Aliens

by Jonathan Maberry

  Grabbing her cam, Nickole ran out of her room, down the corridor, and to the infirmary, since she figured that was where a biological emergency would be dealt with.

  Sure enough, Pradhuman was there, clutching a mug of something hot for dear life, along with Stepanyan and the base doctor, a stooped-over man named Cho Duk Park.

  There was also someone on one of the beds. Nickole activated her cam, and then realized that whoever it was had some sort of—of thing covering her entire face.

  It was one of the Marines, and when Nickole noticed the lieutenant’s bars on her sleeve, she realized it was Berenato.

  “What the hell happened?” Stepanyan was asking.

  Park shrugged. “No idea. Looks like a parasite. Trying to get it off.”

  “Try harder, Doc.”

  Now Park looked up at Stepanyan. “Everything I try, vital signs go down. I assume you prefer I don’t kill her?”

  “That’d be nice, yeah, Doc.”

  “Then please leave. Let me do my job.”

  Throwing up his hands, Stepanyan said, “Fine,” and left.

  Nickole stayed behind and recorded Park’s work. He kept trying different ways of getting the thing off, but alarms went off every time, and often Berenato would convulse.

  After a while, the doctor gave up trying any treatments, as they only succeeded in causing Berenato more distress.

  After an even longer while, Nickole stopped recording, as a doctor watching a patient lay still didn’t make for great footage, and she went to get a nap and try not to have nightmares about what Pradhuman had shown her.

  The “nap” lasted more than twelve hours. Nickole went into the medical bay and saw Pradhuman—now much more sober than the last time she’d seen her—and Stepanyan arguing over Berenato’s body. Park was nowhere to be found.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “We cannot leave without the lieutenant.”

  “Sergeant, if we all leave except for her, she dies. If we stay here, we all die.”

  “The doctor said that she cannot be moved without injury. I refuse to leave her behind.”

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  While Nickole was considering trying to surreptitiously record this, Park came in, sipping a can of something. “Are you two still shouting at each other?”

  Pradhuman started, “We—”

  “I don’t care. You’re disturbing my patient.”

  “Your patient’s in a coma!” Pradhuman said.

  “Fine, then you’re disturbing me. Now please—”

  Before Park could continue, the thing just fell off Berenato’s face.

  “That’s peculiar.” Park went over to check her vitals.

  Then she started to convulse again—and then her chest seemed to expand…

  * * *

  LT. BERENATO: Please stop trying to talk to me. I understand that General Cruz specifically requested you here, but while I am under orders to allow you access to my unit, I have received no orders that force me to talk to you. Go away.

  —transcript of raw footage of “interview” of Lieutenant Emily Berenato, Colonial Marines, J Company, conducted by Nickole Kejela

  * * *

  Nickole sat in the Patio behind a huge barricade that Rashad and Washington had constructed. She was next to Stepanyan, who was covered in horrid burns from the acid blood spewed by the—the creatures, whatever they were.

  They were the only ones left.

  At first there had just been the thing that exploded from Berenato’s chest. But then more appeared. Nickole had no idea where they’d come from, but they overwhelmed the base within a day.

  Rashad looked at Washington. “How much you got left?”

  “Three clips. And the flamethrower’s still in good shape.”

  Then Rashad turned to Nickole. “How’s Step?”

  Nickole shuddered. “He doesn’t look good.”

  “Motherfuck, what are these damn things?”

  “I don’t know,” Nickole said, “but the company knew about them, and kept it from Pradhuman and the others.”

  Nickole shuddered. Stepanyan and Little D had gathered the expedition team in the mess hall, and they’d wound up trapped there by the creatures. The sergeant was the only one to get out alive, and at that, he’d been crispy fried by acidic blood.

  The monsters had picked off the rest of the Marines one by one.

  Then Nickole said, “Do you know what happened to Hsu?”

  “He’s dead like everyone else,” Washington muttered.

  “Did he make it to the communication room? He was supposed to send a message.”

  “The fuck point is there in a message?” Rashad asked. “Ain’t nobody gonna hear shit for two weeks. By the time they even know we in trouble, we’ll be dead.”

