Weyland-Yutani Research Outpost “Rayleigh’s Rest”

  LV-784, Zeta Reticuli

  October 24th, 2237

  The distant lights of the towering atmosphere processor struggled to pierce the darkness as the rain and black ash battered hard against the windows. The wind howling as LV-784’s perpetual storm raged outside. Beyond the walls of the base lay nothing but hundreds of miles of barren black rock, stretching over the horizon under a black sky and stripped bare by eons of relentless wind and rain. But in the confines of his office, the roar of the storm was reduced to a dull whistle, and the soft red light of a desk lamp cast the walls in a warm glow, as Colonel Sanchez paced in front of the teleconference screen.

  “I’m sorry, Sir, but I can’t accept that,” insisted Sanchez. The seated figure and soft, grandfatherly features of Brigadier General Greaves filled most of the screen, gently lit by the natural light of a setting sun.

  “We’ve been over this,” said the general. “Your orders are to maintain law and order, and defend against any external threats should they arise. Delta internal security will be handled by Wey-Yu personnel, as per your brief.”

  Private security. Nothing more than a gang of reprobates. Stone cold killers, every single one of them. Putting them in a uniform doesn’t change that. Sanchez snorted in disgust. Greaves either did not notice the minor insubordination, or did not acknowledge it.

  “Sir,” he pressed, “how are my Marines meant to maintain security when we don’t even have access to the entire base? I don’t even have access to schematics. There could be structural weaknesses, infiltration points, critical containment, por Dios I don’t even know what the hell they’re up to,” and all the way out here, it sure as hell wasn’t on the level. There were dozens of barely habitable planetoids just like LV-784 in the direction of Zeta Reticuli. Any of them would serve just as well for a research outpost the company did not want looked at too closely, and were still much closer to Earth. What the hell were they doing planting a flag all the way out here?

  “Colonel,” said Greaves sternly, and Sanchez stopped pacing. “Your orders are to keep the peace and defend the outpost. Everything related to Delta Wing is classified, and that’s straight from the top.” The general’s face relaxed slightly, and Sanchez did the same, but he did not resume his pacing. “It’s all for show, Emil. Zeta Reticuli? There’s nothing out there. A few outposts have had trouble with yahoo pirates looking for easy marks, but the very presence of a Marine detachment on station is usually enough to make them think twice.”

  Sanchez sighed. Unless they’re already inside, he thought to himself. “What about my ordnance requisition, sir?”, he asked as he unconsciously rubbed at his left forearm.

  Greaves raised an eyebrow. “Denied, and you’re lucky it came across my desk first. Dammit, if anyone else saw that, it would be out of my hands. There could be an investigation, and that means both of us being recalled to Gateway. Oversight, all the way up and down the chain. Both of us would be under a microscope. What were you thinking requisitioning that kind of firepower?”

  He did not answer. Greaves knew why. He was the only one who had ever taken his claims remotely seriously, and over the years the general had become something of a confidant. More than that, he had gotten him information, covered for him. But after decades of chasing down ghosts and shadows that had come to nothing, he was beginning to doubt he still believed him at all. He could count all suspected encounters across all of human-occupied space in the past twenty-five years on his fingers. The fingers of one hand, if he only counted the reliable ones. The ones that had left survivors. A far-flung installation goes quiet or a ship goes missing. A contingent of Colonial Marines locates it weeks later and finds a charnel house. The Corps would sweep it under the rug to save face, send boiler plate letters of condolence to the families telling of their “heroic sacrifice”, while the company forced any civilian witnesses to sign ironclad NDAs. The ones that could, at least. The rest ended up in psych wards.

  “It’s been what? Forty years? Let it go.”

  Forty-four years, three months.

  “General, sir, at least grant my request for additional units,” said Sanchez, although he already knew it was useless.

  “Denied,” growled Greaves, any pretence of friendliness now gone. Suddenly, he did not look so grandfatherly. “You’ve got almost a hundred Marines under your command. There should not be a force in the galaxy you and your squads cannot handle, and you will handle it, Colonel, and you’ll do it with what you’ve got. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” said Sanchez, as he snapped to a salute. Greaves returned the salute before lowering it, and the screen blinked to black, the image replaced with a green flashing “End of Transmission”.

  “Damn it,” he swore as he kicked the waste paper bin. He had screwed up. He knew that. He had pushed too hard, and now they had put him out to pasture. They had dressed it up as a promotion with the bump up to “full bird” colonel, but it was still a dead end. A caretaker position in the ass end of nowhere. He still had three years to retirement, and it looked like they wanted him to run out the clock. He slumped back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighed. The sound of the rain battering the windows grew louder as the storm outside intensified.

