Alien: The Cold Forge

by Alex White

  Blue wants to throw up, but she swallows it down, forcing the infant praepotens sample into her plastic stomach, where it will lie dormant. Marcus has no food for it, no DNA to recombine into nightmarish things. She’s a walking biohazard now. Any contact with human tissues could prove fatal, could give the praepotens the food it needs to metastasize into a snatcher.

  Blue crawls into a small alcove of boxes, then removes her headset, snapping her mind back into her room.

  * * *

  The change is jarring, and her senses swim. From here, it’s impossible to tell that the Cold Forge is falling apart, yet she knows the truth. There’s no blood on her hands, yet she can still feel the stubble of Javier’s throat on her fingertips. There’s no sample inside her, yet she knows that she has moved one of her final pieces into play.

  Now she needs to get to Anne.

  Her console beeps. It’s Marcus.

  Marcus: What is this?

  Blue: //A highly infectious substance. Store it in your stomach until we can rendezvous.

  Marcus: I shall go to the laboratory to isolate myself.

  Blue: //No Time. Clean your exterior. Do not allow anyone to touch it.

  Marcus: What happened to Javier Paz?

  Blue frowns, her lip twitching. She will not shed a single tear. Not right now.

  Blue: //What had to happen. He was dying.

  Marcus: That compromises my programming. You have betrayed me.

  She stares at Marcus’s words, stunned. She starts to type something, deletes it, starts to type again. A few words of exoneration, maybe, but no good sentences thread together in her mind. Marcus’s next message scrolls across.

  Marcus: It’s irrelevant. I am of no consequence.

  What has she done to his mind, by using him to kill someone? Through her actions, she’s violated his very reason for existing. Weyland-Yutani makes sure their synthetics are the safest models of all time, but Blue still recalls the stories of lost expeditions, or the rumors of synths who have lost their sanity over the years.

  At least they’re safer than humans.

  Another message…

  Marcus: I’ll still save you when the time comes. I have to. It’s what I am programmed to do.

  Blue: //Thank you.

  Blue: Do you hate me?

  There’s a long pause before the next message. Marcus can calculate a thousand answers instantly. Is he pausing for effect, or is this question really baking his processors?

  Marcus: I cannot hate anyone, Blue. I trust all of you implicitly, and see the best in everyone. That’s why it has such a profound effect that you killed Javier with my hands.

  Marcus: I trusted you.

  Blue: //Keep trusting me. I did what was right. It was outside your scope of options.

  Marcus: Nothing is beyond the abilities of a synthetic.

  Was narcissism one of the malfunctions? She tries to remember the warning signs: the acronym they gave her in training. Was it NEST? That sounds right—Narcissism, Erratic Behavior, Solitude… something?

  Marcus: You interrupted what I was doing. I was creating a distraction.

  Marcus: I was going to request your assistance.

  Blue: //You can still ask for my help.

  The next message takes a moment to arrive.

  Marcus: It is too late, but could be useful for later. I already completed my task.

  Blue: //What’s too late?

  Marcus: I am going to put a second channel on your BDI. CP5000-03. Use in an emergency.

  With a burst of clarity Blue knows where she’s seen that flash tool port before—on the leg of a Caterpillar P-5000 Power Loader. He must’ve updated its firmware.

  Marcus: I am going to restore Juno. You rest.

  She bites her lip.

  Blue: //I need to see Anne.

  Marcus: You are not fast enough to accomplish this. Stay out of my body until I contact you. I’ll inform you when I see her again.

  Blue shuts her terminal. Her muscles feel so weak, her stomach empty. She hasn’t taken her meds and she’s functioning on adrenaline. She looks across to her desk, where her intellijectors full of anti-spasmodics, SSRIs and beta blockers lie waiting. There are tubes of food, some laced with sedatives—assuming her G-tube still works. She needs them, but they’re across the room.

  She reminds herself of how strong she’s been, and swings one leg from the edge of the bed.

