AlienX: A Gathering Storm, Chapter 7: Logic and Intuition
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I don't own the Alien/Predator franchise. But boy oh boy do I wish I did.
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Chapter 7: Logic and Intuition
Ripley lay awake that night trying to figure out why the android was masquerading as her. Deception, yes, but why her in particular? Why not the captain, Dallas? Or for that matter, itself, the science officer Ash? Whoever it claimed to be, it could simply claim that the crew had either mutinied, died, or been killed the alien, and that it alone survived…the entire ship belonged, ultimately to Weyland-Yutani, so, really, there was nobody to actually blame. Why had the android decided to pose as her?
Had it studied her more than the others? It obviously must have, in order to be able to replicate her voice, but again, why? What possible motivation could it have? Androids, after all, were slaves to their logic programs, and this one was surely no different. What could have been so special about her?
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"I'd be fascinated in hearing why our rynth herds aren't up to full strength," said Charles Bishop Weyland the Third, leaning back in his armchair. "I know you've done your homework." At least, for your sake, I hope you have.
"Yes, sir. However, I have to report to you before I can take the next step."
"So report."
The man who'd identified himself as investigative officer third rank Carlsbad looked his tablet offscreen. "Six standard ten-day periods ago, we sent in flyby drones to check on the status of the herds. To put it mildly, sir, they were pisspoor. We suspected some sort of micro-organism in the environment that they had no resistance to. So we sent in another flyby, this one more sophisticated, and programmed for a closer trajectory.
"It didn't return, but we think we know why. Before it ceased transmission, it sent back a report of an unexpected ring of asteroidal rock circling the planet. Now, how that escaped the initial surveyors, I don't know. I wasn't in on that.
"The only thing after that was to send in a live team. We did. Less than two standard days after landing, they ceased transmitting. That one, we have no clue why. We've been monitoring all the security bands…there's nobody moving around in their ship. They'd mounted a couple of cams outside…blank as fuck. Sir. And nothing in any recording that showed how they might've gotten that way. Our specialist's best guess is they were shot down, but by who and what, we don't know.
"Which brings me to the reason for this call. We have that troop transport going out to investigate the disappeared scientists…this could be connected. Turns out, from their trajectory, they'll pass by this world first. I'd like to request they look into it, but I need your authorization to do so."
Weyland sat and frowned. Then, "No, Mr. Carlsbad, I'm afraid I can't give that authorization. It's one thing to send a group of armored marines to check out missing persons, but to look into the well-being of cattle would be problematical, politically speaking. I can give the order to send a group of our own people there, as well-armed as we can make them…and that's pretty well-armed. True, they won't have the marines' training, but perhaps they won't need it." He leaned back.
"Yes, sir." Carlsbad was clearly dissatisfied with the response offered.
"I get the impression you believe this to be an ineffective response. You may be right, but it's one we have to try. If it'll help things any more, I'll put you in charge. No foolish chances, just a close-range approach. If someone did take out our people, they surely aren't invisible. Take some air and soil samples, and see if there's anybody there to punch holes in. If so, well, I personally will look the other way if you do.
"I'll have your paperwork sent down to you."
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"Mr. Siraq?" Ripley's disembodied voice came over the ship's intercom.
"Yeah, boss?"
"What's the status on the C-plus cannon as of right now?" They were cruising towards the next destination on the list Acting Captain Ripley had drawn up, one LV-366, one that Ripley had told him would probably be a good target world, due to its location and ease of geoforming. It wouldn't need much to make it suitable.
Ever since humanity had first managed to find the very first planets that could actually support the kind of life they were accustomed to, they'd learned the hard way to take nothing for granted. The old tri-V shows hadn't taken into account that many worlds out there, that, while they technically could support human life, might also play host to innumerable other factors, many of which could make a planet effectively uninhabitable. It was difficult to live on a world where the flora attacked your sinuses to the point where your nose bled constantly, and where microorganisms attacked your body. And there were such worlds. A lot of them.
It was to these worlds—the worlds that didn't need much, just a little tweaking, to make them work—that the efforts of geoforming techniques had been directed. Siraq could see why Ripley targeted these worlds. Just a little tweaking…and at the same time, sticking it to Weyland-Yutani. The new conditions wouldn't be ideal for the formations of the massive rynth herds they'd previously planned on, but would be very hospitable to humans. "Uh, it's complete, boss. All we gotta do is load it. You've got the controls up there."
