The sterile chamber had instantly filled with every available team member, soldiers, and other observers, all of them violating every protocol they’d been rigidly trained to follow. And none of them could free Sprague from the host specimen’s grip.
It was unprecedented. It was unexpected. It was exciting!
Wren shoved his way to the front where he could see the host and her victim, and get control of the situation. Everyone was shouting conflicting orders, while Dan just kept screaming…
…and she just lay there under her drapes, her wound only partially sealed, her face as impassive as a sphinx as she deliberately twisted.
Wren pounced on the anesthesia controls, increasing the dosage radically.
Gediman was beside him, frantic for his pet. “Don’t kill her, Doctor Wren, please don’t kill her!”
Don’t beg, Gediman, Wren thought at him in disgust. It’s unprofessional.
The host blinked lazily, still not releasing Dr. Sprague. Her eyes moved, seemed to latch onto Wren’s. She looked straight at him, into him, through him. He felt a chill. Then her lids closed slowly, and in seconds her grip relaxed.
Clauss and Watanabe had Dan on a stretcher in seconds, Watanabe quickly, efficiently examining the badly broken arm. Bones pierced the skin and sterile gown in several places. The arm was mangled so badly the hand was facing in a completely unnatural direction. Blood pulsed from Dan’s arm, flowed over the immaculate sterile gown, splatted onto the floor. In the sterile room painted in gleaming whites and neutral tones, the blood’s brilliant red was all the more shocking.
At least he was sterile, Wren thought clinically. We should be able to avoid infection, in spite of all these people violating the sterility of the room. He was pleased to see Watanabe taking charge. He’d specialized in orthopedics before coming here.
The young doctor looked up from his writhing patient. “Dr. Wren, I’d like to take Dan into surgical room C and prep him immediately.”
“Go right ahead, Yoshi,” Wren approved. “Brian and Carlyn can assist. Will you need anyone else?”
“No, that should be fine,” Watanabe assured him, then signaled to the soldiers to take Sprague’s stretcher out of the room. Everyone but Gediman filed out with it.
Gediman had moved back to the robot controls, efficiently closing up the host’s wound, in spite of the disorder around him. Wren approved.
But Gediman looked twitchy. Wren wondered if the sudden shocking violence of the host’s attack had been more than he could handle.
“You okay?” Wren asked. The theater was once again quiet, restored to its normal sterile ambiance. Only an abstract pattern of blood spatters marked the accident.
Gediman nodded abruptly. He finished the closure, withdrew the instruments. The host slept on, as its surgical chamber was automatically removed to a secured recovery cell.
“I’m fine,” Gediman insisted, in spite of his shaky voice. “And… and I’m grateful, Doctor. I appreciate your not euthanizing her. I think this was just an unfortunate incident…”
Wren pulled his attention away from the host and back to his protégé. “There was nothing unfortunate about it, Gediman. Dan will recover. And now we know something about the host we didn’t know before. Something we couldn’t have anticipated. An unexpected… benefit.”
He smiled at Gediman, knowing his excitement about this unexpected development was obvious, and watched as his associate slowly realized Wren’s attitude about the host had changed radically. Suddenly, Gediman realized Wren no longer saw the host as a liability but as an advantage. Gediman had long argued against terminating the specimen, but Wren was only interested in the wealth of information that could be gleaned from a cadaver. But now Wren was his ally, not his opponent, in determining the host’s fate.
Gediman relaxed with a sigh and grinned back at Wren.
“We’ll know more in the next few days,” Wren said, “both about the host, and the subject. They should be very interesting days for us, don’t you think, Gediman?”
The associate grinned. “Oh yes, Doctor, I certainly do.”
2
She crouched in the dark, making herself small, and assessed her environment. At least she was finally awake enough to do so. The light was at a minimum, but that did not hamper her. She could see everything she needed to. The space holding her was large enough to stand and stretch in, even walk around, but she did none of those things. She wouldn’t, either, until she knew more. She breathed slowly, quietly, and remained folded tight, assessing.
