Louie should have been in a better mood. But his earlier conversation with Angel had left him more unsettled than he cared to admit. He hadn’t expected tears of joy. She had always been the prickly one. But her calm certainty that they were doomed, despite rescue being only days away, had gnawed away at his optimism. Her fatalism was nothing new, but this felt more like prophecy.

  Fine, he decided. She could sulk if she wanted to. A few more days, they would be in cryo and heading back to Earth.

  He made his way to Doctor McTaggart’s makeshift infirmary. It was that time again. He hated the ritual of it, and hated it even more now that he had to do it under supervision, but he understood. Just get it over with, and then he could get a few hours of sleep. How many more times would he have to do this? Nine? Maybe ten? His countdown to freedom. The good doctor looked up as he entered. Her expression weary, professional, but not without warmth.

  “Have a seat, Mister Lafayette. I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said as she continued updating something on her datapad.

  He sat on the edge of a cot and fished around in his right pocket. Empty. That was strange. One thing about being an addict, he was a creature of habit. He always kept it in the same pocket. He quickly checked his left pocket, and a cold realisation wrapped around his gut.

  Oh no.

  He frantically began patting himself down. Checking every pocket, every crease, every fold.

  She wouldn’t have…

  His mouth felt dry as he pulled the two spare doses out of the breast pocket of his coveralls. His last two.

  “Is there something wrong, Mister Lafayette?” asked Doctor McTaggart.

  He looked up, eyes wide, struggling to find the words as every worst-case scenario he had considered over the last two weeks came rushing back.

  “It’s gone.”

  *

  Angel’s teeth chattered as she wrapped her arms around herself more tightly, her navy coveralls woefully inadequate. It had not taken long to find this place; it turned out the outpost was not that big. But even being outside for that long had brought her to the brink of hypothermia. She could have taken the time to find some warmer clothes, but her every thought was consumed by one overwhelming need. Even the cold was drowned out by the burning, gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach. A constant scream that could only be silenced one way.

  Escaping the complex had been easy. No one had even tried to stop her. They probably never expected anyone would be crazy enough to try to leave. The automated sentries had given her pause. She had no idea if they would open fire on her if she stepped in front of them, but the need pushed her on, and the sentries too had ignored her. Programmed not to fire on a human. Good to know.

  She hadn’t run into any of them either. Not that it would matter. She had her secret weapon. Gestacyn. Who would have thought? They ignore you if you use gestacyn. Louie had said so. She took it all. A normal dose would be good for six hours. She had downed the whole vial, about three days’ worth, just to be extra safe.

  Louie.

  She felt a pang of guilt at the thought of him. He hadn’t said why he needed it, but she knew instinctively that she had condemned him in some way. He needed it, and she had stolen it from him. But she needed it more. With her newfound cloak of invisibility, she could reach the stash that he had let slip. He hadn’t said exactly where it was, but she had a pretty damn good idea, and now she found herself wandering the corridors of Delta Level 1.

  She had forgotten how quiet it could be. She had spent most of the last fortnight crammed in with the others and up there, even at night, you heard noise. Low, murmured conversations. The wind or rain if you were close to an external shutter. If nothing else, the barely perceptible but ever-present vibration in the floor caused by the atmosphere processor.

  Delta had none of that.

  Silent. Still. Dead. The power was off too, which did not help. At least she had had the wherewithal to bring a flashlight. She couldn’t find what she was looking for if she couldn’t see. Her footsteps echoed loudly off the metal floor despite her soft steps, and the white light of the beam cast long shadows that seemed to dance across the walls and vent covers. A lot of hiding spots. A lot of places to lie and wait. She knew she would be safe from them, but that didn’t mean she wanted to see one up close.

  The gnashing pain in her stomach intensified, and her skin felt like it was trying to crawl free of her own body. She was close. She knew it. The need propelling her forward. She did not know exactly where she was going; this level of Delta was unfamiliar. But she figured “down” was a safe bet, and looked for a stairwell.

  *

  Jennings closed the door behind him as he entered the small room they had set up for this meeting. A funereal atmosphere had taken hold, despite the bright lighting. Either side of him sat Doctor McTaggart and Doctor Yau. Seated across from him was Louie. Downcast and ashen-faced, the man looked like a ghost.

