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A direct sequel to Aliens and Alien 3—Weyland-Yutani, the Colonial Marines, and Bishop's creator all pursue the android for the deadly Xenomorph data contained in his brain. Written by T. R. Napper, author of the acclaimed 36 Streets, whose explosive work explores the artificial intelligence and what it is to be human. Massively damaged in Aliens and Alien3, the synthetic Bishop asked to be shut down forever. His creator, Michael Bishop, has other plans. He seeks the Xenomorph knowledge stored in the android's mind, and brings Bishop back to life—but for what reason? No longer an employee of the Weyland-Yutani Corporation, Michael tells his creation that he seeks to advance medical research for the benefit of humanity. Yet where does he get the resources needed to advance his work. With whom do his new allegiances lie? Bishop is pursued by Colonial Marines Captain Marcel Apone, commander of the Il Conde and younger brother of Master Sergeant Alexander Apone, one of the casualties of the doomed mission to LV-426. Also on his trail are the "Dog Catchers," commandos employed by Weyland-Yutani. Who else might benefit from Bishop's intimate knowledge of the deadliest creatures in the galaxy?
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Contents
Cover
The Complete Alien™ Library from Titan Books
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Dedication
Part one
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
Part Two
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
Part Three
59
60
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63
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65
66
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68
69
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71
72
73
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75
76
77
78
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84
85
86
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
THE COMPLETE ALIENTM LIBRARY FROM TITAN BOOKS
The Official Movie Novelizations by Alan Dean Foster
Alien, Aliens™, Alien 3, Alien: Covenant,
Alien: Covenant Origins
Alien: Resurrection by A.C. Crispin
Alien 3: The Unproduced Screenplay by William Gibson & Pat Cadigan
Alien
Out of the Shadows by Tim Lebbon
Sea of Sorrows by James A. Moore
River of Pain by Christopher Golden
The Cold Forge by Alex White
Isolation by Keith R.A. DeCandido
Prototype by Tim Waggoner
Into Charybdis by Alex White
Colony War by David Barnett
Inferno’s Fall by Philippa Ballantine
Enemy of My Enemy by Mary SanGiovanni
The Complete Alien Collection
The Shadow Archive
Symphony of Death
The Rage War by Tim Lebbon
Predator™: Incursion, Alien: Invasion
Alien vs. Predator™: Armageddon
Aliens
Bug Hunt edited by Jonathan Maberry
Phalanx by Scott Sigler
Infiltrator by Weston Ochse
Vasquez by V. Castro
Bishop by T. R. Napper
The Complete Aliens Omnibus
Volumes 1–7
Aliens vs. Predators
Ultimate Prey edited by Jonathan Maberry & Bryan Thomas Schmidt
Rift War by Weston Ochse & Yvonne Navarro
The Complete Aliens vs. Predator Omnibus by Steve Perry & S.D. Perry
Predator
If It Bleeds edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
The Predator by Christopher Golden & Mark Morris
The Predator: Hunters and Hunted by James A. Moore
Stalking Shadows by James A. Moore & Mark Morris
Eyes of the Demon edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
The Complete Predator Omnibus by Nathan Archer & Sandy Scofield
Non-Fiction
AVP: Alien vs. Predator by Alec Gillis & Tom Woodruff, Jr.
Aliens vs. Predator Requiem:
Inside The Monster Shop by Alec Gillis & Tom Woodruff, Jr.
Alien: The Illustrated Story by Archie Goodwin & Walter Simonson
The Art of Alien: Isolation by Andy McVittie
Alien: The Archive
Alien: The Weyland-YutaniReport by S.D. Perry
Aliens: The Set Photography by Simon Ward
Alien: The Coloring Book
The Art and Making of Alien: Covenant by Simon Ward
Alien Covenant: David’s Drawings by Dane Hallett & Matt Hatton
The Predator: The Art and Making of the Film by James Nolan
The Making of Alien by J.W. Rinzler
Alien: The Blueprints by Graham Langridge
Alien: 40 Years 40 Artists
Alien: The Official Cookbook by Chris-Rachael Oseland
Aliens: Artbook by Printed In Blood
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ALIENS™: BISHOPPrint edition ISBN: 9781803364513E-book edition ISBN: 9781803364667
Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: December 202310 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2023 20th Century Studios.
T. R. Napper asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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To my uncle Wayne, who wouldn’t shut the hell up about this new movie called Aliens, while I was still too young to see it.
And to my sons, who are too young to read this novel right now. Can’t wait until you do, boys.
PART ONE
All warfare is based on deception.
Sun TzuThe Art of War
PRIVATE KARRI LEE
1
When Captain Marcel Apone walked out onto the deck, and stood tall, hands behind his back, everyone shut the fuck up. Simple as that. The horsing around, the slaps on the shoulder, the ball-breaking—all of that stopped.
Karri stood to one side of the company, not part of the camaraderie. They’d gathered in the hangar: dully gleaming steel walls and chains, bright yellow-painted ladders and safety markings, iron-gray shipping containers, fat missiles tipped with high explosives. Faint smell of grease, the sound of voices echoing. Marines, muscled, young, mean. Sheen of sweat on the skin—most had been working out since leaving hypersleep. Getting the blood pumping, brains working, looking for an endorphin high after weeks of lying still.
A Colonial Marines company. Pretty meagre group of grunts, for that description. Karri wasn’t sure what had happened to them, but as she cast her eye over the assembled, they looked to be at platoon strength—no more.
Karri didn’t know whether to sit, stand, or sprawl like the rest of them. She stood. A couple of the marines glanced over at her, but didn’t pay her much heed. Didn’t care about the new girl until she fucked up or proved herself. That’s what her fireteam partner, Corporal Sara Ransome, had said to her. The one person who had bothered to look her in the eye and give her more than a single word. Tall, over six feet, no-nonsense, looking down at Karri.
“They’re waiting for you, to screw up, or to do something right. If it’s the former, they’ll make your life hell until you request a transfer. If it’s the latter, they’ll bleed for you. Simple as that.”
