Dafydd ab Hugh & BradLinaweaver - Doom 04 - Endgame

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The ship was 3.7 klicks long, and I walked

every damned meter of it, trying to find where all the

creaks and groans were coming from. I wasn't sur-

prised to hear the haunting noises; I expected nothing

less nightmarish from the Fred aliens. They came to

us as aliens in demonic clothing, playing to every

Jungian fear that panicked the human race, from deep

inside the collective whatever you call it—Arlene

would know. Now their ship sounded like it was

tearing apart at the seams ... or like the entire uni-

verse was finally winding down. I walked down moist

fungus-infested passageways that were too tall, too

narrow, and too damned hot, listening to the universe

run down.

Down and out. Mostly I walked the ship to keep

some sort of tab on Lance Corporal Arlene Sanders,

my ghost XO, who was falling apart on me. Nobody

goes off the deep end on Sergeant Flynn Taggart, not

without my say-so. But there was Arlene, sitting cross-

legged on the observation deck (the "mess hall") at

the stern of the Fred ship, staring at a redshifted eye of

light that was all the stars in the galaxy swirled into

one blob—some sort of relativity effect. She sat,

unblinking, peering down the corridor of time to

Earth today, which was probably Earth two hundred

years or more ago.

Christ, but that sounds melancholy. Arlene hadn't

changed her uniform in three days, and she was

starting to stink up the place. I didn't want to inter-

rupt her grief: she had lost her beloved ... in a sense;

by the time we hit dirt at Fredworld, kicked some

Fred ass, and got them to turn us around back to

Earth again, about two hundred years would have

passed for the mudhoppers. Corporal Albert Gallatin

would be a century in his grave. He was as good as

dead to her now.

Space is a lonely place; don't let anyone tell you

different. The spacefaring surround themselves with

friends and squadmates, but it only holds the empti-

ness of deep space partway off. You can still feel it

brushing your mind, probing for a weak point.

We tried playing various games to stave off the

loneliness; I came up with the favorite, Woe Is Me: we

competed to see who could spin the most depressing

tale of woe, me or Arlene . . . listing in endlessly

expanding detail all the different reasons to just open

a hatch and be blown into the interstellar void.

I always won—not that I had that many more

reasons to despair than Arlene, but because I had

more practice complaining about things.

"I left my true love behind," she would pine.

"At least you had one!" I retorted. "All I ever had

was a fiancee, and I'm not sure I even knew her

middle name." Sears and Roebuck, our normally

jovial binary Klave pair, were no help; they locked

themselves in their cabin and wouldn't come out.

They couldn't even be coaxed out for a game of Woe Is

Me! But lately Arlene was winning by default: she was

too depressed to play. She just sat and stared out the

rear window.

The Fred ship was roughly cylindrical, spinning for

a kind of artificial gravity about 0.8 g at the outer

skin; in addition, during the first days, we had a heavy

acceleration pulling us backward as the ship got up to

speed. This was a Godsend; I always hated zero-g,

always. I always blew; I always got vertigo; I never

knew which way was up, because there was no up.

It was 3.7 kilometers long and about 0.375 kilome-

ters in diameter, I reckoned. I had some mild dizzi-

ness from the spin—my inner ear never really ad-

justed to that sort of crap—but it was a damned sight

better than the "float 'n' pukes" we rode from Earth

to Mars, or up to Phobos.

For the last twenty-four hours, I had followed

Arlene up and down the ship when she went wander-

ing, through blackness and flickering light. The whole

place tasted vile; most of taste is smell, and the stench

got on the back of my tongue and stayed there.

Arlene probably knew I was there, but she made no

attempt to talk to me. Occasionally, I heard weapons

fire; I thought she might be shooting up the "dead"

bodies of the Fred aliens. I couldn't believe it; she

knew they could still feel the pain of the bullets! Then

I caught her discharging her shotgun into a man-

shaped chalk outline she'd drawn on a bulkhead in a

stateroom that once belonged to the ship's engineer, a

Fred who was deactivated up on the bridge.

"What the hell are you doing, A.S.?" I demanded.

"Shooting," she said, staring dully at me. She slid

her hands up and down the barrel of her piece, getting

gun grease on her palms, but she didn't notice.

"You're shooting into a steel bulkhead, you brain-

dead dweeb! Where do you think the bullets are going

when they bounce off it?"

Arlene said nothing. She hadn't been hit by a

ricochet yet, but if she kept shooting at steel bulk-

heads, it was only a matter of moments.