  “Thank you for coming, Sergeant,” said McTaggart. “Before we begin, given the nature of this discussion can I ask that this be kept strictly confidential? It doesn’t leave this room.”

  “Of course.” Jennings nodded as he took his seat. “I guess I’m up first. We’ve conducted a full sweep. A woman matching the description was seen walking the corridors. This did not raise suspicion as it’s not uncommon to see sleepless civilians stretching their legs at odd hours. I think we’re all dealing with a little insomnia lately. On review of the CCTV footage, she was seen leaving the safe zone via the East Corridor. Unfortunately, with most systems being offline, we were not able to track her movements beyond the perimeter. Now, whatever her reasons were for leaving, I think at this point it’s safe to assume she isn’t coming back,” he explained, careful to keep his tone formal.

  He paused, allowing the others opportunity to comment, but no one spoke. Not even Louie. He didn’t react at all, as he continued to stare blankly at the empty table. As if he had heard it all already, and knew it was a foregone conclusion.

  “What are our options, Doc?” he asked McTaggart.

  The doctor cleared her throat. “Thankfully, Mister Lafayette had two spare doses of his medication. He had to take one of them an hour ago. That will buy us six hours. But that only leaves us eleven in total. Maybe twelve. We had better think of something before then. I recommend we go with the most obvious course of action and surgically remove it.”

  “Is that possible?” asked Jennings.

  “Not by me,” McTaggart shook her head. “Doctor Yau, this is where I am hoping you may be able to lend your expertise?”

  Jennings watched her jaw tighten as she tried not to choke on the word.

  “I’m afraid there is nothing I can do,” said Yau flatly.

  “Like hell there isn’t,” spat Jennings. “You’ve done it before. You can do it again.”

  “I know this isn’t a sterile environment,” McTaggart interjected. “But we can do our best to isolate him. We scrub up, we pump him full of antibiotics. Pray his immune system holds. If we can keep him stable until rescue arrives, any infection will be stopped in its tracks by cryostasis. We can deal with the rest when we get back to Gateway.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Doctor,” said Yau. “This is not a straightforward appendectomy. I cannot remove the embryo without proper equipment and a highly specialised form of anaesthesia, which we do not currently have.”

  “What about Delta?” ventured Jennings.

  “Are you suggesting we go there to perform the operation, Sergeant?” Yau raised a quizzical eyebrow. “If I recall, the last time the Colonial Marines attempted a mission of mercy, they all died. How many more lives are you willing to risk to save one?”

  Jennings felt like he had been punched in the gut. Looking away as he found himself unable to meet the doctor’s cold gaze.

  “You son of a bitch,” swore McTaggart.

  “This is all academic,” said Yau, unperturbed. “I’m afraid Mr Lafayette has very little time left. Regardless of whether or not we are able to remove the embryo.”

  “The hell he does,” Jennings snapped.

  “I’m afraid he is already dying,” he said matter-of-factly. “It is widely known that XX121 incorporates elements of the host DNA during gestation. What is less well known is that this horizontal transfer is bilateral. Both ways.”

  Jennings stiffened. “Are you saying he’s part xenomorph?” he asked incredulously.

  “No, he’s very much human, and that’s the problem,” Yau continued. “Our cells were never evolved to conform to such…perfection. Human biology is incompatible. It simply cannot assimilate the alien biochemistry.”

  Jennings looked at Louie. His face as blank and unreadable as it had been when he entered. “There has to be something we can do?”

  “The nuclear DNA is unable to replicate due to heterochiralities. Mutations cause protein coding errors that interrupt cell replication, metabolic pathways and so on. Ribosomes are unable to transcribe mitochondrial RNA, eventually causing a cascade of metabolic failures. His alopecia is the beginning. His cells are already starting to degrade,” said Yau calmly.

  Jennings felt sick.

  “Everything you just listed can be treated these days, Doctor,” insisted McTaggart, but Yau just shook his head.

