The Complete Aliens Omnibus, Volume 3

by Sandy Schofield

  Oh, no…

  It had been a long time, but he knew that smell. Crespi froze, no sudden movements, but his brain screamed frantically, Run, run, get the fuck out—

  A string of warmth fell from above, splattered delicately on one shoulder. He looked up slowly, his nuts crawling into his body, his heart suddenly in the pit of his stomach.

  The drone above him shrieked. And jumped.

  16

  Crespi fell back, praying that it wouldn’t land on top of him. He managed to stay on his feet and the drone dropped nimbly into a crouch, hardly a meter in front of him, teeth bared.

  Hissing, it rose up, raised one massive, gleaming claw. Lightning fast, it backhanded Crespi, hurled him backward and into the wall of plexiglass.

  It was old and brittle. He felt it give, shatter, and crash all around him as he was thrown roughly to the floor of the adjoining lab. Pain, but no time for it; he was up, stumbling, his only thought to find a weapon of some kind. The drone screamed in fury and leapt after him.

  Gun stick rock anything—

  He couldn’t look back, wouldn’t, knew he’d see the grinning face of death right behind, claws outstretched, the stainless-steel teeth gnashing—

  There! Past a slew of bolted chairs and desktops, the room opened out, free space—and an electromag field generator to one side, a portable, cords trailing from it into hidden sockets.

  Let it be on, oh god—

  A sudden pain in his ankle as he tripped across one of the metal chair struts, not seeing it until too late. He hit the floor hard, felt the drone right behind—

  The fall saved him. The creature was seemingly centimeters away, and it flew over him before it could stop. Its claws scrabbled against the smooth floor as it struggled to turn back.

  To rip out his heart and eat it.

  On the desk, something. He grabbed for it, an aerosol can, turned, and sprayed wildly as the monster leapt for him.

  A cloud of mist burst from the can, spattered into the drone’s descending maw. The creature shrieked in pain and fury and jumped back, seemingly desperate to escape the unknown spray.

  Crespi yanked himself up, the can gripped tightly, sweaty in his clutching fingers. He ran for the portable generator without looking at the drone, knew that it would be prepared to strike again in seconds.

  He felt blood from his cut face trickle down, into his gasping mouth, and he spit bloody foam to one side—

  generator, electromag weapon kill—

  —seeing only the portable, now a few meters away.

  The control panel was at the base, on the floor, and Crespi didn’t hesitate. He hurled himself into a dive, slid to it on his belly, and flipped over.

  The drone was there, hissing, poised to leap from just two meters away. Crespi shouted, a wordless cry of intense frustration, and slammed his hand into the panel. Open. Hit a switch without looking, prayed that it was the right one.

  The drone struck, the motion slowed in his mind’s eye to a crawl, and Crespi snatched at the nearest cord, ripped it loose, pointing it at the creature as he jammed the button on the aerosol can again.

  A bright spark of electricity from the cord, and the can’s substance was aflame, spouting fire at the springing creature like a tiny incinerator. The drone recoiled, tried to pull back, but the fiery spray engulfed its long, slick head, spattered, and stuck to its exoskeleton like tar.

  Screaming, it fell backward, limbs flailing at the substance. He had a second, maybe less—

  Crespi jerked his wild gaze to the controls, on, he punched the power switch, the green button, the last second of his life—

  A high-pitched hum, followed by a higher, louder scream.

  The alien reeled back, brought its murderous claws to the sides of its smoldering head, screamed and screamed—

  Before collapsing to the floor, unconscious.

  Crespi drew in a long, ragged breath, and leaned back against the generator, too shocked to move, to think, to do anything but breathe. The echoes from the drone’s cries still rang in his ears. From nearby, he heard running footsteps, frantic shouts.

  He held up the mysterious can of fluid and read the label dully. Hair spray. It was hair spray.

  He wanted to laugh but was afraid to open his mouth, afraid of the hysteria that roiled up inside. Afraid that he would sob instead, and not be able to stop.

  A young man in a baseball cap ran into the room, followed by another, both suited as electrical techs.

