Categories > Movies > Aliens/Predator > Alien : 937

Alien : 937

by RandallFlagg19 0 reviews

The events of the movie 'Alien' told from the perspective of Weyland Yutani

Category: Aliens/Predator - Rating: R - Genres: Horror,Sci-fi - Warnings: [!!!] - Published: 2019-07-02 - Updated: 2019-07-02 - 4906 words

Tucker stood on his front lawn feeling the gentle warmth of the morning sun kiss the back of his shirt. His wife Cara waved to him as she slipped into the driver’s side of the car, and from the backseat his daughter, his little angel, Amy, waved him goodbye. Tucker smiled the smile of a man whose life was finally complete. He had everything he could ever have wanted, and it filled him with nothing but joy. He knew he was dreaming, this scene had become as familiar to him as breathing, yet the feeling of completeness denied him the knowledge of what was to come. He waved back, feeling the grass between his toes, as Cara fumbled with her bag, always unprepared for any task, something he had found so endearing the first time they met. It was an adorable clumsiness, his first real glimpse into her world, and it melted his heart just as much today as it had done seven years before. Amy was just like her mother, adorable and clumsy, but on a much smaller scale, gifting him a love that he never thought was possible. The hood of the car burst into flames as it always did, fire crawled along the bodywork, licking at the windows, but Cara didn’t scream, she just continued to search through her bag, Amy waved, a big smile on her face. Neither one of them screamed, even as their hair caught fire and their skin bubbled and cracked, becoming black as the fire consumed them both.

