He took the right fork this time, unsure if he could force his way past the first creature he had killed in the tunnel’s left fork. The path jogged up then followed a long slow curve, moving down now, a tightening gyre. He made four, maybe five, full circles—hard to judge—before it suddenly opened out in front of him.
It was a small chamber, probably five meters across, roughly circular, and slanting down to a central point. It seemed deserted; a series of egg cases, all but one open. There was no sign of the ex-marine at first and then he realized that, yes, there maybe was a sign of him after all: there were bits of his limbs, or somebody’s limbs, scattered all about the floor.
It was enough, he decided. He took the nuke out and spiked it hard into the wall, set it to detonate in twenty minutes, then started back up, following the slow circles upward, then a brief downward dip, and then there, ahead, the entrance back to the main tunnel.
He moved out into it and was immediately knocked flat, all the wind pushed out of him, the flashlight spinning out of his hand and clattering into the dirt but luckily not going out. Something was there, on top of him, staring down at him almost curiously, and then he saw its lips beginning to flare back and its teeth beginning to open, that dreadful toothed tongue. His gun hand was pinned there beneath it so all he could do was try to force it up and fire into its side or belly and hope for the best. He fired, and it jerked back and he could fire again, into the chest this time, and it spun and galloped away and he shot a third time and missed. He was just starting to scramble up when it came galloping back, dim in the half light, right at him, and he shot again, at the head this time, and this time it was dead.
He got to his knees and crawled forward, over the dead Alien a little further along, and then into the tunnel beyond where he was finally able, crouched, to stand. The creature’s blood, he only now realized, had burnt its way through his suit and was sizzling away a fist-size patch of flesh over his ribs. He stopped and got out the acid neutralizer and sprayed it on, the acid in the meantime having eaten all the way down to his ribs, which were pitted and pocked. He tried not to touch them. How long will it be before I pass out or die from shock? he wondered. He kept stumbling forward, even managing to pull himself out of the tunnel, even managing from there to make his way back to the ship and issue a distress call. And then he fainted, vaguely wondering whether the ship’s hull would be enough to protect him from the blast’s radiation.
Later, he learned that the company had classified the deaths a result of a “nuclear generator malfunction.” They gave him a huge hazard pay bonus to keep quiet, and he was fool enough to take it. They sent a series of troops down to the planet to make a series of sweeps. When no further sign of hostile life forms was found, they reopened the planet for settlement.
2
“Mr. Kramm?” said a voice, a woman’s voice.
“Yes?” he said, still half in the memory. “Here,” he said, and looked up.
The owner of the voice had delicate, high cheekbones, an almond-shaped face framed by reddish-brown hair with a slight wave through it. Her skin was pale and very smooth. She had ice-blue eyes, with a liveliness to them that he couldn’t help but like despite himself. She looked vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen her before somewhere but in a situation he couldn’t place.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, and leaned toward him. When she moved, her motions were sharp and slightly nervous, though they settled quickly. “Didn’t they tell you to come through to the other side?”
“The other side?” he asked.
“We had a hell of a time getting through security. Don’t you know they don’t let people back in here anymore? When was the last time you took a flight?” The way she said it, she seemed simultaneously joking and serious.
“About three decades ago,” he said.
“That explains it,” she said. She turned and gestured. “Braley,” she called. “He’s over here.”
He looked to where she was gesturing, saw a tallish man, not a hair out of place. He was wearing a hologrammatic outfit, its image perfectly synched as a hand-fitted tailored suit, exquisitely cut, not a ripple or wrinkle anywhere on it.
“What does he look like under the holo-suit?” Kramm asked as Braley started toward them.
“Exactly the same,” said the woman. “Same suit, immaculate.” She smiled. “And under that, there’s probably a third suit.”
“And what’s under that?” asked Kramm as he stood up.
“Certainly nothing human,” said the woman. “It’s just suits all the way down.”
“Did I miss anything?” asked Braley smoothly. “Have you already gotten started? Either of you care to bring me up to speed?” He gave a big fake smile.
“No,” the woman said. “Nothing. I just found him. I didn’t even have a chance to introduce myself.” She held out her hand. “Frances Stauff,” she said. “Official Planetus representative.”
Kramm took her hand, shook it. It was the first time in three decades, he suddenly realized, that he had shaken another person’s hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“And I’m Charles Braley,” said the man. “I’m here from the Company, but don’t let that worry you. We’re all in this together, as I’m sure you know. I’m hardly the type to be called a company man.”
He was exactly the type, Kramm realized. It was hard for him to even bring himself to shake the man’s hand.
“Well,” said Frances, “shall we go?” She turned, leading the way toward the customs sign. Braley had moved in close beside him, talking smoothly away, his words sounding almost oiled. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Kramm,” he said. “I must say I thoroughly enjoyed reading your file. Very colorful past. And you’re exactly the sort of person we need at a time like this. Exactly the sort of person likely to make a real difference.”
Not knowing what to say, Kramm just nodded.
