by Weston Ochse
“Ever seen those things they work on—the ones sent ahead from Katanga?”
All three of them shook their heads.
Rawlings offered them a grim smile. “It would rip that camera down in a second. Plus, I’m told it bleeds acid.”
All three of the men mouthed the words, it bleeds acid.
“Knowing the why is nice, but you fabricate because it’s your job.” Rawlings nodded. “If I were you, I’d get ahead of the game and see if you can prepare some glass. Plus, if you have work orders, you can’t really be rat hunting, now, can you?”
All three of their faces lit up.
“That’s true,” King said. “That’s very true.”
Rawlings saluted them with his coffee cup, then went in search of Comms. Three minutes later he was saying hello to Comms Chief Vivian Oshita. Inside the section HQ were three workstations, each occupied by a comms tech. Buggy, Brennan, and Davis. It was Buggy he was there to see.
“Bugs. Share a cup of coffee with me?” Rawlings asked.
“What is it you want?” the tech asked suspiciously. He was about fifty, bald, with pockmarks on his cheeks. Rawlings knew he had a prosthetic right leg, lost during his tour in the marines.
“I’m trying to get a bunch of us together to form a group of… common concern,” he said.
“A group of common what?”
“A group of common concern,” he repeated. “A club, sort of. One that’s filled with former Colonial Marines.”
Bugs shook his head. “I don’t want to be in any club. I’ve put the marines behind me.”
Rawlings laughed and nodded as he poured Bugs a cup of coffee. He passed it to him. “It’s not that kind of club. We don’t have parties or dues or wear funny uniforms. We did all that before in the marines, right? No, this is just about us getting together to… to be there for each other.” He glanced at Bugs, who was taking a sip of his coffee. “I don’t know about you, but sometimes I need to talk about shit, but none of these civilians would understand.” He waited for that to sink in. “Plus, in the event that things go bad, we need to stick together.”
“What do you mean, in the event things go bad?”
“You’re in Comms. You know what kind of fucked-up creatures they have on Katanga. They’re bringing more of them down soon. Have you ever thought what would happen if they got out?”
Bugs gave him a swift glance.
“Wouldn’t be something I’d care to happen,” Rawlings said without waiting for an answer. “Want your life to depend on station security? Or do you want to depend on guys who went through the same things you did?”
Bugs eyed him as he sipped coffee. “You’re making more sense than I thought you would. How many of us are there here?”
“Less than ten. Not a lot of us, but I’ve managed to get with Logistics and stash away an emergency supply of weapons, just in case.”
“Aren’t those tracked?”
“Sure they are,” Rawlings said, grinning.
“Oh, I see.”
“You know that any Colonial Marine worth his or her salt would have a Plan B.”
“And we’re the Plan B,” Bugs said. He stared into his coffee for a long minute. “You know, I really thought I wanted to put all my military time behind me. I lost more than people know. But can we really do that? Isn’t it who we are?”
Rawlings held up his prosthesis. “I know what you’re saying. Every time I do anything with my hands, I’m reminded of what I lost—but then I remember what I’ve gained. I remember the comradery we had. I remember the highs I had while serving and fighting with my mates.”
Bugs absently rubbed his prosthetic leg. “Yeah. It’s easy to forget the good times. Sometimes the bad times just outweigh everything. So, what is it you propose? Do we have meetings? Do we have a secret sign?”
Rawlings laughed. “Maybe get together every now and again. We’ll play it by ear. I just wanted to see if you were up for it.” A moment later he added, “My gut tells me we need to stick together.”
“Well, if I can’t trust the gut of a Colonial Marine, I don’t know what I can trust.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” Rawlings nodded. He began to back away, saluting Bugs with his coffee cup. “Until next time.” Then he turned and was out the door.
6
Hoenikker spent the morning helping the other scientists clean the lab and check the integrity of the containment rooms. Several of them needed replacement windows. Fabrications said it would be a day or so before they could make them. Mansfield, to his credit, ordered enough to replace all of the glass, based on the upcoming delivery of capital-X Xenos.
