Alien: Out of the Shadows

by Tim Lebbon

  “Plasma torch,” he said. “In case they get free.”

  Ripley laughed. It burst from her in a rush, like she was vomiting disbelief, and she couldn’t stop. Her eyes burned. Tears ran down her face. She thought of Hoop trying to scorch an alien with his box-gun, and the laughter turned hysterical. Between breaths it sounded like she was trying to scream, and when she felt Hoop’s hands on her shoulders she lashed out at him, seeing only his shadow through tear-distorted eyes—long arms, spiky edges.

  She saw an alien bearing down and clasping her to its chest, that long curved head raising, mouth sprouting the silvery, deadly teeth that would smash through her skull and free her at last from her nightmares.

  “Ripley!” Hoop shouted.

  She knew who he was, where she was, but the shakes had set in. Trying to believe they were physiological, she knew the truth. She was scared. Properly, completely fucking terrified.

  “That?” she said, gasping and swiping at the plasma torch. “You really think...? Have you seen one of them, close up?”

  “No,” he said softly. “None of us have.”

  “No, of course not,” Ripley said. “You’re still alive.” The hands squeezed harder and she leaned into him. To her own surprise, she welcomed his embrace, his smell, the feel of his rough beard against her neck and cheek. She took great comfort from the contact. It made her think of Dallas.

  “But you have,” he said.

  Ripley remembered the time in the shuttle, moments after the Nostromo had bloomed into nuclear nothingness and she’d believed it was all over. The alien, slow and lazy for reasons she didn’t understand, but for which she gave thanks. Because it’s just fed? she’d wondered at the time, Parker and Lambert fresh in her mind. Because it thinks it’s safe?

  She nodded against his shoulder.

  “Where?” he asked, quietly but with urgency. “When?”

  “I can’t answer that right now,” she whispered. “I... I don’t understand. But soon I will.” She pulled back from him, wiped angrily at her eyes. It wasn’t appearing weak in front of him that troubled her—it was feeling weak in herself. She’d seen that thing off, blasted it into space, and she should no longer be afraid. “The shuttle. There are answers there.”

  “Okay,” Hoop said. He looked down at the plasma torch, went to shrug it off.

  “No,” Ripley said, pressing her hand over his on the torch’s barrel. “It might help.”

  Hoop nodded, frowning. He’s seen some stuff himself, she thought. Maybe once she’d found out exactly how and why she was here, the two of them could talk properly.

  “Right,” he said. “Besides, we’re passing close to the docked dropship.”

  “But everything’s secure,” Ripley said. “Isn’t it?”

  “We’re keeping a close eye on things,” Hoop said, nodding. “The image we showed you is the last we’ve seen inside the Samson. But it’s safe.”

  “Safe,” Ripley said, trying the word. On this dying ship it seemed so out of place.

  Hoop led the way, and at the end of a corridor they turned to go right. He nodded to the left, where a heavy bulkhead door had been welded shut with a dri-metal seal. “The Delilah crashed into the ship through there, taking out Bays One and Two. We were lucky the fuel cell didn’t rupture, but we had to cut it loose afterward. It was snagged on the wrecked superstructure, wrapped up a load of other tattered ship parts. Me, Welford, and Powell went out there and spent three hours with cutting torches. Shoved it aside. When we came back inside we watched for an hour while it floated away.”

  “And this way?” Ripley asked, pointing right. They continued, and she noticed Hoop taking a tighter grip on the plasma torch.

  “Bay Three’s through there,” he said, nodding toward a door. Its control panel had been removed and wires and connectors hung loose.

  “What’s with that?” Ripley asked.

  “No way of opening it without fixing the controls.”

  “Or smashing the door down.”

  “That’s six-inch triple-layered polymer-inlaid steel,” Hoop said. “And there are three more doors and a vented airlock between here and the Samson.”

  Ripley only nodded. But the word “safe” still eluded her.

  “Come on,” Hoop said. “Your shuttle’s through here.”

