New York City - December 31st

        The police light rotated silently atop the squad car parked across the street. Several wooden barriers had been hastily erected behind a ‘Police - Do Not Cross’ yellow tape. The traffic jam beyond the affected area was monumental, but curiously quiet. Some people sat in cars listening to the radio while others abandoned their vehicles and raced away. Men and women, cellular phones glued to ears, spoke urgently or listened intently.
        Down the street, another ambulance climbed onto the sidewalk and negotiated its way until it arrived at the roadblock. A heavy cop, winter parka pulled tight around his neck, hat hiding all but his eyes, moved forward and pulled one of the wooden blocks out of the away. The ambulance inched forward and then, once clear, sped away.
        "Murph. The fuck’s happening?" asked another cop. Plumes of cold breath escaped from his mouth and he shivered involuntarily, slapping his hands together to ward off the chill. Snow fell slowly against the gray sky, big fat snowflakes drifting lazily towards the ground, in no rush to end their existence against the dirty asphalt.
        "Aliens, man," said the first cop. "Blown up half the city."
        "Jeez, I know that. I mean, what are we doing about it?"
        In response a drab green helicopter roared over them towards the conflict area. Aboard the Blackhawk Colonel Neville of the NY National Guard held an HF radio pressed hard against the side of his head, trying to carry the conversation through the din. The helicopter raced on south, skimming over the tops of the cars and trees that flanked 1st Avenue.
        Rubble littered the streets where buildings had collapsed, fires raging on uncontrolled, the firefighters unable to reach them. A scene straight out of a Bosnian documentary.
        Hundreds of people raced north on foot, bicycle or car, whatever means of transportation carried them faster away from the alien terror. Police cars blared warnings and directions from loudspeakers, urging people to stay in their apartments and lock the doors until further notice. Local TV and radio stations emitted a continuos stream of directions from the Mayor’s Office. Some took heed, some simply fled, adding confusion to the disaster.
        As the helicopter moved south, passing Lexington and 51st Street, the UN building rising majestically to the right, the chaos became even more apparent, the destruction more pronounced. Police vans and helicopters patrolled incessantly the surrounding blocks with warnings that looting would be severally dealt with. Neville thought it ironical and somewhat pathetic that disasters tended to bring out the worst in human beings. But also the best, shouted another voice in his mind.
        The helicopter crossed 14th and moved into the East Village, hugging the ground even lower. If it wasn’t for the speed they were moving at, Neville would have sworn he could make out individual pebbles on the ground. The pilot was taking no chances of getting shot down. Crashing into a damn car maybe, but not shot down.
        At Delancey Street the Blackhawk suddenly reared and landed quickly, touching down with a thump. The Colonel jumped out accompanied by several men and raced to a waiting HUMVEE, carefully trying not to slip on the iced pavement. God Almighty, he thought glancing around the mess of fallen buildings, broken store fronts and burning cars. I used to come here often, shopping on Saturday mornings, coffee in Little Italy. The cold had arrived early in the Big Apple and with it heavy snow and ice. A minute later, the car arrived at another roadblock, this one unintentional. A large military truck, tarp fluttering in the wind, lay overturned on its side, wheels pointing in the direction of the threat.
        "Captain," said the Colonel, panting out of breath. The younger officer turned briefly and then turned his attention back to the street.
        "Some kind of robot up ahead," he said. "We’re gonna need more than side arms to stop it."
        The Colonel looked around the truck and caught sight of a dozen people running towards them, some sprinting swiftly, some lumbering as fast as their unfit legs would carry them. All terrified. A laser, or whatever the heck it was, opened up from a side street, gunning them down, screams reaching them clearly. Bodies littered the sidewalks everywhere.
        "Je-sus," exclaimed the Colonel. "Don’t just fucking sit there," he screamed at the Captain, face turning red with rage. "You got people to protect."
        "Sir, we’re outgunned..."
        "I don’t give a shit, Captain. Get your goddamned act together. Now!"
        The Captain bolted from his cover and raced towards the open doorway of a bookstore, followed by his men.
        "Get me HQ," said the Colonel to his radio man. He grabbed the mike.
        "Neville here."
        "Read you loud and clear, Colonel."
        "Aliens spotted at Delancey with Rutgers. Moving south. Over."
        "Affirmative. Be advised that X-COM is one minute out and will assist."
        "Roger." He tossed the radio away and looked over the truck, watching the squad of soldiers move quickly towards the alien threat.

