Eight Zero Seven Hundred Hours Moon P-133, Military Outpost

As Wilkins prepared the dropship by the bloody light of the rising sun, the other marines went about preparing their weapons and examining their gear.

Naylor poked through each marine's gear and double-checked their weapons. He tried to pretend he didn't care that the others were watching him to make sure he didn't screw up. He also tried to pretend he didn't care that he had to reacquaint himself to using a smart gun for the first time in ages. All he really cared about, he told himself, was taking out as many of the aliens as possible, and if that meant dying, he was ready for it.

Once he had finished checking all the gear and weapons, Naylor went over his own gear and the smart gun. As Wilkins stopped loading fuel to watch, Naylor field-stripped the gun within a matter of minutes, cleaned, oiled and inspected each part, and had it back together just as quickly. With the gun reassembled, Naylor slipped into his armor, assembled the pneumatic weapon mount to his armor, and strapped on the gun. Once he kicked the gun's computer to life, the weapon awoke with a loud-pitched whine and started tracking. The first thing the weapon aimed itself at was Silvio, with the barrel pausing to align itself with Silvio's lower extremities.

Everyone watched as Naylor practiced moving and aiming the bulky weapon. Though it moved with the grace of a cat on the pneumatic mount attached to Naylor's armor, every once in a while his grip slipped or the weapon didn't seem to pivot as fast as Naylor would like. Again and again, Naylor would start over, until the motion was as graceful as it was errorless.

As Naylor continued his drill, Wilkins stepped out from the cockpit of the dropship and stood at the top of the gantry stairs. "Well... I'm ready. I hope you lot are going to be ready for your long walk."

There was no verbal response, just a nod as Naylor continued practicing. Katie, stretching her calves behind Naylor, looked over at her leader. Only a little while ago, he was an emotional wreck. Now she doubted if he had any emotion whatsoever. She wanted him ready for this moment, but not this much, and she was worried about him. She was sure she was going to be the one keeping the closest eye on him.

Naylor was still practicing when the engines on the dropship roared to life. The marines quickly moved to each side of the titanic belly of the dropship and proceeded to strap themselves to the buckles dangling from the walls. Before Naylor could strap himself in properly, the dropship lurched into the air, and Naylor found himself skidding to the floor. The loader on the smart gun popped open as he collided with the floor, and the belt of ammunition slipped out, rolling across the floor. As the ship hurled forward, Naylor found himself rolling over and the knife he had slipped into his boot raked across his ankle, peeling off the top layer of skin. Naylor gritted his teeth and kept from making any noise as the dropship leveled off and began skimming across the alien moon's surface.

As things settled down, Naylor found an arm thrust down beside him. Looking up it, he saw the face of Mager, and grasped the marine's arm tightly. Naylor paused a moment, then bent around to retrieve the tail end of the loose belt of smart gun ammo before swiveling back and allowing Mager to haul him back towards the dropship's side wall.

"Thanks Mager." Naylor stated, his voice unusually calm. Stunned by Naylor's response, Mager only weakly replied, "No problem, sir."

Naylor composed himself as best he could and clipped himself to the wall with the rest of his squad. No one seeming willing to speak, and the trip passed quietly in the dropship's hold, the only noise the jangle of the straps and clank of the marine armor against the dropship's hull, and the load roar of the ship's engines.

Wilkins struggled with the drop-ship, fighting to keep the ship moving in a strait line, despite the winds blowing over the planet's dune-strewn surface. Occasional drafts caused the ship to lurch upwards or to one side or the other, as Wilkins battled to watch both the terrain and fuel meter at the same time. "Fuck me," Wilkins mumbled to himself after recovering at one point from a steep dive on the dropship's part. "This is more trouble than the day I had the squirts after that curry binge," he stated, trying to distract himself from worrying.

Suddenly the fuel alarm began to blare, and Wilkins gritted his teeth. He checked his altimeter and began carefully lowering the dropship, slowing the craft's forward descent as he did so. "I'd kill for a copilot about now," he muttered, fiddling with the ships complex controls as he battled the wind and prepared for a landing. He suddenly felt the ship drop several meters as the huge engines sputtered slightly. Firmly gripping the control stick he banged the fuel gauge with his free fist. "Don't start lying to me," he warned, "We should still have a few liters left."

