Alien, p.5
Alien, page 5
“Yeah,” she said. “A real nasty one this time.”
“This is the seventh nightmare you’ve had since coming to this facility. They’re increasing in both frequency and severity.”
She was a little worried about the dreams herself, but she decided to make light of the situation.
“Just a little PTSD brought on from fighting too many Xenomorphs. No big deal.”
Davis didn’t respond, and Zula knew he was analyzing her comment, trying to grasp its full meaning. As with the synth in her dream, Davis had been working on being more human, but humor was a concept that still gave him difficulty. She decided to change the subject.
“Anything interesting happen while I slept?”
“Not especially. Several of the nightshift maintenance workers played poker in an unused storage closet in the Facilities Management building for nearly two hours before their supervisor caught them. The supervisor joined in and everyone started losing on purpose to avoid being put on report. The supervisor ‘cleaned up.’ I believe that’s the expression.”
Zula laughed. “It is.”
“A land buggy’s power system went critical and exploded four point eight miles northeast of the proto-colony. The driver was killed, but there were no other casualties.”
“No Xenomorph reports, I assume.”
“You assume correctly.”
Davis’s access to the Lodge’s computer network allowed him to monitor public newsfeeds for any reports of Xeno outbreaks, but he hadn’t come across any so far. He had indicated the desire to monitor the staff’s private communications as well, including management’s. It was well within his capabilities to sneak past firewalls and disable security programs, but by doing so he would risk exposure, so he restrained himself. Zula was glad he did. She wanted to get back to killing Xenomorphs as much as he did, but she didn’t want to lose her friend.
Zula wasn’t certain how and when she and Davis were going to return to their mission of wiping the monsters from the face of the galaxy, but they both fully intended to do so. Her job at the Lodge was just a temporary detour, a way for her to earn some credits so she could finance her crusade. Although given how cheap Venture was when it came to paying its employees, she might need to take a few more detours.
“You’re scheduled to lead a training exercise in forty-seven minutes. I suggest you start getting ready.”
“Good suggestion.”
She rose from her bunk and began preparing for her day. Her quarters were small, consisting of a single room, but she couldn’t complain. At least she didn’t have to sleep in the communal barracks with the candidates she’d been brought here to train. She wouldn’t need the whole forty-seven minutes to get ready, either. Colonial Marines were given ten minutes—no more—to shit, shower, and shave, and while she was no longer officially a Marine, she couldn’t shake the discipline. Didn’t want to, either.
First she used the chemical toilet in the corner, then washed up at the sink next to it. She’d shower after the field exercise was done. Removing gray coveralls and boots from her closet, she put them on, then took a small commpiece from the side table and slipped it into her left ear. It was standard issue for the Lodge’s employees, and while Zula didn’t like the way it felt—it tickled, like she had a small insect crawling around in there—she was glad to wear it. It meant she and Davis could stay in touch wherever she went. She had to be careful about responding to him, though. No one at the Lodge knew of his existence, let alone that he had access to the facility’s computer network.
The Lodge’s network was overseen by a rudimentary AI far less sophisticated than Davis, and while her friend had been able to hide his presence thus far, she didn’t want to do anything that might give him away.
“See you later,” she said, stepping toward the door. It was kind of a dumb thing to say, since Davis could follow her virtually everywhere she went on the planet, but she would feel weird leaving without saying goodbye.
Zula left her room and headed down the corridor toward the Commissary. It was located in the Personnel building, so she didn’t have far to go. The Lodge was comprised of five dome-shaped buildings—Administration, Facilities Management, Personnel, Biosciences, and Research and Development—arranged in a diamond pattern, with the all-important R&D in the middle. The buildings were connected by enclosed corridors through which people walked or rode self-driving electric carts. Walking was encouraged, though, as it promoted exercise and saved on battery power. Each of the corridors could be sealed in the case of a catastrophic event, such as the breach of an external wall.
The proto-colony was located off to the northeast. To the west was a larger crater created by a meteorite impact millennia ago, and to the north was a small mountain range. The ground where Venture had chosen to build its facility was gray and lifeless, but relatively flat and not too difficult to navigate. The weather here was milder than on other parts of the planet. Temperatures ranged from well below freezing to almost boiling depending on the time of year, and electrical storms weren’t uncommon, although usually not too severe.
The biggest problem was the goddamned wind. It blew constantly, and anyone who ventured outside had to fight it, always feeling as if they were underwater and moving against a strong and temperamental tide. While maneuvering on the planet’s surface was manageable most of the time, at times the winds would rage at gale force. If you were foolish enough to be outside then, you took your life in your hands.
The wind’s constant high-pitched whine created an ever-present soundtrack to life on Jericho 3, one that many of the facility’s personnel never quite got used to.
The atmosphere, like on Earth’s closest neighbor, Mars, was comprised primarily of carbon dioxide, and due to the amount of dust in the air, the sky always appeared to be a dark yellowish brown. Jericho 3’s sun wasn’t always visible, but when it was it gave off a bluish glow, also due to the atmospheric particles. The gravity was slightly less than Earth normal, but the difference was barely noticeable to most people. Zula’s back might technically be healed, but it still ached from time to time when she was tired, and she appreciated the lower gravity.