The cell was empty, holding only herself. There was no water, no clothing, no furniture, nothing that she could use to cause harm to herself or others. She was covered with a flimsy, white drapery, left over from the surgery.
There was a small viewport in the ceiling above her cell, and suddenly a shadow crossed it, making her tense. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, but paid close attention to the owner of the shadow. Boots appeared, stood over the viewport for several seconds, then quietly moved on. So, she was being watched. That was good to know.
Long minutes later, when she was sure the booted feet were not about to return, she began to assess herself Her mind was still sluggish from her long sleep, from the surgery.
Surgery. Why did I have surgery? Have I been sick?
She pushed the questions away. They only confused her. She would wait and hope to learn.
Her face itched. She touched it, scratching lightly. Her skin, still wet and tender, peeled off in large flakes. The skin beneath the peelings felt stronger, drier. She scratched herself cautiously, peeling her skin in long, slippery strips that she discarded. It felt good.
While busy peeling herself, she discovered again the scar running along her chest. Her fingers traced the smooth, perfect line. It was sensitive, but not terribly so. Lifting the drape, she peered at the wound. It troubled her, but she couldn’t say why.
As she traced the line with a fingernail, she became distracted by her own hand, and pulled it out from under the drape. There was something odd about the hand, something unfamiliar. She peered at the tapered, elegant fingers—only five!—and finally, the fingernails. They were long, strong, extremely sharp. They looked strange, but they were her own nails. Yet, she felt as if she’d never seen them before. As if they didn’t belong there.
Troubled for reasons she couldn’t define, she put one in her mouth and chewed, trying to shorten them, bite them off. But they wouldn’t yield, at least not to teeth.
As she bit at her nail, she spotted something dark on the inside of her forearm, near the elbow. She instantly forgot about her nails, and stretched her right arm out to inspect it. There on the skin was a mark. She frowned, trying to remember.
It’s a number. The number eight.
She touched it, then pulled her hand away. What could that mean? Instinctively, she knew it was not her name, nor was it long enough to be her identification.
The number eight.
As she stared at it, trying to make sense of it, she heard a faint buzzing. A tiny, flying organism suddenly circled her head, distracting her. She watched it, fascinated, as it studied her, even as she studied it.
Moving lower, the organism settled on her inner arm, right near the tattoo. She watched patiently, curiously. What was this? What might it do?
Carefully, she lifted her arm for a better view.
The tiny organism had long delicate legs, elegant tiny wings, and a long stinger. A name came back to her.
Mosquito!
She almost smiled at the memory, it was so clear. This was an insect. A mosquito. She watched as it balanced like a dancer on her arm.
Slowly, it inserted its stinger into the flesh of her arm, doing it so delicately she felt nothing. The process amazed her, and she watched with the morbid fascination of a child. The creature’s abdomen began to fill.
With my blood! It’s sucking my blood.
Long forgotten information about the insect began registering in her mind as sh
e watched the creature drink its fill.
Then, in seconds, the insect began to change. Its swollen abdomen began to shrivel, the translucent wings began to curl, the delicate dancer’s legs fold up, as if melting from the inside out. In seconds, it was a dried-up black husk.
She blinked, finding the transformation interesting, but only for the moment. Blowing on her arm, she disposed of the corpse, then thought no more about it. Glancing up at the viewport, she waited for the next reappearance of the booted feet.
3
“Name?” the purser asked, checking her register.
“Purvis,” the man responded automatically. “Larry. I.D. code twelve, seven, forty-nine.” He handed her his computer chip.
She took it, inserted it into her handheld, waited for the information to come up on the screen. She smiled and nodded at him pleasantly. “You’re cleared. Welcome aboard, Mr. Purvis.”
The short, slender man smiled back at her. Mr. Purvis. He liked that. The Xarem corporation touted itself as a top-flight organization, and so far it seemed to be so. The purser waved him into the ship so she could register the woman standing behind him, so he moved along, following the signs for the cryounits. The ship was small, only used for transport, and even the crew would be going to sleep once they were on course and out of the solar system.
