The Complete Aliens Omnibus

by Michael Jan Friedman

  But it didn’t seem to bother Krakke. He just went about his appointed task, as uncomplaining as a man could be.

  Ch-chunk.

  The reporter in Simoni wondered about the guy. Was it that he couldn’t talk or just didn’t feel like it? If it was the former, how had he been deprived of speech? And how had he gotten so expert at constructing shock rifles?

  The military? Krakke didn’t look like the military type, with his long hair and stubbly chin beard. But then, he might not have always looked that way.

  Things to ponder, Simoni thought.

  But Krakke wasn’t the main thing on his mind. “Tell me,” he said, “what’s going on around here? Seems to me there’s a lot of activity. A lot of whispering.”

  Krakke kept on doing what he was doing. But he shot the writer a look that indicated he had at least heard the question.

  “Everybody seems excited about something. Not happy exactly, but excited. Like something big is going to happen.”

  The blond man turned a metal-alloy barrel toward him and blew into its aperture. Then he fit it into the body that went with it.

  Ch-chunk.

  “My guess,” said Simoni, “is it has something to do with what happened at Byzantium. But I’m at a disadvantage there, because I don’t know what it was.”

  Ch-chunk.

  “If this was a regular cargo hauler, and you and your friends had to leave Byzantium in a hurry, I’d say you stole something. But I can’t see the legendary Ellen Ripley running from border station to border station just to steal stuff.”

  Ch-chunk.

  “So it’s more than that. But what? What would a station have that Ripley would want? I’m guessing it’s information.”

  Ch-klank.

  For the first time since Simoni entered the room, Krakke failed to make a perfect fit. It showed in his expression.

  “That’s it,” said Simoni, “isn’t it? You were there after information. And what kind of information would Ripley find valuable? Only one kind, I think.”

  Krakke tried to fit the components together again, but this time he was more deliberate. And they came together perfectly.

  Ch-chunk.

  “Because,” said the writer, “when you come right down to it, there’s really only one thing in which Ripley is interested—and that’s the alien species she’s been fighting all her life.”

  Krakke neither confirmed nor denied it. He just slotted it in another component.

  Ch-chunk.

  “But now that I think about it,” said Simoni, “a border station wouldn’t have information on the aliens. At least, not directly. So what kind of indirect information would it have?”

  That was the question. But try as he might, Simoni couldn’t come up with the answer.

  And Krakke didn’t give him any help. He just kept playing with his shock rifles as if they were the only things in his life, the only things that gave him any satisfaction.

  “Well,” said Simoni, “nice talking with you.”

  * * *

  Benedict shaded his eyes from the blaze of naked sunlight as he gave the twenty-meter-high mahogany tree the once-over. One hundred twenty-six, he counted. One hundred twenty-seven. One hundred twenty-eight.

  Wait—there was one more bundle of splay-fingered green leaves projecting from the side of the mahogany’s light gray trunk. One hundred twenty-nine.

  Benedict recorded the data on his handheld computer and moved on to the next mahogany tree. Nothing like counting Staghorn ferns to spice up your morning, he thought wearily.

  Unfortunately, his friend Philip was big on maintaining meticulous inventories of the plant life they had in each dome. As if it really matters how many of the little buggers have stuck themselves up there.

  The ferns weren’t even parasites. They just affixed themselves to the bark of their favorite hardwoods and drew their nutrition from the air. Best hangers-on a fellow could ask for.

  So a few more or less of them shouldn’t have made a difference. However, Philip didn’t see it that way. Every month, Benedict and a couple of the other botanists had to roam the domes counting this bit of green stuff or that.

  It was enough to make a fellow insane.

  Fortunately, there was one saving grace to the job. This, as luck would have it, was the dome where Benedict had found that especially luscious stand of sinjaba. And as soon as he was done with his inventory-taking, he would again seek out the specimen’s hallucinogenic goodness.

