Alien Resurrection

by A. C. Crispin

  He settled back in the seat. Sabra had her favorite music blaring—the cacophony of its modern beat pulsed through the floor. He made no attempt to lower the sound. Pilot got to pick the tunes. It was as close to a “rule” as anything they had aboard the Betty. He addressed the grunt over the comlink.

  “My authorization code is ‘fuck you,’ son.”

  Beside him, Sabra gave a snort of laughter. Elgyn noticed she was playing some video space battle game at the same time she was piloting the ship in. It was amazing how many things that woman could do at the same time. Made him warm just thinking about it. He caught her gaze and gave her a meaningful look. She returned it.

  “Now, open the goddamn bay,” he told the soldier, “or General Perez is gonna do a Wichita stomp on your virgin ass.”

  Apparently, the general had already conveyed that message, because the Auriga’s automated computer voice was giving Hillard the coordinates she needed.

  “Bring us in on three-oh descent,” he told Hillard. “Ride the parallel.”

  She never took her eyes off her video game. “Darlin’, it’s done.”

  Elgyn got out of the chair as the space station grew larger in their foreground. “Don’t cut thrust till six hundred meters. Give ’em a little fright.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb before leaving, and she gave him a wink.

  He glanced around the rest of the cockpit, the assorted makeshift equipment, mixed in with out-of-date games, bits of clothing, all the flotsam and jetsam of their crew strewn here and there. In the middle of all the organized chaos stood Christie. The massive but handsome dark-skinned man made any space he was in look small, Elgyn thought admiringly. A good man to have at your back—assuming he was on your side.

  Christie was busy strapping on his armature. The complicated apparatus with its intricate micro-pulleys and gears was the same color as his mahogany skin, and the mechanical system his own design. Strapped to his powerful forearms below the elbows, it all but disappeared, and allowed him to carry weapons where few people ever thought to look.

  Elgyn approached the man. “We’re coming in. Time to enjoy a little of the general’s hospitality.”

  “Oh, great,” the big man sneered. His expressive, dark eyes rolled to convey his contempt. “Army food!”

  Moving closer, Elgyn helped Christie tighten the last strap on the apparatus. “It’ll keep us till we can get the family wagon up to spec. Assuming the natives are friendly.”

  Christie listened to what Elgyn hadn’t said. “We expecting any trouble?”

  Elgyn hesitated a bit too long. “From Perez? I doubt it, but better to be on guard.”

  Christie didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t make another comment. He just nodded once, shaking his lion’s mane of dreadlocks into place, and the rest was understood.

  * * *

  The engine room of the Betty shared space with the cargo bay. It was there that Annalee Call and John Vriess were busy working, trying to squeeze just a little more life into the antiquated lump of machinery they jokingly called a stabilizer. Call knew Vriess was looking forward to this docking. They were really stretched now, some of their equipment just way too old to be refurbished anymore. They’d been doing their best, but Elgyn was hoping the Army would let them have some spares—a little bonus for a job well done. Call and Vriess both hoped Elgyn was right.

  Call, a slight woman with delicate features, was standing beside the square block of machinery, her small, thin fingers capably getting into some of the smaller parts of the temperamental unit. Meanwhile, Vriess, a blocky, middle-aged man with thinning, sandy-blond hair, a strong jaw, and bulbous nose, was stretched out on his dolly on the ground. As the other engineer pushed himself under the equipment to attack the overhaul from the bottom, Call lowered the upper portion of the stabilizer down over its bottom half by means of a magnetic chain hoist. They’d spent hours refitting—again—the brain of the machine. Now they had to rejoin it with its mechanical bottom and get the whole thing to agree to work together in harmony.

  As Call matched the machinery up and demagnetized the hoist, she found herself becoming more aware of her coworker. Call liked working with Vriess. He was hardworking, inventive, and focused on his job. A lot more than she could say for some of the people on this ship. She released the chains from the upper system and watched the hoist retreat back to the ceiling.

  From beneath the machinery, Vriess started whistling a little tune, something they’d picked up in some bar on their last port of call. She smiled, remembering that evening. That was another reason she liked working with Vriess. He was usually cheerful and easygoing.

