Tim had been playing full-immersion Burning Gods and had ignored her when she’d asked if he wanted to go to the kitchen and see if Bronagh Flaherty would give them a freeze-pop. So she had gone without him.
Newt liked freeze-pops. Her favorite flavor was cherry, although there was a cherry tree in the greenhouse, and after tasting the fruit she had never understood why cherry freeze-pops were called cherry, when they tasted nothing like actual cherries.
Lost in such thoughts, she nearly ran right into the man who came hurriedly around the corner near the administration offices.
“Whoa!” he said, holding out his hands.
Only when Newt looked up at him, protecting her cherry freeze-pop from the imminent collision, did she realize it was Capt. Brackett. When he recognized her, the captain smiled.
“Hey! Rebecca, right?” he said, as if he’d somehow solved a riddle. Grownups were so weird. He had a nice smile, though.
“Newt,” she said. “Everybody calls me—”
“Right, sorry!” Capt. Brackett said. “And I’m sorry I nearly ran you down. Just too many things on my mind, but that’s no excuse for not paying attention.” He looked down. “Is that a strawberry freeze-pop?”
He wore a smile, but it seemed tense to Newt, as if he wanted to be kind to her at the same time as he wanted to be angry at someone else. It seemed to create its own kind of static, a sort of cloud of frustration that surrounded him.
“Cherry,” she answered. “It’s my favorite.”
“Cherry’s nice,” he allowed. “Do they have grape down there, as well?”
“If you ask Bronagh in the kitchen, she’ll make you one, even if they don’t have them in the freezer.”
Capt. Brackett nodded as if this news pleased him very much.
“I’ll have to do that,” he said. “She sounds like a nice person.”
Newt nodded. “Very nice.”
He studied her for a second.
“You look so much like your mom. Do people tell you that?”
“It’s because I have crazy hair sometimes. My mom has crazy hair pretty much all the time, but mine is only crazy sometimes. I have a doll—my brother says I’m too old for dolls, and maybe I am, but it’s just one doll. Her name is Casey. She has crazy hair, too.”
Capt. Brackett gave a soft laugh, and Newt noticed that some of the static around him seemed to have gone away. He didn’t seem as stressed as he had been when he’d almost crashed into her, coming around the corner.
“Maybe I could meet Casey sometime,” he said. “And maybe you could introduce me to Bronagh, too.”
Newt smiled. “I can do that.”
“Great! I’ll track you down later.” He looked down the hall. “Right now I’ve got to go talk to Mr. Simpson.”
She gave him a thumbs up and bit the top off her freeze-pop. The icy cherry rush froze her teeth and made her talk a little funny.
“Okeydoke,” she said. Her father always said that. “See ya.”
“See ya, Newt,” he replied, and he started past her, walking toward the command block with his shoulders set in a way that made him seem angry.
“Captain Brackett?” she called after him.
He glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Yeah?”
“You look like you’re having a bad first day. I hope it gets better.”
Capt. Brackett gave that same soft laugh and nodded.
“Me too, kid. Me too.”
* * *
Brackett found Al Simpson in his office. Several people had given him strange looks as he strode purposefully toward the colonial administrator’s closed door, but only after he had knocked and swung it open did he understand their wary expressions.
Simpson wasn’t alone. He snapped his head around at Brackett’s intrusion, bushy eyebrows knitted in irritation.
“Can I help you, Captain?”
Brackett stared at him, hand still on the knob, and then took a closer look at the other two people in the office—Dr. Reese and Dr. Hidalgo, the leaders of the colony’s Weyland-Yutani science team. The three of them looked to be in the middle of something, but what could be more important than the destruction of Processor Six, and the deaths of two of their surveyors?
“I thought you’d want a report on today’s events,” Brackett said, without trying to hide the accusatory bite of his words. “Two men died, in case you hadn’t heard.”
Simpson’s gaze went even colder.
