by Weston Ochse
Cruz kept the temperature near freezing in those containment rooms. Although the Xenomorphs were seemingly impervious to extremes, he was hoping that if needed, they could reverse the temperature with superheated fire to shock their systems. Sustained fire would kill them, and repeated shocks to their exoskeletons might make them more docile.
At least, that was Cruz’s hypothesis.
The creatures salivated profusely, ribbons and rivulets dripping from their mouths. Cruz mentioned that he’d seen some with the ability to spit acid, but as yet this hadn’t been an issue.
The two Xenomorphs in Containment Rooms One and Two appeared normal, their torpedo-shaped heads immense on a frame that even at two meters tall seemed too small to support them. Likewise, the tails and extended vertebrae nodes seemed normal, based on the records from previous encounters.
Things began to change with Test Subject #3. Although she’d become a drone like the previous two, her skin was dark and leathery with an odd striping, the texture evident from many meters away. The overall effect was different, this Xenomorph seeming more malevolent.
Test Subject #5 grew an extra set of arms. These mostly hung down at its sides, but the hands seemed to face behind it, so when it raised them, it was capable of holding items in either direction. Étienne was especially excited about this, wondering if the duopolistic condition also carried forward to its senses.
Test Subject #7 was perhaps the strangest augmentation. Although the head was the usual smooth torpedo shape of the drone Xenomorph with nary a mouth or any other visible sense organs, the body was translucent. Almost white. What one might call an albino.
The body was more human-shaped as well, the knees and torso larger than a human’s but functioning just the same.
Étienne wanted to introduce this test subject to the others, to see how they’d react. His hypothesis was that this could be a super-drone, capable of leading the others. But Cruz was adamant that security protocols should be observed, so no comingling of test subjects was possible. Still, Étienne worked on several ideas to accomplish his goals, and determine if his hypotheses were correct.
Four test subjects had been reserved for Leon-895 experimentation. Security had managed to procure one of the creatures on an approved hunt, and Cruz was determined to inject its blood, combined with the pathogen, into the four subjects, while incrementally increasing irradiation. His hope was that they could create a Xenomorph with chameleon-like properties, and then transition the science to armor, much as they’d previously done with the acid-resistance experimentation.
That breakthrough had been based on the Xenomorphs’ resistance to their own acidic qualities. One of the strongest corrosives in the known universe, the creatures had it inside their bodies both as a defense mechanism and to carry nutrients. How something could eat through metal, and not eat through skin and organs, had flummoxed the scientists until the late Matthews had analyzed the Xenomorph DNA. He had been able to pinpoint the gene that made it possible.
Thus gene-splicing armor was made from the lab-grown skin of a Xenomorph.
If they could do that, Cruz proposed, why couldn’t they then identify the genes that enabled chameleon abilities, and use them in the creation of a new and improved Xenomorph? Hoenikker, while appreciating the idea, thought that having a nearly invisible, utterly impervious killing machine was a perilous idea, and was reluctant to have anything to do with it.
Which was why he was happy to play transcriber, while his associates manipulated the most dangerous genes in the galaxy.
30
Cruz didn’t like where the experiments were taking them. Sure, they were seeing results that they could manipulate, but not the results they needed. They needed something they could monetize.
Bellows had already called him into the office. The station commander stressed the success of the acid-resistant armor, and demanded that they continue in that direction. The problem was, that last breakthrough had been the proverbial lightning in a bottle, and trying to replicate it might prove to be impossible.
Still, they’d been working on gene mapping, and had ideas where to go.
Then everything was put on hold.
The missing Leon-895 had gotten hungry.
Folks had mostly forgotten about it, many hoping it had found a way outside, where it wouldn’t be a problem. Ironically, Edmonds of Casualty Operations had gone mostly missing. His ID and a magnificent amount of his blood had been found on one of the corridor floors. Bellows had insisted that every operation come to a full stop, until they were able to find and sequester the predator.
* * *
Cruz strode down a corridor, flanked by a synth and two male security guards with pulse rifles. One of the guards had a motion detector that was pointed toward the ceiling. The other had an IR viewer pointed in the same direction.
The synth faced backward, protecting their rear.
“I’m still not sure why I need to be part of the team,” Cruz said, not liking at all that he wasn’t allowed a weapon. He also knew that they’d never have been in this position had he been in charge from the beginning. It was the ineptitude of the bureaucrat Mansfield that had allowed the creature to escape. Not that he’d paid with his life, but still. Cruz should have been in charge from the very first moment he’d appeared on station.
“Not my business,” security guard number one said. “Bellows is the one who put the teams together.”
“I get that,” Cruz said, trying hard not to roll his eyes at the commands of yet another bureaucrat. “But what is it you expect me to do?”
“Whatever you think will help,” security guard number two answered. Which left Cruz scratching his now bearded chin.
He’d created Leon-895, but wasn’t keen on its hunting techniques. He’d never seen it in the wild, had never interacted with it outside of a containment room. His intent had been to enhance the creature’s innate ability to blend into the background. Just a little black goo behind the ears and poof—invisible.