        "One minute to touchdown," informed the pilot of the Osprey as they approached the LZ. Captain McCormick turned to his men and silently raised a finger and, as one, the commandos began the final check on their equipment. McCormick looked down and clicked his armor’s GPS tracker on, just in case. Bad Karma.
        The plane buffeted as it descended, rotors tilting upwards until it landed softly in the middle of the abandoned street, the downwash causing a miniature snow storm. Outside a police car screeched to a stop and a NG Lieutenant raced out. McCormick checked that his men were assuming positions in squads and then turned his attention to the young officer. Off to one side, a broken hydrant sprayed water thirty feet into the air, creating a fine mist of ice cold particles about them. A couple of squad cars, their lights flashing silently highlighting the falling snow, sat parked in the middle of the avenue. All around them, abandoned cars cluttered the street.
        "Sir, field report. Aliens are moving north on Madison, that’s, um, couple blocks away," he said pointing. "Our units are pulling out. We’ve been holding as long as possible but we’re getting our ass... uh, we’re taking casualties."
        "How many?"
        "Hard to say, sir, but we’re estimating a couple of dozen." Shee-it.
        "All moving this way?"
        "Apparently. Local blues are moving in force from Brooklyn, combing the area. SWAT teams are setting up on Williamson, Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges."
        "All right. Get your men out of here and set up firing positions three blocks north, case any get through." The lieutenant nodded and ran back to the squad car, speaking urgently into his radio.
        "Listen up, guys," said McCormick loudly. "We got bugs coming this way. Our first priority is with them, not with the civvies. But let’s do what we can to get people out of danger. Remember, no heroes just dead ETs."
        "Why didn’t they land in the Bronx?" someone asked. "We wouldn’t have had to come."
        "Yeah, we would. To save their green butts!"
        "Don’t know, man. Mac, you figure the Bronx’s got a bad ass galactic reputation, or something?" The Captain shook his head.
        "Yeah, yeah. Let’s move."
        The team moved out by squads.

        Australia - North of Darwin

        "Sir. We’re picking up that strange echo again." The senior radar officer aboard the AWACS walked over, a half empty cup of coffee in his hand. He was drinking way too much, he thought. It’ll end by killing me, ulcer or something.
        "Ghost contact," the operator said. "Keeps fading in and out. Bearing three-five-zero. Range about 250 miles." The modified 707 on patrol just north of Melvile Island at the northernmost tip of Australia, drifted lazily through the sky at its optimum fuel consumption profile.
        "Guess," said the senior man.
        "Could be an American stealth plane, but we haven’t been notified of any flights in the area. Could be an alien vessel flying very low, camouflaging with sea clutter." Vivid recollection of what had happened to their colleagues a week earlier leapt into their minds.
        "Keep a close eye and inform the Hornets."

        Area 51 - The Dinosaur Pen

        Cole regarded the cold pepperoni pizza with distaste. It hadn’t tasted that well when it was hot and he shuddered at the thought of having a cold breakfast with it. He rose and walked to the pen door, muttering to himself. He opened the door and walked into the outside lab, the lights dimly reflecting off polished equipment. A number of people worked tiredly, screening through pages of computer printouts or tinkering with alien artifacts.
        He lumbered slowly to the main doors and punched the code into the wall pad. Outside, a security guard eyed him suspiciously but he hardly stopped to acknowledge him.
        Even at this early hour, the cafeteria wasn’t completely empty, a few lab coats sitting at round tables, hunched forward over mugs of steaming coffee talking quietly. He walked over to the machine and poured the hot liquid into a cup, grabbing a couple of doughnuts from a fridge.
        His success with the program had been spectacular, but still he was far from satisfied. Over the past weeks, they had learned how to operate the alien computer and interface with most of the bugwagon’s main systems, to the point of successfully engaging the drives and executing a few simple flight maneuvers with it. But what he considered vital, the ability of interfacing remotely with other alien computers, still eluded them. If he could somehow connect to other bug’s hardware, say aboard the big mother that had retreated to the moon, he could then seriously wreck havoc on them, possible destroying their system, feeding them bad information, effectively becoming a bug in their system.
        He shook his head. Shit, he’d watched too many movies lately. He sipped the coffee slowly, munching on the pastry. Later in the afternoon, he had a demonstration with some military bigwigs that were paying the Area a visit.
        How did he get into this mess?
        The door burst open and a young computer tech raced in.
        "Pete. Bertha is going haywire. You should see this." Big Bertha, the mother of all alien computers. What a name! He rose, fatigue leaving his bones with a rush.

