One Year Later

  Sanchez closed the folder as he finished the last of his biannual performance reviews. With a full company of Marines, it had taken several weeks, and this had been the most excitement he had had in months. Over the course of the last year, things had settled into a boring, predictable routine. The few problems that did creep up, most could be solved at squad level or by one of the junior lieutenants. Anything above that, Heller usually put a swift end to it. The ones that did reach him were of “the buck stops here” variety, and those were few and fewer. Even Sloan and his pack of wolves had backed off after that incident in the cafeteria. They kept to themselves, and that suited him just fine. There was tension, but no violence. Things ran themselves out here, and he had to admit he was starting to enjoy the peace and quiet. Having recently passed the forty-six-year mark, he was beginning to accept that perhaps he really had earned this semi-retirement.

  The reviews had all been positive, even a few promotions. A handful were due to rotate out and move on to their next assignment, which would mean he would have to break in a new batch of recruits, but they were not due to arrive for another month. His eyes drifted over to his locked desk drawer, but he thought better of it. He was on duty after all. He patted his lap with both hands and gave the chair a slow swivel. What the hell, he thought to himself. Orbital imagery had confirmed there was a pretty heavy storm due to hit them in about two hours. Now was as good a time as any for a surprise inspection of the main hangar. He made sure his shirt was tucked into his fatigues as he stood, checked that his sleeves were rolled up to the same length, straightened his cover, grabbed his jacket and headed for the hangar.

  *

  Louie bolted awake at the sound of a cell door slamming shut, the bright lights of his own cell momentarily blinding him until his eyes adjusted.

  “Hijos de puta!” exclaimed a breathless female voice from the adjacent cell. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wiping the sweat from his hairless brow and head. He pulled the sheet to his waist, damp with the same cold sweat, as he leaned his bare skin against the wall, allowing the sudden shock to waken him some more, and waited a few moments to make sure the guards had left.

  “Angel?” he asked quietly, not wishing to be overheard. The doors and walls were solid, but a small ventilation vent allowed for conversation between one cell and the next without someone in the corridor listening in.

  “Louie? Louie is that you?” asked Angel.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” said Angel as she caught her breath, and somewhat contradicted her statement with a spit.

  “What happened?”

  “Parker grabbed my ass again, so I slugged him.”

  He sighed. “Did they hurt you?”

  “Not as bad as I hurt them.”

  He shook his head. He had told her before, but she never did learn. It was always best not to fight back. The more you fight, the more they hurt you.

  “How are you, Louie?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Can’t complain.”

  Angel was quiet for several long moments before speaking again. “Did you hear about Babineaux?”

  “No,” he answered, somewhat redundantly. He hadn’t heard, but he knew what she was going to say.

  “He didn’t make it.”

  “Putain,” he swore as he slammed his head back into the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” said Angel softly, “I knew you two were close.”

  He didn’t know about that. No one was ever “close” in here. If they were not in their individual cells, they were escorted back and forth by the screws. With no time to socialise, stolen conversations through a ten-centimetre air vent with an adjacent cellmate were a rare opportunity to hear news or rumour, or just another human voice. At least one that was not issuing orders, or threats. He had only seen Angel in person twice, and only for a few seconds as they passed each other in a corridor, each escorted by a duo of guards. But still, he had enjoyed his conversations with Babineaux. It had been pleasant to converse in his native French again.

  “He was from Louisiana too, right?” asked Angel, trying to break the awkward silence that had built up between them.

  “That’s right.”

  “How many?”

  He knew what she was asking. “Six, I think. Do you know how it happened?”

  “He died on the table. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  Could have been worse, he thought to himself. He had heard of specimens “hatching” earlier than expected. Before the white coats could remove it. Before they could be anesthetised. Yes, it could have been worse.

  “How many are you on?” she asked.

  “More than six,” he said wistfully, absentmindedly looking down at his bare chest, the thick pale vertical scar especially vivid against his dark brown skin.

  “I bet. You’ve outlasted all of us, haven’t you?”

  He noted the slight accusation in her tone, but he did not rise to it. “How many are you on?” he asked, shifting the focus of the conversation away from himself.

  She hesitated. “This will be my sixth.”

  He straightened. “What do you mean “this”? Last time we spoke you were still in recovery.”

  “Didn’t you hear? Yau is bumping us up to a six week turn around.”

  So, this is how it ends. They must be really desperate if they were rotating them that quickly. Or maybe they had just outlived their usefulness.

  “How long do you have?” he asked.

  “They’re taking me to Implantation tomorrow,” she said matter-of-factly. He shook his head, but said nothing. “This will be my last, Louie. It’s my sixth time, we both know what that means,” she said, and even through the wall he could hear her voice tremble slightly.

