by Jamie Sawyer
I saw them before my suit bio-scanner did.
Oh shit.
A horde of Krell primary-forms.
In an effort to stay attached to the Oregon’s hull, they were anchored to every possible surface feature. Some had crawled into gaps between armoured plates, using them as cover from the battle above. Six or seven hung on the shadowed underside of the comms mast. These were specialised Krell forms, bred for ship-to-ship combat. Protected from vacuum inside their bio-suits, with enormous globed helmets and clawed gauntlets to attach themselves instead of mag-locks – up-armoured like lobsters. Among the horde, there were also secondary-forms – gun-grafts – evolved for ranged combat. One clung to a piece of piping, much bigger than the others, directing them on. My HUD identified the xeno-type immediately, flagging the bastard as an alpha-level threat.
A leader-form.
The Krell equivalent of an officer for the massed primary-and secondary-forms. It was a nasty fucker; armour weathered from exposure to space, back-plate erupting with quivering antennae.
The Collective moved along the hull, and for just a second they didn’t seem to see me. They’re creeping – moving slowly to avoid bio-scanner sweeps.
“Contact,” I whispered into the communicator.
I knew full well that even the briefest radio communication would alert the mass of aliens to my presence. At this range – virtually on top of them – their delicate sensors would be preternaturally responsive.
Four minutes, my HUD told me. I cancelled the warning. Let me deal with one problem at a time.
The Krell didn’t disappoint.
The Collective looked up, as one. The leader-form evaluated me with alien eyes under the globed helmet: perhaps wondering why a lone human would be out here in the dark. Its communication spines bristled angrily.
Need to see how many of you there are out here, I thought. Better to know exactly what I’m up against. Any advantage of surprise that I might have achieved was already lost and I needed proper intel.
I activated my rifle and fired a starburst flare overhead. Brilliant red light flooded the area, glinting off armoured bodies, and the flare floated off into space.
Finally my suit caught up and relayed a brief tactical analysis: there were at least a hundred Krell. A terrifying picture developed. Slowly, surely, signals began to build all around me.
“Contact on my three o’clock,” I yelled, firing my rifle – this time, a volley of plasma pulses. “Weapons free.”
I turned to take in my team, but the Krell had cut me off. They were suddenly everywhere, streaming along the hull towards the squad.
“I see you,” Jenkins shouted. “They’re moving in fast from your direction.”
“Take down all confirmed targets,” I ordered.
Three minutes. I kicked off my mag-locks and pushed my body back towards my team. Unhindered by gravity, I sailed backwards and away from the massed Krell. I fired a volley of unaimed shots. Thankfully, the M95 had no recoil, and I could fire on the move even though my aim was shit. As the pulses penetrated their protective bio-suits, Krell bodies exploded and drifted into space. My suit confirmed three hits.
I landed hard on the hull, and my mag-locks activated again. The force of the impact shook my legs and my whole body absorbed the landing.
The leader-form waved the swarm onwards. They moved relentlessly under my fire, ignoring casualties. It didn’t matter to them: so long as one of them survived, then their mission would be accomplished. They were moving in literally every direction, and now that the pretence of stealth had been lost they were engaged in a frontal assault.
Was this a sabotage operation? Had the Krell been tasked with damaging vital shipboard technology? Or had they been sent as a boarding party, intending to breach the Oregon and take the fight to us while we were still on the ship? Whatever their objective, the Krell were here.
I stole a glimpse at the positional relay projected onto my HUD. It showed that the squad were formed up on Kaminski, firing in controlled bursts into the mass of Krell. Still thirty or so metres between me and the rest of my squad. The annoying, ever-present countdown overrode other warnings on my HUD.
“Two minutes left, Kaminski. Please tell me that you are done.”
Kaminski didn’t answer.
“They really do not want us landing on Helios,” Jenkins remarked, crouching to aim at the incoming mass of xenos.
