by Tim Lebbon
* * *
He and Ripley spent some more time in the Narcissus, talking about the journey they would undertake together, being positive, discussing how nine people could live in a shuttle designed for three or four, at most. For years. Perhaps many years.
All the time there was a quiet hysteria lurking behind everything they said, a shared understanding that this was a crazy, unworkable idea. But it was their only idea. Sometimes it felt cramped with just the two of them in the shuttle, although Hoop wondered whether that was just him.
They also discussed their families. Hesitatingly at first, but then with an increasing openness. They talked of guilt, and how incredible distances did nothing to dull the sense of loss. He didn’t pity her, and he thought she was thankful for that. She gave him understanding, and he was grateful. They were both cursed by distance and time, and the staggering loneliness that both could instill in a person. They were getting to know each other. And while it was a good feeling, there was also something delicate about every connection made.
They were both tentative, guarded. Their situation meant that they could be ripped apart at any moment.
They also talked about Ash. Hoop was quite the computer expert, and he didn’t mind saying it. But though he was relatively confident about being able to purge Ash’s AI from the shuttle’s computer—or at very least, compartmentalize it so that it could no longer exert any control—he and Ripley decided that he should wait until they were away from the Marion and headed home. They would need the computer untouched and undamaged in order to program their route, and it was possible—albeit remotely—that his efforts to remove Ash might corrupt a wider swathe of the systems.
Besides, the disembodied Ash could do them no harm.
Those three days passed quickly, and there were tensions in the group. There always had been, and those that were familiar Hoop cast to one side. The relationship between the doc and Garcia was weird—he thought they were probably lovers, as well as colleagues—but they were always efficient, and professional when it was needed. Powell complained. Sneddon was quiet and steadfast, a gentle bravery shining through. She would be a rock for them all.
The others bickered, though no more than usual. But it was Ripley’s presence that caused the greatest waves.
* * *
“But I can’t help being fascinated by them,” Sneddon said. She was scrolling through stills from inside the Samson again, the tablet propped against her coffee mug. It had been almost three weeks since they’d last seen inside the dropship. None of them knew what to expect when they opened it up.
“They’re monsters,” Ripley said. She was leaning against a work counter. The science lab was small and compact, and with the three of them in there it was already growing warm. Hoop had suggested that they conserve power and turn off any unnecessary environmental systems.
“We’re not catching them, Sneddon,” Hoop said. “That door opens and we kill them.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Sneddon replied without looking up. “But have you considered just how?”
“Of course. The plasma torches, sand picks, and charge thumpers.”
“Right,” Sneddon said. “So torch them with plasma and their skin, or whatever they have, bursts open. Acid spills. Sand picks hack at them... open them up. Fire projectiles with the charge thumpers... more acid.”
“What else do you suggest?” Ripley asked, an edge to her voice.
“I suggest that we come up with something else,” Sneddon said. “Trap them somehow. Hold them until we can—”
“We need to kill them, or they’ll kill us,” Ripley said. “If they’re anything like the one we had on Nostromo they’ll be eight, nine feet tall, incredibly fast and strong, and utterly vicious. And you want to trap them? How? You got a box we can bait with some cheese?”
Sneddon sat back, looking calm and composed. She glanced at Ripley, then looked squarely at Hoop.
“Is she safe?” she asked.
“Safe as any of us are right now,” Hoop said. He looked at Ripley, frowned, tried to warn her off. But he could see that her outburst was driven by fear, not anger. For a moment it seemed as if she was seeing something very far away, and he wondered yet again at the nightmares she must still suffer. She’d told him about each of her dead crewmates—some of them her friends, the captain her occasional lover.
“Cargo netting,” Sneddon said.
Ripley coughed something between a laugh and a gasp.
“It’s strong enough to pack tons of equipment in the holds,” Sneddon went on. “Twisted steel core. It’ll hold them long enough for us to decide what to do with them.”
“How do you know it will work?” Ripley asked.
“How do you know it won’t?” Sneddon countered. “At least this way we don’t risk burning a hole right through the hull. If what you say about acid is true...”
“It’s true,” Ripley said. “What, you don’t believe me now?”
Sneddon sighed, swinging back in her chair. “I think we just need to be—”
“Who appointed you science officer?” Ripley asked.
“The company. Kelland.”
“Which is owned by Weyland-Yutani.”
“Very distantly, yes,” Sneddon replied. “So?”
“And you worked for Weyland-Yutani before that?”
“I served my apprenticeship with them, on Mars, yes.”
“Ripley?” Hoop asked. She seemed to be losing control, panicking. He didn’t like that. More than anything, it made his own subsumed panic start to simmer again. Without even realizing it, he thought perhaps he’d taken Ripley’s strength to feed his own.
“Don’t wrap me in your conspiracies,” Sneddon said quietly.
“This isn’t about gathering specimens,” Ripley said. “It’s about surviving!”
“I didn’t say I wanted to gather anything.”
“But you find them fascinating—you said so yourself.”
“And you don’t?” Sneddon asked. She slid the tablet across the bench, but Ripley looked away.
“No,” she said. “Horrifying. Repulsive. But not fascinating.”
