Aliens

by Weston Ochse

  “Why on earth wouldn’t you have enough tungsten?” Kash asked. “Who else uses tungsten in any quantity?”

  “Well, Deputy Station Chief Thompson has been creating his own ammunition for his hunting rifle. He uses nothing but station tungsten.”

  “My God,” she said. “How many bullets does the man need?”

  Fairbanks stared at the ground. “I’m not sure, ma’am.”

  Kash placed a hand on his shoulder. “Of course you aren’t. We’ll just do the best we can. Please, take the team to the back of the lab and work your way forward. Don’t interfere with any of our experiments, though, and do not—I mean do not— touch any controls on the workstations.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He and the other two slid past Hoenikker and headed toward the back.

  “What’s that all about?” Hoenikker asked, sidling next to her.

  “We’re retrofitting as best we can before more Xenomorph samples arrive. They should be here within forty-eight hours, and I’m not convinced the glass fronts can contain them.”

  “I’ve never seen the Xenomorphs—not firsthand,” he said. “Are they that bad?”

  “Take every nightmare you’ve ever had, mold it into a ball, and sculpt the worst thing you can imagine. The Xeno won’t be it, but it will eat what you imagined. That’s how bad they are.”

  Hoenikker gulped.

  Mansfield entered, his hands folded behind him.

  “I heard you were questioned.”

  Hoenikker frowned. “The entire experience was ridiculous.”

  Mansfield nodded. “That’s the thing about knowing there’s an infiltrator on station. It could be anyone. Leads to paranoia.”

  “I didn’t see them questioning you?” Kash said, coming to Hoenikker’s defense.

  “Mark my word,” Mansfield began, “if they don’t identify the guilty party soon, all of us will have a turn. It’s not something I relish, and I didn’t relish it for you, Dr. Hoenikker. I would have stopped them if I could.”

  Hoenikker stared at the bureaucrat.

  Was that empathy?

  “Now for what I came here to do,” Mansfield said, his voice suddenly hard. He marched past Kash and Hoenikker until he was standing behind Cruz. “Dr. Cruz, may I please have a moment?”

  Hoenikker and Kash eased forward a little.

  “I’ve made a breakthrough, Mansfield.” Cruz turned, his smile still firm. “You see, I couldn’t sleep last night, so I—”

  Mansfield held up a hand. “Dr. Cruz, did I or did I not place a moratorium on any new experiments? Did I or did I not indicate that any new experiments had to be cleared through me?”

  “But you’ve got to see what I’ve done. You need to—”

  “I don’t need to see anything, Dr. Cruz. Did you not understand me?”

  Cruz straightened. His smile fell. His eyes went dead, like those of a Colonial Marine who knew how to play the game.

  “I understood you,” he replied, all excitement gone from his voice. “Did you understand me when I indicated that I may have had a breakthrough that could substantially increase the survivability of Colonial Marines in combat?”

  “Dr. Cruz, you cannot be trusted,” Mansfield replied. “You are relieved. Return to your quarters and stay there.”

  The bigger man blinked as if he’d been slapped. “What did you say to me?” Cruz growled, stepping toward Mansfield.

  “I told you to return to you—”

  Hoenikker surprised himself, and leaped to grab Cruz, as did Kash—who put herself between the scientist and Mansfield.

  “What did you say to me?” Cruz shouted, muscles jumping in his arms and shoulders. Hoenikker wanted to be anywhere but where he was. Still, he held the bigger man as best he could.

  All eyes were on Cruz.

  Prior’s.

  Matthews’.

  Fairbanks’.

  The two specialists stared, as well.

  Mansfield didn’t move. He stared into the face of a man who could beat him to a pulp. Hoenikker admired his bravery, though he questioned his good sense. Cruz looked dangerous when he was mad. Hell, Cruz looked dangerous when he was happy.

  “I believe I gave you an order, Dr. Cruz,” Mansfield said evenly.

  Cruz stopped, tensed, and tossed off Hoenikker’s hands as if they were nothing. He backed away, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then he turned and marched out of the lab. Mansfield eyed both Hoenikker and Kash. After a moment he spoke.