The bullshit stopped when Apone walked in and the marines stood, hands behind their backs. The company—the “Hardboiled”—had a fierce reputation. Word was they’d seen some serious action, but when the big dog walked into the room, they jumped to attention.
Apone ran an iron assessing eye over the assembled. Up behind him the synthetic Haruki, Sergeant Hettrick, and the Weyland-Yutani worm, Walter Schwartz, all took up positions. Schwartz had already been there, loitering in the shadows, when Karri had joined a few weeks back. She hadn’t yet heard the man speak, but saw him whispering enough times to Apone, or Hettrick. Sometimes just lingering, watching the marines go about their business.
Creep.
There was silence while they waited, save the low hum of the ship in the background. Then Apone spoke, simply.
“The USCSS Patna has been found.”
The marines looked at each other. One of them clenched a fist, a nonverbal yes, but they all kept listening.
“Michael Bishop’s research vessel and the last known location of the synthetic, Science Officer Lance Bishop. The ship is drifting in space. We’ve found it, and we’ve scanned it. Life support is still functioning, but every other system is down.” He took a breath. “Over the past two months, you have all received information packets regarding the colony of LV-four-two-six—also known as Hadley’s Hope—and the more limited data from the prison planet Fiorina One-Six-One. I suggest you reacquaint yourselves with that information. I will not allow what happened to Bravo Team on Hadley’s Hope to happen to the marines I’m looking at right now.”
The troops were silent and they were listening, all eyes on the captain. Each turning the story over in their minds. Karri had read it all, three times, trying to prep herself for what was to come. To be just as keyed in as any other grunt in that hangar. But it was more than just her desperate need to make the grade. The story was so fantastical. Military reports weren’t meant to be compelling, but she found herself going back over them, picturing events in her mind’s eye. Trying to imagine the enemy.
Space monsters. Karri had loved to read, as a child. The rare times she wasn’t scrounging for food, or training in the dojang, she’d be reading. More often than not by candlelight—what with the rolling blackouts that left the city in a fearful darkness—she’d read and read and read.
If Karri was being honest, she’d prefer that the space monsters stayed in those books, rather than clawing their way into her reality, but this was the reality. A platoon of the Colonial Marines went into Hadley’s Hope, and only two came out—Corporal Dwayne Hicks, and a combat support synthetic named Bishop. A couple of civilians as well, and that was it.
In the silence of the hangar, as Apone looked at the marines and they looked back, the hardest truth remained unspoken. It hovered there, in that space between them. Apone’s big brother had been one of those cut down. A tough gunnery sergeant, the other marines said, who feared nothing and who fucked up less.
“Our enemy may sound like a horror story, invented by a sick and fevered mind,” Captain Apone said. “The face-hugger. The chestburster. The Xenomorph. The Queen. The acid blood. The terrifying speed. The armored mesoskeleton—but we know for a fact it is real, all real. Sergeant Hettrick will explain how we have adapted our equipment to deal with this new enemy.” The sergeant, behind him, smiled and nodded. Apone continued, “But the most important thing is not our equipment. It’s knowledge. This is what Sun Tzu teaches, in The Art of War. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.
“These Xenomorphs had the element of surprise on our brothers and sisters in the Second Battalion Bravo Team. They will not have it on us. We have foreknowledge; they are beasts working on a base instinct. We have advanced firepower and the will to use it. They have nothing but the shadows and their animal hate. I tell you this, marines, I promise you this—” Captain Apone held up a finger, and that was the most expressive Karri had ever seen him “—we will exterminate these monsters with extreme prejudice.”
The marines said “yeah,” and “hu-aaah,” and their eyes shone, and Karri could see how hard they wanted it. The echoes died down.
“One of ours might be there, on that ship,” Apone continued. “Might be alive. But dead or alive, the Marines leave no one behind.”
The response to this was less enthused. Bishop was just a synthetic, after all. A couple of the marines nodded, but that was it. Karri’s eyes flicked over at the other synthetic, Haruki. Short, slight, Japanese features. As usual, he gave nothing away. She’d come to expect as much emotion from a marine android as you would from a concrete wall. Before she’d joined, Karri had never met a synthetic. Only big companies, the military, and the rich owned them, and Karri was none of those. Until recently, anyway.
Sergeant Hettrick walked to the front. He smiled too much for her liking. Joked too much, and was way too close to the other marines. Leaders should be distant, someone to look to for leadership in a firefight, not for a laugh over a beer. But maybe he could do both. She’d see. Hettrick had short red hair, combed in a neat and oiled part. The top two buttons of his fatigues were open. He held his chin a little too high.
“You have your standard combat armor,” Hettrick said. “Wear it. Be ready to strip it off with the quick release latches should you be sprayed with Xenomorph blood. You will have a few seconds before the acid eats through. You will all wear ballistic masks.” He held one up; it looked like a hockey mask. Black, gleaming dully, holes only for the eyes. “This will stop the so-called ‘face-hugger’ from strapping itself to your mouth—like my ex-wife at an open bar.” He smiled after he said that, but no one laughed. He continued as though they found him funny. “Like your armor, the mask has quick release catches.”
“I can’t see shit in one of those things, Sergeant,” Cortazar said. Big guy, mean, like most smart-gunners. Only thing he’d said to Karri since she joined the squad was “fucking move” when she’d been standing at her locker and he wanted to get past.
“We got you covered,” Hettrick said, smiling.
The sergeant clicked his fingers and held out the mask. The synthetic, Haruki, quickly came forward, taking the mask from the sergeant’s hand and replacing it with a large black shield. Hettrick didn’t acknowledge the synth.
“The fireteam partner of each smart-gunner will carry one of these.” Hettrick placed it on the ground. It was nearly chest high, slightly curved inward. Like a large, black riot shield police forces would use back in Australia. They’d line the shields up like a wall, and fire tear gas from behind it. Then the wall would split open and they’d charge through in their gas masks and use their clubs to beat down hungry protestors, begging for food. Karri shook her head to clear the images. Involuntarily touched the silver ring on her index finger.
