The Complete Aliens Omnibus, Volume 3

by Sandy Schofield

  * * *

  Church smiled down at her, tried not to look relieved when he heard the drone’s cry, close now.

  “McGuinness,” he said easily. “I am surprised! You’re going to give me some beautiful chemicals…”

  That look on her face. Why was she looking like that?

  He reached for the handheld buzzer, grasped it tightly. “…and then I think I can arrange for you and Lennox to spend some quality time together.”

  She stalked across the pen, still snarling at him, her eyes cold.

  Behind her, the drone.

  Church smiled wider, relaxed. “Uh-oh, here comes your dance partner—”

  Suddenly she leapt straight up, grabbed at one of his cameras, designed to defy a talon’s grasp—

  He punched the buzzer automatically, but he was too late. She was above the field of range, holding on to the alloyed camera with one hand, knees drawn to her chest, her knuckles white—

  The drone shrieked in pain. Church released the switch quickly, breath suddenly tight.

  No, no—

  The alien recovered almost immediately, jumped for her before she could move—and knocked her down, hard. McGuinness hit the floor and spun around, dwarfed by the starving creature that reached out, drooling—

  Church allowed a true smile; it was finished.

  McGuinness screamed, but not in fear, not in the begging cries that he’d anticipated. A sound of pure, primal rage poured out of her, her teeth bared, her fists raised, her face kissing distance from the drone’s snapping jaws—

  The drone lowered its head, paused—

  And then backed slowly away.

  29

  McGuinness looked away from the groveling creature, somehow not at all surprised that it had backed away. She was cold inside, cold and deadly; the drone understood.

  She turned her killing gaze to Church.

  “You’re dead,” she snarled, and jumped, grasped the slick camera again, and started to pull herself up.

  His expression was a caricature of shock and disbelief; he seemed to forget the device in his hand, seemed to have forgotten everything in his blatant rejection of the truth.

  “But there’s no telepathine in your—” he began, then apparently realized what was about to happen.

  “Fuck your telepathine, you’re dead,” she said again, liking the feel of the words in her mouth.

  He jabbed at the buzzer again and again, frantic. The creature below screamed horribly, but McGuinness was not to be turned, distracted.

  “I want you dead—”

  Still sounded right, sounded like truth; she could not hate him enough.

  For David.

  For Crespi.

  For all she had lost, dead. For the lives that had been shaded and blasphemed by this creature, dead. For his egomaniacal pomposity, his glittering, cursed gaze, his wretched smile…

  Your blood for them; your life for them.

  The climb was effortless, easier than blinking, and still she wasn’t surprised. Camera to the lowest rail, a grunt of minor exertion as she pulled herself up, gripped the top rail—and climbed over it, seething with the icy, crystal hatred, the promise she intended to keep.

  Church took one fumbling step backward, still not believing, she saw it on his stupid face, the frightened wonder in his eyes. He was an abomination, an atrocity; he was an insult to life.

  One step forward and she had him.

  His strength was nothing; if he tried to defend himself, she didn’t know, couldn’t tell. She snatched at his hair, at the back of his lab coat, and flung him forward to the rail, smashed his idiot face into the smooth, hard metal.

  He still seemed surprised as his nose shattered, a single, clueless bark of dismay emerging muffled and wet. Blood splashed down into the kennel, spattered across his pristine coat, the pattern intricate, infinitely beautiful to her cold eyes.

  He struggled as she pressed harder, grinding the cartilage to the rail, heard the wet crunch sound and found it to be music.

  From far away, she heard voices, pounding. Someone was trying to get in, alerted by the screams of the drone…

  Where the fuck were you an hour ago? she thought vaguely, then yanked his head back and drove it forward again. One of his cheekbones gave with a slippery snap, an epiphany.

  Gunfire outside. They were coming.

  She spun him around, twisted him so that he was facing her, saw the fear in his eyes and felt good, felt that he was finally starting to understand—

  Below them, the drone screamed, awake. Hungry.

  She shot a glance downward, the capering creature eager and frantic at the taste of blood, its tortured shrieks alive with frustration and hunger. The alien had been tormented throughout Church’s sick crucible, taken from its home, starved, shocked, teased with the promise of escape and the scents of fresh meat. Its black exoskeleton was dull, matte, a bird with rotting feathers; it was dying, its siblings already dead, and all for Paul Church’s great Truth…

  McGuinness grinned, felt no humor in the expression. Even Church would have to appreciate the irony.

  She clasped her hands together, swung back—

  “Freeze!”

  —glanced behind her, saw the guards rushing in, rifles drawn—

  —and brought her giant fist forward, hitting Church in the chest, knocking him backward over the rail. He screamed, clutched vainly at the air.

