Alien: Out of the Shadows

20 HOME

This was the first step of Hoop’s journey home. All the way home. He’d decided that down in the mine, and the more time that passed, the more he began to believe it. He had started thinking of his children again. This time, however, their faces and voices no longer inspired feelings of intense guilt, but a sense of hope. The fact that he’d left them behind could never be changed or forgotten—by them, or by him—but perhaps there were ways that damage could be fixed.

He had found his monsters, and now it was time to leave them behind.

“How long until the Marion enters the atmosphere?” he asked.

In the pilot’s seat beside him, Lachance shrugged.

“Difficult to say, especially from here. We might have a couple of days once we dock, it might only be hours. If we approach the ship and it’s already skimming the atmosphere, there’s a good chance we won’t be able to dock, anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” Hoop said.

“Sorry. We’ve always known this was a long shot, haven’t we?”

“Long shot, yeah. But we’ve got to believe.” Hoop thought of those they had lost, Baxter’s terrible death even though he had given the best he could, done everything possible to survive. To run through an alien-infested mine on a broken ankle, only to meet an awful end like that… it was so unfair.

But fairness had no place in the endless dark depths of the universe. Nature was indifferent, and space was inimical to man. Sometimes, Hoop thought they’d made a mistake crawling from the swamp.

“We’re going to do this,” Hoop said. “We’ve got to. Get away from this pit, get back home.”

Lachance looked across in surprise.

“Never thought you had anything to go back to.”

“Things change,” he said. Hopefully. Hopefully things can change.

“We’ve left them all behind,” Lachance said, relaxing into his seat. He scanned the instrument panel as they went, hands on steering stick, but Hoop heard such a sense of relief in his voice. “Who’d have thought we would? I didn’t. Those things… they’re almost unnatural. How can God allow something like that?”

“God?” Hoop scoffed. But then he saw something like hurt in Lachance’s eyes. “Sorry. I’m no believer, but if that’s your choice, then…” He shrugged.

“Whatever. But those things, I mean… how do they survive? Where’s their home planet, how do they travel, what are they for?”

“What’s anything for?” Hoop asked. “What are humans for? Everything’s an accident.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“And I can’t believe otherwise. If your God made everything, then what was his purpose for them?”

The question hung between them, and neither could offer an answer.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hoop went on. “We survive, we get out of here, head for home.”

“Five of us, now,” Lachance said.

“Four,” Hoop said softly. “Sneddon’s with us now, but…”

“But,” Lachance said. “Four of us on Ripley’s shuttle. Two men, two women.”

“We’ll start a whole new human race,” Hoop quipped.

“With respect, Hoop, I believe Ripley would eat you alive.”

He laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed properly in a long while, perhaps even since before the disaster, more than seventy days before. It felt strange, and somehow wrong, as if to laugh was to forget all his friends and colleagues who had died. But Lachance was laughing, too, in that silent shoulder-shaking way of his.

Though it felt wrong, it also felt good. Another step toward survival.

Leaving the atmosphere brought a sense of peace. The rattling and shaking ended, and the shuttle’s partial gravity gave them all a sense of lightness that helped lift their moods. Glancing back into the cabin, Hoop noticed Ripley looking in on Sneddon. He stood to go to her, but she turned and nodded, half-smiling. Whatever Sneddon’s fate, it had yet to happen.

Her predicament was difficult to comprehend. She knew she was going to die. She had seen it happening to others, and as science officer she knew more than most what it entailed. Surely she’d want to ease her own suffering? Maybe she’d already spoken with Kasyanov. But if she hadn’t, Hoop would make sure the doctor prepared something to send her quietly to sleep, when the time came.

He only hoped that Sneddon would see or feel the signs.

Something chimed softly on the control panel.

“Marion,” Lachance said. “Six hundred miles away. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Something flashed on the panel, and a screen lit up with a series of code.

“What’s that?”

“Samson’s computer communicating with Marion,” Lachance said. “The nav computer will give us the best approach vector, given comparative speeds and orbits.”

“Ash,” Ripley said. She’d appeared behind Hoop, leaning on the back of his seat and resting one hand on his shoulder.

“Can you disconnect?” Hoop asked.

“Disconnect what?”

“The Samson’s computer from the Marion’s.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Lachance looked at them both as if they’d suddenly grown extra heads.

“Because of Ash. It might be better for us if he doesn’t know what we’re doing. What Sneddon’s carrying.”

“And how the hell would he know that?”

“We have to assume he’s infiltrated the Marion’s computer,” Ripley said. “That would be his aim. Maybe he can’t, but just in case he has…”

“No,” Lachance said. “That’s paranoia, and leaving us blind to fly in manually is just stupid.”

“But you could do it?” Hoop asked.

“Of course,” Lachance said. “Yes. Probably. Under normal conditions, but these are far from normal.”

“That’s right,” Ripley said. “Far from normal. Ash, the AI, his orders were very particular. Crew expendable. My old crew, and now this one. Lachance, we just can’t take the risk.”

The pilot was silent for a while, turning things over in his mind. Then he accessed the shuttle’s computer and started scrolling through commands. He pressed several buttons.

“It’s done,” he said.

“You’re sure?” Hoop asked.

“It’s done! Now shut up and let me fly.”

Hoop glanced up and back at Ripley and she nodded.

“How’s Sneddon?”

“Okay when I last looked.”

Hoop unbuckled himself and headed back into the cabin. Kasyanov seemed to be dozing, but she opened her eyes as they passed, watching them without expression. At the airlock he looked through the small viewing window into the narrow space. Ripley came up next to him.

Sneddon sat with her back against the airlock’s external door, eyes closed, her face pale and sheened with sweat. Hoop tapped on the door. Her eyes rolled beneath their eyelids, and her frown deepened. He knocked again.

She opened her eyes. She looked lost, fighting her way out of nightmares into real, waking horror. Then she saw Hoop and Ripley looking in at her and gave them a thumbs-up.

“It can’t be long now,” Ripley said as they turned away from the door.

“You think we should have supported you down there,” he said. “Stepped back, let you burn her.”

“Perhaps.” She looked wretched, and he reached for her. At first he thought she would resist, pull back, throw a punch as she had down on the planet. But though she was initially tense, she soon relaxed into his embrace. There was nothing sensuous about it. It was about comfort and friendship, and the sharing of terrible things.

“When the time comes,” he whispered into her ear. Her hair tickled his mouth.

“Heads up!” Lachance called. “Marion’s up ahead. Let’s buckle in, get ready for approach. Hoop, could do with you up here to do all the crappy little jobs while I’m flying this thing.”

Hoop gave Ripley one last squeeze then went back to the cockpit seat.

“One step closer to home,” he said.

“Okay, I’m flying by sight here,” Lachance said. “Proximity and attitude alerts are on, but I can’t use autopilot this close without linking to the Marion.”

“So what do you need from me?”

“See those screens there? Keep an eye on them. Once we’re a mile out, if speed of approach goes into the red, shout. If anything goes red, scream your head off.”

“You’ve done this before, right?”

“Sure. A hundred times.” Lachance grinned at him. “On the simulator.”

“Oh.”

“First time for everything.” He raised his voice. “Hold onto your panties, ladies, we’re going in!”

Despite his brief display of gung-ho attitude, Hoop knew that Lachance was as careful and as serious as they came. He watched the screens as the Frenchman had instructed, but he also watched the pilot—his concentration, determination, and care.

The Marion appeared first as a shining speck ahead of them, visible just above the plane of the planet. It quickly grew, its features becoming more obvious and familiar, until they were close enough to see the damage to its docking-bay belly.

“Eyes on the screens,” Lachance said.

The docking was smooth and textbook perfect. Lachance muttered to himself all the way through, going through procedures, whispering encouraging words to the dropship, and occasionally singing a line or two from songs Hoop mostly didn’t know. The ships kissed with barely a jolt, and Lachance performed a frantic series of button-presses and screen swipes that secured them together.

“We’re docked,” he said, slumping in his chair. “Sneddon?”

Ripley unbuckled and jumped to the door.

“She’s fine.”

“And she’s with us until the end, now,” Kasyanov said. “I’ve been thinking about something I can put together to…” She trailed off, but Hoop nodded at her.

“I was going to ask.”

“So what’s the plan now?” Ripley asked.

Hoop blinked and took a deep breath.

“Now we get the cell to your shuttle,” he said. “Everything else is secondary.”

“What about the other alien?” Kasyanov asked.

“Let’s just hope it’s hiding somewhere.”

“And if it isn’t? Say it attacks us, we have to fight it off, and the cell is damaged.”

“What do you suggest?” Ripley asked.

“Hunt it down,” Kasyanov said. “Make sure it’s dead and gone, and only then transfer the fuel cell.”

“My shuttle is on the next docking arm,” Ripley said. “A hundred yards, if that.”

“So we recce the route now,” Hoop said. “When we know it’s clear, we lock all the doors leading back into the rest of the ship, transfer the cell. Then two of us guard the shuttle while the others gather food and supplies for the journey.”

“Outstanding,” Ripley said. “But what about Sneddon?”

They all looked to the airlock. Sneddon was watching them through the small window, that same sad smile on her face. Hoop opened the inner door and she entered slowly, looking around at them all.

“I felt it move,” she said. “Not too long ago. So I think… maybe I should go first?”

Ripley held out her plasma torch, and Sneddon took it with a nod.

They slid on their suits’ helmets again, all comm links open, and prepared to cross the vacuum of the vented airlock and vestibule.

“I’ll start bleeding the air now,” Lachance said from the pilot’s seat.