“I’d heard, yes,” he said. “We were just discussing the failures in maintenance that led to the processor malfunctioning. Making sure nothing like that happens again is my top priority. The cost of replacing Processor Six alone is going to be—”
“Right,” Brackett said. “The cost.”
Dr. Hidalgo glanced away, unnerved by the insinuation, but Dr. Reese stiffened and raised his chin as if preparing for a fight.
“The Finch brothers knew the risks they were taking every time they went out there,” Dr. Reese said. “If you wish to remonstrate with Mr. Simpson for his attention to the bottom line, I’ll remind you that he is doing his job. Perhaps, Captain, you ought to worry more about your own.”
Brackett thought of a dozen ways to wipe the smug expression off the doctor’s face. He forced himself to take a deep breath.
“That’s one of the things I came to talk about, actually,” he said, turning his focus back to Simpson. “We need to get some clarity on exactly what the job is meant to be for the marines stationed with this colony. Before I address that, however, protocol requires that I deliver a report on what went down out there—and that’s what I came to do.”
Simpson sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his gleaming silver and glass alloy desk. The whole office was beautifully appointed with sleek, coldly metallic furniture and swirling light fixtures, unlike anything else Brackett had seen since arriving at Hadley’s Hope. This elegance had to be a perk of the job, and yet Simpson had let the debris of his work pile up on every surface—dirty coffee mugs, cast-aside sweaters, tubes of soil samples, thick old paper files capped by more than one computer tablet. The man treated his surroundings shabbily, and Brackett could only assume that he treated his people the same way.
“Type it up and forward it to me,” Simpson said, his fingers ceasing their drumming. “I’ll get to it.”
The tone implied a dismissal, but Brackett wasn’t ready to be dismissed.
“You have two men dead, Simpson. You’re not going to be able to sort out the events leading to their deaths without a full report—”
Dr. Reese sighed heavily, as if he tired of dealing with a simpleton.
“We’ve got a full report, Captain.”
Brackett cocked his head. “But I didn’t file any—”
“From Sergeant Draper,” Simpson interrupted.
For a second or two, Brackett could only stare at them. Then he scoffed and shook his head as the significance of the statement sank in.
“Draper is confined to quarters,” he said.
“Understood,” Simpson replied. “But to my knowledge, you gave no orders that restricted his ability to receive visitors. You weren’t immediately available upon your return—”
“I was debriefing my team,” Brackett said, standing a bit straighter, his uniform chafing against his skin, “and seeing to the offloading of your two dead colonists. But I expect you knew that.”
“Sergeant Draper’s report was very thorough, and certainly sufficient for our needs,” Dr. Reese said. “I’m sure there’s a conversation that we all need to have, Captain Brackett—a conversation about the way operations are conducted here, and how the science team works hand in hand with the Colonial Marines—but I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait until later. The destruction of Processor Six leaves us—”
Brackett coughed to clear his throat, which had the advantage of silencing the doctor for a moment.
“Yeah, doc,” he said, “we’ll discuss it over tea. Meantime, there are
a couple of things I want to get straight, and right now. Things that won’t wait.” He held up a finger. “First off, from this moment forward you are to have no direct contact with any of my marines, aside from a thank you if they’re polite enough to hold the door open for you in the hallway.”
Brackett peered at Simpson, and then at Dr. Hidalgo, who seemed very uncomfortable.
“Captain, you must understand…” she began.
“Must I?” Brackett said. He shook his head. “No, doctor, I don’t think so. My squad answers to me, and to me alone—and you don’t get reports from Draper or anyone else. Sergeant Draper is a problem child. There’s always at least one. But from now on I’m going to make him my problem.”
“Noted,” Simpson said, smoothing his shirt over his round belly.
Brackett studied the administrator for a second, then narrowed his gaze as he turned to Reese and Hidalgo. The birthmark on Reese’s jaw and throat had turned so dark that it was almost purple.
