Alien$
His head still hurt.
Three months since Fiorina 161 and his head still hurt.
Weeks of those months spent in cryo, given access to the most advanced medicine that money could buy (and then some), his wound examined by the best surgeons in the Company, and still, his head hurt.
Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, Michael Bishop rubbed a hand over where the bump had been. Doctors, androids, and auto-docs alike had assured him that the injury had been healed. He'd fired some of them, shut down others, and let the good ones keep their jobs, despite them refusing to accept that his head still hurt. That the blow Ellen Ripley had struck against him on that shithole refused to stop aching. That he could feel the bruise she'd left, even if they told him there was nothing there.
And even if that were true, he reflected, there were other injuries the madwoman had left.
On his pride, for starters.
He took some painkillers, left the bathroom, and returned to his quarters. The hypersleep chamber was the one thing out of place in a room designed to evoke 16th century English royalty, but he put up with it. He had the pleasure of going to sleep away from the common rabble, and once he got out, he could sleep in a real four-poster bed, under real blankets, surrounded by real portraits (well, mostly real, but most plebs took him at his word), and with access to real food and real drink. Drink that, as he glanced at the glass of bourbon on a glass table, he was tempted to drink.
Yes, it was 0753 shipboard time, but having woken from cryo less than an hour ago, he was free to set his body clock as he damn well wanted. Standing in nothing but a dressing gown and fur slippers (synthetic, of course – he wasn't a lunatic), he even reached for the glass and-
"Bridge to Mister Bishop."
…retracted his arm, as a female voice filled his quarters.
"Bridge to Mister Bishop."
Go away, he thought, as he stared at the bottle. My head's hurting.
"Mister Bishop, I know you're out of cryo, and your shower isn't currently in use, so-"
There was a time, he reflected, when no-one in the Company, no matter how high, would have dared with such impertinence. No-one but its CEO, he supposed, but then, people that crossed that bitch had a habit of disappearing.
Usually by being sent to the Frontier. Sometimes not.
"Mister Bishop? The phone?"
Alas, the wound to his head had translated to a wound to his reputation as well. So lest either be damaged further, he turned away from the glass, walked over to one of the room's walls, and pressed a button on it.
"This better be good," he grunted.
There was a flicker of light, and to his shock, a hologram of Captain Augustine appeared. Prim, proper, dressed in the uniform afforded to Company ship captains, she looked the scientist up and down like he was some kind of prize specimen.
"Bad time?" She asked.
"How did…I didn't…" He tied up the belt of his dressing gown. "I didn't give authorization for a face-to-face."
"Yeah, well, it's my ship, and I find the radio so impersonal."
Bishop doubted that. And besides, this was his ship.
"If you'd like to get dressed of course…"
"Yes, I bloody well would."
She nodded to the bathroom door. "Take your time."
Sarah Augustine. As he grabbed a jumpsuit, Bishop made a mental note to search her record, and see if there was any way he could get her fired, or at least, demoted. Because, he reflected, as he put some trousers on, excuses such a face-to-face were just smokescreens for the real reason Captain Augustine was doing this.
"Ah, you're back."
Blood, Bishop thought, as he returned to his quarters proper. Blood in the water. Like all good space sharks, Augustine could smell it. While she was in no position to take his place in the Company, she was in a place where she could poke the wounds and get away with it.
"Feeling better?" She simpered.
No. His head was pounding, and every word Augustine uttered cut through him like a knife through ice. Made worse was the hologram's shimmer. It was too bright, and when it wasn't, it wasn't bright enough. His eyes did their work, but his head, God damn it, was having trouble keeping up.
"I'd like to advise you that we will be in shuttle range of Mawson Station in ninety minutes. You're to report to shuttle one in seventy minutes time. Your pilot will-"
"You insisted on a hologram to tell me this?"
Augustine smiled as only a shark could. "You're meeting with the Board of Directors, sir. I don't think you'd want to miss it."
Bishop's head pounded all the harder.
"Especially in light of all that's happened."
The smile Bishop gave Augustine was less like a shark, and more like a piranha. "Thank you. I'll keep your service in mind after the day's meeting."