  “Because they have to know!” Nickole said. “This is why I was sent on this assignment, don’t you get it? The company knew about these things and they didn’t tell Pradhuman’s people or you guys!”

  Rashad shook his head. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, I got no fuckin’ clue, and the comm room’s got a big-ass hole in it that Hsu and Big D made. Took out six’a them fuckers with ’em, for all the good it did.”

  Washington was staring down at his motion detector, and he suddenly cried out, “They’re coming!”

  Nickole reached over to Stepanyan’s holster and removed the pistol. “I’m sorry, Step. Guess it really was your last mission.”

  She got up and stood next to Washington, taking the safety off the pistol.

  Washington looked down at her. “You know how to use that?”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

  He snorted. “Yeah. Guess I ain’t gonna get that novel finished, huh?”

  “Nope.” She aimed the weapon over the barricade. “I just hope Hsu was able to get my last story out.”

  * * *

  ME: So what’s the novel about?

  PVT. WASHINGTON: Well, it’s about these two people who meet for the first time on Luna, and then they get separated when her parents get reassigned to Earth, and they both live crazy lives, only to find each other again when they’re both in their nineties, and they pick up where they left off.

  ME: So it’s a love story?

  PVT. WASHINGTON: Kind of?

  —transcript of raw footage of interview of Private Malik Washington, Colonial Marines, J Company, conducted by Nickole Kejela

  * * *

  Hiromi Hasegawa read over the transmission that had been sent from LV-418 two weeks ago directly to her queue. The sender code belonged to the Colonial Marines, but the ID was Nickole Kejela’s.

  Based on what she read, Nickole was probably dead, along with the rest of J Company. But not before she uncovered the story of the century.

  The files appended to the message proved once and for all that Weyland-Yutani had deliberately hidden the existence of Xenomorphs on LV-418.

  Hiromi shook her head. “I knew you were talented, Nickole. Well done.”

  Then she deleted the entire message.

  She put a call through to General Emilio Cruz on his personal line. Cruz was in the Philippines right now, so it was four in the morning, and he’d probably be asleep.

  Sure enough, in a bleary voice, Cruz asked, “Hiromi, do you know what time it is?”

  “Yes, Emilio, I am fully cognizant of the time. But I didn’t think you’d want to wait to hear that I was right. Weyland-Yutani didn’t cover their tracks well enough. One of my reporters almost exposed the Xenomorphs on LV-418.”

  Cruz’s eyes went impossibly wide, and sweat already was starting to bead on his forehead. “Are you—?”

  “Calm yourself, Emilio, I’ve already killed the story, and the Xenomorphs have done the same for my reporter—and J Company, by the way.”

  Waving an arm Cruz said, “I’m sure they died heroically. It’s what they’re supposed to do.” He blew out a breath. “Good work, Hiromi. I’ll let the Weyland-Yutani board of di
rectors know. I’m sure they’ll compensate you well for this information, as usual.”

  “Good.” She smiled. “Sleep well.”

  EMPTY NEST

  BY BRIAN KEENE

  When Lance Corporal Lombardo finally found the hive, the woman seemed more terrified of him than of the aliens swarming around her. She knelt there in the nest, trembling amidst hatched eggs, desiccated facehugger carcasses, and the cocooned corpses of her crewmates. She gaped at Lombardo, eyes wide, her mouth a taut circle, screaming without sound.

  Lombardo knew how she felt. Just a few minutes ago, he’d been screaming, too.

  In truth, he’d been screaming for the last hour, pretty much from the moment their platoon had landed on Taurus Seven. So had everyone else in the two deployed rifle squads. In fact, the only people not screaming were Commander Maffei, Lieutenant Kennedy, and the synth technical advisor Dylan, all of whom were safe back on the UD-4 Dropship, and Thomas, the platoon’s other synth, who was currently ensconced in the driver’s seat of the M577 Armored Personnel Carrier parked outside. Lombardo knew they weren’t screaming, because their voices echoed sporadically in his helmet’s headset, demanding status updates, or more accurately, wondering just what the hell was happening inside the supply depot.

