Aliens: Insurgency
Chapter 1
The title slide read: "Weyland-Yutani Quarterly Report: May 2230" in black letters over a sky-blue background; the company's logo shone in yellow and white in the lower right corner. In front of the screen, Charles Weyland VII held up the clicker like it was the detonation switch to a bomb. Given recent events, it might as well have been. Illuminated by the projector in the otherwise pitch-black room, Weyland took on the aura of a deity. Truth be told, he looked the part. Tall, thin, and with sharp features, the forty-year-old man was regally handsome. His short blond hair was neatly parted to the left, and his Armani suit was impeccably tailored. At the moment, his flinty glare and his cool smile appraised his subjects, scanning the audience to make sure all eyes were on him. Greg Richardson's certainly were. If he had guessed right, this presentation would concern him most of all.
Weyland clicked the button, and the screen changed to a graph. A jagged red line gradually crept higher up the y-axis as the years progressed along the x. In a crisp tenor, Weyland said, "Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, our profits are on the rise."
Another click, and the screen showed an Atmosphere Processing Plant pumping gases into the air of a distant planet. "We continue to sell our terraforming machines to far-off colonies. This corporation is truly building better worlds, and will continue to do so."
The next slide showed a fleet of massive starships resting in a giant hangar. "The manufacturing and sales of starships keep growing at an even pace, and we continue to expand our shipping and transporting businesses into new solar systems."
The slide after that showed a "Bishop" model synthetic operating a forklift in a warehouse. "Synthetics serve nearly every home and business in the known galaxy, and provide vital support to the Colonial Marines and other military factions. All this is well and good, but, of course, that's not why we're here today."
One more slide, and there it was. An adult Xenomorph facing the viewer, its limbs chained to the concrete floor as it crouched in its giant cage. Greg could hear his colleagues shift uncomfortably in their seats, no doubt unsettled by the very sight of the creature. At one time, he would have felt the same way. However, ever since he started working as a neurophysiologist in the Bio-Weapons Division, he'd had to deal with them all day and night. They'd become little more than lab rats to him—hulking, acid-spraying lab rats.
"Take a good, long look, ladies and gentlemen," Weyland said, as some of those ladies gasped with disgust. "This is the future of bio-warfare. The Xenomorph XX121—the fiercest alien organism known to humankind. After decades of research into its physiology, and refinement of our training techniques, we're effectively able to control the beasts. Gone are the days when we sacrificed our employees as test victims, for breeding or hunting purposes. For one thing, we now we have clones for that. For another, we've conditioned the creatures to kill on command, through a well-honed punishment-reward system. We've also manufactured artificial Xenomorph pheromones, which all employees wear as the ultimate defense against an unprovoked attack."
Weyland paused to sweep his arms in a gesture that encompassed the entire room. "But what good are our achievements if we cannot profit from them? And that is why I'm pleased to announce that we've just secured a major contract with the Unites States military."
An audible, collective gasp pierced the silence in the room, and Weyland raised his palms to quell the sudden disturbance.
"I know," he said in a patronizing tone. "How did we manage to do it, and why? Why, when we control the Colonial Marines? Unfortunately, the Marines have limited jurisdiction back on Earth, and besides, we pay their salaries. This corporation needs outside funding to survive, and it turns out that Earth is in desperate need of our services. World War III destabilized Asia, and World War IV ravaged Europe. Radical Islamic militants now control half of the countries on those continents, and threaten to control several more. Further, pollution and other environmental degradation has made most landscapes unfit for human habitation. Most societies' personal respiration systems are severely outdated, due to their beliefs that the air would always be safely breathable. I don't know whether they were naïve or just stupid, but the damage has been done. So, in addition to equipping the military—and, eventually, civilians—with the latest respiratory technology, we will be providing it with hundreds of Xenomorph soldiers to kill the militants. Unlike human soldiers, Xenomorphs can thrive in inhospitable environments. They are also faster, more ruthless, and unencumbered by inconvenient urges."
A hand went up in the audience.
"Yes?" Weyland asked politely.
"Yeah, so, do Xenomorphs even need to eat?" the confused man asked. "I mean, we've seen them kill, but they usually just leave their victims for dead, right?"
"You are partially correct," Weyland said thoughtfully. "A Xenomorph's primary motivation for killing seems to be simply instinct. However, some of our scientists have observed the creatures feasting on a human volunteer within a controlled laboratory environment."
