His words were drowned out by a loud, metallic clang, and then a Xenomorph yanked him up into a ventilation shaft in the ceiling. Lombardo couldn’t tell how big the creature had been. All he’d seen was a blue-black blur of movement, and Antonio’s legs kicking and thrashing as he was jerked upward. Then both vanished from sight, and the sounds began. The ventilation shaft echoed with thuds and bangs, and Antonio screamed. The alien hissed and warbled, and Antonio shrieked. Then there was a soft crunching sound, and Antonio squealed—one long, high-pitched, muffled plea, wordless and yet communicating all of the pain and fear in the world. It ended abruptly and then there was silence. Blood dripped from the ventilation panel. Lombardo had pointed his rifle at the ceiling, thumbed the selector from single shot past four-round burst and all the way to fully automatic, and then opened fire. The ceiling disintegrated, panel by panel. His arms grew numb from the significant recoil and his chest began to ache, but he kept shooting. The Xenomorph’s carcass tumbled onto a cafeteria table, leaking toxic blood all over the ceramic surface. He kept shooting, the readout on the side of his weapon dutifully counting how many shots he had remaining. He didn’t stop until the ceiling collapsed upon him.
Coughing, he had crawled out of the wreckage and stood up. His ears rang, and the room was filled with swirling dust. He found what was left of Antonio, but it was impossible to determine how he had died. All Lombardo had to go on were the Marine’s final screams.
He heard ghost echoes of those screams now, standing here in the hatchway, facing off against the Xenomorphs in the air filtration control room.
“We should have picked life in prison,” he muttered.
One of the aliens inched forward, creeping toward him. Its talons clicked like hailstones on the steel-grated floor. Lombardo knew from previous briefings that while Xenomorphs primarily preferred solitary ambush tactics, they would occasionally swarm when in larger groups. His previous encounters with them had always been with no more than one lone creature. Luckily, the other three aliens held their positions, seemingly content to let the lead Xenomorph proceed. The creature took another step, and chittered softly in its throat. Its segmented, blade-tipped tail swished slowly back and forth. Lombardo cringed, remembering once again what one of those tails had done to Heimbuch.
“That’s far enough.” He gestured with his M41A. “You stay right where you are, smiley.”
Ignoring him, the Xenomorph inched closer. Judging by its body language, the creature was gearing itself to charge. The other three also shifted positions, perhaps emboldened by their companion’s cautiously aggressive behavior. It appeared to Lombardo that they were trying to flank him—a move that would prove unsuccessful given his current placement in the hatchway.
“Stupid fucking bugs. You need to brush up on your tactics.”
His voice echoed back to him, sounding very small. Lombardo breathed deep, trying to steady himself, and smelled his friends’ remains, drying on his armor.
The woman was still staring at him. Lombardo did his best to sound reassuring, even though he felt anything but.
“Don’t worry, Ma’am. It’s going to be okay.”
Slowly, she shook her head back and forth and mouthed, “No.”
He stepped backward. The Xenomorphs edged closer. He took another step, and they did the same.
“That’s right, you shit bags. Follow me.” Keeping his eyes on the enemy, he whispered into his helmet microphone. “Thomas, you still there?”
“I’m here,” the synth confirmed. “Just waiting on you, Lombardo.”
“Command? You still on the line, too?”
“That’s affirmative, Lance Corporal,” Commander Maffei replied. “What’s your status?”
“My squad is dead. Looks like I’ve got one civilian still alive.”
“And the rest of the civilians?”
“Still cocooned,” Lombardo reported.
“And their status? The atmospheric feedback is playing havoc on our sensors. Can’t read their life signs.”
“They’re all dead,” Lombardo lied, hoping like hell that he wouldn’t get caught. He didn’t want to stay here any longer than necessary. “Like I said, just one survivor. A woman. Requesting permission to fall back immediately, sir.”
“Do you have the woman with you?”
