He blinked, trying to erase the image. Purvis still had his embryo. Apparently, the man had borderline low thyroid function, not enough to treat, just enough to make the development of his embryo slower than some of the others....
Forget him. Just because you noticed his name. Forget it all. You had to go there to get here. And now you've got them. This is just the beginning.
The Alien observing him moved stealthily, closer to the window. As if drawn to it, Gediman, too, moved nearer on his side of the port. Slowly, the Alien's thin lips curled up, out of the way of its chrome-colored teeth. Opening its massive maw, it slid its rigid tongue forward slowly, as if for Gediman's scientific perusal. The tongue flexed its own teeth, and the shaft of the tongue dripped clear mucous.
Gediman forgot all about Purvis, forgot all about face huggers, and stared enraptured at a sight no one had ever seen before without dying. He found himself grinning. "Is that a distended externus lingua ... or you just happy to see me?" he muttered.
Distracted, he placed a hand against the port to support himself, then found his nose bumping the specially-designed, steel-strong, clear plastic they still called "glass," his forehead and one cheek plastered against it like a kid as he tried to get an even better look.
Without warning, the Alien's tongue shot out like a whip and struck the glass right by his eye. Gediman leaped back, his heart racing, his hands suddenly clammy. Without tearing his eyes away from the creature, he moved toward the center console.
"Time for the first lesson, puppy," Gediman told it, and slapped his hand down on a big red fail-safe button.
Instantly, jets of liquid nitrogen squirted the Alien, creating clouds of nitrogen steam as soon as they hit the air. The monster screamed frantically, darting back to the middle of the cage, tramping all over its sleeping fellows, rousing them, panicking them. They all joined in the shrieking melee. Gediman released the button.
The warrior who'd been squirted spun his obscene head toward Gediman, his huge, scorpionlike tail lashing wildly. The other two cringed back, clearly unsure of what was happening. The first Alien moved to the port again, but Gediman reached for the red button, pausing just above it.
The monster froze. Gediman did, too.
From a distance, the Alien extended his tongue threateningly, but made no move to advance on the window.
Gediman nodded approvingly. "So, we're a fast learner, huh?" He reached for his notebook, satisfied.
The big warrior quivered in the small, strange place, his rage boundless. That little, soft prey hurt me, burned me! He whipped his tail in fury, as he watched the prey manipulate his devices, perform functions the warrior could only guess at. The warrior stared at the dangerous red pad in reach of the small being. He read the words "Fail-safe, " written beside it, and "Warning! Nitrogen jets!" He watched the small creature—the name "Gediman" printed on it—as it made words appear on a device it held. The prey radiated satisfaction, pride, accomplishment, as if it had fully realized its true function.
Not that it mattered to the warrior. To him, the prey had only one true function, the same as any other species. He lashed his tail, extended his tongue in warning. Atmosphere whistled through his dorsal pipes. He hated this Alien environment, longing for the steaming warmth of the crèche, the strength and safety of his own kind. Even with the two others nearby, he suffered the aloneness of his own individuality. It was time to build the crèche. Time to join with other warriors and serve the Queen. It was why he lived.
He watched the prey, learning almost everything about it that the warrior would ever need to know.
He could not smell it yet, but he could smell others of its kind, their scent carried through the thin air. They were warm-blooded oxygen breathers. He could see the color of its exhalations even through the clear barrier. He could see the color of its red blood through its pale veins, analyze its chemistry. He could gauge its weight, its muscle mass, its ability to resist. He knew how strong it was, how weak. He could see the color of its emotions, whether it was hot or cold, and whether it felt pain or fear. He could see it felt fear of the warrior—but not enough. Especially not now that it proved it could hurt the warrior. The "Gediman" radiated the color of pride, of accomplishment.
I will remember that color when I come for you.
And I will come for you.
The Gediman's body would be building materials for the crèche. Once it was secured there, the warrior would decide if it would serve as food for the Queen, or if it was suitable to bear her young, or even if it would serve as food for the young. He could decide, even, if Gediman should bear young and also be its first meal.
And since you have hurt me and taken pleasure in it, I will decide to do with you whatever will keep you alive the longest.
