Aliens

by Weston Ochse

  Hoenikker asked them to check.

  Davis went to his workstation, and after a few minutes came back. As it turned out, Brennan had flagged two occasions. Both had been burst transmissions, the last one taking place only a few hours earlier. Only Comms and Security had access to the employee PDT log system. Hoenikker asked where Brennan was, so they could question him about it.

  When they queried Brennan’s location, it showed him in his room. Buggy commented that he was usually playing first-person shooters, even at work, which had earned him a spot on Oshita’s shit list.

  Together with Buggy, Hoenikker, Cruz, and Prior, they went to Brennan’s room. They knocked, but there was no answer. After repeated attempts, Buggy used his override code to enter the room.

  It was empty.

  “But the signal said he was in here,” Cruz said.

  Prior glanced under the bunk.

  Buggy checked in the closet.

  Hoenikker stared at the pillow. It had been fluffed, but was off center. Why would someone take the time to fluff it and not make sure it was straight? He went to straighten it and noted a spot of red on the white sheet. He lifted the pillow, then dropped it and backed away. His heart rate immediately went through the roof as the blood left his face.

  “What is it?” Cruz asked. “Looks like you’ve seen a dead man.”

  “The pillow,” Hoenikker managed. “Look under it.”

  Cruz grabbed the pillow and lifted it. Beneath it lay an identification fob and a section of skin with a small rice-sized piece of metal embedded in it.

  A personal data tracker.

  Brennan’s personal data tracker.

  Which meant that more than likely, Brennan was dead.

  Either that, or he’s the infiltrator, Hoenikker thought, and removed his own PDT so he couldn’t be tracked.

  He voiced the possibility, and they called Security. Each of them was interviewed in turn, to give a thorough account of how they had arrived at their macabre discovery. Once they were allowed to go, Buggy returned to Comms to brief Section Chief Oshita, and the others returned to the lab.

  Mansfield was already there. He’d heard through the command channel what had happened. Hoenikker briefed him on their discovery and suppositions.

  Étienne’s team had continued their work, to a degree of success. They’d discovered where the MPDTs originated. Each MPDT, Étienne explained, had its own inventory control number. Without any information regarding the origin of the device, however, the number was useless.

  Under normal circumstances.

  Matthews observed a pattern in the placement of hyphens on the MPDT IDs, distinctly different from the inventory control numbers used by Weyland-Yutani. A quick search of the lab yielded equipment produced by other manufacturers, and Kash noted that one of the microscopes was a Hyperdyne product. Its numbering convention matched those of the MPDTs.

  Even with this epiphany, they didn’t know who had brought the rats into the station, used them to map it, then sent communication bursts to a nearby receiver. Nor were they any closer to finding Brennan… or his body.

  There was one thing they did know.

  Only two people had come to the station recently, and Hoenikker had the feeling he knew what was certain to happen.

  They sent Security the results of their investigation, and not fifteen minutes later a pair of officers entered the lab. With hardly a word they cuffed his hands behind his back without trying to be gentle about it, while the rest of the scientists looked on.

  Cruz began to protest, and moved toward the officers and their prisoner, but Kash stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. She didn’t look any happier about it than he did, though.

  14

  To say that he was pissed-off was an understatement. Hoenikker knew he was innocent, and expected everyone else to see it as well. It was obvious. He’d always followed the rules—well, almost always—and what rules he’d failed to follow had been inconsequential.

  The very thought that he was being accused of espionage turned his face red, and caused his skin to prickle. As he was marched down the corridor, however, he wondered what would happen if he wasn’t able to prove his innocence? He’d heard of innocent men and women who had been incarcerated, their fates based on their abilities to convince someone—the right someone—of their innocence. People who’d probably already made up their minds.

  The thought was chilling.

  “Faster,” the officer said, pushing him hard in the center of his back. They propelled him down a hallway he’d never seen, and through a door marked SECURITY. The long room had office cubicles along the sides, and a large conference table in the middle. Guards and other staff members occupied the cubicles, and some sat at the conference table. They did more than glance up when he entered.

