ALIEN THE COLD FORGE Page 8

  “You can say that again,” she agrees. “Lucy may have been brilliant back on Earth, but she isn’t cut out for the contracts sector. Seems more like the bong-smoking Palo Alto type.”

  That can’t be a simple observation, given Dorian’s position within the Company. She’s trying to get him to cut Lucy’s project. But is it because she hates Lucy, or because she wants to preserve Blue’s funding?

  It’s understandable to take shots at Lucy. She’s weak, and jeopardizes the entire enterprise.

  “Doctor Janos’s communications array is in shambles, his data and his backups could be lost. He’s privately assured me that he can fix everything, but if I’m being blunt, I find that questionable. I’d be surprised if either project survives.”

  “That’s sad,” Anne says. “He was essentially done. Years of work just… flushed.”

  He stops, deliberately leaving out Glitter Edifice. He wants to see how she will interpret his silence. He runs his fingers along her shoulder and down her muscular arm— the arms that overpowered him in bed.

  “What about Doctor Marsalis’s project?” Her voice is measured, like someone pretending not to care.

  “Glitter Edifice is already a money sink, and Doctor Marsalis has been unwilling or unable to produce results. She hasn’t been forthcoming about her methods, nor about any discoveries regarding the creatures’ biology. On top of all that, she’s lost the vast majority of her data to the virus.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I’m tempted to seize her project assets, stuff her into cold storage, and place the whole thing under new management.”

  He knows Blue must’ve been working with Elise Coto, but he doesn’t yet know how. Simply firing her wouldn’t be nearly as sweet as exposing her secrets. Dorian glances down at Anne, and he wonders how else he can make her useful.

  “Blue, uh— Doctor Marsalis can be difficult, I know,” Anne says. “I think a lot of that is the way she presents things. I’m sure she’s made more progress than she’s telling you about.”

  “Anne,” he says, “I can only measure success by results, not vague assumptions of competence. Her project reports were falsified. Her boss was arrested, and now—conveniently—her local backups are gone.”

  “What?”

  “Yes,” he says, sitting up. “Now, I don’t doubt that the good doctor has been doing her job, but what job, and for whom?”

  “Jesus Christ,” she mumbles. “Look, I’m not comfortable talking about this when she’s fighting for her life in the next room.”

  “Anne,” Dorian continues, making sure to look directly into her eyes, “Blue is on Company medical care. If she loses this job, she won’t survive the trip back to Earth. If you know something that will make her valuable to us, now is the time to say so.”

  Anne recoils slightly, her arm drawing up over her breasts. He finds it a strange gesture, physical vulnerability felt under mental threat. Was it that he referred to Weyland-Yutani as “us?” He’ll make amends to her later, when he wants sex. He’ll offer up some morsel of usefulness, and she’ll try to fuck it out of him. Their relationship is transactional now, and that gives him the greatest possible comfort.

  Love is a fool’s game.

  “Listen…” she says. “Blue had a backup server that she was operating without supervision. I’m sure she found something important, because she never told me about it, not until the Silversmile outbreak.”

  “Whatever it holds, she needs to share,” he says. “The Company isn’t her personal piggy bank.”

  Anne relaxes, her arm falling back to her side.

  “Just… don’t fire her. She probably did something stupid. I mean, I know she does stupid things from time to time—”

  “I’m not going to fire her.”

  Not until he’s secured the server, and is on his way home.

  9

  ADRENALINE

  The central strut is only a little over half a mile, which means Dorian has to jog up and down it twenty times to break a sweat. He huffs along in an oxygen deprivation mask, trying to make his feet heavy and shoulders weak, but his body is far too invigorated by the latest developments.

  The ineptitude of the Cold Forge is spectacular. He’s going to cycle all the personnel off all the projects— including Anne, since she’s been withholding information about Blue. It’s going to be a bloodbath, and when he turns in his quarterlies he’ll have eliminated one of the largest cash hemorrhages on the Company books. His annual bonus is typically based on the cost-saving measures he’s taken, and this one will be off the charts.

