This story has been around for a while now and I left it several chapters in when I rusted up and couldn't think of anything more to write. I hang my head in shame and apologize profusely for those that might have read it, especially Spacefan . I have finished the story now so there will be no disappearing act from me. I will try to upload all the chapters as soon as I can.

A Call to Arms

Transmission pending from Section Eight

Transmission pending from Section Eight

'Christ! Hey Adam, get that for us would you? I'm on the can'

Transmission pending from Section Eight

'Adaaaam! For fu…'

Transmission pending from Section Eight

'Alright, alright' rasped a voice from the kitchen.

Adam shuffled into the small communications bay holding two cups of synth brew in his hands and a biscuit poking out between his lips like a dry yellow tongue. He lazily glanced about him, taking in the familiar and austere room that he had worked in for six months. Previous shift workers had left their own personal touches via crushed soda tins and a collection of sinister stains on the console panels that would forever avoid being touched by any future residents. What was originally designed to be a clean and professional working space was nicknamed by the communications corps as The Hutch. Adam and Robert called it The Shit-Hole. Adam was quite sure that other shifts had re-christened it with similar names.

Transmission pending from Section Eight, intoned the sterile synthesized female voice.

'Adam!' shouted Robert, still busy in the enclosure.

'Heard you the first time, Robbo.'

Adam stifled a yawn and stretched his arm over the plastic seats, his finger finally stabbing at the bleeping green pad on the panel.

'This is Section One. Give me your designated password Section Eight.'

Hissing static filled the room. Adam sighed and rested his feet on the console. Noting a piece of blue thread that had come loose on his jacket he began to twist it round his little finger.

'Yoo-hoo, Harry is that you?' No response. Adam sighed. 'S1 receiving your signal, give me your password please.'

Adam stared slack-jawed at the speakers as he heard a strange groaning, a gasp and then a whining sound which elevated into a high pitched scream. Adam snapped his jaw shut and jolted up from the chair. He pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose and swallowed spit to sooth the sudden dryness in his throat.

'Section Eight, Atlantic…Are you alright? What the hell is going on there?'

A rotund figure burst out of the toilet pulling up his trousers, all the while staring at the speakers. 'What in Hell's name was that?' asked Robert.

Adam shook his head. 'Section Eight, respond! Is this a joke? What the fuck is going on there? Anybody… This is not funny…you know the protocol. Harry? Harry?'

A dull thud and some clattering filtered into The Hutch. The two temps glanced at each other. Robert managed a weary grin and Adam raised his eyebrows.

'He's pissing around again' said Robert, letting out a long sigh.

Atlantic's communications officer Harry Price was renowned for being a bit of a joker and on several occasions had managed to wind up most of the staff in Section One. Protocol seemed to take a backseat during his shifts and many had seen it as a nuisance that they didn't need or want, but Adam and Robert accepted his pranks good-naturedly, understanding that Harry's warped sense of humour was a product of being stuck on a space station for months on end. Boredom always seemed more prevalent in outer space.

'Yeah, it's definitely Harry, it's his shift' replied Adam. He rubbed his chin and frowned. Harry had told him on his last shift that he'd been docked credits after the Station received a complaint about his erratic behaviour and Adam had believed him. Maybe it was just another embellishment?

The next sound that crackled through the speakers wiped the knowing smiles from the temps' faces: a ghastly hissing crept through the empty space in the snug room. Adam felt an unwelcome burning across the sides of his face and wriggled his back in an attempt to shake off the cold shiver that ran down it.

'What was that?' whispered Robert, his hands hanging limply at either side of his unbuttoned trousers.

Adam remained silent and glassy eyed as the ghostly echoes from the transmission bounced through the room.

….

In the East wing of Communications, four men listened to the recording of the last transmission of S8.

One of the suited men turned toward Adam. He stroked the tip of his ginger beard and opened and shut his mouth repeatedly. Adam was reminded of a fish drowning in air and since he couldn't remember the man's name from the introductions, he decided to give him the nickname The Bearded Goldfish. On another occasion Adam might have smiled to himself but there was grave atmosphere in the meeting. Something had gone badly awry at the SS Atlantic and Adam was being questioned.

