He stood at his office window, staring out at the bleak, grey landscape. Heller had reported the wing was now locked down tighter than a drum, and they had done so in record time. Even the civilians had pitched in however they could. Every Marine under his command had given their all, and now he had to ask even more of them. He had to steel himself for what had to be done. The storm had abated, and the weak sun of LV-784 struggled to break the deep grey of the perpetual cloud cover. In the distance, the odd shaped semi-cone of the atmosphere processor that towered hundreds of metres towards the sky was barely visible through the thick fog that had descended over the outpost. With the press of a button, the heavy blast shield descended with a shudder, sealing them in. Thirteen days. He took a breath, straightening his shirt, and headed for the briefing.

  *

  “Commander on deck,” barked Heller as he entered the room, and every Marine snapped to attention with a near audible whipcrack. Nyugen and Yau nodded in acknowledgement, and he was relieved to see Doctor McTaggart. She looked haggard, but not worse for wear. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sloan, leaning his back against the wall, watching. What was he doing here? They didn’t have access to the brig to throw him and his mercs in, but that didn’t mean they were free to walk around either. He would deal with him later.

  “As you were,” he ordered, taking his place on the small stage at the head of the room. He took a moment before speaking again. “I know these last few hours have been exhausting, and we’ve lost people. Good people. Civilians and Marines. Colleagues, friends, and believe me when I say I feel every single one of those losses. Now, some of you may have noticed that even with the loss of Lieutenant Pryce and Bravo Squad, we’re still a squad short. Lieutenant Guitierrez and Alpha are officially MIA. Ms Nyugen from Administration has also informed me that a headcount of civilian survivors is coming up close to fifty short. But we are Colonial Marines. That means we do not leave our people behind, and I have a pretty good idea where they are. We are going to get them back.”

  A rustle of approval rippled through the crowd, and he allowed them a moment to process.

  “Most of you will already know Doctor Yau. For those of you who don’t, he is Head of Research for Delta. Doctor, if you would, please tell my Marines everything that you told me.” He had told the doc about the briefing, but he still made sure to give him a look at that made it clear in no uncertain terms, this was not a request. He stepped aside to make way as the doctor took centre stage, and he exchanged a knowing glance with Heller, who stood flanking the doctor like a bodyguard. The sergeant gave him the slightest of nods. Things were about to get tense.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” said the doctor, clearing his throat and looking at the floor rather than the crowd. “Six years ago, we established this outpost, and the maximum-security Delta facility, in order to study Species XX121. You all more likely know it as “the xenomorph”.

  A tense silence descended over the gathered crowd. Sanchez could see the hostile glares and tightened jawlines in the faces of every Marine. They wanted to tear him apart, and if not for the presence of Heller and himself, they would have.

  “Five hours ago,” Yau continued, seemingly aware of the hostility as he stammered through his prepared lines, “Delta suffered a catastrophic containment failure.”

  “You ain’t half kidding, chief,” muttered a young private under his breath.

  “You secure that, Private Lowry. Right now,” snapped Heller, and the private meekly lowered his gaze.

  Yau shifted uncomfortably before continuing. “We estimate their numbers at around two hundred. Population control is, was, one of our security protocols. We artificially suppressed their lifecycle in order to prevent the emergence of a queen. The eggs we used were supplied to us in sealed containers and kept in cryo-storage. Even I don’t know how or where Weyland-Yutani procured them.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Jennings, “but if you’re the one breeding them, how can you not know exactly how many you have?”

  “Without a central regulating authority, they can be unpredictable. Feral, even. They kill each other sometimes,” explained Yau.

  “The good news,” said Sanchez as he stepped forward, reasserting control, “is that this means there is a good chance most if not all of our people are still alive. Instinct is driving them to collect live hosts, but they have no means of impregnating them. It’s not too late. Now, most of the Delta facility is underground, and Doctor Yau informs me that the main hive is on Level 5. That’s where the xenos are, and that’s where our people will be.” Looking out at the faces gathered in front of him he could see the looks subtly change from anger to cautious optimism.