  They stared, each gaze an indictment—a judgment.

  Hoenikker was marched through the office and down an interior corridor, passing several doors with heavy locks and no windows. At the end of the corridor stood an open door, and he was pushed inside. The room held a table and four chairs. One chair was already occupied. It was the other guy who had been on the shuttle.

  What was his name? Fairbanks?

  The door slammed behind him.

  A large glass mirror faced him from one wall. He’d seen enough vids to know it was a one-way glass window. Security personnel were probably on the other side taking notes and recording his activities. Judging him.

  “They grabbed you, too,” Fairbanks said. “Remember when you said Pala Station couldn’t be as bad as all that?” He spread his hands. “What do you think now?”

  “I think once I explain myself, they’ll let me get back to work,” Hoenikker said, almost believing his own words. He began to pace.

  “You might as well sit down. They’re going to let you steam and cool for at least thirty minutes.” When Hoenikker shot him a quizzical look, he added, “I used to date a security guard. He ran me through the steps. Said it makes us more malleable, because we spend all of the time running back and forth in our own minds, either trying to find out what we did to get caught, or trying to figure out a way to talk our way out of the room—or both.”

  Seeing the logic in his advice, Hoenikker took the seat next to Fairbanks. He assumed that the two empty chairs on the other side of the table were reserved for his interrogators.

  He remembered what Stokes had said.

  “Be boring and stay here. Or be dangerous and travel far.”

  If there was a moment he wanted to be boring, this was it. He didn’t want to be dangerous. Not to anyone. He just wanted out of this room. And out from under any judgmental observation so he could go back to his modeling. He wondered, if he hadn’t solved the MPDT problem, would he still be free? Then another part realized that one of the other scientists could just as easily have worked it out, so the result had been inevitable.

  He could almost hear Stokes in his ear.

  Just relax, everything will work out. You’re a good guy, Hoenikker. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.

  Nothing indeed.

  Like being detained for espionage.

  The door snapped open and he jumped. Two security personnel entered. One man. One woman. The square-jawed woman wore her hair short, and looked as if she could gut punch a landing shuttle. The man was lanky, and wore a smirk as if he knew the universe’s private punchline.

  Rather than taking a seat, the woman leaned against the wall in the corner, crossed her arms, and gave him a death stare. The man sat across from them and introduced himself as Mr. Tacker. His voice was pitched lower than Hoenikker would have expected from someone so thin.

  He asked for Hoenikker’s full name and employee ID.

  Hoenikker gave it.

  Tacker did the same for Fairbanks.

  He gave it.

  Then the man did nothing. He merely sat and smirked at the two of them until what must have been ten minutes had passed. All the while, Hoenikker felt his nervousn
ess increasing, which in turn made him angry. The effect they desired, sitting silence, and he hated himself for falling for it.

  “You’re angry,” the man said finally. “Angry at being caught?”

  Hoenikker shook his head. “Angry at being a part of this. You know very well that I had nothing to do with it. In fact, I was the one who figured it out.”

  “The easiest way to influence the information is to be close to the investigation.”

  “Influence the information?” Hoenikker snorted. “I broke the case.” At least he thought that was the terminology. “You wouldn’t even know about the espionage if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Broke the case,” Tacker said. “Interesting choice of words. Do you like detective fiction, Mr. Hoenikker?”

  “Doctor Hoenikker.”

  The smirk widened. “Do you watch the criminal vids, Mister Hoenikker? Are you a fan of docudramas? Have you invented your own, so you can have a starring role?”

  Hoenikker had never wanted to punch a man in the face more than he did at that moment, and Hoenikker had never punched anyone in the face. He probably couldn’t even make a proper fist. Still, he wanted to punch this man in the face.