“Not yet. I’m working on it.”
Lombardo paused when he was about halfway down the maintenance tunnel. He kept his weapon pointed at the open hatch, and thumbed the selector back down to the notch for four-round bursts. One by one, the aliens stepped into the tunnel, creeping warily forward in single file. They didn’t rush him, obviously suspecting some sort of trap. He waited until they reached a point where both he and the woman would be out of the splash range of their blood, and then inched his finger just in front of the rifle’s magazine, where a second trigger was loaded. He squeezed it, lobbing his last grenade. The rifle jumped in his hands. The projectile sprang from the under-barrel and arced toward the clustered aliens.
“Get down,” Lombardo shouted, dropping and rolling, hoping that the woman understood that he was talking to her.
The Xenomorphs shrieked, and then the sound was lost beneath a concussive WHOOMP. Lombardo’s ears popped. The tunnel shook. He rolled to a stop, sprang to his haunches, and raised his rifle. There was a smoking hole where the aliens had stood only a moment before. Acid blood dripped from twisted metal. Debris and severed body parts filled the corridor. The tunnel, however, was still structurally sound.
Or at least he hoped it was.
Springing to his feet, Lombardo worked his jaw, trying to get the pressure in both ears to subside. When he reached the debris, he cautiously stepped around the still-sizzling pools of acid, and took care not to brush up against any of the metal shards. Then he re-entered the air filtration control room. The woman lay on the floor, face down, hands over her ears, quivering. Lombardo started to call out to her, but then realized she was probably just as temporarily deaf as he was. Instead, he crept forward, eyes darting around, watching for any further aliens. The shadows were empty now. Perhaps the explosion had scared them away. He swept his rifle back and forth, tense and ready. Still, nothing moved. He hurried over to the victim, still cowering on the floor, and reached out a hand.
“Are you okay? Can you stand?”
The woman didn’t respond, or even look up at him. Lombardo tapped her on the shoulder. She jerked her head up, gaping at him, her expression crazed. She began to scurry backward, crab-walking across the metal grating. Lombardo pointed his rifle barrel at the ceiling and held up his other hand, palm out.
“It’s okay,” he yelled. “I’m here to help you. We responded to the distress call.”
She paused, blinking. When she spoke, he could barely hear her over the ringing in his ears.
“The grenade.” He pointed at his ear. “I can’t hear you. Are you hurt?”
The woman blinked again, and then pointed to her own ears.
Shaking his head, Lombardo held out his hand. She stared at it as if he were offering her a dead fish. Then, slowly, she took it. Her palm was cold. Grunting, he pulled the woman to her feet. She wobbled back and forth unsteadily, grasping her abdomen.
“Easy,” he shouted, close to her ear. “Just take it slow. Can you walk?”
She nodded.
Great, he thought. At least we can hear each other now.
“I’m Lance Corporal Michael Lombardo, Colonial Marines. What’s your name?”
She paused for a moment, licking her lips and glancing around the room. Then she focused on him again. “Alice.”
“Okay, Alice. Are there any other survivors that you know of?”
He hoped she’d say no.
Alice shook her head. “Just me. Everyone else… they hatched already.”
Lombardo realized that he could hear her more easily now. The ringing in his ears had subsided.
“You’re lucky I got here when I did,” he said. “I suspect you would hav
e been next.”
Alice turned away from him again, her eyes searching the shadows, as if looking for someone.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s just me. No one else left.”
“I think you might be in shock.”
Alice grinned, glancing off into the darkness again. Lombardo followed her gaze, expecting to see another alien or perhaps even the queen lunging out from behind the equipment, but there was still nothing.
“Command,” he called.
“We copy you, Lombardo,” came Kennedy’s reply.
“Be advised, you might want to have Dylan on standby. I think she’s suffered some emotional trauma.”
“Copy that.”
“Alice? Can you look at me, please?”
Slowly, she turned back to him, still smiling. The expression made Lombardo shiver, but he didn’t know why.
