by Weston Ochse
If he didn’t figure it out, he might fall victim to it.
Then it happened.
A woman.
She arrived breathlessly at the door, glancing back fearfully, banging on the composite metal as if her life depended on it.
Cruz knew immediately what it was, and was disappointed. It was as if they thought he was stupid. She had to be a Trojan horse. They should have known that he’d know, too. Was that it? Were they counting on him to double-think?
He leaned forward, intrigued.
Twisting the camera around, he checked to see if there was anyone else down the hall. It was empty. Then he hit the control and let her in, the door snicking open fast enough that she fell forward.
Three security techs rushed into sight.
He closed the door. They weren’t fast enough.
McGann grabbed the newcomer by the back of her neck and pressed a pistol to her head.
“What’s your name?”
“Susan,” she said breathlessly. Medium build. Mousy brown hair. Brown eyes. A face that had probably been pretty when she was younger, but had fallen victim to middle age. She wore a blue jumpsuit. Interesting. No one on the station wore blue jumpsuits.
She glanced feverishly around the room—or was she taking inventory? Making a map of everything, so she could go back and inform Bellows or Rodriguez or whoever was in charge.
“Last name,” McGann asked.
“McCune. Susan McCune. What the hell’s going on with the station?”
Cruz raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“We just arrived on Pala Station. The security techs in the shuttle bay said you have control of the whole facility. They refused to escort us, and something took down my copilot. I never saw it. One moment he was here. The next… nothing.”
So, that was their ruse. An unplanned shuttle.
Interesting.
“Buggy, get Rawlings up,” Cruz said. “I need him. Meanwhile, McCune, you just sit there.”
“No can do,” Buggy said. “I need to monitor comms. There are incoming like you wouldn’t believe.”
Cruz growled. “Will someone wake Rawlings the fuck up?” Kash nodded and stood, then went into the office.
“What’s your copilot’s name?” Cruz asked.
“Ernest Withers.”
“What type of vessel do you hail from?”
“Merchant ship. We received an emergency hail from the San Lorenzo.”
“We did get the word out!” Hoenikker’s normally dour face lit with excitement. Cruz shot him a look.
“Are you Weyland-Yutani?” he asked McCune.
“Private contractor. We’ve worked with Weyland-Yutani before, but not currently.”
“What’s your cargo?”
“Ore. Primarily magnesium and cesium.”
“What’s your compliment?”
“Sixteen. The others are in cryosleep. Withers and I were awakened when the emergency beacon contacted our ship. Listen, what exactly is going on here? Why the interrogation? I’m just following the rules of open space. If we hear an emergency beacon, it’s our duty to investigate.”
Rawlings staggered into the bullpen. “My mouth feels like a family of rats took a shit inside, and then smeared it everywhere.” He looked like hell. Bloodshot eyes brimmed with liquid atop a bulbous, red-veined nose. His dark skin was the color of old clay.
“Rawlings, I need your full attention,” Cruz said.
“Yeah?” He blinked several times and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “What is it?”
“Do you recognize this woman?”
Rawlings peered at her through bleary eyes, then shook his head.
“Never seen her before.”
“So, she’s not from the station?”
“Nope. I know everyone. It’s my job. She’s not from here.”
“Can you please explain to me what’s going on?” McCune asked.
Cruz held up a hand. “Run her face through biometrics,” he said, handing Rawlings a personal vid unit. The reception tech fumbled with it for a moment, then keyed in instructions. He held it up to her and took her picture, then ran it through biometrics.
Everyone looked at one another in the silence, no one really wanting to be the one to break it. The only sound other than breathing was Buggy punching his monitor, his hands moving fast enough that he could have been playing a piano.
Finally, Rawlings shook his head. “No record of her being on the station. No record of her being in Weyland-Yutani. Looks like we have a certified stranger.”
“What about her PDT?” McGann asked.
Rawlings shook his head again. “I remotely scanned everyone’s in this room. We all have one. She doesn’t.”
“Does that mean she’s really here to help us?” Hoenikker asked.
Now Cruz really was intrigued.
“Who were the security techs outside?” he asked, meaning the three who had rushed the door. “Did they bring you here?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Either salvation had just appeared at their doorstep, or she was a great actress and somehow had been working on the station like a ghost. Still, it didn’t entirely make sense. If there had been a shuttle landing in the bay, then command would have wanted access to both the pilot and the shuttle.
And there wasn’t any way to check out her story. He was blind in the bay and in front of the command suites. Then again, he wasn’t blind, was he? Every door and access point on the station could read a personal data tracker, and everyone on the station had PTDs implanted in their bodies.
“McGann, I think it’s okay to lower your pistol,” Cruz said, then he turned to the engineer. “Follow me.” He and McGann walked into the office, and outlined his idea. McGann nodded, grinned, and confirmed that it was definitely possible. Then she sat down behind the desk.
Cruz called in Buggy, who joined them. They chatted for a moment, and Buggy disappeared into another room. Cruz returned to his seat in the bullpen.