Was that fear, that flickered in her eyes? He couldn't tell.
"I'll leave you to it," she said.
The hologram winked out. Leaving Bishop to stew in his dreams of revenge, his fears of judgement, and his splitting head. Because while Augustine may have backed off this time, if today didn't go well, then…
He looked at the bottle. Toyed with taking a sip. Wondered if it was worth the risk.
He decided to go for water instead.
With more painkillers, of course.
Mawson Station was one of three major space stations orbiting Earth that were owned and operated by the Company. They owned numerous minor ones too, and had a presence on the ones they didn't, but Mawson, situated at one of Earth's Lagrange points, was one of the big three.
The other two were Shackleton and Magellan Stations. Shackleton hovering above the Arctic, Magellan making its way across Earth's equator. Mawson, however, was set above the Antarctic. You could stand on its hull, look down, and see a continent of whites and greens either in full sunlight, or in pitch darkness.
As it was the month of January, in the year 2180, sunlight was the name of the game, so as a shuttle carrying him and various plebs headed towards Mawson, Bishop was able to use his seat's flight-screen and see the continent below. In a world of rising sea levels and temperatures, Antarctica had done well for itself. The cities that had been built around its coast had the advantage of naturally-occurring grass with which to grow their food, in what was becoming Earth's prime real estate. A far cry of the views afforded by Shackleton, Mawson, and Magellan, with Shackleton observing an ice-free Arctic every summer, and Magellan able to behold swathes of the equator rendered uninhabitable. Cities sinking into the sea, deserts where there were once jungles – a glimpse into the future of the entire planet, by most projections.
For the Company, having poured billions into terraforming, it was a situation that worked to its advantage. No-one wanted to live on Earth, so therefore, there was no shortage of desperate people trying to get off-world. Even working on some unbreathable shithole was preferable to Sol III if the pay was good enough. Though on the other hand…
Thought so.
There, two seats ahead of him. The white and yellow armband of an indentured servant. Leaving Earth was an expensive proposition, but the Company was quite willing to take your labour and life for a decade in exchange for a place amongst the stars.
Of course, the Company often found ways of extending that decade.
"All passengers, be advised, we will be docking at Mawson Station in ten minutes. Please keep your seatbelts fastened, and return from the bathroom."
Bishop rolled his eyes, and instantly regretted it as a spike shot through his head. He'd already taken a second batch of pills on this flight, and they hadn't done him any good. Briefly returning his gaze to the screen, at the browns and blues of Mother Earth, he frowned, but terminating the feed.
Earth was a headache of its own, he reflected. What was happening on Earth, as the conglomerate-nations bickered and threatened, was threatening to spill out beyond Sol. There was a reason why the Board of Directors liked to meet in places like Mawson, rather than in one of their numerous planetside offices. They liked to think they were above it all.
Fools. He did up his seatbelt. Damn bloody fools.
He'd bite his tongue in the meeting, or so he told himself. He'd have to defend himself over his failures at Fury and Acheron, but at the least, it wouldn't be the only item on the agenda.
"Docking in five minutes."
But then again, she'd be here. And as he lay back in his grav-couch, rubbing his aching head, he tried to take solace that her wrath would be directed at other targets as well.
"Docking in two minutes."
Tried, and failed.
A 'clunk' ran through the shuttle as it connected with one of the station's airlocks. The pilot cracked a joke about flying Wey-Yu Airlines, and that he hoped they'd had a pleasant flight. Getting to his feet, Bishop toyed with giving the pilot a piece of his mind before his eyes briefly connected with the Indent.
How old was she? Eighteen? Lower? There were rules for Indents, but a megacorp like the Company was able to flout them. Even make them, through its reserved seat at the United Nations.
"Hello," he said.
She turned away, seemingly on the verge of tears. Ignoring her, Bishop helped himself to more painkillers, before walking to the shuttle's airlock.
He couldn't do anything about her pain.
He could do something about his.
"A pleasure to have you onboard, sir. It's not every day that I get to meet my maker."
Bishop's head was still pounding. And that the android escorting him was physically identical wasn't helping matters.
