Aliens: Genocide

by David Bischoff

  Burnt carbon.

  Burnt silicon.

  Alien acid.

  Never-ending death beneath an eldritch, evil sun.

  She had a regulation upper-pill in her hand, ready to take it. Looking out, though, she realized she didn't really need it. She threw it away.

  A surge of victory ran through her.

  "C'mon, people," she snapped through her microphone, staccato calling of a parade into a battle on shores not made for humans. "Let's earn some money."

  18

  The operation was basically a clean-up proposition.

  The landing had cindered hundreds of the bugs. The force-field perimeter had locked out the remainder. Only about twenty-five of the aliens had made it past the harpoons before the field crackled on.

  These were the current targets.

  These were the bugs that had to be crushed.

  Vague colorings or internal differences didn't seem to matter. From the way these things acted, all were every centimeter the crazed berserkers their cousins were.

  The lip of the ramp had not been touched down, and one of them leapt on it, scuttling up toward them, slavering and tearing away at the air.

  "Simultaneous!" she cried and lifted her own rifle and fired.

  The blast of weapons was so strong converging on the bug that the force lifted the thing up a good meter and slammed it back another ten. Damned good thing, too. It disintegrated into a splatter of parts and blood in midair.

  "Keep that shit off the hull!" Kozlowski cried. "Okay now, move it!"

  As practiced before, the troops moved out, plasma weapons first. A robo-wagon trundled out after them, bearing extra weapons, supplies, and automatic support keyed from the Anteater. As soon as the first four marines cleared the bottom of the ramp, they started blasting. A wave of fire, like a manic flamethrower on amphetamines, roared out, whacking into a group of five bugs scampering into the melee.

  They all fell apart in the hellish fire.

  Kozlowski and the others were out in a flash, bringing up the rear "and selecting targets. Kozlowski felt as though she'd just downed a couple tabs of Xeno-Zip. Adrenaline? Yes, and bliss, too. It had been a long time since she'd fought real xenos, and there was nothing like the satisfaction of the prospect of one's slugs putting out the lights on a bug to get a gal's heart to thumpin'.

  "Fire at will!" she said.

  She jumped off the ramp and swiveled over to cover the underside of the lander. A space of about seven meters existed between the base of the lander and the ground. All in shadow. Unlikely that any had scuttled under here, but you never knew.

  She nudged the correct com switch. "Turn on the bottom lights, Control!"

  "Roger."

  The lights started to blink on, but even before they were up, through the heightened "ears" of the suit, she heard the telltale hissing.

  "Damn!"

  One was coming toward her.

  They had descended to Mission Control, to stand and watch beside Corporal Seamus O'Connor as the monitors flashed the frenetic details of the conflict.

  Daniel Grant felt giddy victory turn his skin to goose pumps.

  What a spectacle!

  Whatever doubts he'd ever felt about the competency of this batch of marines disappeared within seconds as the group fanned out in perfect formation, their weapons efficiently blasting away. Out in the open, the alien strategy seemed simple: charge and destroy. The Marine strategy seemed equally simple: blast the things to bits.

  The marines acted like precision-sensored robots. Their aims were deadly. Like a phalanx of destruction, they performed this grisly, pyrotechnic ballet. Grant suddenly wished for some appropriate music. Sturm und drang!

  O'Connor was clearly equally impressed. "Wow." He turned to Dr. Begalli. "Those suits you produced are working great. Used to be, you couldn't fight these things in such close quarters."

  Indeed, Grant noted.

  As the radium bullets, the plasma blasts, and the tossed explosives struck the aliens, rupturing the chitinous material of their exoskeletons, they tended to burst apart like ripe tomatoes atop M-80s. Their "blood"—a viscous green ichor—hurled every which way, slapping across the white armor and helmets the marines wore.

  The skin of the suit ruptured, fluid leaked out, instantly neutralizing the horrible full-bore effects of the acid. Then the skin "healed." And voila—no harm done to the marine. Nonetheless, the troops seemed to be trying for the knees and the heads, as Colonel Kozlowski had instructed them, waiting till the aliens were prone before they blasted the torso apart.