“Just makes me want to get down there all the more,” I replied. “Must’ve landed on the Oregon during the battle – they were probably outflanking us all along.”
The gun-grafts were armed with boomers – a long-barrelled organic weapon, capable of firing ranged energy blasts. One of them fired in my direction, sending a bright multi-coloured pulse across my flank. I returned fire into the horde, then steadied myself – ready to take up a better position to fire on the aliens below.
The nearby sensor-masts were like miniature towers, topped by aerials as thick as my neck. I quickly decided that those posts would give me some range over the battlefield. The tallest had the best vantage point. I had to get up there.
There was no time to properly prep myself for the jump. I just leapt onwards.
Fuck it!
I sailed over the Krell, too focused on landing to return their fire now. I realised that I had overstepped – I was going to hit the mast hard and fast. The Krell responded immediately: like a volley of arrows, stinger-spines filled the area. Am I hit? I asked myself. SUIT INTEGRITY MAINTAINED, the AI responded. I reached an arm out to snag the sensor-mast and managed to hold on to it. Again, the landing was bone-jarringly hard. I awkwardly repositioned myself, firing at the group below. More stingers sailed past, some slashing into the hull, others impacting the mast.
“Kaminski!” I shouted. “Tell me you are done!”
I looked down at a sea of Krell, from my position on the mast. They were everywhere. When one was cut down, two more appeared. Out of frustration more than any strategic initiative, I activated the underslung grenade launcher on my M95 and fired an incendiary round. It exploded, sending a ripple of xenos off into space and charring the hull armour. I pumped the launcher; fired again and again.
One minute. My HUD was still flashing the secondary life-support warning – whatever I had done to the exchanger hadn’t resolved the problem.
The tac sit was quickly dissolving into absolute chaos.
More Krell fire flew past my head. My suit continually warned of potential impacts. I returned fire again, ducking back behind the sensor-mast for some cover. Not that there was any of that; the Krell swarmed around the base of the mast, some starting the slow and interminable climb to my position. Another grenade: another handful of dead Krell.
“Kaminski! Update now!”
Then my AI auto-targeting programme crashed – reporting too many viable targets to operate effectively.
But I wasn’t a spent force yet. As I gazed out into the sea of xeno-forms, an idea formed – an irrational, impossible suggestion, but the only thing with any chance of success. Cut off the command chain. Only way to do this. There are too many of them out there to kill individually.
Now or never.
I leapt out into the horde, plasma rifle pulsing continuously. A primal sense of purpose drove me on. This foreign body, this simulant built only for war, did what it had been made to do. I selected an impact point in the midst of the mass of bodies – targeting the enormous Krell leader-form crouched there. It was easily twice my size and dripping with bio-tech.
The force of my landing among the Krell sent a wave of invaders off into space, scrabbling to regain purchase. I fired wildly, again and again, at anything nearby. It was impossible to miss at such close proximity. There, ahead of me, was the leader-form. The Krell closed ranks around the vital battlefield link—
My suit warned me of the tactical implications of engagement with the leader, especially in zero-G. Data scrolled across my HUD. The message was clear: retreat was essentia
l for survival. This beast was the very pinnacle of evolution. A dose of combat-drugs hit my bloodstream, calming my pulse.
The leader-form roared behind its bio-helmet, scattering lesser-forms out of the way.
I immediately understood what it was doing: the leader was issuing a challenge.
“Nearly done, nearly done, nearly done,” Kaminski suddenly broke in over the comms, panting as he worked.
I had to tie the xeno up, give Kaminski and the others some precious time.
My rifle was up, firing—
The leader-form launched forward, head lowered. Leaping over bodies to reach me, smashing primary-forms aside. It closed on me in a heartbeat; slammed an enormous claw against my rifle. The weapon slid from my hands.
