by Weston Ochse
Hoenikker followed, as did Étienne.
Buggy looked no worse on the table. His eyes were glazed from the fentanyl, but it was helping him with the pain. The stump of his right arm no longer smoked. Kash had wrapped it in a gauze bandage.
Cruz looked at her and said, “I need you to look at my foot.”
She paused for a moment, then motioned him to one of the workstation chairs, which had a back. A stool would have been too difficult for balance. Cruz sat in the workstation for Containment Room One and spun it so that she could have access to his foot. He tried to remove the boot, but it had melted to his skin. He tried to peel it away, but it was as if the rubber and the skin had molded into a new element. He glanced to where his toes should have been and didn’t see any.
Leaning back, he groaned.
“Tell me what you see,” he said.
Kash leaned in. Hoenikker stood over them and stared at the vile mess of the man’s foot.
“I don’t know how you’ve been walking,” Kash said after a few moments. “You’ve lost all of your toes and the front third of your foot.”
“What you’re saying is I now have a pod,” he said humorlessly.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Now that the adrenaline has worn off, fuck yes.”
“We’re not going to be able to do anything about it here. We need a proper medical suite. I’m sure there’s one on the San Lorenzo, but for now, all we can do is treat the pain.”
Hoenikker was already on it, and handed him a fentanyl lollipop.
Cruz pushed it back. “I don’t want to—”
Kash pushed it toward him. “You asked for my help, and this is it. We need you to get us out of here. None of us are equipped. Sure, we’ll point and shoot at whatever you tell us to, but without you, we don’t know what to do. We have no strategy. We have no tactics. Our way of surviving is to follow the Great Cruz. So, you will take this this fentanyl and you will suck on it! It’ll make you a bit high, but it will also allow you to function.”
Cruz stared at her for a moment, then took the fentanyl in his mouth. “You had me at ‘the Great Cruz.’” Then softly, “I’m sorry for the way I acted before.”
She shook her head. “You’ll have to answer for it if we survive. I won’t forget.”
He stared at her for a long time and then just nodded, looking away.
“There’s something going down.” Rawlings ran up, excited. “What’s left of the command suite security forces are making a final push to the shuttle bay. The synths seem to have abandoned them. They don’t know or they won’t say why. So, there’s only nine security techs left, and Bellows.
“Here’s the thing,” he continued. “They’re going to have to pass by the lab to get to the shuttle bay. We can invite them inside, and then go as a larger force, or we can just stand by and see what happens.”
Even though he wasn’t a tactician, Hoenikker understood the pluses and minuses. Having more targets for the enemy would increase their chances of survival; but then again, if they got themselves killed, and took out more Xenomorphs in the process, then it would be better for Cruz and his crew.
It was both a win-win, and a lose-lose.
“What’ll it be?” Rawlings took a swig of the beaker, which he had commandeered. It was half empty.
Cruz sucked on the lolly for a moment. “If they’re all moving forward, who are they speaking to?”
“Seems as if there’s a contingent of security forces forward of the command group, trying to clear the way. Bellows is there and he may have some security with him, I just can’t be sure.”
Cruz nodded. “Let’s listen in, and see what happens.”
As if on cue, the sound of gunfire came out of the tinny little speaker, accompanied by screams.
51
Cruz asked for the radio. He depressed the call button.
“Break. Break. This is Cruz. We have safe harbor in the laboratory. Repeat, we have safe harbor in the lab.” Then he handed the radio back to Rawlings, stood a bit unsteadily, and asked for help clearing the door.
They moved the blockage, and then Cruz drug-fumbled his way into his body armor. He left the flamethrower sitting on a side table, but checked the ammo in the pistol at his waist.
The sounds of screams and pulse rifle fire began to diminish until it was only a single scream and a single rifle firing. Then there was silence. Pure and utter silence.
“What do you think happened?” Hoenikker asked.
Cruz knew exactly what happened.
