1. Weyland Yutani

WEYLAND YUTANI

If Gateway Station was a prison, then Carter Burke was serving a life sentence. After what had been a promising to start to his career – high marks at Penn, fast tracked into the Weyland Yutani Executive Training program - he’d stalled out at Junior Executive and was unceremoniously dumped into this dreary labyrinth of decrepit orbital conference rooms to oversee Special Projects, whatever that meant.

It wasn’t all bad though. The Nostromo case had practically fallen into his lap. Ripley’s testimony had been flatly rejected by the commission. The insurance suits were licking their chops. Her flight status had been revoked and she was on psychometric probation. If even part of her story was true, after 57 years there were certainly some exclusive rights to be had – if one was clever enough to extract them.

He leaned back in his chair, considering. It was clear that the leverage was all his. And if the story wasn’t true? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time someone lost their mind in the far reaches of space. That narrative was already alive and well in the commission debrief report. All it would need is a little nudge in the right direction…

Burke flipped the switch on the battered terminal in front of him. It was green screen tech, and woefully obsolete. The company had to pull the entire line because the techs kept having seizures. Something about the quality of the light. Burke didn’t mind though. After all, obsolescence was just a matter of perspective. He may not be in the golden boys club anymore, but he sure knew an opportunity when he saw one. “Fate favors the bold” he mused quietly; and began to type.

**FOR COLONY OPERATIONS MANAGER EYES ONLY LV-426 HADLEY’S HOPE**

******************************USE DECODE STRING AB1********************************

PRIORITY 1: Investigate potential BERYLLIUM DEPOSIT at coordinates ******AB1******.

Report findings to BURKE, CARTER J “WY GATEWAY 0419” at earliest possible opportunity. This is an expedited, urgent request.

ACKNOWLEDGE

 ************************************END MESSAGE***************************************

2. The Derelict

THE DERELICT

Anne Jorden dragged what remained of her husband through a nightmare blur of biomechanical corridors and blind junctions. She was sure he was already dead. He had to be. The cold, stale air tore at her lungs and she struggled to catch her breath. One more left, then a right. Thank God for the marking flares. There had been a hollow whooshing sound and a wet thump. Russ must have fallen. When she turned all she could see was that thing covering his face. It seemed to obliterate all reality. It must have come from one of those oblong structures they had passed. Had to have. The one next to Russ had looked different somehow. Like it had opened. Those objects surrounded them now like a silent sea. The animal part of her brain began to panic and her bladder let go in a warm rush. She’d turned to flee and tripped over Russ’s arm. He was splayed out in front of the only exit. He must have made some sort of sound. Had to have. Russ always wore a shoulder harness. She grabbed it and pulled with all of her strength. Maybe he was still alive. Maybe there was still a chance to salvage something from everything that had gone so wrong.

After some time she emerged into the howling winds of Acheron. The battered Daihotai they had spent the last of their savings on was a suggestion of a silhouette in the (Morning? Was it morning?) gloom. It seemed an eternity away.

Her daughter’s ear-piercing shriek snapped her out of her daze and back to reality. The wailing was like an ice pick in her brain. She must have managed to drag Russ this far because he was sprawled half in and half out of the cab and her numbed fingers were fumbling at the radio controls. Her son Tim was huddled in the far corner - mute with shock. All the blood seemed to have drained from his body. If he was breathing she couldn’t immediately tell.

“Newt! Please! I…”

Some part of her recognized that the thing on Russ’s face was in clear view. It couldn’t be helped. All of this commotion over a little spider she thought dully. But this was no spider she had ever seen. She began to laugh and feared she’d never stop. This is hysterical, this…

The radio brayed to life with a burst of static. She must have turned it on in the chaos. The voice on the end was mostly unintelligible. She shouted into the handset:

“ALPHA KILO OH FOUR NINER, REQUEST IMMEDIATE MEDICAL EVAC. COORDINATES……WE NEED HELP. RUSS…..RUSS HAS….THIS IS AN EMERGENCY….WE NEED A TEAM STANDING BY.”

This went on for some time. The dream of the frontier had turned to ashes in her mouth.