“Alice, there’s a transport waiting for us outside. All we have to do is reach it. So I want you to stick close to me, okay?”
Shrugging, she nodded.
“Do you know where the rest of the aliens went? Did you see them flee when I fired the grenade?”
“It’s just me now.”
“Okay.” He paused, considering their options. Then he bent down, undid a Velcro strap on his multi-cam trousers, and pulled a combat knife from one of the six concealed pockets. He held the hilt out to her. “Here. Take this.”
Nodding, she accepted the weapon without a word. Lombardo knew that if they encountered any more Xenomorphs, the knife would be useless in actual combat. He hoped, however, that it would help the shell-shocked woman focus, and give her the courage to follow him. He turned back to the hatchway.
“Stay close behind me,” he warned, “and be careful of the rubble in the maintenance tunnel. There’s sharp metal, some of it hot. And there’s little pools of acid on the walls and floor. Trust me. You don’t want to step in those.”
If Alice understood him, she gave no indication. Sighing, Lombardo started forward, ducking through the doorway. After a moment, Alice followed along behind. He showed her where to step when they came to the blast site, and helped her navigate around the debris. Then he led her down the hall, and out into the main corridor. He paused, trying to remember which way he’d come. He’d been running at the time, gunning down Xenomorphs before they could reach him.
“Which way is the exit?” he finally asked, embarrassed.
Alice pointed to the right. “Don’t you have people who could tell you? I heard you talking to them before.”
“The atmospherics are messing with the equipment. Very hard for them to get a read on anything down here, other than communications.”
“This way, then.” She stepped around him and started down the hallway.
Lombardo grabbed her arm, noticing her wince in his grip. He eased up, surprised that he’d hurt her. He hadn’t squeezed with that much force.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s okay. I’m… it’s not your fault. I’m sick.”
“Sick? Sick how?”
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing contagious. I’ve got cancer.”
“Oh.” He paused, unsure of how to respond. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged. “It’s been killing humans pretty much since we crawled out of the oceans, right? We can travel galaxies, colonize planets, clone people, replace organs, download our consciousness—but we still haven’t found a cure for cancer. I’ve made my peace with it.”
“Is it… are you…?”
“Yes, Lance Corporal. I’m afraid it’s terminal.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. Sorry you went through all this trouble to save a dying woman.”
“Well,” Lombardo said, starting forward again, “you’re not dead yet, Alice. And you’re not dying on my watch. Just let me take the lead, okay? If we come across more aliens, I don’t want to accidentally shoot you.”
“We won’t.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “They’ve all pulled back now.”
Lombardo frowned. “How do you know that for sure?”
Alice smiled sadly. “Because all the others hatched. The Queen’s in hiding now. They emptied the nest when you were approaching. The rest of the aliens will be guarding her now.”
“But I saw an egg sac back there in the control room.”
“She had already detached from it. She’ll grow a new one and start the whole process over again. But that will take time.”
“Well, it’s time she’s not going to have.”
He paused at the next corner they came to, and peered anxiously around the wall. The corridor was clear. He led her onward.
“Do you have any family you want us to contact? I can radio my command.”
“No,” Alice replied. “There’s nobody. I’m alone.”
“No partner? Kids?”
“I had a daughter. She… died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. She was stillborn. I carried her for nine months and everything was fine. She was alive. We watched her on the monitors. But during the birth, she… she didn’t survive. I thought about having another, when the time was right. But then I ended up here, and… well, you know the rest.”
Lombardo bit his lip, unsure of what to say. What the hell could he have said? What possible words did he have to console her? She’d been captured by aliens, seen all of her friends and co-workers die, was dying herself of terminal fucking cancer, and to top everything off, had lost her only child.
He paused at another corner and glanced both ways. A stenciled arrow on the wall pointed to the cafeteria. “I came from that direction. Is there a closer way to the exit?”
