The last six hours since the attack had been a blur as Marines frantically worked to secure the perimeter. In the harsh bright light, the true extent of the damage was apparent. The ceiling was mostly gone. The floor was worse. The spots where xenomorphs had died had left gaping craters that went straight through two decks and into the foundations. Plate steel was welded across the largest holes, and the smaller ones they filled in however they could. Anything you could fit your hand in. That was the rule. He had never actually seen one, but he knew xenomorphs had a precursor form, and they were just as deadly as the adults.

  Despite the sweat running down the back of his neck from exertion, he was cold. They had sealed the biggest gaps, but a freezing outside breeze still penetrated. Some of the civilians clutched blankets around themselves, although they did not have enough to go around. To make matters worse, they had been forced to crank the ventilation to maximum, before the fumes from the corroded metal permanently damaged their lungs.

  They had erected a curtain at the far end of the barracks to create a makeshift triage area, and he felt a pang of guilt as he looked at the several rows of hastily covered bodies that now lined the wall. It was his fault. All his fault. He pushed through the curtain into the improvised “hospital”, which was little more than two rows of beds, all occupied by bloodied and broken civilians. Some conscious, some not, and a ragged looking Doctor McTaggart hopped from one bed to the next as she singlehandedly tended to more than two dozen patients. She did not acknowledge him, and he did not interrupt. He was just glad to see her still alive. It took him a second to notice the figure seated in the corner.

  “Mr Watson?”

  The synthetic looked up, and Sanchez could not be sure, but the faintest hint of a smile seemed to twitch across his bloodless lips. He was shirtless, and awkwardly trying to use surgical staples to seal two savage twin gashes across his abdomen with his remaining hand.

  “Do you need any help?” he asked gently. He would never have thought it possible, but he was genuinely glad to see the android.

  “Yes, please,” said Watson. “If you could hold the wound closed that would be most helpful.”

  Sanchez knelt, pinching the edges of the gash closed with his fingers while Watson stapled it in place. It was unnerving how much like real skin it felt. If not for the milky white flesh showing through, he would never have thought otherwise.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said.

  “If I were human, I would be,” said Watson. His tone was matter-of-fact, but it contained the barest intimation of what almost sounded like relief.

  “You’ll be okay?”

  “I underestimated the yautja’s strength. The damage is severe, and I will require extensive repairs once we return to Gateway Station. However, I remain sixty-eight percent functional, and I can continue to operate at this level indefinitely. Hold here, please.”

  Sanchez was more relieved than he cared to admit. Synthetic or not, Watson had almost given his life to save him.

  “You saved my life.”

  “It’s what I am programmed for, sir,” said the android. “But your gratitude is appreciated.”

  “Does it hurt?” asked Sanchez, and for the first time, Watson actually looked touched. The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

  “My body is equipped with an extensive network of artificial nerves. I am capable of experiencing what a human would call “pain”. However, I have disabled this function for the time being. No, Colonel, it does not hurt.”

  “Goddamn synthetics,” swore a civilian in the adjacent cot. White surgical burn wraps covered half of his torso and face, including one eye.

  “I prefer the term “artificial person” myself,” said Watson, sounding almost wounded.

  “Colonel Sanchez, sir,” Corporal Jennings announced himself, datapad in hand. “I have that, er, report you were asking for.”

  Sanchez appreciated the corporal’s tact. He knew exactly what the report was. He gave Watson a quick glance.

  “I can complete the rest of the repairs on my own, sir. Thank you for your assistance.”

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  He took the young man off to one side, ensuring they were out of earshot.

  “Just give me the short version, Corporal. How many?” he demanded.

  “Amongst the Marines; six missing. Seventeen KIA,” said Jennings.

  Sanchez felt his jaw clench but kept his composure. That had been worse than he was expecting. A lot worse.

  “Sloan lost two of his,” Jennings continued. “For the civilians we’ve got nine dead and twenty-nine wounded. Eleven seriously. Doctor McTaggart is not optimistic about those ones, and…” he hesitated, “one hundred and fifty-three missing.”

  “Madre de Dios,” muttered Sanchez. “What about Sergeants Williams and Davis?”

  “They are on the list, sir,” said Jennings.

  “Corporal, are you telling me that all of my NCOs are missing or dead?” he demanded.

  Jennings did not flinch. “Yes, sir.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “At least tell me we are close to figuring out just how the hell they got in here in the first place?”

  “We’re still investigating, sir. We should have answers soon,” said Jennings.

