Alan Dean Foster: Alien - 3

He stopped, the others crowding close behind him, waiting for orders. The figure indicated they should relax. Then he turned to her, smiling reassuringly.

‘I just want to help you. We’re all on the same side.’

‘No more bullshit!’ she snapped. Weak as she was, it took an effort to make the exclamation sound convincing. ‘I just felt the damn thing move.’

As everyone present watched, she stepped farther out on the gantry platform. Something smacked into her lungs and she winced, never taking her eyes off the figure before her.

It was Bishop. No, not Bishop, but a perfect duplicate of him. A completely in control, perfect down to the pores on his chin double of the sadly dismembered and cybernetically deceased Bishop. Bishop II, she told herself numbly. BishopRedux. Bishop to pawn four; Bishop takes Queen.

Not as long as this lady’s alive, she thought determinedly.

‘You know who I am,’ the figure said.

‘Yeah. A droid. Same model as Bishop. Sent by the fucking Company.’

‘I’m not the Bishop android. I designed it. I’m the prototype, so naturally I modeled its features after my own. I’m very human. I was sent here to show you a friendly face, and to demonstrate how important you are to us. To me. I’ve been involved with this project from the beginning. You mean a lot to me, Lieutenant Ripley. To a great many people. Please come down.

‘I just want to help you. We have everything here to help you, Ripley.’ He gazed anxiously up at her. Now she recognized the outfits two of Bishop II’s companions wore: they were biomedical technicians. It made her think of Clemens.

‘Fuck you. I know all about “friendly” Company faces. The last one I saw belonged to an asshole named Burke.’

The man’s smile faded. ‘Mr. Burke proved to be a poor choice to accompany your previous mission, an individual rather more interested in his own personal aggrandizement than in good Company policy. I assure you it was a mistake that will not be repeated. That is why I am here now instead of some inexperienced, overly ambitious underling.’

‘And you, of course, have no personal ambitions.’

‘I only want to help you.’

‘You’re a liar,’ she said quietly. ‘You don’t give a shit about me or anyone else. You just want to take it back. These things have acid for blood where you Company people just have money. I don’t see a lot of difference.’

Bishop II studied the floor for a moment before again raising his eyes to the solitary figure atop the crane platform.

‘You have plenty of reasons to be wary, but unfortunately not much time. We just want to take you home. We don’t care anymore what happens to it. We know what you’ve been through. You’ve shown great courage.’

‘Bullshit!’

‘You’re wrong. We want to help.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘We want to take the thing out of you.’

‘And keep it?’

Bishop II shook his head. ‘No. Destroy it.’

She stood, swaying, wanting to believe him. Sensing her hesitation, he hurried on. ‘Ripley, you’re exhausted, worn out.

Give yourself a moment. Stop and think. I have only your best interests at heart. The ship I came in, the Patna, is equipped with a state-of-the-art surgical facility. We can remove the fetus, or larva, or whatever you want to call it. We don’t have a name for the different developmental stages yet. The operation will be successful! You’re going to have a long, productive life.’

She looked down at him, calm now, resigned. ‘I’ve had a life, thanks. One I didn’t have to ask anybody about or answer to anybody for.’

He held up a hand, imploring. ‘You’re not thinking straight, Ripley! We admit we made mistakes. We didn’t know. But we can make it up to you. All the potential lost, all the time. You can still have children. We’ll buy out your contract. You’ll get everything you deserve. We owe you.’

She wavered. ‘You’re not going to take it back?’

‘No. We realize now what we’ve been up against. You’ve been right all along. But time is running out. Let us deal with it. The surgery on the ship is ready to go.’

The biotech immediately behind him stepped forward. ‘It’s very quick. Painless. A couple of incisions. You’ll be out for two hours — that’s all. Then back on your feet, good as new. Whole again.’

‘What guarantee do I have that once you’ve taken this thing out you’ll destroy it?’

Bishop II advanced another step. He was quite close now, looking across at her. ‘You’re just going to have to trust me.’ He extended his hand in friendship. ‘Trust me. Please. We only want to help you.’

She considered, taking her time. She saw Aaron watching her, and Morse. Her gaze went back to Bishop II.

She slid shut the gate between them. ‘No—’

A nod to Morse and he hit the control panel, putting the crane in motion. It rumbled away from the stairs, out over the furnace. As it did so, Bishop II lunged, grabbing at Ripley. She broke free and stumbled away from him.

The commandos responded and Morse took a bullet in the shoulder, dropping down behind the crane’s control panel.

Aaron picked up a chunk of broken pipe, muttering, ‘You fucking droid!’ The pipe landed hard on Bishop II’s head.

The impact was spongy. Then man staggered, twitching, as his troops shot the acting superintendent down. Real blood poured from Bishop II’s cracked skull.

‘I am. . not a. . droid,’ the bleeding figure mumbled in surprise as it crumpled to the floor.

Ripley clutched at her chest. ‘It’s moving.’ Company men rushed to the fallen Bishop II. He turned on his side, watching her.

‘You owe it to us. You owe it to yourself.’

A beatific smile crossed her face. Then she almost snarled.

‘No way!’ The crane platform was now directly over the cauldron. Her stomach thumped and she staggered. Calmly, in complete control, she stepped to the edge. Below her feet boiled a lake of molten metal, the proximate inferno raising blisters on her skin, rising tendrils of heat reaching up invitingly.

‘It’s too late!’

‘It’s not!’ Bishop II pleaded with her.

Staggering, she clutched both hands to her chest over the rising heat.

‘Good-bye.’

‘Nooo!’ Bishop II howled.

She stepped off the platform and vanished into the bubbling cauldron below.

Morse had staggered erect in time to see her fall. Clutching at his wounded shoulder, he watched, murmuring.

‘Those who are dead are not dead. They have moved up.

Moved higher.?

Having nothing else to do now, the biotechs bandaged Morse up. Other Company men, silent, not talking even among themselves, went about the business of methodically shutting down the furnace, the refinery, the rest of Weyland-Yutani Work Correctional Facility Fury 161.

Out there messages linger. Ghosts of radio transmissions drifting forever, echoes of words preceding and lives gone before. Occasionally they’re detected, picked up, transcribed.

Sometimes they mean something to those who hear; other times not. Sometimes they’re lengthy, other times brief. As in. .

‘This is Ripley, last surviving member of the Nostromo, signing off.’