Ever since his first contact with Acting Captain, former Warrant Officer Ellen Ripley (whom he'd never seen), she had explained that the ship was divided into two more or less equal parts: the forward section, where Ripley (and Jones, her cat) evidently lived, and the aft section, which housed his living quarters, the main med facility, and the cryo chambers. Currently, all but one of these cryo chambers was occupied by large greenish-purple pods that looked like nothing he'd ever seen. The closest analogy he could think of was of buds on some flowering plants, ready to open when conditions were right, and spread their spores upon the winds…
According to Ripley, these biopackages were the "tweakers" for the worlds they'd visited. Upon each one, he'd set out a number of them, still cold from cryosleep, in deep ravines, or other protected areas, then returned to the ship. Once they'd warmed up some, said Ripley, they'd begin the process of transforming the new world into something more suitable.
But on one world, he'd run across evidence of a savage alien race, bent on hunting humans for trophies. It was at this point that Ripley had instructed him to mount the C-plus cannon into the nose of the ship.
He found he couldn't really disagree with that implied logic. "Yeah, boss, as far as I can tell, short of a test fire, it's working."
"Load a round into the firing chamber."
"Uh…boss?"
"I need you to load a round into the firing chamber, ready for a moment's notice."
"You got something on the hyperdar?"
"No….but I know we are being followed."
He got the loader and plucked one of the eight C-plus rounds from the rack he'd built to secure them, opening the cover that was an additional shielding for the actual firing chamber. Actually, it was more of a "launch" chamber, since nothing so antiquated as gunpowder was used. When fired, the C-plus projectile skipped in and out of normal space, reaching effective velocities of quite a bit faster than light. The only reason the same propulsion mechanism had not been used to transport ships to and from the stars was that the process churned the inside of the projectile into a strange state that was neither wholly matter nor wholly energy, but an odd mixture of the two—or perhaps a different regime of matter altogether. Either way, no living beings could tolerate such a scrambling.
When the rounds hit, they hit with the force of one hundred pounds moving at a velocity very nearly that of light itself. The resulting impact was equal to many medium to high yield nuclear devices. "Think you've got something, boss?"
"Perhaps."
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"Think we've got something?" Houston asked Major Forrester. The two were in the main ops room, studying the active map of the ground below.
"Too soon to tell. But we can tell there's no life signs. Our drones aren't showing anything up; for more detail, we're gonna have to go in." He flicked his screen, activating the comm: "Alright, people. Assemble in the lock. We're taking the shuttle down." He turned to the captain. "Keep everything in readiness. There's probably nothing to find, but that's not the way to bet. Awright, Houston, le's go get the ladies prepared."
The trip down to the ground was uneventful. Even the weather seemed to cooperate; although Houston noted some gray skies far to the north, it didn't look like anything but sunshine here.
Down, and out: the marines exited the shuttle in double file, already moving for cover, weapons at the ready. The AR headsets they wore showed them everything about the place, and extended their vision far into the infrared and, for some reason, partway into the ultraviolet. Houston wondered about that.
John and Butch were shoulder to shoulder. Butch Lancaster might be the exact opposite of him off duty, but he was a good marine, and a good man to have at your side when the feces hit the rotary air circulation system. They both scanned a full one hundred eighty degrees; the marines behind them did likewise, the rearmost watching their backs. They were all connected via the comm link, and each one was displayed on the heads-up display of the AR units. "Let's try over there." Houston indicated the largest of the Quonset huts.
Inside was the scene of carnage. They were marines, and they'd been trained to deal with all manner of death, but Houston found his own gorge rising. Of course, he knew some of what they saw was due to natural scavengers, and the standard insects, altogether ready to feed on the dead, but still, there was no doubt that everybody here had met with a violent end. "Well, gentlemen, I believe we've found the scientists."
"Don't turn your backs on anything, Corporal," Forrester's voice came over the line. "And don't be thinking only in terms of two dimensions. Scan overhead."
"Yes, sir." John wondered what his commanding officer knew that he wasn't sharing.
