The E-Files
By J.C. Lords
Chapter Three
Disclaimers: See Chapter One.
Author's Note: Okay, another chapter, and hopefully Chapter Four will follow soon. More reviews will, of course, motivate me into writing faster grin
Fort Bragg, NC
7:23 a.m.
Old soldiers never die; they just get screwed over by their governments.
Colonel Alan Schaffer had given two thirds of his life to the Army. Most of his service record was classified, as were over half of his twenty-seven decorations, including nine of his twelve Purple Hearts. And as his reward he had been parked behind a desk for the better part of the last decade. Schaffer would have resigned -- had come close to doing so a number of times -- but he had no life outside the service. He had seen too much, done too much, to fit in the civilian world. So he had endured, helping train others to do what he wanted to do himself, painfully aware that he would never rise above his present rank, and with little to look forward except retirement and spending the rest of his life dying by inches.
Until now. Something new and unexpected awaited him at the other side of the door.
Alan Schaffer paused for a moment to look at his reflection on a nearby window. His dress uniform was in impeccable condition, although he felt far more comfortable in field fatigues. At fifty-one, he was still in amazing physical condition, able to keep up with the young Green Berets he commanded -- although he admitted to himself that it became harder to keep up with them each year, and he hurt a lot more afterwards. Despite his age, he was still a true warrior, proven in a hundred battlefields. He entered the office to meet his fate.
General MacGee, commander of the Special Operations Group, was inside. Sitting opposite the general was a sickly-looking man, a cigarette in his hand. Schaffer's eyes narrowed in recognition. The smoking man had been part of the debriefing team after the Predator incident. He had spoken very little at the time, and had been the only civilian involved, but his power and influence had been obvious.
"Reporting as ordered, sir," Schaffer said, standing to attention.
"At ease, Colonel," the general replied. "This gentleman is going to borrow my office for a few minutes and talk to you." The general got up and walked out of his office. He paused at the door. "Oh, Schaffer -- I counted my cigars before I left. I don't want to come back to any MIAs."
Shaffer smiled. "Don't worry, sir. I brought my own." Since the anonymous civilian was smoking himself, Schaffer proceeded to light one of his cigars as his commanding officer left.
"We meet again, Colonel," the smoking man said.
"And I still don't know your name," Shaffer replied. The mysterious man had some serious pull, he knew, to chase off the Special Operations Group commander out of his own office. That little scene had been played out to make a point: the cigarette smoking man had the power to make or break military careers.
"My name is not important," the stranger continued. "What is important is one simple fact: I can offer you a new position, one that may require your special skills."
Schaffer felt a cold feeling at the pit of his stomach. "They are back."
"Not quite, but the situation is rather similar. We have captured a number of -- outside elements, shall we say? We need someone to set up the perimeter security. Both to prevent break-ins as well as break-outs. Someone with experience in dealing with enemies who may be beyond the norm."
So that was it, Schaffer realized. Another covert mission where he would be deceived, and probably killed. He reflected on this for a moment, puffing on his cigar. The doctor had told him he was shaving years off his life with the damn things, but Schaffer could no more quit smoking than he could refuse this mission. Except this time he would keep his eyes open, and be ready for treachery.
"When do I start?"
The two men smiled at each other, for altogether different reasons.
Chicago County Hospital
7:30 a.m.
Scully stepped away from the operating table. The autopsy had provided few answers, and spawned many more questions.
"Any luck, Scully?" Mulder said, walking into the autopsy room. Scully and Dr. Weaver had conducted the post-mortem on Mr. Jackson, the unfortunate victim of the unknown bio-organism.
"The cause of death was relatively straightforward," Scully reported. "Massive trauma to the torso area. Almost every major organ was shredded by the organism. Of course, I know of any animal that could do it as quickly or as thoroughly. A rat can chew its way out of a human body, but it will take quite a long time." She took off her bloodied surgical gloves. "How about on your end?"
"The creature is nowhere to be found. Our new friends are looking for it, with the help of the hospital staff."
Scully frowned. "Mulder, those -- people are not public officials of any sort. Is it a good idea to have them wandering around the hospital?"
