Alien 3

  It was flat and flexible. At first he thought it was an old uniform, but when he had it out in the main duct he saw that it was some kind of animal skin. It was dark and shiny, more like metal foil than flesh. Funny stuff.

  Stretching it out on the floor he saw that it was big enough to enclose two men, or a young calf. What the hell…?

  Then he knew. There were a few large native animals on Fiorina; poor, dirt-hugging primitive things with feeble nervous systems and slow response times. Obviously one had somehow stumbled into an air intake and, unable to get out again, had perished for lack of food and water. It couldn’t use the ladders, and the roaring fan constituted an impenetrable barrier. He poked at the empty skin. This desiccated husk was all that remained of the unfortunate visitor. No telling how long it had lain in the recess, ignored and unnoticed.

  The skin looked awfully fresh to have contained an old, long since dried-out corpse. The bugs, he reminded himself. The bugs would make short work of any flesh that came their way. It was interesting. He hadn’t known that the bugs would eat bone.

  Or maybe there’d been no bones to dispose of. Maybe it had been a… what was the word? An invertebrate, yeah. Something without bones. Wasn’t Fiorina home to those too? He’d have to look it up, or better yet, ask Clemens. The medic would know. He’d bundle the skin up and take it to the infirmary. Maybe he’d made a discovery of some kind, found the skin of a new type of animal. It would look good on his record.

  Meanwhile he wasn’t getting any work done.

  Turning, he burned off a couple of deposits clinging to the lower right-hand curve of the duct. That’s when he heard the noise. Frowning, he shut off the laser and flicked on the safety as he turned to look behind him. He’d about decided that his imagination was starting to get to him when he heard it again, a kind of wet, lapping sound.

  There was a slightly larger recess a few metres down the duct, a sometime storage area for supplies and tools. It should be empty now, cleaned out, the supplies stocked elsewhere and the tools salvaged by the departing maintenance personnel. But the gurgling noise grew louder the nearer he crept.

  He had to bend to see inside. Wishing he had a light, he squinted in the reflected glow from the duct. There was something moving, an indistinct bulk in the darkness. The creature that had shed its skin? If so and he could bring it out alive he was sure to receive an official Company commendation. Maybe his unanticipated contribution to the moribund state of Fiorinan science would be worth a couple of months off his sentence.

  His eyes grew accustomed to the weak illumination. He could see it more clearly now, make out a head on a neck. It sensed his presence and turned towards him.

  He froze, unable to move. His eyes widened.

  Liquid emerged suddenly in a tight, concentrated stream from the unformed monster’s mouth, striking the paralyzed prisoner square in the face. Gas hissed as flesh melted on contact with the highly caustic fluid. Murphy stumbled backward, screaming and clawing at his disintegrating face.

  Smoke pouring through his clutching fingers, he staggered away from the recess, bouncing off first one wall then the other. He had no thought of where he was going, or where he was. He thought of nothing save the pain. He did not think of the fan.

  When he stumbled into the huge blades they shredded him instantly, sending blood and ragged chunks of flesh splattering against the metalwork of the duct. It would have taken some time for his erstwhile friends to have found him if his skull hadn’t been caught just right between one blade and the casing. Fouled, the safeties took over and shut down the mechanism. The motor stopped and the blades ground to a halt. Down the main corridor a previously quiet fan automatically picked up the slack.

  Then it was quiet again in the side shaft except for the distant, barely audible noise which emerged from the old storage recess, a perverse mewling hiss there was no longer anyone present to overhear.

  * * *

  Clemens’s quarters were luxurious compared to those of the other prisoners. He had more space and, as the facility’s medical technician, access to certain amenities denied his fellow Fiorinans. But the room was comfortable only by comparison. It would not have passed muster on the most isolated outpost on Earth.

  Still, he was aware of his unique position, and as grateful as he could be under the circumstances. Recently those circumstances had become a great deal better than normal.