After a thirty-minute lunch of questionable substances in the mess hall, Hoenikker returned to the laboratory and began to shadow Kash. He’d found her a dedicated professional. One who should be emulated. He’d enjoyed his association so far, and looked forward to more interaction.
As a primer for what they’d be doing later on, she’d arranged the lab table so she could show him firsthand how the pathogen interacted with living matter. While they worked, he eyed Cruz down the corridor, sitting in front of Containment Room Two.
“What’s his story?” he asked in a low voice.
“Cruz?” she said. “He’s efficient.” She withdrew a sample of black goo from a secure container. “A little sadistic, but then, he was a Colonial Marine.”
“How did he go from being a Colonial Marine to being a scientist?”
“Education. Not everyone wants to spend their life in the military.”
“I know, I was just…” He glanced at her. “I don’t know what I wanted to know. He just seems like a different sort of person to be in a laboratory.”
“He’s definitely not what you’d expect, but he has an amazing mind. He was the one who made the breakthrough that enabled us to develop the acid-resistant armor. That alone would enable him to run any Weyland-Yutani lab in the known systems.”
“Yet he stays here.”
“You know how it is. In the central systems, everything is safe. It’s all modeling and algorithms—but out here you get to work on live specimens, in an environment that pushes the boundaries. Rules aren’t necessarily rules. They’re more guidelines, which promotes more out-of-the-box spectacular thinking.”
“Hence the breakthrough.”
“Hence the breakthrough. Even Mansfield leaves him alone.”
“Mansfield,” Hoenikker said, the word more of a sigh.
“Typical Weyland-Yutani bureaucrat. He’s a constant reminder that we work for a corporation, and not for ourselves.”
“How bothersome is he?”
“Not as much as you’d think. As long as we’re producing and following security protocols, he leaves us alone.” She glanced at him, smiling. “After all, he really has no idea what we’re doing.”
“Seems like an interesting mix of scientists,” he said.
“All are at the top of their game. Étienne is more than what he seems. He’s all suave, but he’s extremely serious. As is Muttering Mel.”
“There’s one of him in every lab,” Hoenikker said.
“Yes, but what he lacks in social ability, he more than makes up for in concentration. He’s best doing repetitive experiments, or creating algorithms to prove or disprove a supposition. He can do those on the fly. Eerie the way he’s able to just lean in and do the math.”
“Prior seems to be a good guy.”
She glanced down the corridor to where Prior was working.
“He is, but he has a back story no one really knows. All I could gather is that when I came on board, Mansfield felt he had to inform me that Prior had once been in prison, and asked if I’d be comfortable working with him.”
“Prison?” Hoenikker stared at the man, who seemed to be so nice and polite. “What was he in for?”
“Murder, if you’ll believe it.”
“Murder?” Hoenikker whispered. “Who did he murder?”
“His wife
, but there were extenuating circumstances, I’m told. He was released after an appeal.”
“Extenuating circumstances?” he whispered. “If he murdered her, then what could those have been?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she said. “I’m curious as well, but it’s not something that comes up in casual conversation.”
Hoenikker couldn’t help but stare at the man. Prior looked up. He grinned and waved, then went back to what he was doing.
As quickly as he could, Hoenikker looked away. The man knew they were talking about him. Hoenikker felt like an idiot. Still, a murderer? If anyone had asked him who was the murderer in the lab team, he’d first deny that any of them were capable of it. Then, if pressed, he’d have nominated Cruz. That seemed so obvious, but it was clear that what seemed obvious was anything but.
“They lured you here for alien artifacts.”
Hoenikker snapped out of his internal dialogue and nodded vigorously. “They promised me I’d be able to investigate them firsthand. Indicated that they had an extensive collection.” He looked around. “But I don’t see anything like that, unless it’s covered by the jungle canopy.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she replied. “There’s definitely more going on here than I know. Did they tell you about the synths?”