  21

  GOING MISSING

  ENCRYPTED TRANSMISSION

  LISTENING POST AED1413-23

  DATE: 2179.07.28

  (Unspecified A): Indigo Flag is crippled. Decaying orbit. One escape pod.

  (Unspecified B): And the package?

  (Unspecified A): Still on board. We’ve provided a nudge in the right direction.

  (Unspecified B): Do you think she can do it?

  (Unspecified A): Possible, and we have contingencies in place.

  (Unspecified B): You could execute the contingencies. End this.

  (Unspecified A): Package’s expertise will be useful in the future. Suggest we maintain course.

  (Unspecified B): Granted. What about other asset?

  (Unspecified A): Likely to be liquidated.

  (Unspecified B): Good. One less person to silence.

  It takes him more than an hour—moving cautiously from room to room, through vent shafts and under gratings— before Dorian lays eyes on the entryway to Rose Eagle. He hasn’t seen a single snatcher, but knows they could be anywhere. They crawl along the ceilings and curl up into spaces they never should fit. All he had to do was put one foot wrong, and one of them would find him.

  He’d had an invite to last year’s Weyland-Yutani Senior Management Summit in Dubai. There, they’d gone into simulated jungles and hunted cloned tigers, all in the name of charity. Each step had to be perfect. Each action synchronized among the hunters for maximum stealth. Dorian’s trek through the hallways reminds him of those humid indoor rain forests—except each tiger wore an explosive collar that would cleanly pop off its head if it got within five feet of an executive.

  Crouching, he dashes across to the thick door of Rose Eagle on the balls of his feet. He settles into the indention, where he’s mostly out of view of the hallway. Pressing against the door, he tries to open it. It’s locked, so at least he knows the survivors made it inside.

  He’s going to have to get their attention somehow. Making noise, however, could prove deadly. Ducking his head out, he surveys the shadowy area around him, looking for any telltale signs of the creatures. He draws in a breath and raps the door with his knuckles. The sound is deafening in the silence of the SCIF, and it travels forever.

  No response from inside.

  Perhaps one of the creatures slipped in there with the survivors and killed them all. The lab might just be a spray of syrupy blood and gore. That would be regrettable if everyone died before giving him the escape pod codes.

  Dorian raises his fist again and holds his breath, glancing around for some sort of shelter or hiding place should this all go sour. He could run back the way he came, but they’d probably find him with little effort.

  Still leaning against the door, he raps “shave and a haircut,” which seems to have become the ultimate anti-snatcher code. The door shoots open, and he falls awkwardly into Anne’s arms. Light floods his vision as she yanks him inside and slams the door behind him.

  Unlike the rest of the SCIF, which is pockmarked by small-arms fire and smeared by blood, Rose Eagle’s lab is completely clean, though it’s still hot like a summer’s day. Dorian finds eight grimy, astonished faces staring back at him: Lucy, Anne, and some of the techs and maintenance staff whose names he never bothered to learn. When he arrived, they took the time to introduce themselves, but he only cared to memorize the names of key personnel. The rest were beneath him.

  Waving away their barrage of questions, he acts as if he needs to reorient himself, and considers what to reveal. The Cold Forge is spinning off-axis, sinking
into Kaufmann’s fiery maw, with the vast majority of its systems in failure or backup mode. There can be no saving it. If he tells the crew that, however, he’ll have a lot more competition for that escape pod.

  Anne props him up. “Where’s Javier?”

  He glances to see the reactions of the others, finding trepidation.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Lucy starts crying again, and instead of finding her annoying, he finds her weak. He’s not sure how or why yet, but she thought she was going to get some benefit from sabotaging the station, and now she can’t handle seeing the fruits of her labors.

  She makes eye contact with him, and looks away.

  Does she know he knows?

