Alien Resurrection

by A. C. Crispin

  “I’ve come to terms with the idea,” Ripley muttered, and Call realized she was referring to the monster she’d birthed. That the creature lived. That she would bring forth a new plague. “It’s inevitable.”

  Call pulled herself together, her face stern. “Not as long as I’m around.” She tried not to think about how ineffectual that must sound. She hated her small frame, her soft, lilting voice. Not for the first time she wished she was built like Christie.

  “You’ll never get out of here alive,” Ripley said sadly, as if she were instructing a foolish child.

  Hearing the waver in her own voice, Call insisted, “I don’t give a damn!”

  Ripley raised an eyebrow, amused. “Really?”

  Lightning swift, Ripley’s hand lashed out, grabbing Call by the throat, and suddenly there was no air. Instantly, Call swung the stub of the melted blade, trapped by the confines of the small space and hampered by her own rising terror.

  Ripley slammed her arm to the floor, loomed over her. Call had to fight panic, try to keep her mind clear. The predator’s eyes sparkled over her face. With infinite sadness, Ripley offered, “I can make it stop.”

  Call heard herself actually whimper, and knew her stark terror was plain on her face. Her eyes pleaded for mercy.

  As quickly as she’d been grabbed, Call was suddenly released. Ripley slid away from her. Once more, the woman curled back up in a fetal ball, back against the wall, hiding as far within the shadows as she could.

  What are you doing? Why do you even need to hide? What do you think they want from you now? No wonder there were no furnishings in the cell. If they’d given her a cot, no doubt she’d be curled up under it, completely out of sight. Is there some measure of safety and comfort you find by curling into this little dark place? Is it some long-forgotten childhood memory hundreds of years old?

  “Go,” Ripley ordered her, dead-voiced again. “Get out of here. They’re looking for you.”

  Unnerved, Call shoved away from her, fearing she’d change her mind, understanding that whether she emerged from this room dead or alive was entirely up to the whim of this woman. She scrambled away from the shadow, suddenly heedless of being discovered by the guard and, sucking air desperately, she scuttled like a crab for the door.

  Her purpose here, her entire mission, was forgotten in a fog of self-preservation. Call couldn’t believe how strong that instinct was, how it drove her to escape. She fumbled at the door, found the mechanism, forced it to open.

  She darted from the room, all caution forgotten in her panicked flight. Two steps outside the cell something cold and metallic touched her neck, but before she could turn and defend herself the charge struck her hard, burning her skin, igniting her nerves, coursing a blast of electricity down her spine, through every nerve—

  She shouted once, then everything went dark as she collapsed.

  * * *

  Wren watched the petite, dark-haired woman crumple to the ground with smug satisfaction. As two soldiers grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up, he thought, Just who do you think you are to try to interfere with a top-secret research mission? Did you really think you’d succeed?

  He was so enraged, he was grateful that the presence of the soldiers would force him to maintain his professionalism. As Call shook her head dazedly and started to regain consciousness, Wren growled at her, “I think you’re going to find that this was ill-advised.”

  He asked the nearest soldier, “Where are her friends?”

  “As far as we know, sir, they’re all in separate quarters…”

  “Sound the alarm,” Wren ordered. “I want them rounded up—now!”

  * * *

  Ripley curled up tight within her shadow and stared into the darkness, trying not to let the young woman’s words touch her. She was tired, so very tired—But she didn’t dare sleep.

  I don’t wanna sleep, a small, thin voice said in her head. I have scary dreams.

  Who had said that? Ripley couldn’t remember, but the memory stabbed like a knife.

  She couldn’t sleep… she felt as if they could touch her in her sleep. Her mind was unguarded then, and brought them to the surface. All the monsters, the real monsters. Moving, breathing, seething—dreaming, planning, waiting…

  She shuddered.

  They were a perfect organism, with only one true function. And that woman, that small, young woman, she couldn’t understand…

  Its structural perfection is matched only by its hostility.

