by Weston Ochse
He eyed the two synths standing against a wall, almost blending into the machinery. Having seen them in action, he knew how fast they could move. Yet as fast as they were, they’d been unable to capture the Leon. He hoped they’d fare better with the Xenomorphs.
The scientific part of him was interested in their morphology.
The human part of him was scared shitless.
22
The next morning the scientists were in the lab before sunrise. They checked the integrity of all the glass fronts, as well as the workstations at each containment room. Rawlings brought them all coffees, with the exception of Kash, whom he brought tea. He hung around, watching and nodding occasionally as one of the scientists passed. The arrival of the Xenomorph specimens was like Christmas, and he wanted to be in the center of it all.
Security was abuzz. Word had spread that Bellows had lit into them, promising each and every one that if there was a security incident during the transfer, they’d be on that long journey back to Weyland-Yutani, without cryosleep. Rawlings wasn’t sure the commander had the authority to do such a thing. Anyone traveling without cryosleep would age accordingly. But the threat of it seemed to put a spring in Security’s steps. The ones he could usually chat up were close-mouthed and all business.
So, he posted himself in the lab, hoping no one would notice him and kick him out. He wasn’t let down.
They came two-by-two from the loading docks. Each pair of security personnel carrying a cryosealed container about three feet by three feet by three feet. Hypercold air leaked from the seams of the containers in a dull hiss, creating a ground fog that swirled and danced as they moved through it. The personnel wore special gloves that insulated them from the cold. Each team placed a specimen inside a containment area.
Étienne Lacroix made certain the doors were sealed and security locks were set. Once all twelve containment rooms had been filled, the security persons went away.
With the exception of the two security synths. Although they seemed to blend into the background, Rawlings knew they could activate in a split second.
He took a sip of coffee.
This was getting good.
Cruz and Étienne went to separate workstations and, using articulated arms, began to open the cryosealed containers. As the tops came loose and were placed to the side, an egg-like shape could be seen in each container.
“They’re called Ovomorphs,” Kash said. “This is the first stage of a Xenomorph’s existence—essentially an egg laid by the queen. They’re still cryo’d until we remove the lower case. After that, they’ll ‘wake up,’ so to speak.
“They’re kept in stasis during transit,” she continued, “because studies have determined that the eggs have the ability to detect biological organisms around them. Inside each Ovomorph is a stage one Xenomorph.”
“Go ahead and call them by their real names,” Étienne called over his shoulder as he removed yet another container lid. “Stage one Xenomorph sounds so boring by comparison.”
“They call them face-huggers,” she said, nose scrunched at the word. “Imagine two giant skeletal hands,” she said, putting her wrists together, locking her thumbs, and waggling her fingers. “And a spine-like tail. The tail wraps around the victim’s throat and the stage one Xenomorph essentially hugs the face until it can implant the highly mutagenic substance known as plagiarus praepotens. We’re going to work with this substance and try and determine the effects of the pathogen on it. Mutagenic substance vs. mutagenic substance.”
“It’s going to be lovely,” Étienne called.
“How does the er… face-bugger stay in place?” Hoenikker asked.
“Once over the mouth of its target, the face-hugger controls the host by rendering it unconscious using a cyanose-based paralytic chemical similar to dimethyl sulfoxide, administered simply through skin contact.”
“It’s also been able to suppress the host’s immune system,” Étienne added, “so that the body can’t fight against the invasion. Once the mutagen is set, the ‘face-bugger’ releases, having done its job of delivery. Then comes the fun part,” he said. “Stage two.” He made a fist near his chest then opened it dramatically while simultaneously making the sound of an explosion. “Chestbursters.”
Hoenikker shook his head.
Rawlings took a sip of his coffee to hide his expression.
“But we’re not going to have to worry about that,” Kash said. “We’re going to focus on the Ovomorphs and try and entice mutagens from them without face-huggers.”
