He made fists of his hands. “Whenever you’re ready to go help those ‘droid friends of yours, you say the word. All right?”
Call smiled a little. “Are you being nice, Johner?”
He seemed to sober up for a moment. “You know me better than that, I hope.”
She shrugged. “I thought I did.”
“So you’ll give me a holler?” Johner asked.
The android nodded. “You’ll be the first to know, you butt-ugly pile of shit.”
Looking satisfied, Johner staggered back into the mess hall. And Call, having paid her respects to Rama, turned her attention back to the problem of liberating enslaved androids.
* * *
As soon as everyone was asleep, Ripley rolled out of bed and made her way on bare feet to the cargo bay.
It was the only place on the ship where she could be alone. Where she could look inside and see how much she had left.
And how much do I have left? she asked herself.
At the moment, precious little. But that would change, she trusted, as it had changed so many times before.
As dangerous as Ripley could be, she wasn’t the killing machine the aliens were. She got tired, physically and mentally. She gave way to the occasional doubt.
But when the battle lines were drawn, she would be ready. That was money in the bank.
As the door to the bay opened for her, she saw that she wasn’t alone after all. The dog, which was sleeping in the middle of the room, raised its head when she entered.
Rex, she thought, crossing the bay and kneeling beside him.
He was a survivor, just as Angie had said. That made Ripley inclined to cut him some slack.
The dog sniffed her, no doubt noticing that she didn’t smell like other people. Not with the aliens’ genetic material inside her. But he didn’t run away.
Another plus, she thought, running her hand along his smooth, black back.
Just then, the door slid open again and someone joined her in the cargo bay—someone who didn’t know enough to leave her alone at times like these. She inhaled, sampling the scent. A female, she thought. And not a familiar one.
That narrowed it down a bit.
Finally, she turned and regarded the newcomer. Beside the long specter of the bay’s support chains, Angie looked even smaller and more vulnerable than she really was.
“What is it?” Ripley asked.
“I want to help you,” Angie told her.
Ripley chuckled, but only to let the pain out. “People die when they do that.”
“So I’ve seen.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
Angie shrugged. “We’ve all got to go sometime.”
“Brave words for a botanist.”
“Botany’s a dangerous business,” Angie said, without the least hint of irony in her voice.
“Apparently,” Ripley replied in the same tone. “But not as dangerous as the one I’m in. Find another colony. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you.”
Turning away, she stroked the dog again. But Angie didn’t leave the cargo bay. On the contrary, she walked up to Ripley and stood beside her.
“My apologies,” she said. “It must have sounded like I was making a request. I’m not.”
Ripley shot a disparaging glance at her. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes with us.”
Angie’s eyes turned steely. “You know better. Besides, those Loki bastards killed my father. I deserve a chance to lay his ghost to rest.”
“By avenging him?”
“By doing my part to make certain it doesn’t happen again—somewhere else.”
She seemed to have all the right answers. But it takes a lot more than that, Ripley thought.
It took a love of mankind so blindingly brilliant that it could make the dark corners seem bright. Call had that love. So did Johner, in his twisted way.
And Angie? Does she have it? Ripley regarded her. Could be.
“I’m going to take this uncomfortable silence as a yes,” Angie told her. “So is there a secret handshake or something?”
“Secrets,” Ripley conceded, “but no handshake.” She tilted her head as she considered the botanist. “How are you with propulsion systems?”
“Lousy,” said Angie. “But I can learn. Any of my colleagues would back me up on that.”
If they were still alive, Ripley thought.
And they might be, if I hadn’t failed them. As I’ve failed so many others. Newt, Hicks, Dillon, Distephano, Rama … the list was already longer than she could stand.
So why would she consider taking on a new piece of meat—one that would sooner or later join the others in oblivion? I would have to be insane.
Or needful. She couldn’t do the job by herself, and it was too important to leave undone. So as much as she hated the idea, she had to make sacrifices.
