Author's Note: First of all, let me just start this off by apologizing to anyone reading this fic who would much rather see an update to Shards of Chaos... or The Magnificent Beatdown... or any other project I've been promising to update for the last few months. Those writers in the audience know that sometimes one's muse can be a fickle bitch... mine has been absurdly silent for a while now, then yesterday she started nagging me to write this. You ever get an idea in your head? One that just had to be put down? This is one such idea for me... something that was itching to get out. As such, I'd like to get feedback on the pacing of the story... am I moving too fast? I'm trying to quickly get to the meat of the story, but I don't want to sacrifice quality, if you get my drift. Please be honest.
Ok, continuity notes, before I shut up. This is an Alien/Predator story set in the year 2184, approximately 5 years after the incident in "Aliens". Timeline wise, this could be considered an alternate timeline... mankind knows of the existence of the xenomorphs who devestated the colony on LV-426, though they have not yet developed effective countertactics to deal with them. As far as the predator species goes... well, humanity with a few notable exceptions, is still pretty much in the dark. As far as marine hardware and tactics, and the general Aliens Universe, I'm trying to be as accurate as possible, but if a few errors slip by me, by all means let me know.
Anyway, On with the show.
***
"All our times have come, here but now it's done. Seasons don't fear the Reaper, nor do the wind or the sun or the rain, we can be like they are, come on baby, don't fear the Reaper, take my hand, don't fear the Reaper, we'll be able to fly, don't fear the Reaper, baby I'm your man..." -Blue Oyster Kult, Don't Fear the Reaper
***
Senior Project leader Robert Treskil sincerely wished that the nameless idiot who'd been screaming over the station intercom for the last 5 minutes would hurry up and die already. Of course, when one considered that it was quite likely that if the situation got any worse, he wouldn't have the luxury of screaming out HIS own last few moments, one quickly realized that this annoyance was the least of his worries.
"What's our status, Ted?" Robert rasped quietly, eyeing his second in command with barely suppressed aggitation.
Dr. Theodore Esquire, Blue Project Leader and computer whiz in charge of station maintenance, never took his eyes off the screen in front of him.
"Almost there sir... 5 more minutes." He muttered, his fingers dancing like epilectic worms on the keyboard.
"Need I remind you that we have an estimated 4 minutes before our little intruder breaks through the barrier and whoever is still alive down there?"
Ted narrowed his bespecticled eyes. "I'm going as fast as I can. This station was never designed to emergency disconnect unless there was a biological contamination... and in that situation the secure lab is the section that's supposed to blow loose... not the goddamned aft airlock!"
Robert shook his head. "Design flaws aside, Doctor, I really doubt you want to be trapped five hundred miles above sea level with what amounts to a 250 pound dreadlocked killing machine."
"I said I'm going as fast as I can... these interlocks take time.." he hissed.
Robert sighed and turned his gaze back to the rapidly bulging hatch displayed in security camera 2. He'd been against this particular line of research from the start, but the committee had outvoted him, 15 to 3. "The possible benefits outweigh the risk", they'd said. Even when they'd lost 25 million credits worth of equipment trying to capture and transport the damned thing. Even when they'd lost 3 personnel in the first week of research alone. Only now did it occur to them what exactly they'd fucked with, and who should be around to first reap the reward?
He sighed and turned back to Ted. "How much longer?"
"Almost... there! Got it!" He crowed, stabbing the enter key with euphoric glee. Three sharp statacco bangs not unlike a child's firecracker punctuated his key stroke as 1.3 billion credits worth of the Achilles Iv Orbital Customs Containment Station was blasted off of the main body of the orbital. The poor bastard who's screams had echoed all over the station on the intercom was mercifully cut short as it slipped silently away from the station, spinning lazily from the force of the blast caps. Random bits of detrius, crystalized atmosphere, lab equipment, and quite a few bodies, trailed away in a spiral pattern as it started its slow orbital degradation into the planet's atmosphere, where it would meet it's final, fiery doom. Robert let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.
Ted took off his glasses and leaned his head against the monitor. "We made it."
A sudden clanging and tearing of metal and the appearance of four claw tips appearing at the line seperating the two doors to their lab demonstrated Murphy's unfortunate sense of comedic timing.
Overstrained motors tried desperately to keep the tungsten doors shut but whatever it was on the other side of that door that wanted in was a bit more determined then the best technology the 22nd century had to offer... the door slowly opened, shrieking like a banshee the whole while.
Ted turned his frightened, myoptic gaze to Robert and shakingly whispered. "What do we do sir?"
