Aliens

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Dismissed.”

  As soon as Haywald left the room, Sykes’s entire body sagged and he threw himself back onto the bench. This was it. He was doomed. He died a thousand times over the next thirty seconds, inventing new ways to be broken, shot, eaten, melted, burned, gassed, crushed, and cut open. Not knowing what the monster looked like, his panicked brain invented an entire mental zoo filled with various and sundry terrible creatures, each one making him flinch, the realities of his own imagination too scary for him to behold. He stood unsteadily and took two steps, then the contents of his stomach spewed onto the floor.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later they were on the lift to the lower levels. During the trip, Sykes was remotely notified through his helmet’s communication suite that three of the four members of the Charity Rock trade consortium who’d allied against him had found his backdoor. He groaned. Without him to spring the trap, they’d have unfettered access to his accumulated wealth.

  They arrived at Tunnel 10, which had been drilled, mined, and smoothed decades before and was now used for administration and logistics functions. In fact, all the single digit tunnels were the same way. If the danger was some sort of monster, he’d expect it to come from one of the lower tunnels, possibly towards the bottom of the mine, which would make it tunnel ninety-one.

  A fourth member of the consortium entered through his back door.

  Sykes gritted his teeth.

  First Squad was comprised of Haywald, Michia, Chevelon, Franks, Phillips, Shire, and Albright. Michia had seen the most action, but he couldn’t keep his drinking under control so he remained a perennial PFC. Albright and Shire were converted criminals and were solid, if not inexperienced, PFCs. Chevelon was so wet behind her ears she could barely put her gear on. That left Phillips and Haywald, both solid Lance Corporal marines and the two he could most count on.

  “Shire.”

  She popped forward, ready, her face scarred from ritualistic tattooing on a prison barge. “Yes, Corporal.”

  “You and Phillips head down the hall and recon. Go a hundred meters, then hunker down and report.”

  Phillips nodded and joined Shire. Together they moved in a tactical crouch down the hall and around the curve.

  They reported in at fifty meters.

  Three minutes later, gunfire from two pulse rifles rocked the tunnel.

  “Shire! Phillips! Report!” Sykes called through his helmet.

  No response.

  “Corporal, what should we do?” Chevelon asked, sweat beading across her nose and above her upper lip. She wiped it away with a quick hand.

  “We wait. Those marines know what they’re doing.”

  At least Sykes hoped they were okay. An image of a hundred multi-limbed monsters tearing around the corner towards them forced him to close his eyes for a few seconds. Just then he received electronic notification that the fifth and sixth members of the consortium had found his back door. Maybe if he was able to get this over quickly, he could get back into Charity Rock and spring his trap.

  He reluctantly opened his eyes.

  As it stood, right now he was helpless to do anything about the damn consortium. If they worked together, they could strip him of all the wealth he’d accumulated in seventeen thousand hours of gameplay. How many night shifts would he have to pull just to get a portion of it back?

  Albright and Franks shifted nervously.

  Chevelon almost dropped her rifle, and would have, if it hadn’t been for the sling.

  Sykes hissed into his helmet. “Shire! Come in, Shire!” He hated being blind. He hated not knowing what was going on. “Phillips, report!” He hated being down here instead of back in his hooch. He hated that the universe had decided today would be the day it fucked with him. He basically hated every damned thing.

  Ten, twenty, thirty seconds ticked by as he continued his inventory of hate, his index finger tapping impatiently at the trigger well.

  “What’s going on, Corporal?” Haywald asked.

  Sykes shook his head. How was he supposed to know? Why should he know anything? After all, he was only the one in charge.

  A blood-curdling scream was abruptly silenced from somewhere far down the tunnel.

  His anger faltered as fear tickled the back of his neck. He thought this was the worst situation he’d ever been in. He forced himself to breathe normally. “Shire, Phillips, this is Command One, come in,” he said again into his helmet.

  Static.

  Then Haywald pointed down the hall. “There—what’s that?”