Weyland Yutani
San Francisco, United States
February 3rd, 2121

Anderson Tucker was a tired man. Another night of broken sleep had left him feeling irritable, his body complimented with a chorus of aches and knots in his joints. He poured himself a glass of bourbon, placing the bottle back into the drinks cabinet, closing the glass door before walking over to the empty conference table in the centre of his office. For three years the same dream had plagued his sleep, yet somehow he found comfort in it, certainly in the beginning. It was the only time he could truly remember his wife and daughter, time had eroded them from his waking memory, leaving them faceless, and unfamiliar shapes in his mind, but in his sleep they were as perfect as the last time he had saw either one of them. The head doctors had offered medication to quell his nightmares, their choice of words, not his, but he had refused, it was all he had left of them now, save for an empty house, and a hole in his heart.
His dreams were his, and despite how it always ended, the few moment of happiness were worth the cost. But out here, in the real world, he couldn’t dwell on it, he was a company man, and Weyland Yutani was the only thing that mattered in his life now. He sipped the bourbon, hoping that it would iron out the creases in his body, and pick him up so that he could function. His work was all that mattered, and he was going to do it to the best of his ability. He was also aware that he needed a win, he needed something to present to the board that would guarantee his continued position as Section Head of the San Francisco district of Weyland Yutani. Times had been tough in recent years, especially with the rise of a few other conglomerates, constantly pushing the boundaries in interstellar commerce, weapons manufacturing, and just about every other pie that the company had a finger in. They weren’t a threat, not yet at least, but Weyland Yutani had been kept on their toes for some time now. There were fleeting moments where he thought about leaving it all behind, taking his considerable fortune and vacating to somewhere quiet, and peaceful, living out the rest of his days in the sun. But that was a life meant to be shared, and Tucker didn’t have that particular luxury anymore. That had been taken away from him, and all that remained was his work, his legacy, and he was going to see it through, no matter what the cost. He just needed something, something to elevate his position above the others, something that could change the world.
The call he had received earlier that morning, promised such a thing, the excitable voice of Andre Pearson, an executive from Special Projects had spoken a litany of possibility, even as Tucker’s dream slowly faded from his mind. Tucker ordered him to keep the details to a minimum, he didn’t know who could be listening in, given the cut throat nature of this business, and save the details until they could meet in person. That meeting was about to take place a couple of minutes from now. Tucker sat on the edge of the table, taking another sip of bourbon, feeling warmth course through his tired body. He stared up at the mural that decorated the back wall of his office, realising for the first time just how much he hated it.
The mural was just as ugly as it was pompous. It was a slab of black marble, veined with intricate silver carvings detailing the life of the illustrious Peter Weyland. It listed his legacy, from birth to death, all of his accomplishments and accolades, a life well lived in the eyes of the casual observer. To Anderson Tucker, it was a life that had ended in failure, and the final date caused him to stifle a chuckle every time he read it. 2093: Peter Weyland dies due to medical complications on a station orbiting Mars. That was the official story as far as Weyland Yutani was concerned. Unofficially, in 2093 Peter Weyland had disappeared. Only a select few were privy to this information, Tucker being a part of that group. The words ‘We Are The God’s Now’ were emblazoned at the foot of the mural, one of Weyland’s many nuggets of wisdom, or as Tucker saw them, delusions of grandeur. Weyland had been a brilliant man, of that there was no doubt, but he was also foolish, and his sense of wonder, not to mention his own arrogance often dictated his decision making. It had led to so many technological advancements that it had propelled him to a loft position amongst humanity’s brightest minds, but it had also cost him his life, as well as the life of his daughter and his unfortunate crew. If you factored in the dent the expedition had put into the company’s finances, you drew the conclusion that Peter Weyland’s final act had been nothing short of a disaster.
Tucker wanted nothing more than to tear the mural down and burn it, but even with his position as head of the San Francisco office, he had very little say in its décor. The higher ups believed that it would inspire new recruits to reach for the stars in a job that literally afforded them the opportunity to do so. Tucker had been a part of the game for long enough to know that any optimism or idealism was knocked out of you within the first few years. First the paperwork began to pile up, then the weight of quarterly targets was hung around your neck, and finally the fear of being fired was burned into your psyche. Any hopes and dreams you might have had as you signed your life over to the company was quickly blown out of the airlock. This had literally been the case for a few unfortunate souls who had chosen to bite the hand that fed them. It was a rumour amongst the rank and file, never fully denied, growing into a boogeyman to keep the ground-pounders in line. To Tucker and those who knew about the Prometheus, it was just another unfortunate truth.
The intercom in the centre of the table chimed, Tucker reached over and hit the green button.
“Sir, they’re all here.” A male voice informed him from the other end of the line.
“Wait thirty seconds and then send them in please.” Tucker replied, draining the rest of the bourbon, before returning to the cabinet, and placing the glass back inside carefully. He then strode over to his seat at the head of the table and sat down. The mural loomed large over his shoulder, and he straightened up his tie, slipping into the mode of employer, face straight, eyes stern. He didn’t like being disturbed this early on a Monday morning, and if Pearson’s pitch wasn’t going to be worth his time, he and whoever joined him were going to feel the brunt of his anger. His only regret was that this installation didn’t have the need for airlocks.
His office door beeped and slid open smoothly. Pearson entered first, late twenties with a shock of curly red hair. His black suit was pristine, the collars of his shirt crisp, tie neatly positioned. Special Projects was one of Weyland Yutani’s least profitable sectors in recent years. They were the think tank guys, always coming up with new ways to improve communication, space travel, weaponry etc, but their reach always exceeded their grasp. Special Projects were a collection of dreamers, big ideas, but small results. Behind Pearson, Sian Mason entered the room; Mason was a thirty one year old technician of the Bio-Weapons division, a subsidiary of Special Projects. Her greasy brown hair was tied into a knot, stretching the skin of her hastily made up face, though not enough to cover up the premature lines. She looked closer to forty than thirty, no thanks to her habit of smoking a packet of cigarettes every single day. Bags hung from her tired eyes, and she drew from a cigarette as if it was keeping her alive. She had a mask of annoyance on her face, probably due to the fact that she had been dragged away from her lab. Bio technicians were notoriously anti social, much more comfortable with their germs than other human beings, and he knew that it would not have been her idea to come to this meeting. Somebody upstairs had received the call and kicked it down to her, why trouble yourself when there was always somebody further down the totem pole? Shit rolls down hill after all. Tucker couldn’t help but notice that Bio-weapons seemed to have representation at every single meeting, whether it was issues with faulty equipment, or union disputes, one of their little worms always managed to find a way inside. Every situation was an opportunity for them to glean whatever information they could in the pursuit of creating a new super weapon, and though he couldn’t fault their tenacity, the very sight of them made his skin crawl.