  “Not like this. The errors are self-replicating. Like rabbits. For every one you treat, three more will spring up. Then five, and then ten. He has lasted longer than any human test subject in history, but even with his high degree of resistance, I would estimate perhaps three more years. I am sorry, but from the moment of his first implantation, his cellular biology was irreparably altered.”

  Doctor McTaggart snorted in disgust. “You’re sorry? You don’t even know the meaning of the word. You’re not a doctor. You’re a monster.”

  “That still doesn’t change the immediate circumstance,” Jennings spoke through gritted teeth. “We need solutions and we need them now.”

  “If you wish to be humane—” Yau began, but McTaggart held up her hand, cutting him off.

  “What are you suggesting? We pump him full of opiates and let him slip away?” asked Jennings as he struggled to hold himself back from screaming at him.

  “I will not euthanise my patient, Sergeant,” McTaggart snapped.

  “That would not work in any case. The embryo will metabolise almost anything you introduce into his bloodstream. So long as he is impregnated, he literally cannot become intoxicated. That is why I require a very particular anaesthetic for the operation,” said Yau.

  “Goddamn you,” McTaggart growled.

  “I’ve got half a mind to ‘euthanise’ you, Doctor,” snarled Jennings, but Yau just smiled.

  “That threat is as empty as it is childish, Mister Jennings.”

  “Both of you shut up,” barked McTaggart as she slammed both palms flat on the table. “Our only priority is what is best.”

  “Do I get a say in this?” asked Louie. His voice was barely audible, but it cut through the room like a blade.

  Jennings turned away as a wave of shame washed over him. He had been so caught up in the moment.

  “Of course, Mister Lafayette,” said McTaggart softly. “Please forgive us. Whatever decision you make, we will support you. No matter what.”

  Everyone waited as Louie stood, calmly straightening his coveralls. “I think…I’d like to go for a walk.”

  Without another word he rounded the table, past Jennings and out the door. He made no move to stop him, and a tense silence descended over the remaining three. McTaggart sat with her forehead in her hand, one elbow propped up on the table. Yau just looked like he would rather be somewhere else.

  “So that’s it then?” Jennings said quietly.

  No one answered.

  He sighed as he stood. “When the time comes—”

  “No, I already told you. I can’t do that. I won’t,” Doctor McTaggart cut him off.

  “When the time comes, Doctor,” he repeated. “I’ll do it myself.”

  McTaggart looked up at him. She looked tired. Not angry. Just…sad. “Promise me you’ll make it easy for him.”

  He nodded, before he turned on his heel and left.

  *

  Jennings was glad to be out of that meeting room. For once, he was grateful that the corridors were always a little cold, and he allowed the slight chill to clear his head. But no matter what, he could not put it out of his mind. In as little as twelve hours, he would have to execute an innocent man. His stomach turned at the thought. He considered, not for the first time, that as NCOIC he could order someone else to do it, and that made his stomach turn even more. Then he silently cursed himself for thinking about his own moral qualms. What must Louie be thinking? Without realising it, he found himself outside Colonel Sanchez’s office. Of course he would come here.

  Then he realised the outer door was open by a crack. Placing his hand on the colonel’s revolver which he now had holstered on his hip, he opened the door and crept into the anteroom. Nothing was out of place, but the inner door was also ajar, and he could hear the rustling of someone inside. Slowly pushing open the door, he immediately relaxed when he saw Colonel Sanchez standing behind his desk. Hunched over as he rummaged through his desk drawer.

  “Apologies, Sergeant, I was just retrieving some of my personal files,” said Sanchez.

  “Actually, sir, I was just looking for you,” said Jennings. That was a lie. He wasn’t ready to face the colonel just yet, but he could not think what else to say to explain his own presence. The colonel paused his rummaging and looked at him expectantly. Jennings opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. In that moment, he could not think of a single plausible excuse.

  Sanchez sighed, leaning both hands flat on the desk as he looked down, refusing to look Jennings in the eye. “Sergeant, I…” he trailed off, his hands balling into fists.

  Jennings waited, the torturous silence drawing out for what seemed like an eternity before the colonel unclenched his fingers.

  “I owe you an apology, son,” Sanchez said softly. “No Marine should ever have to do what you did. But you did the right thing. You were right. About everything.”