Two minutes after I left, I heard the shooting start

up again, but she denied later that she had fired her

rifle again.

I returned to the bridge for a long face-to-face with

the "dead" Fred captain. They're not like us ...

rather, we're not like them or the rest of the intelligent

races of the galaxy.

A Fred alien, and everybody else except a human,

can never die. Even when you shoot his body to Swiss

cheese, so his blue guts and red blood dribble out the

holes onto the deck, his consciousness remains intact.

Blow his head apart, and it floats as a ghost, drifting

like invisible smoke—still thinking, hearing and see-

ing, feeling and desperately dreaming. You can talk to

them; they actually hear you.

The Freds and other races pile their dead in fantas-

tic cenotaph theaters where they are entertained day

and night by elaborate operas and dances of great

beauty, all to keep the "dead" vibrant and interested

until such time as they're needed for revivification—

assuming there's enough left of the body and enough

interest on the part of an animate Fred to pay for it.

I'd shot the captain nine days ago as he lay on the

floor, reaching up to implement and lock in the

preprogrammed course for Fredworld. Despite the

best efforts of me and Arlene and our contractor-

advisors Sears and Roebuck—a Klave binary pair

who each looked like a cross between Magilla Gorilla

and Alley Oop—we couldn't figure out how to change

course or even shut off the engines.

I picked the captain up and sat him in the co-pilot's

chair. Poetic justice; he had died bravely ... let him

see where he was going. Now I stood directly in front

of the bastard so his dead eyes could drink me in.

"God, I wish I could repair your wounds and bring

you back to life," I said, "so I could kill you all over

again and again and again, and repeat the process

until you told me how to turn this piece-of-crap ship

around. But I promise you I'll obliterate your brain

before I'll let you be recaptured and revived by your

Fred buddies."

I blamed the captain for Arlene's psychosis; I would

never forgive him for it and would kill him again if I

ever got the chance.

Christ, where to jump in on this thing? I never

know where to start to bring everyone up to date.

Sears and Roebuck had locked themselves in their

stateroom, the double-entities shouting that we were

all doomed, game over, pull the plug! God only knew

where they picked up the expressions, but the senti-

ment was pretty clear: when we got to Fredworld, the

most logical outcome was for us to be burned into a

nice warm plasma by the batteries of heavy-particle

weapons the Freds obviously had ringing their hellish

planet.

I'm not a big fan of logic. Logic predicted that

Arlene and I would be smoked during our last en-

counter with the Freds. They had everything except

the homecourt advantage, and even that was dicey,

the way they could change the architecture of Phobos

and Deimos at the drop of a flaming snotball.

When this donnybrook first started, Arlene and I

both thought we were dealing with actual honest-to-

Lucifer demons from hell! They sure looked like

demons; we battled the sons of bitches deep, deeper

into the Union Aerospace Corporation facilities on

Phobos and Deimos, the two moons of Mars. All the

rest of Fox Company, Light Drop Marine Corps

Infantry, were killed .. . and some were "reworked"

into undead zombies.

That was the worst, seeing my buddies coming at

me, brainless but still clutching their weaponry. I

mowed them down, feeling a little death every time I

killed a former friend.

But we faced far more dangerous foes: imps, or

spineys, as Arlene liked to call them, who hurled

flaming balls of mucus; pinkies ... two meters of

gigantic mouth with a little pair of legs attached; we

faced down ghosts we couldn't see, minotaurlike hell

princes with fireball shooters on their wrists ... even

gigantic one-eyed pumpkins that floated and spat

lightning balls at us! But the worst of all were the

steam demons: fifteen feet tall with rocket launchers,

it was virtually impossible to kill the SOBs.

On Earth, we discovered that the Freds were geneti-

cally engineering monsters to look and act like human

beings, until they suddenly opened up on you with

machine guns. They had a few failed attempts that

were horrific enough, one a walking skeleton!

But the whole mission turned on a fundamental

misunderstanding: when last the Freds contacted us,

we were at the dividing line between the Medieval and

Renaissance periods, like the late 1400s—and they

somehow got the idea we still were. They never

realized how fast we evolved socially and technologi-

cally; nobody else did it that fast! They came scream-

ing in with demonic machines and genetically engi-

neered fiends, thinking we would fall cowering to our

knees, and conquest would be swift and brutal.