  Footsteps sound behind him and he slows up a tick, allowing the newcomer to catch up. When he glances right he finds Josep maintaining a healthy clip, even though the man has circles under his eyes.

  “Morning, Doctor Janos.”

  “Morning, Director.” His voice is chipper, even if his face can’t follow suit. He’s puffy, and shows signs of stress. His greeting doesn’t rise at the end, either because he isn’t explaining something, or because he feels like a marked man. The two continue together in silence for a while. Dorian likes Josep’s form, his athletic prowess, his muscular shoulders and legs, but after two laps, he’s already having trouble keeping up. Has he been drinking?

  “Director,” Josep huffs. “A lot of the crew have been talking, and I want to give you a piece of friendly advice.”

  “Friendly advice,” he repeats. He’s heard the phrase before in fiction, but never in person. He knows what inevitably follows—a threat of some kind, typically veiled as a concern. What “friendly advice” could the crew of this abomination offer up?

  One of Dorian’s feet hits a misstep, and he nearly takes a tumble. Josep catches his arm and steadies him. Beneath his mask, Dorian burns with humiliation.

  “You okay, man?” Josep asks as they come clamoring to a halt.

  Who is this person, who thinks it’s okay to touch his betters? The meters come raining down on Dorian as they stop, and he inwardly curses Janos for the interruption. He’ll never get back to where he was—he’ll be too spent.

  “I’m fine.” He pulls back his arm. “I think you had some advice for me?”

  “Director, uh—” Janos pauses. He must’ve envisioned this going differently. “I just think that… you know, if there are some problems with our funding, you should tell us.”

  Dorian straightens up, forcing his breathing under control even though it makes him lightheaded. He’s going to show Janos how power plays work. He starts by stonewalling.

  “Some of us have been on this station for years,” the man continues. “We were looking forward to going home triumphant. I don’t want you to have a revolt on your hands, you know?”

  “You know” is the sort of thing someone says when they’re too scared to give their actual opinion. It’s a sheep’s bleat for the flock to join him.

  “Part of the benefit of having three project leads on the Cold Forge is that you can assist each other, right?” Dorian asks.

  “Yeah.” Janos looks confused. “Look, man, I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

  “I read your dossier. Didn’t you go to Berkeley? Specialized in computer science and cryptography?”

  “Yeah. I did.” Janos smooths down his massive mustaches. “Undergrad in chemistry from Stanford.”

  “Which is what enabled you to help with Silversmile.”

  “Yes.”

  Dorian sucks in a long breath, holding it even though his lungs beg for him to blast it from his lips. “So if you’re so fucking smart, how about you explain why an experimental virus wiped everything you’ve worked on since arriving here?”

  Janos looks at him as though he’s been punched.

  “Because it would seem to me,” Dorian continues, “that you’d have some basic goddamned precautions in place to stop exactly this from happening, Doctor Janos.”

  “I… I…” he stammers. He’s well outside the realm of expectation, and that’s something Dorian knows how to manipula
te. He raises his eyebrows.

  “And since we’re offering people friendly advice about how to do their jobs, here’s mine. Get your fucking resume up to date, and expect to be on the next long haul home unless you turn all of this around.”

  Janos’s face is priceless. He gapes like a fish, suffocating on the beach after a wave has brought it ashore. In a way, that’s what happened to him. A violent force came crashing along and lifted him out of his comfortable little world, depositing him out of reach and out of hope. It wouldn’t be the first time Dorian has seen something like this.

  “Maybe I phrased that wrong,” Dorian says, placing a hand on Josep’s shoulder. The man tenses at Dorian’s touch. A normal person would fear being struck, but that’s what makes the play work so well. Josep won’t lash out, but Dorian wants to prove it. He wants to show Josep what cowardice infests his heart.

  “You said you wanted to know where you stand,” Dorian says, looking into Josep’s shrunken irises. “That’s where you stand this very second—but it’s only because your project is in ruins, and you threatened me with revolt.”