"Good question," Dr. Weaver said angrily. "I thought they were FBI agents like you two."
"Right now, they are civilian consultants assisting the FBI on this investigation," Mulder replied, casually hammering another nail in their career's coffin. Scully blinked, but said nothing; getting into an argument in front of the officious Dr. Weaver would do no good.
"So the Bureau is assuming responsibility for their actions, then," Dr. Weaver pressed on.
"Yes, doctor," Mulder replied confidently.
Before he could finish talking, an orderly came running in. "Dr. Weaver! We have a situation up here!"
The doctor and the two FBI agents rushed upstairs.
*****
"We've got it," John Connor said triumphantly, looking down at the tricorder. He and Call were sitting in a rental van while the rest of the team searched the hospital. "It's on the third floor, Mom."
"We're moving in," Sarah Connor replied through their intercomm system.
"That little monster is so dead now," John said.
"Don't be too overconfident," Call replied. "You've never dealt with these things. I have."
"But it's a baby!" John protested. "It's what, a few hours old?"
"Even newly hatched, it can be dangerous. Smart, too."
"Arnold is going to Terminate its ass, and that's that," John asserted confidently.
Shots and explosions shattered the relative quiet a few moments later.
"Uh-oh."
*****
Something was wrong.
Things were going as well as could be expected. They had the alien cornered in a utility closet, all witnesses had been scared away, and the Eternity Agents were ready to move in for the kill. And yet, Ripley felt a dread, ominous premonition of danger.
She shook her head, and checked her weapon. For a hatchling, the .454 Cassull Magnum revolver, firing high-velocity hollow-point bullets, should be more than enough. She and Arnold were armed with the heavy handguns; Sarah Connor was backing them up with a slightly less impressive Colt .45. Ripley wished they had been allowed to carry phasers, or plasma rifles -- at the very least, a flame-thrower -- but the Powers That Be had ruled that they would create too much of a temporal anomaly.
The tricorders that they had been allowed to bring to this world were making things easy enough, however. John Connor had been able to triangulate the position of the alien. A quick rush, a few shots, and it would be over.
And still that feeling endured. Ripley paused and looked around one last time --
-- and saw three red laser dots appear on the back of Arnold's head, clearly an aiming point for some weapon.
"Look out!" she shouted even as she knocked down the Terminator. He was stronger than her -- slightly -- but she had momentum on her side. As they fell to the ground, a small energy sphere, moving slow enough to be seen, flashed past the spot Arnold had been occupying and hit the wall.
The resultant explosion was marginally less powerful than a hand grenade. The three agents were peppered with pieces of plaster and brick. A hole the size of a dinner plate appeared in the wall at the point of impact.
Ripley did not let the explosion or the flash of light distract her. Her glance followed the trajectory of the energy discharge, right to a window at the end of the hallway. A shattered, but empty window.
Her eyes narrowed. No, something was outside, a faint outline that blurred the view outside the window. She leveled the gun towards it.
It shot first.
The weapon was shoulder-mounted. Ripley's hybrid reflexes were barely fast enough to roll out of the way of the discharge, which shattered the floor right besides her. The explosion almost deafened her. The flurry of shots from Sarah's .45 registered as muted pops. "Damn! He dodged away!" Sarah cursed.
The T-100 rushed past his companions like a relentless locomotive. He too had seen the "invisible" stranger, had seen it duck to the left, away from the window, as Sarah Connor fired at it. The Terminator's battle computer quickly estimated the location of the target even as it analyzed both interior and exterior walls and produced a plan of attack, all in a matter of microseconds.
Barely slowing down, the Terminator smashed through a door, and then burst through the exterior wall. As expected, the target was there, standing on a ledge and pressed against the now-shattered wall. Terminator and Predator grappled with each other as they fell three stories down.
*****
"What is going on?" Dr. Weaver shouted. They had been able to hear the second explosion as they reached the main floor. The building lights blinked and the building shuddered slightly. Before anybody could answer Weaver's question, she and everybody in the emergency room waiting room saw a figure fall and hit the top of an ambulance in a shower of masonry.