Off to the right, Greg heard another man mutter, "Geez, gives whole new meaning to 'offering your body to science'."
Weyland clearly didn't hear him, because he continued, "Of course, I don't expect most of you to know that, because it's not common knowledge. However, I soon expect all of you to become intimately familiar with the Xenomorphs, if you are not already. Our Sales Division will need to tout the creatures' many virtues when speaking to our clients. Our Special Services Division will need to understand the creatures' functioning, in order to monitor the Bio-Weapons Division's activities. And, of course, the Bio-Weapons Division will need to know the creatures' anatomies and physiologies, in order to modify them to our needs. Now, your supervisors will provide you with more specific details, but let me tell you this. This contract will offer us the biggest opportunity yet to prove just how vital the Xenomorphs are in obtaining and maintaining control of human-inhabited territories. They are not just killing machines. In the right hands, in our hands, we can use them as weapons for the greater good. Keep that in mind as you go about your work. That will be all."
The lights came on, and Greg stood up and stretched. It was a short meeting, but an early one—too early. Seven a.m. to be precise. The Weyland-Yutani Corporation had a reputation for cruel and unethical business practices, but no one ever talked about the ungodly work hours. As he and his co-workers shuffled out of the conference room, Rick Metzger sidled up to him. With his slicked-back brown hair, grey Brooks Brothers suit, and ramrod-straight posture, he looked like a preening peacock. He sometimes acted like one, too.
"Wow, can you believe that guy?" Rick asked incredulously, his wide mouth stretching into a toothy grin. "You'd think those Bugs were the Holy Grail."
"Yeah," Greg said non-committally. This early in the morning, he wasn't in the mood for conversation. "And just as dangerous."
"Right," Rick said, slapping Greg on the back. "'Absolute power corrupts absolutely'. And all that shit. Hey, I'm gonna hit the head. You coming with?"
"Sure."
So they veered off to the closest restroom, then straight for the urinals. As they whizzed, Rick resumed their conversation.
"God, I respect the guy, but Weyland must be dreaming if he thinks he can control those creepy fuckers," Rick said, respectfully looking up at the ceiling. "You work with them, so you know, right?"
"I'll agree that they're creepy as hell, but I can't speak to controlling them," Greg said. "They're usually dead when they get to me."
"Lucky bastard," Rick said with a shake of his head, before shaking his dick, as well.
"No shit," said a female voice from their left.
It was Nicolette Fletcher, Executive Vice-President of Special Services and a stone-cold ice queen. What did she want? Greg and Rick weren't surprised to see her, because the restrooms had been co-ed since the corporation's founding in 2099. According to the Weylands, there could be no segregated rooms in company facilities, because any segregation created discord among employees. Solidarity bred success, and all that rhetoric. However, they were surprised to see her step up to a urinal.
"Those things give me the willies," she said with a toss of her long blonde locks, as she unbuttoned and unzipped the fly of her navy-blue pants. As the men looked on in shock, she took … something out of her left pocket and put it where a "willy" would have been. "I think he's foolish for wanting to weaponize them. They're wild animals, not pets. Still, I admire his balls, as well as his vision. He knows what he wants, and pursues it until it's his, no matter how reckless the proposition."
Greg and Rick continued to stare at Nicolette as she pissed, while she sighed contentedly. And Greg knew it wasn't just an act, because he could faintly hear the fluid as it hit the porcelain.
Turning to look at Greg, she said, "Keep me posted on the progress of your research. You're in Neurophysiology, right? If there's any hope of controlling the Bugs, understanding their minds will be crucial. If there's anything there to understand."
She chuckled at that little joke, then shook her … thing and put it back in her pocket. As the toilet flushed and Nicolette walked off to wash her hands, Rick turned to Greg and whispered, "What the fuck was that all about?"
"I wish I knew," Greg said with a shrug. "One thing's for sure, I think we need to keep an eye on her."
"I'm fine with that," Rick said lasciviously, leering at Nicolette as she walked out the door. "She's got a great ass."
Yes, Rick was an asshole, but he was Greg's asshole … figuratively speaking, of course. As for Nicolette, Greg knew she was wrong about the Xenomorphs. They were more than just intelligent killing machines. And he and his colleagues were so close to discovering how.