The Complete Aliens Omnibus, Volume 3

by Sandy Schofield

  What are words to this? How can there be a category for this to fit into in any language, any thought?

  Four more tables, and three of the unmoving figures had heads, though limbs were missing, their flesh scratched and scarred seemingly without motive. The corpses were human, certainly—but their bodies had been twisted and re-formed, dark knobs and angles rising from breaks in the skin.

  “Oh, God,” whispered Crespi, and she turned, saw his attention fixed on one of the holding tanks, expression sick and appalled.

  The submerged figure was male, naked, its light hair floating loosely around its pale, mutilated face—only the eyes were still whole, wide, the look there one of shock and disbelief.

  Lieutenant Mortenson hadn’t been jettisoned after all.

  * * *

  His exhaustion was probably the only thing that saved Crespi from losing it as they stepped into the lab—that, and his fight with the drone back in Church’s office. The day was already a surreal nightmare, and the additional horrors of Church’s hidden facility somehow fit right in, embraced the atrocity that lay before them.

  As it was, though, he felt right on the edge. McGuinness had helped stave off his own hysteria by losing touch for a moment—getting her back on track, having someone to watch for, had allowed him to see what was there, no matter how much his mind wanted to reject it.

  Church was sick, deranged. Crespi searched for scientific reasons, desperate to make sense of the demented experiments—

  Endorphin release? Telepathine work on reflexes, something like that?

  Maybe. But it didn’t explain the bizarre, tumorous growths that rose up from the flesh, the misshapen limbs, the atrocities in the liquid-filled tanks—

  “Oh, God.” His voice sounded faint and hoarse in the quiet, rife with horrified dismay.

  Mortenson was suspended in one of the huge vats, his eyes wide and unseeing, unknown tubes and cords leading into and out of his pale, naked form. Slow, mutant bubbles rose around him, inching past his battered flesh and beginning again at his feet.

  Crespi gagged suddenly, turned away, and then McGuinness was right next to him, her hand cool against his neck.

  He closed his eyes, then nodded. “Okay. Let’s finish and get the hell out of here.”

  McGuinness took his hand and they walked quickly to the end of the lab, turned to the right, started down a smaller room lined with blinking monitors. Nothing but humming computers, machines at work. Crespi felt a faint rush of gratitude—nothing more, no other horrors here, they could leave. He’d seen plenty.

  Except—

  At the very back of the room, a closed door like the three that guarded the lab, round and gleaming, partly open. And next to that, a thing that Crespi couldn’t quite fit his mind around, it was so strange—

  He stepped closer, paused, didn’t feel McGuinness drop his hand as he studied the newest aberration.

  The head and uppermost torso of a man, coming out of the far wall. Panels of circuitry surrounded him, the top of the head covered with a metal helmet—joined to an eye-level monitor beneath him by way of a long, snakelike metal arm, curling downward. That the young man had been dismembered was obvious; ragged strips of flesh hung down from the place where his chest joined the wall, cauterized and black.

  That face…

  Familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place it. The stark lips were drawn back, exposing the man’s even teeth in a gruesome, eternal grin. His once-blond hair, now dark and dust, flopped down across his smooth brow in lank waves. Even in death (and he must be dead, pulse or no) it was apparent that he was attractive, had once been a handsome man—

  A low, keening wail just behind him. Crespi twisted around, startled. McGuinness stood there, her face contorted with some horrible pain, eyes bright with it, the sound of her cry long and anguished as she stared at the half man.

  “What? What is it?” Crespi touched her, somehow more afraid than he’d been all along at the look of anguish in her wild eyes.

  She collapsed against him, clutched desperately at his arms and back with clawing hands, buried her head against him as she screamed two words, over and over.

  “It’s David! It’s David!”

  19

  The sleeping tablets had worked a bit too well, and Church felt truly out of sorts as he hurried down the corridor, turned toward the lab. The doors were standing open. As he’d assumed.

  A nervous technician had woken him from a deep sleep with the news that another drone had escaped and had been found in the unity office, ’magged by Doctor Crespi—which meant that his Crespi knew more than he should, and that the lonely guard dog had been unable to stop him. Church had set up the “burglar alarm” months before, a time release on the kennel door, but he’d only used it a few times, back when David had started to ask too many questions…

  The obvious conclusion was that Crespi had uncovered the secret that Church had successfully kept hidden from the entire station for over three years now; Thaves didn’t even know, although Church figured the man had his suspicions. The admiral knew about the chemical work, of course, but as for the rest…?

  Church sighed, stepped through the hatches quickly. A shame, really, he had hoped for so much better from Crespi. The young doctor could have at least waited for an invitation; this was so informal, he would surely think the worst…

  Church surveyed the room, looked for anything out of place. At least nothing had been tampered with. The conditions of his subjects were quite delicate; one clumsy move could upset their chemical readings for weeks, perhaps even taint the final results into uselessness. Just like that, half his work wasted—

  A horrible cry from the back of the lab, piercingly loud. It certainly wasn’t Crespi. Church sighed again. It was that woman, Mc-something-or-other, sounding more out of sorts than he felt.