  Ripley shifted beneath the bedsheets of the cot, stretching and blinking at the ceiling. Clemens stood across the floor, near the built-ins. A narcostick smoked between his lips as he poured something dark and potent from a canister into a glass. For the first time she saw him with his official cowl down. The imprinted code on the back of his shaven skull was clearly visible.

  Turning, he saw her looking at him and gestured with the container.

  ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink, but you’re on medication.’

  She squinted. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘It would surprise you.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve already surprised me.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He held the glass up to the light. ‘The medical instrumentation the Company left behind is rudimentary, but sophisticated enough in its way. Since we can’t always rely on supply drops I have to be able to synthesize quite a range of medications. The programme that synthesizes rubbing alcohol doesn’t take much adjusting to turn out something considerably more palatable.’ He sipped at the contents of the glass, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘A small hobby, but a rewarding one.’

  ‘Does Andrews know?’ she asked him.

  ‘I don’t think so. I sure as hell haven’t told him. If he knew, he’d order me to stop. Say it was bad for morale and dangerous if the other men knew I could do it. I couldn’t disagree with him there. But until he does find out, I’ll go on happily rearranging ethyl molecules and their stimulating relations to suit my own personal needs.’ He held the canister over an open tumbler. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll save you some. For later.’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. When I was in school recombinant synthetic chemistry was one of my better subjects.’ He hesitated. ‘Speaking of thoughtfulness, while I am deeply appreciative of your attentions, I also realize that they manifested themselves at just the right moment to deflect my last question. In the best possible way, of course. I wouldn’t want you to think for a minute that I’d have had it any other way. But the damn thing has a grip on me and won’t let loose.’

  She stared up at him, his glass held delicately in one hand. ‘You’re spoiling the mood.’

  ‘That’s not my intention. But I’m still a medical officer and one does have a job to do, and frankly, the more effort you put into avoiding the issue, the more curious I am to find out why. What were you looking for in the girl? Why were you so insistent on having the bodies cremated?’

  ‘I get it. Now that I’m in your bed, you think I owe you an answer.’

  He replied patiently. ‘Trying to get me mad isn’t going to work either. No, you owe me an answer because it’s my job to get one and because I stuck my neck out for you to give you what you wanted. Being in my bed has nothing to do with it.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Your nonresponsiveness in this matter is likely to complicate our future relationship no end.’

  She sighed resignedly and turned onto her side. ‘It’s really nothing. Can’t we just leave it at that? When I was in deep sleep I had a real bad dream.’ She shut her eyes against the gruesome memory. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I just had to be sure what killed her.’

  She looked back up at the medic. ‘You have no idea what my recent life has been like or what I’ve been through. It would make your wildest nightmares seem like the fuzzy musings of an innocent five-year-old. I know that I’ll never forget any of it. Never! But that doesn’t keep me from trying. So if I seem a little irrational or unreasonably insistent about certain things, try to indulge me. Believe me
, I need that. I need someone to be concerned about me for a change. As far as Newt… as far as the girl is concerned, I made a mistake.’

  His thumb caressed the side of the small glass he held as he nodded slowly, tight-lipped and understanding. ‘Yes, possibly.’

  She continued to stare at him. ‘Maybe I’ve made another mistake.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Fraternizing with the prisoners. Physical contact. That’s against the rules, isn’t it?’

  ‘Definitely. Who was the lucky fellow?’

  ‘You, dummy.’

  Clemens eyed her uncertainly. ‘I’m not a prisoner.’

  She gestured. ‘Then what about the code on the back of your head?’

  His hand went reflexively to the back of his skull. ‘I suppose that does demand an explanation. But I don’t think this is the moment for it. Sorry. We are rather spoiling things, aren’t we?’ The intercom buzzed for attention. He looked apologetic as he moved to acknowledge the call.

  ‘Got to respond. I’m not allowed the luxury of refusing calls. This isn’t Sorbonne Centrale.’ He flicked on the two-way. A thin, poorly reproduced voice filtered through.

  ‘Clemens?’

  The medic shot her a resigned look. ‘Yes, Mr. Aaron.’

