of crimson.

  If Church had been up late, it didn’t show. He stood next to the gurney, his head bowed, but his shoulders were straight and his eyes clear.

  McGuinness walked in and joined the few other technicians grouped loosely around the room. If any of them had been close to Mortenson, he couldn’t tell. The atmosphere in the chill storage bay was subdued, but there were no tears, no expressions of sadness.

  Apparently the station had no spiritual adviser, and Crespi didn’t think the admiral would want to speak, so he wasn’t particularly surprised when Church cleared his throat and began.

  “I, uh, can’t say that I knew Lieutenant Mortenson well, and in all honesty, that I really wanted to. I think anyone would agree that we were very unlike one another.”

  Church reached down, placed one hand against the dead man’s waxen forehead. “It’s been said that there is more difference between two men than between two animals of different species. I believe that, but I feel that Mortenson and I shared something that made us brothers—our humanity.”

  Church moved his hand down to the bag’s zipper and pulled up, the sound of the plastic teeth loud in the silent room. “If we had ever compared our life stories,” he continued, “I’m sure that we would have found much in common. We each experienced the strange ignorance of childhood, the difficulties of young manhood, the sacred achings that came with first love—”

  Church looked down at the covered corpse somberly. “Now everything that was a man in him is at an end. No more satisfaction, no more joy—but also no more frustration. or fear.

  “We consign his remains to the void. There is nothing more to be said, except—good-bye.”

  Somebody coughed. Church bowed his head again for a few seconds and then looked over at one of the two medical noncoms who stood nearby.

  “Take the body to the discharge bay.”

  Crespi frowned. Not much of a farewell. Already the small crowd was dispersing.

  God, I hope I get better than that.

  Admiral Thaves stepped forward, held up one hand. “Just a minute. Colonel Doctor Church, Mortenson signed an organ donor release. You might want to keep the body—”

  Church shook his head. “That’s unnecessary, Admiral. Protocol dictates that any man killed—”

  Thaves cut him off, pointing one meaty finger at Church. “Don’t you dare recite the damn rule book to me!”

  Church didn’t flinch. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Crespi watched, curious to see if Thaves would back down, although he already knew the answer.

  Not if, but how.

  The admiral scowled for a moment, then waved his hand dismissively. “It’s your call, Church. I just thought the dumb, dead bastard might be of some use; God knows it’s about time he was.”

  Church spoke softly. “I respectfully submit that burial in space with military honors is appropriate.”

  Thaves was already walking away, grumbling under his breath. “Fine, fine, shoot his ass full of diamonds while you’re at it…”

  Church turned back to the medicals and nodded. “Bring him to the discharge tube. I’ll jettison him myself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Church turned, caught sight of Crespi, and nodded.

  “Nice of you to attend, Doctor.”

  Crespi stood uncomfortably, not sure of what to say. “It seemed appropriate.”

  Church watched him, as if waiting for something else.

  “Well,” he said. “That was quite a speech.”

  “Oh, you think so?” Church smiled, just the barest quiver at the corners of his mouth—and yet his eyes were bright, full of mirth. He looked as if he were laughing inside, which made Crespi feel even more uncomfortable.

  Well, death often inspired some strange reactions. Crespi smiled back tiredly, trying to put the older man at ease. Church was probably dealing with a lot of guilt, and he surely hadn’t slept well either…

  Church glanced at his watch. “It will be a few hours before we can meet up at the lab, get back to work. Why don’t you go have yourself some R and R?”

  “Thanks. I wanted to try out the gym, actually. Why don’t you buzz me when you’re ready?”

  “Fine.”

  Crespi was walking out of the bay when McGuinness caught up to him.

  “Colonel Doctor Crespi, before you go, I wonder if I could have a word with you… about new assignments?”

  Crespi nodded. My, how subtle. “Certainly, McGuinness.”

  As they walked out together, Crespi looked back to see Church smiling after the two of them, eyes still shining. Terrific; he probably figured they were going off to get laid, nice impression. Not that McGuinness wasn’t bright and attractive, she was, but—

  Quite attractive, actually; sure you want to hit the gym…?

  Crespi smiled to himself as they walked down the corridor, heading back up to main levels, but it faded quickly. A man had died, and someone on board the Innominata knew why; he needed McGuinness to find out who it was, and that was all.

  Right.

  * * *

  McGuinness led Crespi into the station’s main mess hall, which was mostly deserted at this hour. Perhaps a dozen or so people milled around, techs and grunts for the most part, the air thick with the scents of processed foods and instant coffee.

  She motioned toward the viewing window against the far wall, at the endless night outside.

  “We can talk in private over there,” she said softly.

  Crespi nodded curtly and followed.

