Alien: Out the Shadows

She slid open an equipment drawer, plucked out a scalpel and nicked the top of her thumb. She squeezed the digit and smeared a droplet of blood across the white bench surface. Then she looked at Ripley.

Ripley sighed. “Sorry,” she said. “Really.”

Sneddon smiled. “Hey, I can’t blame you. Truth is, I’ve never liked androids myself.”

“Really?” Ripley said.

“I’m a science officer, but my basis is in biology.” She picked up a piece of gauze, and held it firmly over the cut. “I find them unnatural.”

“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.