by Weston Ochse
“There now, mon frère.” He waved jovially at Kash and Hoenikker, then turned and walked the opposite way, soon lost in the curve of the corridors. The ghost of the song leaving a trail of musical breadcrumbs behind him. “Sonnez les matines. Din din don. Din din don.”
“God loves drunkards and fools,” Kash said.
“And evidently Frenchmen,” Hoenikker added.
Then they did run, but they didn’t get very far.
They almost tripped over the first body they came across. Blood smeared the walls. The head was missing. One leg bent at an unnatural angle—but it couldn’t be from the Xenomorphs. Those were behind them, or at least Hoenikker thought they were. Then he remembered the harried video call from Bellows, believing that it was one of their Xenos who had escaped. That was what had started it all. So then, what kind of creature were they going to encounter?
Screams came from behind them.
They both turned toward the sound.
Then came a roar from the way they’d been heading.
Hoenikker knew he was close to his room. He grabbed Kash’s wrist and tore off down the corridor toward the roar, praying. When he approached the intersection, he saw coming the other way the creature that must have wreaked havoc in the corridors. With the face of Fairbanks and the legs of a giant spider, it came for them, nine feet tall and impossible fast.
Kash screamed.
Hoenikker jerked her hand as he pulled her the other way. When they reached his door, he palmed in, pulled her after him, and closed it behind them. Instantly Kash ran to the end of the room, fell to the ground, and pulled her knees to her chin. He joined her, and they sat staring at the door as scream after scream came and went, individual Doppler effects of terror.
Another alarm sounded, drowning out most of the screams.
* * *
They sat that way for several hours, anticipating that the door would burst open, one of the monsters from the lab coming to get them. Or worse yet, Three coming to give him a warm hug.
When the alarm finally silenced, so did the sound of screams.
“No one is ever going to know,” Kash whispered.
“Know what?” Hoenikker asked.
“Everything. Nothing. What we’ve done here.” She waved her hand around. “It’s all going to be forgotten.”
“Not if we survive,” he said, not really feeling the hope he was trying to project.
“Survive?” She snorted. “We’re not going to survive this. Even if we do, we can’t be sure they got them all. Besides, this whole event will be a wart on Weyland-Yutani’s success. They’d rather nuke us from orbit than expend the moral credits needed to save us, and explain how they failed.”
“You’re painting a bleak picture.”
“It’s a watercolor made of blood depicting the end of all things.” She shook her head. “The first group of specimens we had were different. They hadn’t been subjected to the pathogen. The black goo did something to Seven. Made it smarter. Made it more in control.”
“I was thinking about that. Perhaps because there isn’t a mother, some DNA we thought was junk turned on instead, to create a leader.”
She nodded. “It was made to help them survive.”
“I’ve been modeling what we know of their society. They need a mother. A leader. They want a leader. Without one they’re nothing more than a wolf pack without an alpha. Renegades.” He chuckled. “Ronin. Like the masterless samurai who used to roam feudal Japan.”
“The Xenomorphs have a lot more weapons than a samurai.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Hoenikker stood, cranking his neck until it popped. “Weapons weren’t allowed in feudal Japan. The samurai were like modern tanks. To the common man, they were weapons of mass destruction. Which makes me believe more and more that these alien Xenomorphs were purpose-made. They’re too perfect. A bipedal version of ancient samurai who spit acid.”
Kash stood as well, putting two fists in the small of her back as she bent backward.
“I hate to break it to you, Tim. These aren’t samurai. We wished we had samurai.” She pulled her hair out of the bob and shook her head. She went over to his bed and lay down on it. “I’m just so tired.”
He grinned. “Me too.” He laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“I was thinking about that hard-ass, Cruz. Know what he’d say?” he asked. “Probably something like, ‘No napping during Armageddon, Hoenikker.’” He bellowed, trying his best to imitate the man’s voice.
Now it was her turn to laugh. “Do that again.”
“There ain’t no napping during Armageddon, Hoenikker,” he said again, his voice a full-on parody of a military bellow.
Suddenly, there came a banging on the door.
Kash shot out of bed and stood near Hoenikker.
He stood still, staring at the door. He felt like a kid who’d just gotten caught making fun of their parents.
The banging came again.
38
A maintenance closet was the last place Cruz imagined himself. Wedged between cleaning supplies and a floor scrubber while others fought and died. It was as ignoble a position as he’d ever experienced. He’d never been one to turn tail and run, he’d always been ready to fight.
Or at least, he wished he’d been that person. He deserved to be that person, with all the hard work and dedication he’d put into being a Colonial Marine. But then LV-832 happened. Moose-sized xenomorphic quadrupeds with tentacles happened. Snyder, Bedejo, Schnexnader, Correia, and Cartwright happened.
He closed his eyes to calm himself, smelling the sharp tang of cleaning solution.
That was then. This was now. He could make up for it. He could save his crew. He’d run away leaving his previous crew to die, but now he had a chance to redeem himself. He had Kash and Étienne. He even had Hoenikker. Although he didn’t like the man, this was war, this was survival. He was human and the damned Xenomorphs were not.