  In spite of her resolve, her palms were damp and her heart thumped heavily in her chest. The shit she’d dug up was deep indeed, and Crespi needed to know it ASAP—

  But he needs to know the rest, too.

  She sighed and looked out the window, suddenly reluctant to share the secret she’d kept for so long. This was her life now, her only life, and the only therapy that she had—the thing that had gotten her moving when she’d been in too much pain to move for herself.

  When she’d signed up to come to the station, she’d known that eventually it would have to come out—and probably to Crespi, since he was the one chosen to dig into the Innominata’s shadows by the Corps. She trusted his integrity as an officer, but her own reasons probably had very little to do with his… and he could decide to turn her out of the loop based on the differences.

  Crespi waited.

  She took a deep breath, tried to mee
t his gaze, and found that she couldn’t.

  “I’ve found out some disturbing things, sir, but before I tell you, I have to come clean.”

  Crespi frowned, kept his voice low. “Go on.”

  “On the transport ship, you asked why I volunteered for this assignment. I didn’t tell you, but there was a reason. The man you were sent here to replace, David Lennox, he was my… fiancé, I guess you could say.”

  She kept her gaze on the floor now, not wanting to see Crespi’s face. “We met five years ago, two years before he was sent here, to be Church’s research assistant. He tried repeatedly to have himself transferred, but could never get the orders…”

  She trailed off, then untabbed her shoulder pocket and took out the still photo that she carried, of her and David years before. She handed it over to Crespi, knowing what he’d see there—a handsome young officer, grinning a goofy grin, his arm around a much happier Sharon McGuinness. There were no lines of pain or sorrow on the girl’s face, no shadow in the eyes that she looked at now in the mirror and hardly recognized as her own.

  Crespi studied the picture, his features tightening into a scowl.

  She hurried on. “He tried to send me a coded message, but it arrived scrambled. Then I was told that he had died of a heart attack—here, on this station. Shortly after, my apartment was burglarized and everything he’d ever sent to me was taken, even—”

  She faltered, but went on. “—even love letters. I want—no, I need to know what happened here. I need to.”

  It was out, all of it, and in spite of the pain it brought up, she suddenly felt relieved. She’d been carrying it for too long by herself, and obsession or no, Crespi would have to understand—what it was like to be in the dark, and how important it was to take action, to find the truth no matter the cost.

  Crespi stared at her for a long moment. She waited, calmer than she would have thought possible; David would have been proud of her…

  “Lennox was stupid to send you coded information,” he said, his voice low and angry. “And you’re supremely stupid to be here on your own little fact-finding mission.”

  She felt stunned. Five minutes before, she had expected a response like that, felt resigned to it. But damnit, hadn’t he heard a word she’d said? Her motives weren’t based on nothing; who the hell did he think he was, judging her motives while asking her to dig for him? Anger flashed, hot and quick, and she had to struggle to keep from shouting.

  “I’ve done a little fact-finding for you, don’t forget! Are you interested in what I found out, or would you rather stay there on your throne and wait for your friend God to drop it in your lap?”

  Crespi held up his hands, his cheeks flushed. “Easy, keep your voice down.”

  She glanced around the cafeteria, felt her anger dwindle as quickly as it had come. No one was watching, or had even looked up.

  Crespi dropped his hands and then looked away from her, out into the void. “I—sorry, Lieutenant. What did you find?”

  She brushed her hair away from her face and after a moment nodded. “All right. First of all, I couldn’t trace the station order that released that drone. There’s a coded master record, but I don’t know if I can crack it, it’s real dirty.

  “Second, all the crew members’ medical records have been altered. No telling why ’til I bust that code.”

  Crespi frowned, leaned closer. “Do you have a number for crew fatalities?”

  McGuinness nodded. “Hold on to your hat. Thirty-four in the last three years.”

  Crespi’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible!”

  “Don’t I wish.”

  “Eleven a year? And only one shuttle here and back a year? How? I mean, where are the replacements coming from?”

  McGuinness crossed her arms, her manner conversational. “Maybe they’re coming in on the three unscheduled shuttles that have been arriving each year for the past five years. It’s all in the station mainline. Whatever’s been going on here has support from high up.”

  Crespi’s shock was somehow deeply gratifying.

  “Son of a prick,” he whispered.

  “Do you want me to continue, in my supremely stupid way, to try to get into the master record? Sir?”

  Crespi seemed to mentally shake himself, return his attention back to her. “McGuinness, I apologize for that. Yes, by all means continue.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He nodded, seemed to hear her own apology in her softened tone. “I don’t need to tell you to be damn careful when you’re looking. But if you’re caught, I’ll back you.”