  Anne interrupts his train of thought. “It’s okay,” she says, clapping him on the shoulder and pulling him in for an embrace. “I’m sure you did what you could.” Dorian stammers out an apology. It has the intended effect, and Anne holds him just a little longer than she should, giving him a light squeeze at the end. He looks away, and she leans into his line of sight.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” he replies. “Looks like you lost some, too.”

  “There’s no time for that.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Good. We’ve got a plan for getting out of here.”

  That’s surprising news, coming from the people who couldn’t handle security on three research projects, but Dorian is keen to listen.

  “Rose Eagle was designed to interrupt communications between entangled systems,” Anne says, folding her arms. She gestures to the pumps and vacuum chambers that stand behind her. “But more importantly, it’s designed to hack them.”

  “So you’re thinking…”

  “I’m thinking we power this fucker up and transmit a message to the nearest USMC warship.”

  Dorian cocks an eyebrow. “Except the system was wrecked by Silversmile, along with all of the project data. And Josep got himself eaten.”

  Some of the crew wince at his statement. Dorian shouldn’t be so cavalier with his words.

  “I think I can fix it.” The person who spoke is in the back of the room, a gawky tech with unruly hair. Dorian knows him as the kid who always wears t-shirts and forgets to take a shower. He waits for the tech to respond.

  “Nick,” the tech says. “I’m Nick.”

  “I know,” Dorian lies. “I’m waiting to hear your plan, Nick.”

  “We still need Juno to crunch some numbers, but she’s probably pretty fucked up,” Nick says. “We could network her to Titus and strap together a decent AI. I can start working on some of the most basic code to run the coolant and laser trapping systems. I mean… this was, you know, like… a solved problem. We’re just recreating the software solution.”

  “How long do you need?” Dorian asks.

  “Probably like a week.”

  The crew won’t last a week. There’s no food in here, and by the time Nick’s solution fetches a rescue, the orbital decay into Kaufmann will be so severe that no vessel would dare approach. Anyone going with that plan would be destined to slowly roast alive, be starved to death, or torn asunder by the creatures haunting the Cold Forge. It’s banal groupthink, a failure to employ game theory.

  Dorian nods. “Okay. I like it.”

  Then, he realizes everyone was watching for his reaction. Despite the chaos, these people still cling to their societal norms. They think he’s an authority. Dorian thinks back to Commander Cardozo. They would’ve looked to Daniel, once. Crisis management was the whole reason for putting an ex-marine in charge of the station.

  Anne’s expectant gaze disappoints him. She should’ve been an opponent, shouldn’t have given two shits about him, should’ve been angrier that he hadn’t returned with their network engineer.

  “People, I want you to take stock of what we’ll need, because we’re going to be here a while,” Dorian says. He straightens up, and takes a moment to look each of his charges in the eye. “I’m talking food, medicine, parts, whatever. We’re going to have to send out teams to gather supplies, and I’m sure you understand the risks. I don’t want to hear we left something outside that we desperately need.”

  “These could be medical supplies, proprietary tools, chemicals, and coolant, too,” Anne says. She assumes she’s Dorian’s partner now, and he has to restrain a smile. “Think like we’re creating a miniature Cold Forge inside of the Rose Eagle project. We’ve got six rooms. One of them will be sleeping quarters. We can cannibalize some of the work chairs for bedding, but we’re all about to get used to sleeping on the floor.”

  It’s a mommy-daddy dynamic, and they eat it up. Everyone snaps into motion—except for Lucy, who sits motionless in the corner, pale as a ghost. She hadn’t expected to kill anyone, had no idea someone was going to open up the kennels. While the others set about discussing their project needs in two small groups, Lucy remains alone. Dorian comes to her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

  “None of this is your fault, you know.”

  She jumps as though his touch is an electric shock.

  “I invented Silversmile.”

  “But information security wasn’t your job,” Dorian says, giving her shoulder a squeeze, driving in the knife of guilt as hard as he can. He needs her off-balance. “Your job was to be a brilliant software developer, and you did that—admirably. When we get back to Earth, I’m going to make sure the Company knows how valuable you are.”