Robert, pale as a ghost, turned to his compatriot and blinked. Three infrared dots appeared on his chest and lazily snaked their way upward to his forehead. He opened his mouth to answer...
A rasping, lethal sounding ZAP! cut off whatever he was going to say.
Trouble had arrived on Achilles IV.
***
Corporal Raymond Lopez-Gomez, or "Logo" as his squadmates and even his CO called him, wondered briefly if the headache he was suffering from was due to the coldsleep he'd just awoke from, or the hangover he'd been suffering from a month ago when he'd entered it. He supposed it didn't matter, since he was now on Colonial Marines Time, (or CMT as his disgustingly morning compatable Seargent called it) and the Colonial Marines couldn't give a fuck less if he was suffering from an aneurism, as long as he got up and did what it wanted of him.
Apparently what it wanted him to do was get up, get dressed and get ready, and yesterday.
"Alright people! Drop your cocks and grab your socks! I wanna see all your shining happy faces grinnin' at me from behind a steamin' plate of S.O.S. (Shit On a Shingle) in 15 minutes!"
Logo winced as his Seargent clapped to demonstrate how serious she was. He then went blearily about the task of trying to locate his feet to put his socks on them. He was pretty sure they were down.
A smart assed voice that had to be Private Bradley piped up from somewhere over the Sarge's right shoulder. "What if we ain't got a cock to drop, Sarge?"
"Then I'll loan you mine, private! Why the FUCK are you standing around jawjacking with me when I told you to get ready, Bradley? Are you trying to upset me? Do you WANT me to get UPSET?!" She narrowed her eyes but did not turn around.
"N-no sarge...." Bradley muttered contritely, suddenly very aware that Sarge wasn't bullshiting this time. Of course, the Sarge was never bullshitting, but Bradley had never managed to get that through his thick skull.
It was one of the reasons he was still a private.
"Jesus," Bradley muttered, sitting down heavily as he pulled his dark grey BDU pants on, "What the hell crawled up HER ass?"
"You Private..." the slow, cynical Texas drawl, cool as a glass of Scotch, identified PFC Jamie "Big Country" Hutchinson as among the living. The large black man looked vaguely amused, and Logo noted that he was already dressed (the bastard) and shaving, something he seldom did due to the almost terminal case of razor burn this was apt to give him. The fact that he was shaving, combined with the tenseness in their Seargent's normally good-natured ass-chewing, peaked Logo's WTF o'meter. He pulled his BDU blouse on and shot BC a curious glance.
"What's up BC, hot date?"
BC smiled him that, "I'm always in the know" smile that only a veteran marine with a good rumour is capable of and motioned with his chin towards the Sarge. "Word is the mission we got comin' up is a no shit fuckerall. Must be, 'cause the Old Man's givin' the brief. You might wanna put in a little extra spit n' polish, if ya know what I mean, kid."
Logo's day went to shit. Well, more shit. "Fuck me..."
Corporal Kip Dial (pronounced De all) cast the two if them a quiet look and slipped his combat knife into its boot sheath. The enigmatic lifer wasn't much for idle conversation. In all the time Logo had known him, the M5A62 "Smartgun" operator had uttered maybe 4 words in sequence. Logo still hadn't figured out if that was because the philipino didn't speak english very well, or if it was because he just naturally quiet. One look from his cold grey eyes immediately discouraged any attempt at finding out.
The combat engineer, a petite blonde by the name of PFC Mausberger, shot BC an amused grin. "You always say that BC. This ain't gonna be no different from the last time the Old Man gave us a speech. You watch, he just needs to get his "motivational bullshit speaker" PQS (Personal Qualification Standard) signed off."
BC grinned. "Maybe... but let me ask you this? You ever heard of Achilles IV?"
Mausberger's nose scrunched up in thought. "No... why?"
"'Cause that's where we're-"
"Alright people! Secure the goddamn scuttlebutt and get fuckin' ready! Do I need to repeat myself? You better look sharp too... Inspection is at 0630, by yours truly, we gotta look sharp for the Skipper. He wants to see you all purdy and ready for war so HOP TO!"
The rest of the squad, somewhat less well informed, groaned at the mention of inspection. All remaining talk became silent as each individual bent to his or her own tasks.
Yup... it was looking to be another fine fucking day in the Colonial Marines.
***
"Attention on deck!"