"And here we are," said the Bishop model, as he opened the door to the meeting room. "A pleasant room for a pleasant day."
Nor the fact that he was just so damn cheerful.
"Anything else I can help you with sir?"
Michael Bishop looked at his doppelganger. Same height, same hair, same eyes, same skin, same everything. Or at least, everything physical. When it came to synthetics, more than one designer had based a model after their own appearance. Be it hubris, be it humility, many faces of many scientists walked amongst the stars.
"Some water, actually."
"Of course."
The android left the room, leaving Michael Bishop alone. His left fist clenched, his right holding some more painkillers. He knew he'd taken far too many, but then, the doctors who'd given him that advice didn't have to deal with his headaches.
Nor answer to the jackals. He looked around the meeting room. At the table (real wood? Christ, how much did that cost?) in the centre, where the Board of Directors would decide his fate, among other things. Above him was a sheet of plexiglas that allowed anyone who looked up to see Antarctica and its surrounding ocean below. "Up" to any observer in the room, "down" by the human sense of direction, and meaningless to anyone who operated in zero-g for too long.
At one end of the room was a whiteboard of all things, and associated markers. Not sure what to make of such antiquated technology, Bishop turned his gaze to the canterbury. Among the statues of a modular terraformer, a WY service trophy, and a model of the USCSS Prometheus (someone clearly liked the classics), was a holo-still. Intrigued, he turned it, and came face-to-face with…
Bloody hell.
Ridley Cameron. CEO of the Company half a century ago. The holograph showed only his grey-bearded face, but below it were statistics such as date of birth (22/5/2049), date of death (11/3/2130), place of birth (London, United Kingdom), place of death (Hyugens City, Titan), and service record in the Company, including his time as CEO (2115-2128). Intrigued, Bishop twisted the dial at the holo's base, going back in time.
He didn't have to go far back until he saw the face of Peter Weyland.
"Ah, the original maker."
Bishop barely heard his doppelganger's voice. Nor had he even heard him enter the room. There was precious little in this universe that could give him pause, but looking at the face of "the Father of the 21st Century" was among them.
"Your water?"
Bishop took the glass and sipped it. His attention shifted from Weyland and his bio to the Prometheus replica – one of Weyland's creations that he hadn't lived long enough to behold, having died on Mars mere weeks before it launched from Earth. Given that the Prometheus had disappeared in the depths of space, Bishop supposed it was for the best, but still…
But you've heard the rumours, haven't you?
The rumours, of course, being that Peter Weyland had jetted off into the dark to find God, and according to some, had succeeded. And while Bishop knew that only an idiot believed the official Company line, he had no reason to suspect any different here. Peter Weyland had spent his life trying to make Earth better, and in some regards, he'd succeeded. In others…
He glanced at the Bishop android. "You still here?" He snapped.
"I am."
"Then piss off."
"Yes sir."
Bishop scowled. Many thought he'd based the Bishop line off his own face. In truth, he'd had another man in mind. And thinking about him, he returned to the holo. Out of morbid curiosity, shifted the dial even further back. All the way to-
"Charles Bishop Weyland."
He froze as he heard the voice, even as the face of yet another doppelganger stared back at him.
"Father of Peter Weyland, but forever destined to reside in his son's shadow."
Some shadows were long. And the woman with the brown eyes, black hair, and hard face, who'd entered the room cast a long one.
"Died on a field trip in Antarctica in 2004, if I remember correctly. His company, Weyland Industries, was later bought out by his son's Wey-Corp."
He sipped the water and the tablets, as the woman stood next to him.
"You know, I encountered a Bishop model in the hallway," she whispered. "People think you based them on yourself, back when you with Hyperdyne, but we know the truth, don't we?"
He slowly turned to her. Watched the vampire smile.
"Michael Bishop," she said. "Genetics really are funny, aren't they? Distant relative to the Weylands, and you end up with your ancestor's face."
And you yours, he wanted to say, but didn't. In part because it wasn't entirely accurate. In part because he valued his ability to keep breathing.
