AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 6: Possibilities

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I don't own the Alien/Predator franchise.

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Chapter 6: Possibilities

"Awright, people, listen up!" Major Forrester looked over the colonial marines under his command. They were a smart-looking bunch, and he'd trained them well. There wasn't much call for such an elite group these days, which made him wonder what HQ had in mind. There had been no reports of outsider pirates or fringe "liberation" groups for nearly a standard decade now.

But somebody, some big-wig, he guessed, had pulled some strings, and, truth be known, he was kinda glad they had. There are creatures born to be prey, and there are creatures born to hunt. These were his hunters.

"Here's the sitch: less than a month ago, a small-fry geological survey team out on the fringe went silent. We've been trying to establish communications with them, with negative results. So either everybody's dead or gone. We're to find out which. And, whichever way they went, whether into somebody's slave-ship hold, or into the afterlife, we find out the usual W's: who, what, when, where, and why.

"We've had one drone flyover—no signs of movement. Means nothing. So we're goin' in hot and heavy. If there are civs to evac, we do it, if not…see above.

"You'll have noticed your rifles. Cutting edge, hundred rounders, helical mags, armor-piercing 'smart' bullets. Be careful what you target; those puppies won't miss.

"You'll also notice that nonstandard garment you're required to wear under your uniform. Do not, I repeat, do not, take it off for any reason. I know it'll get hot, and it's heavy, yeah, but there's a reason we're outfitted with the stuff, and I ain't at liberty to tell you what it is. But those are orders." He paused a moment, thinking. Unlike the troops, he was well aware of what might await them at the terminus of their trip. He was trying to estimate what his losses were likely to be.

His estimates were too damn high for comfort.

Why hadn't the top brass just filled them all in on the real target? Why all the secrecy? He didn't know. Ours not to question why…

But he'd be damned to eternal fire and brimstone if he just sent in his troops as completely blind as HQ wanted.

"Now. Keep in mind, these are alien worlds. Be prepared for anything. Bunny rabbits could have poison fangs, and shadows might not be shadows. And you'll be equipped with state of the art AR headsets. Each of these scientists had the usual implant, so we can track 'em. You see any unusual concentration of 'em, ask yourself why they're all there, and why they haven't said 'hey.'

"So that's all for now. Get ready, 'cos we make planetfall in one standard day."

…

"Hey, John, wait up." Corporal John Houston slowed down outside the sit-rep room and allowed Butch to catch up with him. "What do you make of all this?"

"Hard to say." John Houston and Butch Lancaster were about as close to being total opposites as it was possible to be, and still be the same species. Whereas John was fit and trim, trained incessantly, practiced his marksmanship regularly, made sure his uniform was clean and spiffy, and was, in general, the very epitome of the colonial marine ideal, Butch Hargeson was overweight, trained just enough to get by, and almost always had at least one spot of food somewhere on his clothes. The CO's were always chewing him out over one thing or another. "Could be anything. Why? You heard anything?" One area where Butch surpassed him was in keeping his ear to the rumor mill.

"Only that this isn't the first time this sort of thing has happened. I couldn't get any specifics, though." The two were walking down the corridor back to their quarters. John would probably go over his weapons and armor, making sure everything was in better than perfect readiness; Butch would probably chow down on some snack cakes. He wouldn't actually get ready until about ten minutes before drop. ("Hey, I'm storing up food!" To which John usually replied, "You store up much more an' we'll need bigger quarters!") "No, I heard some other colony went silent some years ago. Same thing. Nobody knew anything about it."

"So what happened?"

"What happened? Nothing. Marines were sent in…and didn't find a soul. Nobody, and no bodies, left. Everything just as they left it, food uneaten, weapons still in their racks, not even loaded. Dusty, even. Heard tell there was a letter one guy was writing….just stopped in mid-sentence. They never found a trace of 'em. Ever."

"You've been reading too many of those weird novels. There's always a trace. What about the security cams?"

"Showed everything normal up to a certain time. Then, off they went. I mean, nobody running around, nobody talking about anything outta the ordinary, just day to day shit…then offline. No explanation ever given."

They turned into the small room they both shared. "You think we'll find something like that here?" John went about readying his gear.

Butch sat on his bunk, pulling his boots off. "Dunno. But that's the way it's shaping up, looks like."

"Aren't you gonna check your stuff?"

A snack cake had already found its way into Butch's mouth. "Wha'for? That's tomorrow." John just shook his head. Butch would never change. "Somethin' else I heard, might be of interest."

"What's that?"

"You know who pestered High Command to send us there?"

"No, who?"

"Weyland-Yutani."

"Seriously? Weyland-Yutani? Why?"

Shrug. "No idea. But one thing we can figure out. You know, normally, they'd just send in their own team to see what's wrong, right? Getting the military involved's a hassle. Even for them.

"So that means, if they had a hand in sending us out here, they expect us to find somebody to fight.

"Somebody, or something.

"And one other thing: guess who was involved in that last colony, the one that just disappeared? Yep."