  Ripley was surprised at how comforted she felt, ducking through Bay Four’s open airlock and entering the Narcissus. She had no good memories of the vessel— only of the alien, and her terror that it would take her, too. But Jonesy was there, snuggled up in the open stasis pod as if still in hypersleep. And there were memories of the Nostromo and her crew. Dead for almost four decades, now, but to Ripley it felt like yesterday.

  Parker, slaughtered on the floor. Lambert, hanging where the alien had slung her after ripping a hole through her face. All that blood.

  “You okay?” Hoop asked.

  Ripley nodded. Then she moved through the cramped shuttle and sat in the pilot’s seat. She was aware of Hoop walking, slowly, around the shuttle as she ran her fingers across the keyboard and initiated the computer. Mother was gone, but the Narcissus’s computers still had a similarly constructed interface, designed so that the user felt as if they were actually talking to a friend. With technologies that could make an android like Ash, it had always seemed strange to Ripley giving a faceless computer a human voice.

  She entered her access code. Morning, Narcissus, she typed. The reply appeared onscreen.

  Good morning, Warrant Officer Ripley.

  Request reason for Narcissus’s change of course.

  Information withheld.

  “Huh,” Ripley said.

  “Everything okay?” Hoop asked. He was examining the stasis pod she’d spent so long in, stroking Jonesy who was slinking back and forth with his back arched, tail stretched. He might well have been the oldest cat in the galaxy.

  “Sure,” she replied.

  Hoop nodded, glanced toward the computer screen, and then started looking around the rest of the shuttle’s interior.

  Request records of incoming signals received over the past one thousand days. Ripley expected a streaming list of information—space was filled with beamed communications, and most ship’s computers logged and discarded them if they were not relevant.

  That information also withheld.

  Request replay of distress signal received from Deep Space Mining Orbital Marion.

  That information also withheld.

  “Fuck you very much,” Ripley muttered as she typed, Because of Special Order 937?

  That reference does not compute.

  Emergency Command Override 100375.

  I’m afraid that Override code is no longer valid.

  Ripley frowned. Tapped her fingers beside the keyboard. Stared at the words on the screen. Even Mother had never communicated in such a conversational tone. And this was just the shuttle’s computer. Weird.

  Request data of timescales and travel distances since Nostromo’s detonation?

  That data unavailable.

  Unavailable or withheld?

  The computer did not reply.

  Such evasiveness wasn’t possible from this machine. Not on its own. It was a functional system, not an AI like Mother. And Mother was gone.

  The only other person who’d had access to Mother was Dallas. Dallas and...

  ...and after Dallas had been taken, and she’d quizzed Mother herself, she remembered her shock at that other presence in the computer room.

  Screw you, Ash, Ripley typed.

  The cursor blinked.

  But the computer didn’t respond. Not even a “Does not compute.”

  Ripley gasped. She hit the shutdown, and the text on the screen faded to a soft, background glow. Yet still she felt as if she was being watched. The computer’s arrogant silence seemed to ring through the interior of the shuttle, almost mocking.

  “What was in your distress signal?” Ripley asked abruptly.

  Hoop was rooting arou
nd in the rear of the shuttle, examining the space suits still hanging in the locker back there.

  “Huh?”

  “The distress signal you sent after the crash!” Ripley said. “Did you mention those things? The creatures? Did you say what they were like, what they did?”

  “I... Yeah, I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “It was more than ten weeks ago, Ripley. I recorded it hours after I’d seen lots of friends die, and witnessed what happened—”

  “I need to hear it.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She stood and backed away from the interface. It was stupid—there was no camera there—but she felt observed. She took off her jacket and dropped it across the screen.

  “The alien on my ship wasn’t an accident,” she said. “And I don’t think it’s an accident that I’ve come here, either. But I need to know. I need to hear the signal.”

  Hoop nodded and came toward her.

  “I can patch in from here,” he said, nodding down at where her jacket covered the keyboard.

  “You can?”

  “I’m chief engineer on this jaunt, and that covers all the infotech systems, too.”

