Aliens

by Weston Ochse

  One, Security wouldn’t be looking for him anytime soon.

  Two, he needed to find a place to hide the body. When he thought about it, he laughed harder. Hide a body. He’d never once thought he’d have to think those three words, much less carry through with them.

  Hide.

  A.

  Body.

  Life was so hilarious.

  12

  Cruz shuddered beneath the sheets.

  * * *

  The tentacles are wrapped around Snyder’s torso. Surprise and terror battle on his face. The tentacles squeeze, and the sound of ribs snapping is like gunshots. Blood shoots from Snyder’s mouth in a waterfall of red that only a dream could create. Blood and more blood and more blood until it covers everything, the world a red-dripped Rorschach.

  Cruz begins to gasp, then choke.

  He’s drowning. Can’t breathe. The blood covers all but his reaching hand. Then he breathes it in, becoming Snyder, enwrapped by the tentacles, feeling the impossible strength of the monster as it squeezes out everything it means to be alive.

  * * *

  Cruz shot up to a sitting position. Consciousness returned, and he slid his legs off the bed. He dropped his head between them as he began to hyperventilate. Sweat dripped from his face, falling to the floor. His heart was galloping as if he’d just completed a run. What the hell had just happened?

  Damn dreams. Damn Snyder.

  It was the marine’s own damn fault for not following orders. Cruz realized that it was more than sweat dripping to the floor. He wiped his eyes, then furiously shook his head. Standing, he opened his door and strode across the corridor into the common bathroom. Found a sink and dashed water on his face.

  Behind him came the sound of someone flushing. The door to a stall opened and a bleary-eyed man staggered out. When he saw Cruz, he stopped cold.

  Cruz turned around. The man wasn’t saying anything, just standing there.

  “What the fuck do you want?” Cruz said.

  The man blinked.

  That was when Cruz realized he’d forgotten to put clothes on, and was completely naked. He shook his head.

  “Never seen a naked man before? Get back to bed, you.” Then he turned back to the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.

  His almost-black skin hid many of his wounds, but he knew every scar and pock. He could trace the lineage of the wounds as if he’d inflicted them himself. To a point he had, by joining the Colonial Marines. Back then, when the drill sergeants saw him, they knew he’d be an effective killing machine.

  He picked at his Afro. He really needed to get it cut, but there wasn’t anyone qualified on the station. Soon he’d have to settle, and probably shave it. The hair was getting knappy.

  Throwing water on his face, he headed back to his room, where he pulled on clothes, used a pick to fix his hair as best he could, then donned his white lab jacket. He was on his way to the lab before he knew what he was going to do. He passed two security specialists making the rounds, nodded to them, and they nodded back. When he entered the lab, the motion sensor turned the lights on.

  Cruz immediately went to work. The effort of combining the radioactive plutonium with the pathogen wasn’t difficult, but because of safety protocols it was time consuming. Not only did he have to make sure that he reduced his exposure to the radiation, but also to the lab itself. So, it was all black box work, the radiation kept inside a lead-lined box with video sensors that allowed him to manipulate arms that were doing the work for him.

  Mansfield’s voice rang through his mind, reminding him that there were to be no experiments without his permission.

  Fuck Mansfield.

  The man wasn’t even a scientist. All he wanted was for them to toe the line. Didn’t he know that it was the mavericks that made the best scientists—that it was the mad geniuses who effected the greatest advancements? The Mansfields of the world would have stopped the discoveries of penicillin, and nuclear fusion, and antimatter, and faster-than-light travel. The Mansfields of the world would have humanity still landlocked to a single planet, instead of out in space going cutting edge.

  Yeah. Fuck Mansfield.

  Cruz pressed a button, and a syringe with the irradiated pathogen ejected from a side drawer on the black box. Donning lead-lined gloves, he took it and moved to the containment room where Leon-895 was kept. So far, the effects of the goo had been impressive. The size of the creature had increased fivefold, as had the appearance. A new set of legs had appeared, giving it a new and strange presence.

