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Booths and Patwardhan, only slightly slowed by their re-opening
wounds, have been in close combat with the aliens, and the chaos near
the umbilicus doesn't sound like it. There aren't the usual
screeches, spats of gunfire, screaming voices. After an initial
crash, and a short volley of fire from the police revolvers, the
noise quiets down. The hissing silence over the comm is broken by
muttering and mixed voices, as of a group having witnessed an
accident and survived unscathed are trying to make sense of the
carnage.
"Oh Jesus. Holy Jesus..." says Burnett, over and over. Someone in the
background shouts angrily: "What the f--- is going on here,
marshall?" Healy recognizes the next voice, glad to hear he's
alive. "Administration, this is sergeant Leifer. We have men down.
Get medical up here immediately. I think we've got a 120A2 situation
here..."
Booths, Gonzales, Patwardhan, and Healy wind their way through the
ship, up stairs and around corners, before turning down the wide
corridor leading to the umbilicus. At the end of the hall, just in
front of the Gaines-side seal, a forklift carrying the splattered
remains of warrant officer Leon in the driver seat rests on the
mangled corpses of what might be two or three Rodina cops. The
remaining dozen or so members of the Rodina police force stand
dumbfounded, or lying flat on their stomachs by the forklift,
reaching under the heavy vehicle to check for life signs. Suspicious
eyes turn toward the marines.
Burnett stares at his troops helplessly, and wanders down the
umbilicus, back to Rodina. He looks like he's a penstroke away from
resignation. Leifer steps up to the mixed group of marines, cop, and
cargo jock. "That f---ing android came barelling up this hall. Nobody
even thought he was serious. The f---ing thing barely fits in here,
and the guys couldn't get out of the way. He got Dave Ruttenberg,
Anderson, Kaohn--" Tears well in his eyes. "God damn it." A quick
glance around to the other cops shows their same sentiment. Leon's
bullet-riddled frame drips milky fluid over the grimy yellow paint on
the forklift. His eyes are open, dead and unreadable.
The med team begins to arrive, lumbering up the umbilicus with their
cases of supplies. Leifer considers his fellow sergeant seriously,
running a sweat-soaked hand over his thinning blond hair. So much
goes unsaid, but the thought is shared: Company robot.
Alex let his rifle dangle loosely with one hand while the other
scratched at his forehead. "You mean he just was there all of a
sudden, driving a fork truck at you guys?" he asks with incredulity.
None of this makes ANY sense to the cargo jock, and he turns away
from the carnage, the unholy tangle of machine and man more
disgusting than what happened to the company insurance rep.
"F-uckin' 'bots," he said under his breath.
Healy examines the carnage in a seperated manor... not wanting to
loose it on this side of the umbilical. Healy walks over to Burnett
and motions for Booths and Patwardhan to join her. "Burnett, how
quickly can we get this cleaned up... I can't say that I was too
happy about the Korea being physically docked to the Rodina with
its 'infestation' problem, now that the Gaines also has visitors, I
feel even less safe. Right now I don't think we should take any
chance of these things getting on to the Rodina... we've got nearly
300 civilians at risk."
Healy turns to Booths and Patwardhan to speak to them
personally, "How do two feel about temporarily abandoning the Gaines?
At least until we can get Hollycomb to lock down the Rodina?"
Leifer seems defensive toward Gonzales, seeing him as quick to lay
blame. "I can't explain it. He turned the corner driving the..."
"DOA, man," groans one of the police officers, standing up next to
the forklift and smearing blood on his thighs with a reflexive
wipe. "Aw, shit..."
Leifer frowns. "Then somebody said, 'Hi Leon' or something and he
just kept driving. I swear we all thought he was going to hit the
brakes a centimeter from our toes, you know, like they always do.
Except he just kept driving. Ran them the f--- over... I started
shooting, and that was it. Jesus, somebody's gotta tell Ruttenberg's
wife." His eyes go sober, and his tone is deadly serious. "What happened
with your alien situation?" He unlocks the cylinder on his Taurus,
shakes out two spent rounds, and reaches for a speed-loader from his
belt.