"Anyway," she said, as she deactivated the holo. "Enough chit-chat about the past. Today's about the future."
"My future?" He whispered. "Or the Company's?"
"The Company's, of course. Though you are, of course, part of it." Her eyes narrowed. "For now."
It might have been that his headache was finally starting to subside, or the reminder that he descended from greatness, but for whatever reason, he felt the urge to go on the attack.
"Nice to see you too, Hikari."
Her eyes flashed a warning. But nevertheless, she made her way to the head of the table. Rubbed her hands over the wooden chair that stood ready for her rump.
"First names are so informal," she whispered. "And despite our long friendship…" She met Bishop's gaze. "When the meeting begins, you'll address me as everyone else does."
Bishop took another sip.
"Won't you?"
Steeling his jaw, as much as his courage, he whispered, "yes."
"Yes, who?"
"Yes…Ms. Yutani."
"Good," she said, smiling. She took a seat and pressed a button at the head of the table. "Green tea, mint." She looked at Bishop. "Would you like anything?"
There were a lot of things he wanted.
"No, thank you."
His head was one of them, now host to a returning headache.
"I didn't think so," the CEO whispered.
Still, he wanted to keep his head. So he remained silent.
For now.
The meeting had dragged one for hours. His head was pounding, his bladder was screaming, and every time an Indent walked in, he was momentarily distracted.
"…so in conclusion, the colonization program has paid off. Return on investment is in the realm of four-hundred percent. Five-hundred if you discount compensation."
One might have been surprised to see the Company use Indents instead of androids, even in a meeting such as this, but you didn't become the largest corporation in human history without cutting costs here and there. Fact of the matter was, Indents were cheaper than androids.
"Oh, sorry!"
Even if they were less efficient. Bishop watched Musira Sankaar of the Company's colonization program recoil as the Indent spilt some of his water, while reaching to take his empty plate of sandwiches. For a moment, he was afraid that Sankaar would do something stupid.
"It's fine."
But then, you didn't join the Board of Directors by being stupid, or excessively cruel or violent. Ruthless, yes. But Indents were here to serve their time, and it didn't matter what they heard or saw. By their contract, their rights didn't extend to a fair hearing. Any attempt at whistleblowing, even after the completion of their servitude, was a breach of contract.
"Those compensations you were talking about," Yutani said, as she consulted her datapad, scrolling through the figures. "What are we talking about?"
"Oh, well, if you factor every colonist or ship member who's died in circumstances that might have some jurisprudence, we're talking in the billions."
Yutani nodded.
"Still, these are isolated cases. And isolated cases can be-"
"Pay them."
All eyes turned to Lo Nguyen from legal.
"Excuse me?" Sankaar asked.
"Pay them," she repeated. "In the scope of our returns on colonization, billions is pocket change."
Yutani frowned. "Is that your legal advice?"
"It is."
"I see…" The CEO pressed some buttons on her pad. "I'll get back to you on that."
Bishop wondered about that. Nguyen was right in a sense – billions was indeed pocket change compared to the hundreds of billions the Company had invested in its terraforming program, and nothing but nickels compared to the trillions they'd received in return. On the other hand, as a Company lawyer, Nguyen should have been aware of legal precedent.
And even that aside, the Company had rivals. Show weakness, and they'd come bounding up like the hyenas they were.
"Anyway," Sankaar said, as the Indent finally cleared off, "the program's been a success." He looked at Bishop. "Acheron notwithstanding."
He frowned. "You're blaming me for that?"
"I don't know. Should I?"
Bishop's head pounded, and not just because of what that bitch had done on Fury before killing herself. "I assure you that-"
"Mister Bishop will have his turn to speak," Yutani murmured. "In the meantime, I suggest we turn things over to the military projections."
Bishop watched as General de Santos stood to his feet. Brazilian, and a former member of the United Americas Colonial Army, he'd kept his rank when the Company had headhunted him. Many, including the Americans' own AeroSpace Force and Marines, tended to look at the Army as a relic of a pre-interstellar age, but de Santos was worth every penny in his paycheque. And considering the size of the Company's paramilitary, "general" was a title that he had good reason to keep.