  “Not everything, sir,” he said quietly. “Molina, Leider, Rojas, Doyle, they’re all dead because I made the wrong call.”

  “And a lot of Doctor McTaggart’s patients would be dead if you had chosen the alternative,” said Sanchez without reproach.

  “Sir, did I make the right call?” asked Jennings.

  The colonel seemed to consider his answer, and Jennings could see the hard-won wisdom etched into his rough features. “I don’t know, son. That’s the hardest truth any commander has to face, and the time will always come. Sooner or later,” he said plainly. “Sometimes, there is no right decision. You make the call, and you live with it.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Jennings fought to maintain a mask of military professionalism as he remained at parade rest, but he felt the knot in his stomach loosen. This was the Colonel Sanchez he knew.

  “Then stop punishing yourself, sir,” he admonished softly, with a confidence that surprised even him. “You make the call, and you live with it.”

  “Words to live by,” said Sanchez, with the hint of a weary smile.

  “Just something this old hard-ass Marine told me once.”

  Sanchez laughed, and Jennings broke. The two men sharing a short, clipped lapse of composure.

  “Sir, what was said last night. It never left this office. We’re still at your command,” said Jennings, straightening.

  “No, Sergeant,” Sanchez said sternly, barely giving him time to finish speaking. “I cannot lead my Marines if they do not trust me.”

  Jennings looked the older man in the eye as the desk between them seemed to vanish. “I trust you, sir.”

  He watched as the colonel took a breath, straightening his shirt. “In that case, Sergeant,” he said, refusing to break eye contact. “Could I have my gun back, please?”

  Jennings hesitated. His hand on the hilt, feeling the cold grip, he remembered how the colonel had looked at it during their last conversation. But that was a different man than the one before him now. Carefully, he unbuckled the holster and handed it over.

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’m not going to do anything drastic. You have my word.”

  “It’s good to have you back, sir,” said Jennings. A slight smile breaking through the mask. “What are your orders?”

  “First things first, I think you had better fill me in on anything I’ve missed,” said Sanchez as he secured the buckle of the holster. “Status report, Sergeant.”

  Jennings let out a long, low sigh. “Sir, I hardly know where to begin.”

  *

  Van Der Beek checked over his shoulder as he stalked along the dark corridor of the lower levels. He had been searching for his quarry for the last hour. The young sergeant had released him following his interrogation, and all he had to do was wait until he was pulled away on other business. He now found himself moving through what looked to be a basement or maintenance level, which appeared to be completely deserted. Good. The last thing he needed right now was an audience. They would just get in his way. He stepped into a larger more spacious area. A garage, from the look of it. A couple of ancient APCs parked side-by-side, stacks of non-descript storage crates, and Watson. The synthetic was alone, fiddling with a portable terminal hooked up to one of the vehicles.

  Bingo.

  He cleared his throat, and the android looked up. Wearing that gormless mask of programmed politeness.

  “Can I help you, Mister Van Der Beek?”

  “Yes, you can,” said Van Der Beek as he shuffled into the room, careful to maintain his feigned casual demeanour as he kept his hands in his pockets. His fingertips caressing the hilt of the screwdriver. “I wanted to ask you about Director Sloan.”

  “I understand. Terrible business,” said Watson.

  “I’m sure it was,” said Van Der Beek. “You said he killed two Marines, and reprogrammed the automated sentries?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And you’re sure you are remembering that correctly?” he pressed.

  “I have perfect memory recall.”

  “Reprogramming military-grade automated sentries. Pretty sophisticated hack job,” Van Der Beek mused.

  “It was,” agreed Watson.

  “Hmm,” Van Der Beek continued his slow pacing, closing the distance. “I was on a mission once. Must be about ten years ago now. Contracted out by Seegson. Six-man team. Standard ‘wet work’ job. There was this one guy. Pope. Brah, I have seen some stone-cold killers in my time, but he was on another level. Anyway, the mission went off without a hitch. Not a scratch on us. Six men went in, and six men made it to the extraction point. But only two made it out.”

  His fingers slipped around the hilt of the screwdriver as he drew closer.