“Your colleagues,” she said pointedly, “hardly know you. If I were you, I’d do my best to change that.”
Angie smiled a little. “Thanks.”
Ripley returned her attention to the dog. “Thank me after you’ve been at this a while.”
Angie didn’t say anything else. She just left the cargo bay, a new and unexpected life opening ahead of her.
If a brief one, Ripley couldn’t help adding.
But there would be some satisfaction in it first. She was pretty certain of that. They would see some victories in their shadow war.
Ripley wondered what Loki would think when it discovered what happened in the Domes. How would it explain to the Mala’kak that their deal had unexpectedly gone sour—that their alien egg hadn’t produced the desired result?
One thing was certain: the Betty had become too big a pest to be ignored. When Loki came after Ripley and her crew again, it wouldn’t be with a lousy little attack vessel.
It would be with something big and powerful. Something no cargo hauler in her right mind would go up against.
Ripley smiled to herself, feeling the darkness slide restlessly within her. Let them come.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I thank my family—my beautiful wife and two great sons—for putting up with five long months of late hours and vacant stares. Like every book I write, this one is the product of your understanding and your love.
I thank Rob Simpson, editor and friend, for giving me the rare chance to immerse myself in a space adventure like no other, and for being such a worthy and willing accomplice. I hope you had as much fun as I did.
I thank Dan O’Bannon, Ronald Shusett, Ridley Scott, Sigourney Weaver, James Cameron, David Giler, Walter Hill, David Fincher, Larry Ferguson, Vincent Ward, Joss Whedon, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, Winona Ryder, Ron Perlman, and Dominique Pinon for creating the Aliens mythos and the characters with whom I worked. I’m honored to walk in the footsteps of such talented artists.
BOOK II
DNA WAR
DIANE CAREY
1
“The damned thing knows how to fly!”
“Throw your coat over it, Rory!”
“I’m no zoologist. Throw your own coat!”
I was caught in a cyclone with a hellhound. Caught in darkness as if we were wrapped in a red cloak. Mechanical thunder, bumping and falling, the din of conflict—we were having a visitation from the gods of panic.
Clark could yell all he wanted. I was diving under the table. When I got there, the magnetologist was already taking up the space. I had to pitch myself backward behind the galley hatch. Normally I’m pretty hard to scare, but I’d never seen anything this horrifying in my whole life.
Warning lights cast patches of red and yellow on the stark exposed piping and caseless electrical and magnetic conduits, and turned human faces into tribal masks. Were the strobing lights really supposed to help? The ship was panicking for its life.
Everything on this container ship was weird to me, but this moment was the weirdest so far. This bloodcurdling scarecrow was strafing us while the crew barked back and forth about losing alt
itude and crashing into the planet—not the kind of thing you want to hear when you’ve been asked to come along on a nice quiet ride. The thrusters screamed in our ears, fighting outside forces they were never built to fight. We were almost ready to settle into orbit when this monstrosity broke out and scared the pilot by landing in his hair. He went sideways and so did the ship.
The thing with wings twisted in the air over the table and flew straight at me. Instinctively I blocked it with my arms as wide black wings flayed my head and hands. Then it got caught for a hideous moment between me and the metal galley door. In a panic, it throttled me with its wings before flapping up and out over the top of the door. I swear it turned inside out and flew backward, laws of physics be damned. I didn’t want that monster anywhere near me.
Around us, the ship’s boxy body rattled with mechanical effort and physical battering. Every inch of the hull was under strain as we cut through the upper atmosphere. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. I can almost fly a paper plane, but even a dope like me knows when the thing I’m riding on is in trouble. Good thing I’m not a genius in avionics. I’d’ve really be scared.
“Pocket, open the hangar bay hatch and let this thing fly in there!” Clark called to the first mate. “Pocket, where are you?!”
“He’s underneath me,” Gaylord, the magnetologist, reported from under the table.
“Then you get up and open it!”
“I don’t want that thing in my hair!”
