The wind screeched in protest, clawing with sandy nails at the concrete tarmac at USMC base 8. The ground around the concrete pad was pitted, bare rock, worn smooth by the incessant howling wind. The only exception to the bare rock were a few rolling pebbles who hurriedly attempted to escape the wind's vile grasp. Fine sand swirled everywhere, resting wherever it could find shelter from the biting wind. Yet whenever the wind would shift, once again the grating tan particles would flee, seeking some other shelter. Nearly fifty meters above, a whale-shaped ship slowly swung in the sand-speckled black sky. The huge gray-brown behemoth slowly swayed in the heavy winds, red and green lights blinking against the blinding sandstorm as it sought to land on the ground far below. The strain on the ship's engines as it bore its considerable mass against the sharp wind caused the sand-choked vents to whine even above the biting wind.
Inside the darkly tinted canopy of the dropship, the pilot and his copilot battled against the shifting winds as they slowly brought the massive machine down with computerized aid. Neither pilot let his gaze off the mass of gauges and readouts within the cockpit to look out through the sand-buried canopy at the night sky beyond. Instead, each concentrated and adjusted controls within their grasp as computer-enhanced readouts displayed on their helmets fed them even more information. The dropship's computer chatted to them nonchalantly about various engine and air-fuel-sand mixtures as the two crewmen directed the ship down toward the concrete pad. As the ship descended closer to the planet's surface, the captain of the dropship began an audible count.
"13 meters. Grant - activate the magnetic landing locks."
Click.
"Activated," the copilot replied as the computer confirmed the magnetic locks reaching full capacity.
The two pilots continued, running through a well-practiced landing procedure as the computer continued to chattily update the two men on the ship's status and compliance with their orders.
Back in the cargo area just to the rear of the cockpit, six marines and two scientists grasped their safety harnesses as the ship occasionally wobbled in the shifting wind. The marines were calm; they had performed landings under the fire of combat, but the two scientists were visibly nervous, their knuckles white as they grasped their harnesses. One of the two looked a bit green from the ship's slow undulations, and those near him eyed him carefully in case he were to loose his lunch suddenly.
"12 meters!" the captain announced aloud in the cockpit. The computer confirmed the approach audibly a moment later
"11," came after a second's pause, this time the computer's voice ringing out alone.
"10"
"9"
"8"
Wrrr-click
The magnetic locks took hold as they grabbed at the metal pylons buried underneath the concrete. With the strengthened pull, the ship ceased to slowly undulate, and the remaining few meters slid away quickly, ending with the ship landing with a bit of a lurch as the magnetic locks anchored the ship to the planet's surface. Once the jostling ended, the marines quickly unclipped their harnesses and stood. The two scientists were a bit slower, and seemed to wobble their way out of their seats just as the intercom clicked into life.
"Thank you for flying Air Dengor - please think of us for your next certain death mission," rang a sardonic voice – the pilot's – the marines noted.
Sergeant Naylor, the marine squad's commander, let a smug grin spread across his face at the dry humor that echoed from the comm. Two weeks of stubble chaffed his skin as he rubbed it, his eyes quietly darting over each marine he passed. He was the first to the rear ramp of the dropship, and once there, whirled about to face his marines. The remaining marines were activating their magnetic boots and adjusting their tactile strength at holding them to the floor. A small dial set into their belts operated the mechanisms, and the marines were obviously skilled at setting and using the devices. Naylor nodded to himself. Six months of quiet guard duty on earth, and they hadn't forgotten a thing. After Naylor noted that everyone seemed comfortable with their settings, and everyone's protective suits had been donned, he jabbed the control beside him that operated the dropship's rear bay door.
Wrrrrrhhhhhhnnnnnngggggg
The door whined open and Sergeant Charles Naylor stepped down the descending ramp. He strode down the ramp, his steel-wound muscles braced against the blowing wind. He'd have been smoking a cigarette if it wasn't for the damn wind, and he couldn't scratch the stubble behind the face mask that protected him from the bitter wind. He'd lost a good bit of his tan while back on Earth, but the small scar just above his right eye had never gone away, or been forgotten.