As she walked she passed other men and women, most also dressed in gray coveralls. Although she gave each a friendly smile as they went by, none returned it or so much as met her eyes. She told herself not to take it personally. She was still new here, and aside from the Colony Protection Force trainees, she knew very few people. Even so, she couldn’t help wondering if word about her had spread through the Lodge.
“That’s her—the one who was injured during her first mission, and got her fellow soldiers killed.”
“HQ must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to hiring these days.”
“I just hope she doesn’t get any of her trainees killed—or any of us.”
Zula told herself she was being paranoid, but she’d had to deal with those kinds of attitudes before—from other Marines as well as from staff and patients at the med facility where she’d done her rehab. Not everyone treated her badly, of course. Dr. Yang, for example, had always been empathetic. But Zula had experienced enough prejudice in her life—if not because of what happened during her first mission, then because of her race, or gender, or her past growing up in an especially poor district on Earth. While she wanted to believe the best of people, she knew better.
She saw no synthetics on her way to the Commissary. There weren’t many at the Lodge, not least because Venture didn’t like purchasing them from Weyland-Yutani. Some people argued that space travel would be more efficient—and a hell of a lot cheaper—if ships and stations were crewed entirely by synthetics. But even the mega-corporations were reluctant to take that step. While it wasn’t common, synthetics had been known to exhibit erratic behavior, making them less than reliable when working without human supervision.
Zula suspected the real reason, however, was that humans feared being replaced by synthetics, and thus were leery of granting them too much autonomy. Besides, humans had an innate need to explore, to be physically present when experiencing new places. That need was even stronger than the corporations’ desire for profit.
If all synthetics had been like Davis, she wouldn’t feel too badly if they took over. It wasn’t as if humanity had done such a great job on its own. People had crapped up the planet of their origin, and now they were moving into the galaxy to do the same to other worlds. Synths could hardly do worse.
And with that cheery thought, she entered the Commissary. Like everywhere else in the Lodge, there wasn’t a lot of space, and the round tables were placed so close together that maneuvering through the Commissary was an exercise in squeezing through narrow pathways, and waiting while someone came from the opposite direction.
Zula wasn’t by nature a big breakfast eater, but during basic training she’d learned the importance of taking nourishment whenever she had the opportunity. She never knew what she might be ordered to do on any given day, and how long it might be between meals. And since field rations tasted like ass, she filled up on real food when she could. So going through the serving line, she loaded her plastic tray with scrambled eggs, soy-bacon, a poppy-seed muffin, and a large cup of strong black coffee.
Then she looked for a table where she could sit alone. Zula didn’t like talking to anyone—excluding Davis—before downing her first caffeine of the day. But there were no empty tables, and several of the CPF trainees were sitting together. When they saw her, they motioned for her to join them. Telling herself it was good for morale, she started toward them, and even managed a smile as she sat down.
“Good morning, Boss!” one of the trainees, an Asian man named Ronny Yoo, said heartily.
Zula’s rank in the USCM had been private first class, but soon after she arrived at the Lodge the trainees had started referring to her as “Sarge.” The nickname irritated her, in part because she hadn’t earned the rank, and because she suspected they were using it to mock her. She’d told them to cut it out, which they did, but then they started calling her “Boss” instead. Again she tried to discourage them, but despite her best efforts it stuck. Finally she’d given up.
“Morning,” Zula said, the smile fading.
Five of the ten trainees under her tutelage were at the table. The other five were seated elsewhere in the Commissary, and Zula was grateful they weren’t at a table nearby. She wasn’t ready to deal with all of them yet. In addition to Ronny, Miriam Castro, Virgil Townsend, Genevieve Parks, and Donnell Stockton were seated at the table. Their trays were still mostly full, indicating they hadn’t been here long.
“You decide to sleep in today, Boss?” Genevieve asked. She was a tall, thin redhead, and there was a teasing edge to her voice.
When Zula had accepted the job with Venture, the HR person who’d conducted her orientation had told her that in the corporate culture, “early is on time, and on time is late.” It had been the same in the Corps, and it was one thing that Zula didn’t miss about the Marines. As far as she was concerned, on time was on time, and if that wasn’t good enough for Venture, then to hell with them. It wasn’t as if she intended to make this a career.
“We’ve been up for over an hour,” Donnell said. “Plenty of time to hit the gym and get the blood pumping.” He was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, well-muscled black man. Fitness wasn’t just a health thing with him—it was practically a religion.
Miriam swatted him on the arm.
“You know the Boss likes to work out in the evening.” She was a Hispanic woman with short black hair and a take-no-shit attitude. She was also the closest thing to an ally Zula had among the trainees.
“Yeah,” Virgil said. He had a shaved head and a face that looked like ten miles of bad road. He enjoyed bare-knuckle boxing, but as his face showed, he wasn’t especially good at it. “After a long day of dealing with us, she needs to work out the kinks in her…” He broke off as if suddenly realizing what he’d been about to say.
