AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 1: Job Fair

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I don't own any part of the Alien/Alien/Predator franchise.

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Chapter 1: Job Fair

Cedric Siraq approached the spaceport, re-reading the ad he'd come across on his tablet: Wanted: Good worker with solid tech background. No family, no planetary ties. Long journey, high pay, some gopher duties. No questions. References required. Report to the Norstromo for interview.

Hm. Cryptic much? He thought. But then again, it told the basics. But the "no questions" part disturbed him a little. He didn't want to sign on to a pirate vessel, even though the last reported one was "pacified" (read: blown to smithereens) nearly a hundred years ago.

And it wasn't like he had a whole lot of options. Those guys from the Casino wanted their money. He'd already been warned once. He knew from painful experience their sort didn't warn you twice.

He made his way to the gate of the port, his long full-length coat flapping in the gathering wind. One good thing about an old-style duster: you could conceal a couple of small surprises in it, and no one the wiser. In this part of town, that was just plain good sense. Better to have 'em and not need 'em… "Yeah?" said the guard, sleepily. He was more of a gatekeeper than a true security officer, and a little annoyed at being waked up. "You here about the ad?"

"Uh huh. Which one's the Norstromo?"

"This one." The guard fiddled with his controls a moment, pulling up a map, with a red "X" in one parking area, and beamed it to Siraq's tablet. "Ya can't miss it." He went back to sleep as Siraq made his way to the area designated.

The ship had definitely seen better days. The outer hull looked like the emergency shuttle had been prepared for launch, and then halted halfway through. The blast doors were open, and he could see the sealed compartment inside, the hasty, clumsy repairs. Yeah, he could see why the ad said "tech experience." What in space had happened to this ship, anyway?

And something else: the whole time he'd been walking down this way, he'd had a feeling that he was being watched.

The intercom: "Hello. I'm Cedric Siraq. I'm here about the job."

There was a brief pause, and he could imagine whoever was inside sitting down, adjusting the mic pickup. Then, "Yes? Have you references?" It was a woman's voice.

Siraq had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Not another woman captain. He didn't know if he could take anymore. The last one had been a certifiable lunatic—and that was on a good day. "Yes," he replied, punching buttons on his tablet, sending the scan to the ship's waiting computer.

Again the intercom clicked on. "Impressive. I note you've had considerable experience with deep space repairs?"

"The Culloden, three years ago."

"I heard about that. You were an Engineer level 2?"

"I was."

"That was your last employment?"

"Times are tough."

"Indeed they are. How have you managed, may I ask?"

"A little of this, a little of that. I got by." Until those bruisers show up the next time. Good time to be off-planet by then.

There was another pause, and Siraq could imagine the captain scanning the local net for him. "I'm not wanted by the law, if that's what you're looking for."

"Actually, it wasn't. Come around to the emergency air lock. We'll discuss the job."

The emergency air lock, on the other side of the ship, had a ramp hauled up to it, obviously at the captain's request. The door swung open. The interior was sparse, and the sealed doorway into the interior of the ship was tightly shut. He looked around. There was no one there, and no place to sit, so he just crossed his legs on the floor.

The doorway remained closed.

Something about the tension in the situation made him more alert than ever. He didn't know how he knew, but senses dating back to the days when his ancestors had hunted their food with wooden clubs were tingling. Something was wrong here. "You said, the job?"

A monitor over by the door activated. He looked at it, expecting to see the image of the woman captain. But instead, the image remained blank. The voice reproducer, however, was clear. "I apologize for the lack of a video component. The ship suffered some damage in deep space, and most, if not all, of the internal vid pickups are out. The voice relays, as you can hear, function fine, and that will have to be our primary means of communication. There's some repairs I need made, but funds are a bit of a problem right now. I can't do everything all at once. So the unnecessary will just have to wait.

"Let's get something out of the way. One thing I was searching for was someone skilled at negotiating on the black market. I have my reasons for not doing it myself. I need someone who can act in my stead. In fact, if you were seriously wanted by the law, you really wouldn't be appropriate for this job. So it's good that you're not."

"Er…the black market?"

"Yes. I have some items to move. The next mission for this vessel depends upon it."

"Well…." He was acutely conscious that this could all be a trap. Get him in here, get him to admit to some faceless authority that he'd not exactly avoided the black market—and out would come the cuffs. "Let's just say…I'm a fast learner."

"But no actual experience?"

"I didn't say that."

"Mr. Siraq, let me take this time to reassure you, this job is on the level. I'm not trying to trap you. You've seen the damage to my ship. I need parts, repairs done to it. I need supplies. I've a certain mission that, I think, will prove to be most profitable—to both of us. But I will need someone reliable who can act for me."

"Why can't you just do it yourself? The black market stuff, I mean. I mean, yeah, repairs, I'm your man…and while I'm not sayin' I can't hock your stuff…I hope you'll understand when I say I don't feel comfortable enough yet to say…anything else."

It might've been just his imagination, but he seemed to detect the barest hint of a sigh over the intercom. Then, "Very well. I suppose I can see your point. But I need answers. Can you or can you not move my goods?"

"Will you accept it if I say I believe I can?"

"I suppose it'll have to do. However, your continued employment will depend upon three major factors: one, your ability as an engineer—and from what I've seen, that's considerable-, your ability to negotiate a good price for my merchandise at the upper and the lower levels of the black market, and—and this is paramount—your ability to work without asking questions. Any questions. The day you decide you can no longer do that, is the day you will leave my employ.

"Does that sound fair to you?"

Siraq felt his senses tingling even more. "I won't be party to breaking any level one laws. I don't wish to be hunted from one world to another."

"I'm not asking you to do that. You will not be asked to murder, kidnap, or anything of that nature. I'm no pirate. Though I hesitate to say you will not be called upon to steal, or—to put it more accurately-to perform acts others may regard as tantamount to stealing. There is a certain corporation that, let's just say, could easily take a dim view of my actions."

"What company-?"

"Remember, no questions. But I suppose I can answer that one. It's Weyland-Yutani."

"Weyland-Yutani?" Just the mere words ignited something volcanic in his chest. "You should'a said so!"

"I take it you've crossed paths with them before?"

"They did what I thought was impossible. They screwed my whole planet." The images flashed before his eyes, as crystal clear as when they happened: the stock market on his home world not just crashing but disappearing as thoroughly as if it were sucked into a black hole, riots in the streets….food disappearing as it became the new currency…reports of cannibalism…

…his father, and the gun….the blood… "Lady, I would love the chance for some payback!"

He could never say how, but somehow he could sense a feral smile over the blank intercom. "Then it looks like I've found my man."

To be continued…