3. Technical Difficulties

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

Al Simpson was in a sour mood. There had been some kind of incident with one of the Wildcatters that apparently needed his immediate attention. Probably another contract dispute. It’s always something on this rock he thought to himself. Accepting the promotion to Colony Operations Manager had seemed like a great idea at the time. Now, out here at the ass end of space, he wasn’t so sure.

He was just getting up to leave when a haggard looking Bill Andrews stepped through the doorway and into his office. Bill was the maintenance chief on Acheron, and as volatile as the weather.

“Got a minute, Al?” He took off his hardhat and wiped his brow with the oil-stained rag that hung perpetually from his back pocket. His face was set in a grimy scowl which the rag only seemed to make worse. Simpson wondered offhand if he had ever washed it - or himself, for that matter.

“Sure, have a seat.” Simpson said impassively.

Bill Andrews did not sit.

“The new amplifiers we installed in the transmitter just fried all of the relays between the dish and operations. Hazard a guess why?”

Simpson stared at him blankly. “You’re the maintenance chief, you tell me.”

“They were the wrong spec. I chewed out Weitz for the screwup but then I checked the log and saw that you changed the parts requisition.”

Simpson sighed. “Look, orders come to me and I push them through. I either hear nothing back and the part appears on the next supply ship or it comes back red. When it comes back red I switch it out with something the company will pay for. That one must have come back red. I can’t keep track of them all.”

“Well you need to keep track of this one” Andrews said tightly. He took a breath and his face flushed crimson. “When I specifi….”

Simpson cut him off. “How long?”

Andrews exhaled. “Eighty hours, maybe more depending on what parts we have on hand.” His face was returning to its normal, grimy coloring. He turned to leave.

“Off-world comms will be down for the interim.”

4. Russ Jorden

RUSS JORDEN

Russ Jorden was fine until he wasn’t. He didn’t remember much past walking into that derelict ship and that suited him just fine. The techs had told him that he’d been brought in with some kind of organism attached to his face, which he took to mean that they had no idea what it was. Apparently, it had fallen off on its own and died a short time later. It was an incredible story to say the least, impossible on a good day. But when he woke up there it was floating in stasis like a dead octopus with fingernails. The dread that ran through his body when he saw it was a cold electric shock and he vomited despite himself. That had been unpleasant. Soon enough he was feeling more-or-less normal again, and that was a fine thing. Hungry with a bit of a nagging headache, but no worse for wear.

He'd been cleared for light duty and on his way to the motor pool when what must have been heartburn flared up in his chest. Probably ate too much too fast, Russ. Denial is a powerful thing. What happened next is hard to say because the only person who saw it was the Jones boy, who would later say through hitching sobs that Russ Jorden was trying to throw up all of his internal organs at the same time. When the medical team arrived they found the small service corridor covered in an impossible amount of gore and Russ Jorden in the center of it, a gaping hole in his chest.

5. Medlab

MEDLAB

“Come in and shut the door behind you.”

Dr. Simon Matthews stood in the corner of the room. He usually wore glasses. He wasn’t wearing them now.

Al Simpson sat down. The room was cramped and packed with supplies. There was a large monitor on the far wall.

“I’m sure you’ve heard by now about Russ Jorden” Matthews said, before adding “about him coming back with an organism of some kind attached to his face.”

Simpson nodded. “I couldn’t believe it was real. Part of me still doesn’t.” He paused and looked up at the doctor. “From what I understand though, the thing fell off and died before it did any real damage to him. It’s floating in stasis and he’s back on light duty in the motor pool. Has that situation changed?”

Matthews didn’t respond but brought up an image on the screen. The individual in it had been brutalized so savagely that it wasn’t immediately clear who it was.

“Is that…”

“Jorden, yes.” He punched a command and the image flipped to a medical report. Simpson was grateful for the change.

“Found in the service corridor. He spasmed so hard that he broke his own back. The capillaries in his eyeballs ruptured and he tore every single ligament in his neck.”

“Jesus. All of this from a seizure? An allergic reaction? Did he have a condition or did it infect him with some kind of...alien virus? Is he contagious??” Simpson’s head began to spin. An outbreak of an unknown disease would absolutely go on official record. It was a matter of policy.

“There’s more.” Matthews said, and the screen changed again. This time, to a close-up of a chest wound.

