The Complete Aliens Omnibus

by B. K. Evenson

  “It’s time,” Turner said happily, but Vin was still staring at the screens, his eternally composed expression replaced by one of uncertainty.

  “Another ship just dropped in,” he said.

  “What? What do you mean?” Ray snapped. He hurried to the station, looked at a stream of numbers that meant nothing to him. “Who?”

  Vin shook his head. “Dunno. It’s big, though.”

  “Cattle?” Ray asked.

  “Doubt it,” Vin said. “They’re jamming. I only picked ’em up because we’re not hooked through the satellite. Compound probably doesn’t even know they’re coming in.”

  They stood in silence for a few seconds, Ray thinking, feeling angrier by the heartbeat. Someone else was trying to rip them off. Of all the fucking runs, some dumbshits had picked this one to try and take down. It wasn’t in the plan, it wasn’t in the goddamn plan—

  “Hey!” Carson called, sounding flustered. “Hey, here it comes! Our ship just lifted out!”

  Vin reached over, tapped keys. A second window of moving numbers popped up. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the prize.”

  Ray felt all eyes on him. The rage boiled for a second longer—and then he grinned, realizing that nothing had changed, nothing at all.

  “One in the hand, two in the bush,” he said, turning to Carson, still in his seat. “How long before it’s where we want it?”

  “Ah . . . two and a half minutes, maybe,” Carson said.

  “Will the pulse take them both down?” He asked.

  Carson blinked, his face skritch flushed. “I—yeah. If the ships are in the same coordinate range.”

  Ray moved quickly to the tech’s station. “Move,” he said, and slid into the vacated seat, still grinning, his finger itching to push, to fuck Trace and Msomi and these new nameless fuckers with a single tap. It was even better this way.

  “Say when,” he said, and took a deep breath, ready to fulfill his destiny.

  9

  Trace sent Didi and Simpson straight to the standoff and then talked all the way back to Ops, setting the machinery in motion. Freeman was calling up the outside cams. Trog and Taryn were on their way to run manual checks on all the outer perimeter blast-doors, while Elvis dumped operational codes. Trace had already had Freeman broadcast the incoming, the announcement echoing through the long hall, and as he marched back toward Ops, he could hear the hiss of doors, the rattle of distant hurried footsteps further along as the Fantasians headed for the standoff.

  He walked into Ops, searched the screens over Freeman’s shoulder. Nothing. The cameras were all down, the sensors giving him black static.

  Shit.

  Burn out or rival? No way to know, but his guess was burnout, one of the big companies. Lee’d said that someone had dropped by default. That meant nothing had been tripped, which suggested extensive gear. Which also implied that they weren’t going after the product; they were coming to the compound.

  “Freeman, report,” Trace snapped.

  “Satellite’s giving us dick,” Freeman said. “And all we can get on the ground is a couple of inside shots.”

  “Where?”

  Freeman tapped some keys. “That one in the breeding area, and the one next to it. Like, south of it.”

  Trace nodded slowly. Those were their furthest out, north of the pens, set deep inside a cave system; they were on a different relay from their other outside cams. Had the invaders missed that one, or did they just know it didn’t matter? If they’d hacked into the satellite, they knew a hell of a lot more than they should. And the fact that not a single tripwire had been tugged—and there were over a hundred, real and faux lines of code that had been twined throughout the satellite/compound relays that should have alerted them of tampering immediately—again, that said heavy gear, and some talent behind it.

  They might have a second ship. Or two. Or a fleet, for fuck’s sake. Trace felt the pressure, a vise around his gut and brain. He was doing all he could do, getting the drugs off, locking down, prepping for infiltration. But if they decided to obliterate the compound from the air, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it.

  The lights in Ops brightened suddenly—and then everything went out. Screens, lights, the constant hum of machinery—the sound of life on Fantasia—all flickered and died, for the space of a single second. Before Trace could call the evac, before the sounds had wound down, the screens more than flickered to gray, they were up again, everything popping back to normal. A handful of alarms sounded, voice loops explaining, windows coming up on every screen to inform them that things weren’t responding properly. Trace leaned in, read the electricals message. Power surge, brief but gigantic. All the outside cameras were down now, not even static.