  At the containment area, Cruz didn’t even try to locate it. Instead, he immediately lowered the temperature. The creature appeared in the top left corner, and he watched as the image of it solidified. Once a coat of frost covered it, he entered the containment room, injected the creature with the irradiated pathogen, then exited again. He wasn’t about to have the same problem he’d had last time, when he’d allowed his PTSD to get the better of him.

  Once back outside the room, he removed the gloves and returned them to where they belonged. He placed the syringe back in the black box, to dispose of it later. Irradiated as it was, he couldn’t just throw it away. There was a process. There were the sacred protocols. Then he returned to the containment room, raised the temperature to normal again, and sat back.

  They’d installed a prismatic light system to measure the speed of Leon-895’s ability to change color. So far that ability, while impressive, had been slow. Cruz hoped that the irradiated pathogen might cause it to autocorrect sooner. Now, all he had to do was wait.

  An image of Snyder returned to him. Not dying, but living. They’d been preparing to go to a cold-as-hell planet for guard duty. The day before, they’d let loose. Snyder had brought his girlfriend and they’d all begun drinking yards of beer—an old German tradition to which his family still adhered. Snyder had always fancied himself a drinker, but he was really just a lightweight.

  They’d all been at Sgt. Bone’s quarters. Cruz, Snyder, Erica— Snyder’s girlfriend—and Foxie, an old buddy of Bone’s. It was the usual bout of drinking games and blowing off steam prior to setting off for a nearby LV. Everyone was having a good time until Erica challenged Snyder to a drink-off.

  Cruz had come to believe that it was premeditated.

  Snyder wasn’t about to let his girlfriend get the better of him. So he matched her yard for yard, drinking down an impressive—by anyone’s standards—amount of beer. Cruz didn’t know from what alcoholic DNA Erica had been spliced, but she seemed impervious to the alcohol. She drank and drank and the only way to know she’d drunk so much was her need to pee. It was on the eighth yard that Snyder spewed the contents of his stomach all over Sgt. Bone’s kitchen, then proceeded to pass out on the bathroom floor. Cruz had taken care of his friend as best he could, then cleaned up the mess.

  Meanwhile, Erica, none the worse for wear, started cuddling up to both Sgt. Bone and Foxie, laughing and acting as if she wasn’t anyone’s girlfriend. Once the mess had been cleaned up, Cruz grabbed Snyder and carried him back to the barracks.

  They’d left the next morning without ever seeing Erica again. The cherry on top of the memory was that Snyder hadn’t packed before he’d gone out drinking, so he only had one extra sock in his ‘go bag.’ He’d ended up getting trench foot during the mission, and almost had to have his feet amputated.

  All because of a girl.

  Once Cruz had left the Colonial Marines and taken up his education, he’d learned that there were substances that could render the alcohol of a liquid into pure sugar. Upon discovering that, he’d become certain that was how Erica had beaten Snyder. Cruz wondered if it was just to make her safe from an alcohol overdose, or if it had been a ploy to get next to Sgt. Bone. He’d never know, because Erica had never been seen again and Sgt. Bone had died in a shuttle explosion reportedly caused by a faulty fuel wire.

  Cruz sighed. Such were the symptoms of living two lives. The other scientists didn’t have his problem. They’d g
rown up, gone to college, and become scientists of their own accord. They didn’t have a life before this one. But Cruz did. In spades.

  He checked the temperature of the room and the temperature of Leon-895. Both had achieved stasis. He toggled a switch on the control station, and watched as a light in the containment room slowly began to cycle through three primary colors.

  Leon-895 remained visible without any change.

  Damn. Had he used too much radiation? Please say that he hadn’t used too much. Please show that the creature wasn’t dead. Mansfield would have his ass.

  Checking the creature’s vitals, he noted that they were slightly lower than usual, but not drastically so. It should be attenuating. He waited a few tense minutes, then Leon-895 began to cycle slowly through the three colors—red, green, blue… red, green, blue… red, green, blue.

  There.

  At least he hadn’t killed the damned thing.