They weren't prepared for a technological society

that no longer believed in demons. They weren't

ready for the Light Drop Marine Corps Infantry; they

weren't prepared for Arlene and me.

We triumphed, and I got another stripe, but now I

was willing to bet a month's leave that we were

driving into destruction. No matter how long your

hand, the dice eventually turn against you. At least let

me take a few dozen of them with me, I prayed.

But without Arlene I didn't have much of a chance,

let alone much reason, to go on. Earth was dead to me

now; when we got back there, if we got back, what

would be left after three or four centuries? Would

there be a United States, a Washington Monument, a

United States Marine Corps? For all we knew, the

Earth was "already" a smoking burnt-out cinder

("already" is a relative term, we've found out; by the

time we get back, it will have happened a certain

number of centuries in the past; that's all I can say).

Stars rolled past the porthole beneath my feet;

actually, it was the ship that rotated, but everything

was relative. I followed Arlene as she traversed the

ship. She set up her shooting range in the aft cargo-

hold, a ways outboard ("down") from the mess hall,

seventy meters high and wide and nearly half a

kilometer long. I was desperate—I had to snap her

out of her zombie mode. I had to do something! So

just as my redheaded lance corporal babe raised her

M-14, I stepped out of the shadows directly in front of

her.

It was an incredibly stupid thing to do—but I had

no choice, no other way to get her attention. She

almost squeezed off a burst anyway, because she just

plain didn't see me. As Arlene squeezed the trigger,

she realized the range wasn't clear. She screamed—

like a woman!—and jerked the barrel to the left.

A single three-round burst escaped anyway. One of

the bullets creased my uniform; it felt like she had

whipped me across the arm with a corrections staff. It

hurt like hell!

"FLY!" she screamed, slinging her rifle aside and

running up to me.

I sank to one knee, holding my arm; it wasn't

bleeding bad, but I was knocked off balance by the

blow—and by the knowledge that had Arlene reacted

a fraction of a second slower, I would have been

stretched out on the steel deckplates, coughing up my

own blood.

Completely calm now, Arlene Sanders un-Velcroed

my Marine recon jacket and gently slipped it off my

arm. When she saw the wound was just a crease, and I

would recover in a couple of days, she let loose with a

string of invective and obscenities that was Corps to

the core! They echoed off the black saw-toothed walls

and rattled my brainpan.

She shook me viciously by the uniform blouse.

"You dumbass bastard, Fly! What the hell were you

thinking, jumping into the line like that? Don't an-

swer! You weren't thinking, that's the problem!" She

let me sink back to the deck, suddenly nervous about

overstepping the chain. "Uh, that's the problem,

Sergeant," she lamely corrected.

I sat up, wiping away the tears on my good sleeve.

"Arlene, you dumb broad, I was thinking thoughts as

deep as the starry void. I was thinking, now how can I

finally get that catatonic zombie girl's attention and

snap her out of her despair over Albert?"

"Jesus, Fly, is that what this is about?"

I put my hand on my shoulder, massaging the

muscle gently through my T-shirt. "Lance, I was

about ready to hypo you into unconsciousness for a

few days to let you work it all out in your dreams. God

knows we have enough time—two hundred years to

Fredworld, or eight and a half weeks from our point of

view. I was just about ready to give up on you."

Arlene stared down at the deck, but I wouldn't let

up; I finished what I had to say. "I can't afford to lose

you, A.S. Those binary freaks Sears and Roebuck are

a great source of intel and sardonic comments, but

they can't fight for crap. I need you at my back, A.S.; I

need the old Arlene. You've got to come back to me

and work your magic."

She turned and walked away from me, leaning

against the hot bulkhead and swearing under her

breath. She couldn't really say anything out loud, not

after I had made a point of dragging rank into it (I

called her "Lance" to drive home the chain of com-

mand). But nothing in the UCMJ said she had to like

it.

She didn't. She wouldn't speak to me the rest of the

day, and all of the next. She took to sulking in the big

lantern-lit cabin we had dubbed the mess hall, since

that was where we took our meals—well, used to take

them; Sears and Roebuck were still holed up in their

own stateroom, cowering in terror at the upcoming

brawl with the Freds when we hit dirtside; and Arlene

ate Anywhere But There, so she wouldn't have to eat

with me; when I entered, she left by another portal, so

I ate alone. Then when I left to return to duty (staring

out the forward video screen, wondering when some-

thing would happen), Arlene snuck in and hid away

from me.