  “Listen,” Hoenikker began, “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here. We both know you have access to station logs, and you can track my movements anywhere. You’ve probably already been over them. If you want to question me about that, feel free. Better yet, why haven’t you tracked Brennan’s PDT? After all, we know someone cut it out of him. Where did that occur?”

  Ha! He thought. Answer me that!

  Tacker listened patiently the entire time, giving Hoenikker a heavy-lidded stare. Still, his smirk never wavered. Without answering, he turned his attention to the logistics specialist.

  “And you, Fairbanks,” he said. “You had a convenient trip off planet.”

  “Nothing convenient about it,” Fairbanks said. “Unless you like shuttling back and forth, and experiencing short-term cryosleep. I don’t.”

  “Was it you who brought back the rats? Was it you who started the infestation? Sec Specialist Howard here said she saw you near the comms access panel—the one that was used to send a signal outside. You were wearing a backpack. What was in the backpack, Fairbanks?”

  Suddenly, Hoenikker wanted to know what was in the backpack as well. Was Fairbanks the spy? Was he the infiltrator? He hadn’t seemed like one, during their shared trip. But then, how could anyone tell?

  Fairbanks glanced at Howard, then back at Mr. Tacker.

  “Nothing. Just bullshit.”

  “Sec Specialist Howard, what was it Fairbanks told you?”

  “He said he was out for some exercise, and that the pack was full of trash.”

  “Was there trash in the pack?”

  “Just an empty package, and a tool.”

  “Could that package have contained the rats?” Tacker asked.

  “It could have,” she said.

  Even to Hoenikker it sounded fishy. Tacker pulled a vid display unit out of his pocket and dialed something up.

  “Know what I’m looking at, Fairbanks? I’m looking at your PDT tracking logs since you returned to the station. There’s only one time you were up before everyone to exercise. Once.”

  “I pulled a muscle,” Fairbanks said. “Should have stretched more.”

  “‘Should have stretched more,’” Tacker repeated. He stared at his vid for some time. “I have you in your room yesterday afternoon, when you were supposed to have been on shift.”

  “I had some personal issues to take care of.”

  “Were they personal issues with Brennan?” Tacker asked. “We tracked him into your room at the same time.”

  Fairbanks glanced at Hoenikker, and then Howard, before staring at his steepled hands balanced between his knees.

  “That’s personal.”

  “Personal? You gave up having a personal life when you signed your company contract. I’ll ask you again, Logistic Specialist Fairbanks. What were you and Brennan doing alone in your room?”

  Hoenikker realized he’d been leaning forward, and sat back in his chair. He understood. He could see it in Fairbanks’ eyes. He was sure that Tacker understood as well, but clearly the man wanted Fairbanks to admit it. Hoenikker felt embarrassed for the young man, and looked away. His gaze met Howard’s.

  She looked as if she was ready to pounce.

  “Fairbanks, I’m talking to you,” Tacker pressed.

  “Listen,” Fairbanks began, his voice hoarse and low. “Brennan wanted to be together with me. He wanted to have a relationship. I—I didn’t want it.” He licked his lips and closed his eyes. “He got mad and stormed out. Maybe he took off? I don’t know.”

  Tacker sat silently for a moment. “You’re saying that he left your room of his own accord?” he said. “More likely he spurned you, and you got angry.”

  Fairbanks shook his head. “It was nothing like that. As I said, he left. He called me terrible names. He was angry. I stayed in my room.”

  “We have a record of you following him,” Tacker said.

  Fairbanks stared with tears rimming his wide eyes. “Fine. I followed him to his room. We talked some more. I tried to make him feel better, but… but he wouldn’t listen. So I left.”

  “You left.” Tacker’s smirk grew again.

  Fairbanks nodded, unwilling or unable to meet the interrogator’s gaze.

  Hoenikker wondered if they’d forgotten he was there.

  Fairbanks cleared his throat. “Come on, Tacker. My personal life has nothing to do with this. Plus, if you had anything on us, we’d be in a cell by now. Can we just get back to work?”

