Alien: The Cold Forge

by Alex White

  Susan unbuckles herself and rises, annoyance flushing her cheeks. It’s probably just the evac. As soon as they’re coasting in deep space again, she’ll be good old Sue.

  Montrell looks up, almost like a man praying. “Gaia, was that the same statement three times, or are there three new arrivals?”

  “There are three new arrivals,” Gaia says.

  Ken strokes his mustache. “Well it don’t much matter, because they all got to get the hell off the ship. Their escape pods are right next door. Susan, can you do something about that right now?” He exaggerates his mouth movements on the last sentence, as though she’s deaf.

  “Fuck you, Kenny,” she mumbles, headed toward the door. But when she makes it to the threshold, she freezes. A barbed, black spine shoots out of her back, extending a full yard into the bridge. At first, it looks like Susan’s spine simply exploded from her torso, dripping with blood, and Ken struggles to process exactly what he’s seeing.

  The spine is black.

  Bones aren’t black.

  Why would her spine leave her body? What’s with the weird, hook thing at the end? It takes him a second to register that, whatever happened to Susan Spiteri, she is most definitely dead.

  A darkness fills the portal around her, some looming silhouette Ken can’t see. Long black talons wrap around her skull, and with a pop and a spray of blood, a tiny mouth emerges from the back of her head. Her body falls, and with it comes a tangle of thrashing, chitinous limbs. It rips into her, nipping at every loose bit of flesh, pulling her apart with the ease of cooked fish. It’s four limbs, a torso and hips, a shaft for a skull and a whipping tail, but this isn’t one of God’s creatures. It’s Satan’s vanguard.

  Both men sit very still, listening to the sea of alarms and the sickening tearing of Susan’s blood-moistened flesh. Then, Ken remembers the gun.

  The Athenian does a lot of dirty work for the Company, and Ken figured that one of these days, some shithead colonist was going to take offense to getting fired and come looking for revenge. His hand creeps under the console, searching for the pistol strapped underneath. He knows he’s going to get one shot, so it has to be perfect. The creature’s skull is such a long target, surely a bullet could do enough damage to put it down.

  His hand finds the walnut grip, and he slides his fingers over the checks, ready to draw. His other hand unbuckles his seatbelt, and he slowly rises, steeling himself to fire.

  Then Montrell interrupts the beast’s blood revelry by deciding to scream.

  The thing lets out a hiss beyond the malice of any great cat or venomous snake, its lips curling back and body coiling to strike. Ken whips out the pistol and pops off three shots. The bullets hit home, and the beast jumps with each impact, but there’s no spray of blood, and it certainly doesn’t go down. A glint of silver catches Ken’s eye, where one of the bullets pancaked between two of the thing’s exposed ribs.

  Its scream shatters the air as it drops what’s left of Susan. Ken raises the pistol to fire again when two more of the creatures come screeching onto the bridge.

  “Fuck—” Ken begins, but the “you” is forever truncated by one of the creatures plunging its claws into his chest, snapping his ribs like a Thanksgiving day wishbone. Pain, unlike any he’s ever felt, seizes every inch of his body. He can’t scream, cannot raise his arms to protect his face against the raw malice dripping from the creature’s toothy maw.

  Most importantly, he cannot unwedge himself from the active joystick underneath him.

  If Ken’s body wasn’t failing due to shock, he’d hear the ship crowing with all kinds of alarms. He’d know he was putting the Athenian into a full-burn spiral roll. He’d recognize the shuddering hull and the metallic grind of their docking clamp as it sheared off its mountings, taking a good portion of the docking bay wall with it.

  Then the ship explosively decompresses to vacuum, silencing everything.

  16

  EXPOSURE

  This is a day of firsts for Blue.

  It’s the first time she’s heard gunfire on the station. It’s the first time she’s realized how much the rest of the crew truly hate her. It’s the first time she’s considered self-immolation as a viable plan.

  It’s the first time she’s seen a massive hull breach.

