163: Chapter 163 The Meat Grinder

Weyland-Yutani Corporation North American Research Center.

Inside the laboratory on the eighteenth basement floor.

Hudson stood behind the bulletproof glass of the observation room, staring at the two bodies secured to surgical tables by alloy chains inside a sterile chamber.

On the left surgical table, the unconscious Flower Crab was pinned down by titanium alloy restraints. The puncture wound in his chest had been temporarily sutured, but green clan blood continued to seep from the wound.

On the right surgical table, the limbs of the Predalien were locked tight with high-strength alloy chains. Every struggle triggered an electric shock, and its fan-shaped head's compound eyes were filled with violence.

“The gene comparison results are out.” The technical director pushed the door open and entered, handing a tablet to Hudson. “The Predalien's genetic sequence has a match rate of over ninety-seven percent with the Origin Factor.”

“This thing integrates the dual genetic chains of the Yautja and the Xenomorph, perfectly solving the manic side effects of the Origin Factor.”

This book is first published across the web.

Hudson took the tablet, flipped through a few pages, and the corner of his mouth curled into an Arc.

“The billion dollars was worth it.”

“I don't know if it was worth it or not,” a somber voice came from behind.

Coulson, the President of Weyland-Yutani North America, walked into the observation room, dressed in a suit and tie, without a hint of a smile on his face.

“I only know that this money was deducted from my annual budget. I will make that Asian spit it all back out, with interest.”

Hudson handed the tablet back to the technical director.

“Once the super soldier project reaches mass production, a billion will just be pocket change.”

Coulson didn't respond.

He walked to the glass, staring at the Predalien on the surgical table, the struggling body reflected in his pupils.

A muffled sound suddenly came from overhead.

It was a Level 1 alarm.

The building was under intrusion.

Coulson's pupils constricted, and he immediately pressed the red emergency button under the desk.

The explosion-proof steel doors on the eighteenth basement floor dropped instantly, the isolation covers of the sterile chambers locked down, and the entire floor's defense system was activated.

“Activate the highest-level containment protocol! Notify the Emergency Response Force to deploy defenses in the basement immediately!” Coulson's voice showed no trace of panic; instead, it carried a hint of suppressed excitement.

“Control room, switch all surveillance footage of the intruders to the main screen and mark their movement trajectories.”

“Sir, they've paralyzed the central control system! All containment subjects on the third basement floor have been released!” the technical director's voice trembled. “The corridors are already filled with Xenomorphs and test subjects!”

The surveillance footage switched to the third basement floor.

The doors of all chambers holding test subjects popped open simultaneously.

It wasn't the Xenomorphs who opened them; it was the Predators remotely releasing them from the security control room.

They had not only paralyzed the entire building's central control system but also jammed all external communication signals from the eighteenth basement floor, even tampering with the Emergency Response Force's dispatch orders, causing them to run straight into the Xenomorph swarm on the twelfth basement floor.

Their goal was never to rescue Flower Crab; it was to use the out-of-control test subjects to create chaos, paralyze the building's defense system, and simultaneously use these low-level test subjects to deplete the Xenomorph hive's effective strength, clearing obstacles for the subsequent recovery of the Predalien.

Coulson walked to the bulletproof glass, staring at the Predalien on the surgical table, a cold smile tugging at his lips.

“It's just as well that the central control is paralyzed. The security and test subjects dying outside will help us filter out the strongest samples.”

“Tell the security forces on the second basement floor to hold the stairwell at all costs, lure the live Xenomorphs and Predators toward the eighteenth floor. Prioritize live capture, and if necessary, sacrifice all non-core areas above.”

He was long accustomed to dealing with these 'abnormal creatures.' Even with the central control system paralyzed, he remained arrogantly confident that his eighteenth-floor defense system could lock down any accident, completely failing to realize that the Predators' goal from the start was not a frontal assault.

Another violent explosion came from overhead.

A massive crater was blasted into the explosion-proof steel door of the eighteenth basement floor by a plasma caster.

Coulson finally couldn't smile anymore.

“Emergency Response Force! Fast!”

Weyland-Yutani Corporation North American Research Center.

Twelfth basement floor.