  Hoenikker nodded. That added up. Tacker was fishing. He must not have any evidence against them. He just figured because they were the last two persons brought to the station that it had to be them.

  “How do you know it’s not station security personnel who did this?” Hoenikker asked, breaking the silence. He regretted it immediately, but there it was.

  “Why would security personnel do this?” Tacker sat back in his chair. “For that matter, what is ‘this’?”

  “I don’t know,” Hoenikker answered. “You tell me. Why would a scientist who begged for an assignment here, begged to study alien artifacts, come here and put everything he had in jeopardy?”

  “Maybe you work for someone else,” Tacker said. “Maybe you were blackmailed, or very well paid. Do you have any evidence that station security was involved?” The smirk was still there, yet Hoenikker knew he had to choose his words carefully.

  “As much evidence as you have against me,” he said. “Maybe more. After all, there must have been security personnel who were away from the station repeatedly in the last few weeks, with the San Lorenzo on the way. They could have met up with another corporation, and been given a bag of rats with MPDTs to bring back into the station.”

  “What do you mean ‘away from the station’?” Tacker asked.

  Hoenikker leaned forward. “When Deputy Station Chief Thompson goes on his hunting trips, does he go alone?”

  Tacker’s smirk died a thousand deaths.

  As childish as it seemed, Hoenikker wanted to jump up and point, saying, I got you! Instead, he fought to control his facial features and just stared. He wondered how proud Stokes would have been for this moment.

  Tacker slid his vid display back into his pocket and stood.

  “We’re done for now,” he said. “Be prepared to make yourselves available.”

  “It’s not like we have anywhere to go,” Fairbanks said.

  Then Tacker and Security Specialist Howard left the room.

  They left the door open.

  15

  The next day Hoenikker was relieved to get back to the lab. Being in custody had soured him enough that he’d considered putting in his transfer packet. What with the absence of the alien artifacts he’d been promised, and the sheer state of paranoia on Pala Station, he’d feel much more c
omfortable back in a corporate cubicle, working nine-to-five, creating models based on his own theses.

  The argument convincing him to stay had an unlikely source.

  Cruz. The man was operating on a combination of caffeine and excitement. He hadn’t slept much and had come to the lab for some distraction. And he got it.

  As Hoenikker stood before Leon-895, he was sure the creature had grown to at least five times its size since he’d last seen it—what he could see of it. Cruz had the lights flashing through a prismatic color sequencing and the creature matched it with barely a pause. It was in that pause that Hoenikker noted spikes jutting from its top and sides, like an old-world porcupine.

  “I haven’t yet tested the effects of temperature fluctuation on color attenuation, but the fact that it can change so fast is absolutely incredible,” Cruz said, more than a little giddy. “Imagine if we had armor that could allow our Colonial Marines to blend into any surface. They’d be virtually invisible. Combat efficiency would skyrocket, as would the survival rate. This is groundbreaking.”

  “It’s a great first step, Cruz.” Hoenikker could appreciate the man’s excitement—but they were scientists, and far from any viable conclusions. “Next we need to replicate your findings with other Leon-895s, to identify the new standard. Then devise a method of copying the creature’s modified guanine crystal cell structure, and apply it to armor.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Cruz nodded. “But isn’t this fantastic?”

  “It is,” Hoenikker admitted.

  Off to the side the lab door opened, and Fairbanks stepped in, followed by two log specialists Hoenikker didn’t know. Kash stepped away from her station, approached one of the specialists, and began to speak. Hoenikker moved closer to hear what was being said.

  “—from San Lorenzo soon. I’d like Engineering to inspect the integrity of each of the glass fronts, to determine which ones need replaced, then get Fabrications working on them ASAP.”

  “I’ve checked the inventory, ma’am,” Fairbanks began, glancing at Hoenikker, then quickly away. “I’m not sure we have enough tungsten to replace all the glass fronts. We may have to triage.”