"Things aren't looking good," the general said.
Bishop let him drone on as he pressed on his pad. He ordered water, and seeing that painkillers weren't on the menu list, he instead asked for a cheese and bacon sandwich.
One with real meat, damn it.
"Worst case projections is that civilized space is on the cusp of interstellar war," de Santos continued. "So far, the United Americas, Three World Empire, and Union of Progressive Peoples have managed to avoid fighting each other by focusing their efforts on colonization. But…"
"But?" Asked Dyson, formerly of Seegson.
"But there's competing claims. So far, we've operated under the dictum of flag first, planet is yours. But everyone's claiming that the ECA is outdated, or biased, or any number of things that could be seen as compromising. And as big as space is, all the good worlds in easy travel distance have been taken. And with all due respect to our friends in the colonization program…" He nodded at Sankaar, "we can't build better worlds fast enough."
An uneasy silence descended over the boardroom. One that was briefly broken as the doors opened, and an Indent delivered Bishop his sandwiches.
"So," said Yutani, as she lay back in her chair. "War, then. Well, it was bound to happen eventually."
"It might not," said Ardern – head of Public Relations. "You're aware of the United Systems proposal."
"I am. And I don't care about hypothetical peace and justice from hypothetical organizations, I'm interested in the now." Yutani looked at Chang of Weapons Development. "Is there a way we can benefit from this?"
He shrugged, as he scrolled down his pad. "Maybe? Possibly?"
"Something more concrete, Mister Chang."
"Ma'am, I could tell you that if war broke out today, then the Company would be in a prime position to benefit from weapon sales. Maybe even our mercs could be deployed. But with all due respect to our weapons and military divisions, Wey-Yu's profits have primarily from colonization." He looked at Sankaar. "War isn't good for that kind of business."
Murmurs rang throughout the boardroom. Everyone knew of the tensions growing between Earth's conglomerate nations and their colonies, but to actually face a full-blown interstellar conflict was another matter entirely. And, Bishop reflected, most of the people in this room lived on Earth. If a war broke out, Earth would be in the firing line as much as any other planet.
He had no love left for Terra Firma. He'd been born in New York, true, but he'd left that overcrowded hellhole as soon as he'd been able to, and never looked back. But while the Board of Directors might conduct meetings such as this off-world, far removed from any activists who might scream and shout outside one of their many offices, he suspected that at least some of them cared for mankind's homeworld.
"There's also the risk of the Company becoming a target itself," de Santos ventured. "We already own controlling shares in Empire and Americas militaries. Colonial Marines, the Royal Marines…who's to say what would happen if they came after us?"
Sankaar grunted. "Some of them already have."
Once again, he looked at Bishop. Once again, the scientist used the water to swallow some painkillers.
"You know, taking that many drugs can't be good for you."
Bishop scowled. "I never knew you cared about my welfare."
"Oh, I don't. But still, I'd prefer not to have you drop dead in front of me."
A lie, Bishop knew. But Sankaar could wait.
"I'm not afraid of rogue marines coming after us," Yutani murmured. "Zula Hendricks, Amanda Ripley, Christopher Winter and his little band of freedom fighters…there's always some reprobate with an axe to grind, and like all axes fighting against the tide, they've ended up rusted." She tapped her pad. "But speaking of such matters, I'd like to hear from Doctor Bishop now."
What?
"Tell me," Yutani said, as she looked at Bishop, smiling. "Potential war, planetary colonization…how's your pet project going?"
God, she was enjoying this, he reflected. So was Sankaar. Even de Santos looked wary, as the general looked at the scientist who'd sent his men to Acheron and got them all killed. If they wanted him to be a patsy, then…
Oh shit.
Patsy. Fall guy. Any number of terms to describe any number of scenarios filled his head, pounding it further with every realization.
"I'm waiting, Mister Bishop," Yutani whispered.
Slowly, Bishop got to his feet. Slowly, he murmured, "attempts to secure Xenomorph XX121existed long before I was involved."
"Yes, yes, I know. We're all familiar with the Nostromo and Sevastopol, and all our other failures," Yutani said. "I'm talking about your actions, Michael."