Hoop swallowed as his ears popped. The last of the air bled away. The Samson’s outer door opened, and Sneddon walked through back onto the Marion.

He didn’t think he’d ever known anyone so brave.

21 PAIN

Sneddon stepped out into the vacuum of the docking vestibule and approached the doors leading into the corridor beyond. They would have to lock those doors and seal the hole again before pressurizing the corridor, and only then could they access the rest of the Marion, including Narcissus’s docking arm.

She disappeared through the door. The others waited nervously in the vestibule, Ripley swaying back and forth. Her stomach and shoulder wounds were hurting more and more, but she embraced the pain, using it to fuel her resolve. There would be time for medicine, and sleep, later.

Sneddon soon returned.

“All clear,” she reported. “Doors are still closed and sealed.” Her voice was fuzzy and crackly through the suit’s communicator.

“Okay,” Hoop said. “Change of plan. We’ll bring the fuel cell through before we seal the door up again. Otherwise we’ll be going back and forth by opening and closing the damaged door, and that’s asking for trouble.”

“But if the thing appears and—” Lachance said.

“It’s a risk,” Hoop said, acknowledging the danger. “Everything’s a risk. But the more time we spend fucking around here, the worse things may become. There’s an alien somewhere on board, the Marion’s going to crash, and Ripley’s AI might be keen on giving us a very bad day.”

“Ash isn’t my AI,” Ripley said. “He’s Weyland’s.”

“Whatever. Let’s get the cell out of the Samson and into the corridor. Then we can go about sealing that door.”

“I’ll stand guard,” Sneddon said.

“You okay?” Ripley asked.

Sneddon only nodded, then turned and disappeared back through the door with her spray gun.

“Ripley, you go too,” Hoop said. “Don’t use that plasma torch unless you absolutely have to.”

She nodded and followed Sneddon, wondering exactly what he’d meant. Use it on what? Or on whom? She heard Hoop talking to Lachance and Kasyanov about bringing the fuel cell through, and she was happy leaving them to it. It gave her a chance to talk.

The science officer was just outside the door, leaning against the wall. Ripley nodded to her, then walked a few steps in the opposite direction. There was no sign of anything having been here since they’d left. If the alien had broken back through to this area, it would have depressurized the entire ship.

It was further in, hiding. Perhaps they would never see it again.

“Your AI,” Sneddon said. “It wants what I have?”

Ripley noticed that Sneddon had switched channels so that contact was only between their suits. She did the same before replying.

“Yes. He did his best back on Nostromo to get a sample, and now he’s doing it again.”

“You talk as if it’s a person.”

“He was,” Ripley said. “He was Ash. None of us even knew he was an android. You know how they are, how advanced. He was… odd, I guess. Private. But there was never any cause to suspect his intentions. Not until he let an alien onto the ship.”

“Is he watching us now?”

“I’m not sure.” She didn’t know how far Ash had gone, how far he could infiltrate. But if the aliens were her nightmares, he was her nemesis. “We have to assume so, yes.”

“He won’t want the rest of you,” Sneddon said. “Only me, if he knows what I have inside me.”

“Yes. He’ll want to get you put into hypersleep as quickly as possible, then take you back to the Company. The rest of us are just liabilities.”

“And then?”

Ripley wasn’t sure how to answer, because she didn’t know. Weyland-Yutani had already shown themselves as being brutal and single-minded in their pursuit of any useful alien artefacts or species.

“And then they’ll have what they want,” she said finally.

“I’m not going,” Sneddon said.

“I know.” Ripley couldn’t look at her.

“It’s… strange, knowing I’m going to die. I’m only afraid of how it’ll happen, not death itself.”

“I won’t let it happen like that,” Ripley said. “Kasyanov will give you something, as soon as the time comes. To ease your way.”

“Yeah,” Sneddon said, but she sounded doubtful. “I’m not sure things are going to be quite that easy.”

Ripley wasn’t sure either, and she couldn’t lie. So she simply said nothing.

“It’s only pain,” Sneddon said. “When it happens, it’ll hurt, but it doesn’t matter. A brief moment of pain and horror, and then nothing forever. So it doesn’t really matter.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ripley whispered, blinking away tears. They came far too easily, now that she’d let them in.

At first Sneddon didn’t reply. But Ripley heard her breathing, long and slow, as if relishing every last taste of compressed, contained air. Then the science officer spoke again.

“Strange. I can’t help still being fascinated by them. They’re almost beautiful.”

They stood silently for a while, and Hoop emerged from the doorway that led to the docking arm. He tapped at his ear, and Ripley switched her communicator back to all-channels.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Sneddon and I were talking.” He just nodded.

“We’ve got the cell. Ripley, you go along to the door to Bay Four.” He pointed, then turned. “Sneddon, back there to the corridor blast doors to the other docking bays. I’m going to seal this door, then we’ll repressurize.”

“How?” Ripley asked.

“Honestly? I haven’t figured that yet. If we just open the blast doors, the pressurization will be explosive, and we’ll be smashed around. Got to let air bleed in somehow.”

“Don’t suppose you have another drill?”

Hoop shook his head, then looked down at the spray gun that was hanging from his shoulder. He smiled.

Kasyanov and Lachance appeared with the fuel cell. They wheeled it through the doorway, then set the trolley against the far wall.

“Strap that against the wall, tight,” Hoop said. Then he closed the doors and pulled a small square of thick metal out of a pocket, pressing it against the hole he’d drilled on their exit from the Marion. He removed his hand and the metal remained where it was.

“Bonding agent,” he said when he saw Ripley watching. “Air pressure will press it tight. It’ll give us enough time.”

Ripley walked along the corridor until it curved toward Bay Four. She paused where she could see the door, beyond which lay the docking arm with her shuttle, waiting for them all. Walking made her wounds hurt, but standing still was barely a relief. It’s only pain, Sneddon had said. It doesn’t matter. She felt warm dampness dripping down her side from her shoulder. She’d opened the wound there again.

It’s only pain.

She could see back along the curving corridor, and she watched Lachance and Kasyanov securing the trolley and fuel cell to the wall with cargo straps from the Samson. She did the same, tying herself tight with her belt against a heavy fixing point.

“All ready?” Hoop asked. He disappeared in the other direction, following Sneddon toward where the corridor merged with the one from the ruined docking arm.

“What’s the plan?” Kasyanov asked.

“Squirt of acid through the door,” Hoop said. “Hardly subtle, but it should work. It’ll get a bit stormy in here, though. Hold on to your dicks.”

“We don’t all have dicks, dickhead,” Kasyanov muttered.

“Well, hold onto something, then.” He paused. “On three.”

Ripley counted quietly. One… two…

Three…

There was a pause. Then Hoop said, “Oh, maybe it won’t—” A whistle, and then a roar as air started flooding into the sealed area.

That’ll wake Ash up, Ripley thought. She couldn’t help thinking of the bastard as still human.

The roar died down to a low whistling, and then that too faded to nothing. Ripley’s ears rang. She looked back along the corridor and saw Hoop appearing from around the curve, suit helmet already removed.

“We’re good,” he said.

“You call that good?” Lachance asked. “I think I soiled my spacesuit.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Kasyanov said.

“Sneddon?” Ripley asked.

“I’m here.” Her voice sounded weak. She doesn’t have long, Ripley thought. She pulled her own helmet off and let it dangle from its straps, hoping she wouldn’t need it again.

Hoop and the others pushed the fuel cell on its trolley, and when they reached the door that led into Bay Four’s vestibule, they paused.

“Lachance, go back and stay with Sneddon,” Hoop said. “And Kasyanov… you said you might have something?”

Kasyanov took a small syringe from her belt pouch.

“It’s the best I can do,” she said.

“What does that mean?” Ripley asked.

“It means it won’t be painless. Get me to med bay and I’ll find something better, but with the limited stuff I have on hand, this is it.”

Hoop nodded, face grim.

“Let’s get ready to fly.”

Hoop opened the doorway, and Ripley and Kasyanov pushed the trolley through.

The movement was sudden, unexpected, the hissing thing leaping at them from where it had been crouched beside the door. Kasyanov cried out and stumbled back, but Ripley quickly gathered her senses, crouching down and opening her arms.

“Jonesy!” she said. “Hey, it’s me, it’s all right you stupid cat.” Jonesy crouched before her for a moment, hissing again. Then he slinked around her legs and allowed her to pick him up.

“Holy shit,” Kasyanov said. “Holy shit, holy shit…”

“He does that,” Ripley said, shrugging.

“We’ll be taking him with us?” Kasyanov asked.

Ripley hadn’t even thought about that. On a shuttle built for one, four was bad enough. They still had to prepare for the extraordinary length of their journey— coolant for the shuttle’s atmosphere processor, filters for the water purifier, food, other supplies. But with a cat as well? With them taking turns in the stasis pod, Jonesy might not even live long enough to survive the journey.

But she couldn’t even contemplate the thought of leaving him behind.

“Let’s cross that one when we come to it,” Hoop said. “Come on. I’ve got work to do.”

It felt strange to Ripley, entering the Narcissus one more time. The urgency was still there, but this time with a different group of people. The danger was still imminent, but now it was compounded—a crashing ship, an alien somewhere on board, as well as one of them just waiting to give birth to another beast.

Jonesy jumped from her arms and leapt delicately into the stasis pod, snuggling down in the covered lower section, out of sight. Ripley so wanted to do the same.

“Kasyanov,” she said. She felt suddenly woozy again, as if the ship was shaking and changing direction. Maybe this is it, she thought, maybe we’re crashing and…

Hoop caught her as she stumbled. Kasyanov stripped the suit top from her shoulder and blood flowed freely, darkening the suit and dripping on the floor.