“What about you two? Simpson may keep the lights on around here, but it’s clear that the company has more influence than the government. So I need to hear it from you, as well. Is my message clear enough?”
Dr. Reese glared at him, the man’s small eyes glittering with contempt.
“Quite clear,” Dr. Hidalgo said.
Reese didn’t argue with her. Brackett would’ve liked a more concrete response from him, given that he was the senior member of the science team, but his silence would have to be enough… for the moment.
“Good. That brings us to the other thing.”
Al Simpson tucked his shirt in a bit tighter, as if it would give him greater authority.
“Can’t this wait?”
Brackett just ignored him, and remained focused on the scientists.
“I’m told that it’s standard procedure for Colonial Marines to accompany your survey teams into the field,” he said. “That practice ends immediately.”
Dr. Hidalgo flinched. “You can’t do that!”
“Excuse me, doctor, but I certainly can.” He stared at her, surprised at the sudden change that had come over her. She had seemed uncomfortable with Reese’s attitude before, but now she’d adopted a similarly flinty air.
Brackett figured they saw him as some bristle-headed lunk in a uniform. Simpson and the scientists thought they were keeping him in the dark, but it didn’t take a genius to understand why they wanted marines along on these excursions. Not once he’d had a little time to mull it over.
Most of the major scientific advancements of the past century had been made by organizations that had acquired and studied specimens from a variety of alien life forms. Sometimes it was a government, but most of the time it was a corporation.
Weyland-Yutani had long been on a crusade to find and utilize, monetize, or weaponize any alien species they could get their hands on. The company’s efforts were hardly secret. Humanity had learned so much just from their Arcturian trading partners.
Brackett couldn’t deny the value of encounters with alien life, but the Colonial Marines had never been meant to play security guards for a bunch of civilian surveyors… or to mount rescue missions for freelance wildcatters.
It had to stop.
“You’re right, Captain—it has been our standard procedure,” Simpson acknowledged. “It’s been that way since the beginning of the colony. The marines provide security, and support for—”
Brackett held up a hand to stop him.
“No, we don’t. This isn’t something we’re going to discuss. When I received my orders to take up the post of commander at Hadley’s Hope, no mention was made of any such arrangement. The Colonial Marines aren’t company employees, Mr. Simpson.” He paused, then continued. “As soon as I leave here, I will transmit a query to my superiors. It will take approximately a week for a message to reach Earth, and for me to receive any reply. If I’m instructed to cooperate with your demands, I will of course comply with those orders. But unless and until I receive instructions along those lines, there will be no more marine escorts on these survey missions.”
Dr. Reese sniffed, his face like stone.
“I don’t think you’ll like the answer you receive.”
Brackett shrugged. “It’s not up to me to like or dislike my orders, Doc. I’m a marine. For the moment, that means I don’t have to give a shit what you think.”
* * *
DATE: 10 JUNE, 2179
TIME: 1844
Hadley’s Hope had been designed for communal living. The dining hall—what the marines called the “mess”—served three meals a day, and Anne Jorden would be the first to admit that the men and women who worked there were a hell of a lot more talented in the kitchen than she would ever be.
Russ had some skill with food prep—equal parts inspiration and intuition—but at her best Anne had never been able to do more with a meal than follow basic directions. Even so, at least twice a week the Jordens had a family dinner in their quarters, just the four of them sitting around the little table or sprawled on chairs in their family room.
Most of the colonists took at least a few meals in private each week. Communal living had its pleasures, but everyone needed private time now and again. The trouble of late had been that every time she and Russ had downtime—either alone or with the kids—they found themselves at odds.
Anne loved her husband. She hadn’t come halfway across the universe with him on a whim. But the years on Acheron had showed them that living in such a small community meant there was nowhere for their daydreams to take them. Back on Earth, if she was irritated with her mate, she could have fantasized about moving out, getting a cottage in the mountains, and meeting a man who would look at her the way Russ had when they were first dating.