“About that,” Cruz said. “There’s been a change of plan.”
“What do you mean?” Kash asked. She turned, hands on her hips. “The plan has been in place for months.”
Cruz finished removing his last container lid and stood, straightening his lab coat, then wiping his brow with a sleeve.
“Bellows has other ideas. He wants Xenomorphs. The acid-resistant armor is a game-changer. We need more tech like that, and he thinks that testing the mutagenic effects of the pathogen on the various stages of a juvenile and adult will give us the best results.”
“But he isn’t a scientist,” she said. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d do what he said.”
“You what?” Étienne cried out. “You didn’t even stand up for our agenda?”
“What was I supposed to do—on my first day? Disobey a direct order? We’ll have other chances to do things the way we want. For now, we need Xenos.”
“But that requires…” Kash looked around. “Oh, no, we are not.”
“We are not what?” Hoenikker asked.
Rawlings knew exactly what her concerns were, and he had the same problem with the sudden change of plan.
“Bellows has a cache of criminals,” Cruz said. “Don’t worry, they’ve all signed waivers, and it’s perfectly legal. He assured me of it.”
“Do you hear yourself speaking?” Étienne said. “A cache of people? People can’t be cached.”
“Don’t get all high-and-mighty, Dr. Lacroix,” Cruz said. “Weren’t you the one just now dramatizing the chest bursting to Hoenikker here?”
“That was before I thought—” He glanced at Hoenikker. “He’s right. I shouldn’t have been joking. It’s a terrible thing to watch.”
“Have you seen it?” Hoenikker asked.
“Only in videos,” Étienne said. “Say, can we send these back, and get fully formed Xenos?”
“Do you want to lead the team to try and capture them?” Cruz asked.
“What happened last time?” Hoenikker asked.
“We received several infected humans who were purportedly ‘explorers.’ Our containment areas weren’t as secure then, so we never saw the actual chest bursting,” Kash said.
“Another time, we received several adults in cryogenic stasis,” Étienne said.
“And now we have twelve Ovomorphs,” Hoenikker said. “Which means we’ll need—”
“Stand aside,” Bellows commanded as he entered the room. Behind him came a flow of civilians dressed in dirty gray jumpsuits, accompanied by security personnel.
“You going to do this now?” Cruz asked.
“We don’t have the capacity to keep them anywhere else.” Bellows glanced at the other scientists, then planted himself in front of a containment room so he could admire the Ovomorph. “Might as well begin testing, or whatever it is you do here. I count twelve eggs, and we have twelve volunteers.”
“Wait a minute,” Étienne said, his voice rising. “Just wait a minute. I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Nor did I,” Kash said.
“Nor did I,” Hoenikker echoed, looking like he might be sick.
The twelve humans stood with their heads down. Three were women—two in their mid-thirties and one near sixty. The rest were men of various ages and ethnicities. All of them shared the same look of world-weary rejection, as if they just wanted to be done with it all.
“Oh, look, the new scientist has an opinion,” Bel
lows said without turning around. “Listen and listen good, people. You will all perform your functions as per your contract with Weyland-Yutani. Any ideas you might have not to work will be met with the severity only a corporate giant can impose.
“Dr. Hoenikker,” he continued, “we are aware of your sister and her troubles. These can either be exacerbated or corrected. Likewise, Dr. Kash. You were unhirable when you came to us. Do your partners in science know that you were once called the Angel of Death? And Dr. Lacroix. You are a very happy scientist to not be in prison. Prison isn’t a luxury for anyone. Just look at the twelve volunteers we have here.
“I do not threaten anyone. I merely provide realities. Right now, your realities are as scientists aboard Pala Station. Those realities can change if you feel they must, but for the moment, you have jobs to do and I expect them to be performed to perfection.”
He turned, hands folded behind his back, and regarded the three scientists. Then he turned to Cruz.
“Doctor? I expect a report first thing.”