“Staples have popped,” Kasyanov said. “I’ll re-do them. This first.” Before Ripley could object, the doctor slid a small needle into her shoulder and squeezed the pouch on its end. Numbness spread. The pain receded. Her right hand tingled, then all feeling faded away.

She’d never be able to hold the plasma torch now.

Hoop moved back through the shuttle to the small hatch leading into the engine compartment. He half-crawled inside, looked around for a while, and emerged again.

“I’m going to be in here for a while,” he said. He paused, frowning, thinking. “Okay. We can stay in touch using the suit helmets. Ripley, stay here with me. Kasyanov, you and the others need to get into the Marion and start gathering what we’ll need.”

“I’ll go with them,” Ripley said.

“No, you’re hurt.”

“I can still walk, and carry supplies,” she said. “We’ll shut the Narcissus’s outer door behind us, so you won’t have to worry about anything coming inside and disturbing you. Stay here, work. Fix it well.” She smiled.

“It’ll work,” Hoop said. “But don’t take risks. Any of you. Not with that thing running around, and not with… you know.”

“Not with Sneddon,” Kasyanov said.

“We should do it now,” Ripley said. “She can’t have long left.”

“Well…” Hoop stood and emptied out the tool pouch he’d brought with him. “While I’m here buying our ticket home, that’s your call.”

It was harsh, but Ripley knew it was also true.

“Don’t be long,” Hoop said. “And stay safe.”

“Safe is my middle name,” Ripley said. She laughed, coughed painfully, and then turned to leave. Kasyanov went behind her, closing and sealing the door. Ripley couldn’t help thinking she’d never see the inside of the Narcissus again.

“Med bay, then the stores,” Kasyanov said. “Maybe an hour. Then we’ll be away.”

“Yeah,” Ripley said. “And even after thirty-seven years asleep, I’m tired.”

22 CHESS

Ripley made sure she was behind Sneddon. She’d swapped the plasma torch to her left shoulder now, and thought she could probably still lift and fire it onehanded if she had to. Her right arm was numb from her shoulder down. It flopped uselessly, as if she’d been sleeping on it and had just woken up, and she soon stopped to tuck it into her open suit jacket.

She wasn’t afraid of what Sneddon would become— she would hear it happening, see it—but she wanted to be ready to put the science officer out of her misery.

Lachance led the way with his charge thumper held at the ready. Kasyanov followed him, plasma torch slung from her shoulder, her wounded hand also hanging in a sling. They’d insisted that Sneddon keep her spray gun, even though she had volunteered to give it up.

If they’d had time, their list of items to gather would have been long. Food, clothing, coolant and additives for environmental systems, bedding of some sort, medicines, washing and bathroom supplies. Something to help pass the time—games, books, distractions.

But with very little time and danger around every corner, their list was reduced to necessities.

“Coolant and additives we can get from the stores in Hold 2,” Lachance said.

“Galley for the dried food,” Kasyanov offered.

“And then straight back,” Ripley said. There was no time to go to med bay for medicines, the rec room for books, or the accommodations hub for sleeping gear and personal effects. They all felt the pressure now.

They’d paused to look through several viewing windows as they worked their way up out of the docking bay area on the Marion’s belly, and the planet already looked frighteningly closer. Soon the vibration would begin as they started to skim the atmosphere. The hull would warm up, heat shielding would bend and crack, and if they didn’t die from excessive heat build-up, the explosion as the Marion came apart would finish them.

Ripley had never noticed the cctv cameras before, but she saw them now. Probably because she was looking for them. Every one of them resembled an eye watching her pass. They didn’t move to track her, but reflections in the lenses gave the impression of pupils panning to follow her movement. There was an intelligence behind them all, one she knew so well. Fuck you, Ash, she kept thinking. But while cursing him, she also tried to figure out what moves he might make.

They reached the wide open area with a row of viewing windows on either side and an elevator shaft in the center. Several closed doors lined the walls, and leading from the far end was the wide stairwell heading up into the Marion’s main superstructure.

“Elevator?” Ripley asked.

“I’ve had enough of elevators,” Kasyanov said. “What if we get stuck?”

That’s right, Ripley thought. Ash could trap us in there.

“You should keep everything basic now,” Sneddon said, referring to them in the second person without seeming to notice. “Don’t want any mechanical issues to hold you up. There’s not enough time. It’s too…” She winced, closed her eyes, put her hand to her chest.

“Sneddon,” Ripley whispered. She stood back and aimed the plasma torch, but the woman raised her hand and shook her head.

“Not yet,” she said. “I don’t think… not yet.”

“Sweet heaven,” Lachance said. He’d moved across to the port row of windows, and was looking down on the planet’s surface. “Pardon my French, but you want to see something completely fucking heartwarming?”

He was right. It was strangely beautiful. North of them, a hole had been blasted through the plumes of dust and sand that constantly scoured the planet’s surface. A huge, blooming mushroom cloud had punched up through the hole, massive and—from this great distance—seemingly unmoving. Compression waves spread out from the explosion like ripples in a lake, moving as slowly as the hour hand of an old analog clock. Streaks of oranges, reds, and yellows smudged across half the planet’s surface visible from the ship, and violent electrical storms raged beneath the clouds, sending spears of violet deep through the dust storms.

“Well, that’s me, unemployed,” Lachance said.

“Now there’s only one of those bastards left,” Ripley said.

“Two,” Sneddon said from behind them. She’d grown paler, and she seemed to be in pain. “I think… I think now might be the time to…”

She rested her spray gun gently on the deck.

Behind her, something ran down the stairs.

“Oh, shit…” Ripley breathed. She swung her plasma torch up into its firing position, but Sneddon was in the way, and though she’d dwelled endlessly upon putting the woman out of her misery, she wasn’t ready for it now.

The alien dashed from the staircase to dart behind the elevator shaft that stood in the center of the area. Ripley waited for it to appear on the other side. And then, a blink later, it would be upon them.

“Sneddon, down!” Ripley shouted.

The science officer moved, and everything she did was very calm, very calculating—it almost seemed like slow motion. She lifted the spray gun again and turned around.

Lachance moved to the left and circled around the large space, edging forward so he could see behind the elevator block. Kasyanov remained close to Ripley on her right. Everything was silent—no hissing, no clatter of claws on the metal deck.

It’s as if we imagined it, Ripley thought.

Then the alien powered from behind the block. Sneddon crouched and fired the spray gun, acid scoring a scorched line across the wall behind the creature. Lachance’s charge thumper coughed. The projectile ricocheted from the elevator, throwing sparks, and knocked Kasyanov from her feet.

The beast was on Lachance before anyone had time to react. It grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back, its momentum slamming him so hard into a wall that Ripley heard bones crunch and crush. Blood coughed from his mouth. The alien slammed its head into his, teeth powering through his throat and severing his spine with a crack!

Ripley swung the plasma torch around.

“Turn away!” she shouted. Her finger squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

She glanced down at the weapon, stunned, wondering just what she’d done wrong. I primed it, safety off. Maybe the charge is run down, so what the hell? In the instant it took her to think, the alien came for her.

From behind she heard Kasyanov groaning and trying to stand, and Ripley expected the white-hot touch of plasma fire at any moment from the Russian’s gun. She’d be saving Ripley from an awful death, destroying the alien, giving her and Hoop a chance. Right then, Ripley would have welcomed it.

The alien was closer, larger, just about the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen, and she thought, I’m so sorry, Amanda. She’d made a promise, and had broken it.

She went to close her eyes, but before she could she saw a line of fire erupt across the alien’s flank. It slipped, hissing and skidding across the floor toward her.

Ripley dropped all her weight in an effort to fall to the left, but she was too late. The alien struck her hard. Claws raked, teeth snapped an inch from her face. She screamed. The monster hissed and then shrieked, and Ripley smelled rank burning.

The thing thrashed on top of her, and everywhere it touched brought more pain.

Then it was up and gone. Ripley lay on her side, head resting on her extended left arm. Blood spattered the floor around her—red, human. Mine, she thought. Her body felt cool and distant, then suddenly hot and damaged, ruptured, leaking. She opened her mouth, but could only groan.

Kasyanov sent another spurt of fire after the alien before slumping to the deck, plasma torch clattering down beside her. Ripley wasn’t sure the shot made contact, but the beast screamed and rushed back toward the wide staircase.

Sneddon followed, firing the spray gun as she went, one short burst catching the alien across the back of one of its legs. It stumbled into the wall, then leapt toward the staircase. Sneddon ran closer, fired again, and missed, scoring a melting line diagonally across the first few stairs.

“Sneddon!” Kasyanov rasped, but the science officer didn’t look back. The beast fled, and she followed, shooting all the way.

“Get what you need!” Sneddon shouted through their earpieces. She sounded more alive than Ripley had heard before. There was an edge of pain to her voice, an undercurrent of desperation. But there was also something like joy. She was panting hard as she ran, grunting, and from somewhere more distant Ripley heard the alien screech one more time. “Got you, you bastard!” Sneddon said. “I got you again that time. Keep running, just keep running. But I’ll chase you down.”

Ripley wanted to say something to her. But when she opened her mouth, only blood came out. I wonder how bad? she thought. She tried turning to look at Kasyanov, but couldn’t move.

“Kasyanov,” she breathed. There was no reply. “Kasyanov?”

Shadows fell.

She only hoped Amanda would be waiting for her, ready to forgive at last.

Hoop heard it all.

