Aliens: Bug Hunt

by Jonathan Maberry

  Where there was one cadre, now there are three.

  The protector drops down. Its cadre is small enough now for completely silent communication, no hisses to be heard, no taps to be detected. Its body shivers, stops, shivers, stops, a pattern that causes the others to cluster tightly around it. It joins hands with two others, who join hands with others next to them, and so on, until all are packed in close and connected by touch. The protector squeezes simple rhythms, sending messages. This is not a language so much as it is the communication of basic concepts:

  This one goes first. Other ones follow. Quiet. Slow. At hive, cadre hides, waits. Silence. When this one strikes, others strike.

  The protector drops to all fours and scurries off to the left.

  Fifty-six others follow.

  * * *

  The protector crouches in the shadows near a hive opening.

  It has watched. It has seen.

  The desire to strike is almost overwhelming. The need to defend the hive, the urge to collect hosts, these instinctive drives pulse through the protector as strong and fast as its own heartbeat, glow like the strange lights that dot the tall hive-mounds.

  But the protector waits, as does the cadre behind it.

  The protector saw one of the dangerous prey come out of that opening, run to join the fight against the other cadres. The protector saw that the opening closed, by itself, a moving wall sealing it up.

  If it opened once, perhaps it will open again.

  Around the opening, piles of objects form barricades. The protector understands these barricades are similar to ones it helped make back in the colony—barricades that block, that protect, that channel an enemy into a predictable path.

  Behind the barricade stands one of the dangerous prey. It holds a loud-stinger, the biggest one the protector has seen yet. This loud-stinger seems to be a part of the dangerous prey, connected to it by an extra arm made of metal.

  So close. A viable host, right there, only a short sprint away. To subdue it, to take it back to the colony… the compulsion to collect is so powerful.

  The protector faces a difficult, reactive choice—collect the lone dangerous prey now, or continue to wait. This dangerous prey isn’t part of the larger fight. It is guarding the hive opening… which means there could be more hosts inside.

  Expand the colony…

  The protector’s every decision is a thing of pure logic, a mathematical equation free of creativity. The protector’s brain evaluates variables, compares them in a pre-weighted system that was in place long before it was born.

  Capture one host, or multiple?

  Multiple.

  The protector doesn’t decide to wait, per se, it simply does not move at that moment.

  A rumbling sound, high frequency and low frequency both. The protector feels something coming, something heavier than a cadre sprinting at full speed.

  Then, the protector sees what is shaking the ground—a hive that moves.

  The moving hive roars, lets out a cone of flame. The protector’s body shudders with pain from the shockwave. A loud-sting, but so powerful it stuns the protector into stillness for a few moments.

  Another roar as something explodes out among the cadre attacking the hive.

  So much new information. So many new sensations.

  The protector waits. It hisses, trying to see all there is to see on the battlefield.

  Echoes come back, echoes of moving prey. Four… no, five, running quickly away from the attacking cadres.

  Multiple hosts, running, fleeing. They are coming closer.

  They are headed for the hive entrance.

  The wall that sealed the entrance… it slides back.

  The hive is open.

  The protector rises. The others rise with it. Low and on all fours, the protector gallops toward the hive opening, the others close behind.

  They instinctively move to three abreast, the protector front and center. The cadre understands loud-stings, how deadly they are. If fired upon, the three in front will act as a shield, taking damage so that the others behind them may get closer.

  The long, fast-moving column of apex predators closes in.

  The dangerous prey reacts quickly, lets out a sound of alert, turning to point the large loud-stinger toward the cadre. Flashes erupt from the end. The other on the protector’s left is knocked backward. The other on the protector’s right loses an arm in a blast of chitin, acid and flesh.

  The protector launches itself high into the air just as more flashes from the loud-sting tear into the others behind it. The dangerous prey angles the loud-stinger up, but it is too late—the protector arcs over the barricade and kicks down hard, its full weight smashing the dangerous prey to the ground.

  Others scramble over the barricade. They are met with a deafening cacophony of loud-stings. The protector smells pheromones of agony, of death. It suffers the concussive pains of the dangerous prey’s loud-stings. The protector is so close to serving the colony in the best way it possibly can—the sensation triggers a rush of hormones that increase aggression. In just a few seconds of action, the protector is awash in a swirling ocean of input and sensation.

  The dangerous prey with the extra arm makes bleating noises. It starts to rise. It is so dense, so heavy, yet for all that weight it is weak. The protector clutches tight with hands, feet and tail. It must neutralize the dangerous prey.

  The protector opens wide its primary mouth—the two kilogram secondary mouth fires outward at over twenty meters per second, smashing into the prey’s thorax, denting the mottled green carapace. The prey shudders, but doesn’t stop. It struggles to rise.

  The protector has more strength than the prey, but not enough mass to hold the prey down. Another protector grabs the prey, then another, holding it in place. The prey fights. The protector aims for the head, then again strikes with the secondary mouth. The two kilogram weapon smashes into the prey’s face at the same time the tiny jaws sink through flesh and lock onto cheekbone. Blood flies.