  She picked up the tune herself, whistling along, the two of them making an impromptu little harmony as they worked steadily.

  Distantly, Call was aware of another person entering the area. She kept whistling, trying not to tense, trying not to telegraph her feelings. If she wasn’t careful, Vriess would pick up her tension. She didn’t want to distract him while he was working. She kept whistling, only allowing one part of her to pay any attention to the man strolling on the high catwalk that overlooked the engine room.

  It was Johner. Call didn’t know his first name, or even if he had one. Not that she would care. She wouldn’t care if Johner died. She hated the man. She hated everything he was, everything he did. There were days when her major job aboard the Betty was making sure Johner didn’t know how much she detested him. Johner would enjoy it too much for her to give him that satisfaction.

  The wiry tech made sure Johner’s appearance didn’t distract her from her work. He’d ridicule her if she dropped a screw or skinned a knuckle because she wasn’t paying attention. And she didn’t want to alert Vriess that Johner was there. Maybe if they both ignored him, he’d just go away.

  Fat chance, Call thought, as the tall, thickset, powerful man stopped walking right above them. He grinned at her, his narrow, ice-blue eyes reminding her of a pig’s. He was without a doubt the ugliest man she’d ever seen, and the ragged scar that crossed his face didn’t do a thing to improve his appearance. But it was his meanness of spirit that made him truly hideous. Call continued ignoring him. He just grinned more, his scar pulling the smile up into a gross parody of a human expression, and started humming the tune along with them. But Johner’s version of the song had a mean twist to it, a rough, ugly edge that matched his outlook.

  From the edge of her peripheral vision, Call noticed him remove his pocket knife, flip it open, and use it to clean under his thumbnail. She turned her head, so he could continue his personal grooming without her awareness, and forced herself to keep whistling along with Vriess. She increased her volume, hoping Vriess wouldn’t hear Johner’s contribution. She didn’t see Johner dangle the knife in the air over Vriess’s legs, or drop it.

  She saw it hit, though.

  The small blade embedded itself to the hilt in the meaty part of Vriess’s left leg. Call felt a rush of anger she couldn’t ignore, and stood outraged, mouth open. She didn’t know whether to shout or curse or hurl something at the son of a bitch.

  Beneath the stabilizer, Vriess kept whistling, completely unaware.

  “What is wrong with you?” she hissed through her teeth at the chuckling Johner.

  Now that she was no longer whistling, Vriess finally realized something was going on, and pulled himself out from under the machine, rolling the dolly well clear of it. He spied Johner on the catwalk, and glanced at Call, confused by her anger.

  “Just a little target practice,” Johner said, completely unashamed. He indicated the man on the dolly. “Vriess isn’t complaining.”

  Call looked worriedly at the other mechanic, then glanced at Vriess’s thigh, so that he would follow her gaze. When he spotted the knife jutting out of his leg, he yelled, “Goddamnit!” Hitting a lever on the dolly made the back of it snap up. Then the seat rose, and the leg rests folded, and it was once again the versatile, mechanical wheelchair Vriess had built himself. Paralyzed from the waist down, th
e capable, middle-aged engineer glared at the small penknife embedding in his unfeeling leg.

  “Johner, you son of a whore!” Vriess swore angrily, and with all the strength in his powerful arms, flung his wrench at the man.

  But Johner ably dodged it, laughing that much harder. “Oh, come on! You didn’t feel a thing!” Johner thought that was an absolute riot and laughed even more.

  Now, Vriess looked embarrassed, which made Call even angrier. Without making a big deal about it, she took out a clean handkerchief from her back pocket, grasped the knife, yanked it out, and put the folded handkerchief over the seeping wound. Vriess held the cloth in place tightly, waiting for the blood flow to stop. Neither of them talked about it, they just worked together to get the job done.

  Call glanced up at the catwalk and the ambulatory bastard she could not call a man. “You are an inbred motherfucker, you know that?”

  What did Johner care what she called him? He’d gotten a rise out of both of them, so he’d won. Still chuckling, he held out a hand. “I’ll take that knife back now.”