I barely saw her any more often than I had before

. . . but I felt a thousand percent relieved, because

now she was angry rather than desolate and apathetic.

Anger. Now that I have a good handle on. I'm a

Marine, for Christ's sake! What I couldn't understand

was despair.

Angry Marines don't stay angry for long, especially

not at their NCOs. Sergeants are buttheads; we'd both

known that since Parris Island! After a while, Arlene

took to haunting the mess hall when I was there,

sitting far away; then she sat at my too-tall table, but

at the other end; then she got around to eating across

from me ... but she glared a hell of a lot.

I waited, patiently and quietly. Eventually, her

need for human company battered down her fury at

me for risking my life like I did, and she started

making snippy comments.

I knew I'd won when she sat down four days after

the shooting incident and demanded, "All right, Ser-

geant, now tell me again why you had to do something

so bone-sick stupid as to step in front of a live rifle."

"To piss you off," I answered, truthfully.

Arlene stared, her mouth hanging open. She had

shaved her hair into a high-and-tight again, and it was

so short on top, it was almost iridescent orange. Her

uniform was freshly laundered—Sears and Roebuck

had showed us how to use the Fred washing machines

when we first took over the ship, two weeks earlier—

and I swear to God she had ironed everything. She

had been working out, too; she looked harder, tighter

than she had just a few days earlier, and it wasn't just

her haircut. Now I was the only one getting soft and

flabby.

"To piss me off? For God's sake, why?"

"A.S.," I said, leaning so close we were breathing

each other's O2, "I don't think you realize how close I

came to losing you. Despair is a terrible, terrible

mental illness; apathy is a freaking disease. I had to do

something so shocking, something to give you such a

burst of adrenaline, that it would jerk you out of your

feedback loop and drag you, kicking and screaming,

back to the here and now."

I scratched my stubbly chin, feeling myself flush.

"All right, maybe it was pretty bone-sick stupid. But I

was desperate! What should I have done? I don't think

you know just what you mean to me, old girl."

She slid up to sit cross-legged on the table, staring

around the huge empty mess hall. No officers around,

and no non-coms but me. Why not? "Fly," she said,

"I don't think you know just what Albert meant to

me. Means—meant—is he dead or alive now?"

"Probably still alive. It's only been about twenty

years or so on Earth ... or will have only been by this

point, when we get back there—by which point, it'll

have been two centuries. It's weird; it's confusing; it's

not worth worrying about." I ate another blue square;

they tasted somewhat like ravioli—crunchy outside

and stuffed with worms that tasted half like cheese,

half like chocolate cake. It sounds dreadful, but really

it's not bad when you get used to it. A lot better than

the orange squares and gray dumplings, which tasted

like rotten fish. The Fred aliens had truly stomach-

turning tastes, by and large.

"Fly, when I first joined the squad—you remember

Gunny Goforth and the William Tell apple on the

head duel?—you were my only friend then."

I remembered the incident. Gunnery Sergeant Go-

forth was just being an asshole because he didn't

think women belonged in the Corps—not the Corps

and definitely not the Light Drop Marine Corps

Infantry—and no way in the nine circles of hell, not

by the livin' Gawd that made him, was Gunnery

Sergeant Harlan E. Goforth ever going to let some

pussy into Fox Company, the machoest, fightingest

company of the whole macho, fighting Light Drop!

He decreed that no gal could join his company

unless she proved herself by letting him shoot an apple

off her head! And Arlene did it! She stood there and let

him take it off with a clean shot from a .30-99 bolt-

action sniper piece. With iron sights, yet.

Then, with a little malicious sneer on her lips, she

calmly tossed a second apple to Goforth and made

him wear the fruit while she did the William Tell bit.

We all loved it; to his credit, the gunny stood tall and

didn't flinch and let her pop it off his dome at fifty

meters. After that, what could the Grand Old Man do

but welcome her to Fox, however reluctantly?

Back in the Freds' mess hall, Arlene continued,

nibbling at her own blue square. "You're still my best

and first, Fly. But Albert was the first man I really

loved. Wilhelm Dodd was the first guy to care about

me that way; but I didn't know what love meant until

... oh Jesus, that sounds really stupid, doesn't it?"

I climbed onto the table myself, and we sat back to

back. I liked feeling her warmth against me. It was

like keeping double-watch, looking both ways at once.

"No. It would have sounded dumb, except I know

exactly what you mean. I felt that once, too: young girl

in high school, before I joined the Corps."

