Alan Dean Foster - Alien - 3

The eye swiveled. ‘I can just see it. You’ll have to use a direct cranial jump, since my auxiliary appendages are gone.’

‘I know. I’m all set. . I hope.’

‘Go ahead and plug in, then.’

She picked up the filament running from the black box and leaned toward the disembodied skull. ‘I’ve never done this before. It won’t hurt or anything?’

‘On the contrary, I’m hoping it’ll make me feel better.’

She nodded and gently inserted the filament into one of several receptacles in the back of his head, wiggling it slightly to make sure the fit was tight.

‘That tickles.’ She jerked her fingers back. ‘Just kidding,’ the android told her with a reassuring smile. ‘Hang on.’ His eyes closed and the remnants of his forehead wrinkled in concentration. It was, she knew admiringly, nothing more than a redundant bit of cosmetic programming, but it was encouraging to see that something besides the android’s basics still functioned.

‘I’m home,’ Bishop murmured several minutes later. ‘Took longer than I thought. I had to run the probe around some damaged sectors.’

‘I tested the recorder when I first found it. It checked out okay.’

‘It is. The damaged sectors are in me. What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

‘McNary Flight Recorder, model OV-122, serial number FR-3664874, installed—’

‘Are all your language intuition circuits gone? You know what I mean. From the time it was emergency activated. What happened on the Sulaco? Why were the cryotubes ejected?’

A new voice emerged from the android’s larynx. It was female and mechanical. ‘Explosive gasses present in the cryogenic compartment. Fire in the cryogenic compartment.

All personnel report to evacuation stations.’ Bishop’s voice returned. ‘There are a large number of repeats without significant deviation in content. Do you wish to hear them all?’

Ripley rubbed her chin, thinking hard. ‘No, that’s sufficient for now. Explosive gases? Where did they come from? And what started the fire?’ When no response was forthcoming she became alarmed. ‘Bishop? Can you hear me?’

There was gurgling, then the android’s silky faux voice.

‘Sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be. Powering up and functioning are weakening already damaged sectors. I keep losing memory and response capability. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. You’d better keep your questions brief.’

‘Don’t null out on me yet, Bishop,’ she said anxiously. ‘I was asking you about the report of fire.’

‘Fire. . — *crackle— *. . yes. It was electrical, in the subflooring of the cryogenics compartment. Presence of a catalyst combined with damaged materials to produce the explosive gas. Ventilation failed completely. Result was immediately life-threatening. Hence ship’s decision to evacuate. EEV detected evidence of explosion on board subsequent to evacuation, with concomitant damage to EEV controls. That’s why our landing here was less than perfect. Present status of Sulaco unknown. Further details of flight from Sulaco to present position available.’

‘Skip ‘em. Did sensors detect any motile life-forms on the Sulaco prior to emergency separation?’

Silence. Then, ‘It’s very dark here, Ripley. Inside. I’m not used to being dark. Even as we speak portions of me are shutting down. Reasoning is growing difficult and I’m having to fall back on pure logic. I don’t like that. It’s too stark. Not anything like what I was designed for. I’m not what I used to be.’

‘Just a little longer, Bishop,’ she urged him. She tried tweaking the power up but it did nothing more than make his eye widen slightly and she hastily returned to prescribed levels.

‘You know what I’m asking. Does the flight recorder indicate the presence of anything on the Sulaco besides the four survivors of Acheron? Was there an alien on board? Bishop!’

Nothing. She fine-tuned instrumentation, nudged controls.

The eye rolled.

‘Back off. I’m still here. So are the answers. It’s just taking longer and longer to bring the two together. To answer your question. Yes.’

Ripley took a deep breath. The workroom seemed to close in around her, the walls to inch a little nearer. Not that she’d felt safe within the infirmary. For a long while now she hadn’t felt safe anywhere.

‘Is it still on the Sulaco or did it come down with us on the EEV?’

‘It was with us all the way.’

Her tone tightened. ‘Does the Company know?’

‘The Company knows everything that happened on the ship, from the time it left Earth for Acheron until now, provided it’s still intact somewhere out there. It all goes into the central computer and gets fed back to the Network.’

A feeling of deadly déjà vu settled over her. She’d battled the Company on this once before, had seen how it had reacted.

Any common sense or humanity that faceless organization possessed was subsumed in an all-encompassing, overpowering greed. Back on Earth individuals might grow old and die, to be replaced with new personnel, new directors. But the Company was immortal. It would go on and on. Somehow she doubted that time had wrought any significant changes in its policies, not to mention its corporate morals. In any event, she couldn’t take that chance.

‘Do they still want an alien?’

‘I don’t know. Hidden corporate imperatives were not a vital part of my programming. At least, I don’t think they were. I can’t be sure. I’m not feeling very well.’

‘Do me a favour, Bishop; take a look around and see.’

She waited while he searched. ‘Sorry,’ he said finally. ‘There’s nothing there now. That doesn’t mean there never was. I am no longer capable of accessing the sectors where such information would ordinarily be stored. I wish I could help you more but in my present condition I’m really not good for much.’

‘Bull. Your identity program’s still intact.’ She leaned forward and fondly touched the base of the decapitated skull.

‘There’s still a lot of Bishop in there. I’ll save your program.

I’ve got plenty of storage capacity available here. If I ever get out of this I’ll make sure you come with me. They can wire you up again.’

‘How are you going to save my identity? Copy it into standard chip-ROM? I know what that’s like. No sensory input, no tactile output. Blind, deaf, dumb, and immobile. Humans call it limbo. Know what we androids call it? Gumbo. Electronic gumbo. No, thanks. I’d rather go null than nuts.’

‘You won’t go nuts, Bishop. You’re too tough for that.’

‘Am I? I’m only as tough as my body and my programming.

The former’s gone and the latter’s fading fast. I’d rather be an intact memory than a desiccated reality. I’m tired. Everything’s slipping away. Do me a favour and just disconnect. It’s possible I could be reworked, installed in a new body, but there’d be omphalotic damage, maybe identity loss as well. I’d never be top of the line again. I’d rather not have to deal with that. Do you understand what it means, to look forward only to being less than you were? No, thanks. I’d rather be nothing.’

She hesitated. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Do it for me, Ripley. You owe me.’

‘I don’t owe you anything, Bishop. You’re just a machine.’

‘I saved you and the girl on Acheron. Do it for me.. as a friend.’

Reluctantly, she nodded. The eye winked a last time, then closed peacefully. There was no reaction, no twitching or jerking when she pulled the filaments. Once more the head lay motionless on the worktable.

‘Sorry, Bishop, but you’re like an old calculator. Friendly and comfortable. If you can be repaired, I’m going to see to it that that comes to pass. If not, well, sleep peacefully wherever it is that androids sleep, and try not to dream. If things work out, I’ll get back to you later.’