The Complete Aliens Omnibus

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Fortunately, she had another view to occupy her thoughts—the one on the small, rectangular vidscreen embedded in her patchwork pile of an instrument panel. It showed her the metallic, eight-sided corridor that ran through the station’s main level, connecting mall traffic with the docking bays.

  Video courtesy of Vriess, she thought. As usual.

  The little guy may have lost the use of his legs, but he was one gifted sonuvabitch with his hands. And who knows that better than I do? she asked herself with a satisfied smile. It was nothing for Vriess to secret a remote vidcamera in a recessed bulkhead slot as he trundled past it in his motorized chair.

  With a tapped command, Bolero got the monitor to show her yet another view—the one behind Vriess, because there was a camera hidden in his chair as well. And from that perspective, she could tell Vriess was in the midst of a first-class brawl.

  Which meant Johner and the others had already begun stirring the pot, and giving Call the distraction she needed. Bolero interlaced her slender, dark fingers, thrust them out with her palms outward, and gave her knuckles an audible crack.

  Her mother had told her she would get big, ugly knuckles that way. She had also said that Bolero would never be happy roaming the space routes in a cargo hauler.

  Mom didn’t know much, did she?

  Bolero had shipped out when she was eighteen, and had kicked around haulers ever since. But the day she hooked up with Ripley, she had stopped simply dragging cargo and embarked on something else.

  Something bigger, more important. Something someone could hang a lifetime on and never regret.

  Tapping a stud on her board, she opened a shipwide link. “Hey boys and girls,” she said, “it’s time to split this burg. Anything I should know about before I engage the engines?”

  “Honestly, Bolero,” said a deep, cultured voice, “you know I’m the only one aboard besides yourself. Yet you persist in addressing me as ‘boys and girls.’”

  “I like saying it,” she admitted. “The engines … ?”

  “Eager for the harness,” he assured her.

  She nodded. “Thanks, Rama.”

  While Bolero still had the link open, she brought the ship’s vintage Lockmart Specials online. They purred like a couple of big, contented kittens.

  “Working?” asked Rama.

  “Like right off the assembly line,” she told him.

  Then she cut the link and opened a new one on Byzantium. Her vid screen fritzed for a moment, then came together—showing her a middle-aged man with a florid complexion, a distinct second chin, and a steeply receding hairline.

  His name was Corcoran. He was the chief traffic officer on Byzantium Station, a position of some importance to the cargo haulers obliged to deal with him.

  Bolero had found excuses to speak to Corcoran on and off since the Betty’s arrival the day before. It hadn’t taken her long to make the traffic officer her bitch. But then, it was the rare male specimen who didn’t fit that description eventually.

  “You know,” she said, “we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  Corcoran’s cheeks turned redder than usual. Painfully red, like open wounds. “Just what I was thinking.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Bolero, “we’ve got to shove off now. Just a short visit, you understand.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Corcoran.

  Regulations being what they were, it wasn’t supposed to be possible to leave a border station on short notice. But Bolero had known Corcoran wouldn’t balk a lot.

  “Maybe next time you can stay a little longer,” he said. “Give us time to get to know each other.”

  “That would be wonderful,” she said.

  Not that she had the least intention of returning to Byzantium. Once Ripley got what she wanted from the place, Bolero wouldn’t give it a second thought.

  Just as she had put behind her a dozen other stations and the moon-eyed men who directed traffic for them. She had forgotten not only their names, but also their faces.

  However, before Bolero could forget Corcoran’s, she had to get the Betty out of the docking bay.

  “So you don’t mind releasing us?” she asked.

  The traffic officer chuckled and tapped out a few commands on his control panel, ending with a flourish.

  “You’re officially clear for departure, Betty.”

  That meant the clamps holding the ship in place would depolarize automatically the moment Bolero activated her thrusters. And if all went smoothly, she would be doing that in just a few minutes.

  “You’re too kind,” she said, with just the slightest pang of conscience. “Betty out.”

  Then she sat back and waited.

  * * *

  Out of the corner of his eye, Johner saw something flying his way. Leaning back, he avoided a chair spinning toward his face.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell who threw it. Not that it matters. Though he had started the knockdown, drag-out that almost instantly took over the mess hall and spilled into the corridor, he had no intention of staying to see the end of it.

  Glancing at his wrist chronometer, he confirmed what his inner clock was telling him. Time to go.

  But a rangy bastard with a bad case of Arethan crater pox seemed to have other ideas. He was stabbing at Johner with his forefinger from across the room, spitting invectives Johner couldn’t hear over the tumult.

  His brow furrowed. Wonder if he’s the pus-head who threw the chair?

  The guy was still ranting as he came after Johner with a big, wicked-looking knife. No doubt, he thought that gave him an advantage. In fact, Johner had a knife of his own, hidden in his boot.

  But on this occasion, he didn’t drag it out. He preferred the challenge of going toe-to-toe empty-handed.

  Gotta enjoy the finer things in life, he mused.