Hettrick rapped the shield with his knuckles. “Teflon coated. This will stop the initial acid spray, and will be more resilient than marine armor. The bug likes to get in close, and our smart guns like to make a mess. This is the solution.”
Karri didn’t think it would solve the problem, but she shut up and listened.
“I needed one of these for my ex-wife, too,” Hettrick said, and smiled, waiting for a response.
Karri rolled her eyes.
“Your ex-wife was a bug?” Corporal Ransome said. “I was wondering what would be desperate enough.” There were some guffaws at that, and Hettrick smiled along with them. Then he pointed to a steel table nearby, covered with dark, shimmering clothing.
“Kevlar riot vests. They’re light, wearable under your armor. Will provide some protection against Xenomorph claw and tail attack.”
Karri had seen those before, as well. Same place she’d seen the shields.
“Every squad will have two additional incinerator units, operated by Corporals Ransome and Colby,” Hettrick said. “The bugs don’t like the heat. Now listen—we know how to kill these things, that’s the easy part. What’s harder is living long enough to tell the tale. We play it careful, like the captain said.
“Second squad will enter the Patna via the hangar bay, mounted up in an APC,” he continued. “First squad will hold in reserve on the Il Conde. Once the hangar is clear, we will disembark. You have magnetic boots and breathing apparatus. If we engage the enemy in the loading dock, there is a chance the acid blood will breach the hull and cause atmospheric leakage. Be ready with your boots.” Hettrick looked over them.
“And be ready to kick some ass.” The marines finally smiled at something he’d said, and one slapped another on the shoulder. “Now, get fed and get prepped. Three hours before we head in. Dismissed.”
The company broke up, boots heavy on the steel mesh floor. Flinty-eyed, Apone watched them go. She felt his gaze fall on her and linger. Karri turned and followed the others out.
2
Mealtime was her favorite part of the day. Each time a reminder of why she joined the Corps. The marines sitting at the long white mess table grumbled about the food, the mission, the pay, the usual.
For Karri, everything was a luxury. Her clean, new, tough-fibered uniform. The comfort of her bunk. The basketball court on the next deck, the credits that went into her account week in and week out, that she could in turn transfer to her mother. But the food—the food was plentiful, and nutritious, and not a mirage. Not a bartering tool. No one demanding anything of her in exchange for a hunk of stale bread.
She set about demolishing the scrambled eggs on her plate. The other marines complained about them not being real, but they tasted real enough to her. She slurped her coffee, cup in her off hand, and that too was a luxury. Put down her dark brew and reached for the salt. Corporal Ransome, opposite, passed it to her.
“Hungry?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
Taking the salt, Karri sprinkled it, generously, over the yellow pile of eggs. She hesitated. The rest of the table was otherwise occupied, boasting about who they’d fucked on a previous deployment, or the asses they’d kicked.
“Was a time I couldn’t be sure if I’d see another meal.”
Ransome nodded, showed she got it—but she didn’t get it. She couldn’t, unless she’d been there herself. But the corporal acknowledged it, and that was something. Karri glanced past Ransome’s shoulder, at the two long empty white tables.
“Where’s the rest of the unit?”
Ransome motioned with her fork. “We lost them at Torin Prime.”
“Oh,” Karri said. The name sounded vaguely familiar. “In combat?”
Ransome shook her head. “To bureaucracy.”
Karri waited for her to continue. Ransome looked sideways, to see who was listening, and leaned forward.
“Word is, the Union of Progressive Peoples have been funding some rebels there. Command told Apone they wanted the Il Conde stationed, in orbit, as a deterrent, until it settled down. Word is, Apone said no. Said he had a mission. A rescue mission. No man left behind. Pulled some strings. Our captain has a lot of friends in high places.” She tracked her eyes sideways, to the table where Apone sat. “Lot of enemies, as well.”
Karri glanced over. The captain sat with the synthetic, Haruki, the dropship pilot, Miller, and one other. Walter Schwartz. The company man.
“Word is, he did a deal,” Ransome continued. “A dropship, a good lieutenant, and a full platoon, down to the surface, as a deterrent. In exchange Apone got to continue his mission.”
“That’s the word, huh?” Karri asked. There was an undertone to Ransome’s speech—a bit of bite at the back of the tall woman’s words—but there wasn’t enough context to explain it.
“Still,” Karri said. “Even adding a full platoon, this is a little slim for a company.”
Ransome lowered her fork, pressed her lips together, like Karri had made a stupid observation.
“Rookie,” she said, “the Colonial Marines are always undermanned, stretched too thin, asked too much. We’ve got a whole galaxy to cover, run by an empire whose ambitions don’t meet its resourcing.”
Karri was surprised at the admission, but nodded. She sure as hell knew about that.
“To make up the shortfall,” she said, “they keep turning to Weyland-Yutani.”
“Yup.” Ransome shrugged, as if Karri were stating the obvious. The corporal went back to her food, and so did Karri, with gusto, her fork taking apart the salted scrambled eggs.
Other marines passed a square steel tray down the table, filled with cornbread. Only one or two grabbed a chunk. Karri took half of what was left and dumped it on her plate, devouring a slice in three bites. An American bread, light, grainy texture, little bit of sweetness to it. She closed her eyes and swallowed. Had the second slice in her hand when a voice cut through the chatter.
“Look at the English bitch eat.” It was Cortazar, staring down the length of the table. The others were staring with him. “Swallowed a damn slice whole.” Corporal Colby, Hettrick, and Johnson, his fireteam partner, were sitting with him, grinning. “We should call her Cornbread.”
Hettrick thought that was funny. Of course he did.
Fucking idiot.
Johnson and Colby were laughing. The rest of the table grinning. Karri had felt unnoticed for these first few weeks. There had been some sidelong glances, some muttering, a couple people asking where she was from, what action she’d seen.
