by Weston Ochse
“Only you and Security will have access. Just place your palm on the access panel.” Hoenikker did so and realized the numbness had already passed. The door slid open, revealing a room that was large enough for a desk and chair, a bureau, and a narrow bed.
He turned to Rawlings. “Bathroom?”
The tech pointed across the corridor. “Communal. For brainiacs only. Sorry, Doc. If you wanted a private bathroom, you should have applied to be the commander.”
Hoenikker sighed.
“Listen,” Rawlings said. “Unpack. Get situated. I’ll be back to get you in an hour.”
Then he was gone, leaving Hoenikker alone. All he could hear was the pumping and hissing of forced air.
The silence was blissful.
2
When Rawlings returned, Hoenikker was sitting on his bed, hands in his lap. He had folded and refolded his sparse collection of same-color shirts, pants, and lab coats and placed them in their appointed places in the bureau. Pulling out his personal display he had placed it in the middle of the desk, hooking up to the station’s comms so he could have access to news, vids, and mail. He’d stripped the bed to check the state of cleanliness, then had remade it.
Now he was ready to get to work.
During the short walk from his quarters to the area that housed the labs, he heard three arguments, saw four rats, and witnessed a man yelling something that sounded like, “I’ve had it up to here with this shit!” So, when he arrived in the quiet contemplative reception room that led to the labs, detecting the familiar antiseptic smell, he grinned inside. It felt more like he’d escaped from the streets into a house of worship.
For Hoenikker, a lab was a house of worship—a place to worship facts, critical hypotheses, and discovery.
A narrow man approached, wearing all black with a severe Mandarin collar. Somewhere between sixty and seventy, he had a white goatee and white hair that ran into a ponytail. He held both hands behind his back, and his chin was slightly raised.
“Dr. Timothy Hoenikker, I presume.”
Hoenikker stood straight and nodded. He didn’t like shaking hands, and assumed by the man’s posture that the sentiment was mutual. The man in black nodded to Rawlings, who returned the nod and walked away, leaving the two men staring at each other. Despite the awkwardness, however, if anywhere was home, this was it. Whether it was in the center of a city or on the edge of the known universe, all labs were alike.
“I am Mansfield,” the newcomer said. “We expected you a week ago.”
“B-but…” Flustered, Hoenikker couldn’t help but stutter. “But I, I have no control over transportation. Weyland—”
A hand suddenly appeared and cut him off by chopping the air. “You will find, Doctor, that we don’t care for excuses around here. We care about results. Now,” he said pausing for dramatic effect, “are you checked in and ready to assume your duties?”
Hoenikker gritted his teeth and nodded. Then he softened. Perhaps the man had trouble dealing with new people. Hoenikker could easily understand this. He had the same problem. So instead of responding with anger, he tried another tactic.
“Thank you, Dr. Mansfield,” he replied. “When you recruited me, offering an opportunity to work with verified alien artifacts, I dropped everything and came as fast as I could. I’m eager to begin…” He cleared his throat. “…and I apologize for being a week late.”
There. That should ameliorate his new boss.
“You are incorrect, and on two accounts, Doctor Hoenikker. To begin, I am not a doctor, although I am the person to whom you will report. And you will not be working on alien artifacts. We have other tasks in mind for you.”
Hoenikker tensed, but tried not to show it. He didn’t want to argue with his boss on the first day, but working with alien artifacts was the primary—the only—reason he had taken the job.
“There must be a mistake,” he replied. “The reason I left my previous position was the promise of working on genuine alien artifacts, to compare them with my archaeological modeling.” Despite the attempt to maintain his composure, his words became louder. “If you knew that I wasn’t—”
Another hand chop.
“Lower your voice, Dr. Hoenikker,” Mansfield said. “I am well aware of the promises that were made. They will be kept. Alien artifacts are closer than you think. However, our mandate is threefold.” He began ticking them off on his fingers. “One, create technology with which to defend against the Xenomorphs. Two, to create related tech which the military can use to actively combat any opponents, including the Xenos. And three, discover the nature of the pathogen to determine if it can be used in a positive manner—for example, to cure disease in humans. As it now stands, we’ve scored some notable successes creating acid-resistant armor. We’re also optimistic about the prospects of Leon-895.”