  Then he took a couple of strides and met Pox Face in the middle of the room. The guy tried to say hello with a roundhouse swipe, his blade gleaming in the hard, flat light, but Johner saw it coming. Ducking to let the knife pass him by, he straightened and delivered a roundhouse of his own.

  Pox Face went sailing with the impact, hit the deck hard, and gave not the slightest sign of getting up again. “Nice doin’ business with you,” Johner chuckled.

  Then he scanned the melee for Vriess and Krakke, found them, and gave them each a look. This was the part where they slipped out of the mess hall just as station security was arriving, giving themselves a chance to make a quick, quiet departure.

  Just the kind Ripley likes, Johner thought, taking his cigar out of his mouth and replanting it on the other side.

  Shoving aside a burly hauler in his way, he hit the doorway about the same time as his cohorts—which was interesting, considering Vriess’s wheelchair wasn’t made to cut through crowds. But then, the little man always seemed to find a way.

  The corridor ahead of them was empty but for the clatter of approaching footfalls. A moment later, a dozen blue-shirted security guards turned the corner, their weapons at the ready.

  Somebody’s gonna get shocked, Johner thought.

  But it wouldn’t be him or his mates. The mess hall and its ruckus were well behind them, a mere memory now, so there was no reason for the guards to go after them.

  They were free as birds. Even Johner, who had never seen a bird except from a considerable distance, could appreciate the sublime beauty of the metaphor.

  He smiled to himself as the guards ran by on either side of them. Good luck, fellas. Give ’em hell.

  He, Vriess, and Krakke were more than halfway along the corridor when he heard a loud metallic clatter behind them—like a bunch of machine parts falling onto the floor. He scowled, the joy draining out of him. Don’t tell me …

  Casting a glance back over his shoulder, Johner saw he had been right about the machine parts. They were lying on the deck in a telltale trail behind Vriess’s wheelchair.

  The damned thing had a secret compartment Vriess used to stow things that w
eren’t his—parts that were needed on the ship, for instance, or solid ammo, or something for the chair itself. And once in a while, the compartment opened when it wasn’t supposed to.

  Like now.

  Johner hoped the security guards hadn’t noticed—that they were too focused on the job ahead of them. But that hope was dashed when one of the guards turned, pointed to Vriess, and started shouting about a thieving little cripple.

  Crap, thought Johner.

  He reached under his armpits for the shock pistols he kept concealed there for just such an occasion. Then he turned and pumped a barrage at the blueshirts, scattering them.

  At least temporarily, Johner thought. The guards weren’t going to let the matter drop so easily.

  “Let’s move!” he growled, backing down the corridor as Vriess got his chair moving at full speed.

  Krakke knew better than to keep Johner company. The towhead’s role was to race ahead of Vriess and clear the way, in case a stray guard managed to stumble into them.

  Johner kept up the barrage until they reached the bend in the corridor. Then he squeezed off a few more shots for good measure, and took off after his companions.

  “We’ve got ourselves a rendezvous at Immigration!” Vriess shouted back at him, before Johner could inquire.

  But then, his chair was rigged with a special-frequency sender-receiver. It was cake for him to get a hold of Ripley and let her know the situation had gone sour.

  That was important for two reasons. First, they weren’t about to leave Byzantium without her. Second, Call was the only one capable of springing them from the station.

  Unfortunately, the area that controlled personnel flow in and out of Byzantium’s docking bay—affectionately known as Immigration—was the best-guarded part of the station. And by the time Johner and his cohorts arrived, the guards there would be expecting them.

  Not the way we planned it, Johner thought.

  As he entertained that thought, he heard a commotion in the passage he had left behind. Apparently, the guards had gotten up the nerve to come after them. Somebody oughtta do something about that.

  Turning around and kneeling, he took aim with both burner pistols at the spot where the guards would come barreling around the bend. If it was me, he told himself, I’d stop and take a peek first. But they were station security, not quantum physicists.

  Sure enough, they exploded around the corner without a second thought. And Johner, always glad to impart some practical wisdom, showed them the error of their ways.

  One of the guards absorbed a direct hit and catapulted backward. Another took a glancing shot to the shoulder and spun around. Then, proving they weren’t complete morons after all, the lot of them pulled back out of sight.

  But they wouldn’t stay there for long. And without the element of surprise, Johner wasn’t going to get the best of them a second time. So he whirled and started after his comrades, hoping his delaying tactic had bought them enough time.

  * * *

  Call heard the remarks from the clot of disgruntled haulers before she and Ripley got within fifty meters of it. But unlike everyone else in the crowded corridor, Call knew the source of the haulers’ discontent.

  Responding to a brawl in the station’s mess, a security contingent had run into a bunch of thieves. Though they had failed to nab the miscreants in the skirmish that followed, they were at that very moment in close pursuit.

  Predictably, the thieves had chosen Immigration as their destination, hoping to get off Byzantium. But to accomplish that feat, they would have to go through the dozen amply prepared security guards deployed there. And if they tried to go in any other direction, they would find their way barred by a series of centrally controlled corridor barriers.

