The six men gathered around the tactical map display that dominated the centre of the control room, their faces illuminated by the soft white glow. The conspicuous absence of certain faces made the meeting feel all the more unsettling, and Sanchez was sure the others felt it too. Heller dialled in and the map expanded to give a detailed view of their wing of the base. The wing which was now dangerously overcrowded with civilians. They didn’t have enough beds for everyone. With over four hundred people crammed in, they barely even had the floor space. But right now, there were more urgent problems.

  “How many of those robot sentries do we have?” asked Sanchez.

  “Eight,” confirmed the quartermaster.

  That was better than he had hoped, those things packed a punch. “Good. East Corridor connecting us to the rest of the base is too wide to barricade effectively. That’s our most obvious ingress point, and it isn’t going to take them long to figure that out. I want four sentries guarding that corridor. What’s the ammo capacity on those things?”

  “Two thousand rounds each.”

  “We’ll have to hope it’s enough. Get on that as soon as we’re finished here, and por el amor de Dios make damn sure they are set to “selective fire”. I don’t want some innocent lost civilian we’ve left stranded out there getting blown away just for knocking on the door,” he ordered. As much as it pained him, anyone who had not made it to Hangar 1 would have to make their own way here. He simply did not have the manpower to do a base wide sweep. Everyone nodded in agreement. They all understood, and no one had to say it.

  “Put another pair outside the garage covering the north and south approaches. I don’t want them coming up under our feet. But just lock the door, don’t seal it. We might need to leave here in a hurry. Put the last two here,” he said, tapping his finger on the schematic. “Basement access corridor. Two sentries in there, and seal the door behind them. Barricade the stairwells with heavy equipment, anything we can spare.”

  “Sir,” Jennings, who had been quiet so far, chimed in. “The one we saw in Medical was able to squeeze through a vent shaft I don’t think I’d fit through in my armour. No idea how it managed it, but it did. Lightning quick, too. We need to look at unorthodox points of entry.”

  The kid was smart, Sanchez thought to himself.

  “Agreed,” added Heller.

  Sanchez nodded. “I want four teams. Sergeant Heller, you have oversight on this. Take copies of these plans and you go deck by deck, room by room and you seal every airshaft, maintenance access point, electrical junction, sub-basement and water drainage point. Everything. If you can fit your head in it, I want it sealed tighter than an airlock. Once you are done, swap with another team and check all of their work, and they check yours. We can’t afford to let one of those bastards in here.”

  More nods of agreement. They had a plan now. A mission.

  “Some of the civilians have tech skills. Put them to work. Mechanics, engineers, anyone who knows how to do a decent weld. Anyone with a strong back can help build the barricades, and move fast. We don’t have much time. If this place isn’t buttoned up tighter than your date on prom night within the next two hours, you’ll find me and the xenos have something in common. Dismissed.”

  Thirteen days, he thought to himself. They only had to hold out for thirteen days. By now, the USCSS Argos would have received their distress call, and would be heading towards LV-784 at top speed. It would be crowded, and they would not have enough cryo-beds, but it would be able to get everyone off world. Just thirteen days. He had faced worse odds. He looked up to see Sergeant Heller, who had not left with the others.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Give us the room,” ordered Heller, and the half dozen operators dutifully filed out and closed the door without a word.

  “There were nineteen Marines onboard that ship, sir,” said Heller, with a note of accusation.

  “I’m aware of that,” said Sanchez, unsure where this was going. His tone was borderline insubordinate, but the sergeant had never been anything other than an excellent NCO. That earned him some leeway.

  “Sir, at the briefing you assured us that the yautja only hunted armed targets. It just shot down a dropship full of civilians,” said Heller. His tone was measured, but Sanchez could see the restrained anger in his face.

  “I know,” he said with a sigh. “This one isn’t playing by the usual rules. I don’t even think shooting down the dropship was a hunt. I think it was a message. “No one leaves”. They’re brutal, but there’s no precedent for anything like this.”

  The big man did not speak, but in the glow of the table display Sanchez could see his jaw tightening.

  “Speak your mind, Sergeant.”

  Heller hesitated. “Is that an order, sir?” he asked, speaking through tight lips. Sanchez stared at him for a moment, but the big man did not avert his hard stare.

  “Yes, it is.”

  The sergeant straightened to attention, towering over him. “With respect, sir. We should never have laid down arms. We should have hunted that fucker down the moment it showed up.”

  “You’re no match for it, Sergeant,” he said pointedly. “You saw what it did to Sloan’s men. You know what it’s capable of.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I think you’re letting your personal feelings influence your judgement,” growled Heller, his fists clenched.

  “Are you calling me a coward, Sergeant Heller?” Sanchez bristled.

  “Sir, as Senior NCOIC it is my duty to represent the enlisted personnel, almost forty of whom are now either confirmed dead, or MIA,” argued Heller.

  Sanchez said nothing. Did he have a point? Had he made the wrong call? In the space of a couple of hours, he had lost two junior officers, and almost half of the enlisted personnel of Rayleigh’s Rest. He had lost men under his command before, it came with the job, but never like this.

