Alan Dean Foster: Alien - 3

‘How do you know it wouldn’t?’

‘We’re talking complex bioengineered mutations here. How do you know that it would?’

The superintendent cursed under his breath, his troubled expression deepening. ‘There are at present twenty-five prisoners in this facility. They are caretakers second. All are double Y chromos — former career criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, arsonists, child molesters, drug dealers. . scum.’

He paused to let the litany sink in.

‘But scum that have taken on religion. It may make them appear and sound mellow, but I, for one, don’t think it makes them any less dangerous. However, I value its meliorating effect. So I try not to offend their convictions. They appreciate my tolerance and I’m rewarded with a greater amount of peace and quiet than you’d expect to find in a situation like this.

‘I don’t want to disturb the established order. I don’t want ripples in the water. And I most especially don’t want a woman walking around giving them ideas and stirring up memories which they have conveniently managed to bury in their respective pasts.’

‘Yes,’ Ripley agreed. ‘Obviously, as you’ve said, for my own personal safety. In addition to which, despite what you seem to think, I’m not entirely oblivious to the potential problems my temporary presence here creates for you.’

‘Exactly.’ Andrews was clearly pleased by her apparent desire to cooperate. Or in other words, to make life as easy as possible for him. He glanced back at the med tech. ‘I will leave the details of the cremation to you, Mr. Clemens.’ He turned to leave.

‘Just one thing, Superintendent.’

Andrews halted. ‘Yes?’

‘When I’m done, will you be wanting a time and circumstances report? For the official log, of course.’

Andrews pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr. Clemens. Just ‘com me. I’ll take care of the rest.’

‘As you say, Superintendent.’ Clemens grinned thinly.

Meat. Some of it familiar, some not. Dull rust red struck through with flashes of bright crimson. Small carcasses dangling from old hooks. Huge slabs tipped with protuberant suggestions of amputated limbs, outlined in frozen fat.

Nearby, chickens and cattle, oblivious to their eventual fate.

A lone sheep. Live meat.

Most of the abattoir was empty. It had been built to handle the daily needs of hundreds of technicians, miners, and refining personnel. It was far larger than the caretaker prisoners required. They could have left more space between supplies, but the vast rear of the huge chamber, with its echoes of draining blood and slicing and chopping, was a place they preferred to avoid. Too many animate ghosts lingered there, seeking form among milling molecules of tainted air.

The two men wrestled with the cart between them, on which rested the unwieldy carcass of a dead ox. Frank tried to guide it while Murphy goosed forward motion out of the rechargeable electric motor. The motor sputtered and sparked complainingly. When it finally burned out they would simply activate another cart. There were no repair techs among the prison population.

Frank wore the look of the permanently doomed. His much younger companion was not nearly so devastated of aspect.

Only Murphy’s eyes revealed the furtive nature of someone who’d been on the run and on the wrong side of the law since he’d been old enough to contemplate the notion of working without sticking to a regular job. Much easier to appropriate the earnings of others, preferably but not necessarily without their knowledge. Sometimes he’d been caught, other times not.

The last time had been one too many, and he’d been sent to serve out his sentence on welcoming, exotic Fiorina.

Murphy touched a switch and the cart dumped the clumsy bulk onto the deeply stained floor. Frank was ready with the chains. Together they fastened them around the dead animal’s hind legs and began to winch it off the tiles. It went up slowly, in quivering, uneven jerks. The thin but surprisingly strong alloyed links rattled under the load.

‘Well, at least Christmas came early.’ Frank straggled with the load, breathing hard.

‘How’s that?’ Murphy asked him.

‘Any dead ox is a good ox.’

‘God, ain’t it right. Smelly bastards, all covered with lice.

Rather eat ‘em than clean ‘em.’

Frank looked toward the stalls. ‘Only three more of the buggers left, then we’re done with the pillocks. God, I hate hosing these brutes down. Always get shit on my boots.’

Murphy was sucking on his lower lip, his thoughts elsewhere.

‘Speakin’ of hosing down, Frank. .’

‘Yeah?’

Memories glistened in the other man’s voice, haunted his face. They were less than pleasant. ‘I mean, if you got a chance. . just supposing. . what would you say to her?’

His companion frowned. ‘What do you mean, if I got a chance?’

‘You know. If you got a chance.’ Murphy was breathing harder now.

Frank considered. ‘Just casual, you mean?’

‘Yeah. If she just came along by herself, like, without Andrews or Clemens hangin’ with her. How would you put it to her? You know, if you ran into her in the mess hall or something.’

The other man’s eyes glittered. ‘No problem. Never had any problem with the ladies. I’d say, ‘Good day, my dear, how’s it going? Anything I could do to be of service?’ Then I’d give her the look. You know — up and down. Give her a wink, nasty smile, she’d get the picture.’

‘Right,’ said Murphy sarcastically. ‘And she’d smile back and say, “Kiss my ass, you horny old fucker.’ “

‘I’d be happy to kiss her ass. Be happy to kiss her anywhere she wants.’

‘Yeah.’ Murphy’s expression darkened unpleasantly. ‘But treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen. . right, Frank?’

The older man nodded knowingly. ‘Treat the queens like whores and the whores like queens. Can’t go wrong.’

Together they heaved on the chains until the carcass was properly positioned. Frank locked the hoist and they stepped back, letting the dead animal swing in its harness.

Contemplative silence separated the two men for a long moment. Then Frank uttered a casual obscenity. ‘Frank?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What do you think killed Babe?’ He nodded at the carcass.

Frank shrugged. ‘Beats me. Just keeled over. Heart attack, maybe.’

Murphy spoke from the other side. ‘How could it have been a heart attack? How old was she?’

‘Charts say eleven. In the prime. Tough luck for her, good for us. You know the super won’t let us kill any of the animals for meat except on special occasions. So me, I look on this as a bonus for work well done. Chop her up. Later we’ll throw her in the stew. Animal this size ought to last for a while. Make the dehys taste like real food.’

‘Yeah!’ Murphy could taste it now, ladled over hot loaves of the self-rising, self-cooking bread from the stores.

Something on the cart caught his attention. Whatever it was, it had been pancaked, flattened beneath the massive bulk of the dead animal. Still discernible was a small, disc-like body, a thick, flexible tail, and multiple spidery arms, now crushed and broken. A look of distaste on his face, he picked it up by the tail, the splintered arms dangling toward the floor.

‘What’s this?’

Frank leaned over for a look, shrugged indifferently.

‘Dunno. What am I, a xenologist? Looks like some jellyfish from the beach.’

The other man sniffed. The thing had no odour. ‘Right.’

He tossed it casually aside.

The lead works was a kind of liquid hell, a place of fire and simmering heat waves, where both vision and objects wavered as if uncertain of outline. Like much of the rest of the mining facility it had been abandoned largely intact. The difference was that it gave the prisoners something to do, leadworking being considerably less complex than, say, platinum wire production or heavy machinery maintenance.