Behind him was Naylor's right-hand man, Corporal William Drafe. Over his marine fatigues he wore the same dark grey protective suit that all the others wore. He was a bit burlier than Naylor, but half a head shorter and of darker completion. Behind Drafe walked privates Katie Stevenson and Suzie Quince, two of the most congenial and deadly female marines Naylor ever had the pleasure of commanding. Katie was old hand in Naylor's band – she had been a private right along with Naylor at the start of both of their careers. It was because of this friendship that Naylor had let Katie grow her black hair out long, despite regulations. She had a bewitching beauty, unmarred despite the extensive campaigns both she and Naylor had endured. Suzie, on the other hand was a recent addition – her first mission had been Naylor's last mission before they were assigned to Earth. She kept her icy-white hair short, and had blue eyes that could freeze anyone she dared to glare at, or melt the heart of any man she took liking to.
Following Katie and Suzie was Silvio Taki, the jester of Naylor's band. The others often berated the wildly befuddled marine, but at the same time, Silvio's humor kept the group from succumbing to the horror and fear that had accompanied so many of their missions. Already Silvio had contorted his Latino features into a disdainful snarl and was hurling frivolous insults and meaninglessly bantering about the sand-whipped wind that battered them. Everyone was already ignoring him. The last of the marines was Private Grant Mager, who had instinctively taken his position to keep an eye on Silvio and the trailing scientists. Grant was about as plain as a marine came, with fresh-faced looks and sandy hair. He was certainly the youngest, at only nineteen year old, but he was not fresh out of high school and untested in battle. His plain looks hid his battle-tested nerves and skill. His attentiveness to detail had gotten Naylor out of many a tight spot, and the sergeant respected and admired this youngest marine for that unusual skill.
As the marines stepped off the dropship's ramp onto the tarmac, Naylor paused to scan the barren features of the planet. His marines stopped behind him, their gaze likewise scanning the area – not out of fear, but out of habits learned on myriad far-away worlds where nothing could be taken for granted. Each marine's muscles were tensed, expecting the worst of any moment and moving with both confidence and care that they could handle anything, anytime.
The scientists, on the other hand, were not coping too well with the fierce wind and almost had their legs snapped in two as the wind whipped about them. If it hadn't been for the boots, the two would have been tossed away like twigs in a tornado. Mager found himself helping the two more than he had intended, and even adjusted the belt of one of the two scientists when the man had difficulty moving against the wind.
It was a short walk from the dropship's ramp to the main sand-polished steel airlock that protruded from the rocky ground. Waiting for the group was a single individual dressed in a gray protective suit like the others. Naylor wasn't impressed that the fellow had chosen to wear his medals on the outside of the suit where they could easily be seen. Making out what the medals were for was impossible as the wind-driven sand tossed them about, threatening to steal them from the obviously annoyed soldier. As Naylor approached, he could recognize the shoulder badges that marked the greeting soldier as a lieutenant.
After a short salute, the lieutenant wordlessly whirled about and flipped up a small metal plate protecting the airlock's access panel. As the lieutenant entered an access code, Naylor nodded slightly to Katie, who at the nod intently watched the lieutenant's hand fly over the keys. A moment later and the access light on the small panel switched from red to green. Then, with a heavy grating sound, the huge airlock ground open. The small band passed through the three-foot thick steel plate doors, entering into the grossly squat military building.
Once everyone was inside, the door swung shut, sealing like the vault to a great mausoleum. With the blowing sand having lost its impetus, a thin layer of tan grit settled onto the floor as the marines shuffled about. Magnetic boots were switched off with a metallic click, and then the process of removing the stifling wind masks was marked by gasps of exasperation as the marines tasted the still, reprocessed air of the complex. It took a few minutes to drop out of the protective wind suits once inside, and it was noticeably silent out of the wind. The two scientists blew a sigh of relief as they helped each other out of the bulky gear. Naylor chuckled slightly to himself. The scientists looked fresh out of some Earth academy and reminded him of recruits he had dressed down as a senior in his old military academy.