  Call was just about to fold the blade down and toss it back to him when she reconsidered. She was too angry to be so cooperative.

  Vriess was watching her. He touched her elbow. “Call, forget it. He’s been sucking down too much home brew.”

  She knew Vriess wasn’t afraid of Johner, in spite of the man’s size and advantage. But it would be like him to worry about her. Despite her wiry muscles, she was little, slight. And Johner had no qualms about hurting anyone. He thought that was fun. But Call didn’t care. She was tired of stepping lightly around the abusive bastard.

  In one swift move, she jammed the knife blade between two welded metal supports and snapped the blade off clean.

  Johner’s face went dark with rage. He pointed down at her. “Don’t push me, little Annalee. You hang with us a while, you’ll learn I’m not the man with whom to fuck.”

  Call stood her ground defiantly. Size didn’t count for everything. She could take care of herself, and if he wanted to find that out for himself, well, fine.

  The two of them stared each other down for a moment, and then, to her amazement, Johner blinked first. Still blustering, he left the catwalk.

  Call pushed her short, dark hair out of her nearly black eyes and worked her jaw back and forth, still fuming. The pleasant work environment she’d been enjoying with Vriess was shattered.

  Until he smacked her lightly on the hip, and quipped, “We really have to start associating with a better class of people.”

  * * *

  Sabra Hillard’s expert, rough hands hovered the tiny Betty under the huge underbelly of the oversized, bloated Auriga. “My tax dollars at work,” she muttered to herself, then grinned, remembering she never paid taxes.

  Above her, the docking port’s massive doors slid open. In her headset, the Auriga’s computer intoned, “Commence docking.”

  “Aye, aye, Pops,” she muttered moving the vessel into position.

  The Auriga’s massive electromagnets moved into position as Hillard nestled the small ship in the docking port. With a great clanging of metal, the Auriga positioned its magnets against the Betty’s hull and secured her in place.

  Like a baby in a safety seat, Hillard thought. Now why does that thought make me so uncomfortable? A restraint, after all, was still a restraint.

  “Docking is completed,” the Auriga’s Father told her. “You may disembark.”

  Even the computer sounded like it was giving orders. Shrugging off her apprehension, Hillard hit a comm button. “Avast, me hearties! All ashore who’s goin’ ashore. Remember. The general said no weapons aboard the Auriga. Meet’cha at the airlock, guys.” She signed off.

  Why did docking in a station this big always make her feel like she was being swallowed alive?

  5

  Perez watched his soldiers prepare for the disembarking crew of the Betty from an elevated catwalk high above them. His critical eye scanned every soldier, alert for any signs of sloppiness or disorder. The troops looked good. The corridor outside the airlock was as pristine and shipshape as the rest of the vessel. Just the way he wanted it. And well it should be. He’d hand-picked every one of the soldiers aboard the Auriga himself. Each one was looking for bigger and better things, higher commissions, more interesting action. Being under Perez’s command guaranteed them special consideration when they finished their tour of duty. So far not one of them had let him down. He knew they weren’t about to start now. Not with him standing right here watching them.

  The air lock cycled and Father’s voice intoned, “Cycle complete. Doors opening.”

  As the pneumatic doors lifted with a groan, the crew from the small pirate ship was slowly revealed to the soldiers. Perez couldn’t help but wonder what some of his troops thought. Everything aboard the Auriga was spit and polish, the way Perez demanded it be. Each soldier below him was dressed identically, groomed identically. Male or female, big or small, ethnic origin—none of it mattered. They were a unit responding to a single leader.

  Not like this ragtag bunch, he thought derisively. The only thing similar about them was their dissimilarity. Their clothes, their hair, the way they stood, the way they walked… Or rolled, Perez thought with some amusement as one of the crew members disembarked in a mechanized wheelchair. He shook his head. It was such a bizarre, eclectic group, Perez couldn’t imagine how Elgyn ever got any of them to follow even the most basic orders. He wondered how they survived out in space in that ramshackle ship where discipline and order were the only things that could keep you alive.