The leader-form hit me like a battering ram, full on in the chest-plate. Something cracked either inside me or in my armour; I had no time to check what. The force was immense. I flung an arm, grabbing the xeno’s body to make sure that I didn’t sail off into space. Joined, the xeno and I spiralled out between two sensor-masts.
There was no method to the fight. Combat discipline was gone. My body became a weapon.
I crashed down onto the Oregon’s hull, still holding the xeno. A warning icon on my HUD illuminated: mag-locks activated. Impossibly, I managed to remain upright.
Soundlessly, we grappled with each other. The monster’s shell felt slick and wet, even in this extreme cold. Its maw was open and slavering inside its helmet.
I balled a fist with one hand and continually pounded against the thing’s body. Its armour carapace busted in so many places. Still hanging on – got to stay in one place – I tore away a piece of bio-armour; felt pulpy organic material beneath—
The xeno persistently stabbed at me with its raptorial talons, using the smaller forearms to hold me down. Each blow sent crippling pain through my chest and torso. My suit responded with dose after dose of pain-suppressing meds, but there was only so much that the simulant could take.
“Fuck you!” I yelled, even though the bastard couldn’t hear me. “And the rest of them!”
A noisy alarm sounded in my head. My HUD began to warn me of impending atmospheric loss. Suit viability was failing. I prayed for another dose of combat-drugs, another hit of analgesics.
Keep going!
I prised something free from behind the alien’s head.
Although we fought in silence, the thing’s face contorted in agony. More plating came free: more alien flesh. I dug my fingers in, twisted.
The xeno butted its head against my face-plate, jabbed at me again with the talons.
Every heartbeat was a war. Being this close to one of them, face to face, filled me with revulsion. The reek of the thing was intense, not in my nose or my mouth: in my mind, in every molecule of my artificial body. I didn’t feel like a god any more. Whatever the Alliance has given me – this tech, this new body – it isn’t enough.
The alien rose over me. I saw my own whitening reflection in its sight-orbs. Blood flecked my lips, sprayed across the inside of my face-plate.
The communicator was suddenly awash with voices. Jenkins, Kaminski, panicking. “Life support is online!”
My HUD flashed with an updated message, indicating that the fault was fixed, with only seconds to spare. I couldn’t respond to my team, could barely focus on my HUD. I grunted, landing another open-handed blow on the leader-form’s carapace. My mag-locks gave way. The thing gained on me again and I slid backwards.
Another flash of an energy beam above – more alien gargoyles clambering over the hull, looming out of the dark.
Muscle fibre burst in my arms. I ground my teeth, ripping off a piece of the leader’s carapace—
The bastard abruptly stopped.
I felt a shift in the thing’s weight. I slammed another fist into its head, tore at the plating again and again. More armour came free. I realised that it was clawing at its own shoulder, clutching at a rent in the bio-armour. A fine white mist was spraying from the punctured armour, crystallising as the creature began to drift away from me. Its mouth moved silently behind the fractured helmet, shrieking a cry that no one would ever hear. The xeno thrashed futilely, floating off the ship. It began to cartwheel, spilling more and more frozen liquid from its suit. Had to be some sort of suit malfunction.
There was no time to dwell on my victory. I controlled my breathing, rapidly scanning the area around me. Leaderless, the Krell would be momentarily stunned – probably retreat from the position. I unholstered my PPG-13 plasma pistol, got ready to continue the fight—
There was a spike of activity around me. The primary-forms scuttled back into their hiding places.
They all looked up, past me, at space above.
Wait. Something is wrong here.
They understood what was coming. The Oregon was doomed.
“Captain, providing covering fire for your retreat,” Jenkins insisted over the comms. “Get moving back to our position.”
I ignored Jenkins’ request and looked up, saw what the Krell concentrated on. I swallowed hard.
“Don’t bother, Jenkins. Stand by for updated orders.”
My comms bead whined with feedback, and I wasn’t sure whether Jenkins could even hear me. Maybe my communications rig had taken damage during the fight.