  “It was a turn of phrase—”

  “You understand that it’s in your best interest,” Dorian says, raising a finger, “to shut up. Just… listen.”

  Josep straightens up, and Dorian takes his hand away.

  “You don’t have to lose your job. The next transport rotation isn’t for three months. If you can get Rose Eagle back online by then, hey… no harm, no foul. Or, you can find some other way to make yourself useful. You led your project to great success here, before it all came crashing down.” He lets a moment of silence pass between them to punctuate the tragic statement.

  Josep’s gaze drifts away.

  “Maybe you ought to be in charge of Silversmile. Help me understand the reasons that Lucy and Javier fucked this whole place up so badly. I can make the case to Corporate that you’re just a bystander in all of this. I can downplay your involvement with the virus, including your mishandling of information security. Would you like to see that happen, Doctor Janos?”

  Josep pulls the most pathetic face yet.

  “Lucy is my friend, Director.”

  It takes all of Dorian’s control not to laugh. “And what do you think she’s going to say to me when I start discussing which projects to cut? Do you think she’s going to remind me that you were just collateral damage, and that you don’t deserve to be let go? After all, her project still works. Her code is still intact. Where’s yours?”

  Gritted teeth. He knows Dorian is right. In the end, everyone is willing to turn on their friends to preserve what’s theirs. Josep can’t afford to go home empty-handed after all of this effort.

  “It may not come to that, you know. There’s always the chance you could get Rose Eagle back online. And hey, maybe you could help me with data recovery on Glitter Edifice. You’re a data genius, right?”

  Josep grimaces. “What do you mean? Doctor Marsalis lost her research along with mine.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Dorian says. “It looks like she took all of the precautions you should’ve, and set up a redundant, air-gapped private server. Of course, she hasn’t been forthcoming on the details. I guess it’s news to you, too.”

  He blanches and swallows hard. After the hangover and short jog, Dorian wonders if the man is going to throw up onto the deck.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well,” Dorian says, putting his hands onto his hips and stretching his back, “I’ve got three people who could lead that recovery effort: the evasive Doctor Blue Marsalis, the destructive Doctor Lucy Biltmore… and you. Any recommendations for how to tackle it? Maybe you could start by helping me locate the fucking thing.”

  “Sure…” he replies. “Well… as you said, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Dorian licks his lips. “I’ll let you get to it, sport.” Then he continues his jog, leaving Josep behind. As he passes the main station server room, he glances over the racks of Titus, pleased that it wasn’t hit by Silversmile. They might’ve lost life support.

  He had worried he wouldn’t be able to get back to his run, but the adrenaline of attacking Josep has given his muscles an effervescence they hadn’t possessed earlier this morning. A half-hour passes, and he’s able to drain away some of his zeal, forcing his body to keep moving. It’s going smoothly when heavy, slamming footfalls approach from behind, fast.

  Dorian spins on his heel, nearly toppling when he sees Blue closing on him with inhuman speed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dorian pants, bending over.

  “Apologies, Director Sudler,” Blue says. “I thought you would like me to join you running. My name is Marcus. Blue has asked me to inform you that she’s feeling better, and should be returning to work tomorrow.”

  Dorian squints at the artificial being. Marcus is what he would be, were he not saddled with humanity. Lean, lithe, and perfect. Dorian hates that he’s been rendered a panting wreck by his exercise routine. He stands up straight, inclining his head toward the synthetic.

  “And how is he?” he asks, but Marcus’s report reminds him of the frail woman lying in her bed, wasting away. “Uh, she?”

  Marcus gives him a pleasant smile. “Recuperating. Muscle relaxants, antibiotics, and painkillers to dull the aches of intubation. I expect her to be out for the remainder of the day.”

  Dorian frowns. “So she isn’t a party to our conversations?”

  “No, Director, though I am bound to care for her well-being, so I’ll brief her on the contents of our discussion.”