Bishop seriously doubted that the Board was that familiar at all. Chang was, certainly. Bio-Weapons Division had wanted its hands on the xenomorph since early in the century. And he, God damn it, had poured his heart and soul into the project, once he was made director of special projects. Going from designing androids to capturing aliens had been an unexpected career move, but it was one he'd embraced.
"We've had setbacks," he murmured. "Acheron was-"
"Destroyed," Sankaar sniffed. "Twice, really."
"I don't think any of us could have counted on the Sephora."
"Actually, you could," de Santos snapped.
Bishop, putting a hand to his head, said, "I wasn't actually in command of your forces down there."
"No, you weren't. But they're dead. Everyone we sent to Acheron is dead." He looked at Sankaar. "Every colonist too. And that's not even accounting for Fury, either."
Bishop was open to the idea of de Santos genuinely caring about his men. Maybe even the scientists sent from Weapons Division. He doubted that he gave a damn about the lifers on Fury who'd been slaughtered by just one of those things, but…
"You're right about the lifers," he said. "Which is why we should continue to make efforts to obtain the species in question. Because if one xenomorph could wipe out an entire prison colony…what could an army of them do?"
"Like Acheron?" Sankaar whispered.
"Like Acheron," Bishop said boldly. "Or, rather, any colony we wanted. Or more specifically, any colony any contractor wanted to be taken care of."
He had them, he realized. Oh God, he had them. War was coming, and countless wars had been won through the development of new technologies. The First World War had seen the tank. The Second World War, the atomic bomb. The brushfire wars of Sol in the late 21st century had seen the development and deployment of space warships, as the UNIC and CANC had stared each-other down. Now, in the late 22nd century, deploying an army of monsters might seem blasé, but…
"There's a problem there," Chang said. "We've spent a lot on capturing this thing, and for zero return. Shall I give you a figure?"
Yutani nodded. Chang gave the figure. Someone used the name of the Lord.
"And may I remind you that Michael Bishop's original field of expertise was in artificial persons," Chang continued. "Not bio-weapons."
Artificial persons? Please. "I like to create," Bishop said. I create life. And if I see a new form of life, I…get creative."
Chang didn't look convinced.
"Look, it's simple." Bishop got up, and ignoring the pounding in his head, walked to the whiteboard, and picked up a black marker. "Here, we have one subject."
On the whiteboard, he wrote the word, ALIEN.
"Get one subject, induce the metamorphosis to a queen, and you get this.
To the word ALIEN, he added an S, making it ALIENS.
"And if we get lots of those…"
He put a line through the S, so that now it read ALIEN$.
"Do you understand me?"
He hoped they did. Because his headache had gone back to cutting through ice. But even so, he saw the look in their eyes.
Money. Profit. Power. You didn't reach the Board of Directors without lusting after those things, and even if you managed to be a fine, upstanding member of the human race, the Company still had an obligation to its shareholders. They invested money, the Company made money, the investors got more money. That was the way of things, and if people didn't like it, they could try joining the UPP and its band of space communism.
These days, few did. Space capitalism was indeed the final frontier All the more so now, as the frontier was pushed outward, and people struggled to get off Earth, to keep the gears of capital turning.
"Making money off mosnters," Chang murmured, as he continued to stare at the board. "Well, I can see the appeal there."
"You can?" de Santos whispered.
Chang ignored him and turned to Bishop. "But still, compare the money we've sunk into these projects, compared to what we've got out of them. In fact, what have we got out of our efforts?"
"Knowledge," Bishop said instantly. "More knowledge than anyone has of this creature."
"And the lives lost along the way?"
"Lives that can be replaced," Bishop said. "Hard truth, but you know that, and I know that. And with things going in the direction they are, I expect that life's amount to get a whole lot cheaper, and weapons a whole lot stronger." He screwed the cap back on the marker. "Or am I talking to the wrong people?"
He might have been. The board didn't look convinced.
I need this.
Odd, to admit it to himself, only now. But then, they hadn't been on Fury.
