DATE: 10 JUNE, 2179. TIME- 09:45

The hum of the dropship turned into a metallic groan as it hit the atmosphere of LV-426. Capt. Demian Brackett kept his boots flat on the floor and held onto the harness straps that kept him locked into his seat. The vessel slewed wickedly from side to side for several seconds before straightening out, and then it bounced like a speedboat skipping across high seas.

Alarms began to sound, red lights blinking all over the cockpit up front.

'What've we hit?' he shouted to the pilot.

The woman didn't turn around, too focused on keeping them on course.

'Just the atmosphere,' she yelled back over the din. 'Acheron's never smooth sailing.' She slapped a couple of buttons and the alarms died, though the lights continued to blink in distress.

Brackett gritted his teeth as the dropship filled with the noise of atmospheric debris plunking and scraping the hull. There seemed to be a lot of it.

'Haven't they been terraforming here for fifteen years?' he called, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the debris peppering the ship.

'More,' the pilot shouted. 'You should've seen what it was like trying to land here ten years ago, when I first got here.'

Fuck that, Brackett thought. He had a stomach like iron, but even he had begun to feel queasy. His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. He was a big man, at least six-three and quarter-back thick. His skin was as dark as the black jacket he wore and he had a full moustache that drooped over the corners of his mouth, a mean, signifying moustache that would have worked if only there had been the slightest trace of malice anywhere on his face.

Driven by unearthly meteorological forces, the winds of Acheron hammered unceasingly at the planet's barren surface. They were as old as the rocky globe itself. Without any oceans to compete with they would have scoured the landscape flat eons ago, had not the uneasy forces deep within the basaltic shell continually thrust up new mountains and plateaus. The winds of Acheron were at war with the planet that gave them life.

Heretofore there'd been nothing to interfere with their relentless flow. Nothing to interrupt their sand-filled storms, nothing to push against the gales instead of simply conceding mastery of the air to them—until humans had come to Acheron and claimed it for their own. Not as it was now, a landscape of tortured rock and dust dimly glimpsed through yellowish air, but as it would be once the atmosphere processors had done their work. First the atmosphere itself would be transformed, methane relinquishing its dominance to oxygen and nitrogen. Then the winds would be tamed, and the surface. The final result would be a benign climate whose offspring would take the form of snow and rain and growing things.

That would be the present's legacy to future generations. For now the inhabitants of Acheron ran the processors and struggled to make a dream come true, surviving on a ration of determination, humour, and oversize pay checks. They would not live long enough to see Acheron become a land of milk and honey. Only the Company would live long enough for that. The Company was immortal as none of them could ever be. Good old Weyland-Yutani mused Brackett, how did their advert go? Oh yeah, "Building better worlds". What a load of bullshit. The only thing Weyland-Yutani was interested in was building a better share price.

The colony itself was a cluster of bunker like metal and plasticrete structures joined together by conduits seemingly too fragile to withstand Acheron's winds. They were not as impressive to look upon as was the surrounding terrain with its wind-blasted rock formations and crumbling mountains, but they were almost as solid and a lot more homely. They kept the gales at bay, and the still-thin atmosphere, and protected those who worked within.

Beyond the colony complex rose the first of the atmosphere processors. Fusion-powered, it belched a steady storm of cleansed air back into the gaseous envelope that surrounded the planet. Particulate matter and dangerous gases were removed either by burning or by chemical breakdown; oxygen and nitrogen were thrown back into the dim sky. In with the bad air, out with the good. It was not a complicated process, but it was time-consuming and very expensive.

But how much is a world worth? And Acheron was not as bad as some that the Company had invested in. At least it possessed an existing atmosphere capable of modification. Much easier to fine-tune the composition of a world's air than to provide it from scratch. Acheron had weather and near normal gravity. A veritable paradise.

For a moment the barrage ceased. He started to relax, and then the ship plummeted abruptly, as if their controlled freefall had just become a suicide run. Cursing silently, he braced himself and twisted around to try to see through the cockpit to the outside.