John Houston slowly wiped a rag across his weapon. It was composed, largely, of self-lubricating metals, polymers, and nanofibers, so as to be as maintenance-free as possible. He thought about Butch's words. He was a marine. He'd been trained, and trained well, for combat. He was ready for battle, both physically and psychologically. But as he considered Butch's words, he felt something very much like a chill run down his spine.

Just what in God's name might be out here?

….

"Mr. Siraq? How goes the installation?" Ripley had put the Norstromo down on a small planet near the fringes of known space. Human presence here was minimal, but Siraq still availed himself of a truly excellent tavern not far from the landing zone. He knew better than to drink himself under the table; Ripley had never said anything, but he'd always received the impression that the captain of the Norstromo did not approve of such behavior. And….dammit, the job just paid too good to throw away on anything as ridiculous as a drunken revel. Too bad the female population was either married or engaged to someone. And he knew better than to go that route; last thing he needed was a jealous boyfriend / husband / fiancé with a blaster. Besides, he was busy.

After the last planet, Ripley had directed him to install the C-plus cannon. In spite of his misgivings, he could see the point. Whatever had killed those people at that outpost hadn't been human, of that he was certain. He'd seen what humans could do, would do, but some things you just know. The way the heads and spinal columns had been taken had been a deliberate act of cold-bloodedness he just couldn't ascribe to human beings. That had been done by something else. Something hunting. And taking trophies.

So, yeah, the C-plus cannon could be fitted into the front of the ship without too much alteration. He managed to remove a forward sensor and hammered, welded, coaxed, screwed, squashed, and cursed the barrel of the cannon into the opening thus created. "Boss? You do know we don't really have any way of aiming this thing, don't you?"

"I'm aware of that. I'm reprogramming the ship's main computer so as to slave a ranging sensor to the cannon's axis. But it's a ballistic projectile anyway: once it's on its way, it either misses or it hits. No in-flight guidance. So it's basically short range. We have to have the target more or less in sight."

Siraq took a break, wiping his face with a rag that used to be a clean towel. He was itching to ask his boss about just who or what had done that carnage back on that other world, but he knew the routine by now: no questions. Still, his curiosity burned.

He could see a time in the near future when he'd have to leave Ripley's employ. He'd accumulated enough credits for a fresh start, somewhere. And this business of no questions was beginning to grate on his nerves. But he had to admit, one thing that kept him from doing so was that self-same curiosity. Curiosity and a desire for revenge.

Yeah, okay, he could and probably had hurt Weyland-Yutani. Okay. He might never know how much, but the fantasy of bursting into their corporate headquarters and blasting away at the assembled board members was just that: a fantasy, like a tri-V action movie. In real life, things like that just didn't happen.

But he also was nursing a certain amount of desire to target whatever had taken those skulls in the sights of the C-plus cannon. Yeah. A hundred pounds of matter moving at an effectively translight velocity would definitely ruin their whole day. He could do that. "Okay, boss. I got it in, and every test I'm able to run says it should work. As you say, it's short range, though."

"It is nonetheless something we may need. And if we need to use it, we'll need to use it badly. How many rounds do we have for it?"

"I was able to get us eight, and they didn't come cheap. Only reason I got 'em at all was, C-plus cannon aren't all that modern. Everybody wants the new stuff, the long-range guided missiles, smartbeam weapons, pulsar blasters. I didn't even bother with the beamers or blasters; the ship's power plant couldn't handle 'em."

Once the refitting was done, Ripley made ready for immediate liftoff. One benefit of the backward level of tech on this world was there was really nobody, no ground control, to bother filing a flight plan with. All they had to do was make sure they weren't about to hit or incinerate anything, and lift off.

Siraq found himself standing by the viewport. "Shouldn't we warn 'em, boss?"

"And what would they do about it, Mr. Siraq? Their most advanced weapons are breech loading black powder firearms."

Siraq was quiet. Then, "The moral thing to do would be to warn 'em, Cap."

Again, there was the tiniest hint of a sigh, or maybe a hiss, one that was more probably his imagination than reality. "I'll…transcribe what we know onto a cylinder in their language and send it back to them via message torp. That's the most I can do."

"Thanks, boss. I know it may not help much, but, but, it's the humane thing to do."

Again, there was the briefest of pauses. Then, "I suppose it is."

….

"USS Vendetta: we have received your flight plans. You are cleared for LZ 86, dock 745. Over."

"Ground control, we copy," said "Helen Baker," talking into the microphone. "You seem pretty full."

"Busy season. Lots of trade vessels coming and going. I note you list yourself as an 'armed escort.' Mind if I ask what you're escorting?"

"Not at all. We've orders to proceed to LV-5112, out on the fringe. Most of our mission is classified, but the truth is, I don't know that much about it, myself. Just be there, ready to go to work. Beyond that, I'm in the dark, too."

"Don'cha love it. Sometimes I think the upper echelons classify stuff like that just for shits and giggles. Watch the ants scurry around."

Ripley smiled into the voice only connection. "I'm curious about something. Maybe you can help me. On several stops, I've heard tell of a maybe-rogue ship called the Norstromo. It hasn't by any chance made its way out this way, has it?"