It only took thirty seconds, and by the time he’d dropped his tools, wriggled out of the shuttle’s cramped engine compartment and then exited the ship—carefully closing the door behind him—Sneddon’s shouting had stopped. He heard more, though—pained sighs, grunts, and an occasional sound like a frustrated hiss. But he couldn’t tell who they came from.

“Ripley?” He crossed the vestibule, peering through viewing panels in the door before opening it. He closed it behind him and headed along the corridor. He held the spray gun pointed ahead, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. He had no idea which way Sneddon and the alien had gone.

“Lachance?”

“He’s dead,” a voice said. It took him a moment to identify it as Kasyanov. She sounded different, weak. “And Ripley is…”

“What?”

“Bad. So much blood.”

“What about Sneddon?” Hoop asked again. “Sneddon? You hear me?” There was a click as someone disconnected their comm unit. It had the sound of finality.

“Hoop, I’m hurt, too.” Kasyanov might have been crying.

“How bad?”

“Not good.” A grunt, and a gasp. “But I can walk.”

“Which way did Sneddon chase that thing?”

“Up the staircase.”

“Away from us and into the belly of the ship,” he replied. “Right. I’ll be there in two minutes, do what you can for Ripley, and I’ll carry her to med bay.”

More silence.

“Do you hear me?”

“What about the fuel cell?” Kasyanov asked.

“It’s almost done.”

“Then we could be gone.”

He couldn’t blame her. Not really. But Hoop wasn’t about to bail without doing everything he could, for anyone who was left alive.

“Fuck that, Kasyanov,” he said. “You’re a doctor. Heal.”

Then he started running. He sprinted around corners without pausing to look or listen. Opened doors, closed them behind him, the spray gun slung across his shoulder and acid swooshing in the reservoir. He thought of Sneddon’s bravery, and how she had already sacrificed herself by pursuing the monster into the ship. Maybe she’d catch and kill it. Or perhaps it would turn and kill her. But she had given them a chance.

The Marion shook.

A subtle vibration, but he felt it through his boots.

Oh, not now, he thought. He skidded around a corner, up some stairs, and then he was in the wide area where the chaos had only just ended. Lachance lay dead against the wall to his left, head hanging from his body by strands. Ripley was on the floor to his right. Kasyanov knelt beside her, melted hand pressed tight to her right hip, the other busy administering emergency first aid. Beyond them, the windows looked down onto the planet. To the north Hoop saw the bright bruise of the explosion that had taken the mine, and felt a brief moment of glee. But it didn’t last long. Shimmering threads of smoke and fire flitted past the window as the Marion encountered the very upper reaches of LV178’s atmosphere.

“We don’t have long,” Kasyanov said, looking up at his approach. Hoop wasn’t sure whether she meant the Marion or Ripley, but in his mind they were the same.

“How bad are you?”

“Bolt from Lachance’s thumper broke up, ricocheted, hit me.” She moved her ruined hand aside slightly, looking down. Hoop could see the shredded jacket and undershirt, the dark bloodstains glinting wetly in artificial light. She pressed the wound again and looked up. “Honestly, I can’t feel anything. Which isn’t a good sign.”

“It’s numb. You can walk?”

Kasyanov nodded.

“You go ahead, open the doors, I’ll carry her,” Hoop said.

“Hoop—”

“I’m not listening. If there’s a chance for her, we’ll take it. And you can sort yourself out while we’re there.”

“But that thing could be—” Their earpieces crackled, and Sneddon’s voice came in loud and fast.

“I’ve got the bastard cornered in Hold 2!” she shouted. “Shot it up, its acid splashed everywhere… not sure if… oh, fuuuuck!” She moaned, long and loud.

“Sneddon,” Hoop said.

“It hurts. It hurts! It’s in me, moving around, and I can feel its teeth.” Another groan, then she coughed loudly and shouted, “Screw you! Hoop, it’s cornered behind some of the equipment lockers, thrashing around in there. Might be dying. But… I’m going to… make sure!”

Hoop and Kasyanov stared at each other. Neither knew what to say. They were witnessing a fight far away from them, and listening to the impending death of a friend.

Metal clanged, the sound of something falling over and hitting the deck.

“Come on, come on,” Sneddon whispered. “Okay, I’m almost done.” She was talking to herself, muttering between croaks of pain and high-pitched whines that should not have come from a person.

“What are you doing?” Hoop asked.

“Got a full crate of magazines for the charge thumpers. Rigging a charge. You’ll feel a bump, but it’ll get rid of this… for good. So…”

Hoop ran to Ripley, scooped her up, slung her over his shoulder. She moaned in unconsciousness, and he could feel her blood pattering down on his back and legs.

“Med bay,” he said to Kasyanov. “Need to get as close as we can before it blows.”

“Maybe a minute,” Sneddon said. “The one inside me… it wants out. It’s shifting. It’s…” She screamed. It was a horrible sound, volume tempered by the equipment yet the agony bare and clear.

“Sneddon…” Kasyanov whispered, but there was nothing more to say.

“Come on!” Hoop led the way, struggling with Ripley’s weight. Kasyanov followed. He heard her groaning, cursing beneath her breath, but when he glanced back she was still with him. She had to be. He didn’t know how to use the med bay equipment, and if Kasyanov died, so would Ripley.

“You going to be—?” he started asking, but then Sneddon came on again.

“It’s coming for me.” Behind her voice Hoop heard an alien squeal, and the scraping of claws on metal growing rapidly louder. Sneddon gasped, then fell silent. The channel was still open; Hoop could hear the hiss and whisper of static. He and Kasyanov paused at the head of a staircase. And then he heard the more uneven hissing of something else.

“Sneddon?”

“It’s… just staring. It must see… know… sense… Oh!”

“Blow the crate,” Hoop said. Kasyanov’s eyes went wide, but he wasn’t being cruel or heartless. He was thinking of Sneddon, as well as them. “Sneddon, blow the crate before—”

The crunch of breaking bones was obvious. Sneddon let out a long groan of agony.

“It’s coming,” she rasped. “The thing’s just watching. It’s dying, but it doesn’t care. It sees… its sibling… coming. This close it’s almost beautiful.”

“Sneddon, blow the—”

“Two seconds,” the science officer whispered.

In those two seconds Hoop heard the infant alien clawing, biting, tearing its way from Sneddon’s chest, its high-pitched squeal answered by the dying adult’s more tempered cry. Sneddon could not scream because her breath had been stolen. But she spoke in another way.

He heard the soft mechanical click. Then the connection was cut.

Moments later a distant rumble turned from a moan into a roaring explosion that blasted a wall of air through the corridors. A heavy thud worked through the entire ship, pulsing through floors and walls as Hold 2 was consumed by the massive blast.

A long, low horn-like sound echoed as incredible stresses and strains were placed on the superstructure, and Hoop feared they would simply tear apart. The tension of skimming the planet’s atmosphere, combined with the results of the explosion, might break the ship’s back and send it spinning down, to burn up in the atmosphere.

He slid down one wall and held Ripley across his legs, hugging her head to his chest to prevent it bouncing as the metal floor punched up at them again and again. Kasyanov crouched next to them.

Metal tore somewhere far away. Something else exploded, and a shower of debris whisked past them, stinging exposed skin and clanging metal on metal. Another gush of warm air came, and then the shaking began to subside.

“Will she hold?” Kasyanov asked. “Will the ship hold?” Hoop couldn’t answer. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Kasyanov slumped down. “Sneddon.”

“She took it with her,” Hoop said. “Took both of them with her.” Kasyanov glanced at Ripley, then crawled quickly closer. She lifted an eyelid, bent down to press her ear to the injured woman’s open mouth.

“No,” Hoop breathed.

“No,” Kasyanov said. “But she’s not good.”

“Then let’s go.” He dropped the spray gun, heaved her over his shoulder again, and set off toward med bay. Kasyanov followed, her plasma torch clattering to the floor.

Now they were three, and he wouldn’t let anyone else die.

Amanda watches her. She’s eleven years old today, and she sits in a chair beside a table scattered with half-eaten pieces of birthday cake, opened presents, discarded wrapping paper. She’s on her own and looking sad.

Her birthday dress is bloodied and torn, and there is a massive hole in her chest.

I’m sorry, Ripley says, but Amanda’s expression does not change. She blinks softly, staring at her mother with a mixture of sadness at the betrayal and… hatred? Can that really be what she sees in her daughter’s eyes?

Amanda, I’m sorry, I did my very best.

Blood still drips from the hole in her daughter’s chest. Ripley tries to turn away, but whichever way she turns her daughter is still there, staring at her. Saying nothing. Only looking.

Amanda, you know Mommy loves you, however far away I am.

The little girl’s face does not change. Her eyes are alive, but her expression is lifeless.

Ripley woke for a time, watching the floor pass by, seeing Hoop’s boots, knowing she was being carried. But even back on the Marion, Amanda was still staring at her. If Ripley lifted her head she would see her. If she turned around, she would be there.

Even when she closed her eyes.

Amanda, staring forever at the mother who had left her behind.

23 FORGETTING

Ripley was heavy. He refused to think of her as dead weight—he wouldn’t allow that, would not give her permission to die—but by the time they reached med bay his legs were failing, and it had been ten long minutes since she’d displayed any signs of life.

The Marion shook and shuddered. It, too, was close to the end.

The difference was that for Ripley there was still hope.

“I’ll fire up the med pod,” Kasyanov said, pressing her good hand against the security pad. The medical bay was a modern, sterile place, but the object at its center made all the other equipment look like Stone Age tools. This Weyland-Yutani chunk of technology had cost Kelland almost a tenth of what the whole of the Marion had cost, but Hoop had always known it had been a practical investment. A mining outpost so far from home, where illness or injury could cripple the workforce, needed care.