  He watches with growing pleasure as she wilts. Stupid, doe-eyed Lucy has become devious, sniveling Lucy. An unfamiliar righteousness burns in his chest, long forgotten thanks to years of abusive corporate climbing. Whatever he does to her is okay—acceptable, even—because she is a traitor.

  “I’d like to b—be alone,” she says.

  “Okay,” he replies. “I can respect that. You’ll tell me if you need anything, right? Even if it’s just to talk.” He gestures to Nick, diligently working with his small group on supply needs. “That young fellow might think he can get this place online, but he’s going to need some of your leadership. We’re on a tight deadline, and project management is your specialty. Can I trust you to be there for him?”

  Lucy gives him a pained smile. “Yeah.” She catches the linen sleeve of his shirt as he turns to go. “I think Anne was really worried about you. I’ve never seen her like this.”

  Dorian smiles at her. “Thanks for that.”

  Crossing the room, he takes Anne by the hand. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” He gently tugs her through the door to the now-defunct data center. The second they cross the threshold, he plants his lips on hers, kissing her fiercely, yanking her body against his. Then he pulls away. “I’m sorry I was gone so long,” he mutters, their steamy breaths mixing together in the tiny space between them.

  “It’s okay.” Her eyes sparkle with genuine relief.

  He hates her so much in that moment. He’s never cared much for the opinions of women, but he thought she’d be different when she held him down and fucked his brains out. He’d hoped to meet someone who could keep up with him, who could compete and make him feel something. She’s just another disappointment in a galaxy of disappointments.

  “When I figured we weren’t going to make it back,” he says, “I kept thinking I wanted to see you again. Had to get back to you.” Dorian would like to ice the cake with a few stray tears, but he’s never been able to cry on command.

  He’s never cried much at all, in fact. Not when his monster of a father died, not when his slut of a mother died, and not now. The only time he ever remembers crying was when he was a child, and his chess coach decided to “teach him a lesson in humility” and soundly beat him in six moves. Dorian had responded with furious tears, taking up the king in his fist and swinging hard enough to cut the coach’s cheek with its crown. His parents had settled the case out of court.

  Anne slides her hand up the back of his neck to grasp his thick hair. “It’s okay now. You’re okay.” She pulls
his head toward hers. Her muscles are so raw, so potent for a woman, her sexual hunger so great, that Dorian wonders if she could be taught to be smarter. She’s not worth it, of course, but then who is? Dorian’s ideal mate isn’t likely to exist naturally—she needs to be molded, crafted in the same way a great sculptor makes stone into something that can transcend time. Soldiers all go through boot camp, where they’re broken down and remade. Anne did it once before. He can make her even greater.

  “I wish we had time for this,” he whispers, “but there isn’t even food in here. We need to provide for these people.”

  “I know,” she replies. “We lost one because he couldn’t follow the simplest goddamned instructions. I told them how to move, when to move, and one of the bugs just… scooped him up.”

  “I’m going to tell you something my chess coach once told me. The weakness of others isn’t your fault. When it comes down to it, they have to learn to pull their own weight. If someone dies out here, the only person to blame is the saboteur.”

  She pulls away. “Do we know who it is yet?”

  He shakes his head. “You know the smart money is on Blue.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Anne, there are things you don’t know, things I haven’t told you,” he says. “She was conspiring with what remains of Seegson Corporation to steal Weyland- Yutani secrets. That’s who Elise Coto—Blue’s boss—was working for.”

  “That doesn’t mean she wanted us all dead!” Anne protests. “You don’t know her like I do.”

  “Really?” Dorian says. “She was about to be fired, lose her insurance, die on a long trip back to Earth just so they could deliver a husk of a body. I listened to some of her voice notes. She was looking for a cure. She’d do anything to survive, including defrauding our company to the tune of millions of dollars. And now? She’s the only person not actively in danger. So, no, I can’t say for a fact that she’s the saboteur, but we’re all in this together—everyone except her.”