  “I won’t order you to do this. Make no mistake this will probably be the most dangerous mission you’ve ever undertaken, and not all of us will make it back. Anyone who does not wish to participate will not face any action, official or otherwise. I will not stand for it. Anyone wishing to volunteer, please take one step forward.” Almost in unison, every Marine in the room took one step forward, and an indescribable swell of pride welled up within him. “It is a privilege to serve with you all,” he said proudly. “Sergeant Heller will assign teams. Be ready to move in five minutes. Dismissed.”

  He noticed the slightest hint of a smile on Nyugen’s lips as she was gently escorted out of the room along with the rest of the Marines. Just sit tight, he thought to himself. We are getting them back.

  “Sir, I volunteer to lead the rescue mission,” said Heller.

  Of course he would, thought Sanchez. “Not this time, Sergeant. They’re my responsibility. I’ll take the lead on this one. I want three squads. Two with me, one stays here to hold the fort.”

  The big man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “If we don’t come back,” he said quietly, “don’t come after us. The Argos will be here in thirteen days. You hold out to until then, and you get these people out. That’s an order.” The sergeant looked as if he was about to object, but Sanchez had made his mind up, and they both knew it.

  “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, and left.

  That had gone better than he had hoped. They hadn’t murdered Yau, and two squads of Marines against two hundred xenomorphs was better odds than he had banked on. If they could somehow bottleneck them, force them into kill zone, it could be done.

  “Quite the rousing speech there, Colonel,” said Sloan as he slinked off the wall. Sanchez had forgotten about him, and he certainly did not have the time or patience to deal with him now.

  “What do you want, Sloan?” he growled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s not about what I want, it’s about what I can give you,” he said, his usual demeanour having returned.

  “Get to the point,” he snapped.

  “Guns. I can give you guns, and not those shitty standard issue pulse rifles your jarheads use. I mean the real deal. Serious firepower,” said Sloan.

  “Where?”

  Sloan gave a thin, predatory smile. “Armoury. Delta Level 2. I can give you my access code.”

  “No deal.”

  “Come on, Colonel. You’re completely reliant on robotic sentries. How much can you trust those really? One glitch, and you’re up to your ass in xenos,” pressed Sloan.

  He hated to admit it, but he did have a point. If they somehow got passed the sentries, he wasn’t sure they had enough firepower to hold off a full-blown assault.

  “I know you’ve been trying to requisition more formidable weaponry for your Marines. Benefits of the private sector, I don’t need to go through channels. I can give you everything you wanted, and more,” said Sloan, trying a different tact.

  Sanchez raised an eyebrow. Just how the hell did he know about that? It certainly raised some damn pertinent questions about security.

  “Sloan, all I need to do is give the order and I can have a half-dozen Marines drag you outside, and shoot you. You’re in no position to bargain,” said Sanchez.

  Sloan was unperturbed. “We both know that’s not your style, Colonel. So, let’s make a deal. Access to my armoury, and in exchange I want immunity for me and my men, and we want our guns back”

  Sanchez almost laughed. “I don’t have that kind of authority, and even if I did, why would I?”

  Sloan’s grin flickered out as he dropped the salesman persona. “Look around. You don’t have a choice,” he said, and met Sanchez’s hard stare with cold, narrowed eyes.

  “I’ll speak to my superiors on your behalf. It’s the best I can do,” said Sanchez.

  “And my men?”

  “Them too.”

  “What about our guns?” pressed Sloan.

  “No,” snapped Sanchez. “I give you my word I’ll testify in your defence but you’re still under arrest. I catch you or any of your men trying to access firearms, “style” or not, I’ll have them shot.”

  Sloan gave him a long, hard look. Sanchez could see he wanted to argue more. Push for a better deal, but this was the best he was going to get, and he knew it.