  The prey struggles. The protector feels internal muscles contract, forcing fluid through two hollow teeth of the secondary mouth. Almost immediately, the prey slows, weakens.

  The dangerous prey stops struggling.

  Through the secondary mouth, the protector can feel the prey’s heartbeat: slow, steady, strong.

  This host is still alive. It is healthy.

  Others are swarming through the open entrance. A few dangerous prey struggle on, but they are overwhelmed, buried under a wave of shiny black chitin and twitching tails.

  The protector gathers up its host and quickly moves away from the hive. The others will search inside, collecting potential hosts, killing anything that is too dangerous to capture. From inside that hive, the protector hears loud-stings. Few and far between at first, then none at all.

  The battle is over.

  For now, at least, the colony is safe.

  The protector finds the scent trail. The host it carries must be taken back to the colony—to the egg chamber.

  * * *

  The young queen awakens.

  An instinctive process begins.

  She must escape. She must break free. Legs—small but powerful—kick out hard. She feels her crown press against the host’s sternum. Her entire body contracts, then expands all at once, trunk and tail and legs combining to deliver all of her strength to a few square centimeters.

  She feels the restraining bone crack.

  She coils again, explodes again, feels the crack widen.

  The third time, she feels the host’s bone splinter and its flesh tear. Her body makes it halfway out. The host’s body twitches around her, shivering in its final death throes.

  The new queen opens her mouth for the first time. She cannot yet see. She hisses… the sound waves that bounce back tell her she is not alone.

  Hands lift her, pull her free. Gentle hands, loving hands.

  She is carried. She feels protected.

  The caring hands
hold something to her mouth. She smells it, is instantly overwhelmed by the need to eat. She would eat anything she is given, but this particular food is meant only for her, only for queens-to-be.

  At this stage of life, her body is impossibly dense. A small percentage of it consists of normal cells: muscle, brain, nervous system, a few temporary organs that will be gone in a few hours. Most of her, however, consists of millions upon millions of compressed cell that contain almost no fluid. These waiting cells are packed so tight they are a nearly solid mass.

  As digested food spreads through her system, these compacted cells absorb moisture and nutrients—the cells begin to expand. The little queen is like a long-dry sponge finally exposed to water. Fluid swells within these dormant cells. Her density drops, but her size increases exponentially.

  Were she alone, without the support of her colony, the little queen would eat whatever she could find. Her sharp, dense teeth can cut through almost anything, and almost anything she can swallow down her digestive system can process. With this specialized food, however, this sustenance specifically meant for the body of a young queen, her growth rate is launched into overdrive.

  Her cells expand. They divide. Within a half hour, her skin grows too tight, so constrictive that crinkling lines form with flesh bulging between them. An hour after her birth, that skin splits—her body swells. She becomes longer, thicker. The newly exposed skin quickly begins to harden, to provide support to her body and new limbs. This skin will last only a few hours before she is again too large, and the process repeats.

  Her protectors can reach full size in little more than a day.

  She is much, much larger, yet it will take her less than a week to reach adult size.

  Shortly after that happens, her body will begin to produce eggs.

  The loving hands finally set the young queen down. She can almost stand on her own. Protectors help her stay upright. She smells/tastes their individual pheromone signatures. Her tail presses against the ground, but it is still too weak to hold her weight.

  The young queen hears something: a low sound. A song, one that is made only for her, one that defines her.

  That song is picked up by the protectors. They echo it, amplify it, so that it spreads throughout the colony.

  In that song is the Young Queen’s identity.

  I am… I exist.

  She has a sense of self. She is an individual—those around her are not, they are extensions of her.

  All but one.

  The Young Queen is finally able to see. She can hear, feel, she can detect vibrations. All of these senses are assaulted at once. The smells, the tastes, the sounds…

  The sight.

  Before her is her mother—a hundred times larger. Sprawling crown, shiny black carapace, thin arms, delicate trunk, long teeth.

  The large queen leans her head over the smaller one. Thick mucus drips down from the older into the mouth of the younger, who swallows it down, adding more specialized nutrition and precious fluid to her rapidly expanding body.

  Old Queen is beautiful and precious, but there is also a scent coming off of her that is disturbing.

  Because Old Queen is dying.

  Hisses, taps, low thrums, pheromones… the two queens share something that the protectors could never know—a conversation, an actual exchange of information and ideas. The two queens don’t have long. Old Queen knows she must pass on her knowledge before time runs out.

  Young Queen listens, so very carefully.

  Together, in the half-light, mother and daughter discuss the future of the colony.

  * * *

  The author would like to thank Chris Grall, MSG, U.S. Army Special Forces (Ret.) for his assistance with making cadre instincts and silent communication logical and consistent with proven tactics from elite military ground forces.

  The author would also like to thank Gwen Pearson, Ph.D. in Entomology, for her feedback in eusocial insect communication and colony behavior.

  The work of University of Missouri biologist Rex Cocrof was also instrumental in applying actual insect communication methods to the Xenomorphs.

  SPITE

  BY TIM LEBBON

  “Let’s get busy!”