        Lunar orbit

        The Nova Destroyer limped slowly around the terran satellite moon. Inside, engineers and technicians raced against time rebuilding the stricken vessel. The Defense System was in a shambles, all forward Ion Batteries gone, mangled beyond repair. The aft torpedo bays were functional, not so the fore ones. The main computer lines that ran along the ship had melted in the heat of the explosion in certain points, short circuiting most of the computer equipment. Vacuum seals had engaged quickly, but still death had reaped a great crop on that hour, sucking many comrades into the cold vacuum of space. Orbital drives were marginally operational, but they had lost the long range Ion Drives thanks to the complete failure of the main plasma force field generators.
        The SubCommander swore vengeance.
        All available power was being diverted to life support systems, thrusters, vital computer systems and orbital station keeping. At least the scanners were still allowing him to control the situation on Terra Three. A single gunship stood by in case of further attacks.
        The SubCommander was worried and angry. It had been a great setback in his plans. Without the Nova, orbital bombardment would be reduced drastically; the rest of the fleet counted on smaller Ion Batteries with limited amount of rounds and power, insufficient to destroy all but a few of the planned installations.
        A subspace communication had been sent to the home planet with the tidings, requesting assistance, spare parts and more gunships. The news that came back was unsettling indeed. Already most major industries were struggling from lack of supplies, forcing the economy into recession. Production plants were grinding slowly to a halt. The few cargo barges that arrived were not enough to meet their overwhelming demands.
        Faster production of mineral ore was imperative.
        And, yes, the SubCommander would have his reinforcements. More than what he asked for.
        A beep came from the door of his large, lavishly decorated private quarters, a small holographic image of the visitors popping up in front of the SubCommander desk.
        "Enter," said the Kraal.
        "Commander," said the second-in-command as soon as the door whooshed open. "As you ordered." Behind him tagged the Weapons SubOfficer, recently promoted due to the death of his predecessor and the Ground Forces Officer. He waved them to a seat.
        "What’s the situation?"
        "Repairs are proceeding at full speed. Scavenging spare parts from useless computers of the Ion Batteries, we’ll have the basic defense capabilities in under twenty four hours."
        "The batteries?"
        The Weapons Officer shook his head. "Useless. All forward batteries took a direct hit from the kinetic energy torpedo. Aft bays are working but we lost a great quantity of anti-matter torpedoes. The containment shields were failing and we were forced to eject them."
        "Propulsion."
        "Fields generators are burnt on number two and three drives. Engineering is working one the other two and should give us an answer shortly."
        "Sir, if I may. Why don’t we dispense with subtlety and wipe the terrans out immediately?" The SubCommander looked at the young Weapons SubOfficer. A fine Kraal, but too impetuous.
        "And how do you propose to do this?" he asked. The officer suddenly realized he was moving into deep and dangerous waters.
        "Nerve gas, sir. We are carrying a full complement of T-1 gas on board. Enough to wipe out the military centers, leaving plenty of population for slave labor."
        "I’m afraid he doesn’t know about the report, Commander," cut in the XO. The young Kraal suddenly realized his mistake.
        "Report? I beg excuses," he began. "I’m unaware..."
        The SubCommander raised his hand, silencing the conversation.
        "T-1 gas was developed on our planet and tested on captured terrans with satisfactory results. But, as it turns out, our brilliant scientists neglected to take into consideration the effects of the terran atmosphere into the equation. The gas is useless, oxidizes instantly. The expeditionary force found this out before we arrived." He moved in his chair. "I just received word from the Paars colonies. The rebellion has been quelled and half of the fleet will be coming this way. The plan has been modified somewhat, but not discarded. The invasion will began at once."
        A 3D terran globe appeared in front of them.
        "Here, as planned. Our staging point. Once this area is controlled, and that shouldn’t be too difficult," he said looking at the second-in-command, "we can expand. The terrans will send their war machines to the attack and we’ll pick them off from orbit. Our scientists are working on a modified version of the T-1," he continued for the benefit of the Weapons Officer, "promised to be delivered shortly. Your suggestion will then taken seriously into consideration."

