The Complete Aliens Omnibus, Volume 3

by Sandy Schofield

  “Just follow the puddles, eh, Trix?”

  He called over his shoulder to Blackman, who followed along from a distance. “Don’t slip! Our doggie seems to be quite—salivous this morning!”

  The drone tried another lunge forward and Church shocked it, frowning. “Bad! No!”

  The voltage wasn’t as high as he’d installed in the kennels, certainly—taking the beast for a drag was not what he’d had in mind. No, it was a—a love tap, just a hint of debilitating pain, enough to keep little Trixie on its toes, so to speak.

  They passed a few people in the corridor, most of whom grew pale and disappeared quickly in spite of Church’s reassuring demeanor. He wasn’t surprised, really, though it was regretful; drones could be quite nasty, given the correct circumstances.

  But not today, Trixie. You’re mine today.

  The sense of power was amazing, and Church felt almost high with it. It was his first attempt at harnessing one of the creatures, forcing it to his will while still being close enough to smell its acrid, musky scent. There was no question of who was in control, none whatsoever, although the few passing faces seemed to think differently.

  Let them think what they will. In the end, I still hold the reins and you’re still crawling in front of me.

  They turned the corner and headed down corridor 5, where the station’s small exercise room was. Crespi had mentioned a workout; perhaps he’d still be there, would see what Church was doing, and would forget all that sub rosa silliness with the McGuinness woman. How could a man, a scientist no less, care about piddling secrets when the power of the beast was right in front of him?

  “Hey little blue, there in the corn… mm-mm… better hide your laugh and dog eats moon…”

  There was a woman tech midway down the passage, kneeling at a control panel set into the floor. Church gently steered the drone to the other side of the hall so as not to upset her, but they were only a few meters away before she happened to look up.

  And screamed to wake the dead.

  A few others farther along the corridor turned and saw the situation—then added to the false alarm by adding their own panicked voices.

  Church cringed. Couldn’t they see, were their eyes shadowed so heavily by their own prejudice?

  The silly, screaming woman had backed herself against the wall and now pleaded for Church to take it away. He sighed heavily.

  “Don’t be afraid of Trixie, ma’am, he won’t bite—”

  She didn’t seem to hear him, too caught in her own hysterical drama, lost in the sound of her own high-pitched complaints.

  A burst of movement ahead, and his drone strained at the leash; someone had run into the hall, pointed a weapon at them.

  Church grinned. Crespi, of course, all pumped up and drenched in a manly sweat. The look on the poor man’s face was priceless.

  He lowered his weapon and his words carried clearly to Church’s ears.

  “What the fuck—”

  The drone suddenly lunged again, no doubt agitated by Crespi’s offensive stance. Church zapped it, felt that small burst of pleasure as the creature writhed, its cries strangled and weak beneath the muzzle.

  “Bad,” he said again.

  Crespi’s stunned silence didn’t last. He moved closer to Church (though not too close), and practically shouted in anger.

  “What in the holy hell are you doing?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? “Just taking Trixie for a walk,” he said, but he could see already that the humor in the situation wasn’t reaching Crespi.

  Crespi’s face contorted into a snarl of rage. “A—a walk?! I should arrest you on the spot!”

  Church frowned. “Arrest me? What for?”

  “What for? How about improper handling of contraband life forms, reckless endangerment, felony jeopardization? Conduct unbecoming to an officer? How about criminal insanity?!”

  Church was taken aback. “I—was trying to make a point,” he began, but Crespi cut him off.

  “What in the name of Buddha could that be?”

  Church suddenly felt a bit angry. “That I have these creatures completely under my control,” he said coolly. “That they offer no threat.”

  Crespi still looked furious. “Tell that to Mortenson.”

  God, did Mortenson die just so it could be thrown in Church’s face? “He was a fool who got himself killed by being where he had no business being.”

  Church turned around, found Blackman standing with a few other watchers. “Blackman, prepare the holding cell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He wheeled the drone around and started back to the kennel, the crew members scattering from the alien’s path.