  “I said freeeeze—”

  McGuinness stepped to the railing, looked over, saw the drone scamper for Church, reach for him with spindly claws, saw the dread shrivel him, shrink him—

  Then the guards were there, shouting, rifles pointed down into the kennel.

  “Doctor Church! Get away from it! I can’t get a clean shot!”

  The drone had him, clutched his small head in its hands, jaws dripping—

  McGuinness pushed the shouting guard, turned to the other, ready to kill them if necessary—

  The last thing she saw was a rifle butt coming at her.

  The sound of shots followed her down into the darkness.

  30

  “How are you feeling, Doctor?”

  Church looked up from his reading, saw Admiral Thaves’s bulk filling the doorway. He sighed inwardly but smiled at Thaves, lay his remote on the night-stand.

  “Better, Admiral. Actually, I’m quite well enough to get back to work—”

  Thaves shook his head. “Forget it. The meds say another week.”

  The admiral looked around the bare sickbay room as if he’d never seen it before, hadn’t visited every couple of days for the last three weeks. The room was small but comfortable, the walls a pale green, muted; a place of rest. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost gentle.

  “Everything okay?”

  Church folded his hands, stared down at them absently. It was a question that had plagued him for many days now. “I… I keep thinking of McGuinness.”

  That much is true…

  Thaves scowled, transforming his face from merely ugly to ugly and mean, a fleeting glimpse of a much younger Thaves, a man of no small means, a man to reckon with—a stern flash of how he had made his stars, of war days long past.

  Only an instant, then gone. “Hell, you saw the recordings! She was a cold-blooded murderer, killed Crespi with her bare hands—and might’ve killed you, ’cept for the guards.”

  Thaves smiled, his old self again. He was probably attempting a look of reassurance, though it came as an apology, as embarrassment. “The Marines picked her up yesterday; don’t worry about her coming back, either.”

  Church sighed, careful not to reveal the rest of it; Thaves could never know, wouldn’t know, would stay oblivious to the human emotions that they surely shared in this matter. Church reached up absently to finger the small bandage across his nose. “It’s not that. Some of the things she said… about me. I suppose it has me thinking whether my work here is—wrong.”

  Thaves frowned, walked to the bed, and re
sted his weight against the frame. His face turned serious, his gaze firm and unwavering.

  “She was insane, Paul. Your work—your research has saved countless lives, you need to remember that. Why, if it weren’t for your viral tent, my own daughter wouldn’t be alive today—”

  Church nodded humbly; Thaves had great affection for his youngest, an affection that had allowed Church to write his own rules on board the station. Thaves signed releases, ordered transports to bring new people to the station, and turned a blind eye to the fact that many of those people he had never met—and never would.

  Church wondered absently how Thaves would react if he knew what was really going on—and he commended himself once again for having the presence of mind to lock up his private lab before that last miserable experiment.

  The admiral was still speaking. “—so don’t worry over anything that crazy bitch accused you of, no one believed a word. You’re a good man, Paul.”

  Church actually considered the statement for a moment, the implications of his own humanity. In any sense, “good” was not what came to mind.

  “Think where it got Crespi,” Church said quietly.

  The admiral dropped his serious pep-talk look for the much rarer false sympathy one, feeling blindly for some connection to an emotional realm; Church was not the only being that had to search, to fake. He never had been.

  “I’m—sorry about Crespi. You two really hit it off, I guess.”

  Church looked down, counted to three slowly. On the last count, Thaves slapped the edge of the mattress and stood, signaling the end of his visit.

  “Well, I guess you could use some rest! I’ll stop by tomorrow, see how you’re doing.”

  Church smiled up at him gratefully. “That would be nice, Admiral—and thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”

  “Nothing of it,” he blustered, and Church could see the pleasure in his rough face before he turned and walked out.

  It was… appealing to affect someone that way, to bring a measure of contentment to his fellow man, even an overblown and pathetic individual like Thaves; indeed, the lowest of creatures deserved some happiness, he had come to believe. Thaves was a throwaway character in his own drama, but he could still feel. Strange, how things changed…

  Church stared blankly at the wall for a moment, thinking about McGuinness. She was gone, finally. He was almost embarrassed by the cool relief that had flooded through him at the admiral’s confirmation; almost, but not quite. He tried not to make lying to himself a practice, and the core truth was that she had scared him, and scared him badly.

  She’d been like a drone when she’d come after him, mindless except for the sole motive of slaughter, her movements as physically able and as driven with purpose; a drone of his own making, but in a way he’d never expected.

  Church shuddered involuntarily and reached for the remote. He needed to clear his head of her, fill his thoughts with something besides the remembrance of his fear…

  He clicked a button, activated the wheelchair at the foot of his bed. He had managed to get some work done, unofficially of course. He’d head to the lab, check on the progress of a few things, crowd the woman out with comforting routine.

