by Weston Ochse
He shook the memory away and donned his lab coat. As he entered the lab, the lights came on automatically, attuned to movement. He went immediately to Containment Room One. Cruz wanted to increase the amount of black goo he’d been injecting into his current specimen—what he’d come to call Rat-X. It scowled at him, the front two of its six legs held in the air. He needed to immobilize it, so he turned the temp all the way down.
The others thought he was crazy. Probably even the new guy, Hoenikker. Perhaps Cruz was a little crazy. Anyone who’d seen combat was changed by it, something his fellow doctors had no way of understanding. They’d grown up entitled.
Through a hardscrabble life and being the agent of his own actions, Cruz managed to parlay military service into a collegiate opportunity and finished with a graduate degree in xenobiology.
Crazy? No, what he was doing with Rat-X was as important as anyone else’s experimentation, including Prior’s specimen-of-the-moment Leon-895. Pala team still had a lot of questions, including how to freeze Xenos so their blood was no longer acidic. Would the nature of the acid change with thawing? Could they create a freeze weapon that would make Xenos easier to kill with conventional weapons, while preventing the blood from dripping through a ship’s hull? They were fresh out of big-X Xenos, but they had the rats and they had the goo and they had the time.
Once Rat-X was frozen, he turned off the temperature controls. Before it thawed and awoke, he’d have more than enough time to do what he had planned. Grabbing a biopsy needle from a nearby drawer, and a clamp, he toggled open the containment room door. There was a click, then he stepped inside. A residue of cold made him shiver for a moment. He attached the clamp to a spot along the back wall, then lifted the frozen creature and put it into the clamp, which actuated. Four padded arms enveloped the creature, holding it fast.
Cruz held onto one of the long chitinous legs and shoved the biopsy needle into the abdomen. What he sought was more of a core sample than a blood sample. If he’d wanted the latter, he would have put the Rat-X to sleep using gas. But this was easier and, frankly, made him feel better.
* * *
Suddenly, he’s back in the wretched darkness—a darkness to which he’s returned, over and over. A darkness that won’t leave him. One that lives inside of him and somehow forever avoids the light.
Pulse rifles light up the night, turning the events into an old-time movie. Reality flickering from light to dark to light again over and over as the pulses from the rifles strive to save them. They’d been assigned settlement protection on LV-832. Carnivorous moose-sized creatures with tentacles charge their position. Their hooves the sound of thunder. Their howls like musical horns. Pulses from the rifles illuminate the creatures in nightmarish flashes. The forward observer dies first.
* * *
Back in the lab, he snaps off a chitinous leg.
* * *
The lieutenant tries to be a hero. No one wants a fucking hero. They fire and fire until their rifles choke. Still the creatures come. Trampling.
* * *
Snap!
* * *
Snyder hurls into the air, propelled by the tentacles wrapped around his torso.
* * *
Snap!
* * *
Schnexnader screams as his right arm is bitten off. Blood spurts on all of them as he spins madly.
* * *
Snap!
* * *
Correia is grabbed and slammed repeatedly against a tree until blood and organs explode from his body.
Cruz screams, then cries.
* * *
Back in the lab, he realized he was holding a leg in each hand, ripped from the creature’s body. He was making a low sound like a continuous groan, felt incredibly drowsy, and wanted to lie down.
The rat began to move, then cried out in pain, the sound of a cat caught in a vice. Rat-X writhed and squirmed. Twisting, it freed itself from the clamp and, with its remaining three legs, latched itself onto the front of Cruz’s lab coat.
Cruz madly knocked it off.
It careened to the floor, righted itself, then scrabbled toward him.
Cruz backed away, but the Rat-X grabbed his pants leg. In a spastic one-legged dance as he tried to shake the creature free, Crux made it back toward the containment room door. Rat-X lost its grip and flew against a wall. Then Cruz spied the biopsy needle. He’d dropped it during his blackout. Realizing he still held two of the creature’s legs in each hand, he threw first one, then the other at the creature, which backed away.
Diving for the needle, Cruz managed to grab it, but Rat-X surged between his legs toward the open door. From his knees Cruz reached out and grabbed the monstrosity from behind. The creature gnashed its teeth at him, but Cruz managed to narrowly avoid being bitten. He jerked the creature over his head, slamming it into the back wall. The motions threw Cruz to his knees, and he crawled frantically through the door. Twisting onto his back, he kicked the door closed just as Rat-X faceplanted on the glass.
The creature stared daggers at him as it slid to the floor.
Cruz climbed wearily to his feet, and placed the biopsy needle in a drawer. He’d take care of it later. Pulling aside a button cover, he revealed a big red ABORT button. He pressed it, and the containment room filled with flames from top to bottom. Rat-X squealed for a second, then folded in on itself as it first turned to cinders, then ash. When the flames died, Cruz searched the room for any other debris that might represent the legs.
He thought he’d got them all.
Wearily, he headed back toward his sleeping quarters. The night had almost been a disaster.
4
An hour before first shift, everyone else was asleep—but not Logistics Specialist Fairbanks.