  ‘Andrews wants you to report to Vent Shaft Seventeen in the Second Quadrant. ASAP. We’ve had an accident.’

  Suddenly involved, he turned to make certain the omnidirectional mike built into the unit got a good dose of his reply. ‘Something serious?’

  ‘Yeah, you could call it that,’ the assistant told him. ‘One of the prisoners on work detail got diced.’ The unit clicked off abruptly.

  ‘Damn.’ Clemens drained his glass and set it down on the console, turning back to his guest. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go. Official duties.’

  Ripley tensed slightly, fingering the glass. ‘I was just starting to enjoy the conversation. As opposed to other things.’

  ‘How do you think I feel?’ he muttered as he popped a closet and began removing clothes.

  ‘Maybe I should come along.’

  He glanced back at her. ‘Better that you don’t. It’s one thing if I’m seen as treating you as part of my regular rounds. If everyone starts noticing us together all the time with you looking decidedly healthy, it might inspire questions. And talk. Among these guys, the less talk the better.’

  ‘I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.’

  He stepped into work trousers. ‘Those are the two things you have to do to survive on Fiorina. Also, I don’t think your presence would be appreciated by Superintendent Andrews. Wait here and take it easy.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘I’ll be back.’

  She said nothing further, looking distinctly unhappy.

  * * *

  There wasn’t much to examine. Hell, Clemens thought as he surveyed the carnage inside the air duct, there wasn’t much to bury. Cause of death was a foregone conclusion. There were as many stains on the motionless fan as on the walls.

  It didn’t make a lot of sense. Men regularly stepped on or brushed against ragged metal edges and cut themselves, or fell off catwalks, or injured themselves trying to body surf in the choppy bay, but they knew intimately the potential dangers of the mothballed mine and studiously avoided them. The giant fan was a threat impossible to dismiss or overlook.

  Which didn’t necessarily mean the unfortunate and now deceased Murphy was innocent of fooling around. He could have been running, or sliding on the slick ductwork, or just teasing the blades with his broom. He must have slipped, or had part of his clothing caught up in the works. They’d never know, of course. No reason to assign two men to duct cleaning duty. Murphy had been working alone.

  Aaron was evidently of similar mind. The assistant was staring grimly at the fan. ‘He was a nutter. I gave him the assignment. I should’ve known better, should’ve sent somebody else, or at least paired him up with someone a little more stable.’ Behind them prisoner Jude continued to mop up.

  Andrews was quietly furious. Not because Murphy was dead, but because of the circumstances. They would not reflect favourably on him. Besides which it would mean more paperwork.

  ‘No apologies, Mr. Aaron. It wasn’t your fault. From the look of it, it wasn’t anybody’s fault except perhaps Mr. Murphy’s, and he paid for it.’ He looked to his medic. ‘Your observations, Mr. Clemens?’

  The tech shrugged. ‘Not really much to say, is there? Cause of death is unarguably obvious. I doubt he felt any discomfort. I’m sure it was instantaneous.’

  ‘No shit.’ Aaron surveyed the widely scattered human debris with unconcealed distaste.

  ‘I am trying to concoct a scenario,’ the superintendent continued. ‘For the report, you understand. I find it difficult to believe that he simply stumbled into so blatant a danger, one in whose proximity he had spent some time working. Perhaps he was pulled in?’

  Clemens pursed his lips. ‘Possible. I’m neither physicist nor mechanic—’

  ‘None of us are, Mr. Clemens,’ Andrews reminded him. ‘I am not asking you to render judgement, but simply to offer your opinion on the matter.’

  The medic nodded. ‘A sudden rush of air might do it, I would imagine. Power surge resulting in exceptional suction. Only—’

  ‘Right,’ Aaron said quickly. ‘Almost happened to me once, in the main quadrant. Four years ago. I always tell people, keep an eye out for the fans. They’re so damn big and solid and steady, you don’t think of the unexpected happening in their vicinity.’ He shook his head steadily. ‘Doesn’t matter how much I talk. Nobody listens.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Clemens agreed, ‘except that before I came down I checked the programming, and the fan was blowing. A power surge should’ve sent him spinning up the duct, not flying into the blades.’

