Chapter 16

  The Drumhead

  Jennings checked his watch again. He leaned back against the APC, before changing his mind and resuming his pacing. He did not, strictly, need to be here. The team could still open the door from the outside themselves. If necessary it could be operated from Ops. But he felt that someone should be here when they got back. When they got back. Another glance at his watch confirmed that he had been pacing around the garage for the last forty-five minutes. They should have been back by now.

  A knot was beginning to form in his stomach. Scenarios ran through his head. None of them good. Had they failed? He didn’t see how. Had the xenos gotten to them? There had not been any signs of them since the last major assault. Uncertainty gnawed at him. Threatening to eat him alive from the inside out. This was taking too long. The garage was not heated, and he felt chilled despite his inability to sit still. The temperature outside was well below freezing. If they stayed out there much longer, the cold would get them before anything else. He took a long look at the APC. One of the old M580 variants. A massive, angular, brick of a vehicle, and probably about fifty years old. But sturdy, with massive turret guns mounted both front and on the roof. Five more minutes. He would give the team five more minutes, and then he was taking the APC and going after them.

  He was startled by the sudden flashing yellow-orange strobe of the klaxon as the garage door began to rise. He braced as a sudden gust of icy cold air hit him, and a lone Marine stumbled out of the darkness before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

  It was Sanchez.

  “Jesus,” muttered Jennings. The colonel was covered in blood. Frozen bright red and flecked with white frost, it stood out against the drab green of his armour. He helped the older man to his feet while he smashed the door controls with his free hand, sealing the garage.

  “He killed them,” said the colonel through chattering teeth. “He killed them all.”

  Jennings said nothing as he unclipped the colonel’s helmet, which was so cold it threatened to peel the skin from his fingers.

  “He even took the dog tags. Dios mío, no quedó nada,” muttered the colonel, still shivering uncontrollably.

  His Spanish wasn’t great, but he understood “nothing left” well enough.

  “Sir, are you injured?” he asked firmly, trying to get the older man to focus on his voice.

  The colonel did not answer. His breath shallow and ragged.

  “Sir, the yautja. Did you manage to kill it?” he pressed.

  Sanchez sighed, and took a deep breath, as if willing himself to stop shivering. “I didn’t even see it,” he said quietly. “He made us right from the start. He let us think we could win, but the bastard was just toying with us the entire time. We never stood a chance.”

  “What happened out there, sir?” Jennings asked softly.

  Sanchez sighed again, his breathing slowly becoming steadier. “The scopes. I should have seen it. The full-spec scopes on their rifles are powered. Their suits insulate all of their body heat but there’s still a tiny bit of bleed from the scope’s power pack. It isn’t much, but the ground is so cold, it was enough of a contrast…” he trailed off.

  A pang of guilt stabbed Jennings in the gut. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Jennings quietly. “You were right. I shouldn’t have pushed. I honestly thought we could beat it.” He bet Sloan had thought the same thing.

  “Not your fault, Sergeant. It was my call. My command. My responsibility,” said Sanchez sternly as he stood, unclipping his armour and letting it fall to the floor. “Get me a towel or something would you? I can’t let them see like this.” Jennings grabbed a mechanic’s rag. It was black with oil stains, but the colonel didn’t object, and began wiping the blood from his face.

  “Ops to Sergeant Jennings,” his walkie talkie buzzed on his hip.

  “Go ahead, Molina,” he said, bringing it to his ear.

  “Console’s showing an external door was opened at your location. Sniper team RTB?”

  He swallowed. “Confirmed,” he said flatly. It was not his place to give them the news, and certainly not over comms.

  “Copy that. Tell the Colonel he needs to get up here ASAP. We’ve got a problem,” said Molina, sounding uncharacteristically agitated. Jennings looked at Sanchez, who simply nodded.

  “Xenomorphs?” Jennings asked.

  “That’s a negative,” answered Molina. “You’d better come too, Sarge.”

  He flinched. He still wasn’t used to his friends calling him by rank.

  “Tell him we’ll be there in a minute,” ordered Sanchez, tossing away the rag. He brushed back his thinning silver hair with one hand and donned his cover, and in that moment, he was “Colonel Sanchez” again.

  “Acknowledged. We’re on our way. Jennings, out.”

  *

  The lights were harsh in the cramped confines of the small room. It may once have been used for storage, Jennings had no idea, but now it was being used for this meeting. The cold, bare plastcrete walls and recycled air added to the unwelcoming, sterile feel. He stood flanking the colonel, staring at the large table that dominated the centre. Across from him stood Doctor McTaggart, who looked like she had not slept in days. Dark bags hung under her eyes and her silver-grey hair was tied back into a tight, practical bun. Molina, Lowry, and for some reason Watson the synthetic, accompanied her. Lying on the table, the bodies of two dead Marines, still in their armour.