  Looking up at the next tree, he pinpointed its location on his computer’s Dome-Five grid. Then he continued his Staghorn count, starting with the topmost and working his way down.

  He had added three to his total when he heard a huffing sound. Pausing in his chore, he looked around—and saw something lurking under a generously proportioned frond.

  A big, black Labrador retriever.

  The beast was panting as he regarded Benedict, his long pink tongue hanging halfway to the ground. Obviously, he had been running around a bit.

  His name was Rex. Not a very inspired name, Benedict thought. In fact, it could hardly have been less inspired.

  But Colin Hamilton-Cross, Rex’s owner, hadn’t been an especially inspirational individual. All Benedict recalled about him were his oddly pear-shaped body and his thick, dark moustache.

  Hamilton-Cross hadn’t ever said anything sarcastic or funny, hadn’t ever done anything requiring extraordinary insight or courage—or cruelty, for that matter. He had just been there, day in and day out, like the decks and the bulkheads.

  Until one day he was found sprawled in an orange grove, the victim of a massive, entirely unforeseen heart attack.

  After that, everyone chipped in a little when it came to caring for Rex. But as he didn’t really belong to anybody, he was left pretty much on his own.

  It had been Philip’s idea to program the doors so that Rex could wander unfettered from dome to dome. And the dog had rewarded the decision by demonstrating a very undoglike respect for the flora with which he was surrounded.

  So it worked out for everyone.

  “Hello, boy,” said Benedict, not because he was especially happy to run into Rex but because the animal was looking at him so expectantly. “How are tricks?”

  Rex walked up to Benedict, sat down, and offered his paw. The gesture was Hamilton-Cross’s legacy—perhaps his only one.

  Chuckling, Benedict accepted the proffered appendage. “I didn’t mean that literally, you know.”

  The dog yipped suddenly, startling the botanist. Then he yipped again. Less than pleased, Benedict launched a kick at Rex, but the dog eluded it.

  “Dumb shit,” he said, not caring how cruel he sounded. “You’re going to make me have a heart attack.”

  Then Benedict noted the angle of the dog’s gaze, and realized Rex wasn’t looking at him at all. He was looking past him—at something the botanist couldn’t see.

  Normally, it took a lot to make Benedict move. However, there was something about the intensity of Rex’s stare that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

  Whirling, he saw … nothing at all. Just a few heavy, leaf-laden branches waving lazily in the periodic, man-made breeze. Idiot, he thought, angry with himself. He hadn’t allowed himself to get spooked like that since he was a child.

  Back on Earth, in the plex where he had grown up, there were things that could harm a person—people who eked out their living preying on the weak and innocent.

  But this was as far from Earth as one could get, both literally and figuratively. There was nothing that could hurt Benedict, nothing that could sneak up behind his back.

  It’s the damned dog, he thought, blaming the incident on the look he saw in Rex’s eyes. He’s got to mellow the hell out.

  Then he got an idea. A wicked one, if he said so himself.

  “My good friend Rex,” he said, “let me introduce you to my other good friend. His name is sinjaba. I think the two of you will get on famously together.”
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  Of course, there was the chance that Rex wouldn’t like the taste of the leaves. But hell, he seemed to like the taste of everything else people fed him.

  Only one way to find out, Benedict thought. Ripping off a sinjaba leaf, he said “Come here, boy.”

  Dutifully, Rex came closer. And when the botanist offered him the leaf, the dog just as dutifully ate it.

  Benedict smiled. “There,” he said. “Now we’re all friends together. Isn’t that cozy?”

  Just then, his comm unit started vibrating in his pocket. No doubt, it was Philip trying to get an update on the fern inventory.

  “I’m busy,” Benedict said, letting the unit buzz until it was tired of buzzing.

  Then he sat down, placed his back against the curving trunk of a palm tree, and waited eagerly for the fun to begin.

  Call plucked a playing card from her hand and laid it on the table face down. “I’ll take one,” she said.