  The fact was, Lombardo didn’t know what the hell was happening. He’d heard the other rifle squad’s screams over the headset, same as his command had heard. There had been no contact with the other squad since then. He suspected they had been killed, probably in all manner of horrible ways. The only thing he knew for sure was the rest of his own squad—Blazi, Heimbuch, and Antonio—were dead. Their blood was splattered all over his body armor. He could have reported their fate back to the Dropship, but that would have left less time for screaming.

  He glanced from the woman to the Xenomorphs, and then back to the woman again. Neither she nor her captors moved. The nest occupied what had formerly been the air filtration control room, located in the center of the supply depot, accessible only by a narrow service tunnel and a hatch-like door. Lombardo stood in the doorway, puffing out his chest and shoulders in an attempt to fill the hatch frame and make himself appear larger and braver than he really was. Right now, he felt neither of those things. He was scared and nauseous, and jittery from the adrenalin coursing through him. His M41A Pulse Rifle had never felt heavier than it did at this moment. He desperately wanted to glance behind him, just to verify that no alien was creeping along the corridor, but he was afraid to take his eyes off the ones in front of him.

  The control room was dark, and there was movement in the shadows, just out of clear sight. Obviously, more aliens lurked in the darkness, impossible to discern due to their muted black and blue coloring. He caught a glimpse of a massive egg sac hanging from the ceiling, suspended by a thick, strong, organic resin. The presence of the sac meant there was an alien queen hiding somewhere in the room. Luckily for him, the queen’s mobility would be limited due to the sheer weight of the sac. He remembered that from training. The queens couldn’t move while the sac was attached to them. She’d be dependent on her drones.

  Lombardo turned away from the shadows and focused on what he could see instead. He counted four visible combatants, plus the woman. She looked rough. Of course, anyone who had been captured by a hive of Xenomorphs would appear that way, but this was something else. She looked sick. Lombardo judged the woman to be in her forties. She was beautiful, despite the grime and blood, but too skinny. Her clothes hung from her frame. Her hair seemed thin and limp, and her skin was like alabaster, almost glowing in the darkness. A series of ugly purple bruises covered her arms and neck. He wondered why she wasn’t cocooned like the rest of the supply depot’s staff. The woman offered no explanation. She just continued to stare at him. The Xenomorphs did the same, as if awaiting a command. The silence was somehow more unnerving than the aliens themselves.

  “I’m not getting paid enough for this shit,” he muttered.

  “Say again, Lombardo?” Thomas’s emotionless synth voice sounded even colder when channeled through the headset.

  “Can’t talk right now,” Lombardo whispered.

  The aliens responded to his voice, skittering and hissing. They glanced at each other, tilting their cylindrical, elongated heads, and then turned back to him. It was clear they were communicating, but Lombardo wondered how. They had no facial features, save for their horrific mouths. No eyes or ears. And while they could screech and hiss, it didn’t sound like a language to him. So how were they able to communicate? Was it telepathy? Some sort of pheromone? Or maybe the clicking and hissing sounds they made really were some sort of fucked-up language?

  He wondered if a Xenomorph could scream, and what that might sound like.

  His thoughts returned to the rest of his squad. Heimbuch had been the first to fall, barely five minutes after they’d entered the depot, impaled through the back by a Xenomorph’s bladed tail, which had punched through his M3-1 Pattern Personal Armor like a knife through a swath of cheesecloth. Lombardo frowned, recalling the big speech their commander had given them about the armored vest. How the manufacturer, Armat Battlefield Systems, had specifically designed it for use when engaging in combat with Xenomorphs. How it was supposed to be lightweight and comfortable while still offering maximum protection. How it was manufactured with layers of titanium and boron carbide resin bonded to graphite-composite carbon fiber. How it could withstand bullets, shrapnel from grenades and explosive, lasers, and energy blasts. How it had been coated with an acid-resistant compound specifically to protect against the aliens’ toxic blood. And how none of that had fucking mattered when that tail speared Heimbuch and lifted him up off the floor. He’d tried to scream, but when he opened his mouth, blood poured out. Instead, he dropped his rifle and grasped at the slick, blue-black appendage jutting from his body. Then, with one whiplash move, the creature had flicked its tail, sending Heimbuch crashing into a bulkhead. Quivering and sobbing, he’d died trying to shovel his intestines back into his abdomen.