  He was used to being stonewalled. You didn’t serve forty-five years in the USCM Corps without running into bureaucracy. But this was different. They had ignored his concerns about the increasing frequency of encounters over the last ten years, but that was nothing new. Neither was running security for a Wey-Yu facility. They often contracted with the USCM, especially on these off-the-beaten-path outposts, and this was not his first posting of the sort. But never had one been shrouded in so much secrecy. Even with his top-level clearance he could not access so much as a personnel roster for Delta. The whole wing was completely locked down. No one in or out except for a select few dozen Weyland-Yutani white coats, and Sloan’s security goons. The former mostly kept to themselves, and the latter everyone else gave a wide berth. Even their cargo manifests were classified at a level he could not access. It was bullshit, all of it. He briefly considered filing another formal objection with his chain of command, but dismissed it just as quickly. They had already ignored his first two, and it was not his style anyway. Sometimes he wished he was still an enlisted man, instead of a desk officer. Sixty-three years old, but he was still a Marine.

  He wearily eyed the perpetual stack of paperwork on his desk, and decided he would rather do a twelve-kilometre, high gravity march in full combat gear. Hell, he would rather walk unarmed into a xenomorph hive than do paperwork at this hour. Then again, he had never actually seen one. He had read all of the reports, of course. Even served with a Marine once, when he was junior enlisted, that claimed to have been on a mission to clear out an infestation on some old orbital mining station. He had asked about it once, and quickly learned not to ask again. He decided paperwork was not so bad. Marine or not, he was an old man. Let the young men have all the action.

  “Colonel Sanchez, sir,” the intercom buzzed, and he instantly recognised the voice of Master Sergeant Heller. The paperwork would have to wait.

  “Go ahead, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, we have a situation in the cafeteria. You had better come down here,” answered Heller.

  Sanchez ran his hand through his slicked back silver hair. It never ends, he thought to himself.

  “I’m on my way.”

  *

  The harsh artificial lighting momentarily blinded him as he entered the windowless cafeteria. The rows and rows of neatly ordered tables could sit several hundred at a time, but now it was mostly empty. The half dozen Marines milling around straightened or stood as he entered, and a similar number of civilian staff he did not recognise simply nodded. The only two who did not acknowledge him were a Weyland-Yutani security merc whose name he did not know, and Doctor Cotillard who busied himself with treating what looked like a bad cut above the merc’s left eye.

  “Sir,” said Master Sergeant Heller as he approached to greet him.

  “Sergeant,” acknowledged Sanchez, who had to crane his neck to meet the big man’s good eye. At six-foot-six and two hundred and fifty pounds, he was a full head taller than Sanchez, and then some. He was probably the tallest man on the base, with the body of an athlete to match. His face was a different story. A horror story. Half still had the chiselled jawline and sharp blue eye that would not look out of place on a model. The other half looked like he had slept on a hand grenade, or gone toe-to-toe with a grizzly. Maybe he had. Sanchez would put his money on the Sergeant. The tight scars pulled his face into a perpetual scowl. Half of his slick blonde hair was missing, and he made no attempt to hide it, and his greyed over asymmetrical eye looked as if it had been reset in place and they could not quite get it to sit right.

  “What’s the situation?” he asked, somewhat redundantly. The few overturned chairs and a tray with its contents still strewn across the floor painted a clear enough picture.

  “We had a confrontation, sir, between one of the Wey-Yu security and Private Jennings here. Jennings claims the merc started it, and I’ve got two civilian witnesses that confirm his story.”

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  He sighed. This was the third incident in as many weeks. He and Sloan would need to have words, and he made a mental note to speak to him in the morning about discipline among the ranks. “I trust you can handle a bar fight, Sergeant,” he said, somewhat dismissively.

  “There’s something else, sir,” said Heller. “The merc pulled a blade. We’ve confiscated it. Quite a weapon.”

  Sanchez straightened. Strong words, a black eye or a busted nose were one thing. Lethal force was quite another. “Any injuries?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  He approached Private Jennings. The private may as well have been carved out of stone as he stood at parade rest, and did not flinch as he stared the young man down. An ugly bruise was forming around his left eye, but otherwise he seemed fine.

  “Does he need medical attention, Doc?” he asked, without breaking eye contact with the younger man.

  “No, they’ll both live,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “I’m done here,” he added as he stripped off his gloves with practised ease.

  “You’re confined to quarters, Private, and get some ice on that. Dismissed,” he barked, making himself sound angrier than he was. The private saluted and left without a word, and he turned his attention to the mercenary. He had not looked closely until now, and it was only now that he did recognise him after all. It was Morse, again. He had written him up for disorderly conduct a few weeks ago.