  Sprenkel’s familiar pre-mission call echoed around the dropship’s interior, but no one responded as they plunged into the huge habitat’s weak atmosphere. A heavy vibration settled into the vessel, and Durand closed her eyes as her combat suit absorbed much of the impact. She always hated this part. Dropping into an atmosphere, however weak it may be, after weeks travelling through deep space was always a shock to the system––gravity taking hold, ship shaken and buffeted by atmospherics, and knowing that the end of their journey was near, as were the dangers that might face them there.

  In this instance, there was little indication of what awaited them. The colony on Weller’s World had fallen silent, and they were the nearest Colonial Marine unit on hand to go and investigate. The fact that they were on their way home from a two-year tour of Delta quadrant hadn’t come into the equation. Major Akoko Halley had accepted their orders without question, selected the crew to take down with her on the dropship, and two hours ago they’d left the comfort of the destroyer Ariel on this final mission.

  “My nuts are shaking loose,” Nassise said.

  “You’ve got no nuts,” Bestwick replied. “I sliced them off when you were in hypersleep, you just haven’t thawed enough to notice.” Laughter swelled around the dropship’s interior, then Major Halley’s voice cut in.

  “System and weapon checks in five minutes. I want you all green across the board before we hit the surface.”

  Durand sighed. She’d willingly follow Halley into the jaws of hell, but the major did little to shed her Snow Dog nickname. She was as cool and distant as they came.

  Around the dropship’s circular hold, the Colonial Marines went through their self-checking procedures. Durand interrogated her combat suit and came up all systems online and fully functional. Next she assessed her com-rifle, zeroing every reading so that levels were refreshed. Laser, plasma, and nano charges were all full. Finally she and her neighbor, the big guy Misra, confirmed each other’s readings.

  Everyone announced themselves fully prepped.

  Major Halley nodded. Their vital signs would be displayed on her own combat suit’s visor, and she turned her head slowly as she assessed her crew. Bestwick and Nassise sat to her left, Sprenkel and Eddols to her right, and Durand and Misra were across the hold from her. They were a good, solid team who’d fought battles together, faced danger and death, and dished out their fair share. Durand knew that the major was more used to leading large complements of the 39th Spaceborne, known as the DevilDogs, into patrol and combat situations, but Snow Dog also enjoyed these smaller, more personal missions.

  Some said she was a former phrail addict replacing the drug’s allure with the thrill of combat. Durand had no opinion on the matter. And even if she had, she’d never share it.

  “Four minutes,” Huyck said from the cockpit. “I’ve picked up the beacon, no signs of anything amiss.”

  “Circle the facility,” Halley said. “Durand? With me.” They unclipped their harnesses and passed through into the cockpit, grabbing hold of storage strapping as the ship was buffeted by Weller’s weak atmosphere.

  The artificial habitat was huge, and looked like any one of a score of planets Durand had landed on over the eleven years of her time as a Colonial Marine. Blasted, bare, lifeless, this place was scarred and inimical due to the light atmosphere belched from the massive processors several miles to the east. Storms raged.

  “No place to spend Christmas,” Durand said.

  “No place to be at all,” Huyck said. “These assholes deserve every credit of their pay.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t always have a say in where the Company sends you,” the major said.

  “This is a Weyland-Yutani base?” Durand asked, surprised. They hadn’t been appraised of that. All indications were
that this was an independent facility. She’d thought maybe they were contractors earning a crust overseeing the atmosphere processors, or perhaps some sort of scientific base funded by one of the Institutes.

  “Not exclusively,” Halley said. “But the Company has interests everywhere, you know that, and I have orders. There’s research being done here, and we’re to retrieve it if at all possible.”

  “What about the base’s crew?”

  “Help them if we can. They’re still the priority.” She glanced away, and Durand thought, The priority for us, but probably not the Company.

  “What’s happened here, Major?” Durand asked.

  “No one seems to know. But all comm systems seem intact, and from what I can see, there’s no structural damage.”

  “Not externally, at least,” Huyck said.

  Durand was troubled. They’d been led to believe that this was a search and rescue, and now minutes before setting down, Halley was revealing more.

  “Major?” she asked.

  Halley smiled. It was a rare occurrence. “Durand, don’t sweat it. My people always come first, you know that. Whatever the Company wants… if we can do it, we will.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “You’re my wingman on this,” Halley said. “Got it?”

  Durand nodded. They’d known each other a long time. She’d never had cause to mistrust her major, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “Huyck, put us down,” Halley said.

  * * *

  Fully suited due to the toxic atmosphere, all comm systems open, the six marines followed their major into the facility’s eastern quarter. It was a large base consisting of a main central hub with four arms projecting from it, landing pad to the north, and external buildings scattered at various distances. It had the look of an older settlement––expanded, extended, with several trash sites and a surrounding landscape flattened and scarred from vehicle wheels. Records indicated the habitat was over two hundred years old, and Durand suspected that the base had been here almost from the beginning.

  Misra was her double. In situations like this they always worked in pairs, covering each other’s backs, placing their full trust in one another. They’d fought together many times before, and acting together felt as natural as breathing.