Simpson thought he might be sick. “So, he was murdered then. Shot at close range.” A small sense of relief, he was ashamed to say, had started to bloom in the far recesses of his mind. “But…why would anyone…”

Matthews cut him off. “Murdered, yes, in a sense. More like killed. Take a closer look at the wound. His ribcage is splayed out. Whatever did this to him came from inside his chest. We examined the chest cavity. It was torn apart. Hollowed out from the inside like something was feeding on him. Half of his organs were missing and the others were shredded beyond any hope of repair.” He swallowed and turned the display off.

“The creature must have implanted something in his chest, which tore its way out of him with a shocking level of violence.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “And now it’s loose. We need to get ahead of this thing before it spirals. Call a meeting.”

Simpson nodded slowly and got up to leave. “Keep me apprised of any developments in the meantime. ”

6. Stockyards

STOCKYARDS

It was a lousy assignment on a lousy planetoid at the ass end of the outer rim. And if that wasn’t enough, the livestock count was off again for the third time this week. He’d chalked the last few times up as miscounts and fudged the numbers to cover, but this time Simpson was really going to chew his ass. He sighed and let the clipboard fall. It was a one of those cheap composite affairs that attached to the wall with a ball chain so no one could wander off with it. Not that anyone would ever want to all the way out here.

On a clear night, he would have been able to see his breath hanging in the air. There were no clear nights on Acheron though. The weather only seemed to come in two varieties, gloomy and lousy. This particular evening was firmly in the lousy category. The wind was howling and the single weather barrier they’d spent months erecting didn’t do shit. The Company claimed the wind only blew from one direction so the one barrier was all they’d need, which was some cost saving horseshit if he’d ever heard it.

“Fuck Simpson and his cows.”

He fished around for the pack of cigarettes he kept in the front pocket of his coveralls before thinking better of it and checking his watch. 18:40. An emergency town hall meeting had been scheduled in twenty minutes. Normally he would skip something like this without a second thought and pick up the gossip at the Hooch. Rumors got around quickly on Acheron, and the bar was usually the prime marketplace for them. This one was unusual though in that attendance was mandatory under penalty of partial forfeiture of shares. I came all the way out to the ass end of space to argue about shares he thought to himself and laughed.

“THE DREAM OF THE FRONTIER!” he shouted into the maelstrom.

It did not reply.

7. Town Hall

TOWN HALL

Simpson glanced at his watch, a gift from the company for 10 years of service on the outer rim. The finish had long since worn away, but it worked and still had a bit of a shine to it in the right lighting - which was good enough for now, all things considered. Lydecker’s suggestion to tie attendance to forfeiture of shares had been a good one, but there were still far more empty seats than he expected. The science and medical teams he could understand, but there were notable absences from colonial administration, maintenance, and company affairs, which was worrisome. On top of that, docking pay on the rim could have dire consequences, if it was even legal. Simpson frowned and hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The last thing he needed was a riot. He cleared his throat.

“If you could all take your seats I’d like to get started.”

The idle chatter in the room died down.

“I know you’re all busy so I’ll get right to the point. Some of you may have heard about the discovery of a derelict ship of unknown origin by Anne and Russ Jorden a few days ago.”

He paused, reading the room before continuing.

“What you may not have heard is that Russ Jorden came back with some kind of parasite attached to his face. We tried to remove it but it started to cut off his airway in response. Eventually it let him go on its own accord. We found it lying next to him, dead.”

There was a stunned silence.

“A short time later Russ was up and talking. He had no recollection of the event and seemed fine. The medical team checked him out and he was cleared to return to light duty in the motor pool. The specimen was placed in stasis and the science team began its analysis. This is a creature unlike any we’ve encountered before. There’s no limit to what we can learn from it.”

“So where’s Russ now?” This from Tom Lewis, a Daihotai mechanic. “I worked the motor pool yesterday and he never showed. I figured he was off counting the credits from his big find. I ended up having to cover so I think I’m entitled to at least a partial share.”

There were scattered shouts of approval.

“Jorden sucks face with a parasite and we have to pick up the slack? I think we all deserve a slice of that find.”

The situation was beginning to deteriorate, and Simpson was losing his cool.

“Russ Jorden is dead,” Simpson said plainly.