“Yes. Turn to the left.”
Lombardo followed her instructions, and continued down the dark hallway. The only sounds were their footsteps and their breathing. He glanced at the LCD display on the side of his rifle, checking to see how many rounds were left, and how much battery life remained. Heimbuch had always covered his readout with black electrical tape, so that snipers couldn’t focus in on the glowing screen. But Lombardo had never done that, preferring instead to know his weapon’s status at all times. Satisfied with his findings, he used the manual cocking handle, making sure a round was chambered. He knew that psychologically, he was only doing these things to stay focused, but it made him feel better—the same effect he’d hoped the combat knife would have on Alice.
At the next crossway, he saw a red sign, glowing in the dark. It marked the exit. Lombardo sighed with relief.
“See?” Alice said. “I told you it wasn’t far.”
“It can’t be this easy,” he murmured. “Would they really just let us go?”
“They’re not following,” Alice replied.
Lombardo shuffled toward the exit. “But how can you know that for sure?”
“Because they sent me instead.”
He paused, and was about to turn around when he felt something cold against his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a metallic flash. Then it was gone. Suddenly there was pain, and his neck felt hot and sticky. He heard a sound like gurgling water. Stumbling, he slammed into the wall and glanced at Alice. She clutched the combat knife in one hand. The blade was red with blood.
That’s my blood, he realized. She…
“This was my last chance,” Alice told him. “Don’t you see? The queen, she’s smarter than the rest of them. She understood my intent. I wanted to be a mother again, before I died. I wanted to feel it one more time—that life, kicking and growing inside of me. It was perfect.”
Lombardo tried to raise his pulse rifle, but the weapon felt as heavy as stone. Instead, he let it slip from his fingers and brought his hands to his throat. He moaned as his fingers grew wet.
“You…” he rasped. “You… what…?”
“I was happy.” Alice’s smile turned to a scowl. “But then you had to come along and ruin things. You had to mess everything up.”
Sputtering, Lombardo tried to talk. He was starting to feel very cold. He slumped against the wall, sliding downward, staring at her in disbelief.
“I won’t let them take my baby,” Alice said. “And I had to stop you from leaving here. I had to protect them, you see?”
Lombardo fumbled at the floor, blood-slicked fingers clawing, trying to grab his rifle. When he looked up again, Alice had knelt beside him with the knife. She started to speak, but then gasped softly, as if in pain. Her eyes glazed for a moment, and when she turned back to him again, her expression was rapturous.
“It won’t be long now,” she said, patting her chest.
He stared, eyes wide, as her shirt bulged just below her breasts.
He was dead before the birthing pains began.
DARKNESS FALLS
BY HEATHER GRAHAM
“You didn’t hear the screams.”
The words seemed to fall on the sunlit day like a sure and steady sweep of ice. Angela Hall didn’t look at the tall, intense man who spoke them. She had been working in her garden—proud of the amazing tomatoes she was managing to grow. She had, in fact, just bit into one, adding a touch of salt from the small shaker in her belt. It was delicious. So good. Such a miracle.
She shoved her trowel into the ground and stood, dusting her hands together and staring up at the sky. It was so beautiful.
“Did you hear me? I can play the security footage for you.”
Angela still failed to react. She couldn’t. She couldn’t let go of the terra-farmed earth, and the sky. Blue, with just wisps of clouds. Glorious—and unbelievable.
It was a created world.
Planet Oleta in the Upsalon Trident had proven to be a true oasis of welcoming hospitality in an area of the Andromeda Galaxy most people had considered to be completely uninhabitable. It was also so far removed from most known civilizations that—at the moment—it was a pristine and wonderful place to live.
Silver mining was the main occupation on Oleta. Angela wasn’t a miner, she was a farmer—with degrees in agriculture and animal husbandry—but she had always liked miners. She had come across them often enough when she’d been Captain in the Colonial Marines—a part of her life she had worked hard to put behind her.