“Nowhere,” she replied, and, “None.” Lies, both. Now they were staring at her. The food in her mouth, well, it didn’t taste so good anymore and she stopped chewing, lowering her head.
“That right, rookie?” Cortazar said, eyeballing her. “I think we’ll call you Cornbread now.”
Karri stepped on her shame and looked back at him. If it came to a staring competition, she would do just fine. She swallowed her food.
“Australian,” she said. “I’m Australian, not English.”
“Don’t take a tone with me, rookie,” Cortazar said. “What, you don’t like being called English?”
“Would you?” she snapped.
“I could fill that big mouth of yours with something even better, Cornbread.” There was a violent sheen to Cortazar’s eyes. Karri set her jaw.
“And what’ll we call you, mate? Cornhole? On account of that fucking face of yours?”
Ransome, opposite her, chuckled and shook her head. Cortazar wasn’t smiling anymore, not one bit.
“The fuck did you say, rookie?”
“I’m saying that you’re so fucking ugly, a face-hugger would be an improvement.”
Some marines laughed at that, and Cortazar’s chair screeched as he stood, but Karri was already there, in close, cornbread tray pressed hard into his throat and her other hand round the back of his head, pulling it backward.
“Shit,” someone said. “She’s fast.”
Cortazar struggled. He was a head taller than her and about as wide as a barn door. Big shoulders, like he’d have to have, lugging a smart gun on mission. But the biggest muscles didn’t help much with a piece of metal dug into his throat, and so she jammed it in harder. Cortazar choked, and suddenly someone was pulling her away and the other marines were yelling, until Apone’s voice struck them all like iron.
“Stand down, marines!”
The captain was there, among them. “Sit down.” Apone was at least as big as Cortazar, when he wanted to be. Cortazar would strut around in an army-green tank top, showing off his huge shoulders. Apone didn’t have to prove anything, his mere presence was enough. But right then—at the moment, as the captain loomed among the marines—Karri noticed how big he really was.
The marines all sat, except Cortazar, chest heaving, eyes wild, staring at Karri. There was a red mark on his throat.
“What in hell is going on here?” Apone asked.
“Just breaking some balls, Captain,” Hettrick replied. “Same as any other recruit. Private Lee decided to take it personal.” Apone looked at Karri and then Cortazar, and the way he held his jaw, it was clear the man was holding in some anger.
“I will not have dissent among my warriors on the eve of battle. I will not. He will win whose army is animated by the same spirit throughout all its ranks.” Apone looked over the troops as he said it, then rounded on Karri. “Why did you join, Private Lee?”
She opened her mouth, but not to speak. Captain Apone was asking her a question, the deepest question, right in front of the whole unit, and her mouth just popped open.
“Did you not hear me, Private?” His voice rang clear in the quiet of the mess hall. Her pulse beat in her head, adrenalin still high from the near-fight.
“Ah. To. Serve?”
“You asking me a question, Private, or are you giving me an answer?” he demanded. “Who are you here for?”
Her family. That was the truth. That was the only truth. For them and no one else. To earn her citizenship, and get them out of that wretched camp. She took a deep breath, and saw it then, what the captain was looking for. It was there, in his eyes. That sheen of certitude. She knew what he wanted.
“For the marines in this room.”
“What was that, Private?”
“For the marines in this room!”
Not one of those marines spoke. Not one of them sneered.
Apone nodded. “That is correct, Private. That is the only thing worth fighting for: this tribe.” He turned and looked at the rest of them. Over his shoulder, she could see Schwartz smiling, crooked grin, as if it was amusing—but not one of the marines thought it funny. Apone kept speaking, but it wasn’t rousing: he wasn’t yelling it, like the gung-ho speeches she’d heard a hundred times already since joining. He was telling it like he meant it.
“We eat together and we sleep together. We fight together, warriors of our tribe. We guard each other’s back. We bleed for each other, and when we need to, we die for each other. I would do that for any marine here: the most grizzled sergeant to the newest recruit. We celebrate and we mourn together, one family. Out here, in the dark cold vacuum of space, there is only one place to find the warmth of kinship, and that is within the fragile walls of this ship. There’s only one place to find meaning: here, where everyone here is needed, and everyone has a role to play in our survival.
“Everyone is needed,” he said, “and here’s the thing about this tribe. It’s bigger than us, and it will outlive us. One hundred years from now we will all be gone, but this company—the Hardboiled 8th—will endure.” Apone took a breath, took a moment to look over the marines in the mess hall. “In a war long past, on Earth, a man named Sassoon was injured in battle. He left his unit and, lying there in the hospital, wrote a poem, and in part of it, he says this:
“In bitter safety I awake, unfriended,
“And while the dawn begins with slashing rain…
“I think of the Battalion in the mud.”
Apone cast his shining eyes over the room. “If, one day, you leave the Marines, and you live in bitter safety, this truth you will know—you don’t fight for anything out here but each other. Here is the most profound sense of purpose you will ever know: to be willing to die for another, and have them willing to die for you.”
The marines were all silent. Something stirred in Karri. There was truth in Apone’s words. She didn’t care about the United Americas. She wasn’t sure what the Colonial Marines were fighting for, other than the interests of one empire over another. She’d never heard another grunt talk about some higher cause, some noble mission.
Apone was right. If there was a higher cause, it was right here, in this room.
He looked now at Cortazar and then Karri. “Now break bread.”
Apone walked back to his table. The marines were subdued. A woman across from her—Karri didn’t know her name—nodded at her. A couple of others looked her in the eye, and Cortazar did, too. But this look was very different, and Karri Lee knew it well. She’d seen it enough in the food lines, on the darkened back streets. It meant violence was coming, somewhere, sometime soon.
Not now, but near enough. And she’d be ready.
3
“You a refugee?”
Corporal Ransome put one of her long legs on the bench in front and began to strap her vambrace armor to her shin. Karri made herself look away from the leg. Muscled and shapely, and she’d stared at them sideways in the showers, more than once. The question dulled her interest.
“Yeah,” Karri said, snapping the clips on her chest plate.