  Ripley stepped aside and watched as Hoop moved the jacket, sat, and worked at the interface. The words she saw on the screen—the interaction—seemed innocent enough.

  Hoop chuckled.

  “What is it?”

  “These systems. Pretty old. I had more computing power than this to play VR games, when I was a kid.”

  “You don’t see anything odd with the computer?”

  “Odd?” He didn’t look up, and Ripley didn’t elaborate. “Here we are,” he said. “I’ve patched into Marion’s computer, and here’s the message. It’s on a loop.” He scanned the control panel, and Ripley leaned forward to switch to loudspeaker.

  Hoop’s voice came through. There was an edgy tone to it—the fear was palpable.

  “... decaying orbit. Second dropship Samson is docked and isolated, those things in there hopefully contained. They... laid infants or eggs inside the miners, burst from their chests. We are not contaminated, repeat, not contaminated. Estimate ninety days until we hit LV178’s atmosphere. All channels open, please respond. Ends.

  “This is DSMO Marion, of the Kelland Company, registration HGY-64678, requesting immediate aid. Crew and mining teams down to eight surviving members. Miners discovered something on the surface of LV178, attacked, dropship Delilah crashed the Marion. Many systems damaged, environment stable but we are now in a decaying orbit. Second dropship Samson is docked and isolated...”

  Hoop tapped the keyboard to turn off the replay, then glanced back at Ripley.

  “Ash,” she whispered.

  “What’s Ash?”

  “Android. Weyland-Yutani. He was tasked with finding any alien life forms that might have been of interest to the company. His orders... crew expendable. My crew. Me.” She stared at the computer again until Hoop dropped her jacket back across it. “He’s gone, but he must have transferred part of his AI programing to the Narcissus.

  He’s here. He’s in here now, and he brought me to you because of those aliens.”

  “I’m not sure it’s possible that an AI could—”

  “I should have been home,” Ripley said, thinking of Amanda and her sad, wet eyes when she’d watched her mother leave. She hated herself for that. Even though she should have been home with her daughter for her eleventh birthday, and nothing that had happened was her fault, Ripley hated herself. “I should have never left.”

  “Well, maybe some good can come of this,” Hoop said.

  “Good?” Ripley said.

  “Your shuttle. Sneddon and I think we can get away on it, all of us. And that’ll leave the Marion and those fuckers on the Samson to burn up in the planet’s atmosphere.”

  Ripley knew that for any extended voyage the shuttle was only suitable for one, with only a single stasis pod. But she didn’t care. Any way to distance herself from those aliens—any way to deny Ash from fulfilling his Special Order—was good for her.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll run a systems check.”

  “You’re not alone anymore, Ripley,” Hoop said.

  She blinked quickly, and nodded her thanks. Somehow, he seemed to know just what to say.

  “You’ll stay here with me for a while?”

  Hoop feigned surprise.

  “Do you have coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Then my time here is limited.” He stood away from the control desk and started looking around the shuttle again. It was cramped, confined—and way, way too small.

  Ignoring the computer, Ripley started manual processing of systems information.

  It only took three minutes to realize how screwed they were.

  5

  NARCISSUS

  Hoop had worked with androids before. In the deep asteroid mines of Wilson’s Scarps, they were often the first ones down and the last ones back. They’d been perfectly reasonable, amenable, quiet, honest, and strong. Safe. He couldn’t say he’d liked them, exactly, but they’d never been dangerous or intimidating. Never scheming.

  Occasionally he’d heard of malfunctions in some of the earlier military-grade androids, and there were unconfirmed reports—little more than rumors, really— that the military had suffered human losses as a result. But they were a different breed of android, designed for strength but with a built-in expiration date. They were easy to spot. Their designers hadn’t been too concerned with aesthetics.

  That must have been the case on Nostromo. And now, assuming Ripley was right, the AI had somehow followed her, and was still using her for its programed mission. As his team discussed their options, she looked wretched— taking in the conversation, looking at each crew member who expressed an opinion, and yet remaining silent. She smoked cigarette after cigarette, and drank coffee.