“What do you know about Xenomorphs?” he asked McCune.
Her eyebrows twisted. “Xenowhats?”
“Xenomorphs. Brought to us care of the San Lorenzo, which towed a facility that was infested with them. Creatures capable of using a human as a gestational host from which to transition and grow. They enter the human host through the mouth, then burst from the chest, then grow at an alarming rate until they become full-size killing machines.” He grinned flatly. “What do you know about them?”
She shook her head, but displayed no emotion. “This is the first I’ve heard of them,” she said evenly.
“The security techs in the shuttle bay didn’t warn you about them when they let you into the station?”
“All they said was that there were monsters,” she replied. “I thought they were nuts.”
“So you and your copilot—”
“Withers.”
“Yes, you and your copilot Withers just entered the station, and made a beeline to Engineering rather than the command suites.”
“The shuttle bay techs said that the people in charge were in Engineering,” she replied. “They gave us directions.”
“You came unarmed.”
“We’re a private ore hauler. We don’t have weapons.”
“And you’ve never heard of Xenomorphs.”
“That’s what I said.”
Cruz stood and went over, gesturing to shake her hand. She held hers out automatically as she stood.
“Excellent,” Cruz said. “I’m going to let you be on your way, then—I’ll provide you with directions to the command suite, and you can talk with them regarding assistance.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I was told you are in charge.”
“Only the lights and power,” Cruz said. “McGann? Are we ready?”
“We’re on it.”
“Let’s hit the lights before she leaves.”
“Lights off,” McGan
n said.
“Excellent.” He turned to their visitor. “Well, are you ready?”
“It’s too dangerous,” she murmured.
“I have good news,” he lied. “Xenomorphs need light to survive. They hibernate in the dark. Just don’t bump into one, and you’ll be perfectly fine.” Hoenikker stood and was about to say something, but Cruz snapped his fingers to shut him up. Buggy came over with a flashlight. He snapped it on and off in his face.
“This should get you there.” He handed it to her. “And hey, thanks for saving our asses. We really appreciate it.” Wearing a confused expression, she looked from one to the other, her hand on the flashlight, her thumb turning it on and off absently.
“Will one of you come with me?” she asked, her voice small and breathless.
“Sorry,” Cruz said, returning to his seat. “We’ve got too much work to do. But like I said, you’ll be okay. The Xenomorphs hibernate. They’re usually against the walls— they do that to keep from falling down. So walk down the middle of the corridors, and you’ll be alright.”
“I heard there might be other monsters.”
“That’s not what you said,” Cruz replied, adding a curious note to his voice. “You said, ‘all they said was that there were monsters.’ You never said anything about there being more than one type.”
She glanced from one to the other including Hoenikker and Kash, then she frowned, her face going ugly.
“You fucking sonuvabitch.”
“Just as I thought.” Cruz nodded. “McGann, what do you have?”
“Four of them around the corner.”
Cruz got up and went into the project room. He returned thirty seconds later wearing the flamethrower.
“You can’t possibly,” McCune said, staring wide-eyed at the lick of flame dancing at the end of the barrel.
“Oh, I absolutely can,” he replied. “What did you think you would do to us? Have one of us follow you, or find a way to open the door? I knew you were a Trojan the minute I saw you. How you’re on the station without us knowing about it is another thing entirely. For now, though, we’ll let the station understand we mean business.” He adjusted his shoulders and spoke to Hoenikker and Kash. “You two might want to get over there,” he said, nodding to where the storage was to the right of the door. “McGann, when you’re ready.”
The door snicked open.
“Here they come,” McGann called.
Cruz depressed the actuator just as they came into view. Instantly the four men were consumed at the entrance to Engineering. One managed to get a shot off into the ceiling, but the others became flaming imitations of men, their arms waving, legs dancing, then crumbling as each one of them tried to scream, sucking flame and superheated air into lungs that burned from within.
They never made it inside.
McGann closed the door, leaving only the smoke and the smell of human flesh to remind them of what had occurred. They were still visible on the vid, which showed a smoldering pile of would-be attackers.
“I can’t believe you did that,” McCune said breathlessly. Cruz turned toward her.
“Don’t go getting sanctimonious on me,” he snarled. “You would have done the same to us, given the chance.” She seemed unable to stop staring at the display.
Cruz left her there, took his flamethrower back to the project room, and set it on the table.
46
“Who are you?” Cruz demanded, his face stone cold with purpose.
Hoenikker felt as if he was an outsider looking in. He’d thought they were fighting against the monsters, but as it turned out, they were all monsters. The Xenomorphs, the Leons, and the humans. Their capacity for killing could not be underestimated, nor could it be ignored. There was no safe haven here. There was no place to hide. Enemies were all around, some of them fleshed in the bodies of “friends.”
“I gave you my name,” she said, tight lipped, sweat beading on her brow. She sat in a chair, her hands bound behind her with cable straps.
“Susan McCune, why aren’t you on the station rolls?” Rawlings asked.