  “What the hell is this?” the colonel hissed through gritted teeth. Jennings was glad the question was not directed at him.

  “We think we know how the xenos managed to breach the perimeter, sir,” said Molina.

  “The yautja let them in. Yes, we already knew that, Corporal,” Sanchez snapped.

  “No, Colonel,” Doc McTaggart stepped forward, positioning herself between them. “This wasn’t the yautja.”

  She positioned herself at the head of one of the corpses, still wearing her surgical gloves.

  “Do you see this?” She pointed to a large, bloodied bruise on the side of the man’s head. “This is blunt force trauma. A single blow to the head with I would guess a wrench or a crowbar. Something straight, and heavy. Death was instantaneous. But look at the angle, do you see how it is angled upwards? Whoever did this was strong, but of normal height for an adult male. I can’t give you an exact estimate, but they were not seven feet tall. I can say that for certain.”

  Jennings risked a sideways glance at the colonel, but there was no reaction from him.

  “This one,” the doctor continued, gesturing to the female Marine, “was strangled. See the contusions on both sides? Her assailant had to use both hands, and judging by the bruises, they were human hands. There are no claw marks or broken bones, and there are defensive bruises on her wrists and forearms. She put up a fight.” She paused, seeming to hesitate. “Colonel, these Marines were murdered.”

  Sanchez said nothing. He was so still, he almost looked like he had been carved out of granite.

  “There’s more, sir,” said Molina, breaking the silence. “While checking the remote sentry control terminals, I noticed that the telemetry feed for the sentry units guarding the lower levels was odd, so I ordered Private Lowry here to accompany me and we went to check it out. Sir, the sentry units had been disabled, as in “deactivated”. The control terminal had been hacked to play false telemetry on loop. That’s why it didn’t look right. It was subtle though. I almost didn’t notice it. That’s where we found the bodies. These Marines had been ordered to walk perimeter in that area. Mister Watson helped me purge the code and get the sentries back up and running. We’re buttoned up again now, sir. But, it still leaves the question of who did this.”

  “Are you saying we’ve got a saboteur?” Jennings asked incredulously.

  Molina nodded.

  His mind raced. None of it added up. But the evidence was undeniable. The yautja hadn’t walked in undetected, reprogrammed their sentries from the terminals in Ops, and walked out again, had it? Could it?

  “Sloan…” growled Sanchez, his knuckles straining white as his hands balled into fists. Jennings could almost feel the curdled rage radiating off of him in waves. He was no longer carved out of granite. He was a volcano about to erupt.

  “We don’t know that, Colonel,” the doc interjected.

  “If I may interrupt,” said Watson, in that excessively polite, slightly oblivious android way. “I did see Security Director Sloan returning from the lower levels shortly before the xenomorph attack, and he was carrying a large wrench. A twenty-four-inch adjustable with a red handle, I believe.”

  Sanchez pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

  “And you only thought to mention this now?” he asked, his voice low, tight with barely contained anger.

  Watson tilted his head in a fashion that reminded Jennings of a giant bird. “Director Sloan had ordered his men to assist with securing the perimeter; therefore, it did not seem suspicious at the time to see one of them carrying maintenance equipment.”

  He let out a breath, long and low. Jennings exchanged a quick concerned glance with Molina. He could feel it too. Lowry looked nervous.

  “Corporal,” Sanchez spoke to Molina, and his voice no longer sounded angry. Now, it sounded cold. A chill that Jennings had never heard before. “Fetch six marines not currently on perimeter watch, quietly. Ensure they are fully armed, and report back here in ten minutes. We are going have a word with Security Director Sloan.”

  *

  Operations was eerily quiet, and poorly lit. A slight acrid smell still lingered in the air if he tuned himself to it. The ops centre was still mostly a ruin since the xenomorph assault, and so wasn’t used much anymore. A far cry from a week ago. Barely a thirty-six hours ago it had been a free-for-all, and when he closed his eyes Jennings could still see nightmarish black shapes moving in the smoke. He leaned against a console, surveying the proceedings from what felt like a safe distance. The colonel was off to one side, engaged in a hushed conversation with the doc, and in the middle of the room stood Sloan. He was in cuffs, and flanked by more than a half-dozen armed marines. A nasty burst lip that had not been there previously was just starting to swell.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  In the end, Sloan and his mercs had offered no resistance. Unarmed and outnumbered, they knew a losing battle when they saw one, and had surrendered without a fight. Each of the five mercs under Sloan’s command had been interrogated separately, and each had sworn complete ignorance of any sabotage plot. Watson had again proved remarkably useful. As a synthetic, he was able to read subtle changes in pulse or eye movement, making him something of a walking lie detector, and he had confirmed that all five men were telling the truth.