Well, Purvis didn’t care if there weren’t any amenities on board. According to the literature that had convinced him to sign on to this outfit, they’d all be waiting for him at the nickel refinery on Xarem. The whole damned planet was named for the company. Prior to their mining claim, it’d been nothing but a number. A couple of months nap time, and he’d be there. New career. Starting over. Not bad for a middle-aged guy.
He wouldn’t think about the life he was leaving behind him here on the Moon. He’d spent two years trying to patch things up with his wife, all for nothing. His kids were grown and on their own—it was time to move on himself. And it wasn’t like he was joining the French Foreign Legion! Conditions on Xarem were supposed to be the best.
Suddenly, a twist of loneliness surprised him, hitting him hard. He shook his head. Time to get over it. Time to move on. This would work. It was a new beginning. A new future.
He’d get to do things on Xarem he’d never have a chance at doing on the Moon. See new things. Experience new experiences. Maybe he could even fall in love again. He was young enough… he might even start another family.
Focusing on that hopeful thought, he climbed into the cryotube that had his name printed on the label. A steward was moving among the horizontal sleeping boxes, checking out the tubes, the drug mixtures, the computer setups. Nice and thorough. Purvis liked that.
He stowed his bag in the compartment inside the tube, and settled against the comfortable cushions. Soft music was piped into the tube to relax him, while a gentle, feminine voice told him what was awaiting him in his new career on Xarem. He smiled, closing his eyes, waiting for the cool chill of cryosleep to take him.
This was just the beginning of the biggest adventure of his life.
* * *
Gediman finished the auscultation as Ripley sat quietly on the exam table. Since they’d taken her out of the recovery cell, she’d been the picture of placid cooperation. Because she was being a model patient, Gediman had sent away the armed guard who’d been looming over her, so Ripley could have privacy during the exam. Of course, there were still two guards armed and ready stationed right outside.
Even though there’d been no sign of the violent nature she’d shown during yesterday’s surgery, Dan Sprague, recuperating in his quarters, had declined Gediman’s invitation to meet her up-close-and-personal this morning. The rest of the staff had shown a similar reaction when they’d learned she would be brought here ambulatory and conscious and had made themselves scarce. That was fine. They all had other critical duties to attend anyway. And besides, Gediman wasn’t afraid of her. He was fascinated by her. He was grateful for the time he might spend alone with her, studying her, discovering her abilities, her capacities.
You’re just a modern Dr. Frankenstein, aren’t you, Gediman? And this is your bride…
Walking around behind her, he eased the patient gown apart where it was split up the back, and examined the four diagonal scars on either side of her spine. They were neat, clean incisions, the remnants of the deformed dorsal horns her body had tried to grow. Removing them had been Wren’s work, and excellent work it was. Fortunately, they had been merely vestigial, totally useless, and removing them had not compromised her development.
He came around front, aware that she’d never stopped watching him, even when he was behind her. He had the impression that she was ever alert, completely ready… for something. He wanted to ease her concerns, whatever they might be.
“Ripley,” he said quietly, in the same “doctor-voice” he’d once used on children subjects in another experiment, “I’m going to take some blood from you. The needle will sting a little, but otherwise it won’t cause you any harm.”
She watched him, giving no reaction. He moved slowly, making sure she could see everything, making sure he didn’t startle her.
It’s more like working with a big jungle cat than a child. Only her eyes move. Her body stays still, coiled. I almost wish she had a tail she could lash that would at least indicate her mood.
He slowly applied a tourniquet, then picked up the specially designed syringe, needle, and blood-collection tube. They were made from an ancient design but with ultramodern space-age materials. Carefully, he inserted the needle, then moved the collection device over it before even a drop of her blood could escape. The clear tube filled quickly with dark red frothing liquid. She never flinched, watching the procedure with the same dispassionate calm she’d shown all morning.