  “Deal,” said Sloan, and he turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” said Sanchez, “and this is non-negotiable.” Sloan stopped in his tracks, turning back only slightly. Sanchez waited, allowing the silence between them to stretch out just a heartbeat longer than necessary. “You come with us.”

  *

  The air crackled with anxious energy as magazines were slammed home, and the Marines traded jokes and boasts. Jennings checked his ammo counter and confirmed a full mag, before stuffing three more into his belt. Four of the Marines were smartgun operators, the long weapons harnessed to their bodies. They were using the new A7’s. Heavy firepower. This wasn’t just a rescue mission. This was a war. The only way they were walking out of there was if they exterminated every last one of those alien bastards.

  “Commander on deck,” barked a Marine, and the room snapped to attention. He watched as the colonel strode in, followed closely by Director Sloan and one of his goons, and he recognised him instantly. It was Morse. They had given each other a wide berth since the incident in the cafeteria, but he knew Morse had never let it go.

  “Carry on,” ordered the colonel, who busied himself with donning his armour. The man must have been in his mid-sixties, but age did not seem to slow him down as he slipped into his battle gear with practiced ease, and handled a pulse rifle with equally expert familiarity. Sloan did the same, although not with the same finesse. Had the colonel ordered him to come along?

  “You look nervous, soldier boy,” came the voice from behind.

  He turned around, and was unsurprised to see Morse. He had borrowed some Marine armour, and was holding a pulse rifle, but there was no mistaking him for a Marine.

  “Not at all,” said Jennings. “Just itching for a little payback.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Morse with a razor-sharp glare, allowing the double meaning to hang in the air. The merc took one step towards him, closing the distance. Jennings tensed, but was careful not to let it show. He was not an especially tall man, but he was still a few inches taller than Morse, and he knew the merc felt it. “I hope there’s no hard feelings?” Morse said quietly, his voice cutting through the din like a knife.

  “None at all. I won,” said Jennings with a smirk, and he patted Morse on the shoulder before turning his back. He could feel Morse’s presence like a weight pressing against him, his eyes burning through the back of his helmet. Had they been alone, Morse would have unloaded a magazine into his back. But in a room of thirty armed Marines, he was not going to do anything, and after a few seconds even over the din he could hear Morse slink off to a corner away from the rest. He was going to need to keep an eye on him.

  The colonel had almost finished with equipping his gear when he noticed his sidearm. Most officers carried one, but this was not standard issue. In fact, it looked like an antique. An old-fashioned six-shooter revolver. He had never even seen one outside of a museum.

  “Is that a late twentieth century Colt Python, sir?” he asked, and immediately chided himself for speaking out of turn. But the old man seemed pleasantly surprised.

  “Good eye, Corporal,” said the colonel. “You’re close. Colt Anaconda. Six-inch barrel, forty-four Magnum variant,” he said with pride as he drew the revolver, and handed it over to Jennings. He accepted it carefully. There was no doubt the weapon was loaded.

  “Dinosaur stopper,” said Jennings with a whistle. “This must have cost a fortune.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The colonel smiled. “It’s a replica. I had it made when I was twenty. Still, it cost me six months’ salary as a Lance Corporal.”

  Replica or not, it was still a thing of beauty. It was heavier than he expected. Solid, sturdy. The stainless-steel barrel was well polished, and the grip was made with real wood. The initials D.A were carved into the grip in ornate lettering. A previous owner? But the colonel had said it was custom made.

  “Quite a weapon, sir,” he said, handing it back. “But, why not use a standard issue side arm?”

  “Something an old CO of mine used to say. He hated tech. Considered it all “fancy toys”. Always insisted old ways were the best ways,” said the colonel as he reholstered the weapon and slammed home a magazine into his pulse rifle. “Let’s move.”

  “Ten hut!” he hollered, and Jennings along every Marine in the room snapped to attention. “Get on the ready line!” ordered the colonel, and in seconds they formed two neat rows along the wall.

  “What are you?” he demanded as he stalked back and forth, inspecting each Marine in the formation.