  That left Sloan.

  He stood head bowed, and his shirt was saturated with sweat despite the chill. He certainly had the look of a guilty man. But then who wouldn’t in his position?

  “Let’s get this over quickly,” the colonel strode into the centre of the room, bringing him face to face with Sloan. “Before we get started, do you have anything you would like to say in your defence?”

  For the first time, Sloan looked up. His stare locking with the colonel’s, a mix of weariness and contempt burning behind his eyes.

  “There’s no point wasting everyone’s time, Sloan. I’ve got two dead marines in the other room. I have a witness who can put you at the murder site. I have evidence that the sentry gun control terminals were tampered with. “Looking for a cigarette,” Dios mío I can’t believe I bought that one,” Sanchez scoffed. “The only question left is what to do with you?”

  “I say we waste him,” said Molina, and Jennings was shocked by his eagerness. His expression caught Molina’s eye, and the other man looked away, refusing to hold his gaze.

  “I’m not really supposed to allow that, Corporal Molina,” interrupted Watson. “The First Law of Robot-”

  “No one gives a shit what you think, Pinocchio,” Molina snapped.

  “Stow it, both of you,” demanded Sanchez. “This isn’t up for debate.”

  Sloan’s lips cracked in a slow, wry smile. “This is a drumhead trial, Colonel.”

  That hit Jennings like a punch in the gut. Sloan was a slimeball, but he wasn’t wrong. This was a drumhead trial, and he was part of it.

  “I have all of the evidence I need,” said Sanchez, undeterred. “I have medical reports, eye witnesses and I personally saw you screwing around with the terminals.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel,” the doctor interjected. “But I will not allow my reports to be admitted as evidence in these proceedings. Director Sloan is correct. This isn’t a real trial, and while I might not be able to stop you, you cannot order me to testify. You should also know I will be formally noting my objections in the official log.”

  “That is your prerogative, Doctor,” said Sanchez.

  Sloan raised a sceptical eyebrow. “It sounds like your case is falling apart, Colonel.”

  “I can still put you at the scene. Mister Watson saw you returning from the lower levels with the murder weapon,” said Sanchez, undeterred.

  “That is a goddamn lie,” swore Sloan, and this time his voice cracked a little.

  It was Sanchez’s turn to smile. A tight, humourless gesture. As if Sloan had just given himself away.

  “He’s a synthetic, you idiot. He can’t lie.”

  “That is not strictly true, sir,” said Watson. “I cannot lie of my own volition, but I can lie if you directly order me to do so.”

  Sanchez gave an exasperated sigh. “Shut up, Watson,” he snapped.

  “So, he can lie. Imagine that. That’s starting to sound like “reasonable doubt”, Colonel,” said Sloan, his voice thick with venom.

  “Last chance,” said Sanchez menacingly.

  Sloan merely looked away. The verdict was already in, and he knew it. Jennings clenched his jaw, and shifted his weight uncomfortably. It was all very circumstantial, and deep in the pit of his stomach it still gnawed at him. The colonel was within his rights under martial law to dispense summary justice, but it was cold comfort.

  Sanchez straightened, his tone formal. “Security Director Sloan. For the crime of espionage, for providing aid to the enemy, for endangering the lives of civilians and for conduct that indirectly led to the deaths of one hundred and eighty-five personnel, I sentence you to exile.”

  Sloan snorted in disgust. “You don’t even have the balls to do it yourself, do you? It’s a death sentence either way, but you’d rather feed me to those fucking things than get your hands dirty.” His eyes locked on Sanchez. “I’m not the one you need to worry about, Colonel. You want to know who the real threat is? Look in the mirror.”

  Jennings watched the lines of the older man’s face tighten almost imperceptibly. A shift so subtle it was unnerving, but it was there. He wanted to object, but his hands were tied. They were in the field, under combat conditions, and the colonel’s authority was absolute. It was the colonel who was in command, not him, and Sloan certainly had it coming. But, still. What would he say at his debrief? That he was only following orders? His stomach twisted at the thought.

  “We’ll give you a weapon. Some rations. Survive until the Argos arrives if you can, but you’re on your own.”

  Sloan didn’t even flinch.

  “We will reconvene in one hour. You grab your gear, you say your goodbyes, and you’re out of here. Corporal Molina will escort you,” he said, not breaking eye contact with Sloan. “If he tries anything, shoot him.”