Zula had been in the process of taking another drink of coffee. She lowered the cup slowly and placed it gently on the table, her gaze focused on Virgil the entire time.
“Kinks in my what?” she asked.
The man looked as if he wanted to crawl under the table and hide. Physically, he was as much a badass as any of the trainees, but while he was good at his job, his temperament off-duty was far milder than his appearance suggested.
“Uh…”
Virgil looked to Ronny for help. Ronny was the trainees’ unofficial leader, and he behaved as if he considered himself Zula’s second-in-command, although officially all the trainees were equal. Zula was in her mid-twenties, and most of the trainees were older than her, some significantly so. Ronny was her senior by ten years, and while he put up a good front when she was around, she knew he resented that she had been brought in to train them. It was why he got so much pleasure out of teasing her.
It hadn’t helped their working relationship that she’d shot him down when he’d hit on her after her first few days at the Lodge. “Sorry, it would be unprofessional for us to date,” she’d told him. “Besides, you’re not my type.” She’d had to say the same thing to Brenna Lister a couple days later. Brenna, at least, didn’t seem to resent Zula’s lack of interest, and they’d gotten along fine since.
But Ronny? Not so much.
Ronny turned to Zula, and she could see him thinking furiously, trying to come up with a way to get Virgil out of trouble. Zula decided to take pity on them.
“Yes, my back does get angry after a day’s work…” she admitted, “sometimes, but that’s not because of you guys. You have nothing to do with it.” She paused before going on. “You are, however, a huge pain in my ass.”
The trainees looked shocked for a moment, but then they broke into laughter. Ronny laughed with them, but there was no sign of merriment in his eyes.
5
Hassan Bagrov didn’t get to visit Research and Development very often. While he worked as a technician in Facilities Management, he specialized in maintaining and repairing thermo systems. He didn’t have the training or experience to work on the sophisticated scientific equipment used by the staff in R&D. It wasn’t that he couldn’t learn how to deal with hi-tech machinery, if he wanted. He’d had plenty of opportunities over the years. One thing about Venture—they regularly offered ways for their employees to advance.
No, Hassan didn’t want to advance. He liked thermo systems. Not only were they vital for survival, there was an elegant simplicity to them, and an elemental power. Plus they were, relatively speaking, easy to handle. He didn’t have many hassles in thermo, certainly no scientists looking over his shoulder, complaining that he was taking too long. He’d had friends who were regularly assigned jobs in R&D, and they hated working here. They only put up with the researchers’ arrogance and neuroses because the money was good.
Sure, he would’ve liked to earn a higher salary. Who wouldn’t? But as far as he was concerned, life was too short.
Besides, there were other ways to make extra money at the Lodge. Some people sold black market goods that were smuggled in on cargo ships. Drugs, mostly, but there was also a brisk trade in fresh produce and non-synthetic chocolate. That was too risky for Hassan, though. Others tried gambling, and while Hassan enjoyed a good card game now and again, he didn’t like the uncertainty of gambling. It was hardly the surest way to build a financial portfolio. Look what had happened to those idiots last night. They’d snuck off to play poker, ended up getting caught, and had to lose on purpose to avoid being reported.
Dumbasses.
Hassan earned extra credits by selling his body. Or more precisely, renting it out from time to time. He didn’t provide sexual favors—not that he would’ve been averse to doing so if he thought anyone would be interested. Instead, he served as a professional guinea pig. There were plenty of prototypes being created by the Lodge’s scientists that needed to be tested on human beings, and Hassan had long ago added his name to the list of staff members willing to help advance the corporation’s scientific interests.
For a nominal fee, of course.
During his time at V-22, Hassan had been paid to test a new type of nutrient bar that tasted like sawdust and gave him terrible gas, a new sleeping pill that knocked him out for seventy-two hours, and medicines to treat some of the new diseases humanity had encountered during its first tentative steps toward colonizing the galaxy. In order to test the drugs, he’d first had to be given the diseases, and that hadn’t been any fun. The worst of these had been cellular necrosis. The treatment he’d been given had worked—praise Allah—but he’d suffered some lingering side effects. No matter how much he drank, his mouth always felt dry, and he had a tendency to develop kidney stones every few months.
Overall, though, being a voluntary test subject was worth it. He’d made far more credits than he could score in any card game, that was for sure.
So when he’d received a message from Dr. Gagnon’s assistant asking if he was available to assist her superior with a new experiment, Hassan had eagerly said yes. No sense in letting anyone else snag a profitable gig. Gagnon was the doctor who’d infected him with cellular necrosis, and while Hassan found him to be more than a little scary, he paid well, and that was what mattered most.
Hassan hadn’t been back to Earth in more than five years, and he was saving up for a month-long vacation on the planet of his birth. A trip to Hawaii, or maybe Cozumel.
He approached Gagnon’s lab with a strange mixture of anticipation and dread. He looked forward to seeing his credit balance rise—perhaps significantly so—but he wondered what, if any, side effects he’d experience this time. Hopefully his dick wouldn’t fall off, or something equally severe. He stopped when he reached the lab door, but before he could activate the intercom and announce his presence it slid open with a soft hiss of air.