  He moved quickly toward the sound, somewhat annoyed. McGuinness, that was it. Why was she here? If only she’d had more incentive to search on her own, to break into his office without involving Crespi—

  Now, don’t get cross! You’re just sleepy. The situation isn’t a total loss, not if you can persuade Crespi to see reason.

  He saw them as he turned the corner, the woman clutching at a very pale Crespi, screaming out David’s name, over and again.

  Church stood quietly for a moment, trying to assess the damage that had been done. Without explanation, his experiments would seem quite damning; this could take some talking.

  He had to start somewhere. “For what it’s worth,” he said softly, “he’s feeling no pain. Quite the contrary.”

  They both turned, their expressions priceless—they both looked as if they had expected death to be standing there, their eyes wide and mouths open in startled fear. When they saw only the small, aging scientist, their faces changed, became angry and somewhat confrontational.

  Oh, dear—

  The woman was first. She screamed, a wordless cry of rage and pain. She ran for him, her arms seeking to throttle, her teeth to rip and tear.

  “I’ll kill you!”

  “No, you won’t,” he began, she had no weapon, but then she was on top of him, clawing at his eyes. His glasses were knocked to the floor, and he hoped fleetingly that they wouldn’t be broken—

  Church grabbed her somewhat brusquely by the throat and raised her off of the floor. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t just stand there, not when there was so much to be discussed—

  “Let her go, fuckhead, get down on the floor!” Crespi pointed a handgun at him, his shoulders tensed, his stance one of a man who meant business.

  McGuinness struggled in his grasp like a fly on a pin, her feet still kicking wildly, but already she was starting to slow. He could feel her pulse throbbing madly beneath his fingers as she gasped vainly for air.

  “Tell her to behave, Crespi.” If she died, his job would be that much more difficult.

  “Let her go and get down on the damn floor!”

  Well, at least
he hadn’t called him “fuckhead” again; such language.

  McGuinness had almost ceased to struggle, so Church dropped her, pushed her away. She was undamaged, but just lay there, breathing raggedly.

  “Get on the floor! Now!” Crespi was still waving his weapon arrogantly.

  “Don’t presume to give me orders,” Church said mildly.

  “Get down!” Crespi’s face had gone a dull red, and Church could see that his breaking point was close. It was time to explain, but Crespi was beyond listening, probably wouldn’t hear a word as long as he held that gun…

  “That’s an interesting weapon,” said Church. “May I see it?”

  He stepped forward and plucked the firearm from Crespi’s hand, moving back before the angry doctor could register what was happening; he still stood in firing stance, incensed at Church’s disobedience.

  Again, those priceless faces! Anger gave way to sheer surprise, McGuinness on her knees, her expression awed and frightened. Crespi stared down at his hand, as if the weapon had simply vanished—which it had probably seemed to, to his eyes.

  Church examined the machine, having to peer closely without his glasses. “Pretty little toy… well made, too. Japanese, isn’t it?”

  He bent the short barrel downward, rendering the weapon useless in only a few seconds. He was tired; it actually took a bit of effort.

  Crespi’s mouth was still open. “You’re—you’re a synth!”

  Church smiled and handed back the inert weapon, then crouched down, searching for his spectacles. “No, not a synth. Aside from several implants, I’m quite human.”

  There, a meter to the left! The lenses were still intact, too. Church retrieved them, polished them quickly as he stood.

  He slipped them back on, then faced Crespi; he was the one who deserved the explanation, and the one who might actually listen; the woman was hopeless, a hysteric. “You found what you were looking for, didn’t you? Only you don’t know what it is you’ve found—”

  McGuinness crawled to her feet, crying bitterly. “Yuh-you kuh-kuh killed…”

  Church shook his head. “No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Crespi had dropped his toy and gone to the woman, stood now with his arm around her. They both seemed blatantly stunned at his denial, their gazes disbelieving, wary…

  It had been a long, long time since he had told the story, decades—and even then, he’d left out bits and pieces, claiming not to remember all of it. The various military shrinks, the doctors, the Company people… all of them had wanted to know, perhaps to live the experience he’d suffered vicariously, their own foolishly pleasant lives perhaps not enough for them.

  He’d revealed some of it to David, who had tried to understand, and in the end, been unable. And now again, his new assistant—for Crespi to fully comprehend his research, the story would have to be told again, maybe for the last time…

  Church suddenly found that he wanted to tell it, all of it, even the parts that he had tried to forget through the years, tried and failed. He was tired of being alone, tired of the dreams and memories that he had grown accustomed to locking away, sharing with no one.

  Crespi might hear him, might hear the unasked plea—and might, in some small way, relate to the experience. Total acceptance would always be beyond their grasp, but to make the attempt.

  Why not?

  Why, indeed. Crespi cleared his throat and after a moment he began to speak.

  * * *

  “You can’t possibly be expected to understand what you see here unless you know something of my personal history—so let’s have no more outbursts, and I’ll tell you what happened.

  “My parents’ ship was the Incunabulum, a basic terraform spacer from forty-some years back. The crew was small, but we were carrying passengers when we set down on a numbered moon to collect a time box—there were ten of us in all. That moon is still just a number, but it’s been inhabited for some time—”

  He smiled vaguely, recalling his first few moments there.