The spluttering increased in frequency as Wilkins was forced to grab the control stick with both hands to keep control. Between sputters, he managed to turn on the intercom to the back of the ship. "Well guys, I can't take you any further. I doubt if I've even taken you sixty kilometers with the wind pounding us. Get ready for a landing." A hard one at that, he mused, as he fought with the control stick. Once again, the engines cut out, but this time they didn't start back up. Luckily, they were only a meter or two from the surface when the cut-out occurred. With a bone-jarring jolt, the dropship settled onto the sandy wastes, sinking deep enough to cover the ship's skids. Wilkins cursed the controls as he quickly thumbed the main engines off. He heard them give one last spurt, and then they died with a horrid-sounding backfire. "Everyone all right back there?" he queried into his helmet microphone.

There was moment of silence, and then Naylor's voice came back over Wilkins earpiece. "Lovely landing. We're okay. Get ready to drop the ramp so we can bolt."

"Make sure you come back safe," Wilkins stated as he thumbed the control to open the rear hatch. As he watched ramp camera as the marines exited the bay, he added, "God speed guys."

The harsh wind blowing after the rainstorm hit them in the face like a boxer's punch and forced them to pull down goggles over their eyes and cloth over their mouths and nose, just so they could breathe. Muddy red sand swirled in the fierce wind, dabbing each of the marine's armor and clothes with a red tint even before they had reached the bottom of the ramp. Unable to speak over the howling wind, Naylor used hand signals to direct his marines along the path he wanted to take.

Within a few minutes, the dropship disappeared into the hazy swirls of red dust. The sky was darkening as the blood-red sun was setting over the far horizon, and the marines continued to trudge on towards their target.

Zero Seven Thirty Hours Dengor Military Base 8, Sublevel 3

The younger Longman watched with pride as his selected alien moved about feeding a strange mix of secreted fluids to one of the other alien drones. Though it had taken hours to see the first steps of the transformation, Longman had no doubt the alien was doing its job to ensure the host it was feeding was transforming into a queen. Once he was satisfied that the transformation was progressing without need of his interference, he turned away from the console.

Longman made his way to a recessed locker on the far side of the room, and keyed in the access code to open the sealed door. Once the panel slid aside, Longman reached into the recess and removed an odd headpiece from within. It was strongly reminiscent of an alien's skull, though the front part of it seemed to be hollowed out to allow it to be worn like a helmet. Numerous circuits and digital readouts dotted the surface of the black metal casing.

Holding the odd device under his arm, Longman motioned to Michaels. "Move to that control panel," Longman stated, pointing to a bank of powerless computers adjacent to the main console he had been working at. Michaels obeyed, and Longman walked the assistant through powering up the alternate console as he watched the readouts on the odd helmet he carried flickered to life. Once he was satisfied with the readouts, he gingerly brought the helmet up and gently set it on his head, strapping it under his chin. He fingered a small button on the helmet next to his right ear, and tensed as he felt the prick of a needle slip into the base of his neck. The pain quickly diminished as the needle injected a local anesthetic to the area. Michaels watched on in wonder as Longman suddenly closed his eyes as if in pain, and then slowly began to smile.

Unknown to Longman's assistant, the device had had burrowed a neural transmitter into Longman's brain, and the scientist felt his consciousness widen as the minds of the aliens began to merge and run with his own thoughts. Though he could consciously feel himself both apart and above the animalistic impulses of the xenomorph, at the same time he felt a strange closeness, as if holding their emotions in the palm of his hands.

Longman opened his eyes to notice he had cupped his hands in front of him, and his assistant held a puzzled look on his face. In the back of his mind, Longman could hear the screeches and urges of the xenomorph lick at his mind, as if fighting to break in. He smiled and flexed his own thoughts, bringing his own mind forth to beat back the barrage of savage impulses and coalesced them into organized, controlled thoughts.

"Professor Longman, are you alright?" Michaels asked.

Longman smiled a toothy, alien smile and hissed, "Yes, I'm fine."

The answered chilled Michaels, but he managed to ask, "What do I need to do now, sir…I-I mean, Professor Longman."