Twenty-eight pairs of boots, four squads of marines, snapped together in perfect unison. Understrength though it was from their recent "police action" duty for Weyland-Yutani (actually a full fledged suppression of an invasion, since the bodies of their foes revealed them to be Chinese Arm regular army, though of course the Chinese Arm denied all such claims). The Old Man, Colonel Freeman, stepped into the room and idly waved a hand.
"At ease."
Logo was watching the Old Man when another individual stepped in to the room behind him, someone he hadn't expected to see, and who's arrival quite overjoyed the young marine. Alpha team's Synthetic, Staff Seargent King, followed the CO near their company leader, Lieutenant Pilsnir. Logo shot him a nod when neither the CO nor the LT could see him, and King gravely nodded back. Logo owed the artifical person... owed him big time.
On their last mission they'd gotten involved in a sweep and clear of a small warehouse that was supposed to contain a few guerillas, poorly trained with maybe a few small arms. Instead they'd encountered a team of mercenaries armed with M38's, the obsolete, but no less lethal version of the M41A Pulse Rifle that was standard Marine issue. The 10 x24 mm AP rounds, while not quite as lethal as the explosive cartridges the M41A fired, could still make short work of the tactical armor the marines wore. King had caught a bullet for Logo. Although the bullet had traveled completely through, leaving a fist sized hole in Synthetic's abdomen, the force had been decreased enough to leave Logo with only a very painful bruise, rather a lethal divot taken out of his ass.
Though King had insisted that the damage was unlikely to impair him in the short time allotted to the mission, though it WAS serious, and further more that his programming made him incapable of harming or by inaction allow to be harmed a fellow team member, Logo still felt a bit awed by the gentle Staff Seargent. Logo had grown up in the planet sized equivilent of a barrio, he wasn't used to people giving a fuck less whether he lived or died. The Colonial Marine Corps was his escape from all that, and although he'd left a junkie sister and a whore of a mother behind, and though he sent money home every month, he'd tried to bury that place in the past where it belonged.
It was still a part of him though, and King's actions had shocked and humbled him. He'd decided that the artifical human was a true friend, though he hadn't seen him since he had transferred to the Synthetic equivalent of a hospital after the mission had been completed.
He was sincerely glad to see the man was still kicking.
Now he'd just have to see if he could just get the guy to loosen up a bit.
The LT was a different story. Pilsnir wasn't a bad man, he just wasn't a particularly GOOD marine; he never really fit in. He reminded Logo of the fat kid that always stayed on the sidelines of any group, not really there, but not really an outsider either. Logo supposed it was hard getting to know the people you might have to send out to die, he could understand it was a hard job, and not one he wanted any part of, to be honest. He just couldn't shake that fat kid image the man projected to him.
Maybe it was his cheeks. He had the rosy, slightly chubby cheeks of a four year old, at least to Logo. It had earned him the nickname Babyface, though not TO his face, of course.
The Old man stepped up to the wall display and cleared his throat. Logo ceased his introspection and turned his full attention to the matter at hand.
"Alright people, I'm sure there are alot of rumours flying around about this little vacation," he paused as a couple of uneasy chuckles flittered about the room, " so before we get started I'd like to give you some background information about this job."
He shot the LT a look, and Pilsnir his a button on the remote in his hand. The display on the wall changed to an image of a dark grey world swirled with clouds.
"This is Achilles IV, the planet we are currently in orbit around. The planet is classified as a type IV colony prospect world. It has no moons, though it does have one satellite."
"There are no large predators, no local flora to worry about. This is not a deathworld, as I'm sure some of you have heard. With that out of the way, I'd like to turn the briefing over to Staff Seargent King. King?"
Logo turned his attention to the synthetic. King cleared his throat and motioned at the screen. "I've been asked to brief you since I am representing Weyland-Yutani Corporation directly in this matter. This planet has only one major habitation." He motioned to the wallscreen and the shot changed to a bird's eyeview of the colony, really more of small city/compound.
"The entire colony is a specialized research facility. The facility supports some 5,000 colonists, all Weyland-Yutani researchers and their dependants. It has all the comforts of home, mess hall" click, picture of a mess facility, "gym, and recreational center, "click click, and various other facilities neccesary for colonist habitation," he paused, "Yes, Jacobson?"
The man in question put his hand down. "Staff, not that I'm not totally sold on this place to fit all my vacation needs, but what KIND of specialized research? Why are WE here?"