“I must be frank,” said Braley, taking his arm. “We have good records on your time spent in the company but haven’t been able to piece much together since then. Perhaps this is something you’d be able to help me with?” He smiled in a way that was supposed to seem deferential. “It’d certainly save me some paperwork,” he said.
Kramm opened his mouth to answer, but Frances was already there, already speaking. “We can talk about all that later, Braley,” she said. “We should move on through.”
“Please,” said Braley. “Call me Charles.”
“How about Chuck?” she asked, and Kramm watched the barest flutter of irritation ripple the placid surface of Braley’s face. “Come on,” she said to Kramm. “Follow me.”
They went under a sign reading “Planet Entry,” and down a corridor. At the end of this corridor was a translucent blue box, open at both ends. A guard with an electric truncheon leaned against the corridor wall on the other side of it.
“Guests first,” said Frances, pushing him gently forward.
He stepped into the blue box, which began to whir and buzz. After a moment the guard gestured him forward, and he stepped out of the box and into the other side of the corridor.
On the other side, Braley tried to edge past Frances, but she slipped quickly in front of him again. “Ladies first,” she said to him. “You should know better, Braley.” He bowed and stepped back.
A moment later Frances was through and beside him.
“Well, now,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No,” he said.
“Come on then,” she said, and started forward.
“What about Braley?”
“Charles, you mean?” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about him; I think he’s going to be a while.”
And indeed, a moment later an alarm went off behind them, the blue glow of the customs box fading to a dull red. He turned and looked back to find Braley with his arms raised, the guard no longer at his ease, now standing on the balls of his feet, his truncheon energized and ready.
“What happened?�
� asked Kramm.
“To Braley?” said Frances. “I happened to Braley.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kramm.
“I slipped something into his suit,” she said. “Something illegal. Not the hologrammatic suit but the one beneath it. It wasn’t easy,” she said, “but I’m a resourceful person.” She pulled him down onto a bench. “I thought we should have a little talk, just the two of us, no Braley.”
“What about?” he asked, looking back at the box.
“Don’t worry about Braley,” she said. “He’s resourceful as well. And, unlike either of us, he doesn’t have a pesky little ethical code to rein that resourcefulness in.”
“I wasn’t worrying about him,” said Kramm. He felt the neoplastene bench beginning to mold to his body.
“In fact,” said Frances, “he’ll be through before you know it, which is why we should talk quickly.” She looked him straight in the eyes, with a look that was less aggressive than open. “Be very careful what you say in front of Braley,” she said.
“All right,” said Kramm.
“I wouldn’t bother telling him why or for how long you were in cryonic storage,” she said. “The less he knows about you the better. He’s a company man, the worst sort of company man that Weyland-Yutani has to offer. Don’t trust him for a second.”
“I hardly needed anyone to tell me that,” said Kramm.
“Good,” said Frances. “Another thing,” she said. “Weyland-Yutani will insist that your finding be identical to their own. That’s a drill you probably already know.”
“Yes,” said Kramm.
“Whatever you think unofficially, be very cautious about what you say to them officially. Tell them what they want to hear and we’ll discuss the unofficial findings later.”
“Why should I trust you?” asked Kramm.
Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed again. She pursed her lips.
“Why shouldn’t you?” she asked. “We both work for Planetus, are both on the same side. You’ve been in an icebox for thirty years, for God’s sake. You don’t know enough about what’s gone on in the universe in the meantime to feel your own way forward. You’ve got to trust one of us, either myself or Braley, or you’re lost. Which one of us is it going to be?”
Kramm didn’t say anything.
“Well, I’ve got to trust you,” she said. “Darby trusts you and thinks you’re the right man for the job, so why not? I’ll be open and honest with you,” she said. “What you decide to do is up to you.”
He sat and looked at her and thought it through. What, finally, he began to wonder, do I have to lose?
“All right,” he said. He reached into his pocket, came out with the black case, held it in his open palm. “Say we start with this,” he said. “What can you tell me about it?”
Her eyes went wide. “Who gave you that?” she asked. “Not Braley, I hope?”
“Darby,” he said. “Is it dangerous?”
“This is more serious than I thought,” she said. “It’s nothing to be worried about, nothing dangerous. It’s a device f—” and then she suddenly covered his hand with her own. “Put it away,” she whispered, so soft he almost couldn’t hear her. “Don’t let him see.”
And then she was up and standing between him and the rapidly advancing Braley. Kramm slipped the case back into his pocket, furtively, and stood up as well.
“Braley,” she said. “Anything the matter?”
“Nothing the matter,” said Braley. His holo-suit was still impeccable, but his face a little redder now, hair not quite so immaculate. “Just a little misunderstanding is all,” he said. “All taken care of.”
“Well then,” said Frances. “Off we go.”
3
On the way out to the site, seated facing each other in a quick, auto-controlled flitter, Frances kept up a careful and aimless banter. Kramm assumed this was simply her natural way of speaking until he caught a brief twitch of irritation in Braley’s face and realized what she was really doing: trying to make it impossible for Braley to start questioning him.