Hoenikker had heard rumors about strange things happening at LV-895, but no hint of a biological substance that was the focus of their efforts. Before Mansfield could elaborate, however, a thirty-something woman approached. She had brown hair tied into a bun, and a pleasant face. Mansfield gestured in her direction, but she didn’t say a word.
“This is Dr. Erin Kash. She will be your team lead, and will bring you up to speed.” Mansfield stepped back. “Is this all clear, Dr. Hoenikker?” He spoke in a way that didn’t invite an answer.
Hoenikker understood indeed. Bait and switch. He should have known. And this Mansfield was a real piece of work. He pictured Stokes in his mind, and asked himself what his friend would do.
“Move on,” Stokes would say. “Do your best. Be famous.”
Hoenikker nodded once.
Mansfield turned and walked away. When he was out of earshot, Dr. Kash finally spoke.
“Did he ask you why you were late?”
Hoenikker nodded.
She grinned and glanced behind her. “He does that to everyone. It’s his way of establishing the upper hand. Ignore it. He’s simply a bureaucrat Weyland-Yutani put in place to ensure that we create something they can sell. In this case, armor to protect Colonial Marines against the exigent threat of the new Xenomorphs.”
“Xenomorphs?” he said. “Are those the creatures the rumors speak of?”
“You’ve never seen one?” She clapped her hands. “Doctor, you’re in for something special. We don’t have any at the moment, but are due for a new shipment. That said, we do have some interesting experiments currently under way. Come. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the team.” She led him through a door.
The lab was larger than Hoenikker had anticipated, given what he’d seen of the tight confines of Pala Station. After the reception room came a central area boasting distinctly top-of-the-line lab equipment—though none that he hadn’t seen before. Besides digital testing devices, there were the usual old-school beakers, flasks, and test tubes. Old friends.
Two men worked at the central station, injecting something into a tabletop containment device. One had to be pushing three hundred pounds, while the other couldn’t be half as much.
“We call this central area Grand Central,” Kash explained. “Étienne, Mel, allow me to introduce my new lab partner.”
The pair turned and regarded Hoenikker with good-natured expressions. Reaching out with his hand, Hoenikker introduced himself, as did they.
Biologist Étienne Lacroix was the thinner of the two, and spoke with a French accent. About fifty, his skin was olive and he exuded the confidence of three men.
Chemical engineer Melbourne Matthews was the larger man. Even when Étienne was speaking, Hoenikker noted that Mel muttered to himself and had trouble making eye contact. He was younger than his associate, balding, and white.
“What we’re doing here, Dr. Hoenikker,” Étienne said, “is trying to determine the nature of the pathogen—that’s what we call the black goo—and its effects on various Old Earth diseases. Fun stuff like Ebola and smallpox and shingles.”
“Please, call me Tim,” Hoenikker said. �
�Or if you must, just Hoenikker.”
“I do like Hoenikker,” Étienne said, making a fist. “It’s quite a robust name. You must be quite proud of it.”
Mel muttered something that sounded agreement.
“Aren’t you afraid you might create a super bug?” Having spent his entire career doing computer modeling, Hoenikker thought it was an obvious question to be asked. To his astonishment, Étienne clapped.
“We can only hope, mon ami.”
Hoenikker pointed to the box. “But I mean, what if—”
Étienne shook his head quickly. “That would never happen. One press of this button—” he gestured, “—and the experiment goes poof.”
There was a cough, and all three men turned.
“Thank you, Étienne,” Kash said. “Thanks, Mel.”
“Mon plaisir, Erin.” He turned back. “Welcome to the team, Hoenikker.” Then he clapped Matthews on the back, and they returned to their experiment, Étienne peering through a lens while Mel input notes on a display.