  Whatever they were doing, whatever the plan had been, it seemed to be working just fine. True, the alien blood was leaving pocks and craters in the ground, but the soldiers were trained to deal with them.

  Particularly impressive in his efforts was Corporal Henrikson. Like some military juggernaut he moved over the battlescape with fierce speed and agility, his plasma rifle snuffing out aliens and putting them to fiery deaths in what seemed like speeded-up film.

  "Man," said Grant. "Look at Henrikson go!"

  "Quite something," said Begalli. "He's a regular one-man army."

  "I've heard rumors. Some of the troops think he's a synthetic," said O'Connor.

  "What the hell does it matter?" said Grant. "He's doing his job and damned well!"

  Dr. Begalli shook his head. "True. True. With soldiers like that, we're going to get into the nest."

  Grant looked up just in time to see an odd look pass over Begalli's face. A squinting feral look, like a rat considering the implications of a maze—and looking forward as much to shitting in the passageways as to getting to the cheese at the other end.

  But then, Begalli had always struck him as one odd customer, and so he just set the observance aside and turned back to this marvelous bloody sport up there on the screen.

  All he needed now was a beer and some peanuts!

  It was a big one.

  The alien under the lander scrabbled for Kozlowski like some frenetic dinosaur closing in for the kill on what it considered a soft-bellied mammal.

  "Just try, asshole," said Kozlowski, whipping her gun up.

  The lights came on full bore, stopping the thing not one stride, but illuminating it thoroughly.

  She fired.

  The burst of bullets from her semiautomatic rifle fanned out perfectly. Textbook. The explosive slugs caught the thing in the kneecaps, exploding them. The beast went down, snarling and hissing, scrabbling for her without missing a beat.

  She drew a bead on its bananalike head and squeezed off another burst. The thrill of competency seized her as the head burst apart. The blast kicked back a dollop of blood onto her suit.

  Her reaction was knee-jerk terror. Experience had taught her that a burst of xeno blood on armor meant trouble.

  Then her brain kicked in, salving her trained reaction with reality: this was a special suit.

  Time to see if it worked. The guinea pig: herself.

  The junk immediately sizzled and bubbled through the plastic lining. Like oozing pus, the neutralizing agent flowed out, and swallowed the acid.

  Sizzle.

  Bubble.

  The plastic shell moved back over the hole and the suit was whole again.

  Unfortunately, there wasn't a lot of time to feel good about it. Already three more aliens were running her way underneath the lander. She picked off the right one. Knees. Head. Torso. The weapons these days were so good. The shells just cut through that damned exoskeleton like it was the thinnest of tin. So satisfying just seeing them burst like that.

  Overripe gourds in a shooting gallery!

  Another soldier was beside her.

  The nametag read MAHONE.

  No discussion. Just quick efficient drawing of a bead, and then her gun coughed off, dealing amazing damage to the beast to their left.

  They swiveled as one, and their fire converged on the central alien, only five yards away now.

  The strength of their blastin
g shattered the thing, and its blood blew back as well, among the tumble and tatters of its wasted body.

  "He looked like my last boyfriend!" said Mahone over the radio, her voice sounding immensely satisfied.

  "No," said Kozlowski. "Seems to me the others look more like boyfriends."

  "Yeah. I think you're right. Let's waste 'em!"

  Mahone's grin showed through her faceplate.

  However, before they could go and look for any more, a voice crackled over Kozlowski's radio. "Colonel. We got one on the ship!"

  "Damn," said Kozlowski. "Not good!" She turned to Mahone. "Stay here and cover me. I have to check this out."

  "Roger."

  She turned and started running for the other side of the ramp to gain a vantage point on the situation.

  Intellectually she'd been aware that the gravity here was only .9 of Earth Standard. However, she was shocked at how quickly she was able to move. True, these suits were a little lighter than she was used to ...

  She didn't complain at all. She just had to adjust herself accordingly.