  Sykes raised his pulse rifle and sighted down its length. He’d never fired one outside of training. Would now be the moment? A shock of electric dread sizzled through him. He tasted metal. His entire body felt hollow as he moved his finger to the trigger.

  A dark figure slumped from one side of the tunnel to the other, moving too fast for them to ascertain its features. As much as Sykes wanted to understand what he was seeing, the constant motion and the sweat dribbling into his eyes made it impossible.

  “What is it?” he asked, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  “It’s moving too fast,” Haywald cried. “Shoot it, Corporal!”

  Sykes wanted to wipe the sweat from his eyes, but to do so would mean he’d lose his sight picture. He blinked furiously, then in one crystalline moment, he saw what he was aiming at. He lowered his weapon and stepped forward.

  PFC Shire’s impossibly fast gyrations slowed as she stumbled the last dozen feet, then fell to the ground, her arms and legs spasming out of control. Her eyes were wide and panicked behind a scratched faceplate.

  “Spitting,” she managed to say. “Spitting,” she repeated.

  “Spitting what?”

  Sykes noticed a fine spray of liquid on the outside of her helmet. There was no sign of her weapon.

  “They… everyone… spitting.”

  Why would anyone be spitting? It made no sense. And Phillips? Where was he?

  Shire’s entire body went rigid, then stilled. Her eyes were shut. Where her chest had been furiously heaving a second before, it now moved only slightly.

  “What happened to her?” Haywald asked.

  “No idea.” Sykes turned to his men and said, “Keep sharp. Something got Shire and maybe Phillips, and we still don’t know what it is.”

  Fear shined on five young faces. Haywald, Michia, Chevelon, Franks, and Albright, all staring at Corporal Sykes, waiting for him to lead them. He stared back, realizing how invested they were in him. His remote indicated that the seventh member of the consortium had made it through his back door. He dismissed the information packet. He didn’t have time for any Charity Rock bullshit now. For perhaps the first time in his life, Sykes felt ready to lead. The hollow bowl within him was now filled with a confidence he’d never before felt. The looks his marines gave him had power and had given him the wherewithal to act like the marine he was always supposed to have been. Sykes had spent his life running from danger only to have danger find him, and now that he was confronted with it, he found that he liked the feeling it gave him. The adrenaline rush made him focus, noticing things, thinking critically in an instant.

  He’d leave Shire behind. She was still alive; they’d get her to sick bay when they returned. In the meantime, they had to find Phillips and ascertain what the threat was.

  He grinned. “Listen, Marines. Stay behind me, follow my commands, and we’ll get through this. Someone or something is on the station and we need to find it.” He cleared his throat. “Even more important, we need to find Phillips.”

  All the marines nodded.

  Chevelon looked absolutely terrified.

  Sykes grabbed her shoulder. “Come on, Marine. If you die, at least you’ll die a hero.”

  She nodded and wiped sweat from her brow with her sleeve, her fear coalescing into something else, something nearer determination.

  The scientists, miners, and marines all counted on him, and for the first time it didn’t feel like a
burden. No, the feeling of responsibility and of service warmed him from within.

  “What about Shire?” Franks asked.

  “Leave her. We’ll get her to the sick bay when this is all over. Now, follow me.”

  Sykes moved forward in a tactical crouch. He held his rifle at low ready, the way marines had been holding their rifles since before Hamarana, before The Kincaid, before Mogadishu and before Tarawa. Muzzle down, stock firmly in the shoulder, a marine could bring his weapon to bear in a moment’s notice, while still able to assess and see what was in front of him.

  Thirty meters down the corridor a miner lay in a pool of blood. This must have been who Shire had shot. But why? There seemed to be nothing out of place. The miner wore his protective boots, jumpsuit and gloves. Other than a missing helmet, unnecessary in this section of tunnels, everything was as it should be, except, of course, the gaping hole in the center of the man’s chest. Whatever had happened, Shire had assessed and believed there to be a threat. That Sykes couldn’t immediately recognize what the threat had been didn’t matter. He was confident he soon would.