  He began to cycle slightly faster, and was joyed to see Leon-895 skip a beat, then match the speed of the color change. Then he added three more colors—yellow, brown, and black. A beat skipped again, then Leon-895 began to adapt. Cruz watched for several minutes as the creature changed color with the change of light, pleased at its progress.

  Finally, he dialed up a dozen variations, then a hundred, then a thousand. Hell, two thousand. Each flash of light, Leon-895 changed, conforming to its new colored reality as easy as if it was breathing.

  Cruz turned up the speed so Leon-895 was changing in three-second intervals. He pulled a chair over from the central table and placed it in front of the containment area. For the next two hours he sat and watched his own personal disco as the creature flashed color after color after color, while images of Snyder being squeezed to death rat-a-tat-tatted through his mind.

  13

  Security Specialist Wincotts convinced Mansfield that their experiments should be put on hold, so they could focus on the MPDTs. The scientists were far from thrilled with the turn of events. They each had their own projects, and were loath to stop.

  Hoenikker hadn’t yet been assigned an individual project, and was seconding several of his peers. Although he didn’t have as much emotional or intellectual investment as his fellow scientists, he still felt the frustration and the pull of real science.

  Cruz had been the most vocal.

  “We’ve developed a brand-new species here in Leon-895— one that could change the nature of how a Colonial Marine goes to war. And what do they have us doing? Dissecting rats.”

  “There’s nothing to do about it,” Mansfield responded. “We rely on the goodwill of the station so that we can operate freely—especially after one of your experiments got loose and killed station personnel.”

  “That’s likely to happen again,” Cruz countered. “Where’s Fabrications? Why haven’t they replaced the windows?”

  Mansfield nodded. “They claim that they’re short on tungsten, and don’t have enough to replace all of the glass.”

  “Then at least replace the worst ones.” Cruz stood from the chair he’d been sitting in, and pointed toward the containment rooms. “Jesus, there’s so much infighting on this station it reminds me of primary school. Everyone taking sides. Engineering won’t talk to Fabrications. Fabrications won’t talk to Logistics. Can they just fucking do their jobs, so we can get back to business?” No one responded, and he lowered his voice.

  “Sorry for yelling,” he said. “I’m… passionate.”

  Mansfield just nodded, folded his hands behind his back, and left the lab.

  “Don’t you get tired of all that yelling?” Étienne asked.

  “It’s part of his personality,” Prior said, flashing a smile toward Cruz. “It takes all sorts of us to effectively science. Take Matthews here,” he said, putting his arm around the bigger man’s shoulders. “He doesn’t say much, but he sciences hard.”

  Mel muttered something that sounded like a thank you, then went back to his microscope.

  “Why isn’t Comms working on this?” Étienne asked.

  “Oh, they are,” Mansfield said. “We’re working in tandem. So far, they haven’t found anything.”

  Kash clapped her hands together loudly, and Hoenikker jumped. She moved to where everyone could easily see her.

  “Let’s get to this, so we can return to our experiments,” she said. “What’s the one thing every piece of tech has?”

  Prior and Cruz glanced at each other. Both shook their heads.

  Mel didn’t look up.

  Étienne chewed a fingernail.

  Hoenikker had no idea where she was going with this.

  “Okay, let me make it easier. What does every piece of art have on it?” she asked.

  Étienne was the first to answer. “A signature.”

  “Right.” Kash nodded. “A signature. Tech doesn’t have signatures—”

  “—but it does have inventory control numbers,” Hoenikker said, finishing her words. She snapped her fingers.

  “Yes. Or something similar. Weyland-Yutani doesn’t make anything without slapping its name on it. They want the world to know that the products they’re using were made by their favorite corporation.”

  “Wouldn’t the size of the trackers make that hard to do?” Cruz asked.

  “If they can make a device that size, then they have the technology to sign it.” She pointed to Hoenikker. “You will run Team B. This is where your theoretical modeling comes in handy. Prior and Cruz will work with you. You’re going to find out why they are being used.” She pointed to Étienne. “You are in charge of Team A. Myself and Mel will be part of your team. We’re charged with determining where the MPDTs came from.”