  Johner looked up at her from beneath his overhanging brow, in the shadow of which his eyes looked like slick, black stones. “One?” he echoed in disgust.

  She returned his scrutiny without expression. “Got a hearing problem all of a sudden?”

  Johner’s lip curled. Then he laid down some cards of his own and said, “Two. And they’d goddamn better be the right two.”

  To Johner’s left, Vriess frowned as he contemplated his hand. Then he frowned some more.

  “We’re growing old here,” said Johner. “It’s your legs that are paralyzed, not your brain.”

  “Shut up,” said Vriess, still intent on his cards. “It’s called thinking. Try it some time.”

  Johner made a sound of disdain and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, you thinking. That’s a good one.”

  Ripley, who was leaning on the bulkhead and staring out the mess hall’s observation port, seemed oblivious to the exchange at the table. But as Call knew, Ripley was acutely aware of everything, from the musical clink of chains in the cargo bay to the beating of their respective hearts.

  Meanwhile, Vriess was still weighing his options. At length.

  Rama’s normally composed features looked strained. “This,” he said, “is why we should impose a time limit.”

  “Why?” Call asked reasonably. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “That’s not the point,” said Rama. “We could play three hands in the time it takes Vriess to toss out a card.”

  “Go play somewhere else then,” said Vriess, his expression becoming more and more pained as he studied his hand. “Who needs you? Call and I can take care of the engines, and Krakke can walk around with a stick up his ass. We won’t even know you’re gone.”

  Johner laughed out loud. It wasn’t a pleasant sound by any means. “Now that’s funny.”

  “No,” said Rama, “it’s cruel and insulting. A subtle difference to someone like yourself, perhaps, but a significant one nonetheless.”

  “Screw yourself,” said Johner. “How’s that for being subtle?”

  Rama turned to Call. “Can I appeal to you, at least, for some semblance of a rational perspective?”

  “’Fraid not,” said the android.

  The engineer nodded. “It’s all right. I would have been disappointed if you had said otherwise.”

  “I’ll take three!” Vriess announced triumphantly, and threw that many cards down on the table.

  “The gods are kind,” said Rama. He discarded some of his cards as well. “I’ll also take three. And I’ll do it while I’m still young enough to deal.”

  He was in the process of doing that when Simoni walked into the room. Seeing what the others were up to, he didn’t say anything. He just folded his arms across his chest and watched.

  “One for Call,” said Rama. “Two for Johner. Three for Vriess, and three for me. Read ’em and weep, compadres.”

  Call watched her comrades’ faces as they checked out their cards. Of course, they knew better than to give anything away.

  Next, she looked at her own cards. She had gotten a deuce to go with her pairs of eights and nines. No help, she thought.

  Reaching for her stack of old-fashioned ceramic chips, which she had purchased years earlier from a shopping channel, she tossed a few into the pile in the center of the table. “Three.”

  Johner grinned and dug into his own holdings. “Tell you what, little girl. I’ll see your three and raise you five.” And he slid his chips in one at a time.

  “You’re bluffing,” said Rama.

  The big man’s grin faded a little. “I never bluff.”

  Vriess laughed. “You always bluff.”

  Johner’s brow lowered. “Bet, you little shit.”

  Vriess slid his chips in one at a time as well, in mockery of Johner. “I’ll see it, asshole.”

  Suddenly Johner whirled, his chair crashing to the deck, and grabbed Simoni by the front of his shirt. Then he raised him off his feet and slammed him against a bulkhead.

  “What the hell!” Simoni squealed.

  “Peeking at my cards,” Johner rumbled, “is that what you were doing? Peeking at my goddamned cards?”

  “Hey,” said Call, “let him go!”

  “He was looking at my cards!” Johner growled, as if that were explanation enough.

  “Come on,” said Vriess, “give him a break!”

  “It’s just a game,” Rama said.

  “This little creep was looking at my cards!” Johner repeated in a spasm of anger, pushing Simoni farther and farther up the bulkhead.