Staff nodded. "I was getting to that, private. This is a medical science research facility, specifically, the classification and research of hereditary and infectious diseases. Two different types of cancer have been cured at this facility alone, along with several remedies for prolonged coldsleep syndrome, or PCS (ok, military injoke, PCS is the term military folk use when they prepare to transfer to a new base... I thought I'd explain it for the civvies out there. -DT) something I'm sure everyone here is familiar with. There are currently 506 infectious diseases being researched here, ranging from type 1 infections like the common cold and such, to-" he looked stern, "no not Herpes private Bradley, type 4 infections such as Oxygenation Deprivation Syndrome and Ebola, to name a couple. Understandably, this place represents several billion credits worth of investment."
He nodded to the screen, which changed to a picture of the orbital station.
"This is the Orbital Customs Containment Station Colonel Freeman mentioned. She houses fifty crewmembers on a rotational basis, and serves as the only contact the planet has to the rest of humanity. There are no offplanet shuttles stationed planet's surface... all in and outbound traffic is processed through this facility to ensure complete biological containment is possible. All offplanet supplies and personnel transfers are routed through this facility, and in the event of a containment breach, the once a month outsystem freighter has orders to vacate the system and contact the Weyland Yutani Biological Control Center."
The scene changed to another picture of the station. This one caused quite a few whistles and quiet murmuring to pass through the unsettled marines. The station was obviously ransacked, several sections were missing from the jack-shaped orbital, and large, ragged sheets of metal had ballooned out from the torn holes.
"This is the picture the WYBCC received from the Arcturus, the freighter assigned to this system. They did not attempt to dock, and I'm sure you can see why. This was one month ago. Our preliminary teams discovered no evidence of biological contamination, however, there were no survivors. We also found this."
The button clicked and a egg-shaped pouch appeared on screen, its upper end blossomed out like some grotesque flower. The marines looked even more uneasy. A couple of them scowled.
"I'm sure if any of you have studied recent updates, you are familiar with the Nostromo Incident." He sighed. "This was discovered on the orbital, though no shuttle was docked. The shuttle HAS been located, where it crash landed three miles from the colony."
Several groans and mutters proceeded this. "Fuckin' bughunt.... I KNEW I shouldn'ta reupped..."
"Settle down people," Sarge muttered. The talking quieted.
"We are unsure how this arrived on the station, however we have undeniable evidence that the colony is currently suffering from a class 5 xenomorphic infestation. He clicked the button. A wire diagram appeared of the facility. "All members of the research team along with their dependants have been fitted with a beacon for easy location. Although these beacons cannot transmit out atmosphere, the signals are processed through a transmittor located in the Signal Relay Station, which then beams the information to the orbital station, which, remarkably, still has power. Though it stopped transmitting several weeks ago, this is what we managed to pick up."
He clicked the button again. "As you can see, on 84015 (this is a julian date, where the last two digits of the year are followed by the number of days into the year have passed.. IE, January 1st, 2003 would read as 03001, February 1st, 2003 would be 03032, so on. This is a common military dating system) the suspected date of the crash, the colonists were bunched out, with a few minor groups not numbering more then a couple hundred at a time at frequently traveled locations. 84023 day, note there are now two groups forming here" he gestured, "and here," he gestured again, "gathered around the primary heat exchangers around the colony's fusion reactor. 84024 day, several distress messages were recorded by the stations automated systems, these continued sporadically until 84056 day..." he clicked again. There were several murmurs. "As you can see, as of 2 weeks ago, fully 25% of the colony population is gathered along these two heat exchange lines, 60% is unaccounted for, and the other 15% either in small groups around the colony, or spread out around the planet itself, which is mostly undeveloped."
He looked bleak and seemed to meet every persons eyes. "Bear in mind that when a person dies, their beacon will only transmit for one week after their death. The 60% unaccounted for are presumed dead."
The display disappeared. "Those of you familiar with SOP (standard Operating Procedures) on a Xenomorphic infestation are aware that any rating higher then class 3 warrants an orbital bombardment. However..." he drones off and sighed. "Weyland-Yutani cannot stomach the loss of over 30 years of medical research, most of it completely undocumented elsewhere, for patent security reasons. That's where you come in."
He gestured to the wallscreen again, which showed a overview of the facility, marking that extensive sewer tunnels and several underground research facilities exist.
"As we mentioned before, the Signal Relay Station is no longer operable. More then likely this is due to the infestation... possibly some small arms damage, what have you. Though the colony still has power, most of its automated faculties are operating at 50% or less efficiency. The mission is two fold; one team must secure the Signal Relay Station and return it to full operation. The other team must secure the underground research facility located here," he pointed at the wall screen, "and transmit all applicable research material to us, through the Signal Relay Station."