  "Okay, hotshots," she said to a soldier she immediately recognized as Jastrow. "What's going on?"

  Things looked pretty well contained. The rest of the bunch were killing either the last standing alien, or raking their weapons across the remains of ones already shot down, making sure they were dead.

  Jastrow pointed. Sweat dripped down his temples and forehead despite his suit's air-conditioning. Kozlowski followed the direction of his forefinger.

  The xeno had somehow leapt up to one of the gemlike pilot blisters. Its talons were scratching along the structural spokes and its tail whipped hard against the material, attempting to break through.

  Even as she stood, considering, Private Ellis puffed up, raising his rifle.

  "Hold on, soldier," said Kozlowski, holding out a halting hand. "Shoot the thing with that, we'll have bug blood all over the hull."

  Bang! Bang! The tail whipped the blister. Probably giving the pilots fits.

  "Jastrow! Haul the wagon over here," she commanded.

  Speedily, the private obeyed, grabbing hold of the robo-wagon. Kozlowski punched open a latch, lifted the lid, looked.

  Selected what she needed.

  The thing was like a squarish grenade launcher, with various tangly things extruding. She picked it up, put it up against her shoulder, aimed at the offending alien, and fired.

  The projectile that shot out progressed half the distance in a blur, but then at the top of its trajectory bloomed out into a net drawn by three guided bolos. Expertly directed, they whacked past the bug, scooped it up in the net.

  Electricity arced and zapped.

  The bug was pried off its hold, and carried off meters away to bounce hard upon the land. It rolled, and lay there, just a faint hiss and crackle emerging.

  "Dead?" asked Jastrow.

  "No way," Kozlowski said. "I doubt it. The electrical charge in the mesh is probably just enough to stun it."

  "What should we do?"

  Kozlowski considered.

  Her first inclination was to just kill it. Quick. However, she well knew that Grant was watching the proceedings, and may want to imprison it with a force field in order that his scientist could examine it. She tongued her com unit, hating having to do it.

  However, like a bolt out of the blue, before she could do a damned thing, a plasma blast fried the bug and the net.

  She swung around to see the perpetrator of this, wondering whether to chew the soldier out or thank him.

  Standing there, looking totally competent and unfazed, was Corporal Henrikson.

  "It looked like it was about to break free, Colonel," the man said.

  The colonel shrugged. "Yeah. Next time, though, check with me."

  "Sure."

  She looked around the field of devastation.

  The bugs were squashed here, totally.

  She took her helmet off and sniffed.

  "Ah. What a stench," she said. "Nothing like it in the universe."

  19

  Soldiers, still helmeted and suited up, were carrying burnt and destroyed bodies of the enemy to collect them in a single pile. A vehicle was building a border of dirt around this pile, to prevent any possible spread of lingering acid.

  Although he wore no suit, Daniel Grant had taken the precaution of donning acid-neutralizing boots. What with the lower gravity, though, he did not notice the extra weight or bulk.

  On alien soil.

  Grant had been born on a colony, but his own homeworld had not been that much different from Earth. His years on Earth had made him feel like a native. So it was an odd sensation indeed to actually be walking on ground so far from home, and so distinctly different in taste, touch, smell, and general atmosphere. Too, there could be no doubt that he was walking over a battlefield now.

  Or that another war entirely was going on beyond the background buzz of the force-field perimeter.

  Tune that out for now, man, he told himself. Take it a step at a time. Right now you're a lot safer here than you were back on Earth with that gangster Fisk breathing down your neck!

  A couple of the troops were standing by the edge of the encampment, looking out past the clear shimmer of the force field to the events beyond.

  Swarms of bugs were moving, dodging and sparring, occasionally dashing out and tearing one another to bits. Not exactly a melee, and the oddest battle that Daniel Grant had ever witnessed. Flashes of green and black. Fillips of splashed blood, limbs flying and occasionally crackling into the. field, bouncing back off in a spray of sparks, singed.

  "Sun's up. Clouds are off," said Private Jastrow. "Feels good."

