Aliens

by Weston Ochse

  43

  The first day seemed longer than normal.

  It was nothing to remove power from all the doors. Rawlings imagined that for the first few hours, people were trying to figure out why the lights and the air systems were still running, yet the doors wouldn’t open.

  By midday, someone tried to hack into the engineering systems. Buggy stopped them in their tracks and sent several Trojans into the computers, shutting them down. He was gleeful in his ability to outthink and outmaneuver them.

  Rawlings was happy for him.

  Hell, he was happy for all his new best friends. Cruz had become a scientist. McGann had become an engineer. Buggy had become a communications specialist. A lot of people never found a life after the marines. Far too many couldn’t take civilian life, ending up on a penal planet or eating the barrel of their own gun. To see some vets achieve success was a testament to their drive and desire.

  Which also made him sad. All their efforts, all their training, would be ruined because some of them weren’t going to survive. It was the law of combat. You go in thinking you’ll probably die, and come back happy to be alive. Those who go in not wanting to die made mistakes or were too slow to react.

  His eyes went to the two scientists—Hoenikker and Kash. They’d hesitate. They’d go in wanting to live, and die for it. But him and the others… sure, they might die, but they had a better chance of living because they accepted the possibility of death. They were ready for it. Hell, they’d gladly do it, if it meant they could save their fellow marines.

  By that afternoon, Rawlings was bored to tears. More importantly, he wanted a drink. He began pacing around, eyeing the desks and the layout, wondering where the best place would be to hide a bottle. Kash had been right that every office had snacks hidden in desks—and every office had liquor hidden somewhere.

  The office was divided into four rooms: the bullpen, the project room, the water closet, and a private office. All three desks used by the engineering techs were in the bullpen, which was the large space next to the exit. The desks faced each other, so if anyone was to drink, the others would see him. So then where?

  McGann lounged at her desk, looking like she was about to fall asleep, head back, eyes almost closed. Behind her was a storage area with shelves and cabinets. Rawlings went through each one of these, careful not to make much noise. He searched the best he could, but didn’t find what he was looking for— just cables and couplers and everything in between. He even checked behind each one for spaces in the wall.

  Nothing.

  How could an office not have any booze?

  He turned around, frowning and a little bewildered. McGann was awake and staring at him.

  “How long?” Rawlings asked.

  “Long enough,” she said. “Do you really think this is a good time?”

  So, she knew.

  “Is there ever a bad time?” Rawlings countered.

  “When we’re about to go into battle,” McGann replied. “I’d call that a bad time.”

  “But we’re not.” Rawlings grinned. “We have more than two whole days. A few nips now, and by the time we need to be sober, we will be.”

  McGann gave him a long look, then shrugged.

  “Fuck it. You’re your own man. You want to get shit-faced, then get shit-faced. Bottle’s in the chief’s office, bottom right drawer of his desk.”

  Rawlings winked. “Thanks, pal.”

  He passed by the project room. Cruz had laid his armor, weapons, and flamethrower on the table and was asleep beneath it. Kash had pulled two chairs together and was curled up on them, her elfin arms and legs drawn into themselves. He walked softly past them and into the office.

  Hoenikker was fast asleep on the couch that sat in front of the desk, his body turned facing the cushions. He’d taken off his shoes and placed them in front of the couch. His knees were drawn up and his right hand rested on the side of his face.

  The office was spartan. A map of the facility was hung on the wall behind the couch. Open shelving housed several dozen actual books, each of them antiques. Their topics ranged from astrophysics to non-Euclidian topology. Wedged within them was a book of poetry. Leaning in to get a closer look at the name, Rawlings noted that it was by Walt Whitman.

  That name was familiar, though all he knew of the man was that he lived in the 1800s back on Earth, and wrote the poem ‘Oh Captain, My Captain’, which he’d heard spoken at too many Colonial Marine funerals. How did the end go?

  My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

  My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

  The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

  From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

  Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

  But I with mournful tread,

  Walk the deck my Captain lies,

  Fallen cold and dead.

  It always had been a miserable damned poem.

  He turned, gingerly pulled out the chair, and sat in it, noting the softness. Must be good to be a section chief. Then he reached down and pulled open the bottom right drawer. Sure enough, a liter flask lay there. He plucked it from the drawer, opened the lid, and sniffed. His head jerked back. It might as well have been paint thinner. Jesus, but it smelled strong.

  Taking a tentative sip, he sat back as a nuclear holocaust occurred in his mouth before searing his throat and then slamming into his stomach.

  McGann stood at the door, grinning.

  “What the hell is this stuff?” he asked, whispering.

  “Shine,” McGann whispered back. “Dudman bought it from a guy in Fabrications.”

  “What percentage alcohol is this?”

  “All of it,” McGann said. She strode over and took the flask. She took a swig and her face turned instantly red. “Jesus. How can anyone drink this?”

  “Practice,” Rawlings said, accepting it back. He took a sip and then set the flask on the desk. “Something tells me this is our last hoorah.” He touched his mechanical hand and flashed back to when he’d lost it.