  The Athenian tears loose from its moorings, exposing an oval of space where the docking tube once was. Blue watches through the viewports, staring in horror as the ship scrapes across the row of docked escape pods, stripping them like grains of wheat from a stalk. The temperature plunges. Her ears pop painfully, and she gasps to force air into her lungs.

  Those two unfortunates nearest the severed tube are sucked away instantly, and she can just barely make out Commander Cardozo hanging onto the deck for dear life. The sirens drown beneath the deafening roar of wind coming from the rest of the station, and she knows she has seconds before the bulkheads seal behind her.

  The training vids always say go “BACK”: Back away, assess your surroundings, close a door, know your escape routes—but when the howling void of the stars gazes directly into Blue’s face, it sweeps away all rational thought. The only thing that remains in its place is the primal urge to flee.

  She turns her chair to leave, but the swirling gale pulls her over, spilling her out onto the deck. Pain rips through her as she strikes an elbow against the metal grate, and blood oozes forth. Blue locks her fingers into the deck, but the grip is feeble, and she knows she won’t last long. Looking toward the ceiling, she sees one of the snatchers scrambling toward her, hurtling along the conduits. Despite the breach, it’s still primed for murder.

  Every ounce of her strength is focused on her fingers, and she feels them slipping. She can’t run. She can only watch in total paralysis as the creature skitters toward her. It pounces down, claws wide, salivating mouth agape, tail poised to strike.

  Then the suction grasps it like a small child and carries it toward the tear. Blue watches as it entangles itself in the ripped section of the hull, fighting to come after her.

  Her fingers begin to slip on the metal, and her wrist aches with the sustained effort. Her head is going light. Her breath comes in short sips. Soon, she’ll have to let go, and the creature will have a go at her before they both die in deep space.

  The last finger gives up and she comes free, but jerks to a halt as Kambili’s strong hand wraps around her tiny wrist. He strains with all his might, pulling her until she’s even with him, the pain clear in the remains of his face. He’s fighting to keep her alive, returning the favor she did him.

  “Come on!” he screams against the shredding wind. The temperature is almost freezing now. Kambili reaches up to the next handhold, and drags her another foot or so. Her shoulder burns in agony—its damaged tendons can’t take much of this. She wants to tell him to drop her, but she can’t muster the breath to speak.

  Ahead of them, warning lights click on, signaling that the safety period is expiring, and the bulkhead will seal. It’s already closed off the crew quarters, and everything further back. They have ten seconds to get inside, then the bulkhead will repressurize. Kambili strains against the failing oxygen, and the wind begins to slow.

  They’re running out of atmosphere.

  Five seconds.

  With less air, it’s easier for Kambili to struggle to his feet and drag her. It’s also easier for the creature to come after them.

  Three seconds.

  The oxygen is almost completely gone, and Blue’s lungs refuse to fill. The partition grinds toward the floor.

  One second.

  The snatcher is almost on them, its jaws snapping silently in the thin atmosphere, tail whipping like mad. Kambili shoves her under the partition, falling prone and pushing her as far as he can before it closes.

  She wants to scream, but there is no air. Her lungs refuse to fill with even the tiniest amount of oxygen. An oxy station down the corridor blares with alert lights, signaling help for those able-bodied enough to get it, bu
t Blue’s strength is already beginning to fade, her vision growing dim. She can’t muster the power to roll onto her back, much less the wherewithal to walk to the oxy station and don a mask. She rests her head against the deck. Kambili can take it from here.

  But the blackout never comes, and she hears a hiss, gradually increasing in volume as the deck repressurizes. Her eardrums feel like someone has placed the point of a knife on them, ready to rupture at any second. Her skin is chilled to the bone. The only warm spots on her body are where Kambili’s hands still touch her back and leg.

  “Kambili,” she moans. “Are you okay?”

  She works up the strength to roll away, and finds only a hard steel door where Kambili should’ve been. A pair of hands is settled into a pool of cooling blood. She glances down to her leg to find one still gripping her, sheared off at the wrist.