  “Call the ship,” Trace said, though he doubted very much that they were going to get an answer. Electromagnetic pulse. Non-nuclear, or they would have felt it, but that didn’t make it good news.

  The incoming ship. Must have landed, sent a pulse to bring down the product. Except . . . it had been only five or six minutes since the cameras first jammed. How had they had time?

  And why drop the ship on Fantasia? The bugs would be all over the highjack. It would be infinitely easier to disable the ship in space . . . Unless they meant to have the ship and the compound. Get it all in one fell swoop.

  “Nothing,” Freeman said. “Can’t find ’em.”

  “Get Rijke and Stinky John in here, have them start checking the wiring,” Trace said, moving to the station next to Freeman’s. “And issue another standoff command for all non-essentials. I’ll send word home.”

  Not that there was much to say. Something had happened, something else might be happening, and by the time Msomi got the multiply relayed rider message, whatever it was would likely be over.

  Over for them, he thought, and started running a diagnostic, almost certain that he would be proved right.

  * * *

  Pete was miserable, sick and scared even before they’d boarded the ship. Besides a colossal, head-pounding, joint-hammering hangover, Didi had come with Trace to see them off, and had just stood there, her expression blank, like he didn’t still have the smell of her on his body, in his clothes. Every time he’d looked up, she’d been staring at him, and with the heat of last night only a hazy memory, he’d been feeling some sincere remorse, in the guise of mortal terror. A single word from her . . . He’d stood in the hall, ill and sagging, doing his very best not to be seen.

  Then the run to the ship, Moby yelling at everyone, Tommy disappearing—even as they’d belted in, the ship had started to move, and any relief he’d felt at getting away from Didi and Trace was destroyed by Moby, shouting something over the drive’s roar about another ship.

  Frank Cole had strapped in across from him, his face red, his mouth open and working. His curses blended with the blast of the ship’s flight engines. Moby had harnessed next to the computer, was typing something one-handed, his headset on sideways. The chemist was still trying to get himself situated, only one pale, chubby arm hooked through the loops in his chair. He was working to hang onto his oversized bag, and Pete was wondering what the fuck could be worth it when everything died and the ship started to fall, fall, gaining speed in the dead darkness, screams and shouts ringing, and then they hit, and Pete had time to register pain before he went dark, too.

  * * *

  It happened fast. They were flying, everyone hooked in, feeling the ship angle down, down—and then there was a sound like a small explosion, and the power tanked, and Kaye could feel the ship going out of control, listing too far, too fast.

  “Brace for—” Puente shouted in the dark, and Kaye was already doing it, good because the sound of their crash tore away the rest of the team leader’s words. Kaye felt his body wrestle with gravity, slam against the straps, sink back into the chair’s foam with the jarring, bouncing impact. The few objects that hadn’t been tied down well went flying. A foam coffee cup smacked against his shoulder, what might hav
e been a loose mag pack glanced painfully across his shins.

  It seemed like forever before the massive ship stopped moving, became still, but Kaye had automatically counted it off. Five, six seconds since the power had died.

  “Come in! Simmons! Aaronson!” Puente shouted, and Kaye reached up and tapped his own headset. Not even a hiss.

  EMP? The station didn’t have anything like that, the informants had been clear. Msomi was counting on the XTs to keep his installation safe, assuming that no one in their right mind would try and set down. At least, that’s what Grant had told them.

  “Sound off,” Kaye called into the dark, his voice pitched to carry. “Report injuries. Borkez?”

  “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “Graham?”

  “Fine.”

  Before he got another name out, a backup switched on. Red lights off a hardened battery pack filled the room with an eerie glow, just enough to see by. He called for the rest of them, Kodaira, Marek, Ng; no one was seriously hurt. Aaronson and Simmons were still on the bridge, but Aaronson buzzed in. He said the pilot had a scratch, but they were okay, already checking the gear.