Soldiers of the Emergency Response Force poured out of the dedicated elevator.

Twenty-four soldiers, all equipped with assault rifles and bulletproof vests, their faces behind tactical helmets tightly covered by masks.

They were super soldiers modified by Weyland-Yutani using the Origin Factor; their muscle density was three times that of a normal person, and their neural reaction speed was doubled.

The lead commander wasted no words, raising his hand to fire at the Xenomorph swarm surging from the end of the corridor.

Tungsten-core armor-piercing rounds shredded the fan-shaped heads of the foremost Drones, and green acid splashed onto the walls, corroding a series of holes.

A Xenomorph broke through the fire net and pounced on the formation. The soldiers didn't retreat, drawing tactical axes from their waists to meet it.

The speed that Xenomorphs took pride in did not hold an absolute advantage in front of these soldiers strengthened by the Origin Factor.

Three tactical axes swung down simultaneously, splitting the Xenomorph's fan-shaped head in half. Acidic blood splashed onto the bulletproof vests, and the Kevlar fibers hissed with white smoke as they were corroded.

“Advance! Force all test subjects back into the containment chambers!” the commander ordered.

The soldiers advanced in tactical formation, their assault rifles' rate of fire pushed to the maximum.

The Xenomorph swarm was suppressed at the corner of the corridor. The Drones in the front row were shredded by bullets, while those in the back row continued to rush forward over the corpses of the front row.

Acidic blood splashed onto the bulletproof vests, corroding hole after hole, but it didn't penetrate through.

A Warrior Xenomorph hung upside down from the ceiling, its tail stinger piercing through a soldier's shoulder.

The bulletproof vest was pierced like paper before the tail stinger, and green acid was injected into the body along the stinger. The soldier let out a shrill scream as his entire person was corroded from the inside.

The commander turned, pressing his assault rifle against the Warrior Xenomorph's eye socket and pulling the trigger, causing the entire fan-shaped head to explode.

“Tighten the formation! Cover each other!”

The ventilation duct's grille suddenly exploded outward.

Three Predators jumped out from inside, landing without making a sound.

The lead Hawk-masked Predator popped out his wrist blades, directly severing the assault rifles of the last two soldiers, while simultaneously sidestepping the commander's burst of fire.

The second Lion-masked Predator, shoulder-mounting a plasma caster, blasted the cover piled up by the soldiers with ammunition crates, the shockwave sending the three soldiers in the front row flying.

The third Predator extended his telescopic spear, piercing the chest of a soldier trying to fight back and pinning him to the wall.

The Emergency Response Force's formation was instantly shattered.

The commander immediately ordered free fire. Assault rifles sprayed wildly at the Predators, bullets striking the Predators' exoskeletons and igniting a shower of sparks, yet leaving only shallow bullet marks.

Three minutes later, the corridor was completely quiet. Of the twenty-four Emergency Response Force soldiers, only the commander remained, hiding in the elevator shaft, having barely escaped with his life.

All other soldiers were dead.

The Hawk-masked Predator retracted his wrist blades and let out a low growl.

He didn't stay to fight the surging Xenomorph swarm, leading the other two Predators as they moved quickly toward the eighteenth basement floor through the ventilation ducts.

Their core objective had only ever been the Predalien on the eighteenth basement floor.

The Hawk-masked Predator didn't notice the duct grille behind him sliding down silently.

A Xenomorph far exceeding the size of a normal Drone crawled out from the grille, its tail stinger piercing through the Hawk-masked Predator's chest from behind, hoisting him into mid-air.

It possessed a contour resembling a human face and pale skin.

Yes, it was the White Queen.

The Hawk-masked Predator's wrist blades were still flailing in vain as the White Queen's inner jaw shot out, shattering his helmet and piercing through his skull.

The Lion-masked Predator turned, his plasma caster aimed at the White Queen.

Before he could pull the trigger, over a dozen Drones swarmed from the side, their claws frantically tearing at his exoskeleton armor.

The plasma caster fired, blowing apart three Drones, but more Drones pounced, pinning him down.

The twelfth basement floor had completely turned into a meat grinder.

The White Queen threw down the Hawk-masked Predator's corpse and let out a deafening roar.