“Atmosphere in forty seconds! Emergency ignition! Barry, emergency ignition! Pocket, crawl out of there right now!”
“It’s on me! Gaylord, get it off me!”
The bosun’s shriek almost matched the creature’s decibel level. “I’m not helping you till I get my six hundred!”
“I won that bet!”
“You tricked me!”
“Where did I get this reputation?”
“Maybe from all the gambling!”
Not being a member of the crew, I had the luxury of ignoring their frantic dialogue during my attempt to melt into the wall. Being the captain and all, Clark was trying to direct the chaos.
“Theo, what’s the count?” he called to the first mate.
“Full atmosphere skim if we don’t fire the planetaries in thirteen seconds.” Somehow Theo’s aristocratic English accent gave an elegance to the panic.
“Barry, we’re going directly to landing mode!” Clark called. “Blow the relief valves!”
On the helm station above us, Barry, the pilot, shouted, “Keep that thing off me! I can’t work!” He was four feet above us on the control balcony, which put him right in the flight path of the hyperkinetic attacker.
The scramble intensified. Forms ducked past me and scratching over me, and somebody stepped on my hand. I guessed the new jolt of movements meant they’d reached a point where they were more scared of getting sucked into the planet without engine control than they were of the weirdie in the air.
“Is there no one to shoot that thing?” the first mate shouted. “Where are the Marines?!”
“I can’t do this alone!” Barry called from the helm.
“Gaylord, get up there and help Barry blow that valve—” Clark’s voice was drowned out suddenly by a roar of engine surge.
The bursts and spasms of the ship, complicated by the screwball lunatic in the air, made their voices blend together. While the crew argued about monsters and crashing, I found the floor. I crawled along beside the galley table’s bench seat, grumbling, “I hate things with wings . . . ”
I heard the hangar bay hatch clang open, but from down here I couldn’t see much. I stretched one hand toward the deckbox under the far end of the bench, the box with my travel gear inside. To the chippering of the wild and woolly creature in the air, I forced my fingers into the box and felt around, found my holster, pulled it out, and unclipped it. The high-powered plasma pistol fell into my hand. It was the best money could buy for licensed private enforcement. A badge of honor in its way, folks said. The gel-formed grip fell perfectly into my left hand and was instantly warm, a trademark of the manufacturer, specially made for left-handers.
“Clark,” I announced, “I’ve got my plaz. I can shoot that thing.” I forced myself not to shout. Adrenaline would wreck my aim.
“Don’t shoot it!” he called back.
Holding the pistol in both hands, I rolled over onto my back and tried to follow the ugly duckling in the air. The thing had no flight pattern at all. It flapped out an erratic tracery and kept doubling back on itself. Every few seconds I caught a glimpse of two huge, shiny, ghoulish black eyes, repugnant little white teeth. It took all my training to remember how to aim at a moving object. Mostly instinct, but y’know. It’s not like I’d ever seen anything quite this ghoulish before, being a city boy. I’d seen other kinds of ghouls.
The shadow of the first mate, Theo, crossed between me and the monster gargoyle as he made a dive to throw a blanket over it, but he missed. When the shadow cleared, I shimmied out into the middle of the deck.
“Oh, please let me shoot it—” I begged.
Clark’s voice cut through the confusion. “Don’t shoot, Rory. I’m serious!”
“Aw, come on . . . ” I hugged the plasma gun to my chest and put my free arm over my hair just in time to duck.
The ship kicked and took a sudden surge forward, then sputtered and dropped under us, taking our stomachs with it. I recognized the sensations—riding the rapids. The Vinza was a heavy vessel, old, tested, and steady. Landing usually went like clockwork. Not today. The wingie thingie had screwed us up by scaring the wits out of our pilot before he had a chance to fire the landing engines. Now we were plunging in without steerage power. And we were still being strafed by a banshee.
“This is pretty damned demoralizing,” I grumbled.