Braley still got in a few words though, enough to make it clear to Kramm that the Company had kept or recently acquired a quite detailed record of his past. That they knew about his earlier work on behalf of Weyland-Yutani was of course no surprise. It quickly became clear, though, that Braley could not only chart the days Kramm had served the Company hour by hour; in some cases he knew Kramm’s actions minute by minute. Through hints and innuendo, Braley made clear to him—without seeming to Frances as if he were engaged in anything but friendly conversation about how the world had once been—that he knew where Kramm had spent his wedding night (and how), not to mention what ballgames he’d been to as a kid, and even, somehow, where he had sat in the bleachers.
How important is this? Kramm couldn’t help but wonder. What is it I’m not seeing?
“Ah, the past,” said Braley, and leaned back. “Better times,” he said, though from the look of him Braley had been about six when Kramm had gone into cryonic storage. “But what, Mr. Kramm, have you been doing lately?”
“Now, now,” said Frances. “That’s hardly a fair thing to ask, is it?”
“Isn’t it? It’s an innocent enough question,” said Braley. “Curious, don’t you think, to have a man disappear for years on end and then suddenly reappear again?”
“Surely not as unusual as all that,” said Frances. “There are sleepers everywhere. Every company has a few.”
“Sleepers,” said Braley, and waved his hand dismissively. “They’re nothing. You can track them. They wake them up and iron them out every year or two. What’s going on with our friend Kramm here is far beyond that.” He turned back to Kramm. “So,” he said, “I have pages and pages on you until the moment you left the Company and then nothing, not a peep, for thirty years after that. It’s as though you didn’t even exist.”
“Maybe I didn’t,” said Kramm.
Braley narrowed his eyes slightly, looked just a little puzzled. “Care to be more specific?” he finally asked.
“Maybe I wasn’t alive for the thirty years after that,” Kramm said.
Braley leaned back and smiled. “Now you’re toying with me, Mr. Kramm,” he said. “How am I supposed to read that? That you’re a synthetic? I know you’re flesh and blood, Mr. Kramm. I made sure of that in the airport.”
“That isn’t like you, Braley,” said Frances. “You’re not usually so forthcoming about your methods.”
Braley smiled. “Please,” he said, “I insist. Call me Charles. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Mr. Kramm, nobody freezes someone and leaves them frozen for thirty years. It just isn’t done. You must have been in and out of cryonic storage many times in the last thirty years, used for some covert purpose. Shall I have a stab at what that purpose was?”
But when Kramm didn’t say anything, Braley turned toward the window and closed his eyes. “Landing in five,” he said. Frances gave Kramm a wink and a grin. This should have reassured Kramm, but it only made him feel even more as if he had entered into a situation that he couldn’t possibly begin to understand.
* * *
There were four people waiting just outside the facility, three men and one woman. Two of the men were Weyland-Yutani security guards. They looked the part: surly and beefy but not terribly fit, one bald and the other well on the way to losing the thin fringe of hair still belonging to him. The other two Frances introduced as Bjorn and Jolena Heyward, two ex-marines now working for Planetus, a husband-and-wife weapons team. “The family that kills together stays together,” suggested Jolena as Kramm shook her hand, felt her firm grip. Bjorn, deferential, just half-smiled beside her, looking down at the ground instead of meeting his gaze.
“Well, boys,” said Braley to the two guards. “What’s the situation?”
“Secure,” said the baldest guard. “No sign of movement.”
“Still,” said Braley, “no point in being foolish.” He held his hand out an
d one of the guards put a pistol into it. It was small, about the size of a derringer. Kramm felt someone nudge him and looked over to find Frances handing him a similar pistol. The two ex-marines wielded larger guns. The company guards just stood there, desultory and weaponless.
Kramm took the tiny gun from her and stared at it. His palm dwarfed it. “What is this?” he asked. “Are we planning to go in and clear out an infestation of vicious grannies?”
“Ha, ha,” said Frances. “Just because it’s small doesn’t mean it doesn’t pack a punch. This is a pocket version of the plasma pistol.” She took it back from him, showed him the safety, how the miniclip ejected. “Four shots,” she said, and handed it back.
He stared at it again.
“Will it stop Aliens?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Theoretically,” she said. “It’s never actually been tested before.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jolena. “We’ll be right behind you.”
“And we have got real guns,” said Bjorn.
“Well, Mr. Kramm,” said Braley. “Care to lead the way?”
He turned and faced the door, wondering if, when he turned around, they’d still be there. The whole thing felt all wrong to him; nobody knew what they were up against. And yet they should know, he thought. Even if they’d never faced an Alien themselves surely all the information about the creatures was archived, not completely unavailable. Even if it was classified information, Weyland-Yutani had at the very least all of Kramm’s own reports on the creatures. And yet Braley and his two henchmen seemed if anything more relaxed than the others, not only unafraid but not even curious.
“Who’s already been in?” asked Kramm.
“In?” said Braley. “Why, no one,” he said. “We sealed it up as soon as it was clear the threat was contained.”
“All right,” said Kramm. “Give me a minute.”
The Complete Aliens Omnibus Page 25