The warrior would watch until the Gediman's pride melted away, and with it every emotion it ever had, until there was nothing left but fear, an all-encompassing fear like the Gediman had never known. Fear made the host, was critical for it. It made the organism receptive, opened the pathways for the young, allowed them to take solid root, to grow, to change the host to fill its needs. Fear was critical for that. And when the young had left their Alien womb, then the last burst of fear and pain tenderized the host's meat, to feed the small young.
The big warrior lashed his tail, transmitting everything he thought and planned and felt to his brothers and his Queen. His Queen, his Mother, sent her love and approval. It would happen soon. The warrior would see to it. And this small human, this Gediman, would be the first. The first womb. The first food. And he would live to know it all. The warrior would see to that as well.
The Queen approved.
Back in the suite, Call glanced at the specs on a bizarrely designed dagger now being displayed on the screen as she decided she had had just about enough of videos and alcohol. Hell, nights on the Betty were usually more interesting than this. She attempted to get up, but fell back as if unbalanced.
The two men chuckled amiably.
"Jesus, Johner," she complained, scratching her head, "what do you put in that shit anyway? Battery acid?" She stared at her empty glass as if trying to figure out how it got that way.
"Just to add a little color," Johner told her defensively, then he and Christie cracked up, slapping palms.
"That's it for me," she decided, and hauled herself out of the chair and staggered off. She tried whistling that little tune she and Vriess had been harmonizing on before, but now it sounded a little rough around the edges.
Outside the suite, Call rounded a corner. Once out of anyone else's range of vision, she straightened up, perfectly sober. Glancing around, she made sure she was alone, then walked purposefully down the hallway. Following the route she'd preselected, she moved on until she reached the area clearly marked RESTRICTED.
From here on in, she knew, every door would be a barrier. Rummaging in her pocket, she removed a locksmith's master key ring. On it were a dozen microspray capsules, most of them her own invention.
Watching over her shoulder, straining to hear, using every sense she had, Call made sure she was still alone, still unobserved as she proceeded to violate lock after lock. Some of them required rapid code input, plus the right combination of spray chemicals into breath analyzers. Some of them only needed one squirt from the right capsule. But none of them were able to resist her.
Finally the last door opened silently before her, just enough to allow her slender frame to slip inside. Hesitating briefly, she entered the cell and closed the door behind her. Still no alarms. Clearly they were no longer watching the occupant of this cell as closely as they had at first.
The cubicle was tiny, dark, and for a moment Call thought she'd picked the wrong one, that this one was uninhabited. There was nothing in here—no sink, no drinking water dispenser, no toilet, nothing. All she could see was sharply defined shadows and contrasting bright areas that divided the small space of the cell into separate areas. Then her eyes adjusted to the stark lighting and she
could make out the sole of a sneaker facing her from the edge of the darkest shadow. She looked again. The sneaker was attached to a leg that nearly disappeared into one of the shadowed areas. The lone occupant of the cell was curled up within that shadow, cleverly rendered invisible to anyone who might be observing her from above.
Clinging to the darkness, Call moved silently toward the figure, then crouched low, edging toward the same dark area that obscured the sleeping figure. She could barely make out the shadowy form curled up, fetallike, in spite of her close proximity. Moving silently, Call crawled into the limited space, for once grateful for her small, compact body. The darkness enveloped her completely. Now they were both hidden. No sooner had she concealed herself than a shadow passed overhead.
It was a guard making his rounds above the cell, his booted feet passing over the grill in the ceiling. Call stopped breathing.
Finally, he was gone. Call turned back to the sleeping woman, waiting for her to register some awareness of the invader's presence, but the figure slept on, brown hair obscuring her face, the rise and fall of her breath steady, regular. Human. The woman's arms were curled around her stomach as if guarding something there, or perhaps she was in pain. Even in sleep, her strong, attractive features were troubled, as though she were having bad dreams....!
You came here to do a job, Call thought, repressing a stab of pity. So, do it. Just because she looks like—
With the silence of an assassin, Call extended her right hand, and her concealed stiletto slid into it. At the touch of a button the blade emerged soundlessly. The silvery weapon was almost a foot long, with a deadly point. Call always felt projectile weapons were for cowards. She liked to work close and quiet.
She crouched, drew her hand back unwaveringly. Stop staring at her. Do what you came here to do.
She swallowed. One quick move, and she'd puncture the heart. Clean. Neat. Ripley would never know. It was the kindest thing she could do for her.