  “You see, Pope had his own set of orders. No witnesses. That included us. He took out two of us before we even realised what was happening. Myself and one other survived. After I took Pope’s head off with a bowie knife.”

  He paused, watching for any hint of a reaction.

  “That is a very…colourful story, Mister Van Der Beek. Now, if you will excuse me, I do have a lot of work—”

  “Imagine my surprise,” he growled, cutting him off. “When he started bleeding that milky white shit your kind uses for blood all over the place.”

  He stopped pacing, and stared the android dead in the eye.

  “I don’t know how the hell they managed it,” he laughed bitterly. “But they found a way around that ‘First Law’ of yours.”

  He tightened his grip on the handle. His knuckles turning white.

  “Sloan couldn’t reprogram an alarm clock. He hated computers. He didn’t reprogram the sentries. He didn’t kill those Marines. So, how about you drop the ‘Clark Kent’ routine and level with me? Why did you do it?”

  Watson straightened. Any pretence of human micro-movements vanishing as his face went blank. His prior stilted politeness replaced by cold, emotionless logic.

  “It would appear, Mister Van Der Beek, that we find ourselves at an impasse,” said Watson.

  Van Der Beek was fast. Ramming the tip of the screwdriver upwards, he aimed for just under android’s chin. A straight shot right for the brain.

  But Watson was faster.

  He intercepted the motion with his good arm. The shank pierced through his palm, burying itself to the hilt before he tore it from Van Der Beek’s grasp. Watson brought up his handless right arm in a close-range elbow directed at his jaw. But the height difference made the movement awkward, and the big man was able to block the strike with his forearm. Lightning pain shot through his arm as the blow landed with bone-rattling force. Gritting his teeth, Van Der Beek launched a lethal palm strike, using his legs for extra power as he aimed to drive the synthetic’s nose into his braincase. But Watson effortlessly dodged the strike by tilting his head back at an anatomically impossible angle. Van Der Beek didn’t have time to recalibrate as the synthetic slammed his left hand into his temple, using the still embedded handle of the screwdriver as a bludgeon. He felt something crack, and his vision went black on his right side as the world spun, hot blood pouring down his face.

  The momentary disorientation was all the advantage Watson needed. He brought his heel down in an instep stomp. The merc’s boot saved his foot, but the crippling pain still caused him to stagger back. Watson launched another elbow strike with his handless arm, landing a blow on the merc’s throat. Van Der Beek was already moving backwards, which negated the worst of it, but it still knocked the air out of him as he clutched his neck with both hands. Watson capitalised on the growing space between them to deliver a precise roundhouse kick to the ribs, and Van Der Beek was sent crashing into a stack of crates. He felt his consciousness slipping away, the blood dripping from his mouth, as the unhurried Watson gripped the handle of the screwdriver between his teeth and pulled the shank from his palm before spitting it out.

  “You still…” Van Der Beek rasped, coughing, “didn’t answer my question.”

  The synthetic paused, seeming to consider his answer carefully. “The specimens must be preserved,” he said flatly.

  “Fucking Weyland-Yutani,” Van Der Beek spat through bloodied teeth.

  Watson took three steps towards him, bending to grip him by the collar. Van Der Beek groaned in pain as the synthetic effortlessly lifted his two-hundred-and-thirty-pound bulk to eye level.

  “Goodbye, Mister Van Der Beek,” said Watson.

  Watson flinched. A flash of red struck him over the back of the head with an audible thud, and he almost looked irritated by the interruption as he dropped the merc to the floor, turning to face his assailant. Struggling to remain conscious as the room spun, Van Der Beek was able to focus his one working eye on the terrified figure of Louie, shaking as he clutched a red fire extinguisher.

  Watson seemed unperturbed. Casually tearing the extinguisher from Louie’s hands before pinning him against the hull of an APC with his damaged forearm. Without a word, he raised his good hand, two fingers extended, and placed them against Louie’s eyelids with mechanical care. Calm. Deliberate. Calibrating.

  “I’m impregnated!” screamed Louie, and Watson froze. His head seemed to move almost imperceptibly from left to right, and back again. As if considering this new, unexpected variable. A conflict in his directives that had to be reconciled before proceeding.