They moved a few feet and stopped. The idea wasn’t to search, but to hold an area. Other teams like theirs were in other corridors, waiting for evidence of the creature. If this didn’t work, they’d have the synths go from room to room while they held their positions. One way or another, they were going to find the Leon.
The radio chattered.
One of the security guards responded.
Nothing more than boredom.
Cruz had seen it enough during his time in the marines. Standing around and holding a rifle wasn’t anyone’s dream job. Guard duty sucked, pure and simple, no matter where you were, but it was something that had to be done. He’d just figured, with his improvement in paygrade, that it would no longer be him.
Fifteen minutes later the radio chattered again. This time the words were punctuated by the sound of pulse rifles.
“What’s going on?” Cruz asked, again wishing they’d given him a weapon. After all, he was probably more familiar with one than they were.
“Sighting,” security guard number two said. “Corridor. Over by Comms section.”
More chatter.
More pulse fire.
“Is it headed this way?” Cruz asked.
As if in response, the security guards spun and aimed their detectors at the ceiling. Both devices went off, and began to wail. Cruz watched as the Leon appeared, rushed by overhead, using the metal beams of the ceiling to propel itself forward. As it passed, it reached down with one appendage and tore free the head of the synth, the body falling to the floor, nothing more than a pile of useless invention.
Then Leon was gone again. The security guards fired blindly, defeating the purpose of the detectors. If they hit anything, there was no indication.
Cruz shook his head.
Why couldn’t they just have a platoon of Colonial Marines, instead of private security? Reaching down, he snagged the pistol the synth had been holding. At least now he was armed. He felt better.
“Did you hi
t it?” Number One asked.
“I think so,” Number Two said. “What about you?”
“Definitely.”
Cruz pushed them both aside, grabbed the motion indicator, and headed after the Leon.
“You boys didn’t hit shit.”
“Wait? Where are you going?” Number One asked. “We’re supposed to stay here, in the event—”
“You mean if it comes this way? It did. It came, and it went.” Cruz continued walking. “And I’m going after it.”
“But we’re supp—”
He turned the corner before he could hear any more of their bullshit. He’d never been good at guard duty because he could never follow directions. The idea of staying in one place and staring into a pre-described space seemed as interesting as sticking a pen in his ear.
Cruz bumped into another security team that seemed as clueless the last one. Hoenikker stood with them, looking as out of place as an ice cream cone in a gun factory.
“Did it pass?” Cruz asked.
Hoenikker nodded. “Didn’t see it. Just heard it.” His wide eyes betrayed his attempt at courage.
“Give me a pistol,” Cruz said to the synth on the team.
The synth handed it over.
“Hey, wait a minute,” one of the security guards said.
“Enough. Give me your radio,” Cruz said. He didn’t wait. He snatched it from the guard, who looked as if he wanted to fight for it, but Cruz was the larger of the two and a station scientist. He handed the extra pistol to Hoenikker, who stared at it like it was about to go off.
“Safety is off. Jut aim and pull the trigger.”
“What am I aiming at?” Hoenikker asked.
“Oh, you’ll know.” Then Cruz spoke into the radio. “All stations this net. Listen, find something liquid. Paint. Blood. Whatever. When the Leon passes, cover it so we can spot it easier. Right now it’s doing laps around us. Paint it with something that sticks, and we can take it down.”
“What are we doing?” Hoenikker asked.
“We’re going to stand by and listen. Stand back to back and aim at the ceiling. I’ll tell you when,” Cruz said.
Hoenikker did as he was told, and pressed himself against Cruz until their backs were touching. They stood there for a few moments, listening to the crackle of the radio.
“Sorry about the way I’ve treated you in the lab,” Cruz said.
“What? Oh. It’s okay,” Hoenikker said. “Things have been… well… a little frightful.”
Cruz listened to the chatter, tracking the action. “None of this is what you expected, is it, Tim?”
“I can’t say I planned on this. Mansfield promised me alien artifacts.”
“How about actual aliens?” Cruz asked.
“Not so fond of living creatures, no offense to them,” Hoenikker said. “I was just hoping to apply my specialty.”
“You do see the importance of our mission, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Hoenikker shifted his pistol to his other hand. “I mean, protecting people is important, but… well… never mind.”
“No, what is it?”
“It’s just that, knowing the history behind many of the civilizations that preceded us could better inform our way forward on both a macro and micro level. Imagine the advancements we could make, researching the successes and failures of those who’ve come before.”
Hoenikker had made a valid point, but Cruz knew research of that sort wasn’t what made Weyland-Yutani the corporation that it was. Discovery of the Xenomorphs, and their attempts to own the morphology, spoke volumes about the company. They’d monetize breathing the air if they could validate it in court.
Hell, given the filtration systems, they already had, he supposed.
“Hold on,” Cruz said, hearing harried curses on the radio. “It’s coming around again.”
“Which way?”
Cruz listened, then spun so that he and Hoenikker were facing the same direction.
“This way.”
“Is it coming?”
“Yes—and some brainiac actually listened to me.”
Pulse rifle shots from around the corner.
Cruz held his pistol and began to fire even before he saw anything. Aiming for the ceiling rail because that was what the Leon would be using to propel itself.