  The Betty’s crew shuffled forward into the hold, approaching the troops. As they did, Perez reevaluated his assessment. He watched their wary eyes and tense posture, noted their leathery skin, the mechanics’ grease so imbedded in their flesh it was like a tattoo. There was something they had in common, he realized. Each was marked by a visible toughness that wasn’t just bravado. Just like his soldiers, this crew would kill if they had to. Even, he suspected, that little girl in the middle. Wonder where she came from? Elgyn didn’t mention taking on new staff. Perez tried not to wonder if they had already killed. He shook the thought away. These were pirates in every sense of the word, but Perez saw nothing glamorous about it.

  Smugglers, he thought grimly. Admit it, Martin. They’re nothing but thieves and murderers. And you hired them. Why flinch at inviting them in? It wasn’t as if you had a choice.

  The eclectic group slowed as it reached the point where the soldiers stood ready to search them. Cooperatively, several of them lifted their arms to be frisked. The huge black man in the forefront raised his arms high, his open shirt revealing his massive, rippled chest. As the soldier before him frisked him efficiently, the black man shook his head, incredulous. The Betty crew mumbled comments among themselves.

  Suddenly, a sensor light on another soldier’s glove began blinking. The woman with the activated signal looked up at a big, ugly scarred man and said firmly, “No firearms allowed on board, sir.”

  As the scarred man grimaced, Perez thought at him, Be nice to her, friend. She’s a champion hand-to-hand combat specialist. She can probably take out your whole crew if you get on her nerves. And your ugly mug won’t phase her for a nanosecond.

  The scarred man opened his jacket cooperatively, showed the soldier what was inside that had triggered the sensor. A big silver thermos.

  “Moonshine!” he explained. “My own. Way more dangerous.”

  The Betty’s crew all laughed.

  The soldier showed not a bit of emotion. “Sorry, sir. You’re free to go.”

  Just then Elgyn finally spied Perez on his platform and walked toward him. “Wha’d’ya think—we’re gonna hijack the vessel? All six of us?” His crew laughed again.

  Perez waited till they quieted down. “No—I think your asshole crew is going to get drunk and put a bullet through the hull. We are in space, Elgyn.” He waited for his soldiers to take a turn at laughing, but they were
all too professional for that and maintained their demeanor.

  The searches were complete, and Perez waived the Betty’s crew to go on into the Auriga.

  The wheelchair crewman was the last of the group to move forward. He finally jockeyed his automated chair to the woman soldier who’d found the thermos. “Wanna check the chair?” he asked the soldier sweetly.

  The woman’s face never cracked. Perez knew she was experienced enough to know that man was hoping she’d check a lot more than his chair. The soldier merely raised her arm, pointing to the group slowly getting ahead of the paralyzed man. With a smirky grin, he rolled on after them.

  Perez left, too.

  Fifteen minutes later, in his private quarters, the general’s door signal chimed. He knew who it was, and told Father to open the door. Elgyn stood there, leaning jauntily on the frame. He sauntered in, nodding at the general, and moved over to the table Perez had prepared earlier.

  There, stacked on its broad, flat surface, were neat, pre-counted, tabulated, and bound, thousand-dollar bills. There were many stacks. More than Perez wanted to think about. The bills were well worn, nonsequential. They were perfectly square, bright green, and each one of them bore the insipid face of some obscure congressional leader from the last century. Perez couldn’t help but think they should be bright, bright red. Blood money.

  Elgyn sat slowly into the chair Perez had left there for him, even as Perez sat across from him. The expression on Elgyn’s face could only be called satisfied. He wore a little smile as he peered over the stacks, thumbing them, quickly counting them.

  “This wasn’t easy to come by,” Perez commented idly.

  Elgyn raised his brows. “Neither was our cargo. You’re not pleading poverty, are you?”

  Realizing he’d been misunderstood, Perez clarified, “I mean the bills. Hardly anyone’s got cash these days.” Never mind so much of it.

  Elgyn grinned, following him now. “Just the ones that don’t like their every transaction recorded. The fringe element. Like you, for example.”