  “Why aren’t you in charge of Team A?” Étienne asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I love being in charge. I do bossy well.”

  “Let’s try and minimize the bossiness,” she said. “I chose you because of the way your mind works. I think you’re the right solution for this problem.” She turned to everyone and said, “Right. So, let’s get to work.”

  Hoenikker turned to Cruz and Prior. “We don’t need to be here to discuss this. Let’s carve ourselves a corner in the mess hall and discuss it over coffee.”

  Cruz nodded. “Finally, a good idea.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later they were ensconced in the mess hall. Cruz and Hoenikker blew on hot black coffee. Prior drank soda through a straw. Because it was midmorning, the place was almost empty. Only one other was working there. Hoenikker recognized him as Reception Tech Rawlings. He was on the other side of the room, drinking coffee from a portable mug and going over something on his vid display. When they’d entered, he’d saluted them with his coffee, but hadn’t tried to get into their space.

  The mess hall was pretty rudimentary. On one side of the room was the drinks table that offered everything from tea to coffee, soda, soymilk, and water. The other side of the room held the buffet, currently empty, and the entrance to the kitchen. There were a dozen tables. The gray walls were adorned with posters from Weyland-Yutani regarding security warnings, the need to respect your fellow workers, and the infamous, “SEE A PROBLEM, FIX A PROBLEM.”

  “So, what are we doing?” Cruz asked.

  Hoenikker had become more and more impressed with the man. Where at first he’d felt that Cruz had been someone who gleefully heaped abuse on his specimens, it was clear now that he had multiple layers.

  “We have the simplest job, frankly,” Hoenikker said. “That’s why I wanted us out of there.”

  “You’ve solved the problem?” Prior asked.

  “I believe I have—and if you think about it, you could solve it as well.”

  Prior sipped loudly through his straw and gave him a dubious look. Hoenikker took a sip of his coffee.

  It was hot and terrible.

  “Let’s pare it down to the basics,” he said. “Each of us has a PDT implanted in our shoulder. What are they used for?”

  “To keep track of us good little Weyl
and-Yutani employees,” Cruz said.

  “And how do they keep track of us?” Hoenikker asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Reception nodes placed around the facility. We walk by them, it logs who we are, along with a time-and-date stamp,” Prior said. “Everyone knows that. And like Cruz said, it’s how they keep track of all their good little employees, while making sure we don’t go to places we shouldn’t go.”

  “Then what good would the PDTs be on the rats if they were from another company? If this is some sort of industrial espionage, then how could they log the rats as they passed a reception node?”

  Cruz sat up. “Unless they hacked the system.”

  “They’d have to have a man on the inside,” Prior said.

  “I’ll bet if we went to Comms, they could find the signal,” Hoenikker said.

  “They might have already found it and ruled it out as a glitch,” Cruz offered.

  “Interesting hypothesis, but it doesn’t have any legs,” Hoenikker said. “Come on now. Let’s keep with the scientific method.”

  “Why is it you went straight to industrial espionage?” Prior asked.

  “What else would the rats with MPDTs be good for? If I’m right, they’re being used to map the station, and the results are being broadcast to someone on the outside.”

  “Might be a hostile takeover,” Cruz said.

  “You do realize that you were the most recent person to come on station,” Prior said to him. “Which makes you suspect numero uno.” He grinned and sipped at his soda.

  “While that may be,” Hoenikker said, “why don’t we run on over to Comms, and ask them about outgoing signals?” His associates nodded, and all three stood. They exited the mess hall, leaving Rawlings behind.

  * * *

  Five minutes later they were chatting with Buggy and Davis. The third comms workstation was empty.

  They’d been able to hack the MPDTs and found the information logs. The rats had been everywhere, strengthening Hoenikker’s supposition. He told them what he believed was going on, and they agreed that it made the most sense. When asked if they’d discovered any outgoing signals, they both shook their heads.