  *

  Jennings hung back, flanked by a couple of additional Marines as Sanchez undid Sloan’s cuffs. The East Corridor was spacious, the largest one leading into their wing. A row of four remote sentries panned back and forth, maintaining their constant vigil. They were set not to fire on humans, but still, Jennings was careful to stay behind them. This marked the very edge of the perimeter. The intact ceiling of the corridor meant it was well lit, but the lights seemed to die towards the far end, smothering everything in shadow. Everything beyond this point belonged to the xenomorphs, and the yautja.

  The colonel unceremoniously handed Sloan a pulse rifle. “Don’t get any ideas,” he added quickly. “It’s not loaded. There are a couple of magazines in your bag, and they stay in the bag until you’re out of sight. Understood?”

  Sloan gave no reply. His eyes burned with contempt, but beneath it was something colder. Not fear, but a grim detachment. For his part, the colonel did not seem to be relishing the proceedings. He seemed to treat it just as another necessary, mildly unpleasant task.

  Jennings felt a pang of guilt for just being glad it was almost over. His ears pricked up at the sound of approaching boots, and he gripped his rifle tighter as he turned around to face it. He was immediately relieved, and confused, when he saw Molina and a retinue of Marines escorting the rest of Sloan’s men. If they had come to plead his case, he did not expect they would get very far.

  “What is the meaning of this, Corporal?” demanded Sanchez.

  “Sir, they wish to join the prisoner,” said Molina.

  Jennings watched silently as the colonel raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  “You do understand what this means?” he addressed the men directly.

  “If the boss goes, we go,” said the tall, blonde one with the slicked back hair. Jennings struggled to remember his name. McKenna, was it? He noticed Sloan’s jaw tighten slightly. If it was surprise, he hid it well.

  “We’ve given them a primary, unloaded, two mags and a few days’ supply of rations, same as the prisoner,” explained Molina.

  “Very well,” said Sanchez, turning to Sloan. “You inspire a singular loyalty in your men, Sloan. You should have been a Colonial Marine. You would have made one hell of an officer.”

  He did not react when Sloan spat at his feet.

  “Let’s go, boys,” said Sloan, his voice low and raspy, and turned to leave. He did not look back. One by one, the other mercs filed past Jennings. Morse made a pistol gesture with his finger and thumb pointed at him, whistling as he fired off an imaginary round.

  “Be seeing you, Soldier Boy,” he said with a smirk.

  Jennings’ jaw clenched as he held back a retort, gripping his rifle a little tighter as he held it between himself and the merc, but Morse kept walking, and the mercs made their way down the corridor. After a hundred metres or so, the darkness enveloped them. The sound of their boots fading into the distance, leaving only the sound of the motorised sweep of the sentries.

  *

  He was tired. Bone-tired. He was only twenty-three, but the day’s events felt like they had aged him by a lifetime. But he could not sleep. Not yet. Instead, he found himself walking towards the colonel’s office, making his way there with hardly an upward glance. Stopping at the threshold, he took a moment to compose himself before knocking.

  “Come,” hollered Sanchez.

  He entered, careful to close the door behind him, and stood before the desk at attention. The colonel was in his chair, datapad in hand, and a glass of whisky on the desk.

  “I’ve increased the perimeter patrols to monitor for any sign of the yautja, as per your orders, but so far it doesn’t look like he’s interested in testing the defences” he said formally.

  “Very good. Thank you, Sergeant,” said Sanchez.

  Jennings paused. “Sir, did we make a mistake?” he asked quietly.

  Sanchez looked up, placing the datapad on the desk. “We?”

  He stiffened, feeling his throat go dry as he forced himself to speak clearly. “You, sir.”

  “No. It had to be done,” said Sanchez flatly.

  “What if you were wrong?”

  “You want me to be wrong.”

  The words stung. The colonel spoke without emotion. He was neither angry nor offended, and that was almost worse.

  “It wasn’t real justice, sir. The accused has a right to the benefit of the doubt,” he said, but even as he said it he was starting to doubt himself.

  “Sloan had means, motive and opportunity. He knew getting out of here alive would only mean he gets to spend the rest of his life in prison. His only hope was to roll the dice and burn everything to the ground. If I was dead, along with anyone else who could contradict him, he would be free to make up any story he wanted. Who else could or would have disabled the sentries?”

  Jennings pondered that. It fit the evidence, and he could not offer a better alternative, but it still didn’t sit right with him.

  “You know something? I’m relieved. I had assumed it had been the yautja that had disabled the perimeter defences. But turns out, he can’t just come and go as he pleases. Human evil? That we can deal with.”

  “It didn’t feel clean,” said Jennings, defeated.