Suddenly, the still figure stirred in her sleep. Call froze. The woman's head tipped back, her long throat exposed. Part of the lacing on her brown, form-fitting jerkin separated over the breasts and belly. Her pale skin could be seen even in the shadow.
Call moved the tip of the stiletto and parted the drab, laced bodice a little more. She blinked, staring at the scar. A scar? A scar!
No!
Softly, the woman's voice asked casually, "Well?"
Call jumped, sliding back a bit. She was so startled, she nearly dropped her knife.
"You gonna kill me, or what?" Ripley asked, in her usual flat monotone.
Call's jaw tightened. "There's no point, is there?" With a rapid flick of her wrist, the stiletto whipped back in place up her sleeve, just as quietly as it had emerged. "They've already taken it out. Christ ... is it here? On board?" She felt icy inside, still trying to absorb the fact that she was too late.
Too late!
Ripley was smiling grimly. "You mean my baby!"
Call was shaking her head, barely aware of the bizarre reality of herself having this conversation with this woman. "I don't understand. If they've got it, why are they keeping you alive?"
A small shrug. "They're curious. I'm the latest thing."
Call battled a flood of impotent rage. She hadn't counted on being late. Then she forced herself to snap out of it. She looked meaningfully at the woman near her in the confined space of the sharply outlined shadow. Soundlessly, she flicked the knife back into her hand, released the blade, showed it to Ripley.
Her voice gentle, Call offered a gift. "I can make it all stop if you want. The pain... this nightmare. It's all I can offer you. " You deserve so much better.
Ripley's expression grew more open, and Call watched it fill with an unspeakable sadness that tore at her. Without answering, she opened her hand, then pressed the palm calmly against the point of the blade.
"What makes you think I would let you do that?" she murmured.
Then Ripley pushed her hand firmly onto the tip of the knife until the blade went completely through, emerging out the back by at least four inches before she stopped.
Call's eyes went wide, her mouth opened. It was the same expression she'd worn in the mess hall. "Who are you?" she whispered, staring at the impaled hand, the thin trickle of blood dripping from it, the lack of reaction from the woman.
Her voice flat, she stated simply, "Ripley, Ellen. Lieutenant, First Class. Number five-one-five-six-one-seven-zero."
Call could only shake her head. "Ellen Ripley died over two hundred years ago."
That bit of knowledge seemed to move the woman; surprise showed mutely on her face. She pulled her hand off the knife, grimacing slightly at the pain, as if it were a minor thing. "What do you know about it?" She tried to make the sentence sound distant, but an undercurrent of interest was there.
"I've read Morse," Call said, tightly. "I've read all the banned histories. Ellen Ripley gave her life to protect us from the beast. You're not her."
The woman called Ripley looked away, at some distant point only she could see. "I'm not her? What am I, then?"
Good question. Call watched in awe as her knife blade sizzled and smoked, melting right in front of her, leaving only a sharp-edged stub. There was Ripley's answer. She showed her the steel. "You're a thing. A test construct. A clone. They grew you in a fucking lab."
That grim humor flashed again. "But only God can make a tree."
Call felt a sudden need to connect with ... with this simulacrum, this shadow of Ripley. "And now they've brought the beast out of you."
The sadness again. Soul-deep sorrow. A depth of pain Call could only guess at. "Not all the way out." Call didn't understand. "What?"
Ripley looked at her, allowed eye contact. Her gaze burned Call, seared right through her the way Ripley's acid blood had dissolved her knife. The woman whispered, "It's in my head. Behind my eyes." For the first time, she appeared human, vulnerable.
"Then help me! If there's anything human in you at all, help me stop them before this thing gets loose." The woman's desolation was bottomless. "It's too late."
For a second Call misunderstood. Too late for me? She suddenly became painfully aware that she was crouched in the dark, inches from this... this... Call didn't know what to call her. This predator who could probably kill her one-handed faster than she could ever react in defense. Her knife would be useless—
When Ripley raised her hand toward Call's face, the younger woman flinched. Ripley froze for a moment, then her hand moved again. Ripley stroked Call's forehead, moving a strand of hair back. It was a gentle, nearly sensuous gesture. The way a mother would touch her child, a bit of grooming, a bit of comfort....
"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 fro
m 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, "1 think you're going to find that this was ill-advised."
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