  Dorian chuckles to himself. There are so many pieces in play now, and he wouldn’t have dared try this with Blue in command of the body. She might recognize it. She might stop him.

  “Weyland-Yutani Master Override Alpha One Thirteen Authorization Sudler.”

  Marcus snaps to attention.

  INTERLUDE

  DICK

  The kennels are quiet. They’re always quiet when the blast doors are closed. The creatures only awaken when they sense an opportunity for escape—or when they sense people. Then the snatchers are happy to instill a bit of fear, regardless of whether or not there’s anything to gain.

  Dick walks the SCIF from room to room, checking for the fiftieth time to make sure that everything’s in its place. Without the threat of Kaufmann’s light, he’s had to rig up a shock system sensitive to sudden movements or loud noises. Move too fast, get a nasty shock. If they bleed, the cell will flood with lye, and if the beasts do anything too stupid, he’s happy to purge the entire block into space.

  Next, he walks to egg storage, where he spies twenty powered storage cases with meticulous climate control. They’re monitored for humidity and temperature, as well as galvanic skin response. They’re wired to incinerate and flood with lye as well, on the off chance that one of them opens up inside the box. If one of those skittering bastards were to get loose, Cold Forge would be down a crew member, no question.

  The litter of empty cases attests to the lateness of the project.

  His power loader exoskeleton stands idle in the back. Dick always dreads strapping into it, since the creatures watch him whenever he carries a storage case to Blue’s lab. He can’t shake the feeling that they know what he’s carrying, even if they can’t see it, can’t smell it.

  Lastly Dick heads to the chimp tank. He looks forward to seeing them every day, even if he’s going to kill them. They’re the only things on the stupid station that are always nice, even if they don’t speak a lick of English. He’ll probably take one of the thawed ones, feed him, check him over on the vet table, and put him back. It’ll be a lovely diversion from the darkening mood Dorian Sudler has brought with him. Dick knows he shouldn’t get attached, but the temptation for animal contact is too great.

  And yet, when he draws near, he hears screaming.

  They’re riled up from something like Dick has never heard before. Carefully he creeps to one of the many armories they’ve placed throughout the
kennel complex and takes a rifle. Sadly, it’s not one of the caseless ammo pulse rifles like the Colonial Marines use—that would punch holes in the space station. Dick doubts his gun would be enough if one of the bugs got loose, but the armories are a comfort to the scientists. He throws the bolt to chamber a round and slinks closer, not willing to take the safety off until he understands what’s going on.

  One of the cages is open, and Kambili Okoro has a beast on its back atop the vet table. Kambili wears a bloodstained surgeon’s gown and bonnet, and he’s digging around in the poor thing’s fucking neck. Fine strands of crimson drip from the table. Some kind of plastic tubing, like a sausage casing, hangs from a rack nearby.

  Okoro isn’t supposed to be down here. The chimps aren’t his department. This isn’t his shift, and even if it were, he isn’t supposed to harm them in front of the others. They’ve been careful in the past not to scare the animals. This will make their care and feeding much more difficult.

  The chimp moans as its compatriots beat on their glass. It’s crying. It’s not even well sedated, probably because Kambili lacks Dick’s veterinary training.

  “Oi!” Dick steps from the corner. “What the bloody hell is this?”

  Kambili raises his hands as though the rifle is being pointed at him, a skin-fusing iron in his grip. He doesn’t speak, and Dick can’t read his expression through the surgical mask.

  “Did you fucking hear me, mate?”

  The chimp on the operating table languidly raises a hand, questing toward some unseen object in the air. It’s not paralyzed.

  “Shit,” Dick mutters. “Step back!”

  Kambili has just long enough to mumble a confused reply before his patient bellows and snatches off half of his face.

  In that instant, time slows down. Kambili goes stumbling backward, hands rising, not fully aware of the cause of his newfound pain. The chimp kicks off the table, enraged, and its intestines come spilling out. Dick fires a shot, hitting it squarely in the chest.