  “Don’t bother standing up,” said Sanchez, pausing to allow his contempt to seep through. “You’re a problem child, Morse. I don’t like problem children, and out here, I can do whatever I like, and if you think Sloan can protect you then think again, sweetheart. As far as you’re concerned, out here, I’m your own personal god. Now, I can be a benevolent god, or I can be your worst goddamn nightmare. I’ll leave the choice to you. In fact, why don’t you take a month to think it over?”

  “You, and you,” he barked, pointing his finger at two Marines who were still hanging around to watch the show, both of whom instantly snapped to attention. “Escort this man to the brig. If he resists, murder him.” The two men immediately appeared either side of Morse.

  “Walk,” ordered one of the men. Morse looked at Sanchez expectantly, but the older man kept his face expressionless.

  “I said “walk”, or we’ll move you,” repeated the Marine, more forcefully this time. Morse snorted, shaking his head, but he rose to his feet without a word and stalked towards the exit, flanked by the two Marines.

  To hell with waiting. He was going to pay Sloan a visit right now.

  *

  He moved briskly through the dim, mostly deserted corridors. Even though he knew the way, it still took nearly ten minutes to reach the security station outside Delta where Sloan had set up his office. One of his men stood leaning against the wall chewing gum, a pulse rifle held at low ready. The man looked up as Sanchez approached, and almost moved to stop him, but he stormed passed without breaking his stride and burst into the windowless office without knocking. The stench of cigarette smoke immediately assaulted his senses as he slammed the door behind him.

  “It’s open, come in,” said Sloan nonchalantly, seated with his khaki boots resting on the desk, and seemingly unperturbed by the intrusion, nor surprised at his presence at such a late hour. Sanchez was equally unsurprised to find him here.

  “I take it you heard about the situation in the cafeteria?” asked Sanchez, maintaining his composure.

  “I did,” answered Sloan dismissively, putting down the datapad he had been reading and sitting up a little straighter, turning to face the older man. “Terrible business. I’ll be sure to get a full incident report to you in the morning.”

  “That’s the third time this month, Sloan,” he growled through gritted teeth.

  “I run my boys pretty tight, Colonel. They need to blow off steam,” Sloan shrugged as he rubbed the rough stubble on his chin.

  “Your boy drew a deadly weapon in a civilian area. He’s lucky I’m not indicting him for attempted murder,” bristled Sanchez.

  Sloan met his gaze coldly. “You don’t have that authority, Colonel. We may be stuck in this hole together, but me and my boys are not under your command.”

  Sanchez leaned in, placing both hands on the desk. “Now you listen to me, you son of a bitch. I don’t know what Frankenstein science experiment you and your pack of rabid dogs are guarding in Delta, and I don’t give a damn. Everything that goes on in this base outside of that is under USCM jurisdiction. My jurisdiction, and I’ll play hell with it until my superiors recall me all the way back to Earth. This far out, that could be a very long time.”

  It was Sloan’s turn to stiffen. “I think we understand each other.”

  “Your boy’s sweating it in the brig for the next month,” Sanchez said, cutting him off before he could ask. “But understand this; my Marines will be the only ones carrying weapons on base outside of Delta. If I catch any Weyland-Yutani employees with a weapon, I don’t care if it’s a potato peeler or a damn nail file, I’ll throw them in the brig to rot.”

  He turned to leave, satisfied he had made his point.

  “One other thing, Colonel”, said Sloan. Sanchez paused, looking over his shoulder but did not turn around. “I’m holding you personally responsible for anything that happens to my man while he’s in your custody.”

  Sanchez nodded, and left without another word.

  *

  Back in his office, Sanchez finished reviewing the surveillance footage. There were no surprises; it only confirmed what he’d already been told.

  “Send him in,” he said into the intercom. Private Jennings entered and saluted. He pretended to be engrossed in a datapad while he remained seated. “At ease,” he ordered, finally acknowledging the young man as he threw the datapad down on his desk. The private relaxed a little, standing at parade rest, but kept his eyes locked on the narrow window above Sanchez’s head.

  “All I want to hear, Private, is who threw the first punch?” he asked sternly.

  “I did, sir,” answered Jennings.

  He already knew that from the surveillance footage and two witness accounts, but he was glad the private was not dumb enough to try to lie.

  “Why?”

  “He insulted the Marine Corps, sir,” answered Jennings.

  That tracked. The footage lacked audio, but it clearly showed Morse accosting the private, unprovoked. He had been looking for a fight and found one. Jennings’ takedown had been expertly done. It was then that Morse had pulled the knife on him, and the private had disarmed him in one swift move. It had been impressive.

  “One last question, Private,” and he let it hang in the air for a moment. “Did you win?”

  The slightest hint of a smirk appeared on Jennings’s face, and he allowed it. “I believe I did, sir,” he answered confidently.

  “Outstanding,” Sanchez exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm. “I do believe you may be worthy of serving in my beloved Corps. I think we can do without the full court martial on this one, provided you keep your nose clean. Resume your duties, Private. Dismissed.”