Longman idly walked over to a panel beside the recessed locker. He pressed a concealed button and watched as the panel slid up to reveal a coffin-sized recess in the wall. In the black light that filled the recess, the glossy body of an alien seemed to glow with unholy light. Michaels gasped and backed away in fear as the alien stood within the recess. It took the assistant a few moments to realize it wasn't moving.

"Don't be scared," Longman cooed, as he stepped up to the armored alien warrior. "He won't bite," Longman stated, and the alien slowly begin to move, first flexing its neck and head, opening its teeth-filled maw to expose the inner jaws within. The inner jaws slowly slipped forth, opening and closing, as if testing the air. "Unless I tell him to."

"Michaels, wait by the main console and watch the alien skull in the glass box," Longman stated as the alien reached forward to grab the walls of its coffin. Slowly, as if still sleepy, the alien stepped out of the recess, and gave a low, cat-like hiss. Longman looked over to Michaels, who nervously nodded and quickly obeyed. "We have two hours of safe use of this skull, and four hours before it completely decomposes. Whenever two hours pass or I tell you, press the green button to replace it, understand?"

"O-o-okay Professor Longman." Micheals was silent a moment, then dared to ask, "Professor, do I need to track how many skulls we use, in case we get low?"

"No," Longman stated, watching the alien warrior move forward, "We don't need to worry about conserving resources. Now, I have work to do." Longman's own dark smile wormed its way across his face like a disease withering away flesh. The alien lowered itself to all fours and lashed its tail impatiently, as if awaiting Longman's orders. Quietly and smoothly, Longman turned and headed for the lab's main door, the alien beast following at the professor's heels like a loyal dog.

McGarrett sat in his office, staring at the screen as the aliens moved about like worker ants, putting the finishing touches on their hive. McGarrett did not bother to suppress a smile. Things were finally working now. Not only had Longman's assistant directions allowed the aliens to complete the hive, but he could see the first stages of a queen emerging among the aliens' ranks. It was a bonus he hadn't counted on, but it made him genuinely pleased.

WhirrrClick.

The door to the general's office opened and McGarrett coolly turned his attention from the monitor to the door. He had given his aide specific orders not to be disturbed, and he was going to make whoever was interrupting him very sorry indeed …

That was when he noticed the young assistant from Longman's lab in the doorway, wearing an odd helmet that almost looked like an alien's head. But what troubled the general most was beside the assistant was one of the xenomorphs – hunched on all fours, its mouth open in a vicious snarl, it's tail held up over its back, and dripping with fresh blood.

"What the hell?" the general breathed, dropping the remote to the screen on his desk. It was then that the general could see in the room behind the assistant his own aide, writhing on the floor, clutching his throat as a pool of crimson blood pooled around him.

"What do you want?" The general stated as Longman took a step into the room. Slowly, the general reached for the drawer on his desk where he kept his spare pistol.

"What do I want?" Longman laughed, as the alien at his foot mimicked the bared teeth and menacing smile. The general fought to keep from shuddering, and quietly slid the drawer open.

"For starters," Longman stated, taking another step forward. The general carefully reached into the drawer, searching for the pistol. Within the space of a breath, he had found it and slowly wrapped his fingers around it. "For starters," Longman repeated, taking another step forward, "You can bring my dad back from the grave."

McGarrett froze, clenching the gun. "Your father?" he intoned.

Longman took another lazy step forward, now only a meter or so from the general's desk. "You know, strait-laced old man, dressed in white, slicked-back hair with a recent bullet wound through his head?" Longman's voice rose at the end, and McGarrett visibly flinched at the last words. The general quietly pulled the gun from the drawer, careful to keep it hidden from Longman's sight. Longman nodded an affirmative to the general's question about his parentage, and then suddenly cocked his head, as if he just realized something.

"But you can't, can you?" Longman asked forlornly. The alien, still at Longman's heels, tensed. McGarrett swallowed, and flicked the safety off the gun with his thumb.

Longman's face suddenly twisted in rage, as he spat, "But you can't bring him back can you? So why don't you go meet him in hell?"