  Aaron’s gaze narrowed, then he shrugged mentally. Let the superintendent and the medic work it out. It was their responsibility. Meant nothing to him. He’d offered his reasoning, done the best he could. He was sorry for Murphy, but what the hell. Accidents happened.

  Clemens strolled up the duct tunnel, studying the walls. The bloodstains diminished gradually.

  There was a large recess in the left side of the tunnel and he knelt to peer inside. It was a typical ancillary storage chamber, long since cleaned out. As he started to rise and move on, something caught his eye and caused him to hesitate.

  It looked like a spill. Not blood. Some kind of chemical discolouration. The normally smooth metal surface was badly pitted.

  Andrews had moved up silently to stand nearby. Now he joined the medic in studying the recess. ‘What’s that?’

  Clemens straightened. ‘I really don’t know. I just thought it looked funny. Probably been like that ever since the ductwork was installed.’ His indifference was somewhat forced and the superintendent picked up on it immediately, pinning the medic with his gaze. Clemens looked away.

  ‘I want to see you in my quarters in, say, thirty minutes,’ he said evenly. ‘If you please, Mr. Clemens.’

  He turned towards the rest of the search party, which was busy gathering up the remains of the dead man. ‘Right. This isn’t where I want to spend the rest of my day. Let’s finish up and get out so Mr. Troy can restart the unit and we can all get back to normal.’ He began shepherding the men towards the exit.

  Clemens lingered. As soon as he was certain Andrews was fully occupied with concluding the grisly cleanup, the medic returned to his examination of the damaged metal.

  * * *

  It was quiet as a tomb inside the EEV. Shattered consoles clung like pinned arachnids to the walls. Equipment lay where it had fallen from braces or spilled from cabinets. The pilot’s chair swung at an angle on its support shaft, like a drunken glove.

  A single light illuminated the chaotic interior. Ripley was working inside the burst bulkhead, alternating the laser cutter with less intrusive tools. A protective composite plate peeled away reluctantly to reveal a sealed panel beneath. Grat
ified, she went to work on the panel clips, using a special tool to remove them one at a time. The panel itself was clearly labelled:

  FLIGHT RECORDER

  DO NOT BREAK SEAL

  OFFICIAL AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED ISA 445

  As soon as the last clip was snapped off she removed the panel and set it aside. Beneath, a smooth-surfaced black box sat snug inside a double-walled, specially cushioned compartment. The compartment was dry and clean, with no lingering smell or dampness to suggest that it had been violated by the intrusive salt water of the bay.

  The latch on the side released smoothly and the box face slid aside, revealing readouts and flush-mounted buttons beneath the protective shield. She thumbed one and several telltales lit up instantly. Touching it again, she watched as they shut down.

  The box slipped freely out of its compartment. She set it gently on the deck, next to the light, and let her gaze once more rove the devastated interior of the emergency vehicle, trying to remember, trying to forget.

  Something moved behind her, scrabbling against the torn and broken superstructure. She whirled, panicky, as her eyes detected movement in the darkness.

  ‘Damn!’ she cried, slumping. ‘You trying to scare the life out of me?’

  Clemens paused in the cramped entrance, an incongruously boyish grin on his face. ‘Sorry, but the doorbell isn’t working.’ Straining, he stepped into the chamber. ‘You know, wandering about without an escort is really going to piss Superintendent Andrews off. Whatever you’re up to, putting yourself on his bad side isn’t going to help.’

  ‘Screw him. What about the accident?’ Her tone was intent, her expression earnest.

  ‘Very bad, I’m afraid.’ He leaned against some dangling wiring, backed off hastily when it threatened to come down around him. ‘One of the prisoners has been killed.’

  She looked concerned. ‘How?’

  ‘It wasn’t pretty. Sure you want to know?’

  She made a small noise. ‘If you’re worried about me fainting on you, you’ve got the wrong lady.’