She turned to him and frowned. “That’s above your paygrade, Warrant.”
Rawlings grinned at that. “So, you know I was a Colonial Marine, and you know my rank. Good for you.”
“Nothing is above my paygrade,” Cruz said. “Answer the man.”
She seemed to consider the question. “Let’s just say there are doors you can open, and doors you can’t.” She paused. “And there are doors you don’t even know exist.”
“Does that even make sense?” Buggy asked.
She just sneered.
“You know you’re going to prison, right?” she said to Cruz. “You killed them in cold blood. I’ll be a witness at your trial.”
Cruz laughed hollowly. “There’s never going to be a trial. You’re not going to survive what’s coming. Fuck. None of us might survive what’s coming, except Rawlings and Hoenikker here. After all, God favors drunks and fools, and those who don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Hey,” Hoenikker said. He certainly didn’t feel like a fool. For the most part.
“No offense, Doctor,” Cruz said, nodding in his direction, then he addressed McCune again. “My point is that if the two groups of security techs don’t get together, to plan a way to defeat Seven and his Xenos, then we’re all screwed. You’d be lucky to make it ten feet by yourself, much less all the way to a corporate court.”
“Chief Rodriguez assured me we have this handled,” she replied. “She has a plan. We just need access to Engineering.”
“And how much experience does Cynthia have with Xenos?”
“She’s dealt with them before. She knows their weakness.”
“Their weakness? Susan, you’re talking to a group of scientists who have been studying them for weeks, trying to find their weaknesses.” He pointed at the door. “Those things have no weaknesses. They have no natural enemies. They were created to attack a host, gestate, explode from a chest, and become a battle-raging acid-spitting machine.” He laughed. “You and yours. You think you know more about these creatures than the scientists—and I get it.
“I was a Colonial Marine,” he continued. “I felt like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t fight, fuck, or kill. Then I ran into something none of those verbs worked against. Yes, there’s shit out there in the universe that we don’t ken, and we should run from it as fast as we can. Xenomorphs are at the top of the list, only Weyland-Yutani wants to ‘monetize’ the impossible.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Finally, Kash broke the silence.
“Susan, what’s the plan?” she asked.
“I’m the one talking to the prisoner,” Cruz said.
“The hell you are. I’ve sat back and tried to convince myself that you all are doing this the Colonial Marine’s way.” Kash said the last like it left a horrid taste in her mouth. “But I doubt their way is to kill four Weyland-Yutani security techs in cold blood.”
Cruz began. “But you don’t underst—”
She whirled on him. “Listen to me, Buster. No more killing station personnel. Not unless they try and kill us first.”
“You might not get that chance,” Cruz said, his voice low and carefully controlled.
“I—we’ll take that chance.” She pointed at the vid screen. “Better to die a human than a monster.”
Cruz was about to say something, when Kash turned back to Susan. “Again, I’m asking. What’s the plan? Right now, ninety percent of the threat is in the mess hall. Have they considered setting up units at the doors?”
McCune stared, then seemed to come to a decision.
“Rodriguez believes that we can induce stasis in the creatures by alternating the frequencies of light,” she said. “According to her, it worked before.”
“Disco lights?” McGann said. “She wants to use disco lights to defeat the monsters?”
Hoenikker considered. It might actually work, but they hadn’t
tested it. What Rodriguez had seen in the wild— outside of a controlled experimental space—might have been the result of anything. Not being a scientist, she could have applied the vector inaccurately. It didn’t pass his logic test, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.
“Hoenikker, you might be the smartest of us,” Cruz began, avoiding eye contact with Kash. “You look like you’re working this out in your head. What do you say? Is it possible?”
He stared at Cruz, and couldn’t shake the image of him setting afire the four living human beings who had tried to burst in.
“We don’t have enough data, but we could always conduct a controlled test,” he suggested. “After all, the Xenomorphs are in a single space. We could create an algorithm to adjust the light variance, and record what effects they might have on the ability of the Xenomorphs to conduct regular activities.”
“What did he just say?” Buggy asked.
“He said we can test it out,” Cruz said.
“Then why didn’t he just say that?”
“He did, doofus.” Rawlings took a swig of water from a jug.
“Easy on that,” McGann said. “We don’t have much left.”
“Cottonmouth. I can’t help it.”
“Last cottonmouth you’re ever going to have,” Buggy said.
“Fuck, I hope not.”
Cruz leaned forward to talk to the prisoner, but looked to Kash first, who gave him a hard nod. “McCune, did they even consider attacking the mess hall?” Cruz asked.
“Not once,” she said. “They don’t want to be directly involved with the creatures. As Weyland-Yutani employees, they—we—don’t feel like it’s our responsibility. After all, that’s what Colonial Marines are for.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” Rawlings said, “but there’s a current shortage of Colonial Marines.”
“They’ll come eventually,” McCune said.
“Oh, really—and how will they come?” Cruz asked. “Has anyone called them?”
“That’s above my paygrade.”
“You and your fucking paygrades,” Rawlings said.