Alien--Invasion

by Tim Lebbon

  “Beautiful,” McIlveen said.

  “Yeah, and we’re leaving it behind.”

  McIlveen didn’t reply. It wasn’t his fault that Marshall had called them back to Sol.

  Once again she was struck by the idea that she could simply refuse to go. It had taken root some days ago, and she’d wondered why she had never considered it before. Halley and her DevilDogs had saved their lives, that was true, but she was not beholden to them. She was a civilian, not military. They couldn’t order her to go.

  But they could take her by force. That was what she feared, that she would become a prisoner instead of a passenger. She had no other means to get away from here, nowhere else to go, and no one else alive who might offer her help. She was lonely and lost, and the fact that Milt McIlveen was her only friend spoke volumes.

  Sighing, watching rainbows, and dreaming of freedom, she jumped when the siren sounded from the base behind them.

  She and McIlveen turned as Bestwick ran toward them through the long grass. She looked agitated.

  “Come on,” she said. “Back to the base.”

  “Why?” Isa asked. “What’s happening?”

  “A ship’s dropped out of warp, unexpected and unregistered. It’s come from the Outer Rim, and we’re getting reports of attacks on several dropholes across the Rim.”

  It’s beginning.

  Isa’s heart started beating faster. The danger the Yautja had been fleeing was here.

  “What else?” McIlveen asked.

  Bestwick, panting, shook her head. “Something weird,” she said. “The ship’s very old. Base computer’s telling us it’s a Fiennes ship called the Susco-Foley.”

  5

  GERARD MARSHALL

  Charon Station, Sol System

  October 2692 AD

  “It’s begun,” General Paul Bassett said. “It seems as if your Yautja friends might have been telling the truth, after all.”

  “They’re no friends of mine,” Gerard Marshall said. As usual in the General’s company he felt as if he was being talked down to. Bassett treated him like a child, not one of the Thirteen. He tried not to bristle. Tried not to let Bassett get to him, yet as usual, he rose to the bait.

  “I thought it was the Thirteen who made peace with them.”

  “It was the woman your troops were sent to rescue.”

  “Well,” Bassett said. He mocked without smiling, and looked down on Marshall without saying anything overt. Marshall used to think it was how the General spoke to everyone, a result of his position, or perhaps the way he’d made it that far up the hierarchy. But he didn’t think that anymore. Now, he believed it was personal.

  Bassett commanded the most powerful military humanity had ever seen, and he didn’t like the fact that the Thirteen were still his superiors.

  “So what are we looking at?” Marshall asked. He’d been summoned to the General’s command center by a battle droid once again, a second-hand message rather than a personal call. Just one more way of trying to put Marshall in his place.

  They stood on a raised walkway above the Colonial Marines’ main control globe, the place from which the General controlled his army and, by implication, Weyland-Yutani maintained its control over the whole of the Human Sphere. The Marines had been in its exclusive employ for many decades, a privatized military the only way to grow to its current size and maintain stability. When a company became so large and powerful that it threatened nations and planets, it naturally became the ruling power.

  The room was large, fifty yards across, and bustling once again. During the Yautja incursion it had been a hive of activity, and now that same buzz was present. Holo frames floated and glowed, stellar maps zoomed in and enlarged, terminal points drifted back and forth along with their controllers. A non-stop hubbub of subdued voices filled the room, most of them communicating in a language Marshall barely understood.

  On one curved wall was a grid of images, flickering as users scrolled through various caches of information contained in the holo files. There were at least thirty blocks in the grid. At present, each file contained an image of a ship of a class and style he did not recognize.

  “Fiennes ships,” Bassett said.

  “Really?” Marshall responded. “From centuries ago? What’s your interest in them?”

  “Some of them are coming back, and we think they’re carrying an army the likes of which we’ve never seen before.”