  Of course, the judicial use of a few more barriers would have trapped the thieves in some empty stretch of corridor, precluding the need for a confrontation in heavily trafficked Immigration. However, bad things had come from that sort of strategy on other stations. Call knew because she had downloaded the accounts.

  So the Immigration guards would wait for their prey with their burners at the ready. And all the haulers who had shown up at that hour to return to their ships would be asked to stand back lest they become embroiled in the inevitable firefight.

  And not just for their safety, Call reflected as she and Ripley reached the outskirts of the crowd. After all, the fugitives might be their friends.

  Somehow, Ripley wove her way to the front rank of the assemblage without jostling anyone to the point of offense. Following her, Call saw the guard responsible for keeping the haulers at bay. He didn’t look happy with his assignment.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” he said. “We’ll be unsealing the area as soon as we can.”

  “How ‘bout if I unseal your kidneys?” one of the haulers muttered into his walrus moustache.

  “Yeah,” said another one, obviously liking the idea. “With something blunt, so we can sell ‘em.”

  No one ever accused haulers of good manners, Call mused.

  It had bothered her when she first signed on with the Betty, all that unnecessary bluster and braggadocio. But now she was used to it. In fact, she took comfort in it, though she would never tell Johner that.

  Ripley, for her part, didn’t seem to even notice the banter. She was too intent on the guards she could see past the end of the corridor, where it emptied into Immigration.

  They were aiming their weapons at something Call couldn’t see—the junction where Johner and the others had to show up eventually. No doubt, the guards thought they had the situation in hand.

  But Call wouldn’t have changed places with them for anything. All they had in their favor were shock rifles. Against the likes of Johner, that might do the trick. Against someone with the blood of aliens pumping in her veins …

  A different story entirely.

  * * *

  Simoni almost shat his pants when he saw her.

  It can’t be, he thought, his mind racing furiously. She’s goddamned light years from here.

  Yet there she was. There was no mistaking her, no confusing her with someone else. The way she held herself, the way she moved—there was no one else like that in the whole fricking galaxy.

  Obviously he had screwed up yet again. But this time, his complete and utter ineptitude had—ironically enough—led him right to the place he wanted to be.

  The question was what he should do next. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t prepared for it. He needed to think.

  No, he thought, no time for thinking. She may move away at any moment. And I might not catch up with her a second time.

  He could confront her then and there. That was what he had always pictured himself doing—just walking up to her and asking if she would talk with him. But now that he saw the expression on her face, he didn’t think she would be amenable to that.

  She was looking down the corridor like everyone else. But she seemed more intense, more poised for action. Coiled, like a snake. She’s up to something, he thought, feeling as if he knew her well enough to make that determination. But what is it?

  He was still trying to figure it out when he saw her bolt from the crowd and plow into the security guard. Something happened, a little too quick for Simoni to follow. But when it was done, the guard was stretched out on his back and Ripley was plunging down the corridor, the guard’s burner clutched in her hands.

  She wasn’t alone, either. A pretty, darkhaired woman in a blue jumpsuit was right behind her, matching her stride for stride.

  After all the work he had done, all the time he had put in. Gone. He couldn’t stand the thought of it.

  So he did something he never thought he would do, something no sane person would even consider. He ran after Ripley, heading for what promised to be a major burn-fest. And he didn’t even have a weapon.

  Hell, he had never had a weapon.

  Please, he thought, don’t let me die. Sprinting the length of the corridor, his bowels
feeling as if they were encased in ice, he saw Ripley fire at the security guards while they, in turn, began firing at someone unseen—presumably, the people for whom they had closed down Immigration, though Simoni still didn’t know why.

  Then, seeing their flank was under attack, some of the guards swiveled around and fired back at Ripley. The corridor sizzled with blue-white burner fire, making the hairs on Simoni’s neck stand up. But somehow, the crackle missed him.

  Then Ripley was approaching the guards, on top of them, in their midst—her arms and legs flying like weapons, spattering blood and snapping bones. And Simoni was safe, for the time being.

  But he couldn’t just stand there. He had to go where Ripley was going—her ship, whichever one it was. That was the only reason anyone ever went to Immigration—to get on or off a ship. But he had to get to Ripley’s ship before she did, because otherwise she would never let him on.

  So Simoni left the melee behind and shot back into the recesses of Immigration, heading for the doors to the station’s docking bay. This is so illegal, he thought, his heart pound-ing with more than the effort of running. If they catch me, it’ll be a penal colony for sure, and I would never survive in a penal colony.

  It was only after he had sprinted the echoing, brightly illuminated length of Immigration and, gasping for breath, reached the heavy, octagonal doors to the bay that he realized he hadn’t the slightest damned idea how to open them.

  4

  Philip Philipakos read the luminous green warning in the upper right corner of his monitor screen, which was otherwise devoted to lists of humidity readings from one end of the Domes to the other.

  “We’re getting a visitor,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the insect hum of the engines. “With a tube from Domes Gamma.”

  “How long?” asked his daughter Angie, her voice as light and sweet as always.

  “Six or seven minutes. Coming in pretty fast.” He frowned. “Must be a hotshot just out of flight school.”