As the floor was pulled out from under her, Ripley staggered, then slid downward. She scrambled for purchase, lurched to grab the edge of the floor in front of her. She saw Call reach for her frantically, but it was too late. With a sickening plunge, Ripley fell.
* * *
Call nearly pitched headlong into the hole that had suddenly opened up in the floor as she reached for the disappearing Ripley.
“Ripley!” she screamed into the darkness under the floor. “RIPLEY!”
“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” Johner barked, running up beside her.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Call was frantic.
“Oh, Christ!” Johner moaned.
Vriess pulled himself up to the hole, grabbed the shoulder of her shirt as she leaned in. “Annalee, you’ll fall! Get back!”
She didn’t even register the concern in his voice. She was focused on only one thing, the black hole Ripley had disappeared into.
“Here!” Distephano said, slapping a flashlight into her hand.
She leaned back over the hole, but all she could see was a dim, distant glow. She could hear something screeching from far away, but it wasn’t Ripley.
Call flicked on the small lamp.
What it illuminated was a vision straight from hell. At first Call thought she was staring into a bottomless snake pit, a viper’s nest, but then realized that everything she was seeing, all the black, gleaming, moving parts all belonged to them. Aliens. Countless numbers, all working together, side by side, back to back. It looked like a huge tangle of tails, skulls, arms, all shining and moving like serpents entwined as they thrashed under the light of her lamp.
And in the center of that writhing, sticky, living mass, was Ripley, trapped, held, on her back, her arms outstretched. Call had the sudden image of the cross in the chapel and had to blink. She almost called out to Ripley, seeing the woman’s eyes were wide open and staring up, but then realized Ripley wasn’t seeing her. She was seeing only one thing—her future.
As Call and the others stared into the hole in horrified fascination, Ripley began to sink beneath the mass of moving Alien bodies, slowly, as if in quicksand…
…Until she completely disappeared, smothered under the bulk of the creatures who had claimed her at last.
* * *
At first Ripley felt shock, then horror, then revulsion as she landed in the midst of the lurching, undulating mass of Aliens. Then there’d been a terrible, bottomless panic as they moved against her, embracing her, accepting her, collecting her as one of them. But soon that dissipated, as the part of her that wasn’t truly Ripley began to surface. And as the warmth of their bodies surrounded her, as she sank under their collective mass, she felt a great lethargy overwhelm her.
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…
Her longing for the steaming warmth of the crèche, the strength and safety of her own kind. All this time, she had suffered the aloneness of her individuality. Only in sleep could she join them, rejoice with them. The time was here. They had built the crèche. It was time for her to join with other warriors and serve the Queen. It was why she lived.
In her sleep, the warrior, Ripley, 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. And her need. It would happen soon.
* * *
Call felt moisture on her cheeks, and realized with some remote, logical part of her brain, that her tear mechanism still functioned. She felt crushed, defeated. It hurt worse than being shot.
Had it all been for nothing, all Ripley’s courage, all her fighting to regain her humanity, her self? If so, what could one damaged robot do to change anything?
* * *
The warrior moved toward the steaming warmth of the crèche. The strength and safety of his own kind. He was no longer burdened with the aloneness of his special individuality. He had been honored by the Queen, selected because of his cleverness. He had been the first to escape, to free the others, to capture the first wombs, the first food. And so, he’d been chosen to serve his Queen once more. He had taken the Ripley away from the prey and carried her now through the nest to the crèche.
There were warriors enough to protect her there, where they had constructed the perfect crèche. There humans, those pitiful, soft humans, waited to be food for the Queen’s young, and host to the new brood. It would happen. It would happen soon.
But the warrior was burdened with memories. Of unexpected chaos. Warriors screaming and dying. And fire. And the Ripley, standing firm, holding her own young in her arms. Causing death and destruction to the crèche.
The sweeping pain of loss—sickening, irretrievable loss—flooded his mind, his entire body. It meant nothing—it meant everything. He searched for the connection to his own kind, and found the strength and safety of the crèche.
That had been a different nest, a different time. He would not think of it now, when his Queen called for his service.
In spite of their guns, in spite of their restraints, the humans had once again fallen to them. They fed them, and gave birth to the Queen’s young. They had taken them by force. As they always had. As they always would. With the purity of their drive and their ferocity.
Our structural perfection is matched only by our hostility.
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—and her need. Her need for the Ripley he carried so very carefully in his arms. His Queen sent her love and approval back to her warrior.
And this shell that was human, this Ripley, was 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 had seen to it, and the warrior had made it happen—for Ripley was the keystone of the hive. The nurturer of the crèche. The foundation of the Newborn.
The Ripley twitched helplessly in her sleep, making soft sounds of protest and pain. The warrior breathed on her face, giving her air and warmth. Nurturing she who had nurtured them all. The Queen approved.
* * *
Call stood frozen over the open floor panel, unable to accept what had happened. She was aware of the others looking at one another, and realized what had happened had changed them. Somehow Ripley’s strength, her courage, had knit the group together—but now Ripley was gone and they were on the edge of unraveling.