  “Sir,” said Heller, his voice softening. “You’re no coward. You’re a fine officer. But something about this yautja has you spooked.”

  Sanchez relented, and let out a long sigh as he leaned both hands on the table. “Do you remember the Fourth Indo-Pacific War?” he asked quietly.

  “A bit before my time, sir,” said the sergeant. Sanchez gave a small, mirthless laugh. He really was getting old.

  “I was nineteen at the time. Just a wet-behind-the-ears private barely out of Basic. We were on a recon mission in Thailand. It was supposed to be a simple in-and-out. Instead, we encountered one of his kind,” he said, rubbing his forearm without thinking. “I was the sole survivor, and I got damned lucky. I’ve seen up close what they can do. Trust me, if you go toe to toe with one of these things, you die.”

  A stillness settled over the room. Heller kept his face a mask of military professionalism, and Sanchez could not tell if the sergeant now agreed with him, or if he really did consider him a coward. A knock at the door almost startled him, shattering the tense silence. He was grateful for the interruption.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Come in,” he hollered.

  It was Nyugen. The woman was perhaps ten years younger than he was, and six inches shorter, but she had always carried herself with a fierceness and authority that made her formidable. Especially for a civilian. Now, she looked smaller. Older. Her face ashen as she looked at the floor, and Sanchez saw streaks of grey in her jet-black hair that he had never noticed before. She approached the two men with her arms folded protectively around herself, and Watson filed in behind her.

  “Yes, Ms Nyugen? What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

  “Colonel, we’ve done a headcount. We don’t know exactly how many died in the…” she trailed off, her voice cracking. “Even with that, we’re still missing at least forty people. Possibly fifty.”

  His heart sank. That was worse than he had estimated. Much worse. By the time the Argos reached them, there might be no one left.

  “And we are going to get them back,” he assured her. “I will be briefing my Marines in two hours. I’d like you both to attend. In the meantime, please help however you can.”

  Nyugen nodded without looking up, and left without another word. Watson remained, his face that same perpetual bland expression.

  “Mr Watson?” he asked.

  “Colonel, I would like to be involved in any rescue effort,” said Watson.

  “Out of the question. You’re a civilian,” said Sanchez flatly.

  “Sir, as an artificial person, I am bound by my core programming. The First Law of Robotics states that no artificial person may harm a human being or, through omission of action, allow a human being to come to harm. I have to help them, with or without you. However, cooperation ensures the highest probability of success,” said Watson, with a degree of earnestness that surprised Sanchez.

  “Where was that “First Law” when a hundred people were killed in the crash?” snorted Heller.

  “They were already dead. The First Law does not apply to non-recoverable personnel,” said Watson in a friendly tone, seemingly oblivious to the sergeant’s sarcasm. Heller stiffened as his eyes narrowed, but Sanchez held up his hand.

  “Are you trained?” he asked.

  “As an off-world model, I am programmed with the USCM Uniform Regulations, a full knowledge of tactics and procedures, as well as a detailed understanding of weapons handling and combat,” Watson explained without ego. “As per regulation, and Weyland-Yutani’s contract with the USCM, in an emergency situation we are under martial law. I am technically under your command, sir.”

  Sanchez considered it. He had never fully trusted synthetics. A prejudice that he could not shake, despite having worked alongside many of them over the years. It was not logical, he knew that. The First Law meant they could not hurt people, and their artificial nature meant they followed orders to the letter unquestioningly, but something about just that never did sit right with him. Their cold, unfeeling logic and programmed faux civility. The bland non-threatening smile that never did quite reach the eyes. But, right now, lives were on the line, and he needed all the help he could get.

  “Very well, welcome to the Colonial Marine Corps, Private Watson. Sergeant Heller will assign you to a squad. First, we get this place locked down, then we are going to get our people back.”

  *

  His heart pounded in his ears as he frantically searched through drawers and cabinets, gripping his flashlight between his teeth, ignoring the pain in his jaw, only to come up empty handed. He could feel the squirming in his chest, his own adrenaline feeding the thing inside him, hastening the birth. Perhaps it was already too late. Even Van Der Beek pitched in, but in the cold darkness of Level 3, it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them, and progress was painfully slow. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not as if he had anything to live for anyway. He had never been a fighter, so why fight this? Just...let go. Van Der Beek would do it for him. He wouldn’t feel anything…

  But he couldn’t do it. Not now. Some tiny, dormant spark within him had become a raging fire. A deep, primal instinct. Survival, at any cost.

  “Hey,” hollered Van Der Beek. He stood in front of a doorway, and as Louie drew closer, the beam of his flashlight swept over the words “Medicine Storage”. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Not for him.

  “Locked,” he said, and he felt his chances of survival slipping away. Van Der Beek easily pushed him aside, squared his shoulders, and kicked the door in with one massive swing of his boot. The frame shattered and the crash echoed like a gunshot in the unnatural stillness. It was sure to draw attention. He stepped aside as Louie brought up the flashlight, and the beam illuminated floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with enough pharmaceuticals to supply a mid-sized hospital.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Louie swore under his breath, but a hard shove in the back propelled him forward.