“I heard mention.”
“Let me just say that they’re spooky. When you see them you’ll know what I mean.”
“Where are they?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know where they keep them. It’s as if they have another wing that we don’t know about.”
“I haven’t walked the whole station, but it doesn’t seem to be that big.”
“It isn’t. Which begs the question, where are the synths?” she asked, her blue eyes wide. He considered that, and vowed to himself to walk the corridors and get a better lay of the land. After all, he might need it some day.
“How long have you been at Pala Station?” he asked.
“Six months. Previously I worked at a hospital. I also have a medical degree.”
“Medical? As in eye, ear, nose, and throat?”
“More trauma surgeon. We were near a mining rig, and there were a lot of crushing injuries.” She sighed and looked away. “You couldn’t imagine the number of amputations I’ve had to make. I needed a break—needed some pure science. Weyland-Yutani was looking for an epidemiologist, and I was looking for a change of scenery.” She spread her arms. “So here I am.
“What’s your story?” she continued.
He sighed. “I’m probably one of the most boring people you’ll ever meet. Never been married, no brothers and sisters. I was an orphan who had good enough marks to get a full ride at university.”
“You were really an orphan?”
“Yes.” An image of fire tried to roar to life, but he stomped it down. “Which is why I suck at relationships.” He glanced at her. She raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said quickly. “What I meant was that I never really had someone to love, and I was never really loved, so I don’t think I understand the concept.” He blushed, feeling his face turn hot and red.
“Timothy Hoenikker, are you blushing?” she asked, a smile forming on her face.
He was furious at his traitorous body. Why was he even talking about love? He was worse than “Muttering Mel.”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he replied. “I don’t know why I told you that. It’s not as if you asked.”
“I did ask,” she said. “I asked what your story was, and you told me part of it. We all have these things that make us who we are. I was married once. My husband found that he had a better time with nurses than he did with a fellow doctor, so I let him have it his way.”
“You were married to a doctor?”
“I thought we’d have something in common. As it turned out, we had too much in common.”
A cry went up to their right, and he peered down the corridor. Cruz was backing hurriedly away from the containment room window.
“Protect yourselves,” he shouted. “It’s going to go!”
7
Rather than running away from the problem, Hoenikker ran toward it, and he didn’t know why. He found himself beside Cruz, both of them breathing heavily.
He was just in time to see the glass melt as the Rat-X inside continuously pelted it with acidic spittle. A hole formed. Hoenikker backed away as the creature’s chitinous forelegs grasped the opening and it pulled itself through.
The creature landed on the floor. About two feet tall and three feet wide because of the legs, it was a formidable little beast. Not big enough to intimidate, but not small enough to ignore. If one didn’t know it could spit acid, they might take it for granted and approach it.
Kash went to hit the alarm button.
“Don’t do that,” Cruz shouted. “We can take care of it here.”
She paused.
The creature saw her, and began to scuttle toward her, propelling itself with its chitinous rear legs while holding up its forelegs in a menacing fashion.
“We combined DNA from a local spider to see what the interaction would be,” Cruz said. “Hence the legs, but the acid was an unpredicted result brought on by the pathogen.”
Kash circled around the other side of the central table, putting it between her and the creature.
“Are you going to do anything, Cruz?” she asked, eyes wide, looking ready to bolt.
“Just don’t let it get near you,” he responded. “I have an idea.” He dove for a closet and began to pull something out.
Rather than follow her around the table, the creature jumped onto it. It spit a wad of acid at her, but she was able to dodge. The wall behind where she had been standing began to melt in the spot where it hit.
“Cruz! You need to do something now!” she said, edging her way toward where they were standing. Cruz exited the closet wearing something with a tank, a hose, and a long metal nozzle.
“Flamethrower,” he said. “I put it here in the event a xeno escaped.” He passed Kash. “Get behind me,” he said, ushering her back with his arm. He held out the nozzle and was about to fire when the door to the lab opened.
