Alien vs. Predator: Armageddon, page 10
They were only two miles away, and the Faze was clearly visible. It drifted toward them slowly, the limbs it had been using to work on the drophole now absorbed back into its strange body. As it grew closer, Maloney could see what Kareth had meant.
No longer a single, cohesive being, the Faze was now more of a cloud. It drifted toward them in a close formation, but as it neared Maceth its portions shifted apart.
“Magnify,” Maloney said. The viewing portal hummed and the image before them grew larger.
“Twelve,” Kareth said.
“Yes,” Maloney said. “Of course.” It was preparing to board Macbeth again, and attach a part of itself to each of the large vessel’s individual components. Once through the drophole, each Rage ship would still contain an element of the Faze.
“It’s controlling us,” Kareth said.
“What? No,” Maloney said. “It’s helping us.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” Kareth muttered.
“No, say your piece.” Maloney felt a chill passing through her body. Impossible, she knew, because the gel kept her perfectly maintained at the optimum levels for her enhanced life. Yet she shivered, because Kareth was voicing an idea that had haunted her for years.
“It’s just… it does everything to help us, and to make our ships better,” Kareth said. “The Macbeth travels much faster than it was ever designed for. Our systems are almost too advanced for us to control, the weaponry is powerful, warp drives have been refined to such a degree that the wastage is a portion of one percent.
“We’ve always accepted that, just as we’ve always been at peace with the Faze seeming to know just what we want of it. But what if that isn’t the case at all? What if it’s just making us think that, and in fact we end up desiring what it wants of us?”
“A return to the Sphere has always been my intention,” Maloney said, her voice stern. She saw the effect this had on Kareth, and she felt almost sorry for the man. But she would not have her authority and control questioned. Not even here, in private, by one of the two humans she loved.
“Of course, Mistress,” Kareth said. “But the Faze dictates our ways and means.”
“It helps.”
“But why?”
Maloney did not answer. She didn’t know.
“I don’t believe it acts on its own,” Kareth said. “I’ve had… dreams. Ideas. I think it’s a tool of something far greater.”
“I’ve considered that,” Maloney said. “The Rage elders have debated it, many times over the decades. Of course we have! But even if that proves to be the case, we see no harm. Our aims are intact—the Faze simply gives us the means.”
“But the idea of some other intelligence controlling it…” Kareth said, drifting off as he watched the image of the Faze spreading, its smaller part approaching the Macbeth and disappearing from view. Each part penetrated the ship through a different exterior door. Once on board, they would move under their own propulsion, settle somewhere in each section of the ship.
Waiting for the drop, and whatever came next.
Maloney remembered the fossilized remains of those dog-like aliens they had discovered deep in Midsummer. She often wondered about them.
“We are in control,” Maloney said. “I am in control! Never forget that, Kareth.”
“I won’t, Mistress.” He bowed, eyes averted.
Maloney stared at the drophole that would soon transport them into the heart of a war she had begun. She swallowed her doubts, and wondered what might happen if the time came when she sought to destroy the Faze.
* * *
“Everything is ready,” Dana said. She’d run from the welfare suites, her excitement obvious. Born after the Rage coup, she and Kareth had been waiting for these events their entire lives. For them, this was destiny coming home to roost.
“Good!” Maloney said. “So tell me.”
Dana grinned, delighted to be asked.
“All of the cryo-pods are prepared,” she said. “The adapted pods for yourself and the other Rage elders are also ready. All Xenomorph hatching is complete, and the soldiers have been distributed to the relevant holds. Full links have been confirmed through the hub to their respective generals, and the generals are seeing that their troops are ready for action.
“The Faze has…” Her smile dropped, voice sounding more troubled.
“We saw,” Maloney said.
“They’ve each settled into the separate ships’ warp containment fields.”
“Their own method of surviving the long drop, perhaps,” Kareth said.
“The Faze is still with us,” Maloney said. “That’s all that matters. The queen?”
“She’s still laying,” Kareth said.
Maloney nodded. The Xenomorph queen would remain in the Macbeth’s central core, which would form the part of the ship Maloney herself would command. The beast had been with them for a long time, and perhaps she might yet enter into the war with them. Restrained for so long, fed a diet of humans. Maloney often imagined the magnificent creature, unleashed and raging through a human ship, or through the densely populated, polluted cities of Earth.
“And the generals?”
“The generals have opted to remain conscious during the drop, in case we emerge into trouble.” Dana seemed proud of the androids’ decision.
“Good,” Maloney said, nodding. That made sense. It was known that androids could withstand a drophole journey, while humans had to be placed in cryo-suspension for the short timespan a drop would take. Yet even for an android the effects could be debilitating, and this was a drop the like of which no one had ever made.
Nevertheless, it was still the correct choice. There was no way of knowing what they were jumping into, three thousand trillion miles away. Anything could be waiting for them when they emerged.
With the generals waiting, fingers on triggers, their safety would be assured.