No words passed between the marines and the lieutenant, nor between the marines and the scientists, though Mager and Suzie bantered until Naylor gave a deep-throated grunt as if clearing his throat. Once they were finished dressing down, the group continued deeper into the building. The hallways were hexagonal in shape, with thick bulkhead plates spaced evenly throughout the passage. Flickering fluorescent lighting that dangled little over a meter above their heads lit the way. The walls were hardly marked, except for occasional large yellow letters that divided the maze-like corridors into a series of alphabetically designated enumerations.
Finally, the hall ended in an ugly lift made of black-painted metal. It was open on only one side with walls that looked as if they had been riddled with bullets. The lift looked as though it could hold at least twenty people comfortably, and the lieutenant motioned for the group to step onto the lift. The group descended a total of five floors, and then continued through more abandoned corridors until they reached a thick, windowless metal door. A helmeted, motionless guard stood on each side of the door. Each of the guards held a ceremonial rifle tightly clasped across his chest, and the helmet was pulled down so that all that could be seen of their eyes were dark shadows. The only motion the two guards made was to click their heels in attention as the lieutenant approached. The lieutenant fingered the door control and it opened with a pneumatic whir. No sooner had it opened than Naylor could see beyond what looked like a conference room. It was of massive proportions, with a huge synthetic oak table in the middle surrounded by pseudo-leather high-backed chairs. The chairs squeaked uneasily as they swung towards the open door, revealing a host of overweight, sweaty officers sitting in the chairs.
Wearing all the medals that these officers possessed was probably the only exercise they received, and considering the weight of all that gold and silver, one would think they would be in much better shape. Naylor could see in their soft bellies that all of their medals came from sitting around drawing plans, filling out forms and sending perfectly good marines to die. Just looking at them made the sour taste of bile rise in Naylor's throat.
The lieutenant stood to the side, removing his hat as Naylor and the two scientists strode past into the room. As Naylor's marines moved up to follow, the guards closed rank to block their entry, and the metal door hissed shut behind them.
Corporal Drafe, who had been in the lead of Naylor's men, could only give the guards an annoyed look. Obviously, whatever they had been dragged here for was for Naylor's ears and eyes only. The marines stepped back, and Drafe shot a glance to the lieutenant. The lieutenant ignored Drafe's withering glare, saluted to the marines, then left, moving in a perfect military pace all the while.
Inside the conference room, a heavy-set and sharp-dressed general sat at the far end of the table. He greeted Naylor and the two scientists by name to the assembly. Naylor didn't bother to catch the scientist's names. He only cared about the name of this general that sat before him. He could make out the nameplate on the general's left breast, which read McGarrett.
"Good evening, gentlemen – and ladies," McGarrett stated, shaking the ashes of his cigar into the sythcrystal ashtray set before him. As he did, he nodded to the rest of the brass around the table. As introductions were made around the table, Naylor suddenly became acutely aware there was no seat for him. He had no choice but to stand.
"Sergeant Naylor, I gather you don't know why your team is here." McGarrett stated finally, a malicious grin thinly parting his lips to reveal the tips of the whitened teeth behind them. The sudden remark shook Naylor out of his annoyed thoughts.
He could already tell the General was a man who enjoyed being in control of the situation. He decided to retaliate with Silvio's tactics. "Yes sir I do, those drop-ships are pretty fast and very reliable, and they can get you anywhere." Naylor quipped back.
A smirk waved its way across all the mouths in the room, except the general's, before all eyes finally rested back on Naylor.
"Very funny, Sergeant," the General deadpanned. Naylor smirked back at the General before the heavy-joweled man continued, "You team is here because they are the best. You have survived ten xenomorph hive raids and three predator attacks with minimum casualties. Only three men have been lost, if I remember the reports correctly."
"Only partly true, sir." Naylor corrected, scowling. Like most of the brass he'd been forced to work under, they didn't care that those casualties had names or families. They were simply numbers accumulated to reach a desired target. "Several of us now have cybernetic body parts and mechanically repaired brains as a result of those missions and attacks," The last part was a lie, but he paused to let the words sink in to the fat heads around him before he rattled off, "For example, Corporal Drafe lost his right arm in our last hive raid." When Naylor noticed the staff seemed to be bored with that fact, he added. "And Private Mager lost his dick in one of those Pred attacks…"
"NAYLOR!" the General roared, rising. Naylor stiffened as several of the other brass suppressed a snicker. "Listen! Don't talk! I want you to watch the screen."