        New York City

        Captain McCormick aimed his rifle and squeezed the trigger softly, caressing the shot straight at the gray’s head. Blam. Brain matter all over the sidewalk. Piece of cake.
        Actually, way too easy. So far they had only encountered a few lightly armed grays, one of them carrying a laser rifle! They had picked them off one by one, taking only one casualty, the suit saving the rookie’s life. None of the larger scaled monsters or the ones that ripped you apart from the inside. He expected, and reports confirmed, that a Robot was somewhere in the area. Locating it should have proved a simple task considering the destruction they generated, but he was getting all kinds of conflicting information. Either the Robot was all over the place, moving fast from one location to another, or the information he received was wildly inaccurate. A couple of NG helicopters were already on the way as aerial surveillance to attempt to pinpoint the mechanical bad news. Five minutes out.
        But the Captain was worried. Why would the bugs send a suicide squad to the city? Sure, it was pretty impressive and caused panic all over, but what had they to gain? Trade in some of their armored robots for a bunch of destroyed buildings, cars and a few dead? Something didn’t fit. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like when his in-law cooked, only worse.
        A scream brought him back to reality.
        Behind him, in one of the apartment buildings.
        "All squads. One has a possible. Report anything in." He signaled a squaddie and moved up the concrete stairs towards the building’s entrance. The right side of the building had collapsed onto the street, the opposite end sagging against the adjoining construction, which appeared to have been built with earthquake prevention in mind. Either that, or had been grossly over-designed. In any case, bless the architect. Most of the older buildings in the adjacent blocks had collapsed, leaving the streets in a mess, to put it lightly.
        He hadn’t noticed the door before, busted loose and held askew by a single hinge.
        The squaddie was the first in, pushing the door with the barrel of the rifle, flattening himself against the outer wall and then pivoting inside, weapon ready. McCormick followed him. A six by fifteen foyer greeted them, the wall to the right gone giving them a clear view of a ground floor apartment. Needed redecorating. Electricity was out and the little light that seeped in from the exterior accentuated the clouds of dust that hung in the air.
        The foyer ended in a wooden staircase, miraculously intact, which led to the first floor. A couple of bikes padlocked to a metal radiator. The high pitched scream came again, more intense, sending a chill up their spines.
        The squaddie started to ascend the stairs quickly, keeping his rifle at his shoulder, sighting continuously down the barrel. A small red laser dot danced in front of him as he moved upwards, crisscrossing the few rays of light that dared enter.
        First floor, maybe thirty feet long, two doors on each side. All closed. But the scream had come from higher up, he was sure of it. Wind blew gently in from the far side of the floor, where the wall had toppled into the street below. They continued up.
        Upstairs was even worse, part of the ceiling having collapsed, great slabs of plaster littering the floor. Three doors stood open. Maybe the residents had left in a hurry. Maybe they’d forgotten to close the doors. He didn’t think so. He looked at the squaddie, Pat Ferrigno, and raised a finger pointing at the first door. The squaddie moved slowly forward, McCormick covering his back, and pressed his back against the wall. Some plaster cascaded from the ceiling, startling them. Jesus, he was so concentrated, so focused! His eyes were now accustomed to the dim interior.