Knowing what Ripley had told him about Ash, Hoop supposed he should have seen this coming. He wanted to defuse the situation, bring it back onto a calm footing. It had started as a friendly discussion about how the creatures could be tackled, but had descended into a standoff. He took a breath, ready to speak.
But Sneddon’s actions spoke for him.
She slid open an equipment drawer, plucked out a scalpel and nicked the top of her thumb. She squeezed the digit and smeared a droplet of blood across the white bench surface. Then she looked at Ripley.
Ripley sighed. “Sorry,” she said. “Really.”
Sneddon smiled. “Hey, I can’t blame you. Truth is, I’ve never liked androids myself.”
“Really?” Ripley said.
“I’m a science officer, but my basis is in biology.” She picked up a piece of gauze, and held it firmly over the cut. “I find them unnatural.”
“And now we can all be friends,” Hoop said. His own sigh of relief was unfeigned, and both Ripley and Sneddon laughed.
“So, these nets,” Ripley said. “Take me to see them.”
* * *
Even before Ripley arrived, they had taken to spending most of their time on the bridge. It was a large enough area to feel comfortable, with the various workstations, well-designed and spread out, but still small enough to talk with each other without having to shout. At least three of the surviving members of the Marion needed to be there at any one time, and each of them preferred being close to one another. Most of the time, at least. On those few occasions when tensions rose and tempers flared, they all had their individual cabins in the accommodations hub.
The rec room became dusty and unused, and on those few occasions when Hoop had cause to visit, the sight of it made him unbearably sad. He had never believed in ghosts, but he felt the echo of every dead friend in that silent room s
o used to laughter.
Six hours before they were planning on opening the Samson, they stood or sat around the bridge, all eyes focussed on him. He felt the weight of responsibility, even though they were all making the decisions now. He hadn’t forced his notional position of command on them. Since the disaster, he had simply been guiding, advising, and standing there to be shouted and screamed at if the stresses got too great.
Now, the pressure was almost unbearable. He knew that every single one of them felt it, because he could see it in their eyes, their taut expressions. He knew all of them so much more deeply than he had just seventy days before. Trauma had thrown them closer together, and now the time had come to try and make things better.
Hours of planning, scheming, suggestions and disagreements, drawing plans, and sick humor had led to this.
“We’re ready,” Hoop said. “We know that Baxter hasn’t managed to establish any visual connection back to the Samson, so there’s no saying what we’ll be facing when the doors open. Maybe those bastard things will have starved. Maybe they’ll be asleep, or hibernating, and we can just gather them up and blast them into space. Could be they’ll come out fighting. In which case we’ll be ready.” He nodded at the array of mining tools. “So, anything else? Have we missed anything? Any more questions, speak up now.”
None of them spoke. He looked around the bridge, giving them all a chance. His gaze rested on Ripley, and he saw something there that continued to give him hope—resilience, determination...
Anger.
“Okay,” he said. “You all know what to do.”
* * *
The vestibule to Bay Three was circular and fifty feet across, lined with ranks of dusty seating interspersed with equipment racks for those awaiting a dropship. Its smoothly curved side walls were partly glazed, and offered views over the destroyed Bays One and Two on the port side. The Narcissus was docked at Bay Four, off to starboard.
Through a heavy door at the far end was the airlock, a space large enough for ten people at a time to be strapped in and decontaminated while it was pressurized or vented. At the other end of it, another door led into the docking arm. This was a space only ten feet long, partly flexible, that fixed directly to the surround around the dropship’s outer hull hatch.
Baxter and Lachance remained on the bridge, Lachance to oversee master controls—airlock operation, environmental, and remote opening of the Samson’s hatch—and Baxter to ensure that communication channels were kept open. Everyone wore a headset and microphone, and they could all hear one another. For the moment, though, they were maintaining strict silence.
Hoop was in command, reasoning that someone needed to oversee the operation, and no one had objected. Ripley suggested that most of them were relieved it wasn’t them.
No one disagreed.
They waited nervously in the vestibule while Powell and Welford repaired the disconnected door mechanism leading into the airlock. Through the viewing windows, Ripley could see the flanks of the Samson about thirty feet away. The ship looked innocent enough. But what she knew, the images she had seen, were enough to make her terrified of it. That motionless, silent ship contained her nightmares, and they were preparing to let them out.
She was chilled with nervous perspiration, trying to level her breathing. She didn’t want them all to hear her fear.
She pulled her gaze away and looked to her left, toward the ruins of docking bays One and Two. Hoop had already shown her this, but it was still a sad, shocking sight. So many had died there. She was amazed the disaster hadn’t taken out the whole ship. Yet in a way it had, the ripples and effects of the crash still being felt at a much slower pace.
“Welford?” Hoop asked.
“Not long,” the engineer replied. “Lachance, ready to pressurize?”
“Ready,” Lachance said from the bridge.
“Like I said,” Hoop said, “as slow as you can. Don’t want to make any more noise than is necessary.”