  “Xenomorphs?” Marshall asked. “Just like the Yautja hinted?” He stared at the changing images. Could it really be true? He tried to sort through the implications—that these ships had been captured, and were being used by some unknown enemy. It made terrible, dreadful sense.

  “Yes, the warnings were there, from the Yautja,” Bassett said. “I don’t trust those bastards for an instant, but we’ve received a broadcast from an Excursionist unit beyond the Outer Rim. They picked up two survivors from another unit that crash-landed on a Yautja habitat. They’ve been there for some weeks, hiding from the Yautja. They lost most of their unit, but toward the end of their time there they boarded a ship of unknown origins, docked at the habitat, and found something… strange.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.” He gestured for Marshall to follow him, and they left the control hub together, heading through into Bassett’s own huge office and quarters.

  Marshall had been here several times over the past couple of months. The most memorable visit had been just after Bassett’s pilot son had been killed in one of the rash of sabotage attacks that had appeared to accompany the Yautja incursion. The General had seemed perfectly normal, and then just for a moment his guard had slipped, and Marshall had seen his human side. He still couldn’t help feeling sorry for him now, even though Bassett was back to his soldier persona.

  Perhaps that was why he felt sorry. The man wouldn’t even allow himself the time and space to grieve.

  They both took seats before a large holo screen and Bassett waved at the controller. An image flickered into view—a man pinned to a wall by a long spear, the bodies of Yautja and Xenomorphs arrayed at his feet.

  No, not a man. Not quite.

  “I haven’t seen an android like that for quite some time,” Marshall said.

  “This is what Lieutenant Mains found aboard that habitat, in the unknown ship,” Bassett said. “He claims the android was controlling the Xenomorphs attacking them, called itself Patton, and that all of the creatures had that name stamped on their hides.”

  “Controlling them how?”

  “Mains doesn’t know.”

  Marshall gazed at the image until Bassett changed it, bringing up a view of deep space.

  “Just before they were rescued, Mains and another Excursionist discovered how to use some of the strange ship’s controls. Some of them were of human origin. The private accessed some deep space scanners and found evidence of Fiennes ships moving straight toward the Human Sphere, at speeds far greater than they were ever built to achieve.”

  “I guess it’s true what they say,” Marshall said. “You reap what you sow.”

  “And who’s sown this?” Bassett demanded. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t act surprised. It won’t work with me.” Bassett seemed tense, alert.

  “What’s happening out there, Paul?”

  “Ships have been dropping out of warp close to dropholes, launching blistering assaults from air and ground, taking control,” Bassett said. He sighed and slumped back in his chair. “It’s happening all across Gamma quadrant of the Outer Rim. Some of those ships attacking larger outposts are the massive Fiennes ships, heavily armed and adapted for war. Others are less familiar vessels, but they’re all loaded with weaponized Xenomorphs.”

  “My God,” Marshall muttered. “Only in Gamma quadrant?”

  “No attacks reported so far in the other seven quadrants.”

  “But where the attacks are taking place, you have Marine units there, don’t you?” Marshall
asked. “Ever since the Yautja situation?”

  “In some places, yes. Other task forces are still en route, leaving some of the dropholes defended only by indies. But it’s made little difference.”

  “So whoever the enemy is, they’re winning?”

  Bassett stood and strode over to his desk. He picked up a glass and swigged its contents. He did not offer Marshall a drink.

  “I’m telling you that we’re putting up a fierce resistance,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “But, yes, some dropholes have fallen.”

  Marshall stood up in shock. “The Human Sphere is under attack.”

  “And we don’t know by whom.” Bassett poured himself another drink from a bottle, hesitated, then waved it Marshall’s way.

  “Drinking on duty?” Marshall asked.

  “It’s apple juice.”

  “So what are you doing to counter this?”

  “Everything we can,” Bassett said. “All of our reserves have been mobilized, across the Sphere. Drophole defensive units will be boosted as best we can, all Colonial Marine units have been made aware, and are on high alert.”