They found the body of Gren, also minus his head and spinal column. Cause of death: exsanguination from a sharp object piercing him through and through. Houston thought that was sort of peculiar; nobody had been killed by anything like modern weapons. What was with that?
And how was it that the scientists hadn't been able to get off even so much as a single shot? He could understand panicky civilians maybe spraying bullets everywhere, but they'd had automatic weapons….and hadn't fired a single shot from them. Gren's weapon, now corroded from the elements, even had a round in the chamber. All he'd have to have done was press the trigger.
What had happened here?
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LV-366: Siraq had just unloaded the last of the biopackages when Ripley broke into his comm link. "Mr. Siraq, you need to get back to the ship, ASAP. Drop whatever you're doing and move."
"I'm done anyway, boss. The packages are delivered. I'm on my way back now."
"Good. Be very careful. Are you armed?"
"I got a couple of handguns. Didn't bring anything bigger. Guess I should have?"
"What is, is. Do not waste time. Get back here now."
Siraq was within sight of the ship, desperately driving the loader at its top velocity (which wasn't much), when he saw a flicker on the edge of his vision. Instantly, he was alert, watching for anything else out of the ordinary…he could see the ship's ramp, with Jones, the cat, watching him, and looking around. The cat's fur was standing up, making him look twice as big.
Something tore past him, burying itself in the loader's console: some sort of many-edged throwing star. He dove off the loader, even as he gave the controls a twist, so that the loader itself spun in place.
Something roared like an Earthly lion, and he could see an odd distortion standing on the top of the loader, the westering sun behind it looking like light seen through a lens….
He drew forth the slug throwers that life on the streets had taught him to never be without, and fired blindly at the distortion, even as he rolled and dodged. He knew to remain in one spot was death.
Something thunked into the ground beside him, some sort of spear. He spotted the point of its origin and directed his fire there, and was rewarded with a guttural bellow. He'd hit something. But why couldn't he see his attackers?
An idea occurred to him. He was still too far from the Norstromo to make a run for it, but maybe there was something he could do about that invisibility….
Ever since he was a child, he'd accumulated certain objects, artifacts that he just, for some reason, he always carried with him. One thing he carried, especially on these alien worlds, was a can of paint. When he was little, he'd used it to mark his territory on Orpheus…for all the good it had done.
But he'd taken to carrying it again so as to mark his way back, here on these worlds where there was no map. Now, he withdrew one, and unleashed its contents towards the spot where he'd last seen that strange distortion…..
The space around him was immediately filled with a cloud of red mist….and mist that clung to one spot in particular….
The thing was a good two and a half meters tall, muscled like a gorilla, and appeared to be wearing some sort of strange mask. It towered over him, drawing back its left arm, upon which was some sort of wristband with extendable blades….
….And Siraq threw a lit Zippo lighter into the cloud of mist the surrounded the thing, diving for cover behind the loader even as he did so.
The paint cloud ignited like a bomb, swelling up into a fireball that consumed the alien, blowing it back away from Siraq, and knocking it away from him, stunning it, and short circuiting its invisibility screen. Now, with the alien fully visible, Siraq was free to direct his slug thrower's full firepower straight into the strange form itself.
Siraq's guns might not have been the same as a full assault weapon, but they threw a good caliber, potent round. The armor-piercing rounds found their way between the chinks of the alien's armor, drilling into it with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. The alien struggled to get to its feet, its hardy physique almost shaking off the effects of the slugs…
…And Siraq kept on firing, not even looking around. Had there been another such alien nearby, it could have easily have killed him then…
But there wasn't, and the alien finally crumpled and died beneath the hail of bullets from Siraq's guns.
Siraq approached the still form in front of him. Not invulnerable, then, just very very hard to kill.
"Mr. Siraq? I believe we'd best leave. Now."
"Gotcha, boss. Just one thing…" He reached down carefully, wary of the alien predator suddenly coming to life, and claimed the strange spear it had thrown at him. With a savagery and a suddenness that surprised even him, he plunged the spear into the still form of the alien. "See how you like it, motherfucker!"
"Mr. Siraq. Get in here. Leave the loader. Now."
"On my way, boss." But, on an impulse, he bent down and unfastened the armband the alien wore, that had the protruding blades. And it had a knife, too…
"Mr. Siraq! This is no time for souvenir hunting!"