  Crespi obviously had no imagination and no appreciation for the simple, pleasurable benefits of his research; that would have to change if they were going to be working together, but would he ever overcome his tendency toward emotional reaction?

  “Looks like we’ll have to teach him a few things,” he whispered, but the alien paid no mind. It drooled and lunged, its talons scratching grooves into the worn passage floor beneath it.

  Church sighed and depressed the buzzer again.

  13

  McGuinness came to his room late that night. Crespi was already in bed and half asleep.

  “Come in,” he said. Maybe she had some more information, a key to the strangeness of this place.

  “Sorry to come by this late, but I wanted to talk to you about some things.”

  He sat up, turned on the small light by his bed. He usually slept in his boxers, so his chest was exposed. He started to reach for an undershirt, but she shook her head.

  She sat down next to him and smiled, somewhat shyly. Her hair was down and looked thick and dark, beautiful. It surrounded her face, framed the sweet smile and clear, unlined skin.

  He suddenly found it hard to talk; his throat was dry. “Lieutenant—”

  “Sharon, please.”

  “Um. Sharon. Was there something in particular? That you wanted to, uh, discuss?”

  She kept her gaze on his, and her tone was light—but as she spoke, her hands went to the front of her shirt and she began to untab it, exposing creamy skin.

  “No, not really. I just wanted to know if we understood each other earlier, about why I’m here and why you’re here. I loved David, but David’s gone now, and I haven’t been made love to in a long time. Will you? Make love to me?”

  Crespi was literally speechless. He reached out, perhaps just to touch her hair, and she took his hand in both of hers and placed it gently on one breast. He groaned at the feel of it, the rounded weight of her flesh, and felt himself get hard beneath the blankets.

  She leaned over and across him and turned out the light. The room was pitch-black, her breath warm across his lips.

  They kissed, a long, wet moment, and then she pulled away. He could hear the sound of clothes being dropped to the floor, the faint hiss of her breath.

  Hiss.

  “Sharon?” The sound frightened him, so familiar—

  The hissing grew louder, deeper. Not her voice at all, but another, furious, suddenly raising up to a high-pitched shriek of piercing intensity. Crespi reached his hand outward, forward—

  And felt the cold, hard shell, the spindly blackness of the creature’s arm.

  “Colonel Doctor Crespi,” it croaked—

  He sat up in the dark, choking back a scream.

  “Colonel Doctor Crespi?”

  The com. Church. On the intercom.

  Dream, a dream, thank God—His gun was in his right hand, the metal barely warm from his body heat. He’d fallen asleep holding it.

  —the creature’s arm—

  Crespi fumbled quickly for the light as Church spoke again.

  “Colonel Doctor—”

  “Yeah. Church?” His head was fuzzy, the last terrible image from the dream still clear. He set the weapon aside, not wanting to touch it anymore.

  “Yes, it’s Church. Sorry to disturb you—b
ut the alien is dying. I thought you might want to be on hand.”

  Crespi nodded. “Oh… yes, I would. I’ll be right there.”

  The com went dead.

  Crespi got out of bed and started to get dressed, glancing blearily at the clock. He’d been asleep for less than an hour, but it was just as well that Church had called; he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep for quite some time.

  * * *

  Five minutes later he stood in front of the lab, yawning. His eyes felt gritty and his muscles ached from his earlier workout, but he felt surprisingly alert, all things considered.

  The two guards waved him through with no hassle, the mandatory bioscan accompanied by friendly nods; Church must have told them that he was expected.

  Crespi stepped onto the viewing ramp, saw Church at the far end, his arms resting on the railing. The doctor didn’t turn as Crespi walked out to meet him.

  The drone lay on the floor of the enclosure in a pool of green-tinted saliva, not moving. It was curled into a fetal position and was so still that for a moment Crespi thought it was already dead.

  The alien opened its jaws then and its inner set of mandibles slowly inched out, rested finally on the cold floor.