“Figures,” Ransome said.
“It does?”
“Cortazar is a bully, but there’s one like him in every platoon. They raze the rookies, make life hard on them, until they earn their place.”
“What’s that to do with being a refugee?”
“How you take it,” Ransome replied. She put her foot back on the ground, armor in place. “I’ve seen a few come in here, through the camps. I know it’s tough there, and that the weak are killed. All that. Can see the mark it made on you, Private, and I don’t mean that big scar on your forehead, either. I mean the anger you hold in your eyes. One marine came through our company a while back, by the name of Mahuta. Told me the camps reminded him of prison. Dog eat dog world, but worse, ’cause kids were there.”
Karri said nothing.
Ransome leaned forward. “But this ain’t prison, Lee. You’re in the Marines. There’s a hierarchy, and you got to respect it. There’s traditions, and you respect those, too. You respect it all and get none yourself. You understand why?”
Karri sighed. “Because I haven’t earned it.”
“Yeah,” Ransome said. “You haven’t earned it.” She straightened, hands on the sides of her armored breastplate, thumbs looped behind it. “You don’t earn it in the mess hall. You earn it on the field. You focus on that, Private.”
Karri breathed again, long and slow.
“You got me?”
“Yes, Corporal.”
“Good. Check your weapons, your motion tracker. Ready yourself.”
“Yes, Corporal.”
“And Lee?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t fuck up.”
4
Private Karri Lee breathed. One thing her taekwondo instructor had told her to do, time and again. “Breathe.” Old-school teacher, made everyone call him sir. Yelled, red-faced, when the students couldn’t line up straight or tie a belt correctly. Smacked them across the head, openhanded, if they were really asking for it.
Always told Karri she was too tense. Muscles too tight. Always wanting to kick too hard and punch too hard, sometimes so hard she hurt herself. “Breathe,” he told her. Had to go into a fight calm. Otherwise the lactic acid took over, cramped the muscles, drained her stamina. Strike hard and fast and swivel the hips, that’s what mattered. All while remembering to breathe.
So she breathed, twisting the plain silver ring on her index finger. Her shoulders brushing those of the marines on either side of her. Safety bar pulled down over her shoulders, the engine of the M577 armored personnel carrier thrumming underneath her feet, idling. It felt safe, felt strong, inside the beast. No bugs getting in here, no way. Apone was in the middle of it all, command center, checking the marines’ vitals on the monitors, their radio systems.
The synthetic, Haruki, was in the driver’s seat up front, and a corporal from the other section—Ottelli, a big-shouldered guy who talked only when necessary—was on the twin gatling cannons mounted to the front of the APC. Both squads—four marines apiece—sat in the back, plus Hettrick. Twelve total in the vehicle, but not too cramped, for all that. There was a backup squad in the second dropship-mounted APC back on the Il Conde, ready to ride on in, like the cavalry.
They were inside the hangar of the Patna. Hangar doors had opened, allowed the dropship in, no fuss. Waiting in its belly, ready to roar out in the APC. Cortazar and Johnson sat opposite, both staring at her. The riot shield held sideways and upright between Johnson’s legs.
She ignored them.
“Talk to me Haruki,” Apone said. “Visuals?”
“Nothing, sir,” the synthetic replied, his voice calm and uninflected. “It looks clear.”
Apone waited a few moments longer, like he was listening. For what, she couldn’t figure.
Finally he said, “Haruki. Proceed.”
The APC lurched down the ramp. Karri gripped the bars of the harness. Her legs jostled against Corporal Ransome. The marines all swayed as they took a tight turn, and kept turning, engine thrumming. The interior of the hangar flashed through the windscreen, but Karri couldn’t see anything more specific than that.
The engine wound down, the swaying stopped. Apone moved to the front, next to Haruki, and looked over the control panel.
“Motion tracker?”
“Still nothing, sir.”
Apone was silent, leaning over the synthetic. His breathing was slow. Karri could see his broad back rising and falling evenly.
“Well, I guess we’re—” Hettrick started to say.
“Quiet,” Apone cut him off. Didn’t even bother to turn around. Hettrick shut up. The engine idled, Karri breathed. They sat like that for what felt like five minutes, until Apone said, “Another bay through that far door?”
“Yes sir,” Haruki replied.
“Open it.” Apone’s voice was low.
“I can’t do it from here. I’ll have to dismount and do it manually at the panel.”
Apone made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.
“If you try to blast a hole in that door,” Apone said to Ottelli, “what’s the chance you’ll put a hole in the hull, Corporal?”
The gunner replied, “Better than even chance.”
Apone stared at the front a few moments longer before turning to the back of the vehicle. “Okay, marines. You are exiting this vehicle. Cortazar and Johnson first, Davis and Ali second. The rest of first squad, then second squad.” He pointed a big finger at Karri. “Private Lee, you need to move forward and override that second door. Ransome, watch her back. Smart-gunners, cover the gantries up top. You get swarmed, no one plays the hero, you get back to the APC so we can close the door and we put the gatling on the Xenomorph. That clear?”
“Yes sir!” the marines replied. Karri mumbled it. She hadn’t listened much to what he’d said, after the bit about her opening the door. This was it. This was her first job out in the field. No more training, no more chances. This was the first real step, to getting Mum, and her stupid brothers, out of that damn camp.
5
They moved. Fast, focused, ordered, spreading out left, right, straight ahead, over the bay.
“Looking good, marines.” Apone’s voice crackled through her headset. “Watch that flank, Davis.”
Karri headed toward the second set of bay doors, Ransome just behind her. The ballistic mask made it hard to see, and she stumbled on one of the joins in the mesh floor.
“Watch it, Private,” Ransome hissed.
They paused behind a steel shipping container with rounded corners, halfway toward the rear. The bay was about thirty meters wide, and sixty or more long. There was no dropship present, and without one the chamber looked pretty bare. Scattered over the bay were a handful of steel containers. A yellow power loader stood near the rear, designed to be walked around like a mech, driver standing in the cockpit. Bishop’s report had said a civilian had used one of those to fight a Xenomorph Queen.