'This is the only thing you heard from the Atlantic?' asked The Bearded Goldfish.

'Yes. That was it, nothing else.' Adam fiddled with the right arm of his spectacles. The frame in his peripheral vision had been askew during his time in The Hutch and he realised that at some point he must have bent the arm—probably by sitting on it. He tried to stop his fidgeting, knowing that maybe now was not the best time to fix it, even though Adam suspected that these people had a tendency to evaluate staff in depth based purely on first impressions- they were the type to do so.

Adam continued with the half-hearted reparation, deciding that that the suits had probably already taken in the slumped shoulders and wonky glasses and decided that he was a man of little importance. Robert had been and gone, no doubt telling them what Adam was telling them now. He felt the thin metal arm strain under the intense pressure of his fingers and adjusted their correct position over his ears. A seated man beside the Goldfish wrinkled his nose at him. Corporate bastards, they're probably thinking of a way to pin the blame onto the small wages, thought Adam. He knew how this worked – the tighter the tie the more they designated blame. Responsibility was readily passed down as soon as night followed day. Adam gave up his struggle with his spectacles. The right arm would forever be faulty but it would have to do.

'And that was the first transmission from them in the last seventeen hours?' asked the thin man at the end of the table. Adam remembered his name clearly—Joseph. His permanent half-smile gave Adam the creeps. This was a man whose friends (if he had any) would never call him 'Joe' or 'Joey'.

'Yeah, pretty much. The last time they were on, they gave their supplies list and an order for some wrapping paper, sir.'

'Wrapping paper?' asked Joseph, the edges of his lips twitching.

'For a child's birthday party sir. Don't know who the child wa...'

'Right then. Fine, that's all Mr. Jones. We'll contact you if we need any more information.'

The thin man fussed with the sheets of paper in front of him. It took a few moments for him to realise that Adam was still standing there.

'Was there something else, Mr. Jones?'

Adam cleared his throat. A dry voice didn't convey authority. 'It's just… my brother is stationed at Atlantic, sir.' Adams straightened his back and allowed his facial muscles to relax – show no weakness, but let them know you know.

Joseph's mercury grey eyes bore into Adam's. Adam stood stock still, feeling unnerved and guilty about a situation he had no control over. He averted his eyes, mostly in an attempt to avoid looking at the sinister and deeply unnerving grin on the thin man's face.

'We'll look into it,' said Joseph after a long pause.

Adam stiffened his spine and thrust his jaw up. He forced his gaze toward the thin man.

'I'm sure everything will be fine Mr. Jones. If we hear any news, we'll let you know' said Joseph, flashing a big smile before grasping his papers and tapping the ends on the table top. I'm sure you won't, thought Adam trying to keep down the bile creeping up from his stomach.

'Meeting adjourned' announced the goldfish, stroking the tip of his beard and taking another large gulping breath.

For the meantime, thought Adam, turning on his heel.

….

Joseph walked down the corridors of the Space Station Explorer—an ironic name given that the hulk of metal had stayed in its orbit around Earth for the past fifty years. He dodged around Technicians and Administrative pairs who bustled past him, gossiping about the day's minor events so far. Petty gripes about Stations' bureaucracy filled the air in the form of whispers. Joseph ignored it all. Most people didn't know what went on in the bowels of the bureaucracy that they pertained to know so much about. If they really knew, they invariably would wish they didn't.

Joseph turned his thoughts to more interesting avenues and the morning's interview. Ah, yes, the sudden beacon of distress from the Atlantic would give him the opportunity that he had been waiting for. With that one snippet of a scream, Joseph Palin knew that the Xenomorph's—creatures that had once been a universal pain to self-righteous vigilantes who were satisfied were rid of the threat, were back. He felt the excitement growing in his stomach, not for the creatures, but for the distraction they could provide.

Joseph approached a solid white door moulded with sharp angled squares and lines and pressed the bleeper.