  She must think she’s still dreaming, he mused, consumed by nightmares. And every now and then she glanced across at him as if checking that he was on board with all of this.

  Because it turned out that they were more royally screwed than any of them had thought.

  The plan they were slowly forming—crazy as it was— seemed to be the only way out. It was a last chance, and they had no option but to grab it.

  “You’re sure about the timescales?” Powell asked. “Only a few days until we start skimming the atmosphere?”

  “Sure as I can be,” Lachance replied.

  “I thought we had a couple of weeks left,” Kasyanov said, voice raised as fear clasped her.

  “Sorry. I lost my crystal ball in the collision.” Lachance rested in the pilot’s chair, turned around to face them all. The rest sat or stood around the bridge, in seats or leaning against equipment terminals. It was the first time Ripley had been with all eight of them together, but Hoop couldn’t sense any nervousness in her. If anything, she was too distracted for that.

  “And there’s nothing you guys can do?” Kasyanov said, looking at Powell, Welford, and then Hoop. He didn’t like the accusation in her eyes, as if they hadn’t done their best. “I mean, you’re engineers.”

  “Kasyanov, I think I’ve made it pretty clear,” Lachance said. “Our attitude control is damaged beyond repair, retro capability is down to thirty percent. Several containment bulkheads are cracked, and there’s a good chance if we initiate thrust we’ll just flash-fry ourselves with radiation.” He paused briefly.

  “We do still have coffee, though. That’s one positive.”

  “How do we know all that’s true?” Kasyanov asked. “It’s getting desperate here. We should go outside, look again at all the damage.”

  “You know because I’m the best pilot who’s ever worked for Kelland,” Lachance said. “And the fact that Hoop, Welford, and Powell have kept us all alive for this long is a fucking miracle. Fixing the hull breaches, repressurizing the vented sections of the ship. That’s why you know it’s true.”

 
Kasyanov started to say some more, but Garcia put a hand on her arm. Hoop didn’t think she even squeezed— just the contact was enough to silence the doctor.

  “However much we wish it wasn’t true, it is,” Hoop said. “And we’ve got no more time to waste. We think we have a plan, but it’s not going to be easy.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Kasyanov asked.

  “Me, Sneddon, Ripley.”

  “Ripley? The stranger who just woke up from half-a-century of snoozing? What’s she got to do with this?”

  Ripley glanced across at Kasyanov, then away again, looking down at the coffee cup in her hand. Hoop waited for her to speak, but she remained silent.

  “This isn’t a conspiracy, Kasyanov,” he said. “Hear us out.”

  The doctor drew in a breath and seemed to puff herself up, ready to say something else, challenge him some more. But then she nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Hoop... everyone. Just so strung out.” She and Ripley exchanged weak smiles.

  “We all are,” Hoop said. “It’s been over seventy days, waiting for some sign that our signal’s been picked up, acknowledged and relayed onward, and that someone’s coming for us. Maybe the frequency’s been frazzled, and we’re just coming through as background fuzz. Or maybe someone’s heard us, but we’re too far out, and it’s too expensive to mount a rescue.”

  “Or there’s just not the time,” Baxter said. “Changing course, plotting a route, estimating the fuel requirements. Anyone who did catch the signal would have a lot to do before they even got here.”

  “Right,” Hoop said. “So we’re running out of time, and now we’ve got to help ourselves. More than we have been. More than just patching up problems while we wait.”

  “Escape pods?” Powell asked.

  “We’ve talked about that,” Lachance said, waving the suggestion aside.

  “Yeah,” Sneddon said. “That’s just a slow death. We’re in a drifting orbit now, and even if we could rig a way to steer the pods more accurately, to land as close to the mine as possible, we could still go down miles away. We’d be scattered, alone, and vulnerable.”

  “The Samson, then.” Baxter had mentioned this before, putting it forward as their only real option, if the individual escape pods wouldn’t work. They could open the doors, kill the aliens, then take the Samson away from LV178.