“This is science we don’t know,” Kareth said. “What if we drop through, and a million years have gone by? What if—”
“Enough,” Maloney said. “We’re close to victory.” She should have berated him, but she did not. His fear came from wonder, and she felt it herself.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said.
“Schedule the drop for twelve hours from now. Inform everyone that I want a conference in three hours. Elders, shipborn, generals—everyone is to congregate in the central chamber. I’ll address the remainder of the Rage face to face, before we travel into battle, and victory.”
10
MAJOR SERGEI BUDANOV
Weaver’s World
December 2692 AD
There was a story about how Weaver’s World got its name. Major Budanov had heard it on his first posting here, and it had done little to settle his nerves at the time.
His previous postings had been to desolate asteroids, space stations, or habitats built and expanded over centuries, artificial places or bases where every part had a purpose, and his surroundings were angular and formed. Weaver’s World was a Goldilocks planet, rich in flora and fauna, much of it unknown to science. Most people would have been excited.
Budanov heard about the spiders, and any excitement he might have felt had faded away.
Thing was, they weren’t even dangerous. There was some scientific name they’d been given, but they were commonly known as jewel spiders because of their remarkable colorings and ability to chameleon from one pattern and shade to another depending on their surroundings. They frequently swarmed, nests of billions of creatures covering hillsides and valleys in swathes of glimmering, iridescent webbing. They caught insects and small birds, and frequent birthings of young filled the air with countless floating skeins of gossamer strands, each of them carrying an arachnid the size of a pinhead.
They were beautiful, amazing, harmless. They had given the planet its name. Budanov had hated them even before he’d landed, and nothing that had happened to him had shaken that feeling.
Until now. Now, he’d happily be thrown naked into a jewel spider’s nest rather than do what he had to do.
The creatures they fought were a million times larger, and there was nothing beautiful about them.
“Major, we’ve got reports coming in—”
“No more death tolls,” Budanov said. “Tell me something useful, or don’t tell me anything at all.”
The corporal beside him fell silent.
There is no good news, Budanov thought. This is like the end.
They rode in one of the skimmers often used for transport on Weaver’s World. This one was adapted for Colonial Marine use, its fuselage reinforced, heavy laser cannons and a plasma gun fixed to its wings. They were escorted by two fighters, fast craft that the garrison had been developing and improving over the many decades they had been stationed here.
The sky was bright blue and cloudless. In the distance he could just make out the shining spires and graceful skyscrapers of Boston Three. Several years ago he’d visited Boston Two on Addison Prime, and that had proven to be a seedy, run-down city, once part of that planet’s settlers’ base, now little more than a hive of criminality and illegal shipping. It had been haunted by indies and pirates, and even as a Colonial Marine major, he’d felt danger stalking him.
Boston Three was very different. Perhaps the most cosmopolitan city on Weaver’s World, it was home to the best theaters and arts centers, the food was exquisite and celebrated across the Sphere, and its science institute was the greatest outside of Sol System. Of particular interest to Budanov were the coffee plantations stretching out beyond its eastern extremes. The Boston Three bean was widely regarded as the best coffee bean grown anywhere in the known galaxy.
Now, Boston Three was burning.
“Two miles!” the corporal snapped.
“Lock on and fire,” Budanov said. Their skimmer shuddered as the plasma gun unleashed a blazing hail of fire toward the small object in the distance. The Rage dropship was one of seven that had been detected heading for Boston Three, and Budanov had issued orders that the dropships should be targeted as a priority. Once they landed and disgorged their infernal occupants, the Xenomorphs became shadows, flitting through the settlements and cities like dark ghosts, slaughtering as they went. Street-to-street, hand-to-hand fighting was proving costly to the Marine contingent, and already combat losses were high.
Death tolls among civilians were unbearable.
Hitting the dropships before they landed was the best way of combating the Rage right now. He knew that the battle in orbit continued, and that the 7th Spaceborne were suffering crippling losses. He would never, ever admit aloud that they were fighting a losing battle, but the truth hung heavy around his heart.
“Direct hit!” the corporal said.
“Deflected,” the gunner said. “It’s got shields, just like the others.”
“Hit it again,” Budanov said. “Fighters, peel away and strike it from both sides. Combined assault should knock it down, even if it does have shields.”
“They’re locking on!” the corporal said, and their skimmer spun and spiraled as he performed avoidance maneuvers. The skies outside flared briefly as the dropship’s return fire sizzled past.
Budanov felt his stomach lurch and drop, then the ground rushed up at them. The corporal piloted the craft a few yards above the ground, skimming the landscape and then twitching their nose upward so that they were screaming in toward the dropship’s underside.
“Let’s see if they’ve got a soft belly,” the corporal said as the gunner locked on and opened fire.
Twin spears of laser blasted out from the skimmer, followed by a searing white blast from the plasma gun. At the same time the fighters fired solid-state missiles, the constructs exploding on impact. The dropship disappeared for a moment in a blast of blinding light, the skimmer’s cockpit screen darkening to protect its passengers’ eyes.
The corporal swung them around into another crazy spin, then leveled again.