        The door gave way to a small hall, couple of pegs on a wall holding thick overcoats and scarves. McCormick shivered as he stood in the draft. He moved behind the squaddie into a medium sized living room, pictures lying shattered on the floor, the TV face down, tube busted. Something thumped in the next room and the Captain began to feel his heart race. The two men moved towards the sound, covering every possible attack axis. Knees bent, pivoting gently from side to side, ready for action. Another loud bang, and suddenly the blood curling scream again, not ten feet from where they stood. McCormick pointed the rifle at the door and fired, splintering the woodwork in a thousand pieces and then stepped forward and slammed his boot into it, bursting into the room.
        The Chrysalid turned and hissed viciously, saliva dribbling from its open jaw. Behind it, a small child curled into a corner, face stained with tears, eyes white with fear. The Chrysalid rose from its gruesome work, the body beneath, probably the kid’s mother, already starting to convulse.
        A movement caught McCormick’s eye and he turned his head slowly in time to catch a second apparition bursting from a ruptured body, slime mingling with blood. God, there seemed to be red everywhere. Without a word he blasted the second bug, the rhythmic braaap of the plasma rifle filling the air. The first Chrysalid flew forward, sinews extending, seeking its prey. The squaddie fired, catching it in mid-air. A loud shriek, blood spurted everywhere and it crashed at their feet. McCormick gritted his teeth and aimed his rifle and the dead lady.
        "Holy fuck!" said the squaddie. They had seen footage of the monsters but had never encountered one of them up close and personal. McCormick sidestepped the Chrysalid carcass and reached for the girl, lifting her with his arms.
        "It’s okay, kid. It’s over." It wouldn’t be. Not ever. At least not for the little girl, not after having seen her parents die in such a manner. He flicked the transmit button on the shoulder-mounted MX-300 radio.
        "Listen up, everyone. We have Chrysalids in the area." Chrysalids, a beautiful butterfly bursting from a cocoon. An accurate depiction or a sick joke?
        "Let’s get the hell outta here," he said to the squaddie.
        "Not so sure about that," replied the commando. "We have movement outside on the landing."
        "So let’s be careful." The squaddie inched forward towards the exit and stopped just shy of it. He poked his head into the landing, one way then the other.
        "Clear," he said. He stepped outside facing the stairs while McCormick covered his back. Gunfire erupted close by startling the hell out of them, shots fired in one of the apartments. Both men took positions flanking the farthest door.
        "US Special Forces," yelled McCormick. "Hold your fire, we’re coming in." Silence. Nothing was more unnerving than silence.
        "You in there. Are you OK?"
        Nothing. He set the girl gently on the floor and gave her a reassuring smile. "Don’t move," he said, stroking her hair. The kid seemed numb.
        He glanced at Pat and nodded. The door crashed in and both men raced inside taking cover immediately. The room was empty. A door burst open, an obese man in his forties firing a .38 at them. McCormick hit the floor behind a lounge chair.
        "Hold your fire! Special Forces!"
        "Drop your weapon," said the squaddie from the other side of the room. "Drop it now!"
        Damn, getting fired by the aliens was one thing.
        "Jesus, sorry. I thought..." stammered the large man.
        "Have you seen any, uh, aliens?" Jeez, the question sounded so dumb.
        "Fuck yeah, ugly black thing. Friggin’ shot it three times. Went through the window."
        They both looked at the window at the same time, shattered pane telling the story. The Captain moved to the window and peered outside.
        "Hey, we winning or what?" asked the resident.
        "Just stay inside, sir. And be careful with the gun." He looked out the window again and saw something he didn’t like.