'I'd rather not die on my first day of the job,' he called. 'Y'know, if it's no trouble for you.'

The pilot glanced back at him, a scowl on her face, and muttered something under her breath.

'What?'

They hit another air pocket and the drop threw him forward a second before the atmosphere thickened again, jerking him back so hard he slammed his head against the hull of the ship.

'Son of a—'

'Here you go, sir,' the pilot announced. The retro-rockets kicked in, lofted them up a dozen feet, and then began to lower them slowly. She guided the dropship gingerly forward and descended until it settled gently to the ground.

A hydraulic hiss came from the ship, as if it were exhaling right along with him, and Brackett released the catch on his restraints. The emergency lights shut down and the cabin brightened into a blue-white glow.

'Safe and sound' the pilot said. She disengaged the door locks and stood up from her seat. She stepped over to the starboard door and entered a code into a control pad. The door hissed open, and a short ramp slid out with a rattle, clunking onto the planetary surface.

'So what crime did you commit to get stuck out here at the ass-end of the universe?'

Brackett smiled. 'Now I can't go round revealing all my secrets that easily.'

The wind began to howl, blowing a scouring dust into the ship. He took a look outside and his smile faded. Acheron was a world of black and grey, save for the growing colony whose buildings were mere silhouettes in the obscuring storm. After several seconds the wind died down again, giving him a better view, but there wasn't much more to see. Box structures and in the distance the towering, ominous, hundred-and-fifty-foot high atmosphere processor, belching oxygen into the air.

'Home sweet home' he said to himself.

Two people awaited Brackett on the surface. They saluted as he came down the ramp and he returned the gesture, striding hurriedly toward them.

'Welcome to Acheron, Captain,' the first said. She was a tall woman with skin nearly as dark brown as Brackett's, and the pale line of an old scar across her left cheek. She gestured to the short, barrel-chested policeman beside her, a pale man with bright orange hair and thick goggles covering his eyes. 'I'm Julisa Paris. This is Deputy Coughlin—'

'Nice to meet you both,' Brackett replied cutting her off, 'and thanks for coming out to greet me, but let's get inside outta this wind.'

Coughlin took his duffel with one hand, lugging it with an ease that bespoke notable strength, and the three of them hurried toward the nearest door, which led into a two-story grey building whose windows were long horizontal slits, some covered by heavy metal weather shielding.

'Hate to break it to you Cap,' Paris said, gesturing around them, 'but this crap? This is nothin''. She led the way inside, stopped at the entrance to let them pass, and then closed the door behind them. The sound of the scouring wind died instantly and the door sealed with a hiss.

White lights flickered and grew brighter. Brackett looked around at the clean, wide corridor that went deep into the building. There were a lot of command posts where it would be almost impossible not to develop at least low-level claustrophobia. At least here there'd be room to move around, and a lot of people to get to know.

'Okay, let's do this right,' he said, shaking hands with Paris and Coughlin. 'Demian Brackett. Your new boss.'

'Paris'

'Coughlin, Dave Coughlin. Nice to meet you boss. Let me show you your new home.'

'Lead the way, please.' As Coughlin guided him deeper into the building, Paris began to rattle off what she apparently considered the amenities of Hadley's Hope, including a games room, vast, incomplete subterranean levels with plenty of room for running, and a cook who was—she claimed—a virtuoso when it came to Italian pastries.

The colony was only in its nascent stages. Someday it would be a sprawling hub, as Weyland-Yutani continued to promote expansion into this quadrant. Both the company and the government supported the scientific research that was already going on here, but eventually the real value of Hadley's Hope would be as a way station or port.

'So what are the locals like?' Asked Brackett.

'Oh, y'know, the usual. We've got our share of dickheads just like the rest of the universe.' Paris said.

'Like who?'