The dropship had fallen to within a dozen yards of the ground, and accelerated. It left a trail of smoke behind it, but there appeared to be no damage whatsoever to the fuselage.
“How the fuck do we bring these things down?” the gunner shouted.
“Open channel,” Budanov said, and he heard the subtle click as the skimmer’s computer opened comms. “This is Major Budanov. Have any air units managed to bring down a dropship?”
“Negative…”
“No, sir…”
“Shielded…”
“We used a nuke.” It was a voice he recognized. Lieutenant Seeton. “Knocked it out of the sky, bounced down a mountainside. We went back in and blew it to hell.”
“Use nukes if you can,” Budanov said. “But only if it’s safe! Enough of our people are dying.”
They were within a mile of Boston Three now, and already he could see how much the city was suffering. Fires had erupted in countless places, columns of smoke reaching for the sky in the still air. They spread above the city like a cloak. Flashes of laser fire flickered here and there like static, although they were too far away to make out individual incidents of combat. There were at least five hundred Marines on the ground, combating the Xenomorphs that had already landed.
“Corporal, take us low and quiet,” Budanov said. “Hold fire until the dropship’s disgorging its cargo.”
“Sir.”
The fighters whisked by above them, unable to hover. They roared over the city and then began circling, laser cannons arcing down as they picked out individual targets. But they didn’t fire very often. Their big weapons were too destructive for such surgical strikes.
The dropship, still smoking, hovered in closer to the city, and its big bay doors dropped open.
“Ready,” Budanov said.
“I’ll blow them to—”
The dropship flashed.
“Lock on!” the corporal shouted. Then the skimmer was struck by a heavy blast, cockpit window exploding inward. Budanov’s combat suit hardened and protected him from some of the blast, but he felt a rush of heat across his shoulders and neck.
Someone screamed.
Through the flames, and the hail of molten glass and metal, and the smoke, Budanov saw the pilot slumped low at the controls, half of his head blown off. He wiped at his visor, smearing red.
The skimmer was spinning.
Budanov unclasped his straps and threw himself forward, landing across the corporal’s splayed legs and grasping onto the controls. They thrashed against his hands. Air screamed through the broken window and fuselage, and Budanov leaned heavily on the controls, dragging them down and to the left to try and take the skimmer out of its deadly spin.
“Brace!” the gunner shouted. Budanov hadn’t even noticed she was still alive. “Brace for—”
The craft slammed into the ground. A copse of trees broke some of their fall, trunks exploding all around them, leaves and splintered branches pouring through the broken window until at last they came to a halt.
Fires roared. The engine hammered, still cycling, and Budanov smelled the rancid scent of melting metals and plastics, flowing together.
“Out!” he shouted. “Now!” He and the gunner helped each other, struggling up the sloping floor to the smashed cockpit window and hauling themselves outside. The chance of surviving a crash like that was minimal, but Budanov didn’t give himself time to feel lucky.
They had to get away before the skimmer exploded.
Dropping to the ground, the Major wiped his combat suit’s visor again, worried that his vision was hazing and perhaps he was losing consciousness. But then the gunner was beside him, and her reaction chilled him to the core.
“I fucking hate these things.”
The woodland they had crashed into was a spiders’ nest. Their webbing was everywhere—hanging from trees, splayed from branch to branch—and the extravagantly colored arachnids were skittering all around, disturbed by the violence that had crashed down into their midst.
Budanov felt panic grabbing him, but he closed his eyes and took in a few deep breaths. He felt a hand close around his.
“We’re fine,” the gunner said. It was an intimate gesture, far removed from their position and relative status. He smiled at her, grateful.
“This way,” Budanov said, and they headed in the direction of the fighting. They could hear the sizzle of laser blasts and, less frequently, the unmistakable screech of Xenomorphs on the hunt. The woodland they’d landed in was on the outskirts of Boston Three, part of a wild park that formed the city’s eastern border. They didn’t have very far to go.
To Budanov, it looked as if it would take forever.
The webbing tore as they pushed through, ripping like thin cloth. Spiders scrambled away from them, but they still had to push aside countless strands and sheets of web laden with old, dried meals. Budanov constantly wiped his visor free of webbing, and he found himself speckled with a fine silver dust that drifted on subtle breezes. He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t want to know.
Twenty minutes of effort and they emerged from the nesting area. The gunner was swathed in webs, only a few parts of her uniform visible, and she grinned as she looked him up and down.
“Fetching,” she said.
“Are you flirting with me because you’re a spider lover, Private?”
“Not at all, Major. I wouldn’t—” She looked past him, eyes wide. “Oh, fuck.”
Budanov spun around, drawing his sidearm and expecting to see the spiderish dash of a Xenomorph. But this was something else.
The Rage dropship was aflame, drifting down and to the left until it disappeared behind buildings. Moments later, there was a huge explosion.
“What the hell?” Budanov said.
A ship streaked through the cloud of smoke and flame, banking over the city in a tight circle and firing another salvo at the downed craft.
“Not Marine,” the gunner said.
“No,” Budanov said. “That’s Yautja.”
