Marc Cerasini: AVP: Alien vs. Predator

Karl crawled backwards, his eyes locked on the evil thing. Finally, his back struck a seemingly immovable object. Turning slowly, Karl looked up to find another demon towering over him. Humanlike but not human, the creature was clad in armor from head to toe, its face covered by a metal mask. With a quick backhand, the humanoid monster threw the human aside.

Crashing into the tables, Karl felt his rib cage and the bones in his frostbitten arm shatter. Moaning with agony and the certainty of death, he crawled into a corner, where he lay forgotten as the twin horrors began to tear one another apart, piece by bloody piece.

Whistling tunelessly, Francis “Fin” Ullbeck tipped his Boston Red Sox cap to the bored guard, then whisked his access card through the magstripe reader, punched in his code, and waited for clearance. When the security doors hissed, then yawned, Fin squeezed his considerable bulk through the opening and sauntered along the climate-controlled tunnel.

On the other side of the wide, tinted windows that lined this concrete tube, the high desert of New Mexico shimmered under the ruthless assault of the afternoon sun. A forest of radar dishes stretched for miles across the sandy plains and red-brown hills, their faces tilted toward the heavens. Out there on the desert floor, temperatures topped out at 106 degrees with near zero-percent humidity. But on this side of the glass and concrete, the temperature was a cool and constant 72 degrees.

Fin grinned when he spied a gangly, long-limbed man approaching from the opposite direction.

“Headley, my man. Leaving so soon? Do that and you’ll miss the maestro in action.”

“Shift’s over,” Ronald Headley replied dully.

Unlike Fin, whose skull appeared rather small on his short, rotund body, Headley’s defining feature on his flagpole form was his oversized cranium—an ironic trait, considering his name. Consequently, Headley was the only technician working in the Telemetry and Data Monitoring Center who didn’t have a nickname. In everyone’s opinion, “Headley” was just too perfect.

“So, Headley… did you manage to move that Air and Space Museum reject out of my bad old baby’s orbit?”

Headley nodded wearily.

Fin blinked in feigned surprise. “You mean that relic actually responded to your command?”

“Come on, Fin, GO7 isn’t that old.”

“Headley my man, when GO7 was launched, Miami Vice was the hottest show on television and I did my homework on a Kaypro.” He patted Headley’s back. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance to drive a sports car—someday, when you’re all growed up.”

Headley ignored the slight. In his view, Fin Ullbeck mainly got through life by projecting an attitude of smug superiority peppered with “jovial” disdain. Headley had long ago resolved to treat such insufferable behavior as a genetic malfunction—along the lines of a cleft palate or stunted arm.

“Hey, Fin. Don’t forget the big show at 1400 hours—”

“I know, I know! Just keep it to yourself, man,” said Fin, shushing him. He eyed the overhead security camera anxiously.

“Well, got to go,” Headley called over his shoulder. “Happy motoring.”

Scratching the scraggly beard that covered his double chin, Fin continued through the tunnel until he reached a second set of climate-controlled automatic doors. Beyond that barrier, an elaborate air filtration, cooling and purification system double-scrubbed the air to protect the computers from sand, plant pollen and ordinary dust. The entire facility was built over a five-foot-thick concrete foundation as near to earthquake-proof as human engineering could achieve. Insulated, soundproofed walls muted the whisper of wind on sand and the occasional howl of coyotes baying at the moon.

Beyond those doors the computer-lined Telemetry and Data Monitoring Center was staffed by a dozen scientists and technicians. All of them looked up as Fin entered the room. He smiled and flexed his pudgy fingers.

“Daddy’s here. Let’s get this show on the road!”

Flickering on walls and on desk consoles, high-definition television screens digitally projected data gathered by dozens of surveillance satellites. Generated by radar or microwave transmissions, by ultraviolet light, thermal imaging or simple photographic equipment, this data was gathered, assessed and sorted by multimillion-dollar Kray computers.

Fin tipped his baseball cap to Dr. Langer. The day supervisor scowled and turned his back.

Tossing his cap on the console, Fin flopped into a groaning office chair and spun in a half circle to face the largest and most advanced workstations in the entire complex. Every bit of data collected by Big Bird’s array of scanners could be accessed from this single station. More importantly, the ergonomic keyboard and joystick in the center console controlled PS12's propulsion system.

Cracking his knuckles, Fin emptied his pockets to create a mound of Snickers, Milky Ways, PayDays and Baby Ruths on the desk. With a keystroke, he activated the console and began to type. Minutes, then an hour, passed as Fin fed information into Big Bird’s telemetry computer. Finally, he activated the large HDTV screen above his workstation and slipped a hands-free communications unit over his head.

“This is Waystation One, Waystation One, commencing scheduled telemetry alteration for satellite P as in Peter, S as in Santa, One-Two. That’s PS12 moving in five minutes from right…. Now. Stand by to receive data stream.”

Fin flipped a switch and sent Big Bird’s coordinate changes to computers at dozens of space agencies, observatories and satellite tracking facilities all over the world.

“Data confirmed, Waystation One. Good luck,” a voice announced into Fin’s ear.

Ready now, Fin grasped the joystick and pickled the activation switch. Thousands of miles above the earth’s surface, the propulsion system aboard satellite PS12 came to life. Back on Earth, Weyland Industries technicians strained at their workstations to watch the self-styled “Master of Telemetry” in action.

Legend had it that both Microsoft Game Studios and LucasArts had courted Fin to design game systems for them, but the “Game Shark,” Fin’s nickname before he’d come to Weyland Industries, had found a new passion during his years at M.I.T.—satellite technology. In the end, the National Video Gaming League’s highest scorer ever had chosen a lower-paying position at Weyland’s TDMC because management had let him achieve an entirely new level of kicks with his joystick by driving the big satellites.

And Fin had never lost the skills he’d honed as a dedicated game player. Now, through barely perceptible movements of his hand, he skillfully inched two-and-a-half tons’ worth of orbital mass out of its current orbit and into a new one—an orbit that would take the Big Bird satellite cruising over the bottom of the world. Each subtle move of Fin’s hand was followed by minutes of gazing at the figures dancing across the tracking computer to see if the satellite needed any adjustment. Sweat beaded his forehead as Fin hunched over his console, eyes focused on the telemetry data that continually poured in. Occasionally his white-knuckled fingers twitched, gently moving the joystick to one side or another. Throughout the intense ordeal, Fin’s eyes never left the screen.

Finally, after two hours of toggling the joystick, Fin sighed and sat up, blinking his eyes as if he had just awakened from a long sleep. He stretched his arms and tilted back his chair.

“Mission accomplished,” Fin announced into the communicator. “PS12 is in its new orbit. Systems are running normally. Nothing to do now but sit around and wait.”