  Lombardo shuddered at the memory. He suspected that somebody from the Colonial Marine Corps should see about getting a refund from Armat Battlefield Systems.

  Blazi had died next, mere seconds after Heimbuch’s demise. Despite all their training and their previous encounters with the aliens, he’d panicked and done the one thing you were never supposed to do when fighting a Xenomorph in close quarters—opening fire with his M56 Smartgun while the creature stood just a few feet away from him, Heimbuch’s blood still dripping from its tail. Blazi shouted curses, grinning as the rifle shook in his hands. The corridor had thrummed with the vibrations. The huge weapon shredded the alien where it stood, smashing through the monster’s carapace, severing appendages and pulping its innards. Deafened by the noise, their ears ringing, Lombardo and Antonio barely had enough time to scurry backward out of range before a rain of acidic blood fell like mist, enveloping the still cursing Blazi. His enraged cries quickly turned to screams as the lethal substance went to work on his exposed skin. Lombardo had to give the folks at Armat Battlefield Systems credit. That special acid-resistant compound had worked like a charm. The liquid toxin slid harmlessly off of Blazi’s helmet, vest, boots, and padding. But the rest of him sizzled and bubbled as the alien’s corrosive blood melted him alive. The corridor filled with the combined stench of burning meat and something that had reminded Lombardo of the way the air smelled just before a thunderstorm—an electric tang. The M56 slipped from Blazi’s grasp. Blind and fumbling, he reached for Lombardo and Antonio, mewling helplessly as his face sloughed off, revealing the pitted, smoking musculature beneath. His eyes boiled in their sockets. The flesh on his hands dripped like hot wax. When he opened his mouth to scream, Lombardo noticed in horror that his tongue was dissolving. Blazi took one step toward them before toppling to the floor and exploding with the consistency of an overripe pumpkin. Steaming chunks of him splattered across the bulkheads, leaving behind a noxious reddish-pink stew.

  But
Antonio’s screams—those had been the worst of all. It was fair to say that both men had collectively lost their shit after seeing Heimbuch and Blazi slaughtered in such a gruesome fashion. Neither Lombardo nor Antonio were strangers to combat. Both had been witness to—and participants in—the horrors of war. They’d battled lone Xenomorphs a half-dozen times, been involved in riot control on Rigel Nine, squashed the terrorist attacks on both the Lasalle Bionational space station and the Europa reclamation project, put down the rebel uprising on New Titan, and fought in numerous skirmishes during the silent war between Weyland-Yutani and the Globe Corporation. Despite all that, they’d panicked after one Xenomorph had dispatched two of their fellow squad members in such a quick and grisly fashion. It was one thing to see your friend—a friend you’d known since basic training—get shot or blown up. It was quite another to watch them be turned into soup.

  Lombardo and Antonio had pushed ahead, going further into the supply depot, ignoring the conflicting commands shouted over their headsets. They’d charged on, breathless, fueled by adrenalin and fear, gunning down anything that moved—and a few things that hadn’t. They didn’t stop until they found the cafeteria, and then, it was only to check their weapons and gear and catch their breath.

  “You okay?” Lombardo had asked.

  “Fuck no,” Antonio replied. “I’ve got Blazi all over my boots. And you’ve got a little bit of Heimbuch on your nose.”

  Scowling, Lombardo wiped his nose with the back of his hand. When he looked down, his hand was smeared with blood.

  “Did I get all of it?”

  Antonio shrugged. “Now it looks like you’ve got war paint.”

  Lombardo glanced around the cafeteria, checking the corners. “This is fucked.”

  “I remember when we were all recruits,” Antonio had replied. “Heimbuch enlisting to get that Weyland grant money, and Blazi all patriotic and shit.”

  “And you and me,” Lombardo agreed. “That judge gave us the choice, remember?”

  Antonio had nodded. “Life in prison or life as a Colonial Marine. But I never thought—”