The General pushed a button in front of him and the lights went dim on their cue. A moment later, a huge screen slid down from a hidden recess in the roof, to Naylor's left. The General casually picked up a remote off the synthetic wood table and pressed a button on the middle of the remote. A large click resounded as a video flickered to life on the screen. It began to play a series of short clips as the General narrated over them. Most of suits didn't seem to be listening, as if they had heard it before. Naylor listened intently.
"As you know, Xenomorphs communicate telepathically, and our scientists have found a method to – communicate. By separating a Xeno's head from his body and placing certain electrodes in various parts of their brain, we can control other Xenos."
"Yeah, I've heard of that, sir," Naylor stated dryly, as he interrupted without thinking. "But I've heard that the cell tissue decomposes after a short period of time and then the technology is useless."
The general's face deformed into a scowl as his eyes seemed to burn at the sergeant's comments. Without a word, the general pressed another button on the remote. The image flickered again, as another video sprang to life on the screen. It showed a lab experiment that quickly devolved into grotesque terror.
The video began with a glass cell containing an inmate, cuffed to the chair he sat in. Wearing a helmet covered with strange electronics and electrodes, a scientist in the video could be seen observing from a nearby chamber. He had a look of deep concentration on his face, and a few moments into the video, a panel to the cell opened and a xenomorph calmly walked into the room, moving with an almost human gait. Despite the inmate's horrid screams, the creature calmly moved to within a few feet of the inmate and lowered itself into a pacifistic crouch. However, it only remained pacifistic for a few moments. The two scientists who were with Naylor's crew near fainted as they saw the apparently asleep Xenomorph suddenly rise from slumber and rip the inmate limb from limb, only 30 seconds after the effect had started. None of the brass at the table flinched - they had no understanding or compassion for those in the video. Naylor didn't flinch for a different reason. He had seen the Xenos do worse.
"We can overcome this problem by coating each electrode with formaldehyde and a cooling substance which then displaces throughout the brain, preserving it. Then, we then add a hardening concrete preservative to the skull to make sure it doesn't decompose around the brain. This makes sure that the head stays intact and useful."
"Very nice, but what does this have to do with my team?" Naylor asked dryly.
The lights suddenly bloomed to life, causing everyone but the general to blink rapidly for a short period of time. The general stood and glared at Naylor. Naylor didn't allow himself to be impressed. He and his marines had been pulled from a punitive guard duty on Earth and been brought to this frontier base - he knew the general needed him too badly to crack him on his remarks or attitude - at least until the mission was finished. Finally, the general relaxed, as a wry smile flicked across his face.
"This is the part you'll like," He pointed to a man on the left hand side of the table, dressed from head to toe in white. Naylor hadn't seen him when he walked in, he must have slipped in while the video had played, taking the place of one of the others suits who had given him his chair. The man was immaculate, which made Naylor queasy, and it was obvious he was a scientist; his features were much too similar to the scientists brought in with him to be anything else. "This is Professor Longman, he will explain."
Before speaking, Prof. Longman cleared his throat and slicked back his sandy blonde hair. There was enough goo in his hair to oil an APC, Naylor thought to himself. "Sergeant Naylor," he spoke in a voice so emotionless it grated on Naylor's nerves, "Two moons distant from this base we have discovered a small xenomorphic class two hunting colony. We want your men to go there and retrieve what you call a 'predator' for us to test our - "then for a moment, Prof. Longman paused, as if considering whether Naylor would understand his next few words. He seemed to decide otherwise, and finished,"'puppets'."
For a moment, Naylor stood in stunned silence. Then, he looked at his boots, and a moment later his head zoomed back up to eye level. His face was beaming with a cheeky grin, and he was practically laughing as he replied. Six months of quiet, and suddenly – this.