        "Mac," his ear-radio came on. "Two. We got the last of the bad guys over here."
        "OK. Be advised I’ve just found the Robot. Plus we have at least one Chrysalid unaccounted for on the street." Next he called down to the communications man.
        "Tell the cavalry to stop advancing. We have problems here." The police and the National Guard were conducting house to house sweeps of the adjacent blocks, making sure that there were no lurkers. He hoped they didn’t find any. They would be in serious trouble if they did.
        "Squad One. Does everyone have an eyeball of the ‘bot?" All answers came back affirmative.
        "Fire on my mark. Two, one, fire!" Four beams of light cut into the Tank from different angles, first debilitating its shields, then cutting into the alloy. The Tank veered quickly to one side and suddenly rose into the air, ground thrusters moving it away from danger. It blasted past a corner and disappeared.
        "Damn. Squad One get on the fucker!" He turned and raced for the door.

        McCormick reached the street at a run, the little girl clinging fiercely to his shoulder. He saw the two remaining men from his squad step out of a building and yelled at them, pointing at a side street.
        "Follow it!"
        The black Chrys lay in a heap on the sidewalk, his radio man taking a closer look. He trotted over.
        "The Chrys?"
        "Yup, came out of the window into papa’s arms."
         "Call the cops and ask for a squad car. See if we can get the kid to safety."
        The radio man started to reach for the radio when the world exploded about them.
        McCormick landed in a pile on his back, thunder echoing in his ears, rubble cascading on him. Holy Mary. Another orbital attack? He sat up, reaching instinctively for his rifle, saw nothing. Pat Ferrigno came running up.
        "What the hell was that?" asked McCormick. His ears were ringing so hard he practically shouted at the commando.
        "Bug, new kind. Took out half the building."
        His ear radio squelched, making him wince. Suddenly he remembered the little girl. He saw her curled up lying to one side, as if asleep. He reached over. She was dead. Fuck. Rage boiled in his heart and he felt sick to the stomach.
        "Mac, two here. Chasing a floater one block west into an apartment complex, over."
        A floater? The heck was that?
        "Three here," came another voice before he could reply. "Spotted one moving into the subway. Advise." If the new bug possessed that kind of firepower, they needed to be dispensed with pronto.
        "Engage and report," he said into the mike. Then to his radio man: "Get on the horn to control. Tell them to close off all subway stations in the surrounding areas. Advise them this one is nasty mother." Damn, he had a feeling that the situation was getting out of control.

        Sergeant Lee poked his head over the long descending mechanical stairway of the subway. Someone had neglected to turn it off and it continued to operate, a rhythmic creaking caused from lack of proper maintenance. By some strange miracle, the power was still on but most of the fluorescents had blown, leaving the station in semi-darkness.
        "Clear," he whispered into the mike. The subway was empty, totally abandoned, except for the multicolor graffiti decorating the walls. Leroy Rulez. But they had seen the floater disappear into it. Damn, weeding it out was going to a bitch. A squaddie started to descend using the normal stairs that ran parallel to the mechanical ones. Half way down he stopped, crouching low, listening. He raised a hand. The team moved down cautiously.
        Lee descended quickly, scanning the area, taking everything into account, eyes swiveling from side to side. A metallic door at the end of the descent, some kind of maintenance entrance. He came abreast of it and nearly jumped out of his skin. The clang rang out clearly in the quiet of the station.
        "Check the door," he hissed. A squaddie moved quickly to one side and tried the handle, rotating it a few degrees. He looked at Lee with a questioning glance. Lee nodded and the squaddie flung the door open, crouching in the frame, rifle poised at his shoulder ready to fire.
        "Hold it!" Lee glanced inside. A group of people were huddled, terrified looks on their dirty faces. "Jesus Christ," he breathed. Louder, "come on," he said, waving his hand. "Pete," he called to a nearby commando. "Escort them topside."
        From a dozen yards away, the point man gave a low whistle. Lee looked around, satisfied that his squad was spread out correctly.
        "Floater in the tube," whispered the point over the radio.
        "Can you hit it?"
        "Unsure. Long shot."
        "What’s it doing?"
        The squaddie poked his out into the subway tunnel briefly. "Just sitting there. Uh, ten feet off the ground. Wait. Oh, shit, it’s coming this way."
        Lee motioned another squaddie. "Gets close enough, waste it."
        The Ethereal fired first.

        McCormick rounded the corner at a dead run, chasing the two squaddies that were following the Robot. He located them up ahead, crouching behind a battered Olds, firing their rifles. The car rocked and they leapt out of the way, dashing for other cover.
        The Captain arrived and skidded to a stop at the corner.
        "Right past the corner, Mac," informed of his men. McCormick poked his head around the building and quickly took a step back as the masonry disintegrated courtesy of the Elerium slugs. It had taken a beating and could still fight back. A squaddie fired off some more shots, missing as the ‘bot retreated into an alley. The commandos advanced cautiously.
        Very exposed, thought the Captain, as they crossed the avenue, rapidly closing in on the alley entrance. A few more yards, he thought, a strange sensation rippling down his spine. A loud whine filled the air as they approached the alley, snow blowing about. The Robot roared into the open fifteen feet off the ground, thrusters pushing it forward, nearly knocking them off their feet. The alley had been a dead end.
        "Shit," yelled McCormick and dove to the ground. The Robot fired.

