AlienX: A Gathering Storm: Chapter 12: Twenty Questions
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I don't own the Aliens / Predator franchise. Of course.
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Chapter 12: Twenty Questions
Siraq walked out of the bank's lobby feeling very pleased with himself. He'd just received his payment from Ripley, and, although she hadn't posted his final paycheck yet, he was confident that she would. She'd never missed a payment yet.
Now, he wondered, what to do with his new-found wealth? True, he wasn't fabulously wealthy, but he was well off. If he took care of the credits, they should easily last him long enough to find some other line of employment. (And stay out of the casinos, he told himself.) Who knows? He might even start his own business. He could now afford to do that.
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The Vendetta: {{My captain?}}
"Yes, G'Ten?" Ripley had once again been lounging, for lack of a better term, in the command chair of the ship. The moving mosaic of stars fascinated her. Ever since the Vooorm had installed the FTL drive, she'd found it incredibly…soothing, was perhaps the best word. They were actually getting somewhere. And at the end of their journey would be a dead xenomorph. Hopefully more than one.
But Ripley had found herself wondering about that last part. The creatures had overrun many worlds…what to do about them? Short of sterilizing or destroying the planets they'd infested, she didn't know.
She'd already put the Vooorm to work to try to come up with something at bit less drastic that would rid those worlds of the monsters, but so far, he'd not come up with anything really useful. "Yes, G'Ten?"
{{Our hyperradio scans of your people's communications have informed us that the Norstromo has made planet fall on a world known as New Devonshire. It is not known if it is still there. What are your orders?}}
Immediately, Ripley sat forward in her seat. "Set course for New Devonshire at once."
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New Devonshire: Siraq was making his final run through the Norstromo, to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He'd already secured his "souvenirs," as the captain insisted upon calling them, the weapons he'd taken from the hunter aliens on a world so far away now. While they didn't exactly inspire really positive feelings in him, he nonetheless felt an irrational rush when he thought about that one alien that he'd killed. Siraq wasn't a killer by nature, but those things had murdered innocent humans in cold blood, and taken their heads as trophies. They were due some payback. Who knew? Perhaps someday, he'd show his grandkids those strange, alien weapons, and explain how he'd come by them.
"Well, Mr. Siraq? Haven't left anything behind?"
"No, boss, I'm good to go." He stood momentarily in the hatch to the ramp leading outside. "I'd offer to shake your hand, but…"
"Yes, I know. That's perfectly alright. I just appreciate everything you've done for me…and for generations yet to come." Once again, it seemed to Siraq that Ripley was somehow involved in the whole colonization effort, but how? She didn't have any connections to Weyland-Yutani, and he didn't know of any other agencies that were pushing the outward movement of the human species. "You may rest assured that together, we've dealt a major blow to Weyland-Yutani, and its interstellar concerns. I realize this does not bring back your people, but it is the best we could do."
"Thanks, boss. I know…well, some things you don't forget, and I wouldn't want to. But now…maybe things will be better." Maybe the nightmares will stop.
"Perhaps. Well, I've just received my flight plan, and must be about business. I have…appreciated your company, and I know Jones has, too. Do take care of yourself, and I know you don't need to be told to avoid any dealings with anything this 'Boss Cargo' has any influence with. The same could be said of Wey-Yu."
"Thanks, Cap. Well, uh…." This was kinda awkward. "I'll….I'll be going along." I'll miss you, Cap. Even though we never met, face to face, I feel like I know you. Sorta. And he left the ship, walking down the catwalk, looking around with senses honed by years of living on the streets. He'd already predicted Ripley's advice, and his credits were in a very secure account, one untouchable by Boss Cargo or his people, and (hopefully), untouchable by Weyland-Yutani. Of course, he realized, in light of the latter, anonymity was his best defense. As long as Wey-Yu didn't know he'd contributed to the "tweaking" of the biospheres on its targeted worlds, there was no reason to put their hounds on his trail.
Idly, he wondered just what that "tweaking" had done. Ripley had said it would make the biosphere more habitable for future generations, but not so much for the rynth. He could see how that would definitely cut into WY's profits, and that pleased him no end. Sometimes, the best revenge is just a little bit here, and a little bit there. Big changes were for tri-D.
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Earth: Charles Bishop Weyland the Third was fit to be tied, as the old expression went.
He'd sent out no less than nine discovery teams, some to different worlds, some to the same worlds where communication had been lost. All had ceased to report, and the security cameras placed in and around the ships had not produced any usable information. This had all the signs of some sort of deliberate planning.
Had someone in his organization subverted his plans from within? Was there a traitor in his midst? First, the Norstromo had failed to report. He'd heard rumors that a ship matching that description had been seen at various fringe worlds. If that was the case, someone on the ship was screwing with him, and one thing you did not do was screw with Charles Bishop Weyland III.