"So let me get this straight. You've brought us all this way - a month-and-a-half hyperspace ride, followed by two weeks of planet hopping in a dropship - all the way from Earth to here - just to send us packing to a hostile planet to try and nab a Predator without killing it?" He almost laughed aloud, caught himself, and then continued, "You want us to venture into what any other marine would call certain death just to get you a guinea pig for your experiments so you can get your jollies by watching the thing get torn apart?"
Longman swallowed, glancing momentarily toward the General. "Yes, that's pretty much it." Longman replied, when the general gave no response.
There was a moment of silence as Naylor swallowed. He'd initially thought they were going to send them to retrieve a xenomorph specimen, or worse, contain a xenomorph outbreak following a failure to control their little puppets. "When do we start?" He finally growled. He and his squad had been squatting on Earth for the past six months after Naylor had mouthed off to a colonel on the last mission. It had been the mission where Naylor had lost three marines due to the colonel's blunders. However, the colonel hadn't seen it that way. Naylor was ready to get off Earth and into action, but he wasn't sure how much he enjoyed facing a colony of Predators. Sure, his men could do it, but at what cost?
Before Naylor could access that cost, he heard a voice rumble. "You start almost immediately." It was the general. "Follow us." The general barked at Naylor, his heavy jowels giving Naylor the mental image of a bulldog snapping at him.
The general walked away from the table towards a door at the far end the conference room, quietly followed by Longman. The door slid open after the rest of the brass had exited out the entrance Naylor had been brought in. As Naylor watched the brass exit, the video screen slipped back up into its recess. Naylor's marines were brought into the room and followed Naylor out the door, not bothering to notice that as they did, the two door guards moved up to the scientists that had accompanied Naylor into the room. The two scientists were lead out a different door, partially hidden by the long shadows in the room.
The general and professor Longman led the marines through older, rectangular concrete corridors into what looked like a forgotten area of the base. After Longman entered a short code to a side room in the old hall, the marines entered what appeared to be old barracks. Along the walls were two sets of three bunks and six lockers, and in the middle was a table covered with weaponry. The professor stopped in the middle and pointed to a set of armor inside one of the lockers. With wide eyes, the marines gathered around the professor as he explained.
"This is the new armor we have developed especially for this mission. It suppresses all body emissions, making sure no heat radiates out so that a predator cannot detect your heat signature. With the face mask down, it also grants some protection against vacuum, about five minute's worth. But beware – we've found the predators can shift their vision range to detect the armor's electrical signature and if given warning, they will be able to see you."
The marines nodded, and Longman continued, "The suit has been tested to withstand three fully charged predator plasmacaster shots or about four pulse rifle bursts. Unfortunately, it can withstand but one predator speargun shot."
"Oh great, so one shot from that and it's either death or extreme pain!" Silvio quickly chipped in.
"Only for a short while private," Longman responded. He tapped what looked like a series of lines or tattoos on the armor. "We picked this technology up from the… 'predators' themselves. You see, if the suit detects that a body part is missing –" Longman seemed to fail to notice several of the marines roll their eyes in dismay, "or you are badly injured, it will inject anesthetics and painkillers into that area to nullify the pain. It also treats shock and broken bones, so you can keep fighting, should you be missing, say, even an arm."
"Nice, I feel a little better," quipped Silvio.
Whether the professor took Silvio at his word or detected the sarcasm in his voice, he did not respond to it. Professor Longman instead turned to the table and urged the others to do the same.
"This is your standard issue class two xenomorph capture gear," He pointed to a multi-wire, blue-colored net "Electrical snare and cerebral disrupter net. But this," He pointed to a cluster of weaponry that looked like standard issue pulse rifles, smart guns and SADAR, "is a few new items that we have developed especially for this mission. Each has been modified to capture a 'predator' and not destroy it." As several of the marine's faces contorted in wonderment and apprehension, Professor Longman continued. "Allow me to explain. The pulse rifles now fire several four round bursts of high velocity tranquilizer darts and have been fitted to fire concussion grenades." He motioned to the grenade launcher as he continued. "The concussion grenade delivers a high pitched sound wave directly attuned to disrupt the predator's thought processes, causing temporary confusion and most likely unconsciousness." The marines nodded and as Silvio picked up a grenade to examine it closer, Longman added, "Make sure you are not too close when using this or your eardrums will burst and drown your brain in blood." Silvio suddenly looked up, and quickly but gently, put the grenade down.