  “Lean and mean,” chanted the Marines.

  “Bullshit, I didn’t hear you. Sound off,” demanded the colonel.

  “Lean and mean!” they repeated, more forcefully this time.

  “Goddamn right you are,” he growled. “Corporal Jennings?”

  “Sir!” shouted Jennings.

  “You have Alpha Squad. We’re taking the APCs. I want you in the lead vehicle. Sergeant Williams? You have Bravo Squad. Second vehicle, watch our ass. We’re heading towards the south wall of the Delta Wing. The yautja was kind enough to leave an entrance, so that’s our way in. Move out!”

  *

  The APC door slid open and the cold air slapped Sanchez in the face. His boots hit the ground with a splash as he landed in the thick, waterlogged mud. He had not done this in a long time. Behind him, Alpha Squad spread out to secure the area as the second APC pulled up behind the first. In front of him, the gaping hole in the south wall beckoned. Jesus, he thought himself. The wall had not just been blown open. It looked like it had been vaporised. The outer rim of the hole was charred, and melted plastcrete had hardened into jagged, twisted chunks. No lights were on inside, and nothing moved. Just an empty, black maw.

  “Mic check,” he ordered. “All units, I want open comms at all times. Doctor Yau, are you receiving?”

  “Feed from your helmet cams is coming through nice and clear, Colonel,” the doctor’s voice buzzed in his ear.

  “Area is secure, sir,” said Jennings.

  He nodded. “Three Marines from each squad stay with the APCs. Keep the engines running and be prepared to receive casualties, and keep those damn turret guns on a swivel. Remember, the xenos aren’t the only thing out here.”

  “Private,” he said, turning towards a smartgunner. “Take point.”

  The private nodded and stepped through the hole, flanked by two of his squad mates. The rest of Alpha Squad filed in behind. He placed a firm hand on Sloan’s shoulder as the merc walked past, and covered his mic with his free hand.

  “I’m watching you. Your boy, too,” he growled as he leaned in close, dropping his voice to barely more than a whisper. “You try anything, anything at all, I will put you down.”

  *

  The faint whistle of the wind was the only sound in the eerie stillness of the dark corridor. The weak light of their shoulder lamps highlighting their breath as it hung in the air, reflecting off the faint white patches of frost that had begun to creep up the walls.

  “Use your motion trackers,” ordered Sanchez.

  Jennings unstrapped the portable device from his shoulder while he kept his carbine at the ready. The rhythmic blip echoed unnaturally loud in the narrow confines of the corridor. In such a tight space, the tracker would be able to pick up on a bee at fifteen metres.

  “Nothing,” said Jennings, keeping his voice low. “Not a goddamn thing.”

  “We move. Slow and steady,” said Sanchez quietly. “Doctor Yau, where to from here?”

  Jenning’s headset buzzed in his ear. “Straight ahead. You’ll find the L2 stairwell.”

  “Copy that,” said the colonel. “Move up.”

  Sure enough, they quickly found the L2 security door sitting wide open, its mechanism destroyed, the heavy durasteel hatch now permanently stuck in place. They descended the stairs slowly, and Jennings silently cursed his boots for clanking on the metal steps, swinging around to check beneath the stairwell. A perfect spot for an ambush. But it was clear. No claws, no gnashing teeth, no shrieking beast. Just shadows.

  “Check your corners,” he ordered. “These things can come at you from anywhere.”

  *

  Level 2 felt larger; its corridors even more labyrinthine than the floor above.

  “Which way to the Armory?” asked Sanchez.

  “Right,” whispered Sloan.

  “Bravo, take the left path. You find anything, sound off, and take Morse with you,” ordered Sanchez, and Jennings caught Morse giving him a sharp look. Better luck next time, punk, he thought to himself.

  “That wasn’t part of our deal,” snapped Sloan, but the colonel ignored him.

  “Jennings, lead the way,” he ordered.