  “What—Colonel Doctor Crespi!” That from the man in the cap. His face was pale, confused, sweaty with surprise.

  The second man saw the creature and his own face went ashen. He stared at Crespi with something like awe. “Another one got out—?”

  Baseball was already tapped into his com and now spoke rapidly. “Stockdale, we have an alien in the accentuator room near the unity. It’s been ’magged, but you better get a full team down here, A and R.”

  Armed and ready, great, what was it doing here?

  The other tech, a burly blond man, still looked at Crespi, his dazed blue eyes full of something like wonder. “If you didn’t—how did you—?” He shook his head.

  “You’re a lucky man, sir.”

  Lucky. I’m a lucky man—He raised one shaky hand to his face, felt the blood there, already tacky and starting to dry, the injuries minor. His back felt cut, too, and aching so badly that he didn’t think he’d be able to walk the next day.

  But he was alive. The drone was down, and he had survived; barely, but it was enough.

  His shock ebbed for a second, and his thoughts found focus amid the daze of pain and confusion; it had happened so fast, been so unexpected—

  Except someone had known about it. The someone who had sent him here to die.

  Crespi stood, ignored the calls of the technicians as they stuttered something about keeping still, ignored the bruised flesh that was already shrieking for rest, for relief. He stalked to the door and down the corridor with only one thought in mind, the only thing that made sense now.

  That fucking bitch. He’d kill her.

  17

  McGuinness looked up eagerly as the door slid open, hoping that Crespi had gotten the code slate. He’d been gone longer than she thought he’d be, and she was starting to feel anxious, a dull ache of worry low in her gut.

  He stood in the door then, and she spoke quickly, relieved to see him. “Did you get it, sir…?”

  She trailed off. He’d been in some kind of fight; his clothes were ripped in places, his grim face was bleeding. She opened her mouth to ask, see if he was all right—

  He stalked across the room, right at her, and she saw at the last second that he didn’t mean to stop.

  Crespi grabbed at her shoulders, her clothes, and dug his fingers into her flesh, hard.

  “No! What are you doing?!”

  His hands went to her throat. He pushed her back, slammed her body up against the wall.

  What the hell happened down there—

  He was furious, his voice low and dripping with hatred. “You sent me down there to die, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!”

  McGuinness struggled for air, clawed at his iron grip. “What are you—stop it, you’re hurting me!”

  His dark eyes were almost black with anger. “I’ll hurt you, all right, I’ll hurt you—”

  His grip tightened, and dark shadows began to swim across her vision. She could barely speak now, her words choked and raspy. “Didn’t—no, didn’t—killing me…”

  He suddenly let her go, and she fell to the floor, choking for air. His words seemed distant, far away.

  “You set me up, McGuinness! You worthless traitor, I should kill you!”

  McGuinness crawled to her hands and knees, raised herself up. “No,” she whispered, and coughed, the sensation agonizing, but the confusion somehow worse. “No.”

  She looked up at him, and he must have seen the innocence in her face; he still glowered down at her, angrier than she’d ever
seen a grown man, but he stopped shouting.

  “I ought to shoot you on the spot. A fucking drone attacked me.”

  McGuinness felt shock, disbelief. He thought she had—

  “No,” she whispered, and the truth was suddenly a bright flash in her mind, the only answer. “It was Church. Had to be Church.”

  “You said he was asleep,” he scowled.

  She shook her head, helpless in her own dark astonishment. “I don’t know, maybe before—”

  Wait. A sudden, frantic hope. “Did you get the slate? Let me have it, I’ll prove I’m right!” She stood up, the pain in her throat subsiding to a dull, pulsing ache. She held out her hand, waited, afraid that he might attack her again—or worse, that he wouldn’t believe her.

  His frown deepened, and she could see him try to sort it out, to decide. Uncertainty played across his bloodied features, a strange expression on his normally intense and focused face—but he dug into a front pocket and produced the slate. She reached for it, but he gripped it tightly, stared into her eyes, his own cold and hard.

  “You get one chance to show me.”

  “I will, I swear I will.”