Lydecker, who up until this point had been watching the Colony Operations Manager lose the room with a detached interest suddenly sat bolt upright. “Wait a minute Al, I thought…”

“The medical team found him a few nights ago in the service corridor leading to the garage. I’ll spare you the details but we believe that the parasite laid something inside his chest that, ah…” He wet his lips. “…Emerged violently from his chest cavity, killing him instantly. There was one witness but…well…we’re still talking to him but what he’s saying just…doesn’t make any sense.”

There was a beat and then it seemed that everyone began to shout at the same time. Simpson stood and slammed his fist on the table in front of him. Lydecker eyed him coolly.

“Here’s the situation. We need to find this thing, and fast. We don’t know what it is or what it’s capable of. We don’t even know what it looks like, nobody actually saw it. It may have escaped into the ventilation system, but we can’t be sure.” This was met with an uneasy silence.

“I’ll need some volunteers. Bonuses will be paid.”

8. The Search Party

THE SEARCH PARTY

It turned out that searching the entirety of Hadley’s Hope was a larger undertaking than anyone had anticipated. It took the better part of two full days to search the core colony structures, staff quarters, and maintenance levels, which didn’t turn up much outside of a few new repair tickets and a rusted moonshine still. For all intents and purposes it was looking like this little incident might just solve itself. Maybe this whole thing was an overreaction, and the parasite just crawled off and died somewhere. Or maybe there wasn’t a parasite at all, and Russ Jorden was just the victim of some kind of bizarre work accident. This is the outer rim after all, sometimes unusual things happen. It wasn’t until Andrews suggested they expand the sweep to the outbuildings and east wing construction offices toward the landing grid that the gravity of the situation became woefully apparent. Lydecker was alone in operations when the search team came in.

“What’s the update?” Lydecker asked.

“I think we’ve got a serious problem here” Hal Lewis said. The team had been at it all night and Hal certainly looked it. “We found three more of those things, but they were all dead. We dropped them off with the science team for analysis.”

“Go on.”

“It also looks like something got into the livestock pens. One of the doors was torn clear off the hinges. We’ve had a hell of a time rounding the loose animals up. We must have missed some because the count is off by a substantial margin.” There was a pot of coffee sitting on the warmer and Lewis picked it up. “This still good? Can I use this mug?”

Lydecker nodded and Lewis poured himself a cup. His hands were shaking.

“We were all about ready to call it a night right then and there. If you would have seen those hinges…no person could have done that.” He took a deep swallow of the coffee. Its warmth seemed to do him some good. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Then I practically tripped over Lopez and Martin. They were laid out in the pen, unconscious.”

Lydecker’s blood ran cold. “Did they have…”

Lewis nodded. “Yeah, both of them. They’re laid out in medical right now. And honestly Brad, I suspect there are more that we haven’t found yet. We need to get a headcount going and fast. Where’s Simpson?”

Lydecker hadn’t seen the Colony Operations Manager all evening. “Probably in the old admin wing. I’ll find him.”

9. Simpson

SIMPSON

We’re really in it now Lydecker thought as the door to operations slid closed behind him. That little “oh shit” voice in the back of his mind was starting to develop some bass. He shook his head, clearing the thought. The admin wing (to call it a wing was an overstatement if there ever was one) was in reality a handful of offices at the tail end of  a series of disused corridors, ostensibly held for visiting Weyland Yutani suits when they were on site - which they never were. Simpson had more-or-less claimed them as his own, mostly because no one ever went over there or cared enough to complain.

Lydecker reached the junction to the administrative wing and came to an abrupt stop. The previously benign corridors of level 2 had suddenly taken on a malevolent quality. Loose papers were strewn about the hallway like someone had inadvertently left a window open during a storm. The trouble was the windows in Hadley’s Hope didn’t open. Lydecker willed himself forward, hoping that there had to be some kind of simple explanation, that Simpson would be sitting in his usual spot poring over reports and had just lost track of time. That happened sometimes. This time was different.

 The room was a complete mess. Wind and rain poured in from a gaping hole in the shatterproof window pane, which explained the papers in the hallway. The blinds were torn and streaked with gore. There was a half-eaten donut sitting next to a mug of coffee on the desk. It was the clear variety reserved for company meetings, not for rank and file employee use. Lydecker dipped a finger absently into the mug. It was still warm.

WIP TO BE CONTINUED