"You never told me, Sergeant—Fly."

"We got as close as you could in a motor vehicle not

built for the purpose. She swore she was being reli-

gious about the pill, but she got pregnant anyway. I

offered to pay either way, and she chose the abortion.

After that, well, it just wasn't there anymore; I think

they sucked more than the fetus out, to be perfectly

grotesque about it. ... We stopped pretending to be

boyfriend-girlfriend when it just got too painful; and

then she and her parents moved away. She just waved

goodbye, and I nodded."

Arlene snorted. "That's the longest rap you've ever

given me, Fly. Where'd you read it?"

"God's own truth, A.S. Really happened just that

way."

Arlene leaned back against me, while I stared out

the aft port at the redshifted starblob; the mess hall

was at the south end of a north-going ship, 1.9

kilometers from the bridge, which was located amid-

ships, surrounded by a hundred meters of some weird

steel-titanium alloy, and 3.7 kilometers from the

engines, all the way for'ard. Sitting in the mess hall,

we could look directly backward out a huge, thick,

plexiglass window while traveling very near the speed

of light relative to the stars behind us.

It was a fascinating view; according to astronomical

theory—which I'd had plenty of time to read about

since we'd been burning from star to star—at relativ-

istic speeds, the light actually bends: all the stars

forward press together into a blue blob at the front, all

the ones aft press into a red lump at the stern. I wasn't

sure how fast we were going, but the formula was easy

enough to use if I really got interested.

"I just had a horrible thought," I said. "We only

brought along enough Fredpills to last a few days. We

didn't plan on spending weeks here." Arlene didn't

say anything, so I continued. "We'll have to find the

Fred recombinant machine and figure out how to use

it; maybe Sears and Roebuck know." Fredpills sup-

plied the amino acids and vitamins essential to hu-

mans that Freds lacked in their diet; without them, we

would starve to death, no matter how much Fred food

we ate.

"Fly," she said, off in another world, "I'm starting

not to care about the Freds anymore. I know why they

attacked us: they were terrified of what we repre-

sented, death and an honest-to-God soul, and maybe

the god of the Israelites is right, huh? Maybe we're the

immortal ones ... not the rest of them, the ones who

can't die."

"So are you thinking that Albert still exists some-

where, maybe in heaven?" I was trying to wrap myself

around her problem, not having much luck.

She shrugged; I felt it roughly. "So he himself

believed; I would never contradict an article of my

honey's faith, especially when I don't have any con-

trary evidence."

"Translation into English?"

"I've just stopped caring about the Fred aliens, Fly.

They're frightened, desperate, and pretty pathetic.

And they're soulless. I mean, two humans against how

many of them? Even when Albert and Jill joined us,

we were still four against a planetful! And we kicked

ass. Maybe it's just the Marine in me, but I'm starting

to wonder why we're bothering with these dweebs."

"Well, we've got about forty-five days left to get our

heads straight for what's probably going to be the final

curtain for Fly and Arlene, not to mention poor old

Sears and Roebuck. They may be soulless and lousy

soldiers, but put enough of them in a room shooting

at us and we're going down, babe."

Arlene reached into her breast pocket and pulled

out two twelve-gauge shells, which she tossed over her

shoulder to land perfectly in my lap. "I've saved the

last two for us, Sarge; just let me know when you're

ready to Hemingway."

Forty-five days is a hell of a long time when

we knew we were dropping into a dead zone, even for

the Light Drop. Then again, it's not really that long at

all... when that's probably our entire life expec-

tancy.

Arlene snapped out of her despair because she

didn't want to spend her last few weeks in a self-

imposed hell, I guess. She had me, I had her; that's

how it was in the beginning, that looked to be how it

would end. Except we both had Sears and Roebuck,

and that's where everything started to break down.

We're Marines above all, and we're programmed

like computers to protect and serve, you understand.

That means we couldn't just lock and load, stand back

to back, and prepare to go down in a hail of Fred-fire

when the ship cracked down and the cargo doors

opened on Fredworld. We had this crazy idea that we

had to protect those two—that one?—Alley Oop,

Magilla Gorilla look-alike Klave, or at least try.

Step one was to coax it, her, him, or them out of the

damned stateroom. We tried the direct approach first:

Arlene and I climbed "up" toward the central axis of

the ship. The acceleration decreased to 0.2 g at the

level of Sears and Roebuck's quarters, barely enough

to avoid my old problems with vertigo. I sure didn't

want to go any farther inboard, that was for damned

sure.