  Simoni began sputtering and his face turned beet-red. It seemed Johner was cutting off his air supply.

  Call got up to intervene, as did Rama. But before they could get around the table, Ripley turned from the observation port.

  “Leave him alone,” she told Johner.

  Johner turned an angry, red eye on her. “Why? Why’s it so important to you to keep the little sonuvabitch around?”

  “That’s my business,” said Ripley.

  “It’s our business,” Johner insisted. “We’re in this together, remember?”

  “You’re free to leave,” she told him.

  He looked indignant. “Are you shitting me? You’d rather have the sneak than me?”

  Ripley looked at Johner, her features taut with emotion. She didn’t say yes, of course, because that would have been the last they saw of him. But she also wasn’t giving in when it came to the stowaway.

  Johner had to understand part of that: it wasn’t in Ripley’s nature to give ground. But there was another reason for her orneriness, a reason of which Johner wasn’t aware.

  “All right,” he said, the muscles in his jaw rippling, “have it your way. I just hope he doesn’t bite us in the ass.”

  Then he stalked off through the open door.

  Vriess looked around the table, a disgusted look on his face. “Three-handed poker?”

  “Game’s over,” said Call, stating the obvious.

  “Brilliant timing,” said Rama. He laid his cards down on the table one at a time—first the five of hearts, then the six, then the seven, eight, and nine. “Just brilliant.”

  “Sorry,” Simoni rasped.

  Rama smiled a thin smile. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault you’re a pain in the ass.”

  Call would have rebuked Rama for his remark except for one thing: he was right. Simoni was a pain in the ass.

  It was only the fact that she was something of a pariah herself that kept her from feeling any resentment toward him.

  7

  Simoni leaned against the bulkhead beside his bunk, removed his personal computer from his pocket, and activated its audio-receive capability. Then, taking advantage of the fact that neither Rama nor Krakke was around, he began speaking.

  “Day Three aboard the good ship Betty,” he said, his voice sounding tinny in the confines of the room. “Lots of whispering and furtive glances. Everybody’s in on some big goddamned secret, but no one wants to tell me about it.”

&nbs
p; At least partly because they hate my guts, Simoni thought. But he didn’t say that.

  Simoni had begun making daily entries in his journal years earlier, long before he began his pursuit of Ripley. Nothing long or complicated, just a marker to show him afterward where he had been.

  At first it had been a chore for him, something he did because it seemed like a good idea. Then, so gradually he hadn’t realized it, it became a comfort—an element of familiar routine in an otherwise transient existence.

  And lately it had become even more than that. If he didn’t make his journal entry, he felt hollow, disoriented, as if something was missing from his life.

  “Of course,” said Simoni, “it’s only a matter of time before I figure things out. These people may think they can keep me in the dark indefinitely, but they don’t know me.”

  He was choosing his next words when he heard the door scrape open. Putting his computer away and looking down past the edge of his bunk, he saw that he had a visitor.

  It was Ripley.

  He tried to read her expression but he couldn’t. She always looked like she was trying to decide between smiling and tearing his head off, and this time was no exception.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  The first time Ripley saw him, back in the cargo hold, she had tilted her head to look at him the way a dog would. She did that again, her eyes boring into his.

  “Why do you do this?” she asked abruptly.

  Simoni looked at her. “You mean … write about things?”

  Ripley nodded.

  He shrugged. “It’s what I do. What I’ve always done, ever since I was a little kid.”

  “But why?” she asked.

  Simoni had never really thought about it. “Why do you want to know?” he countered.

  Ripley scowled, a flare of anger in her eyes. Then she turned and started to leave.

  Suddenly, he realized the stupidity of what he had done. Ripley was his only leverage on the ship, the only thing that stood between him and Johner—and he had pissed her off.

  “Wait!” he said, dropping off the bunk and going after her. “I’m sorry! Please!”

  She stopped in her tracks and glared at him. She was waiting, but she didn’t seem inclined to wait very long.