  A short walk then they rounded the corner, and there it was. The heavy door with the words “Armory” and “Restricted” stencilled in bold black and red letting. Sloan pushed past him and punched a code into the keypad. The door slid open with a rush of air, and the tracker momentarily pinged before settling back into its regular rhythm. Inside, racks of weapons gleamed under the red emergency lights. All top of the line. Plasma rifles, auto-shotguns, heavy sniper rifles, and heavy flamethrowers. The rest, he had no idea.

  “Quite the arsenal,” he muttered.

  “As promised, Colonel” said Sloan, his tone clipped.

  “We’re bringing this stuff with us, sir?” asked Jennings.

  “No, leave it,” ordered Sanchez. “We’re not going into battle with untested weapons. We’ll come back for all of it on the way out.”

  The colonel was right. The plasma rifle would be a lot more formidable than his carbine, but all the firepower in the world would not save you if it failed at the fatal moment…

  “Colonel,” Sergeant Williams’ voice cracked over the headset. “We’ve got a body here, sir. A Doctor Mercer. Had to ID him from his nametag, on account of his head being missing.”

  “XX121 doesn’t do that,” chimed Yau. He didn’t sound particularly upset about his colleague. “They will take you alive if they can.”

  “It wasn’t a xenomorph,” said Sanchez. “Acknowledged, Sergeant. Continue your sweep. We’ll rejoin you at the L3 stairwell.” He turned to face the team. “Next floor.”

  *

  Level 3 was freezing. Jennings could feel the cold seep into flesh, all the way to the bone. For a moment, he envied Watson. The synthetic had opted to stick with his civilian coveralls, insisting that he did not need armour, that it “restricted his functionality”, and did not seem remotely bothered by the cold.

  “It’s like an icebox down here, Doctor. Is there a reason it’s this cold?” he asked.

  “LV-784 is not geologically active. With the power off, the surrounding rock is conducting heat away faster than the air,” explained Yau.

  “Look on the bright side, maybe the xenos have all froze to death,” quipped Lowry.

  “So will our people,” growled Jennings, and Lowry lowered his head in embarrassment. Jennings sighed. At least the kid had enough sense to cover his mic before cracking jokes on an open comm. Jennings placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Just stay frosty,” he said with a smirk. Lowry rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, but still squared his shoulders before pressing on.

  Yeah, stay frosty, Jennings told himself. At this depth, ventilation meant that a ceiling grate was spaced one every twelve metres. Each one large enough to conceal a lurking xenomorph. The tracker continued its reassuring steady pulse, but it would not pick up on a xeno if it remained perfectly still. So instead, he watched for telltale signs. A glint of a carapace in the shadows, a pool of viscous saliva forming on the floor beneath an open vent. Visions of the thing behind the curtain seared into his imagination. Cold sweat trickled down his spine from anticipation. They should have found something by now.

  “Corporal Jennings, you should be coming up on the holding cell area,” the voice of Yau buzzed in his ear.

  “Holding cells for xenos?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He reached the open door. Inside, a row of a dozen cells lined each wall. Some of the doors were open. Or, rather, had been torn open. Right out of their frames. No human could have done that. He froze as his light came to rest on the floor. The bodies of two people, a man and a woman, lay cleanly split in half above the waist in a pool of dark blood, their faces frozen mid scream.

  “Doc, confirm visual?”

  “Confirmed. This was not XX121,” said the doctor with clinical detachment. Jennings knew exactly what had done this. He had seen its handiwork firsthand. He stepped forward cautiously, careful to step around the bodies, peering into the cells he noted the single cot and stainless-steel toilet in each.

  “Doctor,” said Jennings coldly, “just what were you keeping in these cells?”

  “What do you think, Soldier Boy?” Morse interrupted over the comm.

  “Focus on the mission at hand, Corporal,” the voice of the colonel crackled in his ear before he could say anything. “Second squad, sound off. Anything?”

  “That’s a negative, sir,” answered Williams. “Medical looks like it has been ransacked, but no sign of hostiles.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” said Lowry. “Seeing them, or not seeing them.”