Just as he finished removing the tube, then the needle, from her arm, he heard Wren’s voice.
“Well, how’s our number Eight today?” the senior scientist asked, looking at the computer pad that held her complete record. Had any living organism ever been charted so thoroughly? Gediman doubted it.
“Appears to be in good health…” Gediman assured him, labeling the tube and putting it in a special rack.
“How good?” Wren asked.
Gediman couldn’t help but grin. “Extraordinary! As in… completely off our projected charts!” He glanced at Ripley, wondering how she’d view Wren, but her expression and attitude never changed, though her attention now was on the senior scientist. She peered at him, unblinking, through slitted, emotionless eyes.
Still moving carefully, respectfully, Gediman adjusted the gown, dropping the front below her breasts so Wren could see. “Look at the scar tissue! See the recession?”
Wren stared. Like the doctor he was, he did not notice her lovely, bare female breasts, but instead the incision line that nestled between them. He seemed incredulous. “This is from…?”
“Yesterday!” Gediman said, almost gleeful.
“This is good,” Wren admitted, looking pleased. “This is very good.”
Gediman nodded like a kid. He knew damned well Wren had never seen tissue regeneration like that in his whole life.
Wren took a step toward the unmoving woman as Gediman lifted the gown back up, tying it behind her neck, restoring her modesty. Wren was smiling at Ripley, as if trying to reassure her. Gediman could tell by his demeanor, though, that he’d never had to work with patients, experimental or otherwise.
“Well, well, well,” Wren said patronizingly, “it looks like you’re going to make us all very proud—”
Ripley struck, her arm darting out with the speed of a snake as she latched onto the doctor’s throat. Wren’s voice was cut off in midword.
Before Gediman could even register what was happening, she was off the table, marching the flailing doctor across the room, shoving him roughly against the wall. Wren’s face was bright red; he couldn’t draw air at all. Gediman gaped, wild-eyed, as the woman who’d sat like a mannequin through an e
ntire physical exam erupted into sudden violence. Grasping Wren’s throat with one hand, she lifted the senior scientist a foot off the floor with minimal effort. Gediman was frozen with horror as Wren turned blue, his lips drawn back in a grinning rictus, his heels kicking ineffectually against the wall. Ripley was throttling him with both hands now, as he grasped and clawed at her wrists, fighting, struggling, his efforts useless.
Ripley’s eyes weren’t passive slits anymore. They were wide, all-seeing, enraged, burning. Gediman could only stare as she uttered her very first word.
“Why?” she demanded of the doctor she was killing.
“Oh, my god…!” Gediman gasped, every bit as panicked as the choking Wren.
DO SOMETHING! his brain shrilled, and he spun, searching, trying to remember—THE EMERGENCY ALARM! He slammed his hand against the red button on the opposite wall.
The sound seemed to activate Wren; he struggled desperately, finally breaking her hold. He fell hard and scrambled to get away but Ripley pounced on him like a cat toying with a mouse already slated for dinner. Her long legs scissored around Wren, squeezing the air from his lungs, as she pinned his shoulders to the floor. Wren clawed the floor in a feeble attempt to escape. Klaxons blared, lights flashed, but Ripley never noticed, just kept strangling the life out of her victim. Single-minded. Predatory.
Pneumatic doors swished open; guards raced in. One of them, with Distephano stamped on his helmet, ran up to the woman and aimed his gun at her. “Let him go!” Distephano roared at her, his gun held ready, rock-steady. “Release him or I’ll shoot!”
At point-blank range! Gediman thought, terrified. He’s got that thing on full charge. It’s powerful enough to stun a rhino. It’ll kill her… He looked between Ripley and the blue-faced Wren, back and forth. She has to be stopped, but…! Wren’s kicks were growing more feeble.
“I said let him go!” Distephano yelled, his voice firm, controlled. The second soldier who’d entered with him acted in perfect consort with her associate, clearly intending to back up his action.
Alien Resurrection Page 3