The third and final person to enter was a man named Strauss. He was a fifty year old administrator for the Extrasolar Colonisation Administration, Weyland Yutani’s current pet project, and it’s most expensive. Strauss had the demeanour of a Geography professor, and the look to match. His receding hair had retreated to the tips of his ears, the few remaining strands on his head clinging desperately to his scalp. He looked around the room nervously as Pearson and Mason both took their seats, beady eyes searching from behind a pair of wire rimmed spectacles. Tucker noted his slouched posture as he took his seat, the look of a man who had been broken by divorce and bitter custody battles. His hands were perched on the table in front of him, akin to that of a rat, or any other type of rodent. His specialty was terraforming, the ‘world builders’ as they so often referred to themselves. They scoured known space for liveable planets, or places that could potentially support human life through the manipulation of atmosphere processors. The latter was still in the development stages, and though a couple of off world colonies had already been established, Earth like planets were few and far between, and so world building had been the next logical step given the number and the proximity of adaptable planetoids. The processors would become a reality within the next decade, given current projections, it was going to be an expensive enterprise, costing billions and taking the better part of twenty years to complete, but given the fact that Earth was slowly running out of space, the company were planning for the future. Tucker had attended several of their pitch meetings, where the phrase ‘building better worlds’ had been passed around. There had been talk of making it Weyland Yutani’s official slogan, which Tucker himself had balked at. Slogan’s more often than not sounded tacky, lacking in class, but he had to admit that it did have a nice ring to it. It was no secret that in the last few years the company had garnered a reputation for being just another evil corporation, only concerned with raping the galaxy for its own gains. A rebranding might not be the worst idea moving forwards, and talk of presenting the company as more of an adventurous, progressive organisation had been the subject of continued discussion. The marketing sector wanting to paint a picture of Weyland Yutani building beautiful new Eden’s, all in the name of humanity’s journey into the stars. The more conservative reality was that they would be turning unimpressive rocks into liveable unimpressive rocks.

The silence in the room had dragged on for a little too long; everybody was seated, looking to Tucker with a mix of apprehension. The bourbon had blunted the edges of his disturbed sleep, but had done nothing to improve his mood.

“So?” He said flatly, not feeling any particular need to expand on his question any further, hoping that one of them would have the good sense to jump right in. Strauss and Mason both looked to Pearson, who could barely contain his excitement.

“Firstly, I appreciate you all taking the time to meet this morning.”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries and explain why we’re all here.” Tucker remarked, his stern gaze falling over all three of them. Pearson nodded, his excitement rebuked, and he shuffled through a folder of documents in front of him.

“Of course. At zero six thirty nine this morning, the company network received a priority two alert from operating system I-two zero three seven. She appears to have picked up on a signal whilst en route to Thedus.” Pearson stated, reading from the hard copy.

“I –two zero seven three?” Mason asked, stubbing her cigarette into an ornate ashtray on the table.

“Three seven.” Tucker corrected, trying his best to hide his disgust as he watched her dig out another cigarette from the packet and light it before the last had ceased smouldering.

“USCSSC Nostromo, a commercial tug bound for Thedus to bring mineral ore back to Earth. She’s one of our nine long distance haulers.”

“Skeleton crew of seven,” Pearson added, continuing to read from is notes. “They’re a little rough around the edges, but they have a lot of experience between them, especially along this route. They’re not the prettiest bunch, but they get the job done, and well I might add.” Tucker could see Mason was already on board, the very mention of the word ‘signal’ had caused her eyes to light up.

“What kind of signal?” Tucker asked, unimpressed.

“We’re not sure, it was brief but enough to catch the O.S’s attention and in turn report back to us.” Pearson quickly skimmed through a couple of pages, “Given the time it takes to receive the message, the Nostromo picked it up about three weeks ago.”

“Where is the Nostromo now?” Mason asked, now at full attention.

“Still in transit, about six months away from Thedus,” Pearson replied. Mason had a look of confusion on her face, her brow scrunching, and the lines of her brow collapsing into spider webs.

“I thought it was standard procedure for the O.S to alert the crew upon discovery of a deep space signal?” She asked, her words framed with disappointment.

“It is, but only if the signal can be verified as coming from intelligent life.” Tucker replied, leaning back in his chair.

“And this one isn’t?” Mason asked, Tucker could see the cogs of her mind thrumming to life, crafting all manner of possibilities.

“The signal wasn’t clear enough for the O.S to draw any conclusions. She assesses the situation, just like she would for a possible threat to the life of the crew, or the integrity of the ship. In this case, she determined no reason to wake the crew, and instead reported back to us, awaiting any further instructions.” Pearson explained, Mason gave him an incredulous look, Strauss remained silent, as if he felt like he didn’t belong in the room. Tucker knew where the conversation was going, and was hardly surprised, he’d been a part of the company long enough to know better. Over the years there had been countless excitable executives who believed they had stumbled onto something huge, and their endeavours had led to nothing more than wasted time, and money. Signals in space weren’t exactly a new phenomenon.