  A composite metal door stood another fifteen meters down the tunnel on the left. Sykes stacked Michia and Chevelon on one side and put Franks and Albright on the other. He had Haywald form behind him. He called up the map of this level on his HUD. Meeting Room 57 was on the other side with another door on the far side leading to a tunnel that gave access to the other side of the complex. The door in front of him was currently locked. Sykes unlocked it using his HUD.

  “Open the door, Haywald.”

  The young marine gave him a worried glance but did as he was told.

  When the door opened, Sykes leaned inside to look.

  Across a room with overturned tables and chairs, six miners had trapped a seventh who was huddled in a corner, his hands covering his face, screaming for them to stop. Instead of punching or kicking the seventh man, the others were bent at the waist, spitting at him. They looked more like giant birds violently pecking at the air, but even from across the room, Sykes could see the spittle flying from their mouths, coating the man’s hands, dripping onto his chest, creating a thick, viscous puddle.

  Sykes raised his rifle and fired into the other corner of the room. “Stand down!” he shouted.

  All six of the attackers spun toward him.

  Sykes felt an eerie sense of the weird as he saw the expressions on their faces. He’d expected anger, possibly even rage. Why else would they have decided to spit on one of their own? Instead, they seemed entirely void of emotion. Their faces were slack. Their eyes were empty.

  Then they began to run right at him.

  Sykes brought his rifle up, but thought better of it and stepped back into the hallway.

  “Close the door!”

  Haywald slammed it shut.

  Sykes locked the door via his HUD and threw his back against it. What the hell had just happened? He replayed it in his mind. Six miners had cornered a seventh and were spitting on him. When they’d heard Sykes, they’d turned and run at him as if to attack, despite the fact they were facing a Marine wearing full body armor and carrying a pulse rifle. That made no sense. What was driving them so mad?

  “Corporal Sykes, look here,” Chevelon said, pointing to a stain on the wall about ten meters down the hall.

  Haywald ran towards the spot. “It’s blood, Corporal.”

  “Maybe it’s Phillips’s,” Albright said.

  Sykes pushed himself away from the door and led the others to the stain. It had the vague outlines of a bloody handprint.

  “Michia, anything from Phillips?”

  She shook her head.

  “Keep at it.”

  When he didn’t acknowledge, Sykes turned. He and Albright were off to the side, whispering to each other, Michia shaking his head.

  “You two, what’s going on?”

  Albright straightened.

  Michia sneered and shook his head again.

  “What is it?” Sykes demanded.

  “Albright has a theory,” Michia began. “But I think she’s been watching too many discs.”

  “What is it?” Sykes was losing his patience. “Albright, speak up.”

  Albright glanced worriedly at Michia, who looked away. “I’ve been thinking,” he began, then faltered.

  “You know the only thing scarier than a marine saying I’ve been thinking is a miner saying watch what I built,” Sykes said.

  “I told you so,” Michia said.

  Albright’s shoulders slumped and he stared at the ground.

  Sykes nodded. “Still, I’ve got the smartest marines in a hundred parsecs, so tell me?”

  “We’re the only marines in a hundred parsecs,” Albright said.

  “Be happy you made the cut,” Sykes said. “Now, out with it.”

  Before he could speak, three miners appeared from far down the tunnel, running at them at full speed. Their heads moved like they were pecking air, but Sykes knew they were spitting. Everyone raised their weapons.

  “What do we do?” Chevelon asked.

  “Shoot them,” he said.

  All of them opened up on the charging men, who were hurled backwards by the combined force of their pulse rifle rounds.

  After a moment, Sykes said, “Watch out for more.” Then to Albright he said, “Where were we?”

  “I was trying to figure out what’s going on when I remembered something that happened on the prison barge. I was in solitary at the time, but the survivors talked about experimentation.”

  “Experimentation?”

  “Med techs came in and gave everyone shots and two hours later there was a riot.”