  He’s suffocating out there while bleeding to death. She hopes it ends quickly. When she remembers the jaws of the snatcher, she knows it will.

  She rolls to one side, tucking herself into a safe niche, then passes out.

  * * *

  When she awakes, she has no idea how long she’s been unconscious. Half-focused eyes dart around the room, searching for any alien threats, but finding none. If any of the snatchers was in here with her, she’d already be a pile of ragged flesh. Her breathing gets easier as more atmosphere pours inside. They must not have lost that much pressure—just enough to hurt someone with weak lungs.

  With trembling hands, she reaches down and gently peels away Kambili’s fingers. She puts the severed appendage beside the other, as though that’s what she’s supposed to do. It makes more sense than anything else she can think of.

  The alerts have stopped. Titus must’ve been compromised enough to destroy crew updates. She’s not sure how much Silversmile understands of their network, but if it figures out that they’re barely hanging on from damage to the central strut, it might just open all the doors and vent them into the void.

  If she can get back to her room, she can use Marcus to flash Titus back to init state. There’s a read-only hard image stored in the server room. She’ll kill off Silversmile and re-image the whole thing. That’ll be easier if Javier is still alive, but she doubts he is. The man never seemed spry enough to survive something like this.

  Then again, neither is she.

  Blue probably won’t be saving anyone. For all she knows, she’s the last person left on the station. She might get Titus stabilized, only to discover there’s no way for her to get out to the escape pods without a space suit. Or maybe all the pods are gone. Certainly the Athenian was destroyed in the chaos she just witnessed.

  Yet every time she thinks it’s over, it isn’t. Her life has been like that, ever since the diagnosis.

  She rolls onto her stomach, and her side of the central strut seems to stretch onward forever into a hazy oblivion. That way lies the med bay, the crew quarters, and her brain-direct interface. She’s going to have to crawl on her stomach, further than she’s ever gone. It’s going to fuck up her digestive appliances, and she’ll need surgery within the week.

  She has to try.

  Blue places one hand in front of her and drags herself forward a few inches. Then another pull moves her a bit more.

  Two down, a few hundred to go.

  17

  FLIGHT

  Dorian isn’t looking the right way when it happens. One minute, he’s running through the central strut, a pack of snatchers lurking ahead of them, and the next he’s swept from his feet by a blast of wind like he’s never felt. It sends him stumbling forward, sprawling across the deck toward Anne. Then he realizes it’s not a burst, but a sustained, gale-force wind howling down the central strut toward the Athenian.

  Fuck.

  He looks as far as he can down the hall to find the station missing a chunk of hull where his ship should’ve been. Then he sees the Athenian through the viewport, watching as it bangs along the side of the station, knocking loose most of the escape pods.

  And then his ship is gone. Did it take off, or was it destroyed? He couldn’t get a good look.

  There’s a crowd of unfortunates hunkered down close to the breach, and Dorian thinks he can make out Daniel in the distance, hanging onto a deck plate.

  Fury shakes his limbs. They had a plan. This should’ve worked. It always works out for him, and now his ship is missing. He imagines Ken, Susan, and Montrell taking off, writing him off in the Company logs as a loss, making a footnote out of him with their treachery. He imagines them arriving back on Earth.

  “We tried everything we could,” they’ll say, “but Director Sudler was killed in the accident.” They’ll make him a goddamned line item.

  “Dorian!” Anne calls. She’s made it to one side of the hallway, mooring herself with her muscular arms. “We have to help the others!” He’s far enough away from the breach that the suction isn’t so bad—worse than an Earth storm, better than a jet-engine intake. He can still find the means to clamber to his feet and rush over.

  “Seal the bulkhead!” he shouts back over the din. “Don’t worry about the safety protocols, just seal it!”

  “What?” It’s not the reaction he was expecting.

  “They’re not going to make it! There are a dozen hungry aliens out there, and a shredding outer hull!”