There was a soft clunking sound as the door slid to the side. During the short trip through the labyrinth of white corridors, Joseph had already rehearsed what to say. No one but him knew of the body Atlantic scientists had found on the derelict space ship. No one but he and a handful of scientists at the Atlantic knew about the egg that accompanied it and of course, the other item.

Almost time to retire, thought Joseph Palin as he entered the white office. He allowed a smile for his superior.

….

Trista Crellin woke to the sound of incessant bleeping. She rolled across the rough sheets on her bed, swearing loudly, rubbing her eyes and then her scar ridged temple. She allowed a couple of seconds for her eyes to adjust slightly to the dark, to see the comforting grey hues in her apartment with their familiar and trusted shapes. As a habit she didn't activate the room's lights regularly as for years she had owed her survival to hiding within the shadows, and besides, her credit was low. Trista smashed her left fist down onto the pulsing light. The bleeping stopped.

'Crellin. Who is it?' she snarled. It was too early for calls. Whoever was on the other end of the com had better be the bearer of tough skin, she thought.

'Hello, Miss. Crellin. I'm sorry about the early call but really you should be up and insulting civilians this time in the morning.'

'Maxwell! Long time, no contact. What gives? C'mon Max, what the hell are you doing calling me at this time of the …?' with the first smatterings of half-sleep dissipating, Trista had a horrible feeling she knew exactly why he was calling…'No!' Absolutely not!'

'You haven't heard what I'm going to say yet' responded Max, emphasizing a hurt tone.

'Don't need to. I'm not doing it.'

'Just wanted to know if you wanna meet up – you know, for old time's sake?'

'Bollocks, you don't call someone at four twenty in the morning for beers and nostalgia. Go away. I won't do it…whatever it is' hissed Trista.

'You're the best Alien hunter in S-Seven.'

'Cheers! I'm surrounded by families and office ferrets. Nice to know I'm legend in that area in comparison with them. Besides which, it's 'I was hunted by Aliens', not the other way round. I'm now part of the boring, smart majority; you know the kind of people that don't risk their lives for thankless tasks.'

Trista heard a soft sigh from the speaker. 'C'mon, there's still a part of you that wants the excitement, the glory…the teeth'

'It's because of the excitement and glory, as you put it, that a part of me is missing' countered Trista, glancing down at the stump where her right arm used to be. 'That was one time only and I did it because back then I was stupid, no more, no less. NO!'

She groaned and looked at the shiny metal band attached around the top half of where her arm used to be. What she wouldn't give to use her fingers to gesture at her comms panel right now.

'Oh come on, you've admitted more than once that you prefer your prosthetic and besides, I'd rather have your lethally armed with me in case we meet some of your old friends' said Max. Pleading had invaded his tone now.

'What are you going for, you dumb sh...Hang on; I thought the powers that be were happy that the Xeno's had been wiped out?'

'They were, well kind of, but something's happened at the Atlantic. You were right and they were wrong, at least they suspect they were wrong although they'd never admit it. You could join us and gloat if you like?'

'You volunteered, Max?' Trista knew this wasn't true. Nobody in the Section Security force had a choice.

'As always' replied Max, chuckling. 'I got promoted to Sergeant.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, I can tell you all about it over drinks tomorrow.'

'You mean today' sighed Trista massaging the flesh around the metal stump with her remaining hand. She looked at the clock again, hissed and gritted her teeth. It was no surprise Max called this early. Tactically speaking, anyone could persuade her into turmoil when she wasn't fully awake. She'd been drawn in yet again. It wasn't fear that made her hesitate, although anyone would be stupid not to feel that emotion. She'd battled these demons in the dark, but she knew there was more than Xenomorphs out there, and that particular enemy was armed to the hilt and they were the real reason she never wanted to go back. She arranged to meet Max and signed off.

Trista sat at the edge of the bed staring at the custom made artificial arm propped up on the artificial fire surround. Two minutes was all it took for her to be suckered in. Suppressing another yawn, she reached up to her neck and tugged gently at the necklace of sharp incisors she had collected from her last trip.