Paris didn't reply. Any trace of a smile vanished from her face. As she reached a door and keyed it open, she wore an expression that said she regretted having spoken.

As the three of them moved deeper inside the colony, they passed several people. Brackett heard laughter down a side corridor, and glanced over to see a pair of children doing cartwheels along the floor. That would take some getting used to—having kids around.

Ahead, a row of high windows looked in on the spacious command block, where operations personnel sat at workstations and studied display screens. In the middle of the room, a heavyset white man appeared to be dressing down a scraggly, bearded young guy who held a blueprint scroll in his hand.

'Administration,' Paris said. 'That's Al Simpson the Operations Manager, he's alright.'

Simpson's face turned red as he yelled at the young fellow. Brackett hoped his new boss wasn't going to be a petty jobsworth.

Paris caught Simpson's attention, and the man gestured to indicate that he'd be out in a moment.

A companionable silence fell among the three security officers as they waited in the corridor. Curious civilians smiled or nodded at the newly arrived Captain as they passed. Coughlin slid the duffel to the ground and leaned against the wall.

'Captain Brackett, good to meet you' Brackett turned to see Al Simpson lumbering toward them, arm outstretched. 'I've called a quick meeting in one of the research labs so you can meet the movers and shakers of this facility.'

'When?' Brackett asked.

'Now.' Smiled Simpson. 'Dave, would you do me a favour and take Captain Brackett's luggage to his quarters?'

'No problem chief.'

As they passed the command block and rounded a corner, Brackett studied him more closely. On the surface, the guy seemed like a hundred other low-level management monkeys he'd met, yet he wondered if Simpson was smarter than he looked.

A short way down the hall they paused at a door marked RESEARCH: NO UNAUTHORIZED ADMITTANCE, and Simpson punched numbers into a keypad that admitted them.

Simpson made sure the door swung shut behind them and the lock engaged, then he set off for a white door a dozen feet along the hall.

Inside the white-doored room were ten or so young wide-eyed lab assistants in white coats and several older researchers in civilian clothes.

The lab coats clustered around the trio of older researchers, including a silver-haired Japanese man, a grim-eyed white guy with a wine-dark birthmark on his throat and jaw, and a slender sixtyish woman.

The only guy in the room who didn't look like a scientist stood a distance back from the table, a deep frown creasing his forehead. An air of disapproval hung over him, like a man waiting for his children to get tired at a playground so he can take them home.

'Captain Brackett, meet Doctors Mori, Reese, and Hidalgo, and their team of Brainiac's.'

The doctors nodded. Simpson gestured to the guy standing away from the table.

'And the miserable bastard in the corner there is Derrick Russell, who's in charge of our ongoing terraforming operations.'

'Captain,' Russell said, with a slight nod of respect to the new man.

Brackett approached the table for a proper round of handshakes.

'Welcome to Hadley's Hope, Captain' Dr Mori began.

'It's a pleasure to meet you all,' said Brackett, 'and please, call me Demain'

'That's an unusual name' said Dr Hidalgo, shaking his hand, 'does it have any special meaning? And please, call me Elena.'

'I don't know really, it's just always been my name.'

'I thought policemen were meant to be inquisitive?' The thin voice belonged to Dr Reese.

'Not too inquisitive I hope,' laughed Russell, 'I don't want you finding my stills!'

'Now I'm sure we'll all get along just fine,' said Simpson, taking over the conversation, 'but it's been a long day for you I imagine Captain, and these hyenas will take you to the cleaners given half a chance. Let's go have a chat in my office.'

'Appreciate it.' Brackett made his goodbyes and left with Simpson. 'Seem like a nice bunch.'

'Oh they are until you get them talking about dark matter or something like that, and then they turn into a pack of rabid dogs. This is me.'

Simpson led Brackett into a cramped room that was furnished in Spartan style, just a couple of metal chairs, a metal table with a computer on it and a very solid looking metal cabinet. On the wall behind Simpson's desk was a huge map of Acheron, which had been divided up into grid squares and had a number of multi coloured pins stuck into it. Brackett looked for any personal items that could shed some light onto the character of his new boss but there weren't any, not even a family photo.