  “It never does, son. But “clean” is a luxury we do not have, and you’d better get used to the idea,” he said as he topped up his glass. “It was my call. One day, you’ll have a command of your own, and it will be you that has to make the tough decisions. When that day comes, I’ll be happy to debate the finer points of “clean” with you.”

  Jennings lowered his head.

  “If Sloan wants to turn himself in when the Argos arrives, I will not stop him,” said Sanchez, his tone softening ever-so-slightly. “But until then, I just can’t take the risk.”

  He still didn’t like it, but the colonel was right. It was not his call, and that was that.

  “Sir,” he said, keeping his head down. “Permission to speak freely?”

  “You’ve been speaking freely since you walked through my door, Sergeant,” snapped Sanchez.

  He gulped, but decided to take that as tacit permission. “Sir, did you order Watson to lie?”

  Sanchez’s eyes narrowed. “You were by my side from the moment I got back until the moment we exiled the Delta Sec personnel,” he said coldly. Cold enough to freeze him solid.

  “That will be all, Sergeant.”

  *

  McKenna sat on the edge of the bunk, repacking his bag. The jarheads had at least given them enough food and water to see them through the next few days. They only had two mags a piece, though. It wasn’t nothing, but they’d be fucked if they ran into those things in any significant numbers. He also hadn’t forgotten about the other one. The one that got Carter and the lads…

  “Perimeter is secure,” said Sweeney, settling down on the opposite bunk. They had temporarily set up in the civilian barracks. Not too close to the Marines, but not too close to Delta. “Secure” was probably a bit of a stretch, but there was no sign of any activity and that would do for now. At least until they figured things out.

  “So, what’s our next move?” he asked, lighting a small portable stove they had found, casting a soft orange glow as the others gathered round. Sloan kept his distance, seeming lost in thought. He had been quiet since it all went down. McKenna couldn’t blame him.

  “The Marines have an FTL-capable ship en route. We sit tight until then,” said Palmer.

  “You think they’ll just let us onboard?” asked Sweeney.

  “Maritime law. They have to,” confirmed Palmer.

  “Yeah, in handcuffs. Fuck that,” spat Morse.

  “I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas,” said McKenna.

  It quickly descended into an argument. He was aware that the noise was likely to attract unwanted attention, and he protested in vain for them to keep their voices down. Accusations of cowardice or complicity flew back and forth, and insults turned to threats in short order. Morse was on his feet, yelling at Cohen as McKenna tried to calm him before he brought the whole damn nest down on their heads.

  “I say we blow the atmosphere processor’s main reactor,” said Sloan quietly, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. A tense silence instantly fell over the six men as all heads turned to look at Sloan, who sat resting his chin on his fist, his eyes fixed on the glow of the stove.

  “Boss?” said Sweeney.

  “We can’t take off with that thing controlling the airspace, and we can’t leave the system without an FTL-capable ship. I say we scuttle the reactor,” his voice was low and dry. Quiet even in the deathly silence of the abandoned barracks. “That’ll force the yautja to flee the area, unless it wants to go up with the rest of the outpost, and that’ll give us enough time to get to a dropship and make orbit. The blast will destroy the outpost, the xenos, and everything else for a hundred kilometres in every direction. All evidence of what happened here. Weyland-Yutani can suck it. I’m not dying here and I’m not going to prison for their bottom line. Once we break atmo, we’ll have a few days in orbit to get our stories straight, and there’s no one left to say otherwise.”

  “That includes the remaining Marines, and over three hundred civvies,” said McKenna. He didn’t have many moral lines left to cross, but “mass murder” was still one of them, and as much as Sloan was making sense, the way he so calmly laid it out unnerved him.

  “Fuck’em,” said Morse without hesitation.

  “I don’t like it, boss. But I don’t see any other way. Count me in,” said Cohen.

  “They chose their side,” said Sweeney.

  “We’re with you, sir,” said Palmer.

  McKenna could feel all eyes on him. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t like how readily they had all gotten onboard with the plan. But Sloan was right. There was no other way. It was either this, or they were all going to prison for a long, long time.

  “I don’t know about this,” he said weakly.

  “They’re already dead. They just don’t know it yet. You said it yourself; they’re not going to make it. Now you can either die with them, or you can come with us,” said Sloan coldly.

  McKenna closed his eyes, and he felt his resolve crumbling.

  “I’m in,” he said under his breath.

  Sloan smiled. That thin, dry, humourless smile of his. “Then we’re agreed. Sun won’t be up for another thirteen hours. Those things seem to come at night, so we’ll hunker down here until then. Get some rest. As soon as the daylight is on our side, we move.”