  The private saluted, turned and left. Sanchez smiled dryly before relaxing back into his chair. The stack of folders on his desk remained untouched. He glanced at the old-style clock on the wall. It was almost midnight. A somewhat meaningless notion on a planet with a forty-seven-hour rotation. But the limits of human endurance, and USCM regulations, kept them on Gateway time with an Earth standard twenty-four-hour clock. Most of the staff here were civilians, and not used to the extreme challenges of living off-world. Little things like “a twenty-four-hour day” helped people maintain a sense of normalcy, even if the weak sun of LV-784 did not cooperate. Officially, he was back on duty in eight hours. Unofficially, of course, he was never off duty, but he did not anticipate any more incidents tonight. Another benefit of maintaining the Earth standard day; almost everyone was asleep.

  The events of the evening ran through his mind. Perhaps Greaves was right. Forty-four years of looking over his shoulder and nothing had ever come of it. This was a quiet posting. Apart from the friction between the Marines and the mercs, they did not have problems out here. Being frozen out of Delta still didn’t sit right with him, but it was out of his hands. He had been following orders his entire life, few of them smart. This was just one more. Besides, whatever he thought of Sloan, the man was at least competent. In four years of running Delta Wing security there had not been a single breach, either in or out, and all cargo marked for them or Yau’s white coats was sealed up so tight you would need a tactical nuke to crack one open.

  Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad out here. Maybe he should just make the most of it. He thought about retiring to his quarters, but he was not tired. His confrontation with Sloan had gotten his blood up. He took his keys from his pocket and unlocked the secure drawer of his desk. The one that contained an antique revolver, a lone file folder, and a bottle of eighteen-year-old single malt. He took out the bottle, readied a single glass, and poured without measuring. Knocking it back in one go, he enjoyed the warmth before pouring a second, more measured serving and replacing the cap on the bottle. The rain had stopped, and even the wind had died down, although sunrise was not for another sixteen hours. He looked down at the still-open desk drawer, at the lone folder marked “Classified” in large red lettering, as he clutched at his left forearm with his free hand. What the hell. Withdrawing the folder from the drawer, he slumped back further into his chair and, taking a quiet sip of scotch, started reading.

  *

  The air was cold as he lay on the bare steel table, not that he could feel it. The slow, rhythmic beep of the monitor that told him that he was, tragically, alive. This wasn’t the warm numb of a hit. Damn, a hit. Over a year clean, and he still missed it. The sting of the needle then nothing but the feeling of slipping into a warm bath made of air, letting it carry him away on a cloud. Not that his newfound sobriety was by choice, nor was he sure it had been a year. Down here, he only had one way to mark time, and the intervals seemed to be getting shorter and shorter. Down, he mused. A curious thought. For all he knew he was two hundred floors up, or in orbit of a gas giant. Why did he think he was “down”? God, he wanted a hit. Just enough to take the edge off. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Just a little of that warm numb embrace.

  This numb was different. Cold. Sterile. While metallic alien instruments probed his disconnected body with clinical detachment. Even with his eyes closed, the theatre lights burned. The numbness had crept into his neck, making it impossible to turn his head. Not that there was much to see. They at least had enough decency to erect a surgical curtain, although that was much more for their benefit than his.

  “It’s nice and clean in here. There’s no scar tissue from last time,” said a male voice that he recognised as Doctor Yau, as the faint whiff of cauterised flesh assaulted his nostrils. “Okay, I have a visual on the sac. How are we looking?”

  “Vitals are low and steady. It’s still dormant,” answered a female voice that he did not recognise. The surgical masks made it hard to tell.

  “And the host?”

  “Holding at fifty-five bpm. Blood pressure ninety over sixty. He’s stable,” confirmed the female.

  “Let’s get to work,” said Yau. “Make sure that containment unit is on standby.”

  Time passed. It may have been minutes. It may have been hours. With nothing to mark the passage of time except for the steady beep of the heart rate monitor, and no ability to move or even sleep, it all bled together. A head on a stick with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling.

  “Got it,” he heard a male voice that snapped him out of his trance. It was Yau again. The whirr of an unseen machine and the hiss of gas signalled the end of the ordeal. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the room.

  “Very nicely done, everyone,” said Yau. Louie could hear the distinctive snap of rubber gloves being removed. “Doctor Challis, Doctor Mercer, I want a full work up done on the specimen asap, this time before it’s introduced to gen pop. What about him?”

  “Doing well,” said the female voice with a note of mild surprise.

  “How about that. Seal him back up, move him to recovery,” said Yau dismissively. “I want him ready to go again in ten weeks.”

  Lying on the table, Louie silently screamed. And screamed. And screamed.