“Let the cowboys and Indians fight amongst themselves,” he said. “There’s less we have to deal with between here and our objective. As for the station commander, he had a choice he decided to ignore. Now, he’s run out of resources—and guess where he’s going to be coming.”
There was a banging at the door.
“This is Station Chief Bellows.” The voice came through the radio, as well as through the door. “I demand that you open this door.”
Rawlings looked at Cruz. “Doesn’t he know it’s unlocked?”
Cruz grinned around his lollipop and spoke into the radio. “We don’t accept any demands. If you want a rescue, we might be able to accommodate.”
Buggy moaned and tried to sit up. Kash asked Hoenikker to help her, and they held him down.
The banging came again. “Let me in.”
Étienne laughed. “Not by zee hair of my chinny chin chin.” Cruz couldn’t help but smile. Goddamn but he loved the Frenchman.
He paused.
Where did that come from?
He pulled the fentanyl candy out of his mouth. Yeah. That was it. He popped it back in and sucked on it. He couldn’t feel his foot, which was all he cared about at the moment.
“Fucking hell.” Rawlings took a swig, handed the beaker to Étienne, then strode to the door. Just as the commander began to pound again, he opened it, jerked the commander in, and closed the door behind him. Bellows fell to the ground, his jacket still smoking from an acid burst. He scrambled to get up, but Rawlings put his foot in the middle of the man’s chest and drew his pistol.
“Now, tell me what the fuck you think about us now?”
Before the half-drunk warrant officer could shoot the station commander, Cruz stood. He figured the only reason the security techs hadn’t taken the shuttle was because they didn’t have the access code. Now that he had the commander, they could get the code and get the fuck off this rock.
“Ease off, Rawlings,” Cruz said. “Let Bellows get to his feet. After all, his men are all dead or dying, so all he has is us.” Rawlings glared at him, then sighed and backed away. He holstered his pistol and walked around the table next to Étienne.
Bellows huffed as he got to his feet, opened his mouth, and seemed about to launch into a diatribe. Then he saw the looks on the faces that surrounded him. He closed his mouth, his confidence fled. He looked like a deflated old man, his once bright, confident eyes engulfed in fear and self-doubt.
“How’d you survive?” he asked.
“Skill, planning, and luck,” Cruz said. “What about you?”
Bellows shifted his feet and put a hand on his lower back.
“We didn’t fare as well.”
“It’s because you had a larger force,” Cruz said, and the commander shot him a confused look. “You didn’t consider conservation of resources. You chose to try and bludgeon your way through, rather than strike at sensitive areas of the enemy until it could no longer fight.”
“How do you…” Bellows laughed hollowly. “That’s right. You’re one of the Colonial Marines.” He looked at Rawlings and Buggy. “They were, too. Smart. You got together.”
“It was Rawlings who got us together. At first, I thought it was going to be nothing more than a club where we reminisced about old times. Rawlings had a gut feeling, though.”
“A gut feeling?” Bellows asked, staring at the reception tech as if for the first time.
“Yes,” Rawlings sa
id. “A gut feeling that the station was so poorly run that it was only a matter of time before everything went to shit, and it was every man for himself.”
Bellows jerked back as if slapped. “Well now. Don’t hold back.”
Enough of the small talk, Cruz thought. “What’s the disposition of your forces?”
“What forces? Everyone’s gone. Or if not gone, in hiding.”
“What about the group at the shuttle bay?”
“They might be there, or not. We lost contact with them an hour ago.” Bellows’ eyebrows creased as his eyes narrowed. “What is that thing you created? How did it know what do to? Did you see the mess hall? Did you see the death factory it created?”
“We saw. We don’t understand it, but we saw.”
“If it wasn’t for that piranha-headed Xenomorph, we might have been able to retake this station,” Bellows said. “It has more than animal instinct. It has intellect.”
Cruz liked the piranha-headed comparison. It fit.
“How many Xenomorphs did you see?” Hoenikker asked.
“At the end, none. I was too far back. But your head alien is holding the area in front of the shuttle bay.” He glanced at the vial, and licked his lips. Étienne passed it to him and was thanked with a nod. “Honestly? There can’t be that many left. Four. Five. Seven tops.”
