Tim Lebbon - Alien - Out of the Shadows

“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 so 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.