  Eden…

  He shook the memory. “I hear it’s quite nice, actually, although I have never been back.

  “My parents and I were close, and the crew like family. I was born in space, you know, never even saw Earth until I was six; my early life was spent on ships and touring Genesis camps—an unnatural life for a young man, but I didn’t mind.”

  Church smiled again. “It’s hard to believe I was twenty. Just twenty…”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, let the memories come flooding back, overwhelming in their sudden clarity. He was ready; it was time.

  He opened his eyes. And told them everything.

  20

  As the drones came closer, Paul noticed that there were small, spiderlike creatures lying motionless on the floor of the cavern. They had long, spiny tails like the drones, but there the resemblance ended—

  His parents crowded around him, ready to be taken first. Rebecca was crying softly, the desolate sound almost lost in the drones’ hissing anticipation.

  Amys Johanson was snatched up by the nearest drone. He shouted, terrified—

  —as the drone extended its inner mandibles slowly and brushed the deadly apparatus against Johanson’s stubbled cheek. The malignant creature hissed and dropped him roughly back to the ground.

  It then reached out slowly, talons extended, and grabbed a handful of the crewman’s hair. It yanked suddenly, the hair coming away in a clump. Johanson put a hand on his bleeding scalp and backed away, confusion competing with terror across his homely features.

  The drone studied the uprooted handful, then dropped it, tilting its head to one side as the hair drifted to the sticky floor.

  What—

  Paul didn’t have time to complete the thought. Another drone stepped forward and pulled him from between his clutching, wailing parents. He screamed, knew it was over, he would die first—

  The drone stuck one sharp, reeking claw into his open mouth and probed at his tongue. Paul gagged and tried to back away, but the creature gripped the back of his head patiently and continued to probe.

  The horrible stink of the place had almost been enough, but now Paul couldn’t stop himself. He vomited, great heaves of half-digested food and bile spewing out over the drone’s fingers and onto the floor.

  The alien tilted its head to one side, released him—and then ran its vomit-drenched hand across its glistening teeth. It hissed and backed away.

  One by one, the drones came forward, touching the humans, probing them, sniffing, pulling at clothes, their behavior unheard of by Paul or any of the others. They were being examined by the nightmares, and somehow it was more frightening than the prospect of death, poked and pried at by the grinning, stinking monsters in their fetid nest—

  “Rebecca!”

  Paul spun at the sound of Quentin Clark’s shrill scream, saw him struggle desperately to free himself of a drone’s tight grasp. Rebecca’s mother was curled up on the floor, unconscious—

  Two of the creatures had her, seemed to be fighting over her. One had her by the arms and was growling, a low, menacing rattle. The other had one of Rebecca’s legs and was pulling, its desperate shrieks blending with Rebecca’s, except hers were in terror—and then in pain.

  Judith ran forward, her program finally activated. She jumped in between them, snatched at the pulling drone’s claw—

  A terrible rending sound, muscle and bone torn apart. The drones fell backward amid Rebecca’s dying screams. Blood spurted from the socket of the girl’s hip where her leg had been, spouted and then gushed as her cries faltered, as her heart stopped.

  Everyone was screaming then, Lucien Church clutching her son, praying, sobbing, Louise awake now, she and her husband both fighting to get to their daughter.

  Judith was grabbed by one of the watching drones, held—and then beaten with Rebecca’s dismembered leg, pounded with the limb by the alien she had tried to stop. Judith wasn’t built to withstand so much;
her milky fluids splattered, mixed with the blood from Rebecca Clark’s torn flesh. She crumbled, arms still flailing—until the drone that held her ripped them off and tossed them carelessly aside.

  “Get back, everyone get back!” Taylor screamed and held up his fist, suddenly dark and overlarge—a grenade taken from the ship’s stores. Paul watched on helplessly, sick with dread and loss as Taylor hurled himself toward the largest group of screaming drones, watched—

  —until he was yanked down by his father, pulled to the bloody ground, and shielded by Jason Church’s trembling body.

  An explosion, his father’s flinch, the blast blotting out the alien screams for only a second, Paul pleading to whatever God existed to make it count, to kill them all…

  * * *

  Church smiled sadly. “He only took out two of the drones; a token protest, really.”

  He shook his head, remembered the crewman’s gravelly voice, his strong, blunt presence. “Taylor. God, how that man loved his cigars…”

  A tangent. Church sighed, reluctantly let the memory go, and then went on.

  “After that, they moved quickly. We were separated, and I was forced into the deepest bowels of the hive. On the way, I saw what had happened to the crew of that other ship…”

  * * *

  Paul stopped struggling when he realized that it didn’t make a difference. He was using all his strength up and the drone that clutched him wasn’t phased, still carried him along without effort through the dim, foul passages.

  He let the drone pull him along and searched desperately for some mode of escape; if there was one, he didn’t see it. The nest was solid, the dark alien secretions sturdy and seamless.

  Although his nose was plugged, running with mucus from his crying, he could still smell the vile air, the rotten, decayed stink of the place—and now, as they started down another passage, some part of the rancid scent grew stronger.