Gotta have had some big balls, to give that a try, Karri thought.
“Motion tracker?” Apone asked. Firm. Calm.
“Ah,” Corporal Colby replied. A pause. “Nothing, Captain.”
The bay ceiling was higher than the one in the Il Conde. Double the height, with a steel mesh gantry walkway around the edge. Karri looked around it, uneasy. Hard to see clearly with the mask obscuring her vision.
“Move, Private,” Ransome said.
She moved, rounding the shipping container, but before she could take three steps, chaos hit. Everything, all at once.
“Wait, there’s something on—” Colby said.
Simultaneously, Karri’s foot caught the edge of the shipping container, and—
The gravity went. The fucking gravity went and she was in zero-G—
The firing started, the smooth retort of pulse rifle ringing, echoing—
“You motherfuckers,” Cortazar screamed over the comms.
Apone was still there, firm.
“—the gantry, lock your boots and cover that gantry.”
Ransome yelled at Karri, but she couldn’t make out the words over the screaming in her ear and the roar of weapons fire. Her ballistic mask slipped, obscuring her vision, and she yanked at it, yanked at the clips, pulling it away and the whole room was turning, end on end.
“God dammit, Private Lee is loose—”
She was turning and had to close her eyes, motion sickness rising in her belly. Karri tried to breathe, but something struck her chest and she spun, wildly, with the impact.
“—Ali is down—”
“Christ, they’re everywhere—”
Still spinning, Karri was almost horizontal, and in every direction was the white-yellow bloom of pulse gun fire and she couldn’t understand, snatching at the strap for her shouldered rifle. Couldn’t figure why there were so many muzzle flashes lighting up the gloom, pulse rifles overlapping. Then the smart gun, stuttering, clearing its throat then roaring, smothering the other sounds.
SPIN.
“Man down!”
The APC was floating, the front of it rising from the floor of the bay and there, below Karri, a black ballistic mask was looking at her, heading toward her, and in that split second she realized Corporal Ransome had launched herself upward.
SPIN.
Karri pulled at the strap of her pulse rifle, but too hard, slipping from her hands.
“Fuck!” she screamed, and realized in that instant that it wasn’t aliens up there above but men. Men in strange, almost samurai-type armor, padded, steel masks with rounded holes for the eyes, firing down at the marines as she spun and her pulse rifle flew off at an angle. One of the bad guys was looking straight at her, rifle raised, and Karri brought her hands up on instinct, to protect her face.
SPIN.
A whoosh of heat and Karri gasped, flinching, and when she turned again the man was on fire—the man who’d had her in his sights was on fire, screaming, arms flailing, leaving a trail of spot fires behind as he stumbled down the gantry and something struck Karri again. The air left her lungs.
Cortazar yelled over the comms, and she struggled, someone holding her, but a voice cut through it all.
“Calm, Private!” In that moment she understood it was Ransome. They hit the side of the bay, but the tall woman maneuvered with her boots, clamping them onto the wall so she stood horizontal, and dumped Karri down onto the gantry. “Your mag boots,” Ransome yelled.
Karri, bouncing up from the mesh steel, fumbled with the boots. The switch was stuck. She yanked it, screaming, until a little red light down near her heel turned green. Clunk. The boot clamped to the steel. She made the other do the same. Drawing her service pistol, she had a moment to orient herself.
There were twenty of the enemy, at least. In their padded, whitish armor, oval steel masks, holding gleaming black pulse rifles. At least five were immobile, struck while standing up, arms akimbo, their boots keeping them fastened to the steel gantry. At least one marine was drifting, unmoving, down below, and two more were doing the same death dance as the bad guys, swaying slowly upright like kelp at the bottom of the ocean.
The enemy was wearing modified all-purpose environment suits, or Apesuits. Those would make them—
One of the bastards clomped around the corner of the gantry, pulse rifle aimed at Karri and Ransome.
She shifted and fired at his legs, right at the moment Ransome unleashed with her incinerator, washing the man with white-hot napthal. The man screamed, high-pitched, keening, and it was a sound Karri could not dispel, could not unhear. Even after it stopped, the sound echoed on in her mind. She tried to press a hand against her ear, but someone was yelling, shaking her, pulling her gaze from the burning man.
“Open that door, Lee,” Ransome yelled. “We’re too exposed.” She jabbed her finger at a steel door at the end of the gantry, hauled Karri to her feet, and they ran, sparks flying, gunfire everywhere, garbled commands over the comms. There was an alcove, no more than a half-meter deep, where the door was set. They slammed into it. More sparks, ricochets, Ransome yelled and unleashed another stream of fire, her armor reflecting the orange glow of the flame.
The corporal jerked and dropped the incinerator, falling back into the alcove. Karri reached out to her, and all she could see of the corporal was her eyes, anger bright, looking through the holes of the ballistic mask. “Do. Fucking. Something.”
Stung, Karri leaned her against the wall and turned to the panel. She tried to ignore the deafening fire, the sounds of explosive-tipped rounds striking metal, and pulled her field technician kit from the pouch at her waist. She tried to breathe, but a shot sparked near her head and she flinched. Karri swore and started unscrewing the panel cover when the door opened.
The door slid open.
Beyond, the two men in Apesuits looked as surprised as she. The closest one had a pulse rifle leveled at her.
6
Finally, fifteen years of martial arts training, and twelve months basic for the Marines, kicked in. Finally, her muscle memory was worth something.
Karri Lee rose and kicked the rifle, knocking it upward, the man firing it into the ceiling. She followed through with her other leg, her heel striking the round steel mask. The man’s head snapped back and he staggered and Karri was moving—standing on the spot was a good way to get dead on a battlefield. She grasped the rifle of the second enemy. He was taller and stronger, shoving her against the wall and ramming the side of the weapon into her face. She gasped, dazed. He twisted the pulse rifle up, away, her hands losing purchase.