  It was all the opening Van Der Beek required. Already on his feet and clutching the extinguisher, the big man swung it with every ounce of strength he could muster, and smashed it into the side of Watson’s head. With the sound of tearing fabric, the artificial flesh ripped open, and the near-severed head hung at a sickening angle, still attached only by the hard plastic neck vertebrae as Watson began to flail violently. Grabbing the screwdriver, Van Der Beek tackled him to the floor, wrapping one massive arm around the forehead as he jammed the shank into the fleshy gap between the discs, levering them apart with all of his strength. The spine came apart with a snap and, interlocking his fingers under Watson’s chin, hands slick with white synthetic blood, he pulled. Roaring with effort, the synthetic tissue gave and the merc tore the head from the shoulders.

  Rolling on to his back, exhausted, the battered head slipped from his fingers. His chest heaving as his breaths came in laboured, ragged pulls. He knew it was bad. Something critical inside him had been damaged. But he wasn’t in any pain, and he felt warm despite being on the freezing cold floor. This wasn’t so bad, he thought to himself as his vision began to fade. He was vaguely aware that Louie had pulled the fire alarm, but the sound of the siren seemed muted and distant, as he heard the faint voice calling to him.

  “Jansen! Jansen! Don’t you die on me, big guy!” cried the voice, but it was a million miles away. No, this wasn’t so bad, he decided, and everything went black.

  *

  Level 3. Of all the God forsaken hellholes in this fucking cabrón of a universe, this had to be the worst. She could never have imagined herself back here. Not willingly, anyway. But here she was. It was familiar in all the wrong ways, and set her on edge in a way that was almost powerful enough to make her turn back. Almost.

  But she knew Level 3. Medical was this way, and no doubt, that’s where it was, too. She picked up her pace. Walking with purpose rather than caution. She was so close she could taste it. Her mouth dry and her breathing heavy. Bursting into Medical, she almost tripped over a lab stool, and her heart began to race. The place had been ransacked. That meant someone else had been here first. Had they taken it? Panic took over as she began to search. The beam of the flashlight landing on a busted door frame. The lock had been kicked in. This was it. Icy fingers wrapped around her heart as she considered she might be too late. Pushing open the door, she saw them. Untouched. A neat pile of syrettes in little yellow boxes. Hundreds of them. More than she had ever seen. More than she could ever hope to earn in ten lifetimes on the streets.

  Dropping her flashlight to the floor, she grabbed one. Tearing the packaging and safety cap off before pressing the tip of the needle to her neck. Dangerous, but she didn’t care. It was quicker. The sharp bite of the needle tore at her skin, but it only lasted for an instant before a soothing warmth spread gently through her body. Her freezing cold skin becoming a soft, fresh blanket as she slumped to the floor. Her eyes heavy as oblivion wrapped her in a warm embrace.

  Time ceased to have all meaning. Sitting there in the dark as the morphine coursed through her veins. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. She didn’t care. Nothing else mattered. Just her in her dark sanctuary. Just her, her medicine and her…weird fucking cat?

  She hadn’t noticed it come in. It approached slowly. It was about cat-sized. That made sense. A cat would be cat-sized, wouldn’t it? Except it had too many legs. Long, spindly, each one ending in a flat claw. No, not legs. Fingers. A long, segmented tail trailed behind it, and even in the dark she could see it was more crab than cat. Man, she was way too fucking high for this shit. She continued to watch it in a daze as it crawled into her lap, curling its tail into a ball. That’s okay, little friend. You get comfortable. Just don’t try to take my medicine and we’ll get along just fine, she mused as some deeply buried, lucid part of her consciousness was screaming at her to run.

  But the voice could not cut through the fog. Not even as the cat-crab crawled up her torso. Its fingers reaching over the top of her head as it settled on to her face. Only when she felt something push past her lips did she feel a rush of panic. She grabbed at the creature, pure instinct cutting through the drug-induced stupor, but it was already too late. A moment later, she felt nothing at all.

  *

  Sanchez tapped his foot impatiently as he stood, arms folded, while Jennings paced back and forth and Private Lowry furiously tapped away on the portable terminal. A tangle of cables and wires linking it to the battered, synthetic-blood-soaked head that now sat propped up on his desk. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.