Yet there was nothing humane in their incorporation of the pod.

It was insurance.

Hoop put Ripley down on one of the nearby beds and tried to assess her wounds. There was so much blood. Her shoulder wound weeped, several staples protruded from her stomach and the gash there gaped. New injuries had been added to the old. Puncture wounds were evident across her chest, perhaps where the thing’s claws had sunk in. Her face was bruised and swollen, one eye puffy and squeezed shut, scalp still weeping. He thought her arm might be broken.

He had seen the med pod at work several times before, but he didn’t know what it could do for Ripley. Not in the time they had left.

He was pulled in two directions. In truth, he should be back at the shuttle, finishing the fuel cell installation and ensuring that all systems were back online. After that there was Ash, the malignant presence he had to wipe from the Narcissus’s computer before launching.

If Ripley were awake, he could tell her what he’d found. According to the log, the old fuel cell had still maintained more than sixty percent of its charge when it had docked with Marion, and it could only have been Ash who had engineered its draining. To trap her there with them. To force them down to the planet’s surface, not only to retrieve another fuel cell, but to encounter them.

The creatures.

Everything that had happened since Ripley’s arrival had been engineered by the artificial intelligence. Those additional lives lost—Sneddon, Baxter, Lachance—could be blamed squarely on him.

Hoop wished the bastard was human so he could kill him.

“Pod’s ready,” Kasyanov said. “It’ll take half an hour for it to assess the wounds and undertake the procedures.”

Hoop couldn’t waste half an hour.

“I’ll go back for the supplies we need,” he said. “Stay in touch.”

Kasyanov nodded and touched her suit’s comm unit. Then she turned her attention to the med pod’s screen and frowned in concentration, scrolling through a complex series of branching programs flashing there. She was sweating, shaking.

“You good?”

“No. But I’m good enough for this.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Her first, then if there’s time, me.”

“There’ll be time,” Hoop said, but they both knew there were no guarantees.

“I feel… weird inside. Bleeding in my guts, I think.”

“I’ll get up to the bridge, first,” Hoop said, gingerly lifting Ripley off of the bed. “See just how much time we have.”

As if in response, the ship shuddered one more time. Kasyanov didn’t look up or say anything else, and her silence was accusation enough. We could have just gone. But they were set on their course, now, and Hoop knew she would see it through.

He held Ripley as gently as he could, and carried her to the med pod.

“Amanda!” she shouted. She shifted in his arms and he almost dropped her. He staggered a little, then when he righted himself and looked down, Ripley was staring right at him. “Amanda,” she said again, softer.

“It’s okay, Ripley, it’s me.”

“She won’t leave me alone,” she said. Her eyes were wide and white in her mask of blood and bruising. “Just staring. All because of them. My little girl won’t forgive me, and it’s all because of them.” Her voice was cold and hollow, and a chill went through him. He laid her gently in the med pod.

“We’re going to patch you up,” Hoop said.

“I want to forget,” she said. “I can’t… even if you fix me, I can’t sleep with Amanda staring at me like that. I’ll never sleep again. It’ll make me go mad, Hoop. You can make me forget, can’t you? With this?”

Hoop wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, and how much she wanted to forget. But she was all there. This wasn’t a delirious rant—it was a very calm, very determined plea.

“It feels as if I’ve known nothing else but them,” she said. “It’s time to forget.”

“Kasyanov?” Hoop asked.

“It’s a med pod, Hoop,” the doctor said. “That’s almost certainly beyond its capabilities.”

“But it does neurological repairs, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Repairs, not damage.”

“They’ve given me a nightmare, and I think it’s going to kill me,” Ripley said. “Amanda. My girl, dead, staring, never forgiving me. Please, Hoop. Please!” She sat upright, wincing at the pain it drove through her, but reaching out and grasping his arm.

“Hey, hey, lie back,” he said. “Let Kasyanov do her work.” But he could see the terror in her eyes, and the knowledge at what sleep would bring. Even if it’s not real, it’s tearing her apart, he thought.

“We’re ready,” the doctor said.

Ripley let Hoop ease her back down, but she was still pleading with her eyes. Then they closed the clear lid. He felt a tug as he saw her shut away in there, maybe because he thought he might never touch her again.

“So can you?” he asked.

“It’s not me that does the work, it’s the pod. I just initiate the programs.” Kasyanov sighed. “But yes, I think it could manipulate her memories.”

“How?”

“I’ve only ever heard about it,” Kasyanov said. “It can repair brain damage, to an extent, and at the same time there’s an associated protocol that allows for memory alteration. I think it was designed primarily for military use. Get soldiers back into the fight that much quicker, after battlefield trauma.” She paused. “It’s really pretty inhumane, when you think about it.”

Hoop thought about it, remembering the sheer terror he had seen in Ripley’s eyes.

“I don’t think I have any choice,” he said. “How much memory will it affect?”

“I have no idea. I don’t think it was developed for fine tuning.”

He nodded, tapping his leg.

“Do it.”

“You’re sure?”

If we go too far back, she won’t even remember me. But that was a selfish thought, far more about him than it was about her. If he had a shred of feeling for her, his own desires shouldn’t enter into it.

When they were finally on Narcissus and away from here, they could meet again.

“She’s sure,” he said, “and that’s as sure as I need to be.”

Kasyanov nodded and started accessing a different series of programs.

While the doctor worked, Hoop moved around the med bay, seeing what he could find. He packed a small pouch with painkillers, multi-vitamin shots, antibiotics, and viral inhibitors. He also found a small surgery kit including dressings and sterilization pads. He took a handheld scanner that could diagnose any number of ailments, and a multi-vaccinator.

Just him, Kasyanov, and Ripley, for however many years it took for them to be found.

“You’ll see Amanda again,” he said—mostly to himself, because he was thinking of his own children, as well. They were all going home.

“Hoop,” Kasyanov said. “I’m about to initiate. The pod calculates that it’ll take just under twenty minutes for the physical repairs, and five more for the limited memory wipe.”

Hoop nodded. Kasyanov stroked a pad on the unit and it began to hum.

Inside, Ripley twitched.

Hoop moved quickly through the ship toward the bridge. More than ever it felt like a haunted ship. He’d always known the Marion busy, the crew going about their tasks, the off-duty miners drinking or talking or working out. It had never been a silent place. There was always music emanating from the accommodations hub or rec room, a rumble of conversation from the galley and bar.

He felt a pang as he missed his friends, and Lucy Jordan, his one-time lover. She had become more than a friend, and after their romance had dwindled—sucked away, she’d joked without really joking, by the cold depths of space—their friendship had deepened to something he’d rarely felt before. They had trusted each other completely.

And she had been one of the first to die.

Hoop had never given way to loneliness. As a child he’d enjoyed his own company, preferring to spend time in his room making models or reading his parents’ old books, and when he was a teenager he’d kept a small circle of friends. Never one for team sports, his social life had revolved around nights at their houses, watching movies or drinking cheap booze. Sometimes a girl would come onto the scene and take him or a friend away for a time, but they’d always returned to the familiarity of that small, closed circle.

Even as an adult, after marrying and having children and then losing it all, he had rarely felt lonely.

That only happened after the aliens arrived.

Every step of the way toward the bridge, he thought of Ripley. He so hoped she would live, but a different woman was going to emerge from the med pod. If the unit worked well, she would remember little or nothing from the past few days. He would have to introduce himself all over again.

Even though the creature had to be dead, he remained cautious, pausing at each junction, listening for anything out of place. A constant vibration had been rippling throughout the ship ever since the explosion in Hold 2, and Hoop guessed the blast had somehow knocked their decaying orbit askew. They were skipping the outer edges of the planet’s atmosphere now, shields heating up, and it wouldn’t be long before the damaged docking bays started to burn and break apart.

He needed to find out just how long they had.

The bridge was exactly as they’d left it less than a day earlier. It seemed larger than before, and he realized that he’d never actually been there on his own. Lachance was often on duty, sitting in his pilot’s seat even though the Marion rarely needed any manual input. Baxter spent a lot of time at his communications console, processing incoming messages for miners or crew and distributing them as appropriate throughout the ship’s network. Sneddon sometimes spent long periods there, talking with Jordan, and their security officer, Cornell, would sometimes visit.

Other people came and went. The place was never silent, never empty. Being there on his own made it seem all the more ghostly.

He spent a few minutes examining readouts on Lachance’s control panels, consulting the computers, and they told him what he needed to know. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small data drive, uploading a data purge program before dropping it into an inner pocket.

Insurance, he thought.

Then he quickly made his way down through the accommodations hub. It was a slight detour, but it was much closer to the galley and rec rooms. They needed food, and there wasn’t time enough to go to where most of it was stored.

He found what he sought in various private quarters. Everyone kept a stash of food for midnight hungers, and sometimes because they just didn’t feel like eating with the others. He grabbed a trolley and visited as many rooms as he could, finding pictures of families who would never see their loved ones again, witnessing all those personal things that when left behind seemed like sad, incomplete echoes of what a person had been.

As he gathered, it dawned on him that they’d never be able to take enough to sustain them. But Kasyanov had said there was a large supply of food substitutes and dried supplements stored in the med bay. They’d make do. There would be rationing.

He tried to concentrate entirely on the here-and-now. The thought of the journey that lay ahead would cripple him if he dwelled on it for too long. So he kept his focus on the next several hours.