"Got'cha, boss," even as he sprinted up the ramp to where Jones sat, waiting. The cat suddenly hissed, looking back behind him….
….and he threw himself flat on the floor of the loading area, just in time to hear a razor-sharp whistling sound pass overhead, and a metallic clank as something buried itself in the far wall. But the hatch was already closing, the ship lifting off. "Boss?"
"We appear to be in luck, Mr. Siraq. They either didn't have or didn't use any sort of energy weapon. Had they done so, the ship's integrity would probably be compromised." As always, Ripley sounded calm and in control. He admired that; she must have ice water instead of blood. He was still shaking from the aftermath. Jones had long since disappeared through an aperture in the bulkhead that the cat used occasionally to patrol Siraq's area for mice.
He looked around, at the area where the metallic sound had come from. Embedded in the hard metal of the bulkhead was what resembled an Earthly throwing star, a shuriken, but with a ridiculous number of razor sharp blades. How did they throw that?—he wondered, even as he pulled it from the wall. He found he had to use a pry-bar to get it loose. Whoever—whatever threw that thing was strong.
"Who are they, boss?" Ooops, he thought: first rule: no questions.
But Ripley seemed to consider this one worth answering. "You know from their previous depredations that they are hunters, that they hunt for sport. Humans seem to be on their list of prey. I didn't spot anything that might have been a ship, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. Stand by. You may need to get into your acceleration couch. If they are here—and they are—we will no doubt be pursued.
"The C-plus is ready for firing?"
"Yeah, boss. It's a single-shot 'till I load the next round, though."
"Then I guess I'd better not miss."
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The USS Vendetta had managed to track the Norstromo into the deserted star system. There were no civilizations in this system, so why was the ship here?
In the back of her mind, Ellen Ripley was nursing a strange and terrifying idea. It made no sense…but in a sense it did. After they'd defeated—they thought—the android Ash, he, it had taunted them about the alien being "the perfect life form." But by what standards?
It was certainly survival oriented. But Ripley wondered: suppose the creatures made their way to a populated planet. Just suppose. They'd colonize, produce queens, nests, drones, and more queens, nests and drones in a never-ending pattern. Eventually, they'd run out of hosts for their embryos. What then?
Of course, she knew the theory: whatever world these monsters had originated on had some sort of checks and balances that kept the xenomorphs from overpopulating. What it was, she couldn't hazard a guess, but whatever it was had to be pretty awesome to keep these things in check.
Or was there another factor at work?
Back when she was on the Norstromo, in those days after the larval form of the creature had chewed its way out of Kane's body, they had been frantic to find it, and kill it before it killed them. But…it had matured so rapidly. The thing must have a fantastic metabolism to be able to grow so quickly. And where did it get the biomass for such extraordinary growth, anyway? It couldn't use the food synthesizers….
….unless, of course, it could.
But the synthesizers required authorization….how had it done that?
The simple answer was Ash, who even then was safeguarding the monstrous creature, intending to bring it back to his masters at Weyland-Yutani. Or had it been?
What if the creature could adapt? What if it could learn?
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. No. They'd seen no evidence that this was necessary or even possible. It had to be Ash, even as it was Ash now, masquerading as her (but why?), carrying the xenomorph to an eventual meeting with Wey-Yu representatives.
She sat in one of the command chairs on the bridge of the ship. G'Ten T'Shaark noticed her thoughtful expression. You are disturbed, my captain? They'd long ago installed a translator into the floor of the bridge. This was where communication between her and the crew would be most vital.
She rubbed her forehead. Yes, I am. I cannot understand why the android is doing what it is doing. It doesn't make logical sense, at least, not by any logic I'm able to grasp.
There is a possibility, Ripley Ellen Ripley. This android's programming may have suffered some mishap. Perhaps it is malfunctioning.
No, it doesn't feel like that. This is all part of a deliberate plan. But I can't unravel the pattern. Why has the android not simply gone to Weyland-Yutani? It has what they wanted. Why all this skulking about on the fringes of human space? Perhaps it did need to repair itself, but now….
You are correct in saying the patterns do not make logical sense. Could it be we are overlooking something?
I know I am overlooking something. But the question is, what?
To be continued….