After following after Marshall Burnett into the umbilicus (really
just a narrow, flexible-but-sturdy-fabric-lined corridor), and
examining his state of mind for a few moments, Healy gives up. The
guy's mumbling to himself, seemingly unaware of the sergeant's
suggestions. He turns to her and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm
sorry..." The medtechs push past her. Burnett continues on walking,
and Healy heads back to Patwardhan and Booths, I-told-you-so smirks
on their faces.
Booths knows enough about android tech and general engineering to
probably rig up a temporary power source. Depending on the integrity
of Leon's processor, he might even be able to regain consciousness.
He's been shot in the chest, arms, and abdomen, in a dozen different
places... chances are good he's suffered some irreparable damage, or
something that might prevent a data retrieval on site.
Aishwarya leans over to Booths and whispers, "I would love to see
what was on Leon's mind, but somehow I'm doubting that the civilian
police are going to let us have free access. Think we might be able
to pull the 'military property, military business' routine on them?"
Booths was about to answer his last surving team mate when the horror filled voice shrieked out.
Before anybody can explain what's happening, one of the med team
screams out loud. She drops her white plastic case of supplies and
holds gloved fingers to her temples. Screaming out of her mind. Her
eyes give the direction: straight up the hall, back the way Booths
and the others just came. Back the way Leon just came with the
forklift, hell-bent on breaking a fairly prominent behavioral
limitation and a few heads.
Leifer knows now. The med team knows. The rest of the cops crowded
around the seal and umbilicus back to Rodina can see it with their
own eyes. Leon sure as s--- knew it because-- well, how else can you
explain a swarm of the f---ing things turning the corner, clinging to
walls and ceiling, moving as a dark, writhing mass covering
everything.
Sight of the black creatures sends a shiver down Booths spine, even
as his most elemental instincts take over. Rational thought is
forgotten. All is forgotten. All except two things. One: kill the
enemy at all cost. Two: there are no innocents.
Booths was a soldier. Right now that meant one thing.
His body became preternaturally alert. The missing toe throbbed in
sync with his heart beat. The stitches in his side itched. Somewhere,
sounds were coming to him, everything moved as if in a syrup.
Wounded foot forward, down on one knee. Rifle snaps to shoulder,
selector on grenade. Barrel aimed up to skirt the ceiling.
An electrical impulse sent from his brain, down his spinalcord and
into the arm to end in his trigger finger eliceted the response
sought.
This was the legion of hell. He was about to send 'em back.
With a cry of fury the trigger pulled back. The M41A rifle jerked
against his shoulder, sending a flare of agony into his side. The
grenade exited the underslung barrel, aiming straight for the midst
of the advancing horde.
If this went wrong, the entire corridor would become a firestorm.
Booths didn't care.
Kill the enemy at any cost.
Already he was back on his feet, his thumb switching the rifle to
three round party mode. "f---ERS DOWN!" and he prepared to pull the trigger, shooting through
the colonials if he has to.
Alex froze. One of those things was bad enough. But a moving carpet
of them was just too much.
He took a few faltering steps forwards, towards the umbilicus, but he
heard the -choonk- sound of the grenade being fired from Booth's
position, heard his scream, and hit the ground, trying to keep his
rifle at least pointed in the right direction, even if he wasn't
going to fire it just then. He screamed at the medics and the cops
who were crowding the area. "Get the hell out of here! Run!"
Aishwarya shakes her bandaged right arm out of the sling and lets the
awkward bit of material hang around her neck for the time being.
She hugs the nearest wall, knowing that a few bursts from her
incinerator would be perfect in these tight quarters. If it weren't
for the civilians. Dumb arse cops. Never around when you need them,
always in the way when you don't. She stays standing, watching the ceiling above the heads of the
officers since that is the most likely place in the crouded corridor
that the baddies will get through. And she's convinced that as soon
as these cops are dead... and they will die unless they run... that
she will start hosing anything that moves with napalm death.
At the site of the Aliens clambering down the hall, Healy raises the
pulse rifle in defense. Only the site of Booth's 40mm grenade flying
over her head interrupts her reaction. The various obsenities declaired by Healy are drowned out by the
sound of several Tauruses as she reaches for the neck of the closest
fellow cop and leaps back to down the hall and straight to the
ground.