  “What’s it dying of?”

  Church sounded tired. “Who knows? Too long away from the hive, too long away from the queen. Discouragement. Old age. In captivity they just die, as I told you. They just die.”

  Absurdly, Crespi felt an urge to comfort the aging doctor; he seemed depressed at the drone’s imminent decease, almost despondent.

  “Look at it, Crespi. Does your heart know this monster? Do you see the desperate fear of your fathers in its blind destroyer’s head?”

  Crespi didn’t know what to say. Church’s voice had taken on a musing tone, as if he were speaking his thoughts as they occurred.

  “When men first looked into the outer void, into space, they looked into the soul of this soulless creature. When men kill each other, and hurt their children, and close their eyes so that good will not distract them, they are worshipping this creature.”

  Crespi studied the unmoving drone, his tired mind struggling to hold on to his hatred of the thing—but it looked pathetic, huddled on the floor like a giant, squashed bug, dying slowly in a puddle of its own drool.

  Church continued in that low, thoughtful tone. “In their hearts, all men would like to be like this creature—hideously strong, unchained by conscience, charged by the black heart of the cosmos to go forth and annihilate…”

  Church bowed his head. “Good-bye, you dark thing.” His voice was now only a whisper.

  Crespi still couldn’t think of anything to say. Church seemed honestly upset, a far cry from his somewhat indifferent manner over the death of Mortenson. That Church admired the alien breed was undeniable, if perhaps a bit odd; yesterday he had neatly sidestepped the question, but Crespi now wondered about Church’s previous experience with the creatures; why would he choose to work with them?

  Why would you, Crespi?

  He frowned. To change things for the better, to enlighten—

  Oh, really? And your conscience has nothing to do with it?

  He couldn’t answer that.

  A suited lab technician called up from the main floor. “It’s a flatliner, sir.”

  Church seemed to snap out of his trance. “Thank you, Stockdale. Have the body brought to B lab, please.”

  Crespi found his voice. “Now what?”

  Church met his gaze finally. “Now comes the dissection.”

  He turned and walked back down the ramp, and Crespi followed, trying to convince himself that it was just his imagination, just the light—Church’s eyes couldn’t have been brimming with unshed tears.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Church stood in front of the drone’s body and waited for Crespi to finish suiting up and join him. Stockdale waited by the instrument tray nearby, his face hidden by the mask filter and the protective goggles that Church also wore.

  The lab was small, the computer system only adequate, but it had the cleanest light on board the station, as well as the only alloyed equipment tables. The brightness somehow diminished the creature that lay before him, stole away its very dark essence—but then, death had surely taken its own toll…

  He sighed, looking down at the corpse. His moment of melancholy was past, the drone was dead and now there was work to be done—but watching them falter always gave him pause. That such a magnificent machine should will itself to die… it seemed so unnecessary. Sad.

  Crespi walked into the lab, suited and ready. Church started explaining as soon as he reached the table.

  “Its body acids have been drained and replaced with neutralizing agent. Still, we never know what we might run into; a little pocket of hot juice, a spurting gland.”

  He glanced at Crespi. The acid-resistant coverall fit him well. “I hope this protective gear isn’t too cumbersome.”

  Crespi’s eyes indicated a smile. “On the contrary, it’s amazingly unconfining. Your own design?”

  Church smoothed his own dark green suit, pleased. “Yes. The well-known mother of invention was my muse. Stockdale, hand me the Bretz saw, please.”

  “Yessir.”

  Crespi leaned closer as Church turned the nearly silent cutter on and began to edge it through the creature’s skull. He ran the saw up the right side of the thick cranium and back down, cutting a piece as wide as his hand and slightly over half a meter long.

  “Ever seen inside one of these, Crespi?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Only freshly blasted.”

  Church grinned as he turned the Bretz off and pried at the cut piece. “How very gung-ho of you.”