        Lee fell in a heap from the walkway onto the subway tracks, sucked by the violence of the explosion. He should have been pushed backwards, but it felt like a great hole had opened up in front of him, dragging him forward. Pain exploded through his body as he crashed into the ground, wooden crossplanks and rubble smacking into his exposed head. He heard something snap.
        His first though was for his men. He glanced up, his vision blurred and short of breath and spotted an arm draped over the side of the walkway, inert. Frantically, he looked around for his rifle and failing to see it, started to pull his sidearm from the shoulder holster.
        The alien had disappeared down the tunnel, into the darkness ahead. Lee picked himself off the ground and laboriously climbed back onto the platform. He did a quick check on his comrades and grabbed a rifle that was lying close by.
        "Hey, you flying dipshit!" he screamed into the tunnel. "You forgot one!" He jumped down onto the tracks grunting as a shock wave of pain shot up his side and ran forward, caution lost. Soon he was galloping in darkness, the dim fluorescent lighting of the station lost behind him. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and he had to stop from time to time to wipe the blood from his eyes. His uniform was torn to shreds along his upper body, but the armor had stopped most of the blast. Nothing seriously broken, he hoped. Well, maybe his leg. Man, it hurt!
        He kept going, limping as fast as he could. The tunnel wound on, describing a long, gentle curve to the right, dull metal rails converging in the distance.
        He kept his eyes glued forward, scanning the ground in front and the air above. The bug could be anywhere. He stopped again resting his hand against the dirty wall, tried to calm his breathing. It was all he could hear. That and his heart thumping loudly in his chest, gushing blood into his ears. He doubled over and nearly puked.
        His head whipped up. Up ahead, gunfire! Damn, the bug had probably arrived at the next station, found the boys in blue waiting for him. Come on, he wished, double back. I’m waiting for you. He looked wildly around for cover, an ambush spot. Zilch. Not like in the movies. Plenty of nooks and crannies there. Slowly, he inched forward. An eternity passed, light seeming to seep in the distance. Where the hell was the floater? Panic rising in his chest. Had he missed it? Calm down, maybe it’s dead. Maybe the SWAT teams got a lucky shot. Maybe, it was floating right in motherfucker front of HIM! Lee brought his rifle up and fired from the shoulder, a quick reaction shot, no time to aim, plasma cutting the air and illuminating the darkness. But, so did the Ethereal.

        For the second time, Lee lay on his face, concussion making his head woozy. He tried to sit up, but collapsed dizzily back onto the ground, retched up a mouthful of blood. The alien floated towards him, ten feet in the air, the large gun pointed squarely at him. He nearly smiled when he saw that one of its arms was missing, ripped by his shots. His vision blurred badly.
        Fear crept into his mind. Jesus, I’m going to die. The alien started to descend slowly to the ground in front of him, so close he could reach him with his spit. Lee had always prepared for the moment. He had never thought how terrifying it would result.

        The squaddie took the hit directly in the face, plasma obliterating his head. Time went into slow mode like in a childhood nightmare. McCormick, prone on the floor, lifted his rifle and fired at the hovering Robot, while the other squaddie moved ever so slowly to avoid the energy beams that tore holes in the asphalt. The Captain clearly saw pieces of alloy ripping from its frame, gas lines exploding and hissing freely. It bucked and shuddered as it lost thrust and crashed heavily against the street.
        McCormick let a large breath escape. God, that had been close!

        Captain McCormick moved his men so that the intersection was fully covered, air tight. Then he called his squads.
        "Two, watcha got?" A brief pause.
        "Floater is out," ragged breathing. "Sonofabitch nearly wiped us out. I got two wounded and ... Tony is gone." He could feel the emotion flowing through the radio. McCormick closed his eyes. Add the squaddie that the Robot had killed. Damn it!
        "Mac, Lee," came the faint voice, tearing him from his thoughts. "Badly hit, here. Rest of ... squad ... unconscious." The Sergeant had a fit of coughing, which went on for a few seconds. "Took a mean blast." "OK, Lee. Stay put. We’ll get you out of there in a minute. What about the bug?" asked McCormick.
        "Landed on the frigging third rail. Felt like the fourth of July. Blue flashes all over." The radio went silent as the Sergeant fainted.
        Great, just great. Two thirds of his team to the infirmary.

Thanks!

X-COM: UFO Defence is copyright 1996 by Microprose Software, Inc. All rights reserved.