McGarrett pushed back from the table as he raised the gun to fire. But even before he could completely bring the gun up, Longman's alien pet was in the air, leaping over the desk at McGarrett. Its tail raked across McGarrett's weapon hand, severing the hand from the wrist with a single, clean stroke. The rest of the alien landed squarely on McGarrett, sending the chair sprawling backwards in a tangle of limbs.

McGarrett screamed twice as Longman watched the pudgy's mans legs squirm in the air behind the desk. The black-boned claws and tail of Longman's pet lashed violently against the body on the other side of the table. In only a few moments, it was over with, and Longman's alien rose from behind the desk, its claws and tail drenched with red ichor and its jaws a bloody mix of alien saliva and brain matter from general McGarrett.

As the alien looked at Longman, awaiting more orders, the professor knew he was finally in charge.

Zero Nine Hundred Hours Dengor Military Base 8, Topside Level 1

Taking charge had not gone as well as Longman would have liked. He wandered about the death filled conference room, strewn with the bodies of the lesser military officers who had refused to bow to his dictates. He stepped on corpses and littered body parts, brooding at his pet's handiwork. He reached the far side of the room and turned to look at the carnage where general McGarrett would have been seated. It stank. Blood splattered the walls and the oak table, and nothing but mauled bodies stared up at him. The only sound that broke the silence in the room was the alien's strange wheezing. "Rest my sweet, you still have work to do."

Longman's mental command reached the alien only split seconds after he thought it, and without a moment's delay the alien curled into a ball amidst the bleeding corpses and lay as peaceful as the surrounding dead.

Longman picked up the conference room's control remote from his pocket, and pressed the command button that revealed the concealed control console on the left-hand section of the room. He turned to the console behind him and wiped the blood and other bodily fluids from the area around the controls. After typing in a few commands, the multiple screens flickered into life and his assistant appeared on-screen. Michael's eyes widened as he obviously took in the carnage surrounding Longman. "Are you watching that skull as I requested?" Longman asked coldly.

Gathering his wits, Michaels replied, "Yes, Professor Longman." He paused, swallowing at the carnage Longman was sure he could see, and asked "Is everything okay sir?"

"Yes." Longman spat back. "At least it is now. It's been two hours, make sure you change out the current one. And make sure you keep watching that skull and don't doze off!"

"Yes sir."

Longman flicked a switch on the console, and was greeted by camera views of many parts of the complex. He could see that his "reserve" aliens were in place, as he had commanded. It had been fairly easy to trick his father into breeding a few "extra" xenomorphs in case supplies had reached a critically low level. He had waited a long time to be able to use his store, and now he was ready. With a single thought, his minions swept into action. Guards stationed in the halls of the complex fell before they knew what hit them. In the armory, no less than seven xenomorphs assembled their own guard against any intruders. Finally, Longman watched as the black xenomorphic commandos overran the garage pool, driving out the technicians and slaying those who fought back or were too slow to retreat. Opposition was minimal, and though Longman noted the loss of one of his pets to an alert guard, he quickly suppressed any opposition. Longman smiled as he watched the agonized face of that guard vanish from the monitor screen in the wraps of a black, bony tail.

It had been a simple trick to modify one of the predator translators to use McGarrett's voice and order down the guard as well as have the majority of weapons locked back at the armory well before he had used his minions. Now that his xenomorphs had control of the key points in the base, he reached for the internal communication interface on the console. Depressing the main microphone control, he barked "Now hear this!" his voice softened, as he continued, "This is Professor Longman Junior, xenomorphic specialist. General McGarrett and his staff have been slain, leaving me in charge," he paused a moment to allow those in the base to gain a full realization of their situation. "Furthermore, you will currently find that xenomorphs have been placed at strategic points throughout this base. If you fail to comply with my wishes, you will find them – most inhospitable."

Longman paused, then added, "All personnel will retire to their general quarters and await instructions. Under no circumstances are any personnel to take up arms or attempt to leave the base. Those who disobey will answer with their deaths." As a last note, he concluded, "That is all." He turned from the console, and frowned at the corpses littering his new office. He turned back to the console and depressed the frequency for the internal staff on the lower levels. "I need the disposal team in conference room one. Please be quick."