Cruz nodded. “Yessir.”
Bellows left the room, walking stiffly past the doomed. Cruz nodded to the security personnel, who walked each one of the humans into a chamber that contained an Ovomorph. One man and one woman had to be physically restrained as they began to shriek, and begged not to be put in the room. But to no avail. Ultimately, Security managed to get them where they were supposed to go, closing the doors.
The shrieks became muffled.
When the security personnel left, Cruz turned to his team.
“To your stations,” he said, his jaw tight.
Hoenikker had a look of horror on his face.
Kash held a fist to her mouth.
Étienne’s focus was more precise, anger curling his lip.
“I said stations,” Cruz said.
Étienne whirled on him. “How can we just do this?”
“What do you want me to do?” Cruz asked. “You heard the man. You heard what he said. He talked about realities.” Cruz pointed at one of the containment rooms where an older man sat in a corner, hugging his knees, staring at the egg in the middle of the room. “They volunteered. They want to change their realities—the realities of their families. Don’t ruin it with sentimentality.”
“Sentimentality?” Étienne asked. “It’s not sentimental, not wanting someone to die.”
“They’re going to die so that others may live,” Cruz said. “The Colonial Marines who benefit from this might never know, but each of you will know what they’ve given—what they’ve sacrificed.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Hoenikker said.
Kash put her hand on his back.
Cruz continued his monologue. “As a former marine, I can tell you that the sacrifice will not go unappreciated.”
“That’s not something we can grasp,” Kash said. “It’s hard for us to get past the idea that these people are going to die, and we can’t stop it.” She paused. “It—it just feels wrong.”
“You’re going to have to get past it, Kash.” Cruz nodded in turn at each of the scientists. “All of you are going to have to find a way to get past it. Now, get to your stations. We need to inject the pathogen while we’re still able.”
The scientists remained in place for a moment. Then one by one, each of them moved to their station.
Cruz noticed Rawlings.
“You? Do you have a place to be?”
Rawlings nodded.
“Then get there.”
Rawlings was glad to leave. Part of him wanted to watch the process, intrigued by what that was about to happen. But another part knew there were some sights that couldn’t be unseen. An alien bursting out of the chest of a young woman was one of them.
He hoped he’d never see such a thing again.
The coffee tasted weak in his mouth right now.
He needed something stronger.
23
The last time Rawlings had been this drunk before noon, he’d just been fitted with his second prosthesis. The reason he’d needed a second prosthesis was because in a drunken fit, he’d thrown his first mechanical arm into traffic, and it had been run over.
He’d forgotten the reason he’d hurled it into traffic, but thought it might have had to do with his girlfriend of three years taking off with all his stuff and leaving him with a dead plant, a fishbowl with dead fish, and the trash strewn all over the room.
He’d forgotten why she’d taken off as well, because he’d been on a four-day bender.
They’d forced him into detox after he received his second prosthesis, and he hadn’t really drunk much since then. He’d been happy to partake of coffee and contemplate the good qualities of a life outside of the Colonial Marines—even with a corporation such as Weyland-Yutani.
But that was before he’d watched a group of human beings trade their lives for what was the most gruesome experience possible. Rawlings had seen it happen.
Hell, he’d almost fallen victim to it himself.
Pouring the rest of the bottle of whiskey into his coffee cup, he screwed the top in place, took a sip, stumbled, then straightened. Wouldn’t be right if anyone saw him stumbling around the station. Wouldn’t be right at all. He managed to hug the walls all the way to the Comms section before stumbling a little as he entered the office.
Brennan’s desk was still empty, as was Davis’s, but Buggy was still there, which was good because that was why Rawlings came.
One look at Rawlings and Buggy was out of his chair and helping the reception tech back the way he’d come. When he got Rawlings to his room, he eased him onto the bed and closed the door.
“What the hell, Vic?” Buggy asked, taking away the cup, smelling it, then wincing at the smell. “Anyone see you drunk on duty, and Bellows is going to have your ass.”