He cleared his throat. "I don't need to tell you how difficult this is going to be. Our current estimate has the Xenomorph population somewhere in the mid three thousands."
He frowned. "Bear in mind that this is considered... to be a LOW estimate."
Logo sighed and looked at BC, who leaned close and nodded grimly.
"Told ya Logo... a REAL fuckerall."
Logo nodded sadly. "Fuck me."
***
Ok, continuity notes, before I shut up. This is an Alien/Predator story set in the year 2184, approximately 5 years after the incident in "Aliens". Timeline wise, this could be considered an alternate timeline... mankind knows of the existence of the xenomorphs who devestated the colony on LV-426, though they have not yet developed effective countertactics to deal with them. As far as the predator species goes... well, humanity with a few notable exceptions, is still pretty much in the dark. As far as marine hardware and tactics, and the general Aliens Universe, I'm trying to be as accurate as possible, but if a few errors slip by me, by all means let me know.
Anyway, On with the show.
***
"All our times have come, here but now it's done. Seasons don't fear the Reaper, nor do the wind or the sun or the rain, we can be like they are, come on baby, don't fear the Reaper, take my hand, don't fear the Reaper, we'll be able to fly, don't fear the Reaper, baby I'm your man..." -Blue Oyster Kult, Don't Fear the Reaper
***
Senior Project leader Robert Treskil sincerely wished that the nameless idiot who'd been screaming over the station intercom for the last 5 minutes would hurry up and die already. Of course, when one considered that it was quite likely that if the situation got any worse, he wouldn't have the luxury of screaming out HIS own last few moments, one quickly realized that this annoyance was the least of his worries.
"What's our status, Ted?" Robert rasped quietly, eyeing his second in command with barely suppressed aggitation.
Dr. Theodore Esquire, Blue Project Leader and computer whiz in charge of station maintenance, never took his eyes off the screen in front of him.
"Almost there sir... 5 more minutes." He muttered, his fingers dancing like epilectic worms on the keyboard.
"Need I remind you that we have an estimated 4 minutes before our little intruder breaks through the barrier and whoever is still alive down there?"
Ted narrowed his bespecticled eyes. "I'm going as fast as I can. This station was never designed to emergency disconnect unless there was a biological contamination... and in that situation the secure lab is the section that's supposed to blow loose... not the goddamned aft airlock!"
Robert shook his head. "Design flaws aside, Doctor, I really doubt you want to be trapped five hundred miles above sea level with what amounts to a 250 pound dreadlocked killing machine."
"I said I'm going as fast as I can... these interlocks take time.." he hissed.
Robert sighed and turned his gaze back to the rapidly bulging hatch displayed in security camera 2. He'd been against this particular line of research from the start, but the committee had outvoted him, 15 to 3. "The possible benefits outweigh the risk", they'd said. Even when they'd lost 25 million credits worth of equipment trying to capture and transport the damned thing. Even when they'd lost 3 personnel in the first week of research alone. Only now did it occur to them what exactly they'd fucked with, and who should be around to first reap the reward?
He sighed and turned back to Ted. "How much longer?"
"Almost... there! Got it!" He crowed, stabbing the enter key with euphoric glee. Three sharp statacco bangs not unlike a child's firecracker punctuated his key stroke as 1.3 billion credits worth of the Achilles Iv Orbital Customs Containment Station was blasted off of the main body of the orbital. The poor bastard who's screams had echoed all over the station on the intercom was mercifully cut short as it slipped silently away from the station, spinning lazily from the force of the blast caps. Random bits of detrius, crystalized atmosphere, lab equipment, and quite a few bodies, trailed away in a spiral pattern as it started its slow orbital degradation into the planet's atmosphere, where it would meet it's final, fiery doom. Robert let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.
Ted took off his glasses and leaned his head against the monitor. "We made it."
A sudden clanging and tearing of metal and the appearance of four claw tips appearing at the line seperating the two doors to their lab demonstrated Murphy's unfortunate sense of comedic timing.
Overstrained motors tried desperately to keep the tungsten doors shut but whatever it was on the other side of that door that wanted in was a bit more determined then the best technology the 22nd century had to offer... the door slowly opened, shrieking like a banshee the whole while.
Ted turned his frightened, myoptic gaze to Robert and shakingly whispered. "What do we do sir?"
Robert, pale as a ghost, turned to his compatriot and blinked. Three infrared dots appeared on his chest and lazily snaked their way upward to his forehead. He opened his mouth to answer...
A rasping, lethal sounding ZAP! cut off whatever he was going to say.
Trouble had arrived on Achilles IV.