Helios Primary was just breaking from behind Helios, casting a crescent of pure white light across near-space. Something was moving beyond the arc of Helios, crossing the terminator. Just a silhouette, but perfectly illuminated from behind by Primary it was unmistakable.
A third Krell warship.
Great White had simply been stalling, delaying for the arrival of the real threat.
The massive ship was still a distance from our position, but she was moving fast. Even at this range, she bristled with hostility. She wasn’t alone either: a locust-like plague of fighter-ships poured from the warship’s flanks, and she was escorted by an armada of smaller attack vessels. Like an angry shoal, the great swarm of ships moved on through the black.
That has to be a category ten, I decided.
“Jenkins!” I hollered. “Retreat back to the airlock – get inside the damned ship right now!”
There was no response over squad comms. I looked down at my wrist-comp – shattered and dead.
No one can hear me. This is it.
I was powerless.
All of this – fending off the ambush, repairing the Oregon, fighting the Krell – had been for nothing. The Navy intel had been plain wrong. I knew in that instant that we had been fools to think that we could do this. This had been a terrible and precise trap. This was Krell space, and they had the numbers. The Collective had won.
My position on the outer hull suddenly felt like a very lonely place indeed. I stood there, watching the incoming enemy fleet. This was the moment of perfect calm before the storm.
I ran through my options: I was surrounded, and my suit viability was failing. I tried to open a channel back to Medical but that didn’t work either. My comms were completely down. I was cut off from my squad.
Even without this new attacker, I probably had a minute or so of operational time left inside my simulant. I was never going to make it back to the airlock. In any case, if I made it back inside the Oregon, I needed to get to Medical and properly extract. That was never going to happen.
There was only one logical choice that I could make, and there was no point in delaying it any longer.
After all, suicide runs in the family.
The tip of the Krell spear was already poised to strike. A clutch of fighter-ships impacted the null-shield, breaching it and strafing the Oregon’s hull with bio-plasma. Several larger vessels were seconds away from engaging. The warship’s organic engines were firing.
“Captain, I can’t read you,” Jenkins said. “The Krell have fallen back—”
I didn’t know whether the squad could see the new attacker from their position, because of the curve of the Oregon’s hull. But more important
than warning them, I had to warn the rest of the ship.
If you are going to die, then at least die a good death.
I tossed my pistol away and grappled with my helmet, probing the external locking mechanisms with my fingers. Without pausing – not even to steady myself for the pain I was about to experience – I blew the safety catches on each side of the helmet. My suit streamed warning markers across the HUD and the shrill chirping of an alert siren sounded in my ears, until that too fell silent—
No time.
I tore off my helmet and threw it, watching it spin away from me through already boiling eyes. Then I kicked off my mag-locks and bowled into the Krell.
It’s a myth that exposure to vacuum makes the human body explode – it only feels that way.
Intense cold filled me. I knew what came next: instant depressurisation. I screamed, but there was no noise and my vocal chords were already destroyed. My lungs ruptured. The pain in my ears and eyes was incredible – so much pressure building up so quickly. Not even a simulant could survive that.
But I didn’t want to survive.
I wanted to extract.
Death two hundred and nineteen: by vacuum.
The blackness was momentary.
For what it is worth, Sci-Div is divided over whether the speed of extraction is faster than light or instantaneous. For me, it couldn’t happen fast enough.
As soon as the simulant body deceased, the neural-link was severed.
One second I was screaming silently in the void.
The next I was screaming audibly in the simulator-tank.
It was the same process of transference in reverse. Except that now I was extracting back into a fallible, weak and human vessel. All of the pain that my simulant had experienced in death was poured into my real skin.
Pain is good, I insisted to myself. It means I’m alive.
There was that same disorienting sense of two realities, that same sickening sense of unreality.
I was between worlds. The cold of space in my head, in my lungs; the ringing of sirens, the screaming of panicked crew, in my ears.