He clicked off the microphone and turned back to the blood-splattered oak table in the center of the room. Kicking aside the mangled corpses of the military officers on the ground, he made his way over to McGarrett's chair. It was perhaps the only chair in the room not soaked with blood. After dabbing a few blood spots off the pseudo-leather covering, Longman sat down and surveyed the room. A slow smile crept over his face. "Perfect," he murmured to himself. "This is going perfectly."

Zero Ten Hundred Hours Moon P-133, Desert

The wind was growing so strong, Naylor wondered if they were making any progress at all. He stopped to get his bearings, and consulted a telemetry hand computer he normally kept stowed in his pack. In the dark, it was difficult to tell whether or not the wind was blowing them backwards over the dunes, or if the mountains of sand were just slowly being moved along by the wind that howled through them. Not a star could be seen above, and Naylor could hear the night sky rattle with thunder, and could occasionally see areas of the sky alight with red-tinted lightning.

"God knows how far we've walked already," Mager commented as he came up beside Naylor, talking from behind the kerchief that protected his nose and mouth. Naylor didn't react, as if he didn't hear him. "I can't even tell if we're walking in a straight line." When that didn't elicit a reaction, he stated, "We've got no way to make shelter. Either we run in, grab the fuel and get out, or we clear the building of xenos and take a vacation." Naylor glanced at Mager, but gave no reaction to hearing him. Though Naylor couldn't see it, Mager frowned, "Man, it's gonna be days!"

Naylor ignored Mager's last statement, and continued moving forward. As he did, the first few drops of rain began to fall, and Mager held up his arms in disgust. "Man, and now its going to rain!" He exclaimed. But with every bead of water that hit Naylor's head a little bit of his humanity returned with it. It seemed his unholy temper was cooling as the cold rain splashed across his brow, each drop making him about as human as a marine could be. His sanity was slowly but surely returning, but his lust for revenge was still burning deep inside his gut. With every step he knew the building became closer and closer, and so did the battle with destiny that would define their future.

It was unlikely they would all survive, and that didn't sit well with Naylor. All the times he pulled his marine's bacon out of the fire had been ruined, starting with the events of just six months ago. He wondered if his streak of luck had run out. No, he reminded himself. Marines aren't lucky – it's all skill and good instincts. It was what he always told his marines, and had always tried to force himself to believe. He didn't survive because of luck, or owe his illustrious career to luck. It was all because he had worked for it, and knew what to do when it needed to be done. But since Drafe's death, Naylor felt that all his instincts were wrong. He simply didn't trust them. And all that left him was his skill – and his goal - revenge. He wondered if it was enough.

Zero Twelve Hundred Hours Dengor Military Base, Underground Level 5

The game room at the Dengor military base was almost uninhabited. At any given time, Farrell could count twenty to forty off-duty troops mulling about, but since Longman had taken control, few dared to oppose him and leave their room. Only six marines had dared to come to the room to get in a few games of nine-ball without Longman noticing. Private Wakowski, despite their situation, had complained of nothing to do in the base. However, it had been Private Farrell had organized getting the group to the recreation room. Under his guidance, the other five marines had brought together their skills to slip one over on the Professor.

"I don't believe we're being forced to take orders from some dick-in-the-wall," one of the marines, nicknamed Callsign, stated as he bent over the table, lining up his shot.

"I know what you're saying, man. It was bad enough under General McGarrett, now we've got some mad scientist mucking up the base with xenos," the marine named Wakowski stated, looking over Callsign's shot. Callsign flicked his wrist, and squarely struck the cue ball, sending it smashing into the other balls on the table with a resounding clank.

"Are you sure you got all the cameras and sound recorders disabled in here?" Wakowski asked Callsign, looking around the near-deserted room.

"I'm sure," Callsign stated, backing away from the table. "Longman's been using me to monitor nearby base transmissions, and internal communications." He replied. "Your shot, Ludwig," Callsign stated casually to the thin, bespectacled marine beside him.

Ludwig responded by shoving the bridge of his glasses against his forehead before taking up his pool cue to analyze his shot. "Must be nice to be so cozy with Mr. Insane," Wakowski stated to Callsign.

"You don't get smoked if you're important," Callsign shrugged.