  “Did they spit?”

  “No, nothing like that. The other inmates, they just became enraged and tried to kill each other.”

  “And they blamed it on the med techs.”

  Albright shrugged. “Nothing definite, but… everyone was fine, then everyone got shots, then everyone wasn’t fine.” He squinted his eyes. “We were… what do you call it?”

  “A hostage population,” said Haywald.

  “Like the miners,” said Sykes.

  “Like the miners,” Albright said. “Who were just visited by No Wey-Yu med techs.”

  Sykes saw it all now. An old, played out mine. Too many miners to move. Why not test out a new bio-weapon. And the spitting… was that the delivery mechanism? Damn!

  “What do we do?” Chevelon asked.

  “We find Phillips and get the hell out of here.”

  Saying those words inspired him. The old Sykes would have said it was a good reason to leave, using the situation as a valid reason to save his own ass. But now, in the face of danger, he was able to make command decisions just as he was supposed to. To say he was filled with pride was an understatement. He’d gone from being an utter zero to something near a hero. Was this what it felt like? He damned his old self and felt a wash of shame slam over him, but then it was gone as he began to plan. He needed to get Phillips, then grab Shire and get them to sick bay.

  Once there, they would secure the mine and send a message for rescue. He and his marines could probably hold out for six to ten months, which was enough time for a ship to rescue them. As for the miners, if what Albright said was correct, it was their own corporation that had done them in. Sykes would make sure and report them as soon as he returned to known space. To do so earlier might put the lives of his marines in jeopardy… damn, but his mind was clicking like a computer.

  “Uh, Corporal?” asked Chevelon. “Are you hearing what I’m hearing?”

  Sykes spun, a self-satisfied smile almost breaking his face. “What?” All of his marines had turned to face down the tunnel.

  Sykes cocked his head. He could just hear something that sounded like far away rushing water, except it was getting closer. His eyes narrowed. Rushing water? On this moon? The sound grew louder, a low rush accentuated with what could only be waves. He checked his HUD for air quality to make sure they weren’t ha
llucinating, reacting to something in the air. No, the air was the same thin mixture of oxygen and other chemicals to which they’d long ago become accustomed.

  Sykes had no idea what was coming. “Weapons ready, Marines,” he whispered.

  As one, they brought their pulse rifles to bear, stocks snug against their shoulders.

  A tickle of fear teased his stomach. Was this what it was like to lead? Were leaders scared as well? For so long he’d always thought that those who stood in the face of danger were fearless. He inhaled to steady his nerves, then laughed again, which made several of the marines turn and eye him. He nodded to each of them. “Steady,” he said, low and mean.

  Then the first of them appeared.

  It wasn’t water.

  There were no waves.

  It was the miners, shuffling their feet against the tunnel floor, moving only inches at a time. The combined sound of hundreds of feet constantly shuffling had confused his brain, making it think the sound came from water. How could it know that instead of walking, several hundred miners would be shuffling like they were a hundred years old and could barely move.

  More and more, they came. An immense clump of shuffling miners moving along the long curve of the tunnel. Their heads were down, chins resting against their chests. He couldn’t see if their eyes were open.

  “Do we shoot them?” Michia asked.

  The sound of the marine’s voice triggered a change. The miners ceased all movement. Then, in one eerie pendulous move, their heads swiveled upwards. Blank gazes focused on them.

  There were too many. Calculations clicked through Sykes’s mind. He had to try something else.

  “Marines, to me. We’re going to move back.”

  He began to back away.

  His marines joined him.

  Then the miners broke into a run.

  “Oh, hell!” Sykes turned and ran. “To me!”

  He ran back to the door they’d locked. It was their only chance. He unlocked it and swung it open. Seven miners stood inside, staring at the open space where the door had been closed. Sykes wasn’t sure if they were surprised. It didn’t matter. He fired his pulse rifle from the hip, mowing them down as he pushed into the room, stepping over their freshly fallen bodies. Then he ran to the back of the room and took up position.