The Xenomorphs on the entire floor hissed in response simultaneously.

In the darkness, even more fan-shaped heads lit up.

The White Queen led the swarm of Drones toward the eighteenth basement floor.

There was the surgical table where it was born, the body of Flower Crab, and all the genetic samples stored by Weyland-Yutani. The Hive was calling.

The main entrance of the Tri-Union Building.

Night Owl stood on the steps, looking at the bodies scattered across the hall, no ripple of emotion visible under his mask.

Standing behind him were Flame Demon, Magnet Queen, seven or eight mid-tier Reincarnators, and over twenty low-tier Reincarnators.

Steel Skeleton stood at the very back of the group, his mechanical eye flashing red as he scanned the structure of the entire building.

There was also a man in the team with blue electric currents wrapped around his hands named Thunderstorm; he was Arc's older brother and the main AOE damage dealer of the squad.

Their mission was originally to locate the Xenomorph nest, but the surveillance footage from the Tri-Union Building intercepted by Steel Skeleton made Night Owl change his mind.

Not only were there a large number of Xenomorphs and Yautja inside, but there was also an entire underground biological laboratory filled with high-value genetic samples and alien technology.

"Don't be in a hurry to kill the Xenomorphs and Predators," Night Owl's voice was cold. "Empty out everything in the lab first. If anyone blocks the way, clear them out directly."

The Reincarnators showed smiles of habitual indifference.

To them, the weak natives were much easier to kill than Xenomorphs, and they could loot the lab along the way—a guaranteed profit.

A female clerk crawled out from a cabinet in the pantry, her face covered in tears, as she tremblingly reached out to the leading Reincarnator.

"Great, you're finally here... I know where the lab is, I'll take you there, please, save me..."

Thunderstorm casually threw out a bolt of blue electricity.

The female clerk didn't even let out a scream before she was electrocuted into charcoal, collapsing beside the cabinet.

"Noisy."

Night Owl glanced at the corpse on the floor, his voice devoid of any ripple: "Steel Skeleton, hack the access control on the eighteenth basement floor and open the blast door within three minutes."

"The rest of you, clear out all living things along the way. Whether they are natives, Xenomorphs, or Predators, kill anyone who stands in the way."

Greedy smiles appeared on the Reincarnators' faces. To them, these unarmed natives, just like the Xenomorphs, were targets for farming general points.

...

Above Washington.

Twelve thousand meters.

A mixed formation consisting of four F-15Cs, four F-16Cs, two F/A-18Fs, plus two F-22 Raptors was speeding toward the Tri-Union Building.

An unknown signal jumped onto the HUD of the lead pilot, Colonel Brian; a small aircraft, traveling at Mach 2.8, was descending from the clouds.

"Target locked, AIM-120 ready."

Two F-15s were the first to fire.

Four air-to-air missiles trailed exhaust flames as they shot out from under the wings.

The missiles were blocked by a layer of orange energy shield.

The shockwave only made the Predator fighter sway slightly; the fuselage was completely unscathed.

The Predator fighter made a sharp turn and fired two plasma cannons.

The two F-15s had no time to dodge and were hit directly in the fuselage, exploding into two balls of fire in the air.

"Fuck! The target has an energy shield!"

"Wait, it's turning around, it's coming for us!"

"Cannons ready!"

The formation dispersed instantly.

An F-16 used its high thrust-to-weight ratio to bite onto the tail of the Predator fighter, and its 20mm Vulcan cannon fired.

Armor-piercing rounds hit the energy shield, splashing patches of orange light; the energy shield's brightness grew dimmer and dimmer.

The Predator fighter suddenly pulled up. The F-16 was chasing too closely and was grazed by the plasma cannon's exhaust on its left wing, spiraling toward the ground.

An F/A-18 intercepted from the side and fired a volley of two missiles; the Predator fighter's energy shield finally shattered.

Brian seized the opportunity, piloting his F-22 to cut in from the six o'clock position. The Vulcan cannon fired, and armor-piercing rounds riddled the Predator fighter's cockpit like a sieve.

The Predator fighter trailed black smoke and dived toward the Washington Monument, exploding into a massive ball of fire on the ground.