  “Isn’t there something you should be doing?”

  “Come on.” Kash grabbed Hoenikker. “Let’s go help Prior and Matthews with the inventory.” Hoenikker allowed himself to be pulled away, as long as it was away from Mansfield.

  So much for empathy.

  16

  They found the body the next morning.

  All of a sudden the medical lab became the popular place to be. In addition to Dr. Erikson and the body, it hosted Security Specialists Howard and Tacker, Reception Tech Rawlings, and Casualty Operations Specialist Edmonds. Slight and introverted, Edmonds wasn’t at all suited to looking at a dead body. Rawlings, on the other hand, had seen plenty of dead bodies from his time in the Colonial Marines.

  Brennan lay naked on the table. From the neck down, the only damage was the ragged hole in his shoulder from where the PDT had been removed. The body bore the same white flaccid complexion to be expected from a lifetime of working inside various stations.

  His head and face were another thing altogether. It looked as if someone had beaten him to death. Pieces of his skull were missing. Teeth poked through ruined cheeks. An eye had hemorrhaged. His nose was a twisted mess.

  Rawlings drew an imaginary line down the center of Brennan’s face and noted that one side hadn’t been hurt at all. Rawlings had been in enough fights to know that Brennan’s head had been immobilized, probably by someone grabbing his hair in a tight-fisted grip.

  “The damage is extensive,” Dr. Erikson said, even though it was obvious to everyone in the room. “I removed metal shavings from inside of his mouth and skull. My techs reviewed them, but they’re from the common composite used in the fabrication of the station, and much of the furniture.”

  “Was there anything on his clothes that might have indicated where he was?” Howard asked.

  “He was found naked, his clothes already removed,” Rawlings said, having seen Brennan in situ where he’d been stashed. The body had been found in a rarely used supply room.

  “We’ll need to do a search for the clothes,” Tacker said, “but they’ve probably already been put in the incinerator. We’ll do a tracker pull to see everyone who had access to it in the last six hours or so.”

  Howard nodded. “Then we can determine if Hoenikker or Fairbanks was anywhere near where the body was found,” he said. “It seems convenient, finding the body right after we released them from custody.” She pulled out her vid display unit and began to punch up information.

  Rawlings considered her logic. Not finding the body might have been better. Whoever had killed Brennan, if they could have made it to Fabrications, they could have used the section’s industrial-sized incinerator. That would have predicated them carrying a body through corridors teeming with people—much easier to spot in the video record. No, if Rawlings had to guess, Brennan hadn’t moved far. His body had been stuffed in that room for convenience. Most likely the killer waited for a time during the night when the corridors were emptier, to move the body as quickly as possible.

  “Hoenikker was in his lab the entire time,” Howard said. “But Fairbanks fell off the grid again.” She eyed Tacker, who nodded.

  “I think we have a suspect,” he said. “Do you think it was a lovers’ quarrel?”

  “If what Fairbanks said was true,” she began, “then yes, it could have been a crime of passion.”

  “Wait a moment,” Rawlings said. “Are you saying that Brennan and Fairbanks…” He laughed. “Can’t possibly be.”

  “Fairbanks told
us that Brennan came to his room so they could hook up,” Howard said.

  “I don’t know why Brennan went to his room, but I can tell you that Brennan wasn’t inclined that way. In fact, Brennan is—was—pretty much asexual. He spent every waking hour playing first-person shooters, video games. His file is full of reprimands from Comms Chief Oshita.”

  “How do you know about his sexual orientation?” Tacker asked. “It’s not something we keep in personnel files.”

  “I just know,” Rawlings said. “Small things. Phrases used. Words used. We’re close units in the Colonial Marines. We know each other’s inclinations. Not that it matters, but we know it. It’s the same here.” He stared straight at Howard. “I know everyone’s inclinations. I pay attention.”

  She broke his gaze to stare at the body.

  “Let’s pretend you’re right,” Tacker said. “Then why? Why is this body so battered?”