"Well," Ludwig breathed, still calculating, "It's not like there's a lot we can do about it. Each of those xenomorphs has the strength of ten men…" Wakowski rolled his eyes. Ludwig had calculated the xenomorph's patrols and ascertained the creature's sensory range, allowing the marines to skirt them. However, he seemed to find the xenos a little too fascinating for the rest of the group's tastes, and they had endured endless details addressing their strengths and weaknesses. Wakowski let the words roll over him as Ludwig continued to talk, "and with Longman having placed them in strategic points within the base, if we even so much as breath a word of trying to kill him within his earshot he'll have us ripped apart!" With the last word, he made his shot, taking down two balls in rapid succession.

"Hey, everyone's unhappy, but there's nothing we can do about it right now," Private Farrell shrugged as he leaned on his pool cue. Beside him, privates Johnson, Collins and Taylor were just trying their best to concentrate on their game and block out the conversation, though they nodded as if listening.

"That's what you think." A steel-voiced shadow stated from the doorway. Ludwig scratched the tip of the cue ball at the sudden statement, sending the white ball careening into a side pocket.

All six of the marine's attention instantly switched from the game before them to the shadowy figure in the doorway. The figure then stepped into the light of the room, revealing the features of a hard-cut veteran. His hair was gray with age, and rough, near-white stubble protruded from his chin. His lips and cheeks were slightly puffy, and his right eye was pale white, with a long scar running over it. He looked tough, but it was clear that the man was aged, perhaps in his late forties.

"What do you think we can do then, old man?" Farrell replied, finding his voice first. He was a bit nervous, and having never met Longman, wondered if the man in the doorway might be the insane scientist they had been discussing – or one of his flunkies.

"Old man?" the new arrival queried, pausing less than two meters from the group. His voice sent shivers through the marines in the room every time he spoke. "Old man? I'll have you know I was ripping apart aliens and sad sacks of shit marines like you with my bare hands while you were crapping yourself in your diapers."

Farrell's interest was piqued, but his tone was still condescending as he spoke. "What's your opinion then?" He waited as he noticed the elder man frown, and that was when he saw the man's rank insignia, "Uh, sir."

"That's a little better." The old man stated, though his tone did not change. "I'm sure you remember that group of marines that came through here just a few days ago on a dropship, and then promptly left?"

"Yeah," broke in Callsign. "McGarrett's shock force. They were going to moon P-133, to the old marine base." He turned to others. "I found out from Longman they were supposed to be retrieving some alien specimens – some sort of super-space hunters. I gather something went wrong, and they've ended up trapped on the moon – which is infested with the same xenos running around here." Callsign turned to the old man. "But they gotta be dead by now."

The veteran laughed quietly as the others seemed to be listening to what he had to say. "No, no," he said thoughtfully, as if first to himself, then to the others, "No, from what I've gathered they're still alive, and they're causing a little more trouble than was originally anticipated."

"Huh?" asked Callsign.

"McGarrett and Longman sent them there to die. However, they're fighting back. Even as we speak, they're trying to recover fuel for their dropship to get back here," he paused, "And get revenge on Longman when they get back."

"You mean they're rebelling against Longman? Standing up on the proverbial pedestal and proclaiming 'We shall not lie down and take it!' ?" Farrell growled, almost laughing.

"Well, wouldn't you if they screwed you in the same way?" The veteran asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow and speaking with the same disrespect that Farrell showed him when their conversation first started. "And if...if...they succeed...How many of us will be willing to help them when they show up on our doorstep?" The man spoke as his gaze fell over the others in the room.

Farrell nodded knowingly, as the others seemed to contemplate disdainfully what the old man meant. Noting their expression, the old man turned on his heel and began to leave.

"Cheers Pops. You just gave me a lot to think about." Farrell called out, and the old man stopped in the doorway.

The voice of the elder man spoke quickly and sounded thirty years younger, as he replied "No problem...Farrell."

Before Farrell could stop him, the old man was gone. Having never remembered meeting him before, Farrell wondered how he knew his name. As the rest of the marines turned back to the game, Farrell cast one last glance out the door, smiled and whispered, "Thanks...Pops."