Plus, he had to get all of their research out, or it would be irrevocably lost.
Bellows and Security probably thought they could retake the station, but Cruz had heard and seen enough that he felt it was a fool’s bet. The Xenomorphs were the universe’s chosen killing machine. It was nature’s way of ridding space of humanity. How dare humans assume that, just because they possessed something like an LV, it was theirs? Bellows would learn. His security guards would learn, and in the meantime, Cruz would help his team escape. There were a shuttle and the San Lorenzo orbiting above. They still had hope.
First, Cruz needed to find a way to get back into the lab. So, he waited, and began to prepare himself. He spent ten precious minutes hacking his vid display into station security using one of his command controls. He needed to know what was going on.
At first the screams came fast and furious, matched by the sounds of running feet and what could only be humans being ripped apart. A pool of blood seeped beneath the door. He moved back as far as he could, but the puddle reached and surrounded his feet.
He searched through the station vids until he found one near his door, where he saw several station personnel running, while being chased by a juvenile.
Eventually the sounds became fewer and fewer, long stretches of silence punctuated by occasional screams of the dying. After hour three had passed he put his ear to the door and, upon hearing nothing, palmed it open, hoping that the vid display showed him the door to the maintenance room he was in. The sound of it opening seemed impossibly loud in the silent corridor.
He looked down and saw Comms Chief Oshita lying in a pool of her own blood. Or what was left of her. Her hair had singed away, leaving her scalp raw and ugly. Her face was locked in a grimace, probably from the intense pain from exposure to Xenomorph acid. Her chest cavity was empty, and her body still smoldered, thin curls of smoke wafting upward. The Xenomorph saliva that had dripped on her gave her an unholy sheen.
He glanced at the vid display and saw an image of himself. He looked up, t
hen down, then nodded. This would come in handy.
Stepping over her, he frowned as his feet squelched in her blood. Looking left, then right, he gripped the steel handle of a floor mop, the only weapon he could readily find, and took three steps down the corridor, squelching less and less with each step. He had about thirty meters to go to get back to the lab. The mop would do little as an offensive weapon, but it might just give him a chance to flee. He was hoping to find a dropped security weapon along the way.
Cruz kept his back to the wall as he slid sideways down the corridor, clocking each door in case he had to find a place to hole up.
The dead were plentiful.
A maintenance worker, gutted from stem to stern.
A fabrications tech, chest hoved in, neck sliced, lying in a lake of blood.
He recognized former Colonial Marine Fields from Logistics, his head crushed and separated from a body that looked as if the Xenomorphs had had an end-of-the-world rave on top of it. Then, finally, a literal pile of security guards, each owning their own version of death by alien monster.
He set aside the mop, overjoyed he hadn’t had to use it, and gathered three pistols and a pulse rifle. The pistols he shoved into his belt and pockets. The rifle he shouldered after checking to see if it was loaded and had power. The ammo counter read 99, which meant the poor schmuck hadn’t even had a chance to fire. Must have been surprised either rounding the corner or coming from behind.
Yeah, Bellows was full of shit if he thought that he could retake the station.
Then a thought hit him that made him worry. What if Bellows already knew that and had decided to leave? What if the shuttle was already gone? He glanced back the way he’d come. The shuttle bay was at the far end of the station. He should check first, but the lab was closer, as were his team. He shook his head. He’d have to chance that the shuttle would still be there.
Sliding sideways several more meters, he came to an intersection. He searched left, then right, then jerked his head back. A Xenomorph stood down the corridor, munching on something that looked remarkably like a human heart. The problem was that he had to go that way to get to the lab.
He checked the rifle again, set it to four-round bursts, then eased the barrel around the corner and sighted over the top of the carry handle.
The Xenomorph was no longer there.
Which meant it either went in the other direction, or was…
He pushed the barrel all the way around and saw the Xenomorph coming toward him along the wall. Blood dripped from its left hand where it had gripped the organ. Pink-colored saliva bubbling from its maw.
He aimed and fired at the side of the carapace and grinned as the bullets punched through. But the creature kept coming. He fired twice more, eight explosive-tipped rounds finding their mark in the side of the Xenomorph’s head.
It fell to the floor, propped on a knee, but continued toward him, making a hollow sucking sound as it came. He aimed again and it leaped at him.
Cruz was barely able to get back around the corner.
The monster sailed past, hitting the ground and rolling to its feet, already facing him. He put a four-round burst into its chest, creating four neat little acid-dripping holes. The alien went down with a single loud squeal.
He turned and ran. No telling whether or not the sound of the pulse rifle would draw any others. He made it to the door of the lab, which was held open and continually trying to close on the body of a synth whose head was missing. He pushed the synth out of the way with a boot, then slid inside as the door closed. He breathed a little easier, but only a little. He still didn’t know if there were any creatures left in the lab.
Which was trashed.
He went to the mainframe, grabbed the backup drive, and slid it into his pocket. Then he switched the rifle to full auto. If he encountered something in the lab, he wouldn’t have the luxury of picking it off from a distance. It would be full-on close quarters combat, and he’d need to overwhelm a Xenomorph with the sound and fury of an M41A pulse rifle on full automatic.