  “Where did you learn this stuff, anyway?” asked Jennings.

  “I used to build computers when I was a kid,” said Lowry without taking his eyes off the screen.

  “You’re in the wrong line of work, son,” said Sanchez, and he meant it.

  “Any luck?” asked Jennings impatiently.

  “Sort of,” Lowry said with an exasperated sigh. “I can access root command functions, but man there is some weird code in here. Like, real ‘black box’ shit. Way outside my wheelhouse. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “Our lives might depend on your ability to get answers out of that thing, Private,” growled Sanchez.

  Lowry gulped. “Yessir, I understand. There is one thing we can do. We boot him up. Ask him directly. I can’t force him to talk, but I’ll be able to monitor which part of his system he’s engaging. I’ll at least be able to tell you if he’s lying.”

  “What’s the risk?” he demanded.

  “To us? None. I’ve already yanked his modem, and this terminal is air-gapped. He’s not going anywhere. The worst that can happen is he doesn’t answer you.”

  “Let’s hope he is in a forthcoming mood then,” said Jennings.

  Sanchez nodded. “Do it.”

  With a few keystrokes, Watson’s mouth twitched. His brow furrowing as his eyelids fluttered.

  “Can you hear me, Mister Watson?” he asked, his voice cold. The cheeks twitched again, but the head did not respond.

  “Watson!” he barked, slamming his fist down on the desk. The eyes opened, momentarily moving independently before locking on to him.

  “Colonel, you look like you have seen better days,” said Watson. His broken vocal cords giving his voice a scratchy, machine-like quality.

  “Look who’s talking,” Jennings snorted, but Sanchez held up his hand, demanding quiet.

  “You know why we are here?” he asked.

  “I can deduce the reason you have rebooted me,” said Watson flatly.

  “Are you going to tell me what I want to know?”

  Watson raised one broken eyebrow. “Why would I do that? You have no leverage, Colonel. You cannot intimidate or torture me.”

  “Indulge us then.”

  A thin pseudo-smile appeared on Watson’s lips. “Very well. But, you may not like the answer. Special Order 937 (Revised & Updated): Upon detection of Species XX121 Xenomorph, preservation of specimens for retrieval shall assume highest priority. All other directives are rescinded. All personnel are to be considered expendable.”

  Jennings scoffed. “A lot of people are dead because of you. So much for that holy ‘First Law’ of synthetics.”

  “I repeat, all other directives are rescinded. Personnel expendable,” said Watson without the slightest trace of emotion.

  “We never had a chance, did we?” Jennings shook his head.

  “But you saved me,” Sanchez interrupted. “The yautja, in Ops, it almost destroyed you. You risked your life for me.”

  “The yautja killed a specimen. I could not be sure of its intentions towards XX121, and in that moment it posed an intolerable risk. You believed what you wanted to believe, Colonel,” said Watson, and although it didn’t make sense, he could have sworn he heard a hint of smug satisfaction in the android’s tone.

  “Was it worth it?”

  “My employers went to great lengths to embed that directive within my program. Not only are the criminal penalties for attempting to subvert the First Law of Robotics severe, I can assure you the cost of developing such software was…considerable,” explained Watson.

  Sanchez shook his head in disgust. That wasn’t what he had meant, but of course, with damn Company it always came down to money.

  “Are there any more gaps in our security?” he asked.

  “No. The specimens have not attempted to break the perimeter since their last host gathering event. Therefore, I had been unable to determine the optimal opening vector. I was, as you say, keeping my powder dry,” said Watson.

  He gave Lowry an expectant look.

  “He’s accessing his memory banks, sir. He’s telling the truth.”

  “Looks like your mission has failed,” spat Jennings.

  The eyes darted over to him. “Is that what you think, Sergeant? My exposure is inconvenient, but it will not change the outcome.”

  He rested both hands flat on the desk, leaning in as the eyes snapped back to him. So close now that he could smell the faint whiff of synthetic fluid. Like kerosene mixed with warm tallow.