Even Johner was still, his throat working as if he were trying to swallow something too big.
Vriess was looking at her with so much sorrow in his eyes, so much sympathy for Call, that she knew if she met his gaze she’d fall apart.
Distephano glared, his jaw tight. He clutched his gun, his knuckles white.
But it was Purvis, again, who found the words to break the tableau. Dimly, Call realized this was not the first time he’d done that. It was a good thing they’d brought him along, for all their sakes.
“We’ve got to be moving, miss,” Purvis said quietly. “Best gift you can give her right now is a quick death.”
That’s what it would be for Ripley when the Auriga impacted with Earth. Finally, Ripley would go home.
Call still couldn’t move, couldn’t leave the last place she’d seen her. “It’s not right…” The words caught in her throat, but there was nothing wrong with her vocal mechanism now.
Purvis slipped a hand under her arm, urging her to move forward. The others went ahead, as Purvis led Call on, toward the Betty.
“It’s not right—” Call insisted, shaking her head.
Purvis sighed. “I’ve been saying that all day.”
* * *
Wake up. Be quiet. We’re in trouble.
She paused, listening, sensing. Something was happening. Not a dream. Something real.
Ripley lay still in the arms of the beast. The light was mi
nimal, but that did not hamper her. She breathed quietly, absorbing the breath of the creature. The warm wetness around her said safety, but chaotic dream images flickered across her faltering consciousness.
The cold comfort of cryosleep.
The driving need to protect her young.
The strength and companionship of her own kind.
The power of her own rage.
The warmth and safety of the steaming crèche.
The images were meaningless and meaningful at the same time. She recognized them on a level beyond consciousness, beyond learning. They were part of her, part of who she’d been, what she’d been. And now they were part of what she was becoming.
She floated in the humid, comforting warmth, wanting to hide. There were murmuring, distant sounds that were outside of her. Inside of her. They came and went, the sounds, meaning nothing, meaning everything. Distantly, she could sense the Queen and her terrible need.
Then she heard the inside sounds again, one stronger than the others. The one she always listened to. The one she tried so hard to remember. It whispered—
My mommy always said there were no monsters—no real ones. But there are.
That sound insisted she wake. But once she woke, the dreams would all become real. She was tired, so very tired—But when she slept…
I don’t wanna sleep, the tiny voice said. I have scary dreams.
They touched her in her sleep. All the monsters, the real monsters. Moving, breathing, seething—dreaming, planning…
She shuddered.
They were a perfect organism, with only one true function.
Its structural perfection is matched only by its hostility.
She moaned softly, despondently.
An idealistic young woman had shown her the shadow of what she had once been. What fate had made her. But what was she now? Was she Ellen Ripley, or a changeling as grotesque as… as…
At least there’s a part of you that’s human! I’m just—I’m just…
I prefer to be called an artificial person.
Slowly, she registered a dim sensation. Something outside herself. Something happening to herself. Her eyes moved around as she gathered information.
Her terrible children had finally come for her. They were everywhere, carrying her, welcoming her.
But the others were gone. The humans. Those she’d fought so long and hard to protect and save. She’d been separated from them, taken from them. Part of her felt enormous relief. Part of her felt tremendous rage. She vacillated between the feelings as she lay in the arms of the beast.
A cartoonish picture of a blond child wavered in her mind, gradually replaced by a clearer image of a real child. Her child? No, not hers…
Yes, mine!
Her mind swam with chaotic memories.
The steaming warmth of the crèche. The strength and safety of her own kind. The aloneness of individuality. And the driving need to find—
Small, strong arms wrapped around her neck, small, strong legs wrapped around her waist. There was chaos. The warriors screamed and died. There was fire.
I knew you would come.
She blinked, confused, her mind a sudden shambles of fragments, memories, instincts she could not sort out. The sweeping pain of loss—sickening, irretrievable loss—flooded her mind, her entire body. It meant nothing—it meant everything.
My name is Newt. No one calls me Rebecca.
I’m coming, Newt! I’m coming!
Mommy! Mommy!
Ripley searched for the connection to her own kind, she searched to find the strength and safety of the crèche, but it was not there. And in its place was nothing but this pain, this terrible loss. She was hollow. Empty.
Dimly, she looked at the huge warrior holding her and longed to ask him the same question she had asked the others, the humans. The question no one would ever answer.
Why? Why?
As the memories of Newt’s voice ricocheted around her brain, she determined she would have the answer. She would take it from them. In spite of their size, their strength, in spite of their ferocity and hostility. She would take it by force.
* * *
Nervously, the survivors of the crew traveled the rest of the way to the Betty quickly, but without racing. They saw no other signs of Aliens, no slime, no acid damage, nothing. Everything was amazingly still.
As Vriess was carried into the ship, he felt an overwhelming pang of homesickness, then a sorrow so gripping, it surprised him. As Johner and Distephano carried him to the copilot’s seat, evidence of Hillard’s occupancy was everywhere, as was Elgyn’s around the pilot’s chair. He shook off the memories, promising himself he’d deal with them at a more convenient time, once he got their asses safely outta here. Assuming he could get their asses outta here.