  “Start looking,” snapped Van Der Beek.

  Together, they began to tear through box after box, shelf after shelf. Medications he had never heard of, and whose purpose he could only guess at. Reading labels that he could not even begin to pronounce. It wasn’t helped by the fact that these are not over the counter meds, and so didn’t have branded packaging. This shit all looked the same.

  Then he saw it. A perfectly neat little pile of yellow rectangular prism shaped boxes, each no larger than his little finger. A goldmine. Enough to last him a year, he estimated. Longer, if he paced himself. He picked one up, twirling it lovingly between his fingers, and the bright red lettering “MEDICAL MORPHINE” printed on the side. He was freezing, the cold was seeping into his bones now, and with just one of these, he wouldn’t have to feel cold any more. He could take just one, just to take the edge off. Just one…

  A hard smack across the back of his head abruptly brought him back to his senses.

  “Snap out of it, Timex,” barked Van Der Beek. “I said is this it?”

  He looked down to see Van Der Beek holding out an innocuous looking amber pharmacy vial. He took it and held it up to his flashlight. An unpronounceable scientific name took up most of the label, but beside that in quotations, the word “Gestacyn”. He immediately popped two and swallowed hard. At least he knew the correct dose. He gripped the shelf for balance as the room spun, feeling lightheaded as he forced himself to slow his breathing. He had not realised he had been hyperventilating.

  “Did it work?” asked Van Der Beek.

  “I think so,” he said, speaking between slow, deliberate breaths. “There is a point of no return. Where even gestacyn won’t work. It happened to one of us before. But I can feel it settling down. I think we just caught it in time. I just…I just need a minute.”

  Van Der Beek did not look happy, but he did not press him either. The room stopped spinning as his heart stopped thumping in his chest, and slowly but surely the world began to reorient itself. He took one more deep breath and exhaled slowly. The gestacyn was working.

  “Feeling a little tempted there, eh?” said Van Der Beek.

  Louie had never been the kind of person to ask “what?” when he had understood perfectly well. “Why, you want it all for yourself?” he asked, and immediately regretted it. His nerves were frayed. The adrenaline comedown had him jumpy, impulsive. He had to stop antagonising the big man. Van Der Beek needed him alive. That didn’t mean he needed him to have all of his teeth.

  Van Der Beek shot him a disgusted, contemptuous look. “I never touch that shit,” he said with a shake of the head. “So, that’s how they got you, huh?”

  Louie nodded. “Yeah, that’s how they got me. That’s how they got all of us. We’re all addicts. I signed up for some Weyland-Yutani medical trial. I didn’t care what it was, I just wanted the drugs. Either they would supply them, or I could steal them. There was no medical trial, obviously. They “took some blood samples”, I blacked out, and I woke up here.”

  “Come on, Timex. It’s always sketchy with Wey-Yu, but this? I don’t buy it. They start disappearing people, someone is going to notice,” said Van Der Beek.

  “Why do you think they targeted us? A few homeless addicts disappear from cities all across the world, and the world carries on. What’s one more missing junkie?” said Louie. Van Der Beek didn’t say anything, but he could tell this time, he believed him.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?” said Van Der Beek, somewhat defensively.

  “You already said it wasn’t drugs. So, what brought you here?”

  “What’s it to you?” said the South African. It wasn’t a question, and the menacing tone had crept back into his voice.

  “Just making conversation,” Louie added quickly.

  “Let’s get one thing straight here, Timex. We’re not friends. The only reason you don’t have a hole in your chest, or your head, is because I need you alive,” Van Der Beek growled. “So, drop it.”

  Louie looked at his feet. It had been stupid of him to try to make conversation. Van Der Beek was one of the screws. You didn’t antagonise the screws, that was the rule. The more you pushed back, the more they hurt you, and not just here. Everywhere.

  “How long does that stuff last?” asked Van Der Beek, changing the subject.

  “Two capsules every six hours,” he said, without looking up. Van Der Beek did not speak again, and Louie decided to chance a question. “How much is there?”

  Van Der Beek held out his hand. Three pill bottles total. He did some quick mental arithmetic and factored in the dose he had just taken. Two weeks’ worth, barely. He could risk stretching out the time between doses to seven hours, which was dangerous, but it would buy him an extra day. He reached out to take them, but Van Der Beek pulled his hand back, pocketing the vials.

  “I’ll hold on to these,” he said, his tone clipped. “Time to get the hell out of here. You good?”

  “For now,” said Louie.

  “You sure you don’t want one for the road?” the big man asked sarcastically, and nodded at Louie’s side. He raised his hand and realised he was still holding the small yellow box. A single syrette of morphine. Just one, and he wouldn’t feel cold any more. He wouldn’t feel scared any more. He wouldn’t have to worry about xenomorphs, or yautjas, or the time bomb still ticking in his chest. At least, not for a while. He looked up, locking eyes with the big man. A tense moment passed, then two.

  “No,” he said, “I’m good.” Despite every screaming fibre of his body trying to stop him, he dropped the syrette to the floor.