Beyond Grand Central, through an open doorway, there was a single corridor with what appeared to be two containment areas on each side. Each was roughly ten-by-ten-by-ten and had a floor-to-ceiling glass front. A portion of each front could be opened, to allow personnel to enter and leave, and some of the rooms had doors between them. A workstation stood at each containment area, with a keyboard and various knobs and buttons.
“We call this Broadway,” she said. Then, seeing the look in his eyes, added, “We had a scientist working here early on, a guy named Deneen who had minored in Old Earth History. New York City was a favorite of his. As far as I could tell, these are the names of landmarks there.” Continuing on, she gestured. To the left, nearest them, stood a tall, muscular dark-skinned man who wore his hair in an Afro.
“Here we have Dr. Mark Cruz, testing environmental effects on a pathogen-infected rat.” Inside what was labeled as Containment Room One was a creature that Hoenikker guessed had once been a rat, probably from the station itself. While he had always found rats to be arguably cute, the goo’s effects on this one were unmistakably arachnid, creating a furry beast with gnashing teeth and six two-foot-long spidery legs.
“Dr. Cruz, allow me to introduce Dr. Timothy Hoenikker. Cruz is one of our xenobiologists, and the staffer who’s been here the longest.” Cruz didn’t turn. He seemed to be focused on making entries into the workstation.
“I heard what Étienne said. ‘Robust.’ Gotta love the French.” He shook his head, then his voice went serious. “If you’re going to get along around here, Hoenikker, you need to find something you enjoy doing. I’m not talking about playing cards or whacking off, but something that contributes—that’s beneficial to society.”
Hoenikker didn’t know how to reply. Before he could, Cruz continued.
“Fire and ice. Watch this,” he said, in a way that Hoenikker could tell the man was grinning. He tapped a couple of the controls, and water cascaded onto the creature, causing it to twitch. Then he turned a knob, and the water quickly iced over. The gnashing teeth slowed until they didn’t gnash at all. Frozen.
“Cruz—” Kash said.
“Easy, Kash,” he replied, cutting her off. “It’s still alive. This is the sixth time I’ve done it. The pathogen allows the creature to survive temperatures ninety below zero, maybe more, without cellular deterioration. I’ll warm it up in a few moments, and we’ll re-examine.” With that, he focused on his notes again. Kash guided Hoenikker further along, to a man standing in front of Containment Room Four.
“You might have noticed that Cruz enjoys his work a little too much,” she whispered, her mouth conspiratorially close to his ear.
“I heard that,” Cruz shouted.
“I figured you would,” she shouted back. “Still, it’s true.”
“Remember, Hoenikker,” Cruz said. “Get your pleasure where you can.”
The new man was the youngest one yet, probably early thirties. He was bald and fit like an athlete, with high cheekbones and bright blue eyes. He turned and grinned when they approached.
“I see you’ve met the welcome wagon,” he said.
“Mansfield?” Hoenikker said. He thought a real piece of work, but bit it back because he didn’t yet know the politics. The man laughed.
“I meant our resident psychopath, Cruz.”
“I’m actually more of a sociopath,” Cruz shouted, still without looking up. “It’s not psychopathic if the creatures you enjoy torturing want to kill you.”
“There’s got to be a better word for it,” the young man replied loudly. Then he shoved out a hand. “Mark Prior. I’m the other xenobiologist.”
Hoenikker stared, and almost didn’t respond, but at the last moment shoved his own hand out. He was immediately disappointed in himself when he wet-fished it, rather than returning the strong, confident grip that Prior had presented. When they released, he glanced into the containment room and saw that it was empty.
Prior pointed. “Do you see it? Can you find it?”
“What? Where?” Hoenikker asked.
“Leon-895. It’s in there, I promise. See if you can find it.”
Hoenikker had been curious since Mansfield’s previous cursory mention. Squinting as he examined the ten-by-ten-by-ten-foot room, he saw nothing but the gray interior. Then something shifted, almost imperceptibly. A slightly lighter shade of gray. He blinked and adjusted his position, but in doing so he lost it. Shaking his head, he grinned self-depreciatingly.