  Puente spoke up. “I’ll handle this. Ng, Borkez, I want you to go help—”

  “You’ll stand down,” Kaye snapped. He freed himself from his harness, standing as best he could; the ship was tipped, leaning to port, but the angle wasn’t too bad. “We just got pulse-dropped into some seriously hostile territory, and it doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere else in this ship, not now. That means we have to get to the compound, and as quickly as possible. Before they can get to us.”

  “I’m the team leader on board this ship,” Puente insisted. “Once we’re outside, you can take over.”

  “Listen,” Kaye said, pointing toward the wall lock, slightly beneath them at the ship’s resting angle—and they could all hear the screeching, the high, traumatic sound swelling closer with the clatter of bones on rock as the XTs flocked to them, climbing and scratching.

  “We are outside,” he said. “I’m not going to fight you for command, but if you want to keep it, allow me to strongly fucking recommend that you don’t separate your team until we’ve achieved the site.”

  Puente regarded him a moment, then nodded.

  “Everybody, gear up,” Puente said. “We’re going to the bridge. Sergeant Kaye will be leading us.”

  Kaye nodded, accepting the responsibility, wondering how far they’d crash-landed from the target area, from any of the target areas. There was no way to abort, and they couldn’t stay out here. Outside, the alien horde continued to grow.

  We aren’t going to make it, not all of us, Kaye thought. Maybe—probably—none of them would. Strangely, the concept didn’t fill him with despair. Everyone onboard knew the risks, had stepped into this fully aware of what could go wrong. All he felt was determined. Attempting the impossible was . . . freeing, he supposed.

  “Let’s move,” he said, and started for the dark corridor that would take them to the bridge, the team following tight.

  * * *

  Ray kept his finger on the button, imagined he could feel the powerful waves of energy branching out, bringing him his due. Seconds ticked by, the boys watching the bugs, watching the screens, working themselves up for the tap.

  “Got ’em both,” Vin said.

  Ray grinned. “Let’s go get our drugs,” he said.

  10

  Tommy wasn’t sure if he blacked out. They were falling, the controls dead beneath his scrabbling fingers, the tiny bridge dark and hot and strangely silent—and then they hit, bam, and on the rumbling, hammering bounce back up, he whacked the back of his head on the cheap headrest. And then Lee was shaking him, talking in his low, dead voice, and a fluttering red dimness had replaced the black. Emergency lighting, on batteries running low.

  “Get up, fucking wake up,” Lee said. He had his gun drawn, although he wasn’t pointing it at Tommy. In the red light, he looked demonic.

  “What—what—”

  “We were pulsed. Get up, now. They’re coming.”

  Bugs—Tommy felt a rush of pure panic, grabbed at the harness straps, struggling to get free. He had to get to Pete.

  “Are there more weapons?” Tommy asked, pulling himself out of his chair with no small effort. The ship had come to a stop nose up, tail down, tilting the floor sharply toward the cargo hold. Tommy had to hold onto the seat to keep his balance.

  “You don’t need a gun,” Lee said. “They’ll probably go straight for the product.”

  What? Tommy shook his head, trying to clear it. “The aliens?”

  “The team that pulsed us, dipshit,” Lee said. “We’ve got to get to Moby. Come on.”

  Lee led them toward the decel room, the two men having to hold onto the walls, to exposed pipes and entry frames as they made their way down and back, stopping only to hit the manuals on the closed doors. When they got close, reached the section of dark corridor that would lead them to Pete and the others—he thought, it was hard to tell in the red light, in the skewed angles—Tommy couldn’t help a low shout.

  “Pete!”

  “Shut up,” Lee said.

  “Tommy? Hey, you okay?” Pete’s soft voice wavered from the darkness ahead.

  Tommy felt a vast pressure being lifted from his shoulders and chest. He and Lee stumbled into decel, Tommy immediately finding Pete, a hunched figure at the far back wall. Frank Cole was just getting out of his chair. There was a smell of liquid, of copper—and outside, the XTs were already scratching at the door, lashing at it, screaming. The sound was muted, not as loud as when they’d been in the ATV, but just as horrible.