She could still remember that look, the desire and mischief in his eyes.
Here, her dreams had nowhere to run. It made her impatient with him, and sometimes unforgiving.
Not tonight, she vowed, as she stirred the noodles and spices frying in the pan on the small stove. The smell wafted up and made her mouth water. Three kinds of peppers, a cupboard’s array of herbs… she might not be the galaxy’s greatest chef, but she had perfected this one dish, at least.
Too bad the kids hated it.
Anne sipped her wine as she stirred, and glanced over at Tim. Her son sat in a plush chair, low to the floor, and stared studiously at the small tablet in his hands. Anyone would have thought he was doing homework or reading a book, but she could see the small black buttons in his ears that indicated he was listening to something. He was either watching some kind of vid, or playing a game.
Another day she might have admonished him—tonight, she took another sip of wine, smiled, and stirred the spicy noodles.
Demian Brackett, she thought, her smile soft and full of memories.
No. Tonight wasn’t the night to get into an argument with Russ.
She wasn’t about to rush off and have an affair with Demian—there’d be nowhere on Acheron she could hide from the consequences of infidelity. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t muse on the idea for a while. A good man, if a tad too serious, Demian was as handsome as he’d ever been. If anything, the small creases in the dark skin at the edges of his eyes made him even more attractive.
Anne sipped her wine, letting her mind wander. Russ was irritated with Demian’s presence. She had wanted to punch him for his childishness earlier in the day. But if she kept letting her thoughts drift in salacious directions, she had the feeling that tonight her husband would be reaping the benefits of her ex-boyfriend’s arrival.
Lucky Russ, she thought. Lucky Anne, too, because despite their recent tensions, she had a strong, intelligent, handsome and courageous husband who loved their children more than his own life. Whatever they might argue about, she knew they would still be together when the dust settled. Russ Jorden was her scruffy, wild-eyed man, even when she wanted to smack him in the head.
The door latch rattled, and then she heard
the familiar creak. Stirring the spicy noodles, she lowered the heat on the burner a bit and turned to smile at Russ as he stepped into their quarters.
“Hey, honey,” she began. “Can I pour you a glass of—”
The pale, haunted look on his face froze her tongue.
“Annie…”
She clicked off the burner, a dreadful numbness spreading inside her.
“What is it, Russell?” she said. “I know that look. Crap, I hate that look.”
He crossed toward her. Anne noticed Tim’s head swiveling to follow him—young as he was, he too must have been troubled by his father’s mournful expression. The door still hung wide, open to the corridor, and she wanted to tell Timmy to shut it, but then Russ took her in his arms and held her tightly. He sagged into her, a ship lowering its sails when it had reached safe harbor, and she ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.
“Tell me,” she breathed.
Russ sighed heavily, pressed his forehead to hers, and then stepped back to meet her gaze.
“I just ran into Nolan Cale and he gave me the news… Curtis and Otto are dead.”
The news staggered her, weakened her knees.
“No,” she managed to say, shaking her head. “That can’t…”
Anne turned to lean on the stove, shutting her eyes against her grief as a wave of anger swept over her.
“Idiots,” she said. She slammed her hand down on the stove, rattling the still-sizzling pan. “Those dumb sons of bitches!”
“Hey,” Russ said, taking her arm. “You know it’s not like that. They took shelter in Processor Six. They’d have been okay, but Otto went stir crazy. From what I’m hearing, he just… unraveled.”
Anne stared at him.
“They shouldn’t have been out there in the first place. Those two were always taking unnecessary risks—anything to try to get ahead.”
“They were our friends,” Russ reminded her.
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t foolish,” Anne said, refusing to be mollified. “The worst atmo-storms can be predicted within hours. Maybe they couldn’t have seen how bad this storm would get before they left this morning, but they knew it was going to be a rough day.”
River of Pain Page 9