  “And the Fiennes ships?”

  “Breeding grounds, as best we can tell,” Bassett said. “Nurseries for the weaponized Xenomorphs. Whoever’s attacking us isn’t unknown to us—their use of an android is proof of that. They must have gathered the Fiennes ships from across many light years of space, adapted them, and now they’re entering the Sphere, causing chaos and many casualties.”

  “War always leaves casualties, General,” Marshall said, “and it always has a winner. Your job is to ensure that winning side is ours.”

  “I’ve issued orders to destroy any Fiennes ship on sight,” Bassett said. Even he seemed shocked by what he’d said. He looked into his glass, swirled it around, and Marshall wondered just how much he wished it was whiskey. Bassett was far too professional to drink while on duty.

  And he was always on duty.

  “How many people?” Marshall asked.

  “The smaller, earlier ships carried around seven thousand in cryo-suspension. As time went on their size and capacity increased. The fifth generation Fiennes ships, the last ones that were sent out around four hundred years ago, carried around forty thousand passengers.”

  “You can’t just wipe them out,” Marshall said. “That’s—”

  “War… and war has casualties.” Bassett nodded at the holo screen. “We had a brief burst of confused broadcasts from Langelli Station, a Company facility on Priest’s World. They were attacked by the Fiennes ship Susco-Foley. Hundreds of Xenomorphs were dropped, and soon after we lost all contact with them. They were guarding and controlling Gamma 34. There have been other attacks, and some battles are ongoing. It looks like a concerted effort by whoever’s behind this to take control of dropholes, and that can only mean one thing.”

  “They want to come deeper,” Marshall said.

  “Into the Sphere.”

  The two men stood silently for a moment, both looking into some private, nightmarish distance.

  “We can shut them down,” Marshall said.

  “Are you fucking insane?”

  Marshall blinked. He’d never heard Bassett even come close to losing control.

  “You can’t start shutting down dropholes,” Bassett pressed.

  “But we have the ability to do so,” Marshall said. “If necessary.”

  “Of course you do,” Bassett said, “and only you Thirteen know about it. But if you shut down a hole, you’ll leave everyone on the far end trapped there, light years from anywhere. One hole, that’s not so bad, but if you shut down a range or network of them… you could be condemning people to die a lonely death in deep space. Without drophole capability, even an Arrow ship would take over thirty years to travel here from the Outer Rim.”

  “So the Colonial Marines need to do their job,” Marshall said.

  “And they will,” Bassett responded, reasserting his composure. “I was simply apprising you and the Company of the situation.”

  “Consider me apprised.” Marshall stood to leave, expecting with every step toward the door to be summoned to return. But Bassett remained silent. Marshall didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

  * * *

  Marshall had never trusted Isa Palant’s communications with the Yautja. She had brought the conflict with them to a close, true, or at least, she had slowed it down. There was still news of intermittent attacks by Yautja elements. It seemed they were like humans in one respect at least—they didn’t all follow one leader, and some chose not to follow any leader at all.

  According to Kalakta, Yautja had always hunted Xenomorphs, not fled from them in a blind, cowardly panic. But this… tale of weaponized Xenomorphs, conducting controlled attacks, showing strategic awareness, and acting as units rather than individual creatures…

  It was crazy, and terrifying.

  It was wonderful.

  Marshall was the director of ArmoTech, and a Xenomorph under human control was his dream prize. Weyland-Yutani had been trying for centuries to incorporate the Xenomorphs into their bag of tricks. They had experimented on every sample they could acquire, attempting control using a variety of methods—electrical, mechanical, nano, even more eldritch means such as psychic control. They had only ever found limited success, and their experiments on these creatures always seemed doomed to failure.

  Sometimes fatal failure. On the few occasions when they’d acquired a queen, then genetically engineered and modified her offspring, the results had been catastrophic.