  Ripley could not recall who had said that to her or when, but she remembered it, nonetheless. It filled her with a crushing sadness. The thought of that idealistic young woman’s zeal, her determination, depressed her even more. For Ripley could see the barest shadow of what she had been in that woman’s eyes. What fate and the universe’s worst luck had made her.

  And what has fate made me now? she wondered hollowly. She didn’t know. Had it made her Ellen Ripley, as her chaotic mind insisted, or had it made her a quisling, a changeling as grotesque as… as…

  I prefer to be called an artificial person.

  She blinked, looking at the rapidly healing mark on her palm, all that was left from the woman’s knife.

  In the stillness of that moment, her eyes drooped, her body sagged, and she slipped into sleep unawares. And then it was there, waiting for her… behind her eyes…

  Her longing for the steaming warmth of the crèche, the strength and safety of her own kind. Alone, she suffered the isolation of her own individuality. Only in sleep could she join them, rejoice with them. It was time to build the crèche. Time to join with other warriors and serve the Queen. It was why she lived.

  The warrior lashed her tail, transmitting everything she thought and planned and felt to her Queen. And her Queen sent her love and approval back to her warrior. It would happen soon. The Queen would see to it and the warrior would make it happen. And this shell that was human, this Ripley, would be the mother of them all. The first womb. The first warrior. And she would live to know it all, to share the glory with them. The Queen would see to it, for Ripley was the keystone of the hive. The nurturer of the crèche. The foundation of the Newborn.

  Ripley twitched helplessly in her sleep, making soft sounds of protest and pain. The Queen shared her dreams, and approved.

  7

  Christie was just about to tell Johner that he’d had enough of both his terrible home brew and his company, and get his own self on to bed when the doors to their suite suddenly slammed open. He and Johner were instantly on their feet as four soldiers charged into the room. Before either man could do anything, they were staring down the barrels of the soldiers’ fully charged guns, held ready to fire. The two men from the Betty exchanged a quick look. Instinctively, Johner gripped his thermos tight.

  “What’s the problem?” Christie asked, making no sudden moves. He held his hands at his sides, away from his body. He didn’t want anybody here making any mistakes.

  “Sir,” one of the soldiers said, incongruously polite, “you will come with us. Now.”

  I guess we will, Christie thought, giving Johner a quick nod.

  “Sir,” the soldier repeated. “Now!”

  Christie glanced at the man. The name Distephano was stamped on his helmet. “Sure thing, man. We’re coming. No resistance here, is there, Johner?” Carefully, ostentatiously, Christie moved his hands behind his back, clasped them.

  “You got that right,” Johner mumbled low.

  They were marched into the mess hall. Every light was on. In minutes, Elgyn and Hillard were pushed into the room by other soldiers. Elgyn was still adjusting his clothes, having obviously dressed in a hurry. He glanced at Christie, made eye contact. Hillard did the same. No one spoke.

  Suddenly, from the doorway, Call was shoved into the room. She stumbled, obviously dazed, rubbing her neck. That doctor, Wren, was with the soldiers manhandling Call, and he was glaring at the little tech. He looked furious.

  They’ve stunned her, Ch
ristie realized, tensing. What the hell could that little girl be up to now? And where the devil is Vriess?

  Elgyn finished with his clothes. He looked straight at Wren. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  “Looks like a double-cross, boss,” Christie said clearly. He wanted Elgyn to hear the clarity in his voice. He and Johner had been drinking for hours, but they were used to functioning well under a level of alcohol that would kill most men. He knew Elgyn would be concerned about their ability to respond to the situation. Christie tried not to be distracted by Vriess’s absence. Were they holding him somewhere as insurance?

  Wren scanned the room then asked Elgyn point-blank, “Where is the other one? With the chair?”

  Well, if he don’t know, then Vriess must still be loose, Christie decided, feeling relieved.

  Beside him, Johner growled at Distephano, “Get your fucking hands off me!” His voice sounded sloppy, slurred. Christie wondered if Johner was too wasted to function.

  “Doctor,” Elgyn said reasonably, “talk to me. What’s going on?”