  “Chemist is killed,” Moby said, matter-of-fact. He was close to the door, leaning against an empty chair. “Bloody mess; watch your step. We pulsed, then?”

  Lee nodded, and Tommy automatically started toward Pete—and slipped on something wet, something black and wet in the sparse red light. He barely kept his feet, grabbing for a loose harness strap to keep from falling.

  “Told you, didn’t I?” Moby called.

  Christ. Tommy finally recognized the smell, just as he saw what was left of the odd little man—Beck?—laid out across one of the seats. And on the floor. One arm had been partially twisted off, and the chemist’s head was hanging at an absurd angle. The floor was a slick.

  “Wasn’t strapped in,” Pete said. He sounded sick. “He was trying to hold onto his shit, arm got all twisted. Broke his neck, too. I think I heard it. I passed out a little, but I’m pretty sure I heard it.”

  “Pussy fish lop,” Frank Cole said, disgusted. “You gonna bitch up, cry about it now? Fuck.”

  Tommy used the harness strap to lower himself closer to Pete, he wasn’t sure why. Instinct. Pete seemed grateful for the company, his face drawn and old in the red light. Outside, the aliens shrieked.

  “Figure it’s a double-tap, compound and product,” Moby said. “Any word?”

  Lee shook his head. “Everything electrical’s fried. Shielding on the batteries didn’t hold up, either, so we can’t hook through the satellite.”

  “Bad guys’ll be knocking soon enough,” Moby said.

  Tommy spoke up. “I thought they were going to be going straight for the, ah, product.”

  “Hold’s wired and marked, innit,” Moby said. “Unless they want to blow it all to shit, they’ll have to come through here.”

  Lee tossed a sharp grin in Tommy’s direction, his teeth glittering red. “I just said you didn’t need a gun.”

  “I need a fucking gun,” Frank said.

  “We should arm all of ’em, don’t you think?” Moby asked. “Don’t know how many are coming.”

  “No,” Lee said. “We sit tight until Trace sends someone. Bugs’ll take care of it, that’s the point.”

  “Fuck that,” Cole growled. “Gimme a gun. Anyone comes in here, I’ll blow ’em to shit.”

  Moby and Lee ignored him. “What if it don’t work?” Moby asked.

 
Outside, the aliens screamed and threw themselves at the side of the ship.

  “Not a problem,” Lee said. He raised his weapon, laid it across his chest.

  Tommy fell against the wall next to Pete, exhaled heavily. Pete leaned against him a little, and the feel of another human body was some small comfort. They all listened to the bugs search for a way in.

  * * *

  Most everyone was in standoff, Didi thought, looking across the large room, the shelf-lined walls stacked with lockboxes and survival gear. Eighteen, nineteen people, not including the people at Ops or working the perimeter. A few people looked back. She sat on a padded bench in the front corner, chin resting on her knees. Most of them were talking, low and intense, and she could hear the unease in their obligatory banter, see the sullen anger they wrapped themselves in to avoid being terrified.

  She felt sorry for them, almost. Almost, but after two full years of her life spent avoiding them, their gleeful stares and vicious jokes, she couldn’t quite sympathize.

  It will be different now, she told herself, what she’d been telling herself every time her small treacheries floated through her thoughts. A turned head on a late-night watch-shift, a week or so ago. A single word touched on a keypad when the drop ship had come. Small, indeed . . . But also the cause of all this darkness around her now, all these petty people with their petty fears.

  What had happened? There’d been nothing about two ships, she was certain. Ray and his team had come in days ago, and weren’t planning to move until after the EMP. She wanted to ask Ray, but the small communicator she’d been given was in her room, taped inside her wooden patch box. It was text only, of course, run through the satellite on an unused relay, the battery compartment radiation-hardened. It had often struck her as odd, that she’d promised her future to a man she’d never seen, never heard speak. Trace had talked about him, of course, an old friend who’d used Trace as a foothold, then stole from Msomi . . . Drugs, information, she couldn’t recall. She knew that Trace hated him, which had been enough to pique her interest, initially.