  “Probably.” McGann nodded. “But then I’ve had a good run. I’ve had my share of women. I’ve been places I’d never dreamed of—done things I’d never thought possible.”

  “I’ve had my share of women, too,” Rawlings said, eyeing the one in front of him.

  McGann sneered. “I bet I’ve had more than you.”

  Rawlings shook his head. “I won’t even touch that bet.” He paused a moment, then asked, “Don’t you want to do just one more thing?”

  “Like what? I mean, sure, it’s nice to be alive, to taste something wonderful, watch a vid that stimulates. But haven’t we really done everything?”

  Rawlings considered. He had done more than he’d ever thought. He’d shot, fucked, and fought across a galaxy that seemed to be getting larger by the day. Maybe he should treat this as sport. Maybe killing the Xenomorphs should be a final game, one in which the loser really loses.

  At least that way he’d be motivated.

  McGann was turning away and about to leave when Rawlings spoke.

  “I bet I nail three of them before I bite it.”

  McGann turned, grinning like a fool. “Three, you say? Then I’ll bag four.”

  “Adolescents count as much as an adult,” Rawlings added, swigging.

  “Adolescents count as much as adults.” McGann nodded. “Sure.”

  “We get to call our shots, too,” Rawlings said.

  “Well, if one of the creatures is a danger to all of us, then we’re all opening fire.” McGann nodded again. “But I get your point. If we see one at distance and you want to call it, you just have to say it ahead of me.”

  “What about Buggy? Think we should get him involved?”

  McGann shook her head. “He’s way too serious for all of this. We’ll just make sure he has our sixes.”

  Rawlings took one last drag, noting there was still plenty more
for later, and leaned back. Yeah. Shooting Xenomorphs at the end of the world. This was going to be hella fun. He imagined killing Xenomorphs until the flask was empty. Then he turned around and puked in a waste basket. He wasn’t feeling very well.

  Hoenikker was sitting up when he turned around.

  “Was that you?” the scientist asked.

  “Whuth? You nether saw pipple puthing?” Rawlings vaguely realized that he couldn’t move his tongue.

  Hoenikker stood suddenly, covering his nose and mouth with a forearm.

  “Oh. The smell.” He hurried out the door.

  “Gud riddith,” Rawlings said, then he staggered toward the couch.

  He had passed out before he even hit it.

  44

  Cruz keyed the audio. Thirty-six hours had passed since he’d put everyone on lockdown, so he imagined they were eager to get out. He glanced at those around him, then began.

  “People of Pala Station,” he said. “By now you’ve figured out that you can’t move from where you are. All doors have been locked. There are no drop ceilings. There are no secret passageways. What you see is what you get. Many of you might be hungry and or thirsty, as well.

  “The problem is that Security have hunkered down, and aren’t doing what Security are supposed to do,” he continued, “which is clear the station. I will open the doors for the next hour, and observe through the security cameras, to see if Security are doing their job. If not, then I will close the doors again.”

  He glanced at McGann. She keyed in a command.

  “The doors are open.”

  He sat back. “Now let’s see the chaos.”

  They had five vids running—outside the command suites, outside the shuttle bay, outside the mess hall, outside Engineering, and inside the mess hall. They counted three distinct Xenomorphs roaming the corridors. The rest were in the mess hall pretending to be wet nurses for the humans who had woken after being face-hugged.

  Security techs with pulse rifles poured out of the shuttle bay, searching this way and that for targets. They looked scared and confused. Their hair and uniforms were in disarray. Much different to the security techs coming out of the command suite, who looked professional and military. They moved with purpose and allowed Cruz and his companions to view them for exactly five seconds before someone shot out the camera.

  Cruz hadn’t unlocked the mess hall doors. He wasn’t that crazy. But he wanted to see what the security forces would do. Word would spread, and shortly everyone would know about the activities in the mess hall. So, it was either turtle up in each end of the station, or become proactive and kill the monsters in the corridors. In addition to the three Xenomorphs outside of the mess hall, there was the missing Leon-895, as well as the Fairbanks monster. Neither of them had been seen or heard from.

  “Someone’s trying to access the escape hatch in the command suite,” McGann said.

  Cruz nodded. As he’d suspected. He’d turned on power, but had locked the door. He just wanted to see what they had planned.

  “Remove power,” he said.

  McGann did as she was told.

  Hoenikker and Kash hovered over the vid display showing the inside of the mess hall, murmuring to each other. It was all they could really do. Cruz might have liked to have joined them, but he’d partitioned that part of his brain and was now firmly once again a Colonial Marine. He had to be, or else they would all die.

  Buggy was furiously warding off attacks on the comms servers. They were becoming more and more sophisticated, but he seemed to be up to the task.

  And Rawlings?

  He was passed out on the couch in the chief’s office. The old warrant officer had needed to blow off steam. Two good things came from his bender. The man had been able to voice his issues so he could get right in the head, and they were now officially out of alcohol.

  The others had argued with him about whether or not he should have let them out. They were afraid everyone would make a beeline for Engineering and try to take them out. But Cruz needed Security to patrol the corridors and remove the threats. He also knew it was a matter of time before Seven would figure a way out of the mess hall. That Xeno had an agenda, and Cruz hoped he wasn’t playing checkers while Seven played three-dimensional chess.