Leaving the laden trolley along the route that led down to the docking bays, he made his way back up to the med bay. Kasyanov was sitting on one of the beds, jacket cast aside and shirt pulled up to reveal her wounds. They were more extensive than Hoop had suspected; bloody tears in her skin that pouted purple flesh. She quivered as she probed at them with tweezers. There were several heavy bags piled by the door, and a stack of medical packs. She’d been busy—before she took time to tend herself.

“Bad?” he asked softly.

She looked up, pale and sickly.

“I’ve puked blood. I’ll have to use the med pod. Otherwise, I’ll die of internal bleeding and infection within a day.”

“We’ve got maybe two hours,” Hoop said.

“Time enough,” she replied, nodding. “She’ll be done in fifteen minutes.”

He had seen the unit working before, but it never ceased to fascinate him. Ripley looked thin and malnourished, battered and bruised. But the med pod had already repaired most of her major wounds, and several operating arms were concentrating on the rip in her stomach. They moved with a fluid grace, lacking any human hesitation and targeted with computer confidence. Two delved inside, one grasping, another using a laser to patch and mend. Its white-warm glow reflected from the pod’s glass cover and gave movement to Ripley’s face, but in truth she was motionless. Back down in the depths of whatever dreams troubled her so much.

They, too, would soon be fixed.

The arms retreated and then her wound was glued and stitched with dissolvable thread. A gentle spray was applied to the area—artificial skin, set to react over time as the natural healing processes commenced. When she woke up, there would be little more than a pale pink line where the ugly slash had once existed.

Bumps and bruises were sprayed, her damaged scalp treated, an acid splash across her left forearm and hand attended to, after which the pod’s arms pulled a white sheet from a roll beneath the bed and settled it gently across Ripley’s body. It was almost caring.

Kasyanov glanced at Hoop, and he nodded. She initiated the next process. Then sighed, sat back, and closed her eyes as the interior of the med pod changed color. Rich blue lights came on, and arms as delicate as daisy stems pressed several contact pads against Ripley’s forehead, temples, and neck. The lights began to pulse hypnotically. The pod buzzed in time with the pulsing, emitting a soporific tone. Hoop had to look away.

He turned to Kasyanov. Her breathing was light and fast, but she waved him away, nodding.

“I’m good,” she said.

“You’re shit.”

“Yeah. Well. What’s that, a doctor’s analysis?”

Hoop could barely smile. Instead, he went to the bags she’d left by the med bay’s door and opened the first to check inside.

“Antibiotics, viral tabs, painkillers, sterilization spray,” Kasyanov said. “Other stuff. Bandages, medicines, contraceptives.”

Hoop raised an eyebrow.

“Hey. Forever is a long time.”

He checked another bag and saw a jumble of plastic containers and shrink-wrapped instruments.

“You planning on passing time by operating on us?”

“Not unless I have to. But you really want to die from appendicitis?”

A soft chime came from the med pod and the lights inside faded to nothing. Sensor tendrils curled back in, fine limbs settled into place, and then the lid slid soundlessly open.

“She’s done?” Hoop asked.

“Guess so.” Kasyanov hauled herself upright, growling against the pain. “Get her out. I’ve got to—”

A distant explosion thudded through the ship. The floor kicked up. Ceiling tiles shuddered in their grid.

“Hurry,” Hoop said. As he moved across to the pod and prepared to lift Ripley out, Kasyanov was already working at its control panel. Her good hand moved quickly across the touchscreen. Hoop lifted Ripley clear, the lid slid closed, and moments later a sterilizing mist filled the interior.

Hoop settled Ripley on one of the beds, carefully wrapping her in the sheet and fixing it with clips. She looked tired, older. But she was still alive, and her face seemed more relaxed than he had seen it. He so hoped that she was dreaming harmless dreams.

“Now me,” Kasyanov said. “Five minutes, if that. We’ve got time?”

Hoop was surprised at the doctor’s sudden vulnerability.

“Of course,” he said. “I’m waiting for you, whatever happens.”

She nodded once, then with a wry smile she held out her hand.

“Quick lift?”

Hoop helped her into the pod. She lay down, touched the inner shell, and a remote control grid appeared. A wave of her hand closed the lid.

“See ya,” she said, attempting an American accent.

Hoop smiled and nodded. Then he turned back to check that Ripley was all right.

Behind him, the med pod whispered.

The med pod wasn’t quite soundproof.

Looking at Ripley, Hoop heard Kasyanov’s muffled yell. He turned around to see thin metallic straps whipping across the doctor’s body, constricting across her shoulders, chest, stomach, hips, and legs. She cried out in pain as they crushed against her wounds.

Hoop knew that shouldn’t be happening. He tried to open the lid, but it was locked, and however much he touched and pressed the external control panel, nothing happened.

Kasyanov looked at him through the glass, wide-eyed.

“Ash,” Hoop hissed. Kasyanov couldn’t have heard him, but she saw the word on his lips. And froze.

A soft blue light filled the med pod.

“No!” she shouted, the word so muffled that Hoop only knew it because of the shape of her mouth.

A single surgical arm rose from its housing and loomed over Kasyanov’s chest.

Hoop tried to force the lid. He snapped up the plasma torch and used the hand rest to hammer at the lid’s lip, but only succeeded in bending part of the torch.

Kasyanov’s voice changed tone and he looked to her lips, searching for the word she had chosen, and it was Hoop.

He turned the torch around and aimed at the pod’s lid, close to her feet. If he was careful, only released a quick shot, angled it just right, he might be able to—

The blue light pulsed and the delicate arm sparked alight. There was a fine laser at its tip, and in a movement that was almost graceful, it drew rapidly across Kasyanov’s exposed throat. Blood pulsed, then spurted from the slash, splashing back from the pod’s inner surface and speckling across her face.

She was held so tightly that Hoop only knew she was struggling because of the flexing and tensing of her muscles, the bulging of her eyes. But those soon died down, and as the blue light faded, Kasyanov grew still.

Hoop turned away, breathing hard, and even when the ship juddered so hard that it clacked his teeth together, he did not move.

You bastard, he thought. You utter bastard, Ash.

Somehow he held back his rage.

Ripley groaned and rolled onto her side.

“I’ve got you,” Hoop said, moving to her side. Dropping the plasma torch, he slipped his hands beneath her and heaved her up onto his shoulder.

The shuttle awaited them, and now he was the last survivor of the Marion.

It was time to leave.

24 REVENGE

Hoop left med bay with Ripley over his shoulder. The ship juddered so hard that he fell into a wall, jarring his whole body. The Marion groaned and creaked. It struck him what an irony it would be if the ship broke her back there and then, venting to space, killing him and Ripley and ending their long, terrible journey.

He thought of Lachance, who might have prayed to help him reach his destination. But Hoop knew that he was on his own. The universe was indifferent. Whether he and Ripley escaped, or died here and now, it all came down to chance.

A rhythmic booming commenced from somewhere deep below. It sounded like a giant hammer, smashing at the ship’s spine, pulsing explosions working outward from the engine core, thudding heartbeats of a dying ship. But still the vessel did not break up.

“Well, let’s go, then,” he muttered, moving on.

He tried to move quickly. His legs were as shaky as the ship now, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. His stomach rumbled, and he was suddenly, sickeningly hungry. He snorted a laugh at how ridiculous that was. But he also vowed to enjoy a feast, once they were in the Narcissus and away from the ship.

Just the two of us now, he thought. One asleep, one awake, sharing the stasis pod and maybe being together for a while in between. We might even do this. We might survive and get home.

And what story would he tell Ripley, when his newfound loneliness became too great and he woke her, ready to spend some of his own time in hypersleep? How would she react to being roused by someone she didn’t know? If the memory wipe had been thorough, the last thing she’d remember would be putting herself into stasis after destroying the Nostromo.

But that was for the future. If they survived, he would be able to tell her everything, or perhaps nothing at all. All he could concentrate on now was staying alive.

He moved as quickly and safely as he could. Reaching the stairs that led down into the docking area, he decided he’d have to take the elevator. Ripley was becoming heavier by the moment. He glanced at the trolley of food and realized he would have to return for it.

As he entered the elevator, though, he already mourned the feast left behind.

The car descended smoothly, and the doors opened onto a corridor lit by flickering lights. Something exploded. It was far away, but it punched through the whole superstructure, knocking him from his feet again. Ripley rolled against the wall, groaning, waving her hands.

“Don’t wake up yet,” he muttered. She’d panic. He had enough to contend with.

She opened her eyes and looked right at him, motionless, holding her breath. There was no expression on her face, and nothing like recognition in her eyes. Hoop began to speak, to make sure she was still Ripley, still there. But then she closed her eyes again and slumped down. He had no idea what she had seen, but it hadn’t been him.

A deep groan rumbled through everything, and he felt a sickly movement in his stomach and head. The Marion was starting to turn in a roll, and if that happened she would quickly come apart. From somewhere behind him he saw flashing yellow and orange bursts, illuminating the walls before fading again. Fire! But then he realized there were viewing ports back on the deck from which he’d just descended. The flames were filtering in from outside.

Things were heating up.

He closed a blast door behind him, but it immediately re-opened. He didn’t bother trying again. Maybe it was Ash still playing his games. Or it might just be the Marion, getting cranky in her final moments.

“Come on, come on!” he implored, urging himself on, Ripley slung across both of his shoulders now. He staggered along the corridor, bouncing from wall to wall as the ship shook and rumbled. Another explosion came from far away and he felt the pressure blast smack him in the back, pushing him onward so hard that he lost his footing and went to his knees. He kept hold of Ripley this time. She grunted.