  “Fuck you!” Anne says it with such force that she spits in his face. She maneuvers across the hallway to a fire box, breaking it open. The shards of glass blow down the corridor toward the survivors, sharp pieces glinting as they swirl out of the breach. She pulls out the heavy hose nozzle and throws it into the wind, where it catches a gust. The line whips from the case at breakneck speed before snapping taut. The nozzle wriggles and twists halfway to the embattled crew, tantalizingly out of reach.

  Undeterred, she begins rappelling down the line.

  “Anne, don’t be stupid!” She’s just going to be a fish on a hook down there when the creatures spot her. He doesn’t see any of the malevolent shadows, but he knows they’re out there, ready to strike the second they receive an opportunity.

  She doesn’t look back at him, focusing instead on getting to those stranded near the breach.

  “Goddamn it, Anne!”

  He could seal her out right now. If he pressed the emergency closure on the door, it wouldn’t reopen until pressure equalized. The heavy steel would chop that fire hose instantly. Anne and the others would suffocate, and though there were bound to be more aliens on board the Cold Forge, at least Dorian wouldn’t be stuck in violent decompression.

  Then again, the Athenian is gone and Dorian doesn’t have the crew codes that will grant him access to the escape pods. They may have given them to him in a briefing at some point, but no one ever keeps their safety packets when they come aboard a station. The crew will know the codes because they’ve drilled once a month.

  Anne will have the codes.

  If he doesn’t help her, he will die.

  Working his way over to the hose control panel, he twists the valve, filling the hose with eighty-three bars of fire-retardant chemicals.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she screams as the hose inflates under her grip, but he doesn’t reply. His keen eyes scan the rafters, and he spots one of the snatchers creeping toward her, ready to drop down in spite of the howling gale.

  “Above you!” He thrusts his finger toward it in an exaggerated gesture, willing her to see the threat. The beast unfolds like lethal origami, all hard angles save for the curve of its domed skull. Anne’s attention flicks upward, and she twists the hose to fire a high-powered flush of white chemicals at the creature. It screeches in hatred as they strike, sending it off course, flailing into a pair of Rose Eagle developers.

  The thing wastes no time in assaulting its new targets. It flings one toward the breach, correctly intuiting that person will die a more horrible death in the vacuum of space. This surprises Dorian. Prior to this moment, he’s always expected their violence to be a f
ood-seeking behavior. It could’ve easily brained one and impaled the other, keeping them for a snack down the road. Maybe it’s more majestic than that.

  Perhaps they simply love to kill. Maybe for them, it’s their most sincere form of expression. This one locks its jaws around the shoulder of the developer, and Dorian steels himself for a killing blow. Instead, the beast turns toward him and charges up the steel grates, finding purchase in the finger-shaped holes.

  Maybe it hasn’t seen him yet. Without eyes, who can know what they perceive? Dorian squeezes against one of the support columns, doing everything in his power to hide his presence. Like a fish disappearing beneath the surface of the water with a bug, it bounds into the bowels of the open SCIF, hauling the screaming programmer in tow. Whatever it has planned for the woman, it’s probably worse than death.

  Dorian squints, and at the far end of the docking area, he can just make out two dark-skinned people, one thin and frail, the other in full head bandages, hanging on for dear life. They’re closer to the breach than he is, and must be feeling an incredible strain. A large electric wheelchair slides toward the tear to be sucked out, and he realizes that’s Blue Marsalis and Kambili Okoro.

  He can’t stand the thought of having her die like this. She’s treated him like shit, so many times, only to be sucked out of a hole. It’s pathetic. It’s boring. It fills Dorian’s blood with fire just thinking about it.

  He should be the one to beat her.

  He has to be the one.

  “Dorian!” Anne’s words distract him. She’s accrued a few survivors, all latched onto the hose in a cluster. He spots Javier and Lucy among their number, but the rest appear to be low-level techs, custodians and developers. Daniel Cardozo isn’t with them.

  Pulling them up won’t work. Their combined weight is too much. The temperature has plummeted, and his head grows light. The safety protocols will seal this section soon. Dorian wraps his arms around the hose and pulls, but it’s like tugging on a boulder.