***
Corporal Raymond Lopez-Gomez, or "Logo" as his squadmates and even his CO called him, wondered briefly if the headache he was suffering from was due to the coldsleep he'd just awoke from, or the hangover he'd been suffering from a month ago when he'd entered it. He supposed it didn't matter, since he was now on Colonial Marines Time, (or CMT as his disgustingly morning compatable Seargent called it) and the Colonial Marines couldn't give a fuck less if he was suffering from an aneurism, as long as he got up and did what it wanted of him.
Apparently what it wanted him to do was get up, get dressed and get ready, and yesterday.
"Alright people! Drop your cocks and grab your socks! I wanna see all your shining happy faces grinnin' at me from behind a steamin' plate of S.O.S. (Shit On a Shingle) in 15 minutes!"
Logo winced as his Seargent clapped to demonstrate how serious she was. He then went blearily about the task of trying to locate his feet to put his socks on them. He was pretty sure they were down.
A smart assed voice that had to be Private Bradley piped up from somewhere over the Sarge's right shoulder. "What if we ain't got a cock to drop, Sarge?"
"Then I'll loan you mine, private! Why the FUCK are you standing around jawjacking with me when I told you to get ready, Bradley? Are you trying to upset me? Do you WANT me to get UPSET?!" She narrowed her eyes but did not turn around.
"N-no sarge...." Bradley muttered contritely, suddenly very aware that Sarge wasn't bullshiting this time. Of course, the Sarge was never bullshitting, but Bradley had never managed to get that through his thick skull.
It was one of the reasons he was still a private.
"Jesus," Bradley muttered, sitting down heavily as he pulled his dark grey BDU pants on, "What the hell crawled up HER ass?"
"You Private..." the slow, cynical Texas drawl, cool as a glass of Scotch, identified PFC Jamie "Big Country" Hutchinson as among the living. The large black man looked vaguely amused, and Logo noted that he was already dressed (the bastard) and shaving, something he seldom did due to the almost terminal case of razor burn this was apt to give him. The fact that he was shaving, combined with the tenseness in their Seargent's normally good-natured ass-chewing, peaked Logo's WTF o'meter. He pulled his BDU blouse on and shot BC a curious glance.
"What's up BC, hot date?"
BC smiled him that, "I'm always in the know" smile that only a veteran marine with a good rumour is capable of and motioned with his chin towards the Sarge. "Word is the mission we got comin' up is a no shit fuckerall. Must be, 'cause the Old Man's givin' the brief. You might wanna put in a little extra spit n' polish, if ya know what I mean, kid."
Logo's day went to shit. Well, more shit. "Fuck me..."
Corporal Kip Dial (pronounced De all) cast the two if them a quiet look and slipped his combat knife into its boot sheath. The enigmatic lifer wasn't much for idle conversation. In all the time Logo had known him, the M5A62 "Smartgun" operator had uttered maybe 4 words in sequence. Logo still hadn't figured out if that was because the philipino didn't speak english very well, or if it was because he just naturally quiet. One look from his cold grey eyes immediately discouraged any attempt at finding out.
The combat engineer, a petite blonde by the name of PFC Mausberger, shot BC an amused grin. "You always say that BC. This ain't gonna be no different from the last time the Old Man gave us a speech. You watch, he just needs to get his "motivational bullshit speaker" PQS (Personal Qualification Standard) signed off."
BC grinned. "Maybe... but let me ask you this? You ever heard of Achilles IV?"
Mausberger's nose scrunched up in thought. "No... why?"
"'Cause that's where we're-"
"Alright people! Secure the goddamn scuttlebutt and get fuckin' ready! Do I need to repeat myself? You better look sharp too... Inspection is at 0630, by yours truly, we gotta look sharp for the Skipper. He wants to see you all purdy and ready for war so HOP TO!"
The rest of the squad, somewhat less well informed, groaned at the mention of inspection. All remaining talk became silent as each individual bent to his or her own tasks.
Yup... it was looking to be another fine fucking day in the Colonial Marines.
***
"Attention on deck!"
Twenty-eight pairs of boots, four squads of marines, snapped together in perfect unison. Understrength though it was from their recent "police action" duty for Weyland-Yutani (actually a full fledged suppression of an invasion, since the bodies of their foes revealed them to be Chinese Arm regular army, though of course the Chinese Arm denied all such claims). The Old Man, Colonel Freeman, stepped into the room and idly waved a hand.
"At ease."