She stomped down, hard, on his foot. He grunted, she reclasped the rifle, leaned back and stomped again, this time on the inside of his knee.
The motherfucker howled, instantly releasing the weapon. Karri turned the rifle around, fumbling for the grip, but something was around her neck, choking her. One hand still on the rifle, she clawed at her throat. She craned her neck, not understanding what was happening.
What the fuck.
The first man she’d kicked was there, with a pole maybe three meters long, noose at the end, wrenching it like she was a wild animal and he was the ranger. He pulled, her boots popping from the floor, and he slammed her into the wall. The wind went out of her and he pulled her again through the zero-G, into the other side of the corridor. Her helmet was gone—she wasn’t sure when—both of her hands at her throat now, gasping for air. Rifle gone, didn’t know where the fuck her service pistol was.
Apesuited motherfucker dragged her back and forth, choking the life from her. Karri’s lungs burned and she couldn’t scream, no one could hear her choking cries for help. She couldn’t see Ransome, couldn’t see anyone, just the gleaming hate in the eyes of the man who was killing her.
Her vision faded in, and suddenly there was a blade in her hand. Muscle memory, not dead yet, grabbing the last weapon she possessed: her combat knife. She pressed it to her throat, trying to work it in underneath the cord. It stung, and she was slammed again, but she still held the knife. All her rage and fury and will to live squeezed the handle, and she cut the cord at her throat and rammed her boots down, catching the floor.
The pressure on her neck was gone, and she was like a swimmer who’d been drowning, suddenly breaking the surface, gasping for air. Everything was so bright in the corridor, like she’d just come out of a dark room, and something moved, a flash of white at the corner of her vision, and it was the one with the broken knee, trying to draw a pistol on her. She blocked it with her forearm, then thrust forward with the blade, under his chin.
It sank deep. His eyes, deep behind the glass circles of his mask, looked surprised. She pulled the blade out and blood spilled out into the zero-G, a surging steady spray into her face, her neck. Turning slowly, still dizzy, she spat the other man’s blood from her mouth.
“Marine bitch.”
She focused. The last opponent was standing, center of the corridor. Instead of the pole, he now had a pulse rifle aimed at her, retrieved from somewhere. The smooth song began, the death song, as electronic pulses spat caseless rounds, steel-jacketed, explosive-tipped—but it wasn’t Private Karri Lee who was torn apart by them.
It was the white-suited samurai. His steel-helmeted head jerking back, body punctured, legs, black at first where the rounds hit them, blooming with blood. He died like that, standing and not falling in the zero gravity, arms wide, blood in a cloud around him, a red cloud that shimmered and did not disperse.
Karri turned again. Corporal Ransome was there, leaning against the doorframe. Her ballistic mask was gone and there was blood splattered on one side of her sweating neck. Her chest heaved. Her head lolled and she let the pulse rifle go. It floated away from her.
“Sara!” Karri cried and ran to her, holding her. Her neck and shoulder were slick with blood, droplets floated from the wound. Looked like her collarbone had been hit, maybe worse. Small arms fire still echoed through the door, though more sporadic now. Karri jabbed the control panel, and the door closed, the sounds of battle muffled.
Ransome’s eyes fluttered open. She groaned. Karri pressed her against the wall, gently, and unclipped her chest armor as quickly as she could. It popped off, and more droplets floated out into the air. There was a lot of blood.
Karri went for her comms, but her helmet was gone. She cast around on the ground, but could not see it. Pressing her hand against the wound, with the other one she unclipped and slid off Ransome’s helmet, and put it on her own head.
The comm crackled. “—cover. We can’t get a good shot from the APC. The remaining marines—”
She pressed the transmit button. “Medic!” she yelled, cutting over Apone. “I need a medic. Ransome is hurt bad.”
“Trying to save your ass, rookie!”
“Get off this channel, Cortazar,” Apone said. “Copy that,Lee. Your position?”
“Upper gantry. Right-hand side, behind the door.”
There was a pause. “Copy that. We are under heavy fire, Lee. Can you stabilize Corporal Ransome?”
Her hand was already slick with blood. More droplets squeezed between them. Ransome was pale, so pale. Head lolling, eyes closing and opening. Closing for longer and longer.
“Fuck. No. She’s dying, Captain.”
Someone swore over the comms.
“Copy that,” Apone said. “Hold.”
She pressed her lips together. Cortazar was right. It was her fucking fault. She unclipped her own chest armor, shrugged it off, letting it float away, didn’t care. One-handed, she tore her top off, buttons popping. Extracted her free arm, then pushed the top down with her other arm, so it was near the hand still holding the wound. She shifted her hands quickly and pressed down on it, now with her fatigues as a bandage.
Ransome groaned. Her eyes were closed.
“Private Lee.”
“Copy.”
“Haruki is coming, over.”
“Roger that.”
“Cortazar and Davis, covering fire. Keep their heads down.”
“I goddam roger that, Captain.”
“Roger that.”
Karri held the bloodied bandage in place, and maneuvered so she could press her face against the small square reinforced-glass window in the steel door. Scratched, the viewing arc limited, she could only make out the muzzle flush beyond. The angry pulse of the smart guns sounded through the thick metal door. The firing intensified.
“Come on, Haruki,” she whispered. “Come on.”
Ransome’s eyes were closed now.
“Fuck.”
She pressed her face back against the window and suddenly Haruki was flying through space from below. She slapped the panel and the door slid open. As it did, the roar of battle burst through. Percussive questions and answers from light arms, soldiers yelling, and then Haruki was there, moving fast, and she was closing the panel and yelling at him.
“Hurry, hurry.”
The synthetic placed a gentle hand on her chest. “Help is here, Private Lee,” he said, and she could swear he said it gently. “Please provide protection while I attend to her injuries.”
The synthetic worked fast, his hands a blur, but Ransome was pale, so fucking pale, and she wasn’t moving.
7
A black pulse rifle floated nearby. Karri grabbed it, pulled herself down to one knee, and turned her eyes from Ransome and Haruki and all the floating blood.