Scully and Mulder rushed outside, guns drawn. They arrived in time to witness an epic duel.
The camouflage screen had ceased to function after crashing onto the ambulance. The Terminator finally saw what he was fighting.
The humanoid was larger than Arnold, its face covered by a helmet and facemask. The shoulder weapon swiveled towards the Terminator. Moving with robotic speed, Arnold tore the weapon off its mountings. His own gun had been lost in the fall -- this would be resolved through hand to hand combat. The two inhuman warriors strained against each other for a moment. To the Predator, the struggle was a shock. Humans made good prey, but they were pathetically weak. Not this one, however. Arnold twisted in the Predator's grip, freed one of his hands, and drove it into the hunter's midsection, a savage blow that would have ripped through the torso of a normal human. It was enough to knock the Predator off the ambulance.
The alien hunter landed in a roll, however, and was on its feet before the Terminator's follow-up leap could reach it. Scully and Mulder had no time to take aim before the two combatants made contact again.
Predator threw Arnold to the ground and jumped on top of him. The alien punished the android with a brutal flurry of punches. Arnold replied with a head-butt that knocked off the Predator's face plate.
"Oh my God," Scully whispered. Mulder was struck speechless. The face behind the mask was unmistakably inhuman, a fanged mouth that resembled no Earthly animal. Green fluorescent blood flowed from a wound to the side of its face. The challenging roar that broke from the double-hinged mouth was a sound no man could ever make.
The Predator broke free from the Terminator's grasp. Two long blades sprung from a forearm sheath, and before anyone could do anything, it drove them into Arnold's lower torso, a disemboweling thrust.
"No!" Scully shouted. She fired. Mulder followed suit a moment later.
The Predator staggered to its feet. Wherever the 9mm bullets punched through its body armor -- most shots pinged harmlessly off it -- more of the glowing green blood flowed. The wounds were not immediately fatal, however. As long as it lived, the Predator would kill. It leaped towards the FBI agents. A clawed hand slapped Scully aside, a glancing blow that sent her spinning away. The other hand closed around Mulder's throat like a metal vise. The FBI agent was lifted of his feet and brought face to face with the Predator. Its breath smelled of old carrion and fresh ammonia; Mulder gagged involuntarily despite the unbearable pressure around his windpipe.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bladed forearm rush towards him. He closed his eyes and tensed in anticipation of the final agony.
Something wet and foul splashed on his face. A loud gun report sounded a moment later. The grip around his neck relaxed, and Mulder fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He looked up.
The Predator was swaying on his feet. The top of its skull had been blown clear off. Mulder was covered in noxious green goo. Finally realizing it was dead, the creature fell to the ground.
"Mulder!" Scully was back on her feet, a bruise already beginning to darken over half of her face. Mulder steadied her and looked up toward the third floor. Ellen Ripley was leaning out a window, lowering the smoking revolver.
"Nice shot," Mulder commented. He turned to Scully, who was shakily staring at the huge corpse. "Well, Scully -- do you feel up to an alien autopsy?"
Low Earth Orbit
8:03 a.m., Eastern Time
The craft made its final approach undetected by billions of dollars' worth of spy and defensive satellites, including some very sophisticated -- and very secret -- designs. The inside of the craft was gloomy by human standards, its atmosphere much too hot for comfort. Its insides were decorated by trophies from a thousand worlds. A Japanese Katana hung next to a Kzin fighting claw, both overshadowing a Promethean phase gun placed below them. The mounted heads of beings from a dozen planets were arrayed in a gruesome display.
The six occupants of the ship had been responsible for those kills. Their leader was selected in accordance to a rigid method of score-keeping, measured in the potential lethality of the prey, and the risks incurred in taking the trophy. Because of this, the leader had prevailed, even when some had questioned the wisdom of sending a lone hunter in the seeding mission. And now, the Hunt Leader bore the responsibility for the death of one of their own.
The six Predators roared in outrage, a deafening din that shuddered through the ship, making some of the trophies sway in its wake. Mixed with the rage -- and even some sorrow, for they cared for each other in their way -- was a great deal of anticipation. The prey was proving to be particularly dangerous. It would be a glorious hunt.