Think of all we could learn from it! His words uttered that day echoed in his head. It's the chance of a lifetime!
None of them had been within spitting distance of a live specimen. Condemned to the fiery inferno by a mad woman who, in her final moments, had killed herself just to spite him.
"There's other applications," he murmured. "Medical, for starters. I-"
"Mister Bishop will continue his research program," came a voice.
All eyes, including Bishop's, turned to Yutani. Half of them were in shock.
"The universe is changing," she said. "We have to change with it." She looked at Bishop. "Take a seat. I think your sandwich is waiting."
Bishop wanted to say something, but his headache made it too difficult to do so. When this was over, he told himself, he'd see the station's surgeon. Have them look at his skull. Help him think more clearly.
"Moving on," Yutani began, "we have to deal with the issue of the Nikai."
Such as why Hikari Yutani, of all people, had vouched for him.
The meeting had gone on for two more hours. Everything from the fate of the Nikai (the ship had been intact, its crew had been skinned and strung up), to the prospect of the Company using its terraforming technology to remove excess carbon from Earth's atmosphere. While some had "warmed" to the idea, it had been tabled – too much effort for too little return.
The board members who lived on Earth would be safe – wealth could buy you all forms of protection against everything from nature's wrath to the upstarts. And as long as the masses found life unpleasant, they'd be more willing to help build better worlds.
Bishop, for his part, had remained on the station. His head pounded during the day, and at night, it was like a sledgehammer. He went to the doctors, he consulted the auto-docs, he even consulted the Luna Medical Registry. Nothing but platitudes and prescriptions came back, if at all.
So it was one morning, or what passed for it on the station, that he received his assignment. A ping on his pad, a look, followed by an expletive. Followed in turn by him grabbing some clothes, some pills, and a ten minute walk across the station to the office reserved for Hikari Yutani.
"Hello sir," said one of his doppelgangers. "May I-"
"No, you can't," Bishop snapped, as he kept walking. As he swallowed some more pills, and tried to ignore the trembling in his hand.
There actually wasn't that much security once he flashed his card for the executive wing. The androids' defence systems could trigger if there was an actual threat, but he was their father. Their creator. Michael Bishop was no threat to the Company, as far as they knew.
Even so, arriving at Yutani's door, his card couldn't wave him in. So instead, with one hand to his head and another to a button, he spoke into the office's intercom.
"Yutani, it's Bishop."
There was no answer.
"Yutani, open up."
Still, no answer.
"Miss Yutani, open this door right now or I'll-"
The door hissed open. And there, at her desk, sat Hikari Yutani. Staring at a pocket watch of all things.
"Ten minutes, thirty-three seconds," she murmured. She looked at Bishop. "Impressive. I actually thought you'd spend at least five minutes wallowing in misery before going on the warpath."
"I…what…?"
"Oh Michael, I know you too well." She gestured to the rickety wooden chair opposite her desk. "Please, have a seat. I imagine we have a lot to discuss."
Bishop wasn't sure what bothered him more. The obvious bait, or that Yutani wasn't even making an attempt to hide it. Despite her name meaning "Light" in Japanese, Hikari Yutani brought anything but.
"Thank you," he murmured, as he took it.
But, his head was still pounding. And sitting helped. A little. But since Hikari was hardly a bringer of light, and more a spider that had invited a fly into her web.
"So then," Yutani said, "let's get down to brass tacks. You just received your assignment, and you're here to do…what, exactly?"
Bishop tried to speak, but no words came out. His headache had become so bad, even talking had become an effort.
"I mean, I actually expected you to come in, but I was genuinely curious as to what argument you'd have against it."
"It…it's…" He swallowed some more pills, and put his pad on the table. "You're assigning me to the Patna."
"Yes?" She asked, fluttering her eyelashes. "It's the ship you've commanded for quite some time, though Captain Augustine might dispute that."
Bishop struggled to find his words. "Augustine, you…you're sending me to LH-1147."
"Really? Imagine that."
"That's a year's travel!"
"Two years, actually," Yutani murmured. "One year there, one year back, not to mention the time you'll spend on the planet looking for xenomorphs."