  What Wren said made no sense. “You’re gonna tell me who you’re working for right now, or you’ll be screaming it, come sunrise.”

  Huh? Christie thought. When we got here, we were working for you, ya stupid fuck. Other than that, we work for ourselves—no one else. The black man exchanged a meaningful glance with Elgyn.

  Suddenly, Call stepped forward, her expression grim. “Wren, they got nothing to do with this.”

  This is about Call? What the hell could one tiny little girl like her do to this bad-ass military station?

  Hillard glared at Call. “To do with what?”

  Elgyn raised his hands placatingly. “Everybody just calm down. We can work this out. There’s no need to get emotional…”

  Christie tensed as Elgyn said the code words. Still grasping his hands behind his back, he flexed his forearms. Two guns silently slipped out of his sleeves into his hands. Carefully, he wrapped his big palms around the familiar, friendly gun butts.

  Wren was ranting on. “Do you know what the penalties are for terrorist activity?”

  Johner mumbled to Christie, “Terrorist?”

  Shit, Christie worried, maybe Johner did have too much booze. If he’s out of it… too slow to react… we’re in it deep.

  Finally, Elgyn started to show some temperament. “There’s no goddamn terrorists on my crew.” He turned his anger on the only one who seemed to have some idea what was going on. “Call, what’s this about?”

  Before she could answer, Wren interrupted. “I don’t give a shit if you’re in on this or not. You brought a subversive onto a military vessel and as far as I’m concerned, you fry with her. You hear me?”

  Elgyn drew up straight, looking Wren right in the eye. “I do.” His eyes moved past Wren. “Christie?”

  The crewman never moved, standing stock-still, like a statue. But he’d heard.

  Before anyone else could move or react, Christie whipped his weapons from behind his back. Pivoting like a gun turret in a battleship, he fired. The rapidity of his movements belied the accuracy of his shots, as one by one, he hit four of the soldiers square in the heart. Not a single bullet even grazed anyone from the Betty crew, in spite of their close proximity to the stricken soldiers.

  The powerful bullets, hitting the soldiers at such close range, blew them back, six feet away from the crew. Their chests exploded, blood and tissue and bits of bone spraying the walls, the floor, tables, chairs, other soldiers. The bodies finally crumpled to the floor, but before that happened, the other soldiers began to respond. The one standing next to Christie pivoted, pointing his gun right at the big man.

  Christie never turned in his direction, just whipped his gun to the side, and using only his peripheral vision, fired off a burst. The soldier was propelled backward, dead before his finger ever tightened on the trigger.

  Another soldier nearer the exit doors roared a challenge and charged forward, firing wildly.

  Christie moved out of the line of fire, but the charges ricocheted dangerously close to the slower responding Johner. Johner was almost comical as he danced in place, miraculously managing to dodge the soldier’s random fire, while struggling with the cap of his metal thermos. Then Johner was suddenly struck where it would hurt him the most—square in his home brew! The bullet pinged loud, puncturing the top of the metal canister.

  Johner looked positively amazed when the bullet accomplished what he couldn’t, ejecting the top of the thermos and causing the revolver hidden inside to drop right into Johner’s hand. He barely had time to aim the gun—with the thermos cover dangling over the muzzle—at the soldier shooting at him. Johner fired, and the metal cover exploded wildly.

  So did the soldier, who screamed as he was hit and fell hard on his back, sliding along the floor, just like Johner had earlier. Only Johner had lived through his experience.

  The dead soldier’s progress was halted when Elgyn’s foot blocked his helmet, as casually as if he were halting a soccer ball.

  But then Christie heard an ominous click and realized someone had gotten behind him.

  “STOP!” shouted a male voice close to his head.

  Christie glanced back. He could just make out the smooth bore of an impressive military weapon trained on his skull.

  “Drop your weapons,” the soldier ordered him and Johner, “or I blow his head off.”

  Everyone froze. Christie could see Johner snarling, uglier than ever. The shattered remnants of the thermos were smoking. They had to be burning Johner’s hand.