  He let go of the code slate and she felt a rush of cool relief. She could prove it, had no choice now but to unmask the facts; she turned for the door, eager to show him.

  “Come on, let’s get to K lab right now. Church will be notified about the attack, and he’ll come looking for us.”

  Right now, that sounded a fuck of a lot scarier than any alien drone; if Church was that desperate, to unleash one of his creatures, there was no telling what he’d do when he found that Crespi was alive.

  Crespi paused to grab his weapon, eyes unreadable now, and then they were out in the corridor, hurrying to the lowest level of the station. She wished vainly that she’d thought to bring her own weapon, but there was no time—and Crespi didn’t look like he’d be willing to wait.

  She held the slate tightly, afraid that she’d lose it somehow as they jogged through twisting corridors and into the lift that would take them to the secret lab.

  This was her only chance. If she was wrong, there’d be hell to pay.

  * * *

  Crespi followed McGuinness through the still-dim passageways, his body aching with a pain he hadn’t known in years and years. He was torn, uncertain, and he hated that even more than the physical suffering. But the worst…

  I don’t know who to trust anymore. His instincts were dead, he couldn’t find his gut-center, the tiny voice that had always told him which path to take. He couldn’t trust himself; he was too tired and too hurt to find his own way through this. He’d believed in her, and he had been wrong, hadn’t he?

  McGuinness said she could prove her story. And so he followed her, perhaps to his own death at her treacherous hands… or by Church’s. Or some fucking drone, oblivious to the cares of men, not giving a shit for hope or loss or fear, not caring if you’d grown old and out of touch with what was real and what was smiling deceit—

  And would that be so bad, Crespi? You’ve been living on borrowed time ever since that rock near Solano’s moon, and you know it.

  Suddenly it all came together, the memories, the nagging anxiety he’d felt from the moment out of deep sleep. He did know it, and had known deep down all along, no matter how he’d tried to bury the truth beneath his work—since he’d come here, it had all resurfaced, haunting him at every turn, refusing to be pushed away any longer. He’d made a career far away from that horrible morning, had let that fear fester in the darkness of his deepest heart—that he didn’t deserve to be the only one left and someday there would be a price for it…

  Except here it was, finally; and the funny thing was, after avoiding it for so long, right now it didn’t seem so scary after all. If there was a price to pay, now was as good a time as any—but maybe when it was your time to go, you just went. Maybe he’d stayed alive until he could understand that. And perhaps when you lost that little voice inside, you were just—done.

  That’s the spirit! Why don’t you just give up now, save everyone else the trouble?

  Fuck that shit; he was too tired, his mind was playing tricks. He stopped thinking and tried to concentrate on keeping up.

  After an eternity of gloomy hallways and wrong turns, they stopped in front of a huge metal circle, an unlabeled door at the end of the lowest deck. The corridor was grimy, probably hadn’t been cleaned in years, but the door was polished and gleaming. There were no handles, no bioscan, no guard—it looked solidly impenetrable. Only a small slot to one side, a slate plug.

  McGuinness fumbled with the code slate, echoed his own thoughts aloud. “This is absolutely impassable without a key code—which we’ve got right here…”

  He could see the finger-shaped bruises on her neck, and wondered if he should feel guilty, if she was innocent—he just didn’t know.

  Maybe that’s the price, Doctor. Maybe payment time has come.

  He had a sudden urge to shoot himself in the head, just to stop his brain from taunting him any longer. He laughed, a short bark of humorless sound; wouldn’t that take the prize? He’d slayed the mighty dragon with a can of hair spray, just to off himself in a fit of existential angst. McGuinness looked at him nervously, but he shook his head and motioned for her to go on.

  Hold on, not much longer—

  She inserted the slate, frowned, punched a button. The door sighed open, swinging outward, revealing another door just inside.

  She repeated the process. This one took two tries, but finally it opened into another small passage.

  Last door. Crespi pulled his weapon, held it down but ready. He would go out fighting, at least. If it came to that.

  The heavy door swung open in a rush of cool, moist air, revealing Church’s private lab.