"Norstromo? Nope. Can't say I've heard anything about it. You say a rogue?"

"Well, that's just it. Nobody seems to agree. One world says one thing, another something else. There's no warrants out, at least nothing that I can find….I'm just curious, understand, but it's piqued my interest."

"Hmph. A possible rogue ship, and no warrants, nothing official out about it? That is odd."

"It's probably nothing. Anyway. Did you get our requisition list?"

"Yeah…and your cred checks out, so we're having most of it waiting for you at the dock…"

"'Most' of it?"

"Some of these items are pretty scarce. We had to scrounge. And a couple we had to req from a moon out by the fifth planet; it's not here yet."

"Okay. But we are in a hurry to get to our destination. No work, no pay. You know how it goes."

"Yeah, don't we all. Well, give us about a day an' it should be here."

…

Ripley called a meeting of the crew of the Vendetta. Although there weren't that many crewmembers actually on the ship, each species had selected a representative to speak for them. G'Ten T'Shaark assisted Ripley in bringing the meeting to order.

Once again, as the translator floor synched their nervous systems, Ripley took stock of how very unlike any other ship she'd ever served on this one was. Here, there were many creatures, some so strange the eye had a hard time seeing them as living creatures, yet they all managed to get along, propelled by their common goal: revenge.

Each of the species here had lost a world, and, more importantly, loved ones to the xenomorphs. Ripley didn't like to think about all the worlds where the monsters had overrun, killing everything, spreading their own kind. They could only be monsters, in the classic sense: powerful, dangerous beings with whom no communication, no middle ground, was possible, whose wants and desires could not be comprehended by human—or other—beings. It didn't matter what they looked like. It was their actions that made them monsters.

"Alright, everyone. Here's what I've found out so far.

"The Norstromo made planetfall on Sincely's world, last standard month. From what I was able to gather, whoever is in command hired a worker, a tech named Cedric Siraq, small time operator.

"Now, from all this, I can only draw one conclusion: the android Ashe that was aboard the ship, and whom I thought was destroyed, must have somehow repaired itself and somehow overcome the xenomorph. That's probably why it hired the tech worker: to complete repairs on the ship and maybe on itself. But that raises some questions.

"One, why does the android need a human worker, if, indeed, it was able to repair itself? Of course, one possibility is that this Siraq will serve as a host for another xenomorph, once his usefulness is ended.

"But it still begs the question: why is the ship continuing to hang around the fringe like this? Why not make straight for Earth, and Weyland-Yutani? Why wait? That was the whole purpose behind our 'mission' to LV-426 in the first place. Now it has what it came for…why the wait?

"Is anyone seeing anything I'm missing?"

There was a humming, and the faint pressure in the back of her skull told her one of the others was preparing to "speak." {{You are convinced this corporation you mentioned wishes to develop bioweapons from these *untranslatable, unpleasant*?}}

"The android as good as admitted it, when we fought it, back on the ship."

{{Perhaps they wish to see the beast in action, derive more information from its depredations, before bringing it in.}}

"But that's just it." Ripley chewed on a knuckle. "There've been no reports of monsters running loose, no indications the thing is even alive anymore. Except for the android's actions, I guess. But that's circular reasoning. But if they wished to see their new pet in action, why haven't there been any reports of communications lost, monsters on the loose?"

G'Ten T'Shaark shifted uncomfortably. {{If I may, my captain, I should like to take this time to report something I came across the other day-period.}}

"Go on."

{{As you know, we routinely browse your people's communications channels. There has been a report of a colony of your scientists suddenly falling silent. Nor have communications been reestablished with them. An unconfirmed rumor has it that a colonial vessel was dispatched to investigate.}}

"All right! Now we've got something solid to go on! Just where was this outpost?"

Once the meeting had adjourned, G'Ten T'Shaark caught up with her in the hallway outside. Away from the translator-floor, they couldn't communicate directly, but he wrote on his tablet: What will we do once we get there, my captain? A warship of your people has already been dispatched to that world. Would not our presence there complicate matters?

She took the tablet and wrote back: It would, if we were to do anything beyond lurk in the background. We will see what the marines can do. If the xenomorphs are involved, it could be they may well need our assistance. The Vendetta had been armed and armored by the Displaced to be their ultimate weapon against the monsters that had stolen their homes and lives. It was fully the equal of any human warship in space, and maybe a bit beyond most.

So we are to gather information first? Our stealth fields should keep us from being detected. But if we are needed?

Then we strike, and strike hard. I need you to see to it that those of us who can physically fight these things be ready to do so. Rescue whomever we can, but we don't hold back. After all, we have to show Weyland-Yutani that their precious bioweapons aren't invincible. Now…if we could just get some sort of handle on where the Norstromo would be likely to appear next…but I can make no sense of its pattern.

You believe this android to be in command?

Yes. It's the only logical conclusion. But even as she wrote it on the tablet, another possibility occurred to her, a strange thought jumping into her head, unbidden….

But no. That possibility was just too far-fetched to even consider. No. Couldn't be.

It had to be the android. It just had to be.

Besides, that other possibility was…terrifying.

To be continued….