  "What, you're enjoying a nice sunbath?" said Private Ellis, sarcastic. "God knows what land of deadly radiation is coming down from that sun!"

  "like this whole planet is a health spa! Look, Ellis. You take your pleasure where you can get it! I'm taking mine here! Right now!" He held his arms outstretched. "Ah! Wonderful! I may come back with a tan."

  "Just be happy if you come back."

  "Actually, Ellis, I gotta tell you. I'm feeling relief. Great relief."

  "Heaven's sake, why?"

  "Everything is working great. That last bit wasn't so bad. Not too bad at all." Jastrow smiled. "Hell, this operation's going to be a cinch."

  Ellis looked out at the mass of bugs, the hive, the stricken panorama. "Yeah ... right."

  Grant stepped up to them. "Hello, gentlemen. I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your work today."

  They spun around, slightly alarmed. "Mr. Grant!" said Jastrow.

  "Sorry to creep up on you like that. I didn't mean to, really. I just want to personally congratulate you. I was watching you guys. All of you. On the screens. You operated like a well-oiled, absolutely brilliant machine. It's good to be working with such fine people like you."

  The two could not help but break out into broad smiles. "Thanks, Mr. Grant," said Jastrow.

  "You know, you two may not be in the marines all your lives. Whenever you're out, Grant Industries is probably going to have positions for guys like you."

  "That's wonderful!"

  "So just keep up the good work!"

  He moved away, to go have a look at what was going on at the side of the Anteater. That little speech should help boost the morale. Those two would probably spread it among the others, and he would be happy to repeat it. It wasn't bullshit, either. He really meant it. He'd be happy to hire all of these people.

  First thing he'd do was set them on that maniac Fisk.

  On the side of the lander, a huge portion of metal had flipped down on hinges, exposing a bank of gleaming guns. A regular arsenal.

  Grant felt a lilt to his step, a bounce to his walk as he approached.

  In the command control area behind this array of weaponry, Sergeant Argento was doing a double check to systems.

  "Looks like some mean machines here, Sarge," said Grant.

  "That they are, M
r. Grant!" Argento said from beneath his drooping black mustache.

  "What's the plan?"

  "Pretty simple. We've got about seventy more yards to go before we can start thinking about getting into the hive entrance. Unfortunately, there's a lot of activity going on out there, what with alien species war going on."

  "So I've noticed. Lovely to see them going at each other, instead of at us."

  "Yes, sir. Well, we synchronize openings in the field to allow for explosive discharges. Then we bomb the territory between us and the top of the entrance, to clear off as many bugs as possible. Once the things are either dead or scattered, we blow out another PEH. Sink it in, turn it on—extend the force-field perimeter. Little trickier on this kind of rock but nothing harder than what we've just accomplished, really."

  "And then we go for the gold."

  "Exactly."

  The silvery weaponry gleamed in the alien sun, sparkling with promise.

  Grant gave the sergeant a thumbs-up sign.

  "Here's to a campaign without a hitch."

  "Yes, sir." Argento returned the gesture. "Without a hitch and then back home for the biggest party in one of your best casinos."

  "You've been to one of my casinos, Argento?"

  "Yes, sir. The Beach Blossom, last year. Lost my shirt, but I had the time of my life!" Argento was grinning, showing even, white teeth.

  "You don't know how happy I am to hear that, my friend. Yes, an excellent concept. A party for you all ... At my casino, the Beach Blossom at New Atlantic City!"

  "Without a hitch!"

  "That's right, soldier! That's pretty much what I promised your commanders before we started this trip—and now, thanks to the wonderful technology here, look where we are!"

  He walked over and stood just meters away from a red and a black alien, slashing at each other.

  It was like watching a movie.

  He felt totally safe.

  He put his hands on his hips and laughed.

  Piece of cake!

  They were playing horseshoes outside the lander.

  Alex Kozlowski wasn't quite sure where they'd gotten the stuff. Probably fashioned it in the metal shop on board the Razzia for just such a possibility, and then stashed the stuff on the Anteater.