  If that was the case, then they were all doomed.

  Several security guards from the shuttle bay reached the mess hall. They tried to palm open the doors, but found themselves locked out. Cruz watched as they argued amongst themselves. Then he leaned forward. Either it was a trick of the light, or the wall had moved.

  Then the wall moved again.

  Or something the same color as the wall. Just as he was about to form the words “Leon-895,” it partially materialized and grabbed one of the security guards. The creature took a huge bite from the top of the man’s head, and then dropped the body.

  One of the remaining security guards turned and fled.

  The other fired blindly—once, twice, then turned to run.

  He didn’t get but ten feet before he was jerked off his feet. The top of his head disappeared, as did his brain, in a shower of blood, bone, and gore. A fleck of gray matter landed on the security camera bubble, creating a blind spot until it dripped off, leaving a wash of red film to see through. Clearly the Leon preferred brain matter over any other body parts.

  A security force appeared outside the Engineering section door. He’d anticipated that. Curiously, they didn’t shoot out the camera that covered the entryway.

  “McGann, want to get suited up?” Cruz suggested. She nodded, ran to the project room, and shrugged on the power armor and the flamethrower.

  Several security techs from the command suites were trying to palm the door open. One pried open the control panel and began to work on it. He jerked backward onto the floor as if pulled by a rope, a line of electricity following him from the box. McGann had made it so that the only thing hooked to the panel was the main power line. Although it was genius, it could only work once. The circuitry inside the access box was completely fried, but it would deter others from trying.

  Cruz grinned and keyed the microphone. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” he said, his voice booming throughout the station.

  The comms console buzzed.

  It was an incoming call, and the ID flashed COMMAND. He guessed Bellows was ready for a parlay, and opened the line of communication.

  “What the hell are you doing, Dr. Cruz?” Bellows demanded.

  “What needs to be done,” Cruz responded calmly. “Are you finished hiding in the corner, or are you ready to get Security out so they can do their job?”

  “Hiding in a corner?” Bellows blustered. “I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m conferring with the head of Security to identify the best way to deal with the problem, while you’re playing evil overlord and locking down all the doors so we can’t get anything done.”

  “So, you hatched a plan?”

  “Of course we hatched a plan. That’s our job. To protect the station.”

  “I noticed the Weyland-Yutani company personnel inside the mess hall weren’t part of your plan,” Cruz said, a grim note entering his voice. “Had you done something sooner, they might be alive.”

  Bellows paused. “We took that under consideration. Security felt the situation was untenable.”

  “You mean you couldn’t convince them to put their asses on the line,” Cruz said. “Or didn’t try.” Another pause. This one longer. Cruz wondered if perhaps Security Chief Rodriguez wasn’t beside him, listening in.

  He decided to press it.

  “Are you safe, Station Commander Bellows?” Cruz asked. “Are they holding a gun to your head?”

  “No one is holding a gun to anyone’s head, Dr. Cruz,” Cynthia Rodriguez said, each word tightly enunciated.

  “That’s good to know,” he replied. “Because when help eventually arrives—and it will—you need to make sure you’ve been acting aboveboard and for the benefit of the station
, and not for yourself and your security technicians.”

  “They’ll understand why I did what I did.”

  “History judges decisions in a far harsher light than the present. You’d better hope so.” Then he said, “Commander Bellows?”

  “Yes.”

  “If the Xenomorphs manage to get outside the mess hall, without Security having a plan to keep them in or kill them, all that’s going to be left of the rest of us is piles of smoking acid. They’re breeding, and soon there will be a lot more of them. Do you really have a plan?’

  Silence.

  “Bellows?”

  Silence.

  “Bellows?”

  “I think he disconnected,” Buggy said.

  “Just as I figured.” Cruz turned. “Okay, it’s time for round two.”

  “What’s that?” Hoenikker asked.

  “We turn off the lights.”

  “How does that help us?” Kash asked.

  A few seconds later, the security techs in front of Engineering found themselves in the dark. None of them had thought to bring night-vision devices like the one on the camera in the corridor.

  Cruz pointed at the three milling bodies outside their door, now illuminated in green night vision by the cameras. “They’ve made their points clear. They want what we have. The only way to get that is to kill us.”

  “But won’t they die?” Kash asked. “What about the Xenomorphs?”

  The security techs fumbled around for several minutes, then panicked and began to open fire. The terror in their faces was lit by the strobes from their pulse rifles.

  Then there were two.

  The flash of a whipping tail and fangs.

  Then there was one.

  Then silence.

  As the Xenomorph marched on.

  It was truly every man and woman for themselves.

  45

  Six hours later, Cruz turned the lights back on.

  His chin rested on his fist as he stared at the screen. There had to be a reason they hadn’t shot out the camera in front of Engineering. If it had been his plan, Cruz would have shot out every camera, blinding those who had control over power and the doors. So, what was the reason? What were they planning where they needed to be seen? What subterfuge was in play that he couldn’t recognize?