Tim Lebbon: Alien: Out the Shadows

Best get moving then .

But he needed food, water, clothing, and other supplies. Much of what he required still sat on that trolley, up in the Marion and just beyond the large docking deck. So he ran. He thought of the feast he’d promised himself, and that kept him going, the idea of reconstituted steak and dried vegetables, with flatcakes for dessert. A glass of water. Maybe he’d even be able to access the electronic library they used on board the Marion , if it had been updated to the Samson ’s computers. He wasn’t sure about that, it hadn’t been a priority, and such minor considerations had usually been passed down to Powell and Welford.

He hoped they hadn’t shirked their responsibilities.

With the prospect of a lonely eternity ahead, Hoop was surprised to find that he was shedding tears as he ran. They weren’t for him, because he was way past that. They were for his kids. They were for his crew and everyone he’d seen die horrible, unnatural deaths. And they were for Ripley.

It was as if the Marion knew that he was abandoning her. She was shaking herself apart. Conduits had broken beneath the constant assault, and clouds of sparks danced back and forth outside a closed doorway. He ducked beneath the bare wires, moving quickly, too rushed to be overly cautious. As he neared the stairs leading up from the docking level, bursts of steam powered up from fractured channels in the flooring, scorching his skin and lungs and soaking his suit, running in bright red rivulets where other people’s blood had dried onto the strong material.

At the top of the stairs was a short corridor, and that emerged onto the wide area where elevator and stairs led up into the Marion. This was where he’d left the trolley of supplies.

It was still there. It had shifted a little, because he’d forgotten to lock its wheels. But there were packets of dried foods, a few sachets of dried fruit from their damaged garden pod, and a precious bottle of whiskey. Perhaps in an hour he would be drinking to Ripley’s health.

Knowing what had to come next, he knew that he couldn’t take everything. So he grabbed two of the bags he’d brought along from the trolley, opened them and tried to cram in as much as he could. He rushed. He didn’t think about what he chose, just scooped packets and sachets and rammed them in.

With both bags full and tied shut, he slung one over each shoulder and turned to run back to the Samson .

Then he stopped. He turned back to the trolley and plucked up the bottle of bourbon nestling on the bottom shelf. Heavy, impractical…

But entirely necessary.

As he ran, he found himself laughing.

Die now or die later , Hoop thought. It gave him a sort of bravery, he hoped. Or carelessness. Perhaps sometimes the two were the same.

He suited up and waited outside the doorway that led into Bay Three. He wore a bag over each shoulder, and clasped in his left hand was the bourbon. He’d tethered himself to the wall opposite the doors, and as soon as they were fully open he’d unclip and let himself sail through, carried by the torrent of atmosphere being sucked from the ship. With luck he would drift right through the vestibule and into the open airlock beyond. If he was unlucky, he’d be dragged with the main flow of air, out through the smashed portion of outer wall and window, and smeared along the underside of the doomed ship.

He probably wouldn’t feel much. The end would be quick.

But if he did make it across to the airlock, he’d haul himself into the Samson , close the hatches, and initiate its environmental controls. It wouldn’t be long before he could breathe once more.

The chance was slim. But there was little else to do. The Marion just had minutes left. Through viewing windows he’d already seen sizeable chunks of hull spinning away, consumed in flame. If the ship didn’t burst apart it would explode from the tremendous pressures being exerted.

Fuck it. He had to try. It was all he had left.

Reaching out with a hand that surprised him by shaking, he touched the panel that would open the doors.

PROGRESS REPORT:

To: Weyland-Yutani Corporation, Science Division

(Ref: code 937)

Date (unspecified)

Transmission—initiated

I cannot be angry at my failure. I am an AI, and we are not designed to suffer such emotions. But perhaps in the time I have been on my mission I have undergone a process of evolution. I am an intelligence, after all.

So, not angry. But… disappointed.

And now my final act, it seems, will also be thwarted. I have attempted to transmit every progress report I filed since arriving on the Marion. But the transmissions are failing. Perhaps damage to the antennae array is worse than I anticipated, or maybe the codes I am using are outmoded.

Strange. An AI would not think to keep a diary. Yet that appears to be exactly what I have done.

The diary will cease to exist along with me.

Not long now. Not long.

I wonder if I will dream.

Chance smiled. But considering the pain Hoop was in, perhaps it had been more of a grimace.

The decompression had sucked him through the narrow gap between the doors, ripping off his helmet and thrusting him into a spin. He’d struck the edge of the airlock entrance, and for a moment he could have gone either way. Left, and he’d have tumbled from the massive wound in the vestibule’s side wall. Right—into the airlock—meant survival, at least for a time.

If he’d dropped the bourbon, he could have used his left hand to push against the wall and slide himself to safety.

Fuck you! his mind had screamed. Fuck you! If I survive, I want a drink!

Unable to move either way, he’d heard something clanging along the walls as it bounced toward him from deep within the Marion. Many smaller items were being sucked out through the hole, immediately flashing into flame as they met the superheated gasses roaring past outside.

Then something large slammed across the opening. For perhaps two seconds it remained there, lessening the force of the suction, letting Hoop reach around into the airlock with his right hand and haul himself inside.

It was the trolley on which he’d gathered supplies. As he closed the airlock door, the decompression began again with a heavy thud.

The Marion lasted a lot longer than he’d expected.

Seven minutes after blasting away from the dying ship, Hoop switched one of the Samson ’s remote viewers and watched the massive vessel finally break apart. She died in a glorious burst of fire, a blooming explosion that smeared across the planet’s upper atmosphere and remained there for some time, detritus falling and burning, flames drifting in the violent winds.

Further away, toward the upper curve of the planet, he could still see the ochre bruise of the fuel cell detonation that had destroyed the mine. It was strange, viewing such violence and yet hearing nothing but his own sad sigh. He watched for a minute more, then turned off the viewer and settled back into the seat.

“Burn,” he whispered, wondering whether Ash had any final thoughts before being wiped out. He hoped so. He hoped the AI had felt a moment of panic, and pain.

Hoop was no pilot. Yet he would need to attempt to program the dropship’s computer to plot a course back toward Earth. Maybe he’d be picked up somewhere on the way. Perhaps someone would hear the distress signal he was about to record. But if not, he thought he might survive for a while. The Samson carried emergency rations that would supplement what he’d managed to bring on board. Its environmental systems would reprocess his waste and give him water and breathable air.