Logo was watching the Old Man when another individual stepped in to the room behind him, someone he hadn't expected to see, and who's arrival quite overjoyed the young marine. Alpha team's Synthetic, Staff Seargent King, followed the CO near their company leader, Lieutenant Pilsnir. Logo shot him a nod when neither the CO nor the LT could see him, and King gravely nodded back. Logo owed the artifical person... owed him big time.
On their last mission they'd gotten involved in a sweep and clear of a small warehouse that was supposed to contain a few guerillas, poorly trained with maybe a few small arms. Instead they'd encountered a team of mercenaries armed with M38's, the obsolete, but no less lethal version of the M41A Pulse Rifle that was standard Marine issue. The 10 x24 mm AP rounds, while not quite as lethal as the explosive cartridges the M41A fired, could still make short work of the tactical armor the marines wore. King had caught a bullet for Logo. Although the bullet had traveled completely through, leaving a fist sized hole in Synthetic's abdomen, the force had been decreased enough to leave Logo with only a very painful bruise, rather a lethal divot taken out of his ass.
Though King had insisted that the damage was unlikely to impair him in the short time allotted to the mission, though it WAS serious, and further more that his programming made him incapable of harming or by inaction allow to be harmed a fellow team member, Logo still felt a bit awed by the gentle Staff Seargent. Logo had grown up in the planet sized equivilent of a barrio, he wasn't used to people giving a fuck less whether he lived or died. The Colonial Marine Corps was his escape from all that, and although he'd left a junkie sister and a whore of a mother behind, and though he sent money home every month, he'd tried to bury that place in the past where it belonged.
It was still a part of him though, and King's actions had shocked and humbled him. He'd decided that the artifical human was a true friend, though he hadn't seen him since he had transferred to the Synthetic equivalent of a hospital after the mission had been completed.
He was sincerely glad to see the man was still kicking.
Now he'd just have to see if he could just get the guy to loosen up a bit.
The LT was a different story. Pilsnir wasn't a bad man, he just wasn't a particularly GOOD marine; he never really fit in. He reminded Logo of the fat kid that always stayed on the sidelines of any group, not really there, but not really an outsider either. Logo supposed it was hard getting to know the people you might have to send out to die, he could understand it was a hard job, and not one he wanted any part of, to be honest. He just couldn't shake that fat kid image the man projected to him.
Maybe it was his cheeks. He had the rosy, slightly chubby cheeks of a four year old, at least to Logo. It had earned him the nickname Babyface, though not TO his face, of course.
The Old man stepped up to the wall display and cleared his throat. Logo ceased his introspection and turned his full attention to the matter at hand.
"Alright people, I'm sure there are alot of rumours flying around about this little vacation," he paused as a couple of uneasy chuckles flittered about the room, " so before we get started I'd like to give you some background information about this job."
He shot the LT a look, and Pilsnir his a button on the remote in his hand. The display on the wall changed to an image of a dark grey world swirled with clouds.
"This is Achilles IV, the planet we are currently in orbit around. The planet is classified as a type IV colony prospect world. It has no moons, though it does have one satellite."
"There are no large predators, no local flora to worry about. This is not a deathworld, as I'm sure some of you have heard. With that out of the way, I'd like to turn the briefing over to Staff Seargent King. King?"
Logo turned his attention to the synthetic. King cleared his throat and motioned at the screen. "I've been asked to brief you since I am representing Weyland-Yutani Corporation directly in this matter. This planet has only one major habitation." He motioned to the wallscreen and the shot changed to a bird's eyeview of the colony, really more of small city/compound.
"The entire colony is a specialized research facility. The facility supports some 5,000 colonists, all Weyland-Yutani researchers and their dependants. It has all the comforts of home, mess hall" click, picture of a mess facility, "gym, and recreational center, "click click, and various other facilities neccesary for colonist habitation," he paused, "Yes, Jacobson?"
The man in question put his hand down. "Staff, not that I'm not totally sold on this place to fit all my vacation needs, but what KIND of specialized research? Why are WE here?"
Staff nodded. "I was getting to that, private. This is a medical science research facility, specifically, the classification and research of hereditary and infectious diseases. Two different types of cancer have been cured at this facility alone, along with several remedies for prolonged coldsleep syndrome, or PCS (ok, military injoke, PCS is the term military folk use when they prepare to transfer to a new base... I thought I'd explain it for the civvies out there. -DT) something I'm sure everyone here is familiar with. There are currently 506 infectious diseases being researched here, ranging from type 1 infections like the common cold and such, to-" he looked stern, "no not Herpes private Bradley, type 4 infections such as Oxygenation Deprivation Syndrome and Ebola, to name a couple. Understandably, this place represents several billion credits worth of investment."