“Is that thesis supported by evidence?” Kash said.
Bellows pointed at the door. “Well, missy, the evidence is out there. You want to find it, I assure you, I won’t stop you.”
Hoenikker stepped forward, grabbed the commander by his lapel, and pushed him up against the wall. Cruz didn’t know who was more surprised at the move, Hoenikker or Bellows. He was about to jump in, but wanted to see it play out.
“What? No threats?” Hoenikker asked. Bellows tried to disengage, and he pushed him against the wall again. “You think it’s as easy as all that? You think it’s our fault?” He leaned in. “Who’s the asshole who brought in human beings to be experimented on?”
Bellows glanced toward Cruz, who just shrugged.
“I was just doing what corporate told me to do,” Bellows mumbled.
“Just doing what you were told to do?” Hoenikker’s voice rose a pitch. “You think that’s a fair excuse to kill people? And what about the threats you made—to all of us?”
“Threats?” Bellows asked, his voice small.
“You were going to tell everyone about my sister. Do you want me to tell them now? My sister is a drug addict. We’ve been trying to cure her, but she steals to get money for drugs, and is on a prison planet.” Hoenikker waved his fingers in front of Bellows’ face. “Oooooh, that’s so awful.”
Cruz had to laugh.
“Hell, she might have been one of the people you made us kill,” he continued. “And then you called Dr. Kash—one of the finest humans and scientists I have ever worked with— the Angel of Death. What the fuck was that about? And our friend Étienne? You said he should be in prison?”
Hoenikker pushed Bellows hard into the wall, released him, then backed away.
“And now you want our help. You want us to forget all the terrible things you’ve said and done, because your guards are all dead and you’re scared. You are pathetic. No, you’re worse than pathetic. You’re what looks up to pathetic, and wants to be pathetic.”
The station commander didn’t reply. No one spoke.
“Enough,” Cruz said, finally. To Hoenikker he said, “You’re what looks up to pathetic?”
Hoenikker’s gaze went to the ground.
“It was all I could think of.”
“No, no.” Cruz put a hand on the archaeologist’s shoulder. He liked it when members of his team stood up for the others. Hoenikker had come a long way. “What you said was good, and it was needed.” He pinned Bellows with a look. “But now, it’s time to leave. Everyone gun up and be ready.”
“Am I coming with you?” Bellows asked, glancing at Hoenikker.
“Only if you don’t want to stay here,” Cruz said. “But before you go, what’s the command code to release the shuttle.”
The room went as silent as a tomb.
“If I tell you, you’ll leave me behind,” Bellows said evenly.
Cruz shook his head slowly. “I’m a Colonial Marine. We never leave anyone behind.”
Bellows seemed to consider. “But you’re a former Colonial Marine.”
Rawlings stepped forward. He wobbled a little, but Cruz didn’t think Bellows noticed.
“Once a marine, always a marine,” Rawlings said.
Bellows frowned. “Is this the condition for me coming with you?”
“It is,” Cruz said.
“Fine.” Bellows sighed. “Fuck it. One-nine-seven-five-three.”
“Alrighty then,” Cruz said. “Let’s go.”
52
As they prepared to leave the lab, Cruz moved to the back. He insisted it was because he was concerned about the amount of fuel he had left for his flamethrower. Hoenikker studied him with a frown. The man’s foot was basically gone, though if they survived this, he could probably obtain a prosthesis much like Rawlings had for his hand.
They put Bellows next, giving him a pistol. Hoenikker wasn’t sure of the logic—they hadn’t trusted McCune, after all—but by the way he held it, it seemed as if he knew how to use it. That might prove to their advantage. Étienne stood next to him, a pistol in his hand, an expression of joy on his face.
Then it was Hoenikker and Kash, next in line. They were given the choice to carry rifles or pistols. Kash chose to take the rifle. Hoenikker thought about it. He’d fired one before, thanks to Cruz, but ultimately decided that he’d be better off carrying a pistol. He was more familiar with it, and felt that changing weapons might be to his detriment.