Ever since he’d returned to Pala he’d been a nervous wreck. His blood pressure had to have been through the roof. His head ached from the constant pounding, and he couldn’t get his hands to stop shaking. He’d thought that maybe he would have been searched when he returned from emergency leave, but Security hadn’t so much as glanced at him. That had been an immense relief, but still he couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t being watched.
Although he knew from his work as a logistics tech that there were only a few instances of internal surveillance, his paranoia made him wonder if perhaps Security had planted some devices without him knowing. Just the thought of it made him want to hyperventilate, so before he was able to do what he’d planned on doing, he had to sit and try to control his breathing.
Finally, he was able to stand, his legs still a little shaky. He believed he’d feel better once the deed was done, yet couldn’t help but feel as if he was doing something terribly wrong. Just the thought of it made him sit again. He wasn’t really an infiltrator, was he? He wasn’t a bad guy. He was a victim—a victim of corporate greed. He was a bullet fired from one corporation to the other.
In this case, Hyperdyne firing at Weyland-Yutani.
What they wanted him to do wasn’t so bad, he supposed. After all, it wasn’t like he was going to hurt anyone. It wasn’t as if someone might die because of what he was being made to do.
Yes. He was the victim. He’d been given a part to play in the Corporate Wars and he’d play it then move on with his life. It wasn’t as if he had a choice, either. He’d threatened to go to Security, to tell them what had happened while he was away. His blackmailer’s response was to remind him how long an arm Hyperdyne had, and how they knew where his family resided—especially his mother. Had it been a threat? Most definitely. So, they had him. There was nothing he was capable of doing except follow through.
Fairbanks stood, reassured about what he was going to do. He nodded to himself, straightened his spine, and strode toward his dresser. Opening the top drawer, he reached toward the back. Beneath his underwear and socks was a thick package. He pulled it free, peeked inside, then closed it.
Still alive.
Good.
Grabbing a pack off the side of his
desk, he shoved the thing inside. He slung it over his shoulder, opened his door, and glanced up and down the corridor. Clear. Stepping outside, he closed his door and headed quickly to his left. Three turns later he was in the right corridor. He hurried to the end and stopped alongside an access panel about three feet tall. Checking left, then right, he pulled out a tool and opened the panel, letting it come to rest on its lower hinges.
Inside were several wires and an opening in the ductwork. He slouched out of the pack and rested it on the open panel, pulling free the package and opening it. Inside were three dozen specially designed baby rats provided courtesy of Hyperdyne Corp. He shepherded them into the ductwork, watching as they scampered madly away, probably elated to be free of the dark confines of the package.
Once the last had gone, he put the empty package back in his pack and pulled out a vid display unit. He attached it to some wires, then hammered out a message—code he’d memorized that Hyperdyne would pick up. They’d ensured him that they’d already hacked station comms.
His task complete, he wedged the vid display behind a cluster of wires, used the tool to close the access panel, and placed the tool back in his pack. He was about to leave when a security specialist turned the corner. She stopped and stared in his direction.
“Identify yourself.” She had a hard face and short-cropped blonde hair. Her muscles were twice the size of his. Even if he thought he might try and escape, there was no way he’d be able to get away from her. “I asked your name.”
He stood at attention, his back against the wall.
“Logistics Specialist Fairbanks.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, eyeing the access panel, then his pack.
Enabling Hyperdyne Corporation to spy on you. He blinked. His mouth was a desert. His head pounded and he wanted to pee. “I thought I heard something in there.” He glanced toward the access panel. “Maybe rats?”
She shook her head. “We have rats everywhere. I mean, what are you doing in this corridor? You have no reason to be here. This leads to the underground.”
“I—I was trying to get some exercise, prior to shift. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was.”
“And the pack?” she asked, pointing to it.
“Uh, have some trash in there. Going to dispose of it after exercise.”
She held out a hand. “Let me see.”
Just his luck to get the most thorough damned security specialist in all of Pala Station. He shrugged out of the pack. She opened it and pulled out the package, checked inside and saw it was empty. Shoving it back in the pack, she pulled out the tool.
“And this?”
“I’m a log specialist.” He shrugged and tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a bark. “I use it every day.”
She tapped it against her hand a few times then, frowning, placed it back in the bag. She handed it back to him. He accepted it with two hands and held it.
“You were the one went on emergency leave, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” He felt his eyebrows raise. “I had to get to a place with better comms.”
“So you could call home?”
He nodded.
Her face softened. “That’s the main problem with being out so far. That, and the knowing that you’ll probably never see your family again.” She stared down the corridor and millions of miles farther. Then she turned back to him. “How was it you were allowed to go? What was it, seven weeks’ travel?”
He thought of Rawlings, and how the reception tech had hooked him up. Just a few fake signatures and a compelling narrative.
“Lucky, I guess.”
She frowned, “I don’t believe in luck.” She stepped close and poked him in the chest. “Now, get out of my section and go exercise somewhere else.”
Just then the sound of something rustling came from inside the access panel.
She shook her head. “Fucking rats everywhere.”