"The smart gun also fire darts but the tracking system should give you improved aim. We've also given it special programming so the weapon will aim for the unarmed extremities, instead of seeking the center of mass."
"By the way," Professor Longman concluded, "If the predator is out for more than three minutes after getting him into the electrical snare you must apply this stimulant." He held up a syringe full of a yellowish gunk that looked strangely like urine, "Otherwise he will suffer permanent mental damage, will stop breathing and die."
"Pretty cool stuff, Prof.," Drafe stated, expressing his love for the new non-destructive weaponry that he usually wasn't fond of.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Longman stated, pulling up what looked like a green box with a hinge on one side and a trigger on the bottom. "The new, improved SADAR. This is a direct derivative of our research into controlling class one xenomorphs. Once the 'rocket' hits it emits a chemical gas that affects the predator's reasoning abilities. It causes the beast to hallucinate that humans are predators and predators are humans. We've designed special communicators for your helmets," Longman stated, holding up a small black box with a speaker built into it, "that uses specially recorded statements to communicate with the predators. The communicators have limited translation ability, so don't get into a long discussion with any of them." Drafe gave Longman a look that seemed to say, "as if we would."
"Make sure you're not too close when using the SADAR because it has the opposite effect on humans." Longman cautioned.
"Very nice." Katie picked up a pulse rifle and started to fiddle with the trigger. Unexpectedly, a burst fired from it and the four darts spread evenly between the professor and the general, knocking them out cold in a matter of seconds.
Katie instantly dropped the weapon back into the stack on the table as Naylor bent down to check the two suits. Both were sleeping peaceably, with no indications of shock or other damage.
"Nice one, Katie." Naylor murmured.
"The safety wasn't on," Katie pouted, looking forlornly over the two sleeping figures sprawled on the floor.
"He he, thanks Suzie." Silvio chuckled.
"Uh boss?" Mager asked Naylor, his body language expressing both his disdain for officials and his hopes he wouldn't have to take care of the two sleeping beauties.
Naylor bent down and checked the two sleeper's pulse. "It's okay, they're still alive, but they'll be out for quite a while." Naylor motioned for Drafe to help him, and the two moved the sleeping general and the professor to the bunks in the room. "At least we know that the tranqs work now. We'd best let them get some kip. I've got a feeling we've got a very big day ahead of us."
"Okay Sarge," huffed Drafe, after dumping the two sleeping bodies onto the beds. As the group prepared to leave, each of the marines took their share of the equipment on the table. Silvio's eyes fell across the tranq-loaded pulse rifle that Katie had accidentally fired. With a smirk, he picked it up and pointed it at Katie. "Hey Katie, it's been a while since I saw your tits!"
"Cool it Silvio, you know I'm seeing Suzie now." At which point both Suzie and Katie turned to each other and snuggled with mock affection, "You know homosexual relationships are normal in this sort of situation." Seeing Silvio cringe, she turned to the others and stated, "You guys should try it sometime," as Suzie tried not to laugh.
"Uh I don't think so, but, uh, anyway, can we watch you?" Mager pleaded.
"I don't think so guys," Naylor stated, grasping each of his marines by the shoulder in turn and pointing them out of the room. "I want all this gear loaded into the dropship as soon as I leave," He added to Drafe, "Find us some quiet barracks. This may be the last good rest we get for a while, and I want everyone ready for action early tomorrow."
"Okay Sarge." The retinue half-heartedly replied, nearly in unison.