The corridor was long, with a steel mesh floor, well lit. One of the enemy was curled into a ball, almost a fetal position, just to her left, hovering, drops of blood hanging in the air. The other merc was ten meters away, upright, swaying. He provided some cover, a small distraction, enough maybe that Karri would fire first if someone came from the other direction. There was an intersection, twenty meters away, and then another, twenty meters beyond that. The corridor extended on for maybe seventy meters, before arriving at another door.
The muffled firing behind them, in the bay, abated. Infrequent.
“They should withdraw,” Karri whispered over her shoulder. “Back into the Il Conde. These mercs have the higher ground.”
“Captain Apone will never leave a marine behind,” Haruki said, as though stating an immutable law of the universe.
“I know. Temporarily, I mean. Figure out another option. Forced entry maybe, another part of the ship.” Part of her didn’t want to interrupt the synthetic. The bigger part of her knew she couldn’t distract him if she tried. She could hear his hands moving, fast, efficiently, behind her. The psssst as he sprayed wound sealer.
But she also wanted to know, desperately, how bad it was below. She’d fucked up. She’d fucked up and now was grasping, wishing to hear her unit would be fine, that they had the upper hand. Some ridiculous, selfish part of herself wanted to be soothed.
“Corporal Ottelli made a suggestion along those lines, Private Lee,” Haruki said. “The captain replied that we could do both. He ordered the reserve rifle squad to suit up and EVA across the surface of the Patna, blow out an external door behind the Weyland-Yutani commandos, and assault them from the rear.”
“Company commandos?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it.” She exhaled. “But that will take too long.”
Haruki didn’t answer that. “Worry not,” he said instead. “The marines in the bay have taken cover, the wounded returned to the Il Conde. Smoke grenades were thrown. In zero gravity, the smoke lingers. He wanted to draw out the firefight with the commandos.”
“But why?”
“Because of you and Corporal Ransome. He believed disengaging would leave you to be hunted down and killed. He said he would not do that.”
Karri swore.
“How many of us are down, um, are—”
Haruki cut her off. “We have a problem, Private.” If there was a problem, his tone didn’t show it. Calm, measured.
She swallowed. “What?”
“Zero gravity presents additional complications for internal bleeding. The blood is collecting at the rupture site.”
“So—we need artificial gravity back?”
“Yes. I have to stabilize this wound, then get Corporal Ransome to the medical pod in the Il Conde as soon as possible.”
“How?”
“How do we stabilize—”
“How do we get the fucking gravity back?” she hissed. Karri was still facing away, down the corridor, pulse rifle to her shoulder. Still looking through a cloud of blood droplets, hanging in the air.
Haruki paused. “There is a sub-command center. One floor directly above us, and ten meters farther toward the stern. You need to proceed down the corridor in front of you, pass through that door, turn left, take the stairs, and return in this direction. The sub-command center is at the center of the level.”
“Got it.” Karri rose to her feet.
“And Private,” the synthetic said, and something in his voice made her turn to him. Ransome’s shoulder and chest were bandaged, the clean white strips already reddening. The woman still had no color. She’d have thought Sara dead, if not for Haruki indicating otherwise.
Karri breathed.
“You can do this, Private.”
She paused. Karri wasn’t sure if he was stating some fact arrived at by the calculations of a synth mind, or whether he was trying to reassure her, but he held her gaze and, for a moment, she was reassured. For a moment, someone was telling her she could do something, not that she was a fuckup. For a moment.
Then she looked again at Sara, and the black claw of failure clutched at her heart. She turned, and ran.
8
Clomp clomp clomp. Karri pushed herself down the corridor, jabbing door panels, moving through, black pulse rifle raised to her shoulder. Not taking enough time, not checking corners, not pausing as she should. Driving herself on.
Corporal Ransome’s helmet bounced on her head, one size too large. She clipped the chin strap, but the brim was a little low, near her eyes. She pushed it back. Paused at a corner, sucking in breaths. Floor mesh, corridors maybe three meters wide, just like the Il Conde. Same class of ship, but the configuration had been altered, stairs where there shouldn’t have been. Walls around her were bare steel, save the occasional white-yellow Weyland-Yutani logo.
No chest armor, no service pistol. Didn’t even think about grabbing either before she ran. Still had her combat knife, her technician’s kit at her belt. Her face throbbed—maybe from where she’d been hit by the mercenary, maybe from being slammed against the wall. Her side ached—maybe she’d been shot when she was floating like an idiot up through the cargo bay. Possibly a rib broken.
Hurt to breathe, but not too much.
Stop complaining and move, she told herself. She stopped complaining. She moved. Up the stairs, her boots clomping—not much she could do about the noise. Pulse rifle steady at her shoulder, her arms starting to sting from holding it in place for so long. Up to the next floor, and making her way back again, through a shorter corridor. She fingertipped the channel on her helmet.
“Private Lee, second floor, looks clear, over.”
“Copy,” Apone said.
Haruki had figured out the plan while she was running, told her, and then told Apone. He’d agreed. Someone swore. He ordered everyone else off the comms so it was only Lee and Apone. The rest of the company listening in. Waiting for her to fuck up again.
Through another door, and she stopped. To her right was a reinforced-glass viewing window, looking into a smooth white laboratory. Banks of equipment down one end, monitors and keyboards and steel-topped tables—but that wasn’t what drew her attention.
No. It was the bugs.
First time actually seeing one, in anything other than a shot taken from a security camera, or a drawing rendered by a synthetic. Pale purple glow underlit specimen tubes a half-meter across and a meter and a half high, all filled with a clear liquid. Inside two of them were face-huggers. Curled in on themselves, like dead huntsman spiders. Only bone white and a hundred times bigger. With big fucking tails they could supposedly wrap around your throat. Must have been at least thirty of the containers total in the lab, but only two specimens—and by the look of it, neither was living. She wasn’t going to stop and find out.
“Move, Private,” she hissed to herself, and kept moving. The control center was meant to be behind this lab.