Tim Lebbon - Alien - Out the Shadows

“You’ve barely walked for thirty-seven years,” Kasyanov protested.

“Thanks for reminding me. But as far as my body’s concerned, it was yesterday.” She’d already stood from her bed and dressed while Kasyanov and Garcia were elsewhere, determined to prove herself to them. And she’d been pleased at how good she actually felt. The sedative was still wearing off, but beneath that she was starting to feel her old self again. Whatever Garcia had done for her— the saline drip, the other drugs—was working.

“Patients,” Kasyanov said, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, who’d be one, right?” Ripley stood from the bed, and as she was tying the boots that had been given to her, Hoop breezed into the bay.

“Oh, you’re dressed.” He feigned disappointment, then said, “You’re looking good!”

Ripley looked up and raised an eyebrow. “I’m twice your age.”

“I’ve had a few long trips myself, you know,” he replied without missing a beat. “Maybe one day we can have a drink, compare sleeps?” He smiled as he spoke, but maybe he was a little bit serious, too.

Ripley laughed despite herself. Then she remembered. The image was never far away, but for a few seconds here and there she could forget. A burst of laughter, a smile, a friendly comment would hide the memory beneath the mundane.

“I’d like to take a look at the Narcissus,” Hoop said.

“You and me both.”

“You haven’t spent long enough in it already?”

Ripley stood and stretched. She was tall, lithe, and she enjoyed the feel of her muscles finding their flexibility again. The aches and pains meant she was awake and mobile.

“I’ve got some questions for the computer,” she said. “Like why the hell it brought me to this shit hole.”

“Thanks,” Hoop said.

“You’re welcome.”

Ripley saw the doctor and medic exchange glances, but couldn’t quite read them. She hadn’t yet worked out the dynamic there. Kasyanov, as the doctor, was clearly in charge of med bay. But she also appeared nervous, scared, and Garcia seemed to be the one most at ease.

“Come on,” Hoop said. “I’ll walk you to the docking bay.”

They left med bay together, and Hoop remained silent. Waiting for my questions, Ripley thought. She had so many. But she was afraid that once she started asking, none of the answers could satisfy, and nothing he said would be good.

“You say you don’t know why you docked with us?” Hoop asked finally.

“I was asleep when the shuttle docked, you know that.” Something troubled Ripley, nudging at her consciousness like a memory trying to nose its way in. A suspicion. An explanation. But her mind still hadn’t completely recovered from hypersleep, and she didn’t think she’d like what it had to say. “What’s that?” she asked, nodding at the heavy object draped over Hoop’s shoulder. It looked like a stumpy, box-shaped gun.

“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.