  “You don’t know that. I’ve done a lot more than six, and I’m still alive.”

  “Yeah,” she said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “Ssh, someone is coming.”

  The sound of heavy footsteps came to a halt outside of his cell door, and he could hear the distinctive beep of a keypad being punched. He did not react as the door opened, and the white clad figures of two guards filled the doorway. He immediately recognised both. Having spent so long in this place, he knew all of the guards on sight. The shorter one, Carter, was a mean, ugly son of a bitch. He had not even said anything and he was already looking at Louie like he owed him money. He was almost reassured by the presence of the taller one, Van Der Beek. He did not mind the big South African so much. It would be a stretch to call him “friendly”, but he was not sadistic like some of them. He even called him “Louie” from time to time.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Wakey wakey, Timex,” said Carter impatiently as he got out of the bed, “and put some fucking clothes on,” he added, even though he was already doing exactly that as he pulled his loose pants up to his waist.

  “Where are we going?” he dared to ask as he buttoned up the semi-translucent unisex white shirt. Carter looked at him like he had just made a vulgar comment about his mother’s virtue, but Van Der Beek interrupted.

  “Yau wants to see you in his office. He didn’t say why.”

  Louie nodded and stepped into the corridor, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact with either guard, which was made easier by the fact that even the shorter of the two was taller by a head.

  “Move,” growled Carter, who added emphasis with a hard shove to the back.

  I know the way, he thought to himself, but he did not dare say it aloud, and he made his way to Yau’s office without an upward glance.

  *

  The office was small, but felt more spacious than it was due to being so sparsely furnished. No couch, no cot, no framed photos or degrees on the wall. Apart from the neatly organised pile of files on the single desk, no one would have thought it was in use. Louie stood staring at his feet, flanked by the two guards, waiting to be acknowledged by the man sitting behind the desk, who unhurriedly flicked through the file he held.

  “You,” said Yau, finally looking up as he pointed to Carter. “You’re dismissed.” Carter did not need to be told twice and promptly left without a word. Louie still did not look up, but he could still feel the towering presence of Van Der Beek over his shoulder.

  “Let’s see,” Yau laid the file flat on the desk in front of him, “Louis Laurent Lafayette” he said, sounding it out.

  Yeah, that’s me, Louie thought to himself. “Triple L”, three times a loser. As usual, with his American accent the doctor pronounced his middle name as “law-rent”, rather than the francophone “loo-wrong”, and as usual he did not correct him.

  “What is that, French?”

  It took him a second to realise it had been an actual question. They had been through this routine a dozen times, and he had never been asked about the origin of his name, or anything else for that matter.

  “Louisiana Creole,” he answered without looking up.

  “Hm,” acknowledged Yau, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Louie wondered if he had just passed some kind of test. “Born February twenty-two eleven. Parents unknown. Black male. Height, five foot five inches. Current weight, one hundred and twenty-nine pounds. Blood type A negative. Orientation unknown. History of illicit substance abuse. Recent onset full body alopecia areata…”

  He tuned it out as Yau droned on, listing extensive trivia about either his life history or basic facts that could be discerned just by looking at him. It was the same ritual every time. He was surprised the doctor could not recite it from memory at this point.

  “Our star patient. To date you have survived almost twice as many extractions as anyone else. It would appear you have an oddly resistant physiology. Well, I don’t see any reason to delay. Take him to Implantation. The staff will take it from there.”

  Louie kept his surprise well hidden. He had known it was coming. There was only one reason you found yourself in Yau’s office, but still, he hadn’t expected it to be so…immediate.

  “Now?” asked Van Der Beek.

  “Now.”

  Louie felt the hand in his shoulder. The gesture was not rough, but the power was there. He would have had about as much luck escaping the clamps of a cargo loader. Van Der Beek could have carried him like a child if need be.

  “Let’s go,” said the big South African quietly, and with a hint of melancholy that his thick accent did not quite mask. Louie allowed himself to be led out of the office without another word.

  *

  The room was dark, and the air was heavy and damp. A sickly, musty smell saturated his nostrils. The clamp on his head was too tight, and cut into his skin, as did the ones restraining the rest of his body. He was aware he was being observed through unbreakable glass, but he could not tilt his head to get a good look. In front of him, fleshy petals of the wet egg began to flex slightly, and the seal was broken with a hiss of escaping gas. His heart began to race as the petals spread like some obscene flesh flower, and the sac inside began to pulsate. Instinctively, he struggled against his restraints, but he could barely move a millimetre. He knew not to scream, since that only made it more excited and aggressive. Just let it happen, he told himself, but his body betrayed him with a rush of panic as the clawed fingers extended over the rim of the egg. He held his breath, sealing his lips as the creature momentarily paused, seeming to savour the moment between them. He knew it was pointless, but instinct had taken over. It always did.