Naylor shut the door behind him, and followed his marines back to the conference room, which was now empty. As his marines filtered on past towards the dropship, Naylor stopped at the sight of the remote resting on the table. It looked like a black mole on the shiny table, so dull and out of place. He picked up the remote and flicked the button that lowered the screen from the roof. With another click, the video that he had watched earlier flickered to life on the screen. Sitting down, he watched it from beginning to end, and then began watching it over and over again. He watched inmate after inmate ripped apart as the scientists tried to perfect their Frankenstein's monsters under the watch of emotionless military officials. He watched with disdain the last clip, the one where the general had said they had perfected the process. He watched it all the way to the end. It wasn't perfected – not even close. The suits had managed to prolong the process, but with time, it still faded and the xenomorphs again became uncontrollable monsters, ripping screaming inmate's limb from limb, dripping with human blood, feeding on human brain.
It made him sick. He wanted to kill them all. Kill them now. Not just the aliens, but the sick scienctists behind the project - and the officers authorizing the tests. However, he knew he couldn't. Not while he had people depending on him. He had people that would need him for the mission ahead. As the tape played on, hour after hour, Naylor slowly drifted into a fitful sleep.
Naylor cursed as the alien swarmed around him; it felt like he had been fighting for hours. He looked at the ammo counter on his pulse rifle – empty. Damn! He had no ammo, not even a grenade. He had already torn off his armor after it was ruined from acid blood and as they crouched around him, ready to pounce, he brought his bare fists up for the final assault. He knew he was going to die, and he wasn't sure he was sweating from exertion or from the thought this was his last battle. As the aliens swarmed him, he railed against them with his fists, his soft flesh tearing against their steel-tough exoskeletons as he fought to batter them back. With sheer numbers they smothered over him, pushing him to the ground. He continued to scream in defiance at them, but was met only with the hisses of the alien's own language that drowned out his curses.
Though he thrashed and fought, he found the aliens were carrying him. After what seemed long minutes, the crowd of xenomorphs dropped him onto a resin-covered floor. Exhausted and bloody, he didn't have the strength to look up. Until he heard the clicking chatter of a different, yet familiar alien. Glancing up, he was shocked to find a predator standing only a few feet away from him, it's belt adorned with the trophy heads of his own friends. Friends he had failed to protect - friends he had run from to save his own flesh.
The predator stepped forward, grabbing his jaw and twisting his head from side to side. He closed his eyes, expecting the inevitable. But he instead heard the predator state in a clicking voice, "You're not worthy, coward." It pushed him back, into the black horde of aliens that had been waiting and hissing behind him.
He felt their inner jaws puncture his flesh and rip thought the muscle tissue and veins inside his body. The pain came in shots and waves, though he couldn't even writhe with all the mass piled on top of him. Then he felt the sting of a set of jaws ripping through his skull, piercing into his brain. The pain was excruciating, but for some reason he wasn't dead! He was still alive feeling the pain of several thousand jaws ripping through his body like it was melted butter. All he could do was lay there and think 'Why?' 'Why the pain? What have I done to deserve this?'
Six hundred hours Dengor Military Base, Hangar OneBack in hold of the dropship Crimson One the marines were just waking up. Drafe was the first to become accustomed to the ship's dull lights. His tired eyes panned the room; everyone was accounted for - Stevenson, Mager, Suzie, Taki, and himself. But there was no Naylor!
"Hey, did Naylor come back in last night?" He asked, shaking each of the marines awake.
"No, not that I know," Katie was the first to reply as Drafe woke them. Drafe was concerned by the answer, but he tried to stay calm. Drafe had not been able to find other quarters in the base and had resorted to stuffing everyone into the APC for a short rest. Hopefully, the general had just wanted to have a few parting words Naylor, but he had not returned in the eight hours they had been out. It was a thought that made him a little more nervous. "I'm gonna get some coffee, maybe I'll find Naylor on my way. While I'm at it any of you want any?"
The universal answer, astonishingly, was "No."