“Do you know what they’re doing here?” Rawlings asked.
“Everyone knows. It’s not our business.”
“Why not? Isn’t it our job to protect those who can’t protect themselves?”
“Easy there, Vic. You’re not a Colonial Marine anymore.”
“Who says?” Rawlings shouted. “Once a marine, always a marine!”
“Easy, now. Keep it down. Listen, I’m going to get the others.”
Rawlings began to hum cadence he hadn’t marched to in a dozen years. Buggy made a few calls on the wall communications panel. Within minutes, McGann and Chase had joined them.
Rawlings watched it all through amused eyes. He wasn’t as drunk as he could be, but he was definitely impaired. He’d wanted them together anyway, so this was as good a way to accomplish that as not.
“What is it—a flashback?” McGann asked, checking the bottle.
“How’d he get the booze?” Chase asked.
“You’d be surprised at the sorts of things I have,” Rawlings said. “When people leave here they don’t always take everything.” He clapped his hands together and pounded the bed beside him. “Have a seat. We need to make plans.”
“Plans?” Chase asked. “What plans?”
“He thinks he’s still a Colonial Marine,” Buggy said.
“Once a marine, always a marine!” Rawlings shouted.
“What the hell, Rawlings?” McGann said.
Chase went to the desk and picked up the cup. He smelled it first, then took a tentative sip. Once he was sure what it was, he took a deep draw.
“Easy there, Chase,” Buggy said. “You don’t want to end up like Rawlings.”
“Not enough in here to end up like him. Just enough for a stiff drink.” He took another, then held it out. “This is some good shit.”
McGann took it and slugged back a mouthful. She sighed after she swallowed, then held out the cup to Buggy.
Buggy stared at it for a moment, then grinned. “What the hell. You only live once.” He held up the cup and said, “Semper fi,” before kicking back the last of the whiskey.
The others repeated it back to him.
“Semper
fi!”
After a few moments of silence, Rawlings spoke. “You know what that means, right? ‘Semper fi.’ Semper fidelis. It means, ‘always loyal.’ Like us. Always loyal to the corps. But it’s more than that. It’s also always loyal to your friends. Your fellow humans, even.”
“Fellow humans?” Chase glanced at McGann. “What’s he getting at?”
“The alien eggs and the twelve people who are going to get infected,” Buggy explained. “It’s messing with his head.”
“Wait. What?” McGann asked. “No one said anything about infecting humans. Who could force someone to do that?”
“They’ve volunteered,” Buggy said. “Some had life sentences commuted, so they could die early.”
“I heard one of the women is doing it to get her husband out of prison,” Chase said. “She has some disease, and doesn’t have long to live, or something like that.”
“It’s still fucked up,” McGann said.
Chase nodded hurriedly. “Definitely fucked up.”
“So, what are we going to do?” McGann asked.
“What is there to do?” Buggy said. “Just do your jobs.”
“We need to be ready,” Rawlings said. “Bad shit’s coming, and we need to be ready.”
“You can’t know that,” Chase said.
Rawlings stared at him. “Know that feeling in the pit of your stomach before a battle? Know that itch on the back of your neck when you’re on patrol? What about that catch at the back of your throat, or the snap of your teeth together, unable to release them because they’re more ready for an impact than you are?”
The others nodded, looking to their own memory horizons.
“I ever tell you how I lost my hand?” Rawlings asked.
They shook their heads.
“Just another LV. Just another patrol. You know how it goes. They send you into space and you’re sent to keep someone or something from killing settlers, or miners, or agro-farmers. In this case it was a mining colony. People were dying mysteriously, so they sent for the marines. Same-o, same-o.”
“If I had a hundred credits for each colony I’d gone to, I could vacation for a year,” McGann said.
“Exactly,” Rawlings said. He nodded toward the cup. “Any left?”