In case they hear us, Ripley thought. Her heart hammered, and drips of sweat trickled down her back. Kasyanov had given her some spare clothing, and Ripley knew from its fit that they didn’t belong to the doctor. She wondered whose it had been. The shirt and trousers were tight but not uncomfortable, the jacket snug beneath the arms and across her back. She wore her own boots from the Nostromo. Probably collector’s items now.
The two engineers worked at the door, both efficient and quiet. Ripley had seen them arguing, and Powell more than anyone seemed to exude negativity. But they worked as a team, and there was something almost balletic about their movement, as if they were one body split in two. She wondered how long they had been working together out here. She should have asked. She should have got to know them better, before—
She took a deep breath to compose herself, and Hoop glanced across at her. He’d heard through her microphone. She didn’t return his glance, didn’t want him to see how afraid she was. She needed to be strong. Always had been, working with the crew of the Nostromo, most of them men. It was a trait she liked in herself, and she hated that fear was picking at its edges.
Ripley stood against the left wall of the vestibule, Hoop was in the middle, and Kasyanov and Garcia were to the right. Hoop carried the plasma torch—a serious bit of kit, he’d said—leaving her with a sand pick and the medics with charge thumpers. They were large and unwieldy, but packed a lot of punch. Sneddon was with the engineers, heavy cargo netting piled around her feet.
Ripley had examined the cargo netting, and it was stronger than she’d expected. Triple-core steel wrapped in epoxy-molded carbon fiber, and wound in compressed nylon strands. There were special cutting tools they used to slice the netting if they had to. She’d nodded, but had advised a healthy skepticism. They couldn’t assume that anything would hold the beasts.
“Done,” Welford said. “Lachance?”
“Pressurizing.”
There was an almost sub-audible hum as the airlock beyond the vestibule was filled once more with air. The lights above the heavy doors flickered softly, and after a minute all three glowed a soft green.
“Okay,” Lachance said. “Just check the pressures there, would you?”
Powell looked at the gauges beside the door. He held up his thumb.
“Open it up,” Hoop said.
Welford stroked a pressure pad, and the doors slid apart. Despite their care and the readings, there was still a sigh as the doors opened. Ripley swallowed and her ears popped. She looked across at Hoop, but he seemed unconcerned.
“Okay guys,” Hoop said, “slow and quiet.”
Nervously, Welford and Powell entered the airlock. Ripley moved sideways, so that she could see them inside. As soon as they reached the far door they started repairing the dismantled door mechanism.
Garcia and Sneddon went to work rigging the heavy cargo netting around the door that led from the airlock into the vestibule, leaving one side loose for the engineers to slip past once they were done.
Ripley frowned. No matter how she looked at it, the plan was as loose and woolly as ever. Remote-open the Samson, wait until the aliens came through and got caught in the netting. Use sand picks to hook the netting and drag them back through the vestibule and along the corridor to the ruined docking bays. Open the inner door, shove the creatures through, lock the door again. Blast them into space.
It was like catching a shark in a goldfish net.
Yet there were so many ways the aliens might not play ball. What if they stay in the Samson? Ripley had asked. Welford had suggested a remote drone they used for deep mine exploration. Sending it in, luring them out.
So woolly. So loose.
The others seemed just as nervous. Some of them had seen these things in action—on monitors, on the destroyed dropship, and aboard the Samson. But the ones they’d seen had been small. Not much bigger than the bastard that had burst from Kane at their last meal together. The grown ones, the adults, had existed on their screens as little more than ambiguous sh
adows.
She shook her head. Her breathing came heavier.
“This won’t work,” she said.
“Ripley,” Hoop whispered.
The others were looking at her, eyes wide.
“Not four of them,” she said. She hefted the sand pick. It was heavy, its end viciously barbed, but it felt insufficient. She swung it too slowly. Her shoulders already ached from holding it.
“We should think of something else,” she said.
“Damn it, Ripley!” Lachance said.
“Quiet!” Baxter hissed. “Welford and Powell have a headset, too!”
She knew they were right. The engineers were almost within touching distance of the dropship, and soon they’d have the last door ready to open.
They couldn’t change their minds now.
And the aliens had been in there for more than seventy days. Their only food source—the bodies of the six miners and dropship crew—had been rotting the entire time. Little food, no water. Nowhere to move and stretch. Maybe they would be tired and weak, and easy to drag away.
Maybe.
Ripley nodded to let the others know she had her fears under control. But really, she didn’t. Hoop knew that— she could see it when he looked across at her. He’s as scared as me.
Perhaps they all were.
But they were also desperate.
Welford and Powell retreated back through the airlock, ducking around the heavy netting that had been hung across the inner door. Welford nodded to Hoop.
“Okay, Lachance, airlock outer door ready to open.”
Ripley heard someone take in a sharp breath, then through the airlock she saw the docking arm’s outer door slide open into the wall. Beyond lay the Samson’s outer hatch. It was dusty, scratched, and docked perfectly central to the airlock.
“Last check,” Hoop said. “Baxter, no view or sound from inside?”
“Still nothing,” Baxter said.
“Welford, Powell, either side of the netting with the plasma torches. Remember, only blast them if you have to. Kasyanov, wait over there with the charge thumper. Ripley, you okay?”