“Yeah, me too,” he said. He stood again and passed by the Samson’s docking arm, moving quickly on to Bay Four and the Narcissus. He opened the vestibule doors and hurried through. In minutes they’d be away. He would look back and see the distant flare as the massive ship met its end.

Or maybe not. Maybe he wouldn’t look at all. He’d seen enough destruction, and he couldn’t help feeling sad at the Marion’s demise.

Ash would die with the ship. Hoop had never met an android that he’d liked, but he’d never disliked any of them, either. He’d regarded them as expensive, fancy tools. Sometimes they were useful, but more often they were rich playthings that did the jobs that any man or woman could do, given the right equipment and training.

But he hated Ash.

And they were about to beat him.

He opened the Narcissus’s door and entered the shuttle, keeping his eyes on the vestibule as the airlock slid closed again, followed by the shuttle doors.

Then Hoop heard something behind him. A soft, gentle hiss. The scraping of claws on leather. Something alive.

He turned around slowly, and Jonesy sat crouched on the arm of the pilot’s chair, teeth bared at him, hackles spiked.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Hoop relaxed, lowering Ripley to the floor. He went to the pilot’s seat and sat down.

Jonesy hissed again and jumped away when Hoop went to stroke him.

He switched on the ship’s computer and it powered up instantly. All good. He sat back and waited for the system statuses to load onto the control screens, looking around at the shuttle’s interior. Ash was here. He couldn’t be seen or sensed, but here more than anywhere Hoop had that distinct sense of being watched.

Hello Ash, he typed.

Good? he typed. No. Pretty fucking shitty, really.

Ash did not respond.

Initiate launch sequence, Hoop typed.

I thought you’d say that. Hoop took the memory stick from his inner pocket, and slipped it into one of the panel’s interface points.

The computer screen before him flashed, then faded to blank. When it fired up again the previous lines of text had vanished, and the cursor sat ready to create some more.

No, Hoop typed, that is exactly what you are. Thinking you’re more than that is why this is going to work.

Probably not, Hoop typed. This isn’t third rate. It’s the best that money can buy… from your old friends at Weyland-Yutani.

That was Ash’s total response. Whether it was a plea or a denial, Hoop didn’t wait to find out. He pressed a button on the virus purger, then hit the initiate button on the control panel. A splash of code lit up three screens. It started to scroll quickly, and every few seconds a particular line of code was highlighted red, isolated, and placed in a boxed area on the left of the central display.

Hoop left the purger to do its work. and went to where he’d propped Ripley by the door.

She was still unconscious, and for that he was glad. He carefully took the sheet from her and dressed her in some underwear he found in the small clothing locker. Jonesy the cat sat beside her and purred as he did so, eager to maintain contact with his mistress as much as he could.

Hoop struggled with her vest, laying her flat and stretching her arms over her head to pull it down. Just before he smoothed it over her stomach, he paused and looked closely at the fixed wounds there. They were visible as pale pink lines in her waxen skin. When she woke up, if she looked closely enough, she would find them. And he would be there to tell her all about it.

“You can sleep without nightmares, Ripley,” he said, holding her close. “And when we wake up, I’ll only tell you as much as you need to know.” She seemed lighter when he lifted her this time, and her face was almost serene as he laid her in the stasis pod where she had slept for so long.

Jonesy jumped in with her and snuggled down by her feet, as if eager to go back to sleep. Hoop could hardly blame him.

Something buzzed on the control panel, and he sat back in the pilot’s chair.

The screens were blank once again, and a red light glowed softly on the purger. He plucked it from the interface and held it up between two fingers, filled with distaste even though he knew Ash wasn’t really in there. That was a simplistic notion, but somehow that naive idea made Hoop feel better. Especially when he dropped the purger to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.

Hello Narcissus, he typed.

This is Chief Engineer Hooper of the Deep Space Mining Orbital Marion. I have Warrant Officer Ripley with me. Please initiate all pre-launch checks.

A series of images and menus flashed across the screens, flickering as each launch and flight system was checked. It all looked good. He didn’t see anything to worry him.

“We’re not home yet,” he said. The shuttle shook as something happened on the Marion, another explosion or a closer impact with LV178’s atmosphere. They didn’t have very long.

Hoop went to the stasis pod and fired it up. Its small screen was already flashing as the Narcissus’s computer ran through its own series of diagnostics. It looked like a comfortable place to spend some time. A long time.

As the shuttle’s computer went through its pre-flight diagnostics, Hoop accessed the navigation computer and created a new program. It was simple enough—he input the destination as “origin,” made certain that was listed as Sol system, then clicked the auto panel so that the ship’s computer would work out the complex flight charts.

“Earth,” he whispered, thinking of that long-ago place and everything that it meant to him. He hoped he would get back in time to see his family again.

He hoped they would welcome his return.

The computer still wasn’t done calculating, so he squeezed back through the hatch and into the engine room to complete work on the replacement fuel cell. It was connected into the ship and fixed on its damper pads, but he still had to finish refixing its shell. It took a few moments, then he sat back and regarded his work. It all looked good. He’d always been a neat engineer, and tidying up after himself was part of his work ethic. So he grabbed the old, denuded fuel cell by the handle on the end and tugged it back through the hatch after him.

Hearing a warning chime, he left the cell by the hatch and went to the pilot’s station again.

Hoop caught his breath. He rested his fingers on the keyboard, almost afraid to type in case Ash’s soundless voice replied.

What’s the problem? he typed, wondering how Ash would respond. No problem for me, maybe, or, We’ll all go together. But the response was straightforward, to the point, and nothing malignant.

“Oh, great,” he said. “That’s just fucking great.” It wasn’t Ash’s voice, but it was a final farewell. Hoop couldn’t launch the shuttle from inside. He’d have to be out there, back in the airlock and on board the Marion, so that he could access manual release.

Ash’s parting gift.

“You bastard,” Hoop said.

But had he really expected it to end so easily? His heart sank. The ship shook. From the viewing windows that looked out across the Marion’s belly, he could see feathers of flames playing all across the hull. Parts of it were already glowing red.

He went to Ripley’s side to say goodbye. He stared down at her where she slept, aware that they hadn’t gone through the usual pre-hypersleep procedures—she should have eaten and drunk, washed, used the bathroom. But this rushed process was the best he could manage.

He was letting her fly into the future.

His own future was shorter, and far more grim.

“So here we are,” he said. It felt foolish talking to himself, and really there was nothing left to say. He bent down and kissed Ripley softly on the lips. He didn’t think she would mind. In fact, he kind of hoped she’d have liked it. “Fly safe. Sweet dreams.”

Then Hoop closed the stasis pod and watched its controls flash on as the Narcissus’s computer took control. By the time he was standing by the shuttle’s door, plasma torch slung over one shoulder, Ripley was almost into hypersleep.

Amanda is in her late teens, lithe, tall and athletic, just like her mother. She stands by a stone wall somewhere dark and shadowy, and her chest bursts open, spilling blood to the floor, a screeching creature clawing its way out from the wound.

Ripley turns away because she doesn’t want to see. Behind her, a monster spews hundreds of flexing eggs from its damaged abdomen.

She turns again and sees a blood-spattered metal wall, tattered corpses at its base. More aliens crawl toward her, hissing, heads moving as if they are sniffing her, and she understands their age-old fury in a way that only nightmares can allow. It’s as if they have been looking for her forever, and now is the moment of their revenge.

She turns back to Amanda, and her daughter is maybe fourteen years old. She coughs and presses her hand to her chest. Rubs. Nothing happens. Ripley turns a full circle. More blood, more aliens, but now it’s all more distant, as if she’s viewing things through a reversed telescope.

Those beasts are still coming for her, but they’re a long way off, both in time and memory, and becoming more distant with every moment that passes.

Amanda, she tries to say. But though she knows this is a dream, still she cannot speak.

25 GONE

Three more minutes and she’ll be gone.

Hoop shoved the empty fuel cell out through the airlock, then returned to the Narcissus and closed the hatch behind him, flicking the lever that would initiate its automatic sealing and locking. He heard the heavy clunks and then a steady hiss, and Ripley was lost to him. There wasn’t even a viewing panel in the door. He would never see her again.

The Marion was in her death-throes. The ship’s vibrations were now so violent that Hoop’s heels and ankles hurt each time the deck jerked beneath him. He moved quickly through the airlock, plasma torch held at ready in case that last alien had survived, and in case it was coming for him still.

Two minutes. He just had to live that long, in order to release Ripley’s shuttle. He hoped to survive for longer— and a plan was forming, a crazy idea that probably had a bad ending—but two minutes was the minimum. After that, after Ripley would be safe, things would matter less.

He reached the vestibule and closed the airlock behind him, sealing it and leaning to one side to look at the Narcissus through one of the viewing windows. All he had to do now was to hit the airlock seal confirmation, and the ship’s computer would know it was safe to go.

His hand hovered over the pad. Then he pressed it down.

Almost instantaneously a brief retro burst pushed the Narcissus away from the Marion, and the two parted company. More retro exhalations dropped the shuttle down beneath the ship’s belly. It fell through veils of smoke and sheets of blazing air, buffeted by the planet’s atmosphere, before its rockets ignited and it vanished quickly toward the stern.

And that was it. Ripley and the Narcissus were gone. Hoop was left alone on the Marion, and he knew the ship he’d called home was moments away from dying.

For a while he just leaned there against the wall, feeling each death-rattle transmitted into his body up through the floor and wall. He thought about his plan, and how foolish it was, how almost beyond comprehension. And he thought about the easier way out. He could just sit there for a while, and when the time came and the ship started to come apart, his death would be quick. The heat would be immense, and it would fry him to a crisp. He probably wouldn’t even feel it. And if he did feel it, it would be more sensation than pain.