Mansfield stood in the doorway staring at the Rat-X.
“What the hell is going on?”
Before he was able to move, the creature leaped off the table, spit acid at his leg, and scurried out the door. Mansfield screamed as the acid ate away at his clothes and skin. Kash ran toward him, grabbing a med kit from the wall as she did.
Cruz ran out the door and disappeared to the right.
Against his better judgment, Hoenikker followed him. Out in the corridor, he was ten feet behind Cruz as they chased the creature. It hissed and raised its front legs whenever it saw a threat, but seemed more intent on fleeing than harming. His eyes went wide as it jumped onto the wall, and then onto the ceiling, running with as much an ease as it had on the floor.
They began to encounter other people in the corridor. Each time Cruz seemed about to fire, Rat-X would jump down or around something or someone.
They approached a corner, and a clique of people appeared, chatting together. The creature seemed to have decided it had done enough running, and leaped onto the face of a young man in the middle of the group.
The rest screamed and fled, leaving their comrade on the ground, kicking with his legs, trying to pull the thing from his face. It punctured the man’s face and neck with the spikey ends of its legs, over and over.
He tried to scream, but the creature spit acid into his mouth.
His legs and arms danced along the ground.
Cruz fired the flamethrower and a jet of fire encompassed both the man and his assailant. The burning creature tried to flee, scrambling up the side of a wall, but Cruz was on it. He fired again, this time hitting it squarely.
It fell to the ground, its legs curling on themselves.
Hoenikker looked on in appalling fascination as the man
still rattled the floor with his arms and legs, even as he was on fire, his face melting onto the hard-composite surface beneath him. The image fanned the flames of his own memories, and he found himself backing away.
Cruz turned and opened a gout of flame onto the man’s face, and kept firing until his legs and arms stilled.
Hoenikker fell to the ground. He pushed himself back until he was against the wall. Then he turned, hiding his face, but feeling the heat of the burning figure. When it was all over, Cruz slumped against the opposite wall.
“Jesus H. Christ,” was all he said.
Security ran up, shadowed by a med tech. One look at the man, however, and they knew there was nothing that could be done. Someone doused him with flame retardant until the fire was out.
The stench of burning hair and human flesh was one of the most horrible scents Hoenikker had ever encountered.
“Is that the only one?” a security officer asked.
Cruz nodded. “Just this one.”
Hoenikker shook, peeking through his hands as if he were five, and barely alive. Cruz reached down and grasped him gently by the elbow.
“You okay, Hoenikker?” he asked. “Did you get hurt?”
Hoenikker realized he’d been crying, and wiped his face with his free hand. He allowed the bigger man to pull him to his feet and gently guide him back to the lab. The taller man was shaking, almost imperceptibly—he could feel it through the grip.
When they got back into the lab, Cruz shrugged out of the flamethrower and set it heavily on the chair. He held out his hands and saw they were shaking. He crossed his arms and put his hands under his armpits, and rocked back and forth.
Prior came up and put a hand on his back.
“Wasn’t your fault, brother. Was the glass. It’s just not made for what we have in there.”
Cruz nodded. “I know. It’s just—it’s just it took me back to where I didn’t want to be.” Hoenikker looked on but didn’t know what to say. It had taken him to such a place as well.
Kash brought Cruz a glass of water, which he drank in one long shaking gulp.
“The PTSD has been bad lately,” Cruz began. “I know I can be rough around the edges.” He stared solidly at the middle of the table. “But until you’ve lost all your friends in a battle, you’ll never know what it’s like.” With still-shaking hands, he pulled up the sleeve on his right arm, revealing names tattooed there. “Snyder, Bedejo, Schnexnader, Correia, Cartwright. They all died. We were trying to protect a settlement, and these giant four-legged xenos with tentacles and way too many teeth attacked. We fired and fired until our pulse rifles locked up from the heat. They killed all my friends.”