  Dropping my weapons is a tad hard for me to do, boy, Christie thought as he ever so slowly raised his hands in the air. He spread his palms, made sure they all could clearly see the apparatus holding the guns in place near his fingers. He’d never come up with a way to release the guns easily for this kind of situation. Maybe because he never thought he’d be in this situation.

  The fact that his powerful weapons were suspended close to Christie’s hands was something the soldier holding him at bay couldn’t have anticipated. Christie spied a bead of sweat running down the man’s face. He was quivering with nervousness. He’d have to be careful now. They’d all have to be careful. One wrong move could get him killed.

  Coolly, Christie turned his gaze heavenward, scanning the ceiling. Surreptitiously, he aimed the barrel of one of his revolvers at a reinforced corner of the ceiling. He moved the weapon ever so subtly, aiming… aiming…

  He fired, hearing the high-pitched whine, as the bullet ricocheted and slammed into his soldier’s helmet in less than a second. The soldier fell like a tree, the neat hole in the top of his helmet still smoking.

  That left one soldier, and one doctor. Wren and Distephano. Christie smiled, lowered his arms, and aimed his weapons at them.

  * * *

  In the Alien observation room, alarms blared and warning lights flashed when the first gun was fired. Gediman and his assistant, Carlyn Williamson, spun to check the video screens. On one of the monitors the mess hall was pictured. As they watched in shocked fascination, Father’s perfectly modulated voice warned, “Emergency. Emergency. There has been an armed attack on Auriga’s personnel in the mess hall.” The computer continued to repeat the message over and over, as they watched the motley crew of the Betty defeat more than half a dozen trained, armed soldiers in scant seconds.

  It was over before Gediman could collect his wits. Stunned, he watched a huge black man press a revolver against Dr. Wren’s temple.

  “Shit!” Gediman hissed, feeling completely impotent.

  Carlyn gasped Wren’s name, clutching Gediman’s sleeve in reaction. But both of them knew there was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do. They could only stare, horrified, at the unfolding scene.

  * * *

  Now what the fuck do we do? Elgyn wondered, as everything slowed to a crawl. Christie pinned the doc against him, gun to his head to ensure maximum cooperation. How the hell do we get off this barge in one p
iece? By taking Wren hostage? The place will be swarming with grunts any second now.

  Johner, finally getting his act together, disarmed the single surviving soldier. Elgyn watched as Johner noted the soldier’s name, used it to get his attention.

  “Okay, Distephano, now nice and easy…” Johner lifted the gun right out of the man’s grasp.

  As soon as the single living soldier was disarmed, Call started moving. “I’m gonna finish this,” she growled.

  Finish what? Elgyn wondered, still having no idea what had brought all this on. Call knew, though. The captain reached out, snagged a tight handful of her dark, short-cropped hair, yanked her back hard. Her small body nearly whipsawed in his grip.

  “You’re not goin’ nowhere, Call!” he told her angrily.

  * * *

  The warrior watched the changing emotions of the two humans who stood with their backs to him and his brothers. Another warrior stood at his side, while alone in the back of the cage sat the third—the smallest of the three. The second warrior paced nervously, but the first stood his ground, watching, waiting. He eyed the red button, now unnoticed by the humans.

  The humans were upset, worried, nervous. Their colors were flaring, whatever was causing their concern still ongoing. There were strange sounds out there, voices, loud meaningless noise, flashing lights. It was interesting, but it wasn’t about to distract the warrior from his primary objective.

  There had to be a way to turn the humans’ unexpected problem to their advantage.

  A memory came to him. From the Mother.

  I don’t know which species is worse… You don’t see them fucking each other over…

  It was not his memory, and he was not sure what all of it meant. But there was meaning there, something for him to learn. He considered…

  The first warrior turned to his closer brother, transmitted information to him. The second warrior absorbed the information. He stopped pacing. Together, the two looked back at the third. The smaller one understood their objective, their reasons, the whole new concept. He even agreed with it. However, he was also burdened with his own individuality, and edged back against the wall of the cave nervously.