Reports were that it had been shot. When it appeared, it almost shocked him. Someone had managed to cover it in pink paint, defeating its camouflage ability in a mockery of science. His rounds snapped into the Leon as it hurtled around the corner, blood mixing with the paint, splattering against the wall.
Beside him, Hoenikker turtled, hunching protectively inward, the pistol clutched in two shaking hands.
The Leon fell to the ground and began to crawl toward them. Slowly, on its last breaths. But Cruz was out of ammo. He dropped the hand holding the pistol and backed up a step.
“Shoot it,” he shouted to Hoenikker. “Kill it.”
The terrified archaeologist held out his pistol with shaking hands, and just as the creature reached him, pressed it to its head and pulled the trigger. Brains went everywhere.
Then Hoenikker threw up.
31
It wasn’t all a loss. At least they were able to harvest mature stem cells from the dead Leon-895, which Cruz felt could better manipulate the Xenomorph morphology.
Hoenikker played along. He was so out of his element, he just wanted everything to be done so he could get back to his real research. Dealing with aliens hands-on wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He wanted artifacts. He wanted models. He wanted constructs.
He wanted stone and metal and composite, and not the biological messiness that came with living beings.
Instead of losing a full day, they’d only lost a few hours. Bellows was beyond pleased. With one synth and two guards lost, he called it an unmitigated success. He’d lauded the effort over the intercom, boasting his idea for so long that people started to ignore it and went back to work.
* * *
Back in the lab, they finalized several variations of the stem cells to inject into the last three Ovomorphs. The other containment rooms all boasted grown Xenomorphs. Their menacing pacing and scratching against the glass served as reminders that only slim engineering protected the scientists from certain death.
The Xenomorph in Containment Room Five had already shown overt aggression. Cruz was having none of it. He spent an hour burning it with flame and freezing it with ice, until finally the hideous beast retreated to a corner and cowered beneath its four clawed hands. One set was pointed weirdly outward. Hoenikker had been afraid that Cruz might be borrowing trouble, but the results were undeniable.
Étienne and Kash asked him to join them at the examination table near the front of the lab. They had their vid screens laid out, displaying some data they’d been debating. They needed an impartial assessor, and he’d been their first, last, and only choice since asking Cruz was out of the question.
They all perched on stools. Étienne had his hands placed on top of each other, his eyes entreating. Kash sat sideways, as if she’d been forced into the conversation but felt she had to be part of it.
“We need interaction,” Étienne said firmly. “We need to put two of them together.” Hoenikker glanced at Kash, who rolled her eyes. He looked back at Étienne.
“What does interaction provide that you can’t have now?”
“I want to test how their pheromones change when they are in proximity to one another.”
“I still don’t understand,” Hoenikker said. He looked at Kash again, but she just shook her head.
“They were either developed or evolved to become prime hunters. Definitely the alphas at the top of the food chain,” Étienne said, his French accent a little stronger when he became more assertive. “Yet they have no discernable eyes. There have to be additional ways they can identify friend and foe. Some have hypothesized that echolocation is one means to identify prey, as it is with bats. Others believe the
y can see through the carapaces, and have a much wider view than we suspect.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Kash said, interrupting. “What you plan is too dangerous.”
“No. No. Mademoiselle, what I plan can surely be done. We need to shock their systems, then they will be—”
“We don’t even have a handle on human pheromones,” Kash said. “We’ve been studying those for centuries, and it’s still pseudoscience.”
“Then how do you explain some of the perfumes used to draw men or women? It’s no longer just pleasant smells. I had a friend from medical school who was working on the idea of capturing sweat and recreating it in labs.” Étienne rubbed his armpit, smelled his hand, then held it out for the others. “To someone, this is as sweet as the most expensive perfume. In it, there is a science of behavior we can finally understand.”
Both Kash and Hoenikker leaned away from his offer.
“This is more than just the smell of sweat,” Étienne continued. “It will tell you if I am afraid. It will tell you if I am in love. It will tell you many things—our problem is that we have an imperfect method of evaluating and translating the information.”
Kash put her hand on his arm. “I get that, Étienne. I really do. Please, put your sweat away, and hear me out. Trying to evaluate the chemical properties of the perspiration on an alien is about as esoteric a concept as one can imagine.” She glanced back to where Cruz sat at a workstation, and jerked her chin in his direction.
“Plus, he will never go for it.”
Étienne grinned and smoothed his mustache. “Ma cherie, I have always been one to ask forgiveness first, and ask permission later.”
Kash gave a sigh of frustration and almost turned away.
“What’s the primary benefit that can be derived from this experiment?” Hoenikker asked.
“Primary benefit?” Étienne replied, his eyes off and into the distance.
“Oui. Quel est le principal avantage?” Hoenikker asked.
Étienne’s eyes lit up. “Oui. Oui. I see what you have done here. Who knew you spoke French?” He waggled a finger. “You have been keeping this from me. Le principal avantage, hmm. If we are able to capture the scent of a Xenomorph in close proximity to another Xenomorph, perhaps we can create a chemical compound that is a deterrent? It could be replicated, and used as a protective spray.”