He nodded, then backed down the corridor. When he reached the intersection, he hurried down the new direction, eventually finding his way back to his room. Stepping inside, he closed the door and fell against it, breathing heavily. He hurled his bag onto his bed, then bent over double. He’d never make a good criminal.
Hell, he barely made a decent infiltrator.
5
Reception Tech Rawlings entered his office, sporting a grin and a cup of coffee. He took a sip as he sat behind his monitor.
Any day at the ass end of the universe is better than being in the suck. That was his motto for pretty much every occasion. Glancing at his prosthesis, he chuckled. Some do it for the medals. Some do it for the money. “Come. Join the Colonial Marines. See the universe.” Shoot things and break things and we’ll pay you for it. While his left hand ached with arthritis, his prosthetic right one felt nothing at all. The bright side of a dark day.
He took another sip, then dialed up the dailies.
Staff sections had reported a hundred percent. As it should be. If someone went missing, it meant something bad had happened. Pala Station was a closed station. No one was allowed to go anywhere without the station commander’s approval—except of course the deputy commander, who seemed to spend more time off station, hunting and exploring, than he did on duty. Even built a lodge out there. Not many people knew about it.
Nicoli was already at her desk. She was in charge of personnel management and would soon be forwarding the daily accountability to the commander. She also had some disciplinary notes to attach to several personnel folders. It seemed as if the good folks over in Engineering had made their own hooch. Such a thing normally wouldn’t have been a problem, but when one of them coded the station lights to flash on and off to the beat of an old rock song, they went a bit too far.
Brown was also at her desk. Her function was readiness management. It was getting to the end of a cycle, and she had to ensure that team leads entered their employee progress reports into the Weyland-Yutani database. Corporate was always about the lure of promotion. Do well, rat on your peers, use their backs for your own stepping-stone, and we will promote you.
Rawlings, meanwhile, had to prepare for the incoming specimens about to be delivered to the scientists and their personnel. The San Lorenzo had towed Katanga refinery into orbit, and soon they’d have some visitors. It was Rawlings’ job to ensure that all inbound had the correct security clearances and personnel files. This caused him to have interaction with Security, which he didn’t mind at all. Several of them were former Colonial Marines, trading in their knowledge of infantry operations for security operations.
Rawlings spent an hour at the terminal preparing digital paperwork, then once he was finished, he stood.
“You leaving us again?” Brown asked.
“Going to Security, and then to Fabrications.”
“You do know you can just call them, right?” Nicoli asked.
Rawlings grinned merrily. “I prefer the personal touch. No offense to you two ladies, but I do like to see other faces in the flesh, now and again.”
Brown shook her head, returning to her screen.
Nicoli shook hers as well. “I just don’t understand you, Rawlings.”
He smiled wider. “Nothing to understand. What you see is what you get.” He saluted her with his empty coffee cup and exited the office.
Cynthia Rodriguez was security chief, and a Wey-Yu corporate troubleshooter. Her deputy for internal security was Randy Flowers, a relatively new addition to the station, still finding his footing. Rawlings had known Randy in the service. Captain Flowers had been a solid no-nonsense marine. They’d deployed together on the mission where he’d lost his hand.
It was less than a five-minute walk to the Security offices. When Rawlings arrived, he found Flowers and coordinated the transfer of personnel, ensuring that there would be follow-on files for him to peruse and store. He grabbed some of their coffee and headed out the door. Right before he left, Sec Specialist Reyes approached him.
“What does a girl got
ta do to get off station?” she asked.
He’d always liked her. Although never a Colonial Marine, she had the square jaw of a tough person. He could imagine her in uniform, firing a pulse rifle at some incoming enemy.
“Only the station commander can authorize off-station travel,” he said.
“Word has it he’ll sign whatever you give him.”
“Is that so?” He sipped at his coffee, wondering where she was going with this.
“I bumped into Fairbanks this morning,” she said cryptically.
Rawlings nodded slowly. “He had a family emergency.”
“Is that so?” She grinned.
He grinned back and sipped his coffee. “Company policy is that if you have a compelling need, you can have up to ten weeks LWOP—leave without pay. It’s just finding the compelling need.”
She stared at him thoughtfully.
“Is that all, Security Specialist Reyes,” he said, “or are you going to frisk me.”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean, yes, that is all.”
Rawlings saluted her with his coffee. “Compelling need.”
“Compelling need,” she repeated, gaze turned inward as if she was trying to figure out exactly what need was compelling.
Next stop was Fabrications. When he entered, they were playing a board game. Something having to do with logistical supply lines to spaceships. Fabrications was the smallest staff section. Tom Ching and Brian Mantle were the specialists, while Robb King was in charge. When he entered, all of them groaned.
“You do know that you eventually have to work, right?” he said.
“We’ve spent three days on rat duty,” King said. “That’s work enough.”
“How would you like to do real work, like actually fabricating something?”
“Don’t tell me,” Ching said. “The brainiacs need more glass for their containment rooms.”
Rawlings saluted the smaller of the three. “Got it in one try.”
“How come they need so much of the special glass?” Mantle asked. “It’s not easy to blend it with tungsten, and still make it transparent. Why not just use tungsten walls and have a video camera on the inside?”