  Sanchez let out an exasperated sigh. “Please ensure that Ms Nyugen gets a copy of this list. These are her people too.”

  Jennings looked at his feet. “She is also on the list, sir.”

  He took a slow, deep breath. “Understood. Give it to Watson, and Corporal? Report to my office in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jennings saluted. He returned the salute and dismissed him before heading to the restroom.

  He was relieved to find it deserted. The lights flickering but enough to see by. Running the tap, he splashed cold water on his face, allowing the sudden shock to focus his attention. Gripping the sides of the sink he looked into the mirror, and saw a tired old man looking back at him. More than three-hundred people dead, because of him. All over something that happened almost half a century ago. There was only one thing left to do, and may God have mercy on his soul.

  *

  Jennings stood outside the colonel’s office. He did not know why he had been summoned, but the colonel seemed more pissed than usual. He had every right to be, he reasoned, but wondered what he had done to draw the commander’s ire. Heller had chewed him out once or twice, but being chewed out by the sarge, and being chewed out by a senior officer were two very different things. Last time he had been called to this office, it had been over that fight in the canteen. This felt different. He took a breath, steeled himself, and knocked.

  “Come in,” shouted Colonel Sanchez.

  Jennings entered. The colonel stood with his back turned, hands clasped behind his back. He closed the door behind him and stood at attention in front of the desk.

  “Corporal Jennings reporting as ordered, sir,” he said, hiding his nervousness behind a mask of military stoicism.

  “At ease, Corporal,” said the colonel, turning to face him. Jennings stood to parade rest, but he was far from at ease. “How long have you been stationed here?”

  “About sixteen months, sir,” said Jennings.

  “Then you knew Master Sergeant Heller quite well. What was your opinion of the man?” asked Sanchez, his expression neutral.

  Jennings tried to hide his surprise. He certainly had not expected questions about the sergeant, but now he felt the absence more than ever. “He was the best sarge any Marine could ever hope to serve under, sir.”

  “I agree,” said Sanchez. “I’ve been in the Corps twice as long as you’ve been alive, son, and he was the finest NCO I’ve known.”

  “He was irreplaceable, sir,” Jennings concurred, unsure where this was going.

  “Yes, he was,” the colonel said quietly with a nod, seemingly more to himself before he did a slow walk around the front of his desk, bringing them face to face. He was shorter than Jennings, but there was an intensity behind his eyes. The weight of years and experience that Jennings did not have.

  “Do you think you could ever fill the role that he did? Could you lead, as he did?” asked the colonel.

  He let the question hang in the air, allowing him time to consider his answer carefully.

  “I…I don’t know, sir,” said Jennings hesitantly.

  A hint of a dry smile appeared on the old man’s cracked lips, and Jennings wondered if he had just passed some kind of unspoken test. Was that the answer he had been hoping to hear?

  “Master Sergeant Heller is gone. As are Sergeant Williams and Sergeant Davis. I need a clear second-in-command, and you’re it, Sergeant Jennings. As of now, you are Acting NCOIC.”

  Jennings was in shock. This was everything he had ever wanted, but now that he had it, it did not feel like a victory. He hadn’t earned it. He had only been in the Corps for five years. Heller had been in longer than he had been alive.

  “I don’t think I’m ready, sir,” he said earnestly.

  The old man smiled, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “No one ever is, son.”

  With that, he walked back around to the other side of his desk. Jennings started to speak, but thought better of it.

  “Was there something else, Sergeant?” asked Sanchez, and Jennings silently chided himself.

  “Sir, I…,” he stammered. It had all been so much so fast, he scarcely knew where to begin, but he could not contain it any longer. “Sir, back in Ops. The yautja. It made you. I mean, it knew you. As my first official act as Acting NCOIC I have to ask, sir…just what the hell is going on?”

  Sanchez sighed as he leaned on his desk with both palms. Jennings had expected him to be angry at the question, even reprimand him for insubordination, but rather he seemed saddened by it. Or ashamed.

  “That does deserve an explanation,” he said, lowering himself into his chair. “I’ve been racking my brain for the past week trying to figure out why that son of a bitch was here, and no answer I could come up with made any sense. Turns out, it was staring me in the face all along. It was so obvious,” he said as he unconsciously rubbed at his left forearm.

  He paused, and Jennings did not dare interrupt as the man took a second to compose himself, almost as if saying it aloud would give it form.

  “It’s here for me.”