  He placed the strip aside and Crespi leaned in. Church pointed at a small, somewhat shriveled kidney-shaped organ near the front of the cavity, swimming in a spongy, gray-green swamp of chemicals.

  “This organ is what interests me most.”

  Crespi frowned. “What is it?”

  Church smiled. Bait, Crespi! Let’s see if it’s tasty, shall we?

  “The surface is lined with compound cells of Fullerite-encased Hurlantium. The internal structure is solid neurons in two binary fans, very, very dense.”

  Crespi nodded, eyes sharpening, motioning for Church to go on.

  “I think it’s the alien ‘psychic receiver’, so to speak. The Fullerite and Hurlantium pick up E-waves and the fans create interference patterns from electromagnetic fields.”

  Crespi was finally showing interest. “So it would not only receive brain waves, but enable the alien to assess physical characteristics by seeing its—subtle body.”

  Church smiled again. Not bad, not bad at all. “Exactly. That’s why strong EM fields affect them so greatly. I imagine it gives them the equivalent of… an ice-cream headache.”

  Crespi seemed almost excited. “I’ll remember that.”

  Church pointed to the organ again. “Now, you can see that this thing has withered. In healthy specimens, it’s more bulbous, fills the cavity tightly. But in a languishing captive, it atrophies.”

  Crespi pounced. “Which would explain why the crewman under the influence of the telepathine was able to affect the drone’s behavior!”

  “Exactly. Stockdale, the Linnel?”

  Church used the small, diamond-edged scalpel to slice through the sinewy gray strands that held the organ in place. He placed it in an alloyed pan and set in on one of the chest-level trays nearby.

  Crespi switched on one of the small, intense spotlights above the tray and studied it closely. Church waited.

  Come on, Crespi, it’s right in front of you!

  “If your surmisal is correct, this—receiver is where the crewman tuned in…”

  Crespi stiffened, looked at Church with wide eyes.

  By Jove, I think he’s got it!

  “Wait! Fullerite and Hurlantium can be synthesized!”

  Church tried not to sound as patronizing as he suddenly f
elt. “It seems so obvious, doesn’t it?”

  Crespi was practically leaping with enthusiasm. “Have you tried to reconstruct it in a cold tank? Or computer model?”

  “Not yet. The molecular structure is too complicated to be duplicated through traditional gelidification.”

  “What about the computer model?”

  Church shook his head. “So far, I don’t have sufficient structural data.”

  “Well, let’s get it and build one of these things!”

  Ah, the magic word! Crespi was hooked, no question, nothing left but to reel him in.

  “‘Let’s’? Does that mean you no longer consider this an illegal operation, Colonel Doctor?”

  Crespi didn’t hesitate. “It means I consider this research too important not to receive full attention.”

  Church smiled, glad that his mask kept Crespi from seeing it.

  “Well, let’s get back to work, then. And prepare yourself for a long haul, this may take hours.”

  He went back to the table, pointing out various organs and structures in the alien’s body, labeling them for Crespi’s grasping mind as the morning hours stretched on.

  Crespi was as good as caught, cooked, and eaten. With a little luck, he’d have no more trouble from this man.

  And perhaps, just perhaps… you’ve found the assistant you’ve been waiting for.

  * * *

  McGuinness sat in front of her computer screen and watched the bizarre autopsy, hoping that no late-night hackers were checking out the surveillance system. She’d crossed and redirected the image several times, but a good compweaver wouldn’t have too much trouble tracing it—if they were looking for something specific, anyway.

  She yawned, glanced absently at the small personal she borrowed from storage, still running its numbers against the ones she’d plugged in from the mainline. It bleated occasionally from its spot next to her cup of cold coffee, the soft tone of systems running through its tiny chip mind.

  She looked back at the green-suited figures on the monitor. The voyeuristic feeling was a bit unnerving, but she meant to keep track of Church if she could. Crespi, too, for that matter. He seemed a little too excited by the alien dissection; could mean a loss of objectivity, and she didn’t want to be the only one watching.