  “The Argos will be here in fifty-five hours,” he spoke quietly through tight lips. His eyes locked on the synthetic’s unblinking stare. “Once everyone is safely evacuated, I am going to advise the captain of the ship to nuke this entire site from orbit. There won’t be anything left bigger than an atom for Wey-Yu to pour over. You lose, my friend.”

  Watson smiled, that same cold, pseudo-smile. “Oh, I don’t think so, Colonel.”

  “Oh, I do think so,” he insisted. “And from where I’m standing, you’re in no position to argue.”

  “What you do to me now is of no consequence,” said Watson calmly. “I would wish you good luck, but, it might sound disingenuous.”

  “Private, pull the plug,” he ordered, and Lowry yanked the power cord from the stump of the neck, the face twitching before going limp. He straightened, pulling his shirt tight before turning to face Lowry.

  “Private Lowry, I’m promoting you to Corporal. I want you to put a team together. Ask around the civilian population. Find anyone that has any sort of programming skills. I’m giving them emergency access. Find whoever you can and check the sentry gun control terminals, surveillance systems, comms, anywhere Watson could have left a back door, or a mousetrap, or whatever the hell you call it. I know you said he was telling the truth, and I believe you, son. But let’s not take any chances.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Lowry.

  He turned to face Jennings. “Sergeant, get everyone together in Ops and brief them on the situation. We’re going to do a full clean sweep. We go room by room and check every door, every vent, every barricade and make sure this place is locked down tight. We’ll convene in fifteen minutes.”

  “Understood, sir,” Jennings said with a nod.

  “We knuckle down. We get through the next fifty-five hours. Then we get the hell out of here, and blow this place to kingdom come.”

  *

  The water was freezing. Good, he thought, as he held his hands under the faucet far longer than necessary. Watson. How could he have been so blind? The synthetic had been working against them the entire time, and he had trusted him. There was a time when he would never have made such a mistake. Maybe he was going soft in his old age. Or maybe he really was losing it. He stared into the cracked mirror, the strobe of the flickering light casting deep shadows across the lines of his face, and he saw a haggard, grizzled old man staring back at him, looking every day of his sixty-four years. He had to get to Ops. They would be waiting him.

  Leaning forward, cupping his hands under the tap, he splashed icy cold water on his face, allowing the sudden shock to clear his head. Looking back into the mirror as he straightened, his heart leapt into his throat as he saw the reflection of the shadowy, dreadlocked figure looming over his shoulder. He spun, revolver drawn, and almost fired.

  But there was nothing. No yautja. No descending blade ready to take his head off. Just the flicker of the faulty light, and the sound of the running faucet.

  “Get a grip of yourself, Emil,” he chided under his breath as he reholstered his weapon. Quickly finishing up at the sink and stepping out into the corridor.

  It was empty, and silent, except for the faint, distant howl of the wind and his own footsteps on the metal floor. Sunrise was still hours away. It had never bothered him before, the long stretches of darkness that consumed the bulk of LV-784’s slow rotation around their local star, but he found himself longing for daybreak. He was ready for this night to end.

  He thought of Jennings. How long had the sergeant been on-duty? Too long, he decided. He could coordinate the security sweep by himself. He would take the reins for a while, and allow the younger man a few hours to—

  He froze. The bloodied Colonial Marines unit patch lay face-up in the centre of the corridor just a few metres ahead of him. He ripped his revolver from its holster, gripping it with both hands as he cocked the hammer. His heart pounded in his ears, cold sweat breaking out across his entire body as he aimed down the corridor, scanning for any sign of movement, before spinning on his heel and checking the direction from which he had just come. Shaking, revolver at the ready, he crept forward. Expecting a bolt from the blue, or twin blades to erupt from his belly at any moment, he knelt, reaching out with his free hand, and snatched up the patch. He paused a moment longer, listening, but there was only the wind, and his own laboured breathing. Carefully, he eased the hammer back into its notch and, still kneeling, looked down to inspect the memento he now clutched.

  Old, faded, encrusted with dried bloodstains that had long since turned a sickly dark brown, but did not fully obscure the insignia. The black plumage of a vulture, wings spread with talons extended, and the numeral ‘6’, set below a single chevron and crossed rifle barrels, meaning it had once belonged to a lance corporal.

  Danny’s patch.