  He slid into the chair, steeling himself for pain, but there was hardly any now; the worst had been his face, the cheekbone, but the leg fracture from the fall had been an agony unto itself.

  The drone, reaching, the blood in his eyes turning it red and impossibly more manic, the sudden meeting of fates, the terror—and the sharp pain as his leg gave way, the acid burns that quilted his human flesh as the bullets found their mark—

  It was late, the bay empty, though no one would have stopped him anyway; the meds were fine for stern warnings, but their follow-through was somewhat lacking—particularly for him. He had known for some time that the station was truly under his command, but had only come to appreciate it in the last few weeks.

  He rode toward the supply storage area, the wheels rolling noiselessly against the smooth floor. He had to strain to reach the door control, but again, no real pain; he’d be out sooner than a week, surely.

  The entry slid open, revealed the seldom-used passage that he’d come to know intimately in the past days. It was quite something, the Innominata; the entire station was one great labyrinth, silent corridors connecting everything to everything else, every door opening beneath his touch to disclose yet another path…

  Surprises. There had been too many lately, too many revelations that were frightening in their quiet subtlety. When he’d told his story to Crespi and McGuinness, he’d been unable to focus on that feeling, the influence it had had on him—and still, he didn’t know. What he did know was that it would not leave him now, the memories, the vision of his mother’s dying face…

  He could no longer dismiss his past.

  The chair slid down the dim hall, in and out of the shadows, veering first to the right and then again, then left and down a sloping decline.

  He felt fine, he supposed, should feel better than fine now that McGuinness was gone; but ever since the attack, he’d somehow mislaid his sense of humor. Everything seemed—tainted now, as if the colors around him had all muted a shade, nothing as bright as it used to be.

  You’re just bedsore, Doctor. You’ll see—once you’re on your feet again, all will be well…

  He hoped so, wanted it to be true—but felt certain just the same that he would never again be as confident as before. He’d made mistakes, had let things escape his control… and he had inspired a practical stranger to a depth of hatred beyond any he’d ever known…

  Things were different. The humanity that he’d shunted aside for so long had come back, whispering to him, coaxing him. First had been fear, but now others, simple, pleasant feelings that were not the wry amusement he had known, a “soul searching” that gave him pause at every turn. The essence of the Truth had been clouded by these things, would perhaps be lost if he did not take care—

  And that would be so tragic? So debilitating?

  There was no answer to that, not now.

  Sighing, he reached for the code slate as the chair stopped, reversed, pulled up beside the plug for the round, gleaming hatch in front of him. He inserted it, punched a button, waited.

  The door opened and the chair moved forward, slowly now, rested midway across the floor of his small, private lab.

  He looked at the large holding tank that dominated the room, noted the minute changes of the form inside. He smiled a little; things were progressing quite well, actually. Infinitely better than his last attempt.

  The once human form had grown a semisynthetic plate system, dark in color, ridges of bone mutating, transforming, becoming. Spines extended from the shoulders, and he could see where something like a dorsal fin had appeared, perhaps the aquatic influence—

  He focused on the face, and his smile faded. As always, he could think of nothing to say, no one thing that would explain how he felt. And as always, he tried anyway.

  “I… I hope you know, Tony. None of this is personal.”

  The dark, unconscious form of Anthony Crespi made no reply.

  But then, none was expected.

  EPILOGUE

  McGuinness slept the deep sleep, her chamber by itself inside a locked cell as the transport ship hurtled toward Earth.

  She dreamed of promises made and promises broken. She dreamed of a man she had once loved, and another man she might have loved, given enough time. And finally, she dreamed of a being that wasn’t human at all, with claws and teeth and long white hair. A thing she had tried to kill but had not been strong enough to succeed.

  In her dreams, she went back.

  And this time, she was stronger.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Sandy Schofield is the pen name for the award-winning husband and wife writing team of Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch. Under the Schofield name they have written a number of books, including the popular Star Trek: Deep Space Nine novel
called The Big Game and the Star Trek: Voyager novel called The Escape.

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch is a Campbell and Locus award-winning author. She has won the World Fantasy Award for her editing and the Hugo Award for Best Professional Editor.

  Dean Wesley Smith has sold a large number of short stories and eight novels. His first solo novel, while marketed as science fiction, made it to the final ballot of the Stoker Award. He was also the publisher and editor for Pulphouse Publishing and Pulphouse: A Fiction magazine. Along with Kristine Kathryn Rusch, he won the World Fantasy Award for his work on Pulphouse and the Locus Award for his editing.

  Stephani (S. D.) Perry is the author of several tie-in novels to popular series such as Aliens, Alien vs. Predator, Star Trek and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Perry also wrote the movie novelizations for Timecop and Virus. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and two children.

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