Drafe shook his head and left the cargo hold through the side door. The dropship now lay in one of the four sealed base hangars adjacent to the main bunker. The dropship's crew had already prepped and refueled the massive UD-6C Tomahawk dropship. Leaving the protected hangars, Drafe's magnetic boots helped him through the biting wind to the main bunker, where, after several minutes of pounding the access plate, he was finally able to get in. Though a few military and scientific personnel were around, none had seen Naylor – or the general for that matter. On a hunch, Drafe made his way to the conference room. The two guards stood at the door, but once Drafe explained he was looking for Naylor, they let him pass. The steel door opened with a pneumatic snap, and Drafe stepped in, scanning for signs of the Sergeant. There, in the general's chair was Naylor. He seemed to be having a fit, for he was convulsing in the chair, his knuckles white from grasping the armrests.
"Oh shit!" Drafe shouted and he then raced to Naylor. He'd only seen Naylor like this once before when he'd been struck with night terrors after their first hive raid. Drafe stood there for a moment, wondered what to do, and then he started to shake Naylor vigorously.
"Naylor! Naylor wake up!"
There was no response, and Naylor's convulsions continued. The two guards outside heard Drafe's exclamation and started to enter the room. One used his helmet mike to call for a medical team. As the guards entered, Drafe's memory went back to that first occurance of the night terrors. He knew what he needed to do, and knew Naylor wouldn't be happy about it, but it was the only thing he could think of in the circumstances. He clenched his left hand into the tightest fist he could make and struck Naylor deftly on the cheek, sending the sergeant spinning off the chair and onto the floor. Both guards stopped dead, and one let out a low whistle.
The things in Naylor's nightmare vanished, and with a groan, Naylor awoke. The awful tortured pain he had endured in the dream had stopped, apart from a slight throbbing on his cheek. He slowly sat up and saw Drafe standing with his hand still curled in a fist, with several other base personnel coming up behind him. One looked like a medical technician.
As Naylor rubbed his jaw, he quickly realized what Drafe had done to wake him up. As Naylor stood, the medical technical came over and gave the sergeant a quick check. As the medtech worked, Naylor's gaze at Drafe suddenly turned into a hateful glare. After a few moments, he brushed away the medtech and strode towards Drafe. The others - mostly civilian personnel, but some military - started to back off. Only Drafe stood his ground, though he let his hand relax from holding the tight fist. As Naylor came up to Drafe, he stopped inches from the corporal's face. Naylor could see the beads of sweat forming on Drafe's forehead, and the corporal was obviously a little uneasy. But he kept himself rooted to the spot.
"You hit me!" Naylor growled, backed up a little bit to take a wider view of Drafe, and spat "You fucking punched me!"
"Yes sir." Drafe replied with a bit of squint from the volume of Naylor's voice. He swallowed and explained, "Sir, you were having a fit and were not responding to any external stimulation that I had." Drafe looked down at his hand and flexed the fingers slightly, then looked up, "The only thing left was my fist - and it seemed to do the trick." He paused, and then added, "Sir!" followed with a sloppy salute.
Naylor's glare turned into a wry grin.
"That's what I like." He said, and his soothing voice put Drafe at ease. Naylor moved toward Drafe, putting his left arm around Drafe's shoulders. "A soldier who isn't afraid to do what he thinks is right!" He wiped his chin, brushed off the medtech's advances to check him out further, and stated to Drafe, "Come on, let's go get ready."
The others breathed a sigh of relief and parted as Naylor led Drafe out of the conference room and towards the dropship. Once they were in the steel corridors out of everyone's sight, Naylor put his foot in front of Drafe and trip lifted him into the air. Drafe landed on his stomach and any air in his lungs was quickly expelled. Naylor then twisted Drafe's left arm and bent the elbow backwards, almost to the breaking point. Drafe literally screamed.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
To which Naylor replied, "Thanks Drafe, but let me give you a bit of advice to abide by. Never - and I mean never Punch me! Got it?"
"Yes, Aaahhh!"
"Now get your ass to the dropship, marine." He shoved Drafe away from him, and the marine rose. Drafe gave a quick salute, and then disappeared down the corridor in a hurry. "And make sure the APC is loaded before I get there!" Once the marine was out of his sight, Naylor rubbed his jaw. He hated doing that, but damn, Drafe's punch had hurt. At least Drafe hadn't punched him with his replacement steel fist. But, he couldn't allow his subordinates go about thinking they could punch him without some sort of consequences, even if their reasoning was sound.