One Predator fighter for two F-15s, one F-16, and one F/A-18.

Before Brian could catch his breath, twelve red dots suddenly jumped onto the radar screen.

Twelve Predator fighters flew out from the mothership, instantly locking onto the remaining mixed formation.

"Warning! A large number of enemy targets approaching! Count: twelve!"

"Retreat! Full speed retreat!"

The formation fought while retreating, but another two F-15s and one F-16 were hit by plasma cannons. The F/A-18's supersonic capability was inferior to the F-22, and it was caught by two Predator fighters and shredded into a fireball by cannons.

In the end, only Brian and his wingman's two F-22s remained, along with one damaged F-16.

Brian's left wing had been grazed, and half of the hardpoint had been melted away.

He gritted his teeth and pulled the fighter up, engaging full supersonic cruise. At a top speed of Mach 2.25, the Predator fighters were shaken off after chasing for less than twenty kilometers.

The twelve Predator fighters turned back.

Their mission was to clear the airspace above the Tri-Union Building to cover the ground squad in recovering the Predalien.

Now that the airspace was completely under control, there was no need to waste fuel for one low-health F-22.

Brian landed on the airbase runway. The moment the cockpit canopy popped open, the ground crew saw that his hands were still shaking.

Of the entire mixed formation, twelve fighters went out, and three came back.

Pentagon Operations Command Center.

Major General Bradley stared at the rolling battle reports on the screen, the color in his face fading bit by bit.

All four F-15s crashed, only one damaged F-16 returned, and neither of the two F/A-18s survived. Twelve fighters went out, and three came back. The other side only lost one.

He slammed his coffee cup onto the table, porcelain shards flying everywhere.

"Fourth-generation fighters are nothing but targets in front of alien fighters! What kind of flying is that! The F-15 couldn't even get a missile lock! The F-16 couldn't penetrate after biting on! The F-18 couldn't even keep up supersonically!"

None of the staff officers dared to respond.

"Only the F-22 can fight," Bradley's voice lowered, as if squeezed through his teeth. "Stealth allows it to get close, and supersonic cruise allows it to bite on. Except for the F-22, all active fighters are scrap metal."

Everyone knew clearly that the Predator fighter's speed, maneuverability, and weapon systems completely crushed the US Army's fourth-generation fighters; only the F-22 could barely contend.

Bradley turned around and looked at the large screen behind him, which was still replaying the footage of Brian shooting down the Predator fighter.

"Get me the Secretary of Defense. The F-22 production line must be restarted immediately."

A staff officer spoke up cautiously: "General, the F-22 production line was closed in 2011. All of Lockheed Martin's tooling and equipment have been mothballed, and the supporting suppliers switched production long ago."

"To restart the production line, just restoring the tooling would take two years, and the budget would start at at least nine hundred million US dollars."

"Then what else can we do?!" Bradley smashed his fist on the table. "If we don't restart it, what will we use to take to the skies when the alien fighters come back? Use the F-35? That thing's top speed is only Mach 1.6, it's not even as good as an F-16!"

Another staff officer pushed the door open and entered, his expression grim.

"General, the reply from the Department of Defense is that the proposal to restart the F-22 production line was rejected by the Congressional Budget Committee last year."

"The reason given was that the cost is too high and the F-35 is already sufficient."

"Additionally, the export ban on the F-22 is still in place. Restarting the production line would rely solely on domestic orders, and the cost per unit would soar to over two hundred million US dollars."

"Furthermore, Lockheed Martin's tooling has been mothballed for three years; restoration will take at least two years."

Bradley stared at that staff officer for a full five seconds.

Then he placed the shards of the coffee cup he was clutching onto the table one by one, his voice suddenly calming down.

"Then go find Congress and tell them that the airspace over Washington was cleared by alien fighters today. Twelve fighters went out, and three came back."

"If they think the F-35 can hold out, let them come to the front lines and see for themselves."

However, what Bradley didn't know was that the most important reason why Lockheed Martin was reluctant to resume production was that they had already sold the F-22 production line!

As the final buyer, Fu Haoran had no idea that he was about to wait for a group of "fat sheep" willing to spend a fortune.