As he moved behind the modest desk from his new security chief Simpson glanced up. 'Drink?'

'Err, no thanks'

'Oh go on, we so rarely have anything to drink to around here.' He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the cabinet from which he withdrew two plastic glasses and a bottle of rum. 'And besides, drinking rum before mid-day doesn't make you an alcoholic...'

'It makes you a pirate' finished Brackett as the two men chuckled. 'Odd choice of drink isn't it?'

'Well our ships may not have wooden masts and cloth sails anymore but I still consider myself a naval man, and as such certain traditions have to be upheld.'

'Oh alright then, I'm sure some part of my poor tortured body would like a drop of the strong stuff.'

'That's the spirit' Simpson sat down and poured two generous measures. 'Welcome to Hadley's Hope captain Brackett' and raised his glass. They touched glasses and downed their drinks. 'Now,' said Simpson pouring another shot of rum for each of them from the bottle on the table, 'what brings you to our little corner of the universe?'

'Well,' began Brackett relaxing back into his chair, 'would you believe me if I said I came looking for adventure?'

Simpson's laugh was loud and deep. 'About as much as if you told me I had won a billion credits and my next assignment was to the planet of the nymphomaniacs.' Simpson leaned forward intently as Brackett sipped his drink. 'So why are you really here?'

The security chief swirled the rum in his glass before looking up at Simpson. 'I'm not sure I understand,' he said finally.

Simpson sat back in his chair, his eyes cutting into his guest. 'C'mon, this is a schmuck's posting and you're no schmuck. So why are you really here?'

'Let's just say I needed to leave Earth for a while and leave it at that ok?'

'Listen to me, you piece of shit,' the superintendent informed his guest fraternally, 'you lie to me one more time and I'll cut you in fucking half.'

Simpson eased his glass aside, picked up a personnel file from on top of his desk and began to read it quietly. In the dead silence that ensued, the sound of the pages slowly turning seemed as loud and deliberate as a hammer slamming into an anvil.

'I'm not sure I understand,' Brackett said finally.

Simpson sat back in his chair, his eyes cutting into his guest. 'I've read your report from the justice department, long story short you were a rising star in the force, tipped for big things until you transferred into "resources". You then proceed to drop off the radar for seven years and then all of a sudden appear out here on the other side of the universe with the rank of Captain. Now I ask you again, why are you really here?' The superintendent gazed at him intently.

Brackett carefully set his empty cup down on the table. 'I see that it's time to be perfectly frank with you, sir.' Simpson leaned forward eagerly. The captain smiled apologetically. 'I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.'

There was a pause as Simpson's expression darkened. 'I'm glad you find this funny, Captain. I'm pleased you find it amusing. I wish I could say the same.'

Brackett rose and started for the door. Simpson's fingers unlocked and this time he smacked the table with a heavy fist.

'Sit down! I haven't dismissed you yet.'

Brackett replied without turning, struggling to keep himself under control. 'I was under the impression I was here at your invitation, not official order. Presently I think it might be better if I left. At the moment I find you very unpleasant to be around. If I remain I might say or do something regrettable.'

'You might?' Simpson affected mock dismay. 'Isn't that lovely. Consider this, Captain Brackett. Out here the company is everything, and as far as you are concerned I AM the company. So talk.'

'It's classified. And that's all you need to know.'

Simpson's gaze dropped to his hands and he spoke through clenched teeth. 'Fine, just remember whose rock this is. Now get out of my fucking office!'

Brackett turned and studied him more closely. On the surface, the guy seemed like a hundred other low-level management monkeys he'd met, yet he wondered if Simpson was smarter than he looked. He decided to play it safe for now, until he could find out a bit more about this man who was going to rule his life for him for the next year or so.