“Do we know the location of the signal at least?” He asked, humouring them for the moment, but aware that his patience was wearing down to the knuckle, staring at them to impress his disdain.

“Not an exact location, though I-two zero three seven managed to narrow it down to somewhere in the Zeta two Reticuli system.” Pearson said, Tucker’s interest was suddenly ignited by this revelation, though he kept his poker face locked in, giving nothing away. The cogs in his own mind had sprung to life. That was the system where Peter Weyland and his crew had disappeared. The company had done their best to cover up the disaster, but Tucker had always been curious, and often wondered why Weyland Yutani had never pursued the matter any further.

“It’s an unexplored system.” Strauss offered, finally joining the conversation, the look on his face suggesting that he somehow felt unworthy of adding his two cents. Tucker decided that he disliked Strauss, he just couldn’t stomach a man without a spine. Tucker also knew this claim to be untrue for the most part, but he was intent to play along for the time being. He couldn’t deny that he was now intrigued to learn more about this signal, given the fateful nature of its location. Could it be a coincidence? Possibly, but then again, it could be something more, he thought, as Strauss droned on.

“It has a binary star, two gas giants and several small planetoids. The system has been on the company’s radar for some time, we have suggested one or two of the smaller rocks for potential terraforming sites in the future, but for reasons I can’t fathom, the board has been a little hesitant to explore the system beyond a few mapping satellites.” He exclaimed with a dull tone that complimented his dour demeanour. Tucker pondered this for a few moments, his interest had certainly been triggered, but the reality was he couldn’t do anything about it. He knew for a fact that the board would never sign off on a manned exploration of the system, citing budgetary restraints as a deciding factor. Tucker could press the matter, but he knew well enough that the board didn’t make a habit of explaining their decisions to subordinates.

“We would like to request a team be put together to investigate the source of the signal,” said Pearson asking the inevitable question. Tucker regarded him for a moment, getting a measure of the man. He was eager, like so many of the other executives, constantly battling for a better position amongst themselves, trying to force themselves to the head of the line. He admired some of them, they had a particular ruthlessness that gave them an edge over their peers. Others irked him considerably, constantly pestering him with a get up and go attitude that ultimately led to nothing. Right now, Pearson was somewhere in between those groups.

“Budgetary constraints prevent us from even considering the possibility of an expedition into deep space. The cost of terraforming, as well as other…” He looked towards Mason, “…fruitless endeavours restrict us from risky expeditions into deep space that most likely will amount to nothing.” Mason didn’t react to his jibe, and Strauss continued to look nervously around the room. It was only Pearson who showed any sort of physical change, shifting in his seat, the colour completely drained from his face. Tucker felt a brief pang of pity for the kid, he truly believed that he had stumbled onto something big, a game changer, the kind of thing that would propel him into the spotlight and score favour with the big boys at the top of the Weyland Yutani food chain.

“Sir, the possibility of finding something…” Pearson began.

“Is outweighed by the possibility of finding nothing.” Tucker cut in, swinging the final knockout blow, and for a second the junior executive seemed to physically deflate.

“For all we know, it could be just a downed satellite. The board will not green light an expensive exploration of an un-surveyed system just to find a piece of our own damaged hardware at the end of the trail. The ship alone would cost a fortune, then you have to consider the crew, a science team, security escort, pilots, not to mention insurance and expedition rights. It snowballs quickly, we’re talking tens of billions, all for a single sneeze on the radar. They won’t go for it.”

“You’re telling us that you’re not even a little interested?” Mason asked, lighting her third cigarette.

“No,” he lied. It interested him greatly, the discovery of a signal from the very same system where the Prometheus had gone dark decades before was an intriguing prospect, and warranted some kind of investigation as far as he was concerned. However, he knew that the board would never give the go ahead, as far as they were concerned, nobody had gone missing in that system, and nobody had even travelled to it. His hands were completely tied.

“The fact of the matter is, we need something more concrete before the higher ups will even consider the possibility of an investigation. Until then, the matter is closed.” Tucker said finally.

“Sir, if you would just reconsider…”

“There is nothing to reconsider.” Tucker snapped. “The company will not allow for expensive flights of fancy chasing after ghosts into deep space.” He said bitterly, “I’m sorry, but the answer is no.” Tucker had thrown up the final brick wall, and no matter how many times Pearson would try to knock it down, it wouldn’t as much as budge. Strauss was the first to leave, skulking out of the room quietly. Tucker noted the relief on the man’s face as he fled. Mason followed suit, stubbing her cigarette out in annoyance, before retreating back to the confines of her lab and the company of her germs. Pearson collected his paperwork, his face ashen, disappointment worn like a death shroud. Tucker remembered his own experiences of rejection at the hands of his superiors, the heavy sense of failure, casting doubts on a future that had seemed so bright in the beginning. He remembered a time when he had been filled to the brim with aspirations and big ideas that would change the future of the company. He got up from his chair and walked over to Pearson, resting on the table next to him.