  “No.” McGuinness breathed the word that seemed to sum up the horrible impossibility of the place.

  Crespi stepped forward, his weapon forgotten for the moment, everything forgotten; at last, the truth was painfully apparent.

  Paul Church was hopelessly, irretrievably mad.

  18

  McGuinness stared around, eyes wide, and still she couldn’t take it all in; her mind refused to accept what she was seeing.

  “No, no, no, no…” Her own voice, quiet and disbelieving. Crespi said nothing, his face masked with dull shock.

  The lab was small, smaller than most of the others on board the station, but still big enough to fit perhaps a hundred people—

  Or thirty-four… Her mind tittered. She realized that hysteria was close to the surface, a mad, soul-rendering laughter that would turn to screams all too soon.

  Traditional tables, monitors, computer pads scattered about—and clumped masses of cable leading into and out of tall vertical holding tanks, bubbling with some clear, viscous fluid. She turned away from them, not ready to comprehend the aberrant horrors inside; not able to.

  On the nearest table to their left slumped the headless corpse of what was once a heavyset man, tubes and cords running from every orifice. The figure was on its knees, the flaccid penis dangling limply above a wired cup that encased the scrotum. Where his head should have been, a misshapen metal plate, set with switches and a series of tiny, pulsing white lights. His back and chest were covered with dark hair and hundreds of small, lipless scars, some still recent, an angry red. The skin had ruptured at his upper back and twin, gleaming bone plates rose a few inches out of where his shoulder blades should have been.

  The table next to it: another headless body, its belly swollen as if it carried a child, but no human child—the skin had burst in places, unable to accommodate the massive swelling, exposing the glistening red of muscle tissue. More tiny white lights, more switches. In spite of the obvious impregnation, the sex of the figure was unclear; there were no breasts, the entire chest area a mass of scar tissue, no genitalia apparent.

  A tray between the tables held syringes, scalpels, a handheld laser cutter—and a small, blinking
monitor and keyboard. McGuinness went closer, unable to stop, drawn to the obscenities as if in a terrible dream; she had to see what the monitor was for.

  The two once-human figures stank of shit and bile as she stepped to the screen, read what was printed there—and moaned, a deep, hopeless sound born of sick revulsion and comprehension.

  The computer listed their pulse rates; they were alive.

  She backed away, still moaning, suddenly faint, twisted away from the undead abominations to run, to get away, so cold here—

  Crespi was there. He reached out, wrapped his arms around her, and held her tight. She struggled, pushed at him, only vaguely aware that the awful, high-pitched mewls of terror and panic she heard were coming from her own throat.

  He was speaking, but she couldn’t hear, saw only the holding tank behind him, the naked, bubbling form inside, the strange, tumorous pink flesh that sprouted from all over it in loathsome tentacles, floating—

  Crespi again, his pale face thrust into her own. “…at me! Look at me!”

  She found his gaze then, saw the dark eyes filled with fear, with deep distress—and with acceptance.

  “Lieutenant! Sharon! Deal with it, understand? Deal with it!”

  She searched his eyes, saw the truth there, and nodded, swallowing. “I—okay, okay. Okay.”

  He let her go, gently, studying her face. She nodded again, took a deep breath. “I see it,” she said, not even sure what she meant, but he nodded in return.

  Together, they moved through the vault of horrors slowly, stopping between each abhorrent display, too sickened to move any faster to the next. Mutated alien embryos, dissected and labeled. A tangle of human limbs in a refrigeration unit. That strange alien musk, mingling with the scent of human feces and laboratory disinfectant in the damp, cold air…

  The lab was L-shaped, the two of them still in the front leg; McGuinness wanted out, badly, but knew that they had to see all of it, document the atrocities before they could be destroyed. These—people weren’t truly alive; the machines were pumping blood and oxygen through their systems in a gross parody of life, forcing them to go on. She imagined that most if not all had been dead before they were brought here; tissue reanimation was nothing new. But what she wanted more than anything was to know why, why Church had done these things… insanity was too mild a word, but she could think of no other.