Buggy and Rawlings were in the front. Hoenikker didn’t know why either of them should be there, but they’d insisted on it. Rawlings was eight-ways-to-Sunday drunk and could barely speak. Buggy was as high as he could be after two fentanyl lollipops, and only had one arm—his firing arm.
Even so, they’d argued and Cruz had decided that if they wanted to go first, then they could go. Buggy held a pistol in his good hand. Hoenikker realized that it meant he and Kash were the de facto front line, but they were almost to the shuttle, and they had the command code. All they had to do was make it there, lock themselves in the craft, and they’d be home free.
In the instant before going out the door, Hoenikker remembered Stokes’ comment when Hoenikker had asked whether he should take the job.
“You might never get this opportunity again. Sure, you could stay here at your nine-to-five, going out for dinner on Fridays, seeing your therapist on Wednesdays. Or you could travel to the edge of the known universe, discover wonders no man has ever seen, and be better for it. Be boring and stay here. Or be dangerous and travel far.”
Once again, he wished he could opt for “boring.” If he ever got out of this, he was going to go back to his friend Stokes and punch him in the gut. The image of it made Hoenikker smile. Yeah, he was ready.
Let’s get this show on the road.
Rawlings reached for the door, and they all tensed, ready for an attack.
Nothing was there.
Turning left, they kept a tight formation. They couldn’t go a foot without stepping over the corpse of a human, or that of a Xenomorph. It was as if the floor was carpeted with the dead. Had it been his first week on station, Hoenikker would have found himself on his hands and knees, vomiting at the sight and stench of it. But the weeks he’d been here had made him into sterner stuff.
They didn’t have far to go before they saw the enemy.
Seven stood in the middle of the corridor. It was as if he was staring into the distance. His jaws worked furiously, dripping saliva and acid. Around him crouched eleven juvenile Xenomorphs. Seven didn’t seem to be looking at them, but finally it turned to them, and as it did, so did the eleven monsters. Their tails twitched and their jaws worked. Sali
va dripped like waterfalls of death and sizzled onto the floor.
Beyond them lay the shuttle bay doors, and freedom.
Hoenikker could taste it. He could almost imagine lying down in a cryo-sleep cradle and drifting off, only to wake up to a place that had a paucity of Xenomorphs and an abundance of great wine. His own personal heaven.
“Hoenikker,” Étienne said from behind.
“Yes?”
“It was nice knowing you, mon ami.”
Hoenikker gulped.
Then the juveniles attacked.
Buggy began firing with his left hand, one round after the other. Rawlings, who had a hundred rounds and another hundred to load, began firing full-automatic in what Cruz had referred to as the “spray and pray” method. Rounds flew by the dozens, catching Xenos in midair and on the ground.
Only there were too many of them. Hoenikker tracked a juvenile who walked the walls and then the ceiling as it raced toward them. He fired, and Kash did as well. She caught it in the head, but as it died it rained blood.
Buggy and Rawlings both screamed as the acid fell on them. Buggy went down hard, his skull melting as the majority of it landed on him. Rawlings reeled into the wall, still pulling the trigger, but went down on one knee.
Kash and Hoenikker kept firing until the juvenile fell to the ground in front of them.
It twitched once.
Then twice.
Then stilled.
Rawlings glanced back, his face running as the skin sloughed off. He tried to speak, but his lips burned away before he could. He fell face first into the dead Xenomorph and continued melting into it.
Hoenikker looked away, and was stunned to see that the other Xenomorphs had stopped attacking. In fact, they’d moved back to protect Seven, squatting next to him like children would their parent. He counted four more dead or dying juveniles on the ground. Which mean it was now seven against five. But half of their firepower was now gone, with Rawlings and his ruined pulse rifle down for good.
Staring at Seven, Hoenikker began to feel the familiar buzz. The Xenomorph was broadcasting something. What it was, he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to see it dead.