Lucky for him, there was no need. The lab was clear. Even Leon-895 was gone. Or at least, he thought it was.
Setting aside the rifle, he grabbed two things. The first was the prototype acid-resistant body armor, which he put on. The helmet was a little tight around his large hair, but with a little shoving he got it to fit. Based on an M4X body armor frame, the acid-resistant polymer coating was an upgrade to the limited acid-resistance of the old M3 vest. The armor provided full body protection with sleeves, gloves, and a full-face helmet capable of withstanding light velocity rounds. The armor was augmented with a complete body frame to help with balance when the wearer was struck by tremendous force.
The second thing he grabbed was the flamethrower, or M-240 Incinerator Unit, comprised of a large capacity napthal backpack tank and attached firing nozzle. It felt heavy, and he had to adjust the shoulder webbing to allow the tank to sit higher on his shoulders.
Now he felt better prepared.
Grabbing the pulse rifle from where he’d left it, he slung it over his shoulder. He’d use the Bake-A-Flake for now, trying for wet shots at first for distance, and flamers for anything close in. He exited the lab, taking one last look at the place he’d called home for three years, a place he’d been put in charge of, now destroyed because of events that were beyond his control.
There was a noise from the way he’d just come. He couldn’t place it for a moment, but then it all came together. Singing.
Someone was singing.
He strode down the center of the corridor, stepping over and around the occasional body or piece of one until he saw the Xenomorph he’d shot. Inexplicably, Étienne was rubbing himself against the ruined torpedo-shaped carapace.
“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez vous? Dormez vous? Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines. Din din don. Din din don.”
Cruz approached. “Étienne? What are you doing?” The man kept singing and rubbing himself against the alien skin. Cruz couldn’t fathom what the man was doing, unless…
Pheromones.
“Étienne? Ça va?” Cruz asked. “What’s going on?”
“Mon ami, isn’t this wonderful?” Étienne grinned from ear to ear as he climbed to his feet. “I am invisible to them. I can walk through them. I can move past them. They do not see me.”
Had it really worked? He’d have to see it to believe it. To all appearances, it looked as if the Frenchman had experienced a break with reality.
“Étienne, come with me. I’m going to get everyone out.”
The scientist shook his head. “I am not done yet with my field study. I need more data.”
“You have enough data,” Cruz said. “This is too dangerous.”
Étienne grinned again. “Not for me.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now, you go. I am busy. I will catch up to you.” Then he turned and walked down the corridor, singing the old children’s song about Brother Jack. Over and over. Crazy like a scientist holding a hypothesis in a death grip…
Cruz stared for a long moment, then turned and headed back, past the lab and toward their rooms. Twice he spied a Xenomorph, but they were all moving the other way. Once he saw something totally unexpected that looked for all the world like a person with giant spider legs, but by the time he’d shaken his head and closed and opened his eyes, it was gone.
Reaching the corridor with all the scientists’ rooms, he went to Kash’s door first, but then moved on when he heard a loud voice coming from Hoenikker’s room.
That’s not smart.
“There ain’t no napping during Armageddon,” the voice said, somehow sounding similar to Cruz’s. Smiling, he banged on the door.
He could only imagine what they were wondering inside.
When they didn’t answer, he banged again.
“Who—who is it?” Hoenikker said.
“It’s Cruz. Open up.”
The door opened and Cruz pushed his way inside. When the do
or closed behind him, he turned to stare at Hoenikker, well aware of what he looked like in the power armor and with the flamethrower.
“Now, what’s this about Armageddon and napping?”
39
Hoenikker about peed his pants. Cruz looked more like a battle robot than a scientist.
“How’d you get through?”
Cruz began removing his gear and putting it on the desk. “The corridors are mostly clear. I don’t know where the Xenomorphs have gotten off to, but I did see a few. I also saw something else.”
“That would be Fairbanks,” Kash said. “I posit he was somehow exposed to the pathogen.”
Cruz frowned. “That’s not advised.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not at all. What are you doing here?” she asked, then added hurriedly, “Not that I’m complaining.”
“I came to save you.”
“Me?” Hoenikker asked. “Us?”
Cruz placed his large hands on Hoenikker’s shoulders. “I might not like you at times, Timmy, but you’re one of us. You’re on my team, and I need to take care of you.”
The gesture incited the warmth of belonging combined with the smarting of not being liked. But then, Hoenikker never really cared about being liked anyway. Science wasn’t about liking things. Liking things was about emotion. Still, he’d prefer to be liked than not, at least by his coworkers.
“Thank you?” he said, the words sounding more like a question.
“What’s the plan?” Kash asked.
“We’ll need to make a beeline to the shuttle bay.” Cruz pulled out three pistols and laid them on the table, then sat in the chair. “Assuming it’s still there. But Étienne is a problem.”
“Last time we saw him, he was singing French and heading down the corridor in the opposite direction,” Hoenikker said. He eyed the chair Cruz had taken and sat on the edge of the bed instead.
Cruz nodded. “He’s still doing that. He was also rubbing himself against a dead Xenomorph. Know anything about that?”