“Look, Special Projects is ninety percent rejection, it’s just something you have to get used to. The truth is, the company just isn’t as adventurous as it used to be, there was a time when the board would have jumped at the chance to go searching for intrigues on the far side of the galaxy. Then again, that was a golden era when Weyland had no competition, especially after we absorbed the Yutani Corporation. Things have changed a lot since then, with the rise of Orion Corp, Salvador and Shearsmith Industries, we’re not the only dog in the fight anymore. We might be at the top, but our rivals close the gap every year. I can’t sell this to the board with the evidence you’ve provided, I’m sorry.” Tucker said, placing a fatherly hand onto Pearson’s shoulder.

“But that’s my point sir. We’re not the only people who use that commercial route. We might be the most frequent, but those shipping lanes aren’t exclusively ours. Somebody else will eventually pass by that system in the future and it would be a shame, no a mistake if somebody else was to find something before we did.” Pearson said, with exasperated desperation. Tucker knew a Hail Mary pass when he saw one, it was Pearson’s last ditch attempt to change his mind. It was a futile effort. The truth was Tucker was convinced, given the location of the signal, an expedition was the next logical step, but the board wouldn’t go for it.

“Wouldn’t you rather find nothing than have somebody else find something?” Pearson added.
“Of course. But we would need something more concrete to go on before the board even considers it.”

“We haven’t exhausted all of our options.” Pearson stated, getting to his feet.

“Could you at least give me a little more time? I have a few ideas, just some possible alternatives I’ve been considering, I just need a couple of days to put them together.”
Tucker mulled it over for a few seconds. Inside, he was smiling, he had a fair idea of where Pearson was going with this. The only other alternative was to go over the company’s head. It was bold, Tucker had to admit, foolish, but bold. In that moment, Pearson reminded him of his younger self, the man had a conniving edge to him, one that was absolutely vital if you were going to survive in this business. He really was a company man after all.

“I can’t promise anything, but you’ve got a couple of days.” Tucker said, Pearson’s face lit up.

“Thank you sir.” He said, beaming. He turned to leave, but Tucker grabbed his arm.

“Pearson, not a word about this to anybody, alright? Not Mason, or Strauss, as far as they are concerned, this pitch of yours died before it got off the ground, understand?” Pearson nodded, smiling, then Tucker let him go, watching as the junior executive practically skipped through the door. Tucker stood in the silence of the room, trying to make sense of his decision to give Pearson another chance. Perhaps his intention wasn’t to go over the board’s heads at all, he might just be trying to work the idea from other angles. Tucker couldn’t be sure, but he knew going it alone was the only other viable option. It didn’t matter how he sold it to them, the answer would be a no, if they even bothered to get back to him at all. It was a huge risk to go against their decision, but then again if they didn’t know about it, then it could hardly be called insubordination. As long as they didn’t find out, then no harm was done. Then again, should Pearson’s little find turn out to be the discovery of the century, then the board would take no time whatsoever in claiming all of the glory for themselves.

He walked over to the cabinet in the corner, retrieving his glass and the bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, and filled it halfway. It was distillery made, not synthetic, like most alcohol was these days. The marketing teams would swear blindly that you couldn’t tell the difference, but Tucker always could. The vat grown stuff always had a distinct lack to it, as if it’s soul had been lost somewhere in the process. The real stuff cost a fortune, but it was a small price to pay for the comfort it offered. He took the glass and returned to his seat, looking up at the mural on the wall. Could it really be just a coincidence? Could this signal have something to do with the fate of the Prometheus? Tucker wasn’t sure, but as he stood by his chair, he came to the conclusion that he was going to find out, he had to. The fate of Peter Weyland would become a part of his legacy, something he could leave behind when he was gone. After all, he had nothing else left. What did you find? He wondered, as he reached across the table to the intercom and pressed a green button.
“Yes sir?” A voice asked softly.
“I take it you were listening in on us?” Tucker asked, sipping his bourbon.
“Of course.”
“Could you step in here for a moment please.”
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