But who? He'd clearly given orders for the android to be programmed to perfection. It was supposed to bring back Xenomorph XX121. The ship's crew was considered expendable, with one exception, of course.
But that hadn't happened, and now he couldn't understand why. If the crew had been able to overpower either the xenomorph and / or the android, there was nothing to stop them from simply returning as close to their scheduled time as they could. Why hang around on the fringe?
And if the xenomorph had won out, well, there would be nothing more to be heard of from the ship at all. This business of slipping in and out, always just ahead of the authorities in his pocket, made no sense.
Could pirates have hijacked the vessel? That seemed the most likely. But if so, why, again, the occasional sighting? Most pirates stayed alive by not showing themselves, except in a flurry of gunfire. Again, it made no sense.
He'd run the scenario through the computers endlessly, trying to come up with a rational explanation. He hadn't found one yet. Most of the time, the readouts simply said, "Incomplete information." That didn't help.
It had been four Earth months since he'd delegated his underling the authority to investigate the dismal reports on the rynth herds. In those months, each of the worlds to which he'd sent investigative teams had proved to be a ship trap. He'd ordered fly-by drones, but they'd revealed nothing.
And now, the Perseus had vanished from the face of existence, it seemed. A Colonial Marine troop carrier, one carrying Colonial Marines, of all things? What the stars was going on? And he was still no closer to finding any answers than before.
Charles Weyland was a creature of pure business, but he did not lack for courage. If his employees couldn't find the answers he needed… He flicked on the "intercom" button on his desk. "Sharon? Ready another investigative team. And this time…this time find me some ex-marines looking for a high-paying job."
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New Devonshire: Siraq was walking down the street, unconsciously comparing it to the crowded, dirty conditions on Orpheus, as he remembered it. Maybe someday he'd forget, but he doubted it.
Painful memories are so often constant companions, albeit unwanted.
There were several outdoor café's along the street, and it wasn't crowded. He'd just come from grocery shopping, and his groceries, for which he'd shopped and paid electronically, would be delivered to his apartment soon. All he had to do was put them up.
But meanwhile, he was just enjoying the sunset. The lights of the city were just then starting to glow, and he could make out the first stars of the evening. He wondered how Ripley was doing, and where she was. Going beyond human space? What could possibly be out there?
"Mr. Siraq?" A very polite male voice spoke up behind him. Instantly, Siraq was on his guard. He hadn't advertised his presence here…
The man who addressed him was a youngish sort, a tall man with close cropped brown hair. Even though he was wearing civilian clothes, he positively radiated "cop." Or something similar. "Yes?"
"My name is John Houston. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time."
Siraq looked around without looking away, a knack he'd developed on the streets of Orpheus and Boss Cargo's world. "What's this all about?"
"I just have some questions to ask you. And no, I'm not a police officer. Just someone who'd like to know a few things. Unofficially, of course."
"Well, 'unofficially, of course,' I have to get home and accept delivery on my groceries, so I don't think I have time for twenty questions." He turned to go, keeping the man in sight, his pistols up under his sleeve, ready.
"It really won't take long. I understand your suspicions, so how about this: you choose the place. Anywhere you like." He gestured expansively, his face still unreadable.
Siraq's eyes narrowed. He recognized the military type. This man wasn't going to quit; a simple refusal on his part would just bring about a stronger "request." Well, perhaps if he seemed to cooperate…. "Tell you what. If your buddy over there's buying," he waved his arm towards another man, a somewhat larger man, sitting, casually, at one of the outdoor tables, "how about right there?"
John Houston smiled. The man's street smarts were impressive. "Of course."
…..
Although Weyland couldn't know it, at least one of his investigative teams had, in fact, found out the precise reason for the failure of the rynth herds. Unfortunately for them, all of their surviving members were cocooned within the xenomorphs' nest, already implanted with future generations of xenomorphs.
The team leader was first to give unholy "birth," but just before he died, he saw the black, chitinous monsters that had so easily overwhelmed them gathered around a collection of the weapons they'd brought with them, weapons that had turned out to be of no use whatsoever. As he watched, one of the monsters picked up a carbine, examined it with its eyeless head, turning it over and over, then reached up and racked the slide, charging the weapon.
Life faded in a geyser of pain and blood.
He wasn't alive to hear it, and wouldn't have been able to understand it had he been alive, but the monster that charged the weapon hissed at its companions: Self-lubricating ceramo-metallic contact surfaces.
Another one, also examining one of the rifles, hissed: hundred-round helical feed magazines.
And a third one, with an unnerving drawing back of its lips, exposing the double jaw: Niiiiice.
To be continued…