  Seeing them. Definitely seeing them.

  *

  Level 4 felt different. It felt wrong. Apart from the holding cells, Level 3 had been in strangely ordinary. Corridors, labs, medical storage. But now, the true horror was beginning to sink in. This was a place where bad things happened. The steel doors, the observation areas with unbreakable glass, the gurneys with thick, leather straps. The surgical operating room that could only be opened from the outside. This place was built with one consideration: containment. The thought of what had gone on here made his skin crawl. It violated some deep, primitive part of his psyche. This had gone beyond science. Beyond good or evil. This was where nightmares became real.

  “Talk to me, Jenny,” said Molina, his voice wavering. Clearly, he could feel it too. The wrongness.

  “Still nothing on the tracker. Just keep moving, and watch the vents.”

  The pair approached a large door, more imposing than the rest, a thick layer of frost obscuring the signage. Jennings wiped away some of the frost, revealing a bright red warning.

  “What is this?” he muttered

  “Cryo-storage,” said Yau flatly. “That’s where we keep the eggs.” Both men instinctively stepped back. “The cryo-unit is on its own independent power source. At that temperature the eggs will remain inert indefinitely. I assure you, it’s quite safe.”

  “I bet someone else said that exact same thing about your pets, doc,” muttered Molina.

  “Keep moving,” ordered Jennings and the squad pressed forward.

  “Williams here,” the voice came over the comm. “We’ve found something. Looks like someone might have injured a hostile. Parts of the floor are corroded right through, but no sign of any bodies. Whatever happened here, I think we missed it.”

  “Acknowledged. All units, proceed to Level 5 access point,” ordered Sanchez.

  Jennings turned to wave the rest of the squad forward, performing a silent headcount as each Marine passed him. He could not say why he felt the need to, until the count came up one short, and his stomach turned to ice. Carbine at the ready, he retraced his steps back towards cryo-storage only to find Watson at the keypad, his fingers moving with inhuman speed and precision.

  “What are you doing?”

  Watson looked up; his expression blank.

  “I said, what are you doing, Private?” he demanded.

  “Given the potential threat should the cryo-storage system fail, I was ensuring that the door lock was secure, sir.”

  If he did not know better, he would say the synthetic almost sounded offended. “It’s secure,” he growled. “Now fall in.”

  Watson gave a polite smile before doing a slight half-jog to catch up with the rest of the squad, and Jennings watched him carefully. Once he was out of sight, he gave the door a hard shove. Locked tight. He sighed, and cursed himself for being so suspicious, before he jogged after them.

  *

  Level 5 opened up into a large downward spiralling access corridor. Wide enough to drive an APC down, the Marines could comfortably walk six abreast. They moved cautiously, the bend concealing what lay ahead, and the possibility of coming face to face with dozens of screaming nightmares grew ever more likely with every step. Hundreds even, each just like the one they had encountered in Medical. But instead, the only sound was the steady blip of the tracker. The same sound it had been repeating since they entered Delta. He could smell it now. Thick and pungent. The acrid rot. Like death crossed with a burning car battery. It was almost enough to make his eyes water.

  They rounded the last bend, and the corridor straightened out into a fifty metre long, low ramp. There was blood on the ground, but no body. This was it, the end of the line. Ahead of them the gaping open mouth of the hive beckoned, and beyond that something dark and wet glistened, highlighted by the still spinning yellow warning lights.

  “Any movement?” Colonel Sanchez asked as he appeared beside him.

  “No sir, still nothing,” he confirmed.

  “Good,” said the colonel. “They can only come straight at us. I want a six-man fireteam to take point. Two smartgunners. As soon as you’re dry, you cycle out. Second team at the ready. I want a continuous steam of fire. As soon as they move on us, let them have all of it.”

  The Marines nodded in agreement as two of the smartgunners took centre position, flanked on each side by two riflemen.