Healy hits the ground hard, taking rookie Wes "Crazy" Maze to the
deck with her. They don't see the brilliant flash of white
dismembering arms and legs, shattering torsoes and splitting
braincases, throwing chunks of the aliens into the air in a shower of
tiny acid missiles. The roar defeans and the concussion knocks
everyone else to their knees. Except Booths. He was already in the
rifleman's kneel, armored head held down against the glare, weapon
steady against his shoulder. He raises his head. One of the aliens
falls from the ceiling; others tumble forward, propelled by the blast
into somersaults. The cops in front of him are flattened, crawling
toward him, ears bleeding, eyes wild and blinded. Young guys, nobody
special. The shouts and screams prior to the explosion are lost in a
haze of smoke and choking debris. A pair of aliens moves into view
through the smoke, not 5m away. Booths opens fire, spraying short
bursts, ripping the legs off one of them. It hits the steel-grill
deck, clawing its way toward the cops undeterred.
The sheer sound of the explosion had been enough to stun even those
humans that were preparing for it. Precious seconds are needed to
shake it off. A grimace creases Patwardhan's face when she sees
sergeant Leifer immobile in a heap near the umbilicus seal, a smear
of blood across his forehead and temple. Gonzales shouts something,
but it's as if her ears are stuffed with cotton. The message is
clear. She sees the med team frantically scrambling toward her. 2m
behind them, an alien leaps onto the forklift's square engine
housing, mouth agape, wicked glistening teeth displayed.
Gonzales' pulse rifle chatters, spits, barks in his hand, the bullets
tearing into the alien's tough hide and exploding somewhere within,
sending it crumbling backward behind the forklift. Corrosive juices
spill all over the machine and drill deep smoking holes in the floor.
Patwardhan finds the igniter on her M240 and sends a glowing tail of
fire arcing toward the concentration of the swarm, back in the T-
junction, an instant roadblock, but one which doesn't stop the
handful of aliens that are already in front of the fire, running with
uncanny speed toward her, hungry for something more than edible
flesh, something much more intimate. She remembers how they snatched
Berliner up, pulled him high into the rafters of that cargo hold on
the Korea. They didn't kill him.
Healy pushes herself up, shoves Maze toward the umbilicus, and defies
her instincts to run like hell. The shotgun's weight is a welcome
reassurance. She faces the hall, eyes burning with black demons
sillouetted against a backdrop of fire and writhing forms consumed by
flame, a reek in her nostrils like sulphur....
Three round bursts are just not doing enough. His thumb moves up,
something clicks, and the little bundle of joy that is an M41A is on
fully automatic.
"HEALY! CHECK OUR SIX!" Somehow Booths didn't think that a frontal
assault would be the only thing that these black f*cks would throw
against them.
Then he smiled. A fierce joy lit his eyes, which seemed to illuminate
his entire face. It was almost...unholy. The sound of gunfire. The
dull thud of exploding rounds, the staccato rythm of automatic
weapons fire, the smell of cordite and propellant.
It was a symphony for Booths. A symphony he knew well, and relished.
This was more than battle now. This was vengeance. For every one of
these alien pricks he killed, he got a little back for the 'Fighting
Tigers'. Too bad the 'Bitch' wasn't here to conduct the symphony.
He depressed the trigger. The rifle roared, and the muzzle spat flame
and lead.
Elated with his butchering of one of the slimy bastards, Alex levered
himself to his feet and headed for Patwardhan, her slight form
silhouetted by a gout of yellow-red flame. He took up position on her
left side and braced his rifle before flicking the switch to auto and
hosing the rapidly advancing beasts with an unhealthy dose of lead.
Healy slings the rifle and draws the shotgun instead, still not sure
she could handle the unknown kick of the rifle in such desperate
circumstances.
Following Booth's directions, she quickly heads towards the rear of
the fray, making sure that 1) there are none of those bastards
waiting to hit them from the rear, and 2) the umbilical is open and
ready to cross.
Seeing that most of the medteam is panicked and in the way of the
other combatants, Healy shouts out "Move! Move! Move!"
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