He nodded to the screen, which changed to a picture of the orbital station.
"This is the Orbital Customs Containment Station Colonel Freeman mentioned. She houses fifty crewmembers on a rotational basis, and serves as the only contact the planet has to the rest of humanity. There are no offplanet shuttles stationed planet's surface... all in and outbound traffic is processed through this facility to ensure complete biological containment is possible. All offplanet supplies and personnel transfers are routed through this facility, and in the event of a containment breach, the once a month outsystem freighter has orders to vacate the system and contact the Weyland Yutani Biological Control Center."
The scene changed to another picture of the station. This one caused quite a few whistles and quiet murmuring to pass through the unsettled marines. The station was obviously ransacked, several sections were missing from the jack-shaped orbital, and large, ragged sheets of metal had ballooned out from the torn holes.
"This is the picture the WYBCC received from the Arcturus, the freighter assigned to this system. They did not attempt to dock, and I'm sure you can see why. This was one month ago. Our preliminary teams discovered no evidence of biological contamination, however, there were no survivors. We also found this."
The button clicked and a egg-shaped pouch appeared on screen, its upper end blossomed out like some grotesque flower. The marines looked even more uneasy. A couple of them scowled.
"I'm sure if any of you have studied recent updates, you are familiar with the Nostromo Incident." He sighed. "This was discovered on the orbital, though no shuttle was docked. The shuttle HAS been located, where it crash landed three miles from the colony."
Several groans and mutters proceeded this. "Fuckin' bughunt.... I KNEW I shouldn'ta reupped..."
"Settle down people," Sarge muttered. The talking quieted.
"We are unsure how this arrived on the station, however we have undeniable evidence that the colony is currently suffering from a class 5 xenomorphic infestation. He clicked the button. A wire diagram appeared of the facility. "All members of the research team along with their dependants have been fitted with a beacon for easy location. Although these beacons cannot transmit out atmosphere, the signals are processed through a transmittor located in the Signal Relay Station, which then beams the information to the orbital station, which, remarkably, still has power. Though it stopped transmitting several weeks ago, this is what we managed to pick up."
He clicked the button again. "As you can see, on 84015 (this is a julian date, where the last two digits of the year are followed by the number of days into the year have passed.. IE, January 1st, 2003 would read as 03001, February 1st, 2003 would be 03032, so on. This is a common military dating system) the suspected date of the crash, the colonists were bunched out, with a few minor groups not numbering more then a couple hundred at a time at frequently traveled locations. 84023 day, note there are now two groups forming here" he gestured, "and here," he gestured again, "gathered around the primary heat exchangers around the colony's fusion reactor. 84024 day, several distress messages were recorded by the stations automated systems, these continued sporadically until 84056 day..." he clicked again. There were several murmurs. "As you can see, as of 2 weeks ago, fully 25% of the colony population is gathered along these two heat exchange lines, 60% is unaccounted for, and the other 15% either in small groups around the colony, or spread out around the planet itself, which is mostly undeveloped."
He looked bleak and seemed to meet every persons eyes. "Bear in mind that when a person dies, their beacon will only transmit for one week after their death. The 60% unaccounted for are presumed dead."
The display disappeared. "Those of you familiar with SOP (standard Operating Procedures) on a Xenomorphic infestation are aware that any rating higher then class 3 warrants an orbital bombardment. However..." he drones off and sighed. "Weyland-Yutani cannot stomach the loss of over 30 years of medical research, most of it completely undocumented elsewhere, for patent security reasons. That's where you come in."
He gestured to the wallscreen again, which showed a overview of the facility, marking that extensive sewer tunnels and several underground research facilities exist.
"As we mentioned before, the Signal Relay Station is no longer operable. More then likely this is due to the infestation... possibly some small arms damage, what have you. Though the colony still has power, most of its automated faculties are operating at 50% or less efficiency. The mission is two fold; one team must secure the Signal Relay Station and return it to full operation. The other team must secure the underground research facility located here," he pointed at the wall screen, "and transmit all applicable research material to us, through the Signal Relay Station."
He cleared his throat. "I don't need to tell you how difficult this is going to be. Our current estimate has the Xenomorph population somewhere in the mid three thousands."
He frowned. "Bear in mind that this is considered... to be a LOW estimate."
Logo sighed and looked at BC, who leaned close and nodded grimly.
"Told ya Logo... a REAL fuckerall."
Logo nodded sadly. "Fuck me."
***