  She let out a deep breath, suddenly grateful to this man for more than she could admit, even to herself. She hadn’t realized how great a burden it had been, or how great her fear of being left out of the solution; David hadn’t had any family, only her…

  A drifting movement outside, far below the window. McGuinness peered down, made out the shape of—

  “Oh!”

  It was a body bag.

  “Mortenson,” she whispered, and Crespi followed her gaze out into the darkness.

  For a moment they stood, watched the lone shape as it gently floated out beyond the station’s light into its cold, airless tomb.

  “Don’t get caught, McGuinness,” said Crespi, and then turned and walked out before she could think of anything to say.

  12

  Crespi took a deep breath, held it, and pushed the handles of the press machine up slowly. His arms trembled; sweat ran in rivulets down and across his neck. Final rep, second set, and he could feel the strain across his shoulders and back, the low, spreading ache that meant he was doing good—

  He exhaled and brought the weight down, forcing the air out gradually between clenched teeth.

  “Ten,” he rasped, and released the handles. Not bad, considering. The stimulators in the sleep chambers were adequate, but some atrophy was inevitable—though he was almost back to pressing his own body weight, closer than he could’ve hoped so soon after the deep sleep.

  He lay there for a moment, catching his breath, and thought about what McGuinness had told him. Thirty-four crew members dead. How many had been connected to Church’s research? He’d said none, but had they all died of heart attacks? Impossible.

  No, Church was holding back and it looked like Thaves had to be involved; there was no way that that many could be kept a secret.

  And why not? You wouldn’t have known without McGuinness’s prying—and it’s still a secret to the brass back home…

  Was it? Crespi considered and rejected the idea in a few seconds. Conspiracy theories were fine for fiction, but this was real life. Besides, if the Corps were in on it, they wouldn’t bother running their tests way the hell out here, or with civilian techs; they’d keep it closer to home, and with their own people.

  Church. He was decidedly eccentric, but was he so flat-out nuts that he would kill human beings for the sake of his research? He was working on telepathic communication between man and alien in order to save people. And what the hell would he do with a slew of corpses anyway?

  Then there was Mortenson. It seemed probable that he had been murdered—but why? Had he stumbled across something he shouldn’t have?

  Crespi sighed deeply and ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Too many questions, and the only answers didn’t make much sense.

  Unless…

  Sharon McGuinness. Her story about David Lennox rang true, and it was a reasonable motive to dig—but he only had her word that any of this was going on. Her word and an old snapshot that showed her standing with a colonel doctor, who she claimed was Church’s old assistant …

  He rejected that one, too. His gut instinct was that she was one of the good guys on this, and her angry outburst back in mess cinched it for him; he would’ve done the same thing if his lover had died under such mysterious circumstances, damn the consequences. And he also would have mouthed off to anyone who berated him for it.

  So what was happening aboard the
Innominata? There were too many pieces missing to even hazard a guess, but what he had so far didn’t smell too good. In fact, it stank out loud.

  He sat up and reached for a towel, glancing at the clock set into the wall. It was a decent gym, he’d sweated plenty. He was ready for a shower, maybe a bite, and then he’d meet with Church, maybe feel him out about Mortenson’s death. He didn’t want the doctor to know what he had so far, the rest of it, but a little scoping might yield something useful…

  Outside in the corridor, a woman screamed in terror.

  Crespi jumped up from the bench and snatched his gym bag as the cry was joined by others.

  “Run! Get away!”

  “Oh, my God—”

  Where, where is it—Crespi dug through the bag frantically, past toiletries and clothing. His hand wrapped around the machine pistol and then he was running, out into the passageway.

  “Get it away. Oh, God, keep it back!”

  Crespi charged into the hall, aimed at the center of the commotion, heart pounding—

  And froze. It was Paul Church, smiling. Holding a leash.

  With an alien drone at the other end.

  * * *

  Church sang to the little drone as they walked down the level B corridor, a song he only half remembered from his youth. Mostly he hummed, throwing in the few words he recalled when they seemed appropriate.

  “Hey, day, diddley ummm, the cat and spoon… mm-mm, dog eats moon…”

  The creature scrabbled frantically for purchase at the slick floor, its cries muffled by the metal harness’s bit. Church gripped the extended and insulated handle in one hand, the “discipline” cord in the other. Each time the drone veered away from him, Church tapped the cord’s switch, delivering a heavy electric jolt through the contraption.

  It worked perfectly; the metal casing enveloped both the shoulders of the writhing drone and ran down the length of its spine, forcing it into a four-legged walk. A welded rod extended from each shoulder and met in front of the jaws, where it curved inward to effectively muzzle the beast. Of course, there was a slight drooling problem, but some things couldn’t be helped. They’d certainly be easy to track, though…