The end of all his agonies.

But then he saw his children again. Between blinks they were actually there with him in that vestibule, the two boys silent but staring at him accusingly, their eyes saying, You left us once, don’t leave us again! He sobbed. In that instant he could understand why Ripley had asked for that merciful wiping of her memory.

Then his children were gone again, figments of his guilt, aspects of his own bad memories. But they didn’t have to be gone forever. Where there existed even the slightest, most insignificant chance, he had to take it.

The Samson wasn’t very far away.

He paused briefly outside the door that led into the Samson’s docking arm. It was still vacuum in there, and he wouldn’t have time to find the tools to drill a hole again. This escape would be more basic, more brutal than that.

He wanted to give himself a chance. He needed supplies, even though the probability of surviving was insignificant. It was a dropship, built for surface-to-orbit transfers, not deep space travel. There likely was enough fuel on board for him to escape orbit, but he wasn’t even certain whether the craft’s navigational computer could calculate a journey across the cosmos toward home. He would point them in the right direction, then fire the thrusters. Retain perhaps twenty percent of the fuel, but use the rest to get him up to the greatest speed possible.

And there was no stasis unit in the Samson. He’d likely be traveling for years. He might even grow old and die in there, if the ship held together that long. What a find that would be, he mused, for someone hundreds or thousands of years from now.

Bad enough to consider traveling that long with company, but on his own? The one comfort was that he was again king of his own destiny. If he wanted to persist, then he could. And if the time came when ending it was a much more settling proposition, it was simply a case of opening the airlock door.

Best get moving then.

But he needed food, water, clothing, and other supplies. Much of what he required still sat on that trolley, up in the Marion and just beyond the large docking deck. So he ran. He thought of the feast he’d promised himself, and that kept him going, the idea of reconstituted steak and dried vegetables, with flatcakes for dessert. A glass of water. Maybe he’d even be able to access the electronic library they used on board the Marion, if it had been updated to the Samson’s computers. He wasn’t sure about that, it hadn’t been a priority, and such minor considerations had usually been passed down to Powell and Welford.

He hoped they hadn’t shirked their responsibilities.

With the prospect of a lonely eternity ahead, Hoop was surprised to find that he was shedding tears as he ran. They weren’t for him, because he was way past that. They were for his kids. They were for his crew and everyone he’d seen die horrible, unnatural deaths. And they were for Ripley.

It was as if the Marion knew that he was abandoning her. She was shaking herself apart. Conduits had broken beneath the constant assault, and clouds of sparks danced back and forth outside a closed doorway. He ducked beneath the bare wires, moving quickly, too rushed to be overly cautious. As he neared the stairs leading up from the docking level, bursts of steam powered up from fractured channels in the flooring, scorching his skin and lungs and soaking his suit, running in bright red rivulets where other people’s blood had dried onto the strong material.

At the top of the stairs was a short corridor, and that emerged onto the wide area where elevator and stairs led up into the Marion. This was where he’d left the trolley of supplies.

It was still there. It had shifted a little, because he’d forgotten to lock its wheels. But there were packets of dried foods, a few sachets of dried fruit from their damaged garden pod, and a precious bottle of whiskey. Perhaps in an hour he would be drinking to Ripley’s health.

Knowing what had to come next, he knew that he couldn’t take everything. So he grabbed two of the bags he’d brought along from the trolley, opened them and tried to cram in as much as he could. He rushed. He didn’t think about what he chose, just scooped packets and sachets and rammed them in.

With both bags full and tied shut, he slung one over each shoulder and turned to run back to the Samson.

Then he stopped. He turned back to the trolley and plucked up the bottle of bourbon nestling on the bottom shelf. Heavy, impractical…

But entirely necessary.

As he ran, he found himself laughing.

Die now or die later, Hoop thought. It gave him a sort of bravery, he hoped. Or carelessness. Perhaps sometimes the two were the same.

He suited up and waited outside the doorway that led into Bay Three. He wore a bag over each shoulder, and clasped in his left hand was the bourbon. He’d tethered himself to the wall opposite the doors, and as soon as they were fully open he’d unclip and let himself sail through, carried by the torrent of atmosphere being sucked from the ship. With luck he would drift right through the vestibule and into the open airlock beyond. If he was unlucky, he’d be dragged with the main flow of air, out through the smashed portion of outer wall and window, and smeared along the underside of the doomed ship.

He probably wouldn’t feel much. The end would be quick.

But if he did make it across to the airlock, he’d haul himself into the Samson, close the hatches, and initiate its environmental controls. It wouldn’t be long before he could breathe once more.

The chance was slim. But there was little else to do. The Marion just had minutes left. Through viewing windows he’d already seen sizeable chunks of hull spinning away, consumed in flame. If the ship didn’t burst apart it would explode from the tremendous pressures being exerted.

Fuck it. He had to try. It was all he had left.

Reaching out with a hand that surprised him by shaking, he touched the panel that would open the doors.

Chance smiled. But considering the pain Hoop was in, perhaps it had been more of a grimace.

The decompression had sucked him through the narrow gap between the doors, ripping off his helmet and thrusting him into a spin. He’d struck the edge of the airlock entrance, and for a moment he could have gone either way. Left, and he’d have tumbled from the massive wound in the vestibule’s side wall. Right—into the airlock—meant survival, at least for a time.

If he’d dropped the bourbon, he could have used his left hand to push against the wall and slide himself to safety.

Fuck you! his mind had screamed. Fuck you! If I survive, I want a drink!

Unable to move either way, he’d heard something clanging along the walls as it bounced toward him from deep within the Marion. Many smaller items were being sucked out through the hole, immediately flashing into flame as they met the superheated gasses roaring past outside.

Then something large slammed across the opening. For perhaps two seconds it remained there, lessening the force of the suction, letting Hoop reach around into the airlock with his right hand and haul himself inside.

It was the trolley on which he’d gathered supplies. As he closed the airlock door, the decompression began again with a heavy thud.

The Marion lasted a lot longer than he’d expected.

Seven minutes after blasting away from the dying ship, Hoop switched one of the Samson’s remote viewers and watched the massive vessel finally break apart. She died in a glorious burst of fire, a blooming explosion that smeared across the planet’s upper atmosphere and remained there for some time, detritus falling and burning, flames drifting in the violent winds.

Further away, toward the upper curve of the planet, he could still see the ochre bruise of the fuel cell detonation that had destroyed the mine. It was strange, viewing such violence and yet hearing nothing but his own sad sigh. He watched for a minute more, then turned off the viewer and settled back into the seat.

“Burn,” he whispered, wondering whether Ash had any final thoughts before being wiped out. He hoped so. He hoped the AI had felt a moment of panic, and pain.

Hoop was no pilot. Yet he would need to attempt to program the dropship’s computer to plot a course back toward Earth. Maybe he’d be picked up somewhere on the way. Perhaps someone would hear the distress signal he was about to record. But if not, he thought he might survive for a while. The Samson carried emergency rations that would supplement what he’d managed to bring on board. Its environmental systems would reprocess his waste and give him water and breathable air.

He’d also found a small file of electronic books on the computer. He’d been unreasonably excited at first, before he’d scrolled through the limited selection and a cruel truth hit home.

He’d already read them all.

He looked around the dropship’s interior. The alien extrusion was still coating the rear wall, and he thought perhaps he might try to clear it off. There was dried blood on the walls and floor, and the limb was still trapped beneath the equipment rack in the passenger cabin.

Hardly home.

And yet his first meal as a castaway was a good one. He reconstituted some steak stew, carrots, and mashed potatoes, and while they cooled a little he broke the seal on the bourbon. It smelled good, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it last for long. He held the bottle up and turned it this way and that, starlight glimmering through the golden brown fluid. Then he drank without offering anyone, or anything, a toast.

Relishing the burn as the drink warmed him from the inside out, Hoop pressed “record.”

“When I was a kid I dreamed of monsters,” he said. “I don’t have to dream anymore. If you can hear this, please home in on the beacon. I’m alone, drifting in a dropship that isn’t designed for deep space travel. I’m hoping I can program the computer to take me toward the outer rim, but I’m no navigator. I’m no pilot, either. Just a ship’s engineer. This is Chris Hooper, last survivor of the Deep Space Mining Orbital Marion.”

He leaned back in the pilot’s seat, put his feet up on the console, and pressed transmit.

Then he took another drink.

Ripley is lying in a hospital bed. There are shapes around her, all come to visit.

There’s a little girl. Her name is Amanda, and she is Ellen Ripley’s daughter. She’s still young, and she smiles at her mother, waiting for her to come home. I’ll be home for your eleventh birthday, Ripley says. I promise. Amanda grins at her mommy. Ripley holds her breath.

Nothing happens.

Behind Amanda are other shapes Ripley does not recognize. They’re little more than shadows—people she has never known, all dressed in uniforms emblazoned with a ship’s name she does not recognize—but even as Amanda leans in to hug her, these shadows fade away.

Soon Amanda begins to fade, as well, but not from memory. She’s back home, an excited little girl awaiting her mother’s return from a long, dangerous journey.

I’ll buy her a present, Ripley thinks. I’ll buy her the greatest present ever.

But in the blankness left when Amanda disappears, other figures emerge. Her crew, her friends, and Dallas, her lover.

They look frightened. Lambert is crying, Parker is angry.

And Ash. Ash is…

Dangerous! Ripley thinks. He’s dangerous! But though this is her dream, she cannot warn the others.

And much closer, beneath clean hospital sheets, something is forcing itself from Ripley’s chest.