  Now, someone or something else had succeeded where Weyland-Yutani had perpetually failed.

  Marshall made his way back to his own suite, swallowing down the faint sickness that always assailed him when he was moving around Charon Station. He hated space. Once in his rooms, he wasn’t surprised to see a contact request from James Barclay, notional leader of the Thirteen. He would speak with Barclay soon and reveal to him the full details of what was happening. After that he would contact Isa Palant. She and McIlveen had been sitting around recuperating for too long, and Major Akoko Halley and her unit had to be itching to be on the move.

  He had a mission for them all.

  For the moment, however, he sat down and took a real drink, and imagined how his life was about to change.

  6

  BEATRIX MALONEY

  Rage Ship Macbeth, beyond Outer Rim

  October 2692 AD

  Beatrix Maloney was a very old woman, but today she was feeling young. And today more than ever she felt rage.

  “…but the trail is far from cold, and I will catch Liliya,” Alexander said. He was one of her greatest generals. His image balanced before her, twitching and flickering with sub-space distortions. Maloney used to think such interference was the movements of God, but she had long since stopped believing, as science had fueled the Rage and wonders rose from that science. Now the distortions were imperfections in their communication systems. Glitches in their broadcasts. They were far from perfect, but they were getting there.

  The communication ended and Maloney signaled that she wished to reply. Recording systems whispered into action.

  “Alexander, I need not tell you that Liliya is our greatest threat,” she said. Her platform floated gently in its suspension field, and her gel containment suit’s temperature was perfect for her body, limbs and torso held comfortably in place. It had been a long time since she had felt air on her skin anywhere other than her face. She looked older than was possible, more wrinkled than mere aging would allow, but Maloney resisted full submersion. The gel compound they had found on that distant alien world was amazing, but she still grasped onto shreds of her humanity.

  “She knows our plans and strength,” Maloney continued. “She understands our ships and their capabilities, our intentions, our targets and aims. Most of all, she carries the secret to our armies, and if she falls into the right human hands, she might initiate an effective resistance. I w
ant her alive. I so want her alive, that I can make her suffer for all she’s done. But if necessary, I’ll have her dead.” She paused, then smiled, feeling the parchment skin of her face creasing even more.

  “Don’t return until you have her.”

  She nodded, the recording ceased, and she indicated that it should be sent. Then she sighed. A tendril-thin metallic limb rose from her suspension platform and tended to a split in the skin beside her mouth, a result of her smile. Her face wasn’t used to such an expression.

  But it’ll have to get used to it again, she thought. Because we’re close.

  The assault had begun. Her generals were marching to war with her armies, paving the way for her arrival and the Rage’s triumphant return. She was old, yes, and sometimes she was very tired, but she had never been so excited.

  The Macbeth was still skimming through hyperspace, closing on the outer reaches of the Human Sphere and preparing to slow down. Activity on board was at its height as reports were received from the generals. Most of them were fulfilling their missions perfectly, hardly a surprise with the advanced weaponry and Xenomorph armies they carried with them. Some were yet to enter into combat, some were still fighting, a few had failed and been defeated. Maloney did not like that, but it was war. She had calculated on taking losses.

  Even though they were approaching the culmination of decades of planning and preparation, she still liked to undergo her daily routine. Once the message was sent to Alexander—and his mission preyed on her mind, Liliya and her betrayal burning and flaming like a recent wound—she called on her helpers.

  Dana and Kareth were always close by, and they were beside her within seconds.

  “Mistress,” Kareth said.

  “You know where.”

  Dana and Kareth nodded and each took hold of one side of her platform. She was perfectly capable of guiding it through the ship. She knew the Macbeth as well as she knew herself, every space and solid component, every hidden shadow and forgotten secret. She flowed through its corridors and hallways like blood moved through her own veins, visiting every part of it, giving the ship life and similarly taking life from it. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. On occasion she enjoyed seeing the engine room, marveling at what it had become.