Arlene didn't look bothered, though; various parts

of her anatomy floated pretty free under her uniform,

and she looked like she was loving it. I tried not to

look at such temptations—fifty-eight days left; I

wanted to spend it with my buddy, not trying to force

a relationship that had never existed and never ought

to exist.

The "upper" corridors were like sewer pipes, corru-

gated and smelly. The Freds breathed slightly differ-

ent air than we, but it didn't seem poisonous (Sears

and Roebuck swore we could breathe the Fred air).

Very tall corridors, to accommodate the Freds when

they were in their seed-depositing stage, like gigantic

praying mantises ... I couldn't reach the roof even

by jumping.

Arlene and I slipped and slid down the hot slimy

passageway; it took me a few moments to realize that

the slime was decomposing leaves from their

artichoke-heads.

"You know," said my lance, when I told her my

insight, "we don't even know whether these are dis-

carded leaves, or whether it's the decomposed bodies

of the Freds themselves. What happens to their bodies

when they die? Do they have to put some preservative

on them, like Egyptian mummies, to prevent this

from happening?" She kicked a pile of glop in which

were still visible the ragged framelines of Fred head-

leaves.

I shook my head. "I suppose we can keep an eye on

the captain and see if he begins to deteriorate."

We figured out that slithering was the easiest way to

move along the passageway without falling; it was like

ice-skating through an oil slick, but we finally made it

to the Sears and Roebuck stateroom.

"Stateroom" was an apt description; it was pretty

stately. Because they had to accommodate the con-

stantly changing size of the Freds, the rooms were

built to monstrous scale, but with a nice mix of

furniture styles. My own, next to Arlene's down

toward the hull in heavier acceleration, had a couple

of sit-kneels, a table I could only reach by standing

and stretching, and a doughnut-shaped bed-couch.

I had no idea what was inside Sears and Roebuck's

quarters because they had not allowed Arlene or me

even to sneak a peek. I stood outside the door and

pounded the pine, as we used to say at Parris Island,

then I thought better of it—Sears and Roebuck had

been acting awfully weird lately. I stepped off to one

side in case they decided to burn right through the

door with a weapon.

Silence. After the second pounding, their shared

voice came back with a carefully enunciated "go to

away!"

"Open up, Sears and Roebuck!" shouted Arlene,

exasperated after just ten seconds of dealing with

their intransigence.

"Jeez, you'd never make it as a therapist, A.S."

"I follow the flashlight-pounded-into-the-head

school of psychiatry," she said, and for the first time,

it almost sounded as if her heart were in the joke.

"Go to elsewhere!"

"What are you?" I demanded. "Afraid of dying?

Why? You can't die!"

During a long pause, I heard furniture being shoved

around. Then the door slid open a crack and two

heads, one atop the other, pressed two eyes to the

crack. "We once had our spine broken," they said.

They didn't have spines, exactly; their central nervous

system ran right down the center, from what I had

seen in their medical records. But it was actually more

easily severed than ours because it wasn't protected

by a bone sheath.

"You recovered as soon as someone found you,"

Arlene pointed out. "Right?"

"We lay for eleven days into the jungle on [unintelli-

gible planet name]. The Freds slay us will kill us and

display-put us on for eternity and throw head-leaves

at us." Sears and Roebuck still had a hard time with

English, despite ambassadorial status.

"Come on, S and R," I tried. "Get a grip. You don't

see me and Arlene cringing—and if we die, we're

gone forever!"

They said something too quietly to catch; it

sounded like "we wish we could," but it could have

been "the less you could."

"S and R, Arlene and I need your help. We need to

make a plan for when we hit dirtside on Fredworld."

"Fredpills," added Arlene in my ear.

"And we need you to show us how to synthesize

enough Fredpills to keep us alive to Fredworld ... we

need about, oh, two hundred and seventy."

Sears and Roebuck did a fast calculation—forty-

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v1.0ScannedandspellcheckedbyJaks(stillneedsproofreadingandformatting)1Theshipwas3.7klickslong,andIwalkedeverydamnedmeterofit,tryingtofindwhereallthecreaksandgroanswerecomingfrom.Iwasn'tsur-prisedtohearthehauntingnoises;IexpectednothinglessnightmarishfromtheFredaliens.Theycametousasaliensindemonicclo...

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Dafydd ab Hugh & BradLinaweaver - Doom 04 - Endgame

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