  Rawlings shrugged. “I’m not Security. I just know the people in my station.”

  “Where’s Fairbanks now?” Tacker asked. “Or is he off the grid again?”

  Howard attended her vid display. “No. He’s on the grid. We have him currently in the laboratory, providing support to a Fabrications team.” She paused again. “Looks like they’re replacing some of the glass fronts on the containment rooms.”

  “Put security outside the lab. No reason to go in there if we don’t have to. The last thing I need is Mansfield complaining to Flowers,” Tacker said. “Let’s go take a look at Fairbanks’ quarters. And get someone from Logistics to join us.”

  “One more thing,” Dr. Erikson said, holding up a hand.

  Tacker stepped from foot to foot. “What is it?”

  “Comms Specialist Brennan was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Tacker stopped moving. His eyes narrowed. “How?”

  The doctor turned Brennan’s head. “Note the blackening of the tongue and the petechia of the eye. Nothing else could cause this. What type of poison it is? We’re not sure at this point, but it’s not anything we have on the station.”

  “Why would someone poison a guy they just beat to a bloody pulp?” Howard asked.

  Rawlings wanted to know the same thing. It made no sense.

  Tacker chewed on his cheek for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Perhaps the beating was out of rage, but then when the killer realized he hadn’t completed the job, he used poison.” He leaned over to stare into Brennan’s mouth. “That’s the only explanation I can come up with. But where did the poison come from?”

  “Why not just choke him, or beat him some more?” Howard asked.

  “Maybe the killer didn’t want to be a killer. Poison is a lot less hands-on,” Tacker said. Then he turned toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go to Fairbanks’ quarters.”

  Once outside the medlab, Rawlings realized how tense he’d been. Dealing with bodies always took him back to his days in the Colonial Marines. He held out his hands. The one on the right, metal, emblazoned with a Weyland-Yutani stamp. The one on the left, flesh and blood, trembling slightly as his nerves flared, memories of the bodies, his friends, dead and in ditches on a far-away LV.

  Looking up, he noted that the others had already reached the end of the corridor and turned the corner. He wanted to be with them and see this through. So, he hurried after them, arriving at Brennan’s room just as Tacker and Howard did. They were joined by Buggy from Logistics.

  Tacker entered the room first. He went to the middle of the room and stood. Not touching anything. His gaze raking over everything.

  From the doorway, Rawlings could see a perfectly made bed on the right. On the left were a metal bureau and a small desk and chair. A room like any other. A room like his own. So mundane. It would have been difficult to believe a murder had taken place here, had he not seen similar scenes before. Like the church they’d found sitting serene in a forest glen. A place of worship, a center for gathering, the church had been a locus for community and religion for three decades. Then they’d opened the door and found the missing villagers inside, bloody, draped across the pews, dead where they had been shot, bodies ravaged by the M41 Pulse Rifle used by an AWOL Colonial Marine.

  He shook his head to chase away the memory.

  Tacker sniffed the air. “Smell that? Disinfectant.”

  Howard stepped into the room. She sniffed as well. “Heavy duty cleaner.” Stepping over to the desk, she pulled on plastic gloves, bent down, and touched the edge. She straightened. “This desk is new.”

  Buggy bent down, and ran a scanner over the inventory control sticker underneath the desktop. He read the results.

  “Nope. This is the one assigned to the room.”

  “Can’t be.” Howard shook her head. “Know what I think? I think Fairbanks put his old inventory control tag on a new table, and put the new one on his old table. It’s probably been put back into storage. Maybe even cleaned up. He’d have wanted to make sure there wasn’t any evidence left on it.”

  Tacker knelt down, peering at the wall beside the table.

  “Is it me, or are those spots?” he said, pointing.

  Howard joined him. “We can have those tested.”

  “Let’s do it,” Tacker said. “Meanwhile, let’s go have a chat with Fairbanks. I think we have a better understanding of what went on here.” Both he and Howard strode out of the room, leaving Buggy and Rawlings alone.

  “Did you see the body?” Buggy asked.