Bishop stared at her.
"Or above it, I suppose." She smiled. "But then, you don't even need to come back to Sol. The Patna can be well supplied by Anchorpoint Station."
"This…you…" He swallowed more pills. "You said that the research program would keep going."
"Yes, I did."
"But you're sending me into deep space?!"
"Michael, If you'd bothered to look at the data, you'd know that deep-space recon indicates the presence of a nest. Since our sources of nasty beastie have run dry close to Sol, we have to go further afield."
"We?" Bishop whispered. "Or me?"
He hadn't meant it as a joke. But Yutani sniggered all the same.
"What's your game?" He rasped.
Yutani sighed. "I'm disappointed, Michael. I really am. I expected you to do something as stupid as barging in here like an arse-impaled buffalo, but I didn't expect you to be so stupid as to not suss things out." She raised an eyebrow. "Are the headaches really that bad?"
Bishop, his eyes stinging, his head pounding, didn't answer.
"Thought so."
Apparently, however, it was all the answer Yutani needed.
"Well, it's simple," she said. "There's a lot of potential in this species, from weaponry to medicine. As CEO, it's my job to go after profit where I see it."
"That's not…the only reason…"
"No, it isn't. Because by doing this, I get you out of my hair for the next two years. More, if I feel like it."
Bishop stared at her. Yutani just leant back in her chair, putting her hands together. Her fingers weaving in and out like a nest of serpents.
"Why?" He whispered.
"Oh Bishop, don't be so naive," she said. "The Company's always put stock in blood, even if that's not on the books. There's a reason why there were holos of Peter and Charles Weyland in that boardroom, and there's a reason why more than one member of my family has been CEO since the time of Hideo Yutani."
Bishop, his eyes widening, began to understand.
"You're a descendent of the Weylands, so you have more clout than your position might otherwise carry. So, I send you to the far reaches of space, I get you out of the way. Either you procure some valuable specimens, or you die a most unpleasant death." She fluttered her eyelashes again. "Either way, I win."
Bishop had trouble speaking. But nevertheless, he managed to whisper, "that's why you supported me. In the meeting."
"In part, yes. Though I had second thoughts – wondered if I should just cut you loose." She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Frankly, Michael, you're an embarrassment. Two of your Bishop androids have gone rogue, you let Ellen Ripley escape your grasp, and an entire Wey-Sec detachment was lost on Acheron. And that's not even dealing with the fallout of us having to pay off the Americans who, shock of all shocks, are just a mite annoyed that they've lost two Conestogas, plus associated crew."
"I…you…"
"Yes, I know," she snapped. "It's not your fault, you couldn't predict it, blah blah blah. Frankly, I kind of agree with you. But it's irrelevant." She leant forward. "You're irrelevant. And if you want to crawl your way back to relevancy, Michael, that's something you'll have to do on your own time."
Time, he thought. So little time. His head, pounding by the second, measuring the passage of time. He reached for some more pills, and found, to his horror, that he'd run out.
"Now then," Yutani said, as the door hissed open. "Please go. Mister Knight will accompany you to your quarters."
"Mister…?" Bishop turned around, his eyes widening, as he saw a Knight-model android standing behind him. Not a military android per se (those were technically illegal), but with plenty of sub-routines. A bending of the law, rather than the breaking of one.
Breaking, however, was what Knights did. Spirits and necks alike.
"Goodbye, Michael."
Bishop unsteadily got to his feet. He let Knight guide him to the door, with a firm and steady hand. But it stopped short, as Bishop looked back at Yutani.
"This isn't the last you'll hear from me," he rasped.
"Oh, I doubt that," she said. "After all, in space, no-one can hear you scream."
The words sent a chill down his spine.
But not nearly as much as seeing the way she smiled.
A/N
So, the idea for this came from what's apparently been confirmed as something James Cameron actually did when pitching Aliens. As in, in a room with executives, he wrote ALIEN on the blackboard/whiteboard, then ALIENS, then changed it to ALIEN$. Apparently this was enough to get the executives to greenlight the sequel.
Drabbled this up as a result.