“You saw it,” Prior said.
“Only for a moment, and I didn’t really see it. I saw the outline of something.”
“Here. Let me see if this helps. The one problem with Leon-895 is the inability to change color at low temperatures.”
He turned the same knob on his workstation as Cruz had used when lowering the temperature in his containment room. The creature’s outline began to form, then the rest of it as it returned to its natural color. It was hairless, and the size of a housecat, but that’s where all resemblance stopped. It also had six legs and a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.
“Hoenikker, meet Leon-895. It has the same ability to change color as many of its Earth-origin cousins. This xeno-chameleon has a superficial layer of skin which contains pigments, and under that layer are cells containing guanine crystals. Color change is achieved by altering the space between the guanine crystals, which changes the wavelength of light reflected off the crystals, thus affecting the color of the skin.”
“So, this is one of the Xenos,” Hoenikker said.
“Yes and no.” Prior turned to him. “There’s Xenomorph with a capital X, and xeno with a lowercase x. Big-X Xenos are the gnarly beasts that bleed acid. We don’t have any of them right now, but we expect a delivery soon. Small-x xenos are any creature not of Earth origin. Leon-895 is a small-x xeno.” Recognizing the questions on Hoenikker’s face, he added, “You’ll see the difference when we get our first face-huggers down here.”
“Prior is doing important work,” Kash said. “He wants to see whether the ability to change color increases or decreases with the application of the pathogen. If we could harness the color-changing effect and marry it with the acid resistant armor we’ve already produced, we might have soldiers who are invisible to the human eyes.”
“Where did you get the pathogen?” Hoenikker asked.
“No one knows for sure.” Prior grinned tightly. “It came down from corporate.”
“Rumor has it that it came from a ghost ship,” Cruz shouted. “Found floating in space and of unknown origin.”
“Or it could have come down from corporate,” Prior said, rolling his eyes.
“Or both,” Cruz persisted.
Placing a hand on Hoenikker’s arm, Kash showed him down a side corridor, then another bordered with multiple containment rooms. Other creatures of unknown origin resided in different rooms, scratching at the impenetrable glass, trying to get out. Seeing the monstrosities, he began to realize that he was a
s trapped as the creatures. He was in a closed environment where there were a lot of things that could kill them. Things that came from outside Pala Station.
He wondered how far he’d have to go in order to finally get hold of the alien artifacts he had been promised.
He wondered if he’d live to see them.
3
Night. Everyone who should have been was in bed, except Cruz. He couldn’t sleep. He’d been having more and more flashbacks recently, and rather than lie there staring at the ceiling, he decided to work a little.
No one could ever accuse him of not working. He’d grown up in a ghetto of storage containers on a Weyland-Yutani distribution planet that doubled as an intergalactic trash dump. Most of the residents of LV-223 were destined to search the dump for rare metals or, if they were lucky enough, get a job hauling product into awaiting containers bound for out-system LVs.
Cruz wanted none of that. At the time he’d been proud. Too proud. He’d laughed at his father and mother as they struggled to feed him. He’d told them they were lazy and should have found a way to get off planet, so he’d have a better future. When he became old enough, he managed to stow away, only to be discovered and jailed at his destination. He’d been given a choice then to either remain in prison or join the Colonial Marines.
Not really a choice.
At marine training he’d discovered what it was like to finally work hard, sweating and bleeding in equal amounts. He’d relished turning his body into a killing machine and learning how to use a weapon—a pulse rifle. He’d enjoyed his first and second deployments, each one bringing down an insurrection from a planet just like his own, and people just like his own. He’d seen from the other side the squalor in which they were forced to live, realizing for the first time that they couldn’t leave. They had no means of changing their destinies.
They’d been given their lot and had to make the best they could.
He tried to reach out and speak with his family, to apologize to his father and mother, but all efforts at contact failed.
Then, on his third deployment, he encountered xenos.