  With a shriek and an explosion of movement the crab-like creature lunged at his face, wrapping its tail around his neck and spindly limbs across his head. That grip, like iron, so strong that he thought his bones would break. The fleshy proboscis excitedly felt around for his mouth, running across his lips as he kept his teeth clenched and his heart raced. A dozen times he had been through this, and a dozen times he had lost, and every time he still tried to resist. He felt his jaw being pried apart and the slimy phallic appendage was forced inside. He shook violently as the stalk hit the back of his throat, and kept going, reaching deep into his chest, the fight for air overriding all rational thought, and then everything turned to black.

  *

  Sanchez ducked below the arm of a loader as the crew chief continued giving him his tour of the hangar. A hive of bustling activity as teams rushed to get everything locked down ahead of the storm. He had been doing his best to look unimpressed, but in truth he was. Four massive dropships sat side by side neatly in a row, and an equal number of APCs lined up at the far end. Adding to that, a number of loaders and other vehicles that all navigated around one another in a well-choreographed dance. The hangar was run like a well-oiled machine. He would be sure to note that in his report.

  He was interrupted by a voice over the PA system. “Colonel Sanchez to Command. That’s Colonel Sanchez to Command, please.”

  “Carry on, Chief,” he dismissed the crew chief and headed in the direction of the Central Command building. The wind hit hard the moment he stepped outside. He yanked his collar up to his chin and broke into a half jog. He wondered what was so urgent they had not just left a message with his office. He would soon find out.

  *

  “Commander on deck,” announced one of the operators as he entered the cramped confines of the windowless control centre. Banks of control panels lined the walls below banks of screens showing everything from weather reports to security feeds. The centre of the room was dominated by a large table that displayed an interactive tactical layout of the entire base, with the exception of Delta Wing which was represented by a set of solid blocks showing no internal detail.

  “As you were. What’s the situation?” he asked calmly.

  “Over here please, sir,” one of the console operators raised his hand. Sanchez joined him as everyone took their seats and focused back on their respective tasks.

  “What’s the problem?” Sanchez asked. It was not immediately obvious, and he could not make heads or tails of any of what was on the screen. But he did not want to appear ignorant in front of a junior warrant officer.

  “Right here, sir,” the young officer pointed to a seemingly random spot on what appeared to be a view of LV-784’s night sky. “A couple of hours ago, we detected a hyperspace anomaly. The readings were…odd. Not consistent with a ship dropping out of FTL. For one, it is far too close to planet-side. Anyone attempting a manoeuvre like that would be putting their whole ship at risk. It’s way closer than protocol allows. Second, it’s tiny. Far too small to be a ship. It would have to be less than forty metres,” he explained.

  Forty metres. Even the newest tachyon hyperdrives would be forty metres long, never mind the rest of the ship. Forty metres was barely bigger than one of the UD-9 orbital dropships parked in his hangar. The smallest FTL capable vessels he had ever heard of were pushing two-hundred metres, and they were stripped to the bone.

  “Naturally occurring?” asked Sanchez. He was no expert, but he knew that natural background fluctuations were a real phenomenon.

  “No sir, it’s, well, it’s hard to explain, sir. The readings are not entirely inconsistent with a ship either. We kept an eye on it, but we had nothing further, until we got a second hit fifteen minutes ago. Something entered the upper atmosphere, behind the storm. There was barely any heat signature, but it was definitely there, sir, whatever it was.”

  Pirates using the storm to cover their approach would make sense, but it still did not explain the readings. “Could they be running stealth? Making the ship appear smaller than it is?” he asked. Pretty sophisticated for a bunch of yahoos, but they were nothing if not resourceful.

  The operator shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s possible sir. But if that’s a ship running stealth, it’s stealth we’ve never seen before. Not even close. Frankly, it’s something of a miracle we detected it at all.”

  He felt the hairs on his neck bristle. No, it couldn’t be. It was not possible. What were the odds? Out of all the goddamn no-name colonies, research outposts, supply depots and Jonestown-style cult compounds in the galaxy, one of them would show up here? But no, he knew the truth. He had always known. It had been inevitable.

  “I know what this is,” he said softly, his stomach turning to a block of ice.

  “Sir?” the young man looked at him with a mixture of confusion and expectation as Sanchez unconsciously rubbed at his left forearm

  “Yautja.”