  Rawlings nodded. “It was pretty bad. Face bashed in and all that.”

  “How you holding up?” Buggy asked.

  “A little anxious. Brought back memories.” He grinned as the interior of the church was superimposed on the room, the body of an elderly woman twisted and staring at him, the unasked question, why did you let him do this to us, hanging in the air. “To be expected, I suppose.” He turned toward the door. “What I need is some coffee. Want to join me?”

  Buggy hesitated, then grinned as well. “Sure. I’ll join.”

  They left the murder scene behind and headed to a better place.

  17

  Fairbanks was in a personal hell.

  He never should have let Hyperdyne Corporation blackmail him. He should have informed Security the moment he returned to the station. That would have been the proper thing to do, but his cowardice hadn’t let him. Instead, he hid and did their bidding and installed software into the system until even the most inadequate and incompetent comms specialist had tracked him down.

  And then instead of turning him in like he should have, the guy had the temerity to try and blackmail him again. How could Fairbanks have allowed that to happen? Once was bad enough, but to let himself be blackmailed two times…

  How could he look himself in the mirror?

  Yelling began at the front of the lab.

  Fairbanks spun to the sound, but it was only the large black-skinned scientist, screaming at his boss. Fairbanks watched in fascination as the smaller man just stared into the face of the violent man, until, with barely a few words, the larger of the two was storming out of the lab.

  That was the kind of strength Fairbanks appreciated. Strength from silence. Strength from a perceived position of weakness. Fairbanks had never been a big man, nor would he ever be, but to be in a position to know people and have people do your bidding—that was an envious position. Like Rawlings. Sure, the man had been a Colonial Marine; and sure, he’d lost a hand. But he knew everyone and everyone knew him. If he were to ask around, he doubted there was a single person who had a problem with him.

  Fairbanks wanted to be someone like that. He didn’t want to be a traitor. He didn’t want to be an infiltrator. He just wanted to be someone good, whom others respected.

  “Get your head out of the clouds, Fairbanks,” Glover said. “Are you taking notes or what?”

  Fairbanks jumped, and attended his vid display.

  “This is another one that needs to be replaced. We have pitting and scoring in three of the four quadrants.�
��

  Fairbanks looked nervously inside the containment room, at the rat with large spider legs. He shuddered as he imagined the creature crawling over him.

  “Fairbanks?” Glover said. “Are you with me?”

  “Uh, yes. That, uh, makes seven out of the nine we’ve checked, and we still have six to go.”

  The third specialist spoke up. “No way are we going to be able to provide that many fronts. Do you realize the process?” His name was Ching, and he worked in Fabrications.

  “Don’t you recycle any of the tungsten from these fronts?” Fairbanks asked. “Can’t they be recovered?”

  Ching sighed and looked as if his lunch wasn’t sitting well. “Recovery is a long procedure. Even if we did recover the tungsten, the degradation would be too much.”

  “But added to what I can supply now,” Fairbanks pressed, “if you recovered what’s in these, would it be better than what we have?”

  “Yes.” Ching nodded grudgingly. “Marginally.”

  “If ‘marginally’ is the best we can do, then I say we do it,” Fairbanks said.

  They moved to the next containment area, where lights were strobing in different colors, for no apparent reason. This unit appeared to be empty, but just as Fairbanks was going to dismiss it, he spied the spiky shape of a large creature that was blending into the background.

  The door to the lab opened and Security Specialists Tacker and Howard entered. Fairbanks caught them in his peripheral vision, and turned away. The last thing he wanted was for them to notice he was there. So far he’d been able to steer clear of them. If he could just keep it up—

  “Fairbanks,” Tacker said. “Can we have a word?”

  He looked into the eyes of Ching and Glover. Both of the men had the odd combination of curiosity and accusation. Was it that easy to accuse a fellow worker? They didn’t know what he’d done. He shouldn’t be thought of as being guilty, just because of an accusation. Where was the brotherhood?

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

  Ching backed away.

  As did Glover.

  Without turning, Fairbanks said, “I’m in the middle of an inventory. If we can do this when I’m finished—”