As Vriess securely strapped himself into place, Johner asked, “How long till we can get airborne?”
Vriess punched up some schematics and a quick flight plan, looked at the image of Earth filling up their screen, getting closer by the second. “I’ll need Call to patch in to the ship again, open the hatch, release the magnets, like that.”
“We hit atmo in a few minutes,” Johner said urgently. “Only gonna make it harder.”
Vriess nodded, hands flying over the board. He didn’t want to think about how little time he’d spent piloting this ship. He didn’t want to think about his lack of experience. They’d always had Hillard or Elgyn to fly the Betty, with Christie as backup. Vriess was a mechanic, for chrissakes, and Johner was muscle. They were so used to their roles they rarely had occasion to step outside them. He wouldn’t think about that now. Today he was a pilot. He had to be.
Call moved up beside him, distracting him from his worries. He stopped, met her eyes. From the first moment they’d met, she’d never looked at him like a cripple. Never stared at his legs. Never saw the chair. She only ever saw him, Vriess, the man. He looked at that fine-featured, pretty face and told himself that the least he could do was the same. See Call. Not the wire-festooned hole in her chest. Not the mechanical port in her arm.
She gave him a weak smile. “Need my help?”
He nodded, immensely relieved. “If… if you wouldn’t mind… Annalee.”
She started at the sound of her first name, then nodded briefly. “Sure. No problem.” And went about connecting into the computer brain as though she’d always done that in front of him.
He didn’t pay any attention to the way she plugged in. He just watched her face. Her small, pretty, human face.
* * *
Ripley swam back to consciousness slowly. She was swamped with a feeling of vertigo, a dizziness she couldn’t seem to overcome. She kept her eyes shut for a moment. She heard wet sounds, dripping, splashing. She heard moans, human moans. She heard a humming, like insects. And the smell—
Blood. Offal. Death. All of it as wet and hot and humid as a tropical swamp.
Slowly, she tried to move, her body almost too languid to respond. Was she drugged? Hypnotized? She was lying on something firm, rigid, solid. Suddenly, something sticky plopped onto her face from above. She frowned, the dizziness unabating. Finally, the unpleasant dripping sensation was too much, and she opened her eyes.
The stuff dripping over her face oozed off her cheek and onto the floor, and started hardening immediately, pinning her head in place. She reached up, pulled it off, then wiped her hand on the floor without thinking. Even as she performed this automatic task, she blinked, looking around, trying to think, trying to understand where she was, what was happening. She knew she should be anxious or alarmed, should be worried about her own welfare, but her mind wasn’t clear enough for that.
She looked around in the dimness. She was not alone. There were other humans, at least eight of them, standing over her on some kind of ledge nearby. She squinted, trying to see better. Finally, her gaze sharpened and she realized the others weren’t standing on a ledge at all. Their arms and hands and legs were all fastened down, glued with ro
pes of exudate to the walls of a huge cylindrical room. Vaguely she remembered Call’s mechanical voice saying something about activity in a waste tank and wished she’d paid more attention.
The eight people she could see were all trapped against the walls of the circular tank. Soldiers, researchers, all stuck like giant flies, half cocooned.
She remembered a similar scene…
All the colonists from Hadley’s Hope, cocooned to the wall, growing chest bursters. Most of them had emerged. But everyone here is still intact.
She touched her own chest, but she hadn’t been reinfected. She’d know if she had been. She would be able to feel it. Were these people being held here to be infected? The thought terrified her, but as she looked around, she realized there were no eggs in the tank. Yet the image of the eight people trapped like insects in a spider nursery would not leave her.
Ripley pulled her gaze away from the trapped humans and looked around, finally seeing them. Aliens. They were floundering in the deeply sloping bottom of the waste tank, like alligators in a swamp, only their swamp was a sea of human blood, offal, and their own secretions. Ripley was perched where the floor met the wall, at the highest part of the flooring, the very shoreline of the fetid lake. Lying there, hesitant to move, she watched the warriors, wondering if they were there to tend to the cocooned humans. Would they be bringing eggs to infect these people?
Ripley frowned, looked around again. Then she saw her. The Queen.
The huge creature was directly across from Ripley, but the image she presented was so confusing, it took Ripley a few moments to sort it out.
Ripley clearly recalled seeing the Queen and her massive ovipositor once before. Then, the huge reproductive organ had been tethered in place to support its terrible weight and size as she deposited egg after egg after egg on the floor of the atmosphere refinery at Hadley’s Hope. But that was nothing like what Ripley was seeing now.
This Queen was tethered in place all right, but not by her ovipositor. She had none. Apparently, that part of her had already been discarded. The Queen herself was partially cocooned against the floor of the waste tank, in the sea of blood and waste. It was either a shallow part of the tank, or the Aliens had supported her by an invisible sling constructed of the same material as the underwater web. Ripley realized now that the Aliens half submerged in the chemical soup below were taking care of the Queen, tending to her. They were completely ignoring the human prey they’d secured in the tank.
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