  “Weapons free, and dammit watch the ceiling. Here they come,” Sanchez barked, no longer concerned about stealth. Drawing his revolver, he fired a single round into the hive. In the dead silence of the corridor the shot was deafening. The reverberating echo seemed to go on and on forever. The fireteam tensed as they braced for the first wave. The last of the echo died out, and silence once again descended over them. They stared at the open maw of the nest, waiting, but nothing came.

  Sanchez turned to Jennings. “Corporal?”

  Jennings swallowed, staring at the readout on his tracker “No, sir.”

  “Doc?” he spoke into his mic.

  “I don’t know, Colonel. They should perceive you as a threat.”

  “Could they be trying to lure us into an ambush?”

  “Doubtful. The queens are capable of strategic thinking, but the average warrior drone would struggle to keep up with a dog. They’re purely instinctual. They are not smart enough to try to trick you,” explained the doctor.

  The colonel looked unconvinced as he took a long, hard stare down the corridor.

  “Follow me,” he ordered, and marched towards the open hatch. Jennings gripped the tracker tighter.

  “Sir,” said Molina, nodding towards the corner of the door frame. A severed human head and hand lay by the door controls. The rest of the body upstairs.

  “Move in,” said the colonel, who took point, flanked by two smartgunners. Jennings, Molina and Lowry followed close behind. Their boots squelched on the wet floor as they pushed deeper inside. It had gotten warmer again, and moisture dripped from kind of resin that caked the walls. The warmth of decomposition.

  “Don’t touch anything,” growled Sanchez, “and watch your fire.”

  The walls seemed to narrow, closing in on them as the alien secretions grew thicker, forcing them into single file.

  “Tighten it up. We’re getting a little too spaced out,” said Jennings, eyes continuing to monitor for any flicker of movement. The smell was unbearable now. It was thick, cloying, seeping into his clothes, his hair, his skin. The passage opened up again into a large chamber, allowing them to stand together forming a defensive circle. A half-dozen more passages branched off; leading down tunnels even deeper into the hive. He had the feeling of being inside the stomach of some great, alien creature. One that blurred the line between the mechanical and the organic. The walls were plastered in a sickly, semi-translucent gum in patterns that appeared to be at the same time both random and deliberate. That seemed to absorb their lights rather than reflect, and ropey tendrils of similar material covered the floor.

  “I don’t see any bodies,” said Molina.

  “Doc, are you still receiving?” Sanchez gripped his mic.

  “It’s breaking up but yes, I’m still receiving. I can’t explain it,” said Yau, his voice thick with static.

  The colonel drew his revolver and fired a round into the floor, obliterating a chunk of resin.

  Jennings gripped his pulse rifle. His finger on the trigger, bracing for the inevitable attack. A heartbeat past, then two, then three. No sound came. No shrieks or claws ready to drag him away. The squad chanced taking their eyes off the walls in order to exchange uneasy glances that confirmed what they were all thinking, but no one wanted to be the one to say it.

  “I’ve got nothing,” whispered Molina, unblinking.

  “You don’t think…” Lowry began, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Quiet,” hissed Jennings as he gripped the motion tracker, staring at it. Willing it to give him a reading, but the damnable steady blip continued uninterrupted. Not a single shadow so much as flinched. The hive was still. Impossibly still. Dead. Empty.

  “They’re not here,” Sanchez growled, and everyone exchanged an uncomfortable look as the full implication set in. “Doc, where the hell are they?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel. I don’t know,” said Yau defensively, and for the first time his voice was tinged with a hint of fear.

  “Then figure it out quick because they have seventy of our people. The clock is ticking, Doctor,” he cursed into his mic.

  “This isn’t normal, Colonel. They would not willingly abandon the hive,” insisted Yau.

  “Maybe they knew this place was a prison,” Jennings ventured, and the thought chilled him to the core. It meant they were smarter than they thought. In the black depths of the hive, the ever-constant blip of the tracker was deafening, and more ominous than ever. The hive had been abandoned. The xenomorphs, and their people, were gone.