Sometimes a switch goes off in my head telling me to put an end to whatever’s being dished out at me. After the switch flips, if I don’t get control, whatever happens after that is my own fault. So I forced myself to get over the shock of seeing what I was seeing, stood up straight, and fixed my eyes on the screaming meemie in the air. My neck was sore in seconds. I shimmied out of my favorite jacket, custom-made in a fudge-brown leather and exactly the color of my hair. Okay, so it was custom-made for the guy who’d left it at the thrift store where one of my girlfriends found it for pennies on the dollar. So what? I got no pride.
I held the jacket in front of me like a bullfighter’s cape and kept my eyes fixed on the flapper. Fast little freak! It flew along the lower wall supporting the pilot station, turning so its wings spread floor to rail on the wall. With its body flattened to the wall and its nose raised to show the way, its black eyes peered at me from the top of its skull in a horrifying stare. It knew I had become the one to watch—it knew.
Suddenly squeamish, I took a tentative step backward. My spine bumped the edge of the open bay hatch. It felt like someone pushing a weapon into my back and goading me to move forward. The thing was coming. It veered off the corner where the pilot deck wall met the galley wall and tilted its wings just slightly to come straight at me. Around me, Clark and Gaylord, Theo, and Pocket ducked and jumped in their attempt to do their jobs while fearing for their skins. Above us, Barry hunched over his helm, hoping not to get snagged by the hair.
Clark was a brawny guy, tall enough that his enviable auburn thatch barely cleared the headspace of his own ship. He had a semi-permanent bruise from the one strake just outside his own cabin that beaned him in the forehead every time he came out groggy. Now his height betrayed him as the brushfire-beast made a spiral around his head. He lost his cool, flayed fanatically, and somehow shrunk to half his size. “Little mugger!” he blurted.
A stripe of blood appeared on his nose—he’d been raked by a claw. The gargoyle seemed to have the claws pointed at anybody it was flying toward. My head began to swim. The creature was flying fast, but I was moving in slow motion, unable to comply with the erratic flight plan. I was
three years old again, trapped in my bedroom in the new house, out of place, unfamiliar, dodging those other creatures circling my room, my bed—
For the first time I wasn’t sleeping in my mother’s room. My first real bed. My first room. Only to find I shared it with a nest of birds. They were only stupid sparrows, but to me, at three—so I still hate things that fly.
I held my ground. Would it attack? Claw my face? I raised the jacket up to my nose, held my breath, waited for the strike. The creature’s body disappeared below my line of vision, which almost stopped my heart.
I felt the furry body brush the jacket. I saw a stretch of black webbing. Summoning power over my disgust, I snapped my arms closed.
A substantial ball of muscle writhed against my sleeves. A leathery wing formed itself to the left side of my head tight as a mask. A claw sunk into my scalp. Revulsion streaked from my scalp to my legs. I choked out my unintelligible opinion and held my face away. Against my body the monster twisted and fought, chittering its protest like a tap dancer’s shoes. I dropped back against the galley wall behind the bay hatch door, trapped between the wall and the thing. “I’ve got it! Land the ship!”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Gaylord percolated at me as he launched his large body to the ladder to the pilot balcony, where Barry battled the forces of nature. Engines that were normally almost silent now howled so loudly that we all had to shout to be heard. What the hell was I doing here? How did Clark Sparren always manage to get the better of my common sense? I was supposed to have a lot of common sense! Training! Judgment! Where was it when I needed it?
Controlling his voice, Clark thundered up the short ladder to the helm balcony. “Is the valve blown?”
“Valve’s blown!” Barry reported.
“Gaylord, get Barry some electrical support. Theo, run out the wings.”
“Wings, aye!”
“Gaylord, full flush in ten seconds,” Clark called out. “Theo, get those wings out!”
“They’re answering.”
A drumming airy shhhhhhtk announced the deployment of the retractable wings, fins, and stabilizers. The roaring and shuddering of the ship’s body began to level off.
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