Alien: Out the Shadows

“Right. We can’t afford to use the plasma torch or spray guns in the Samson.”

“I’ll go first, then,” Ripley said. She handed the spray gun back to Hoop and hefted the charge thumper. “Makes sense.” And she was through the door before anyone else could speak.

Hoop followed her quickly through the ruined vestibule, past the airlock and along the short docking arm. She paused at the Samson’s open hatch, but only for a moment. Then she ducked, pushed the charge thumper ahead of her, and entered the dropship.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“What?” Hoop pressed forward, senses alert. But then he saw what she had seen, and his stomach lurched.

“Going to be a pleasant journey,” Ripley said.

9 DROP

PROGRESS REPORT:

To: Weyland-Yutani Corporation, Science Division

(Ref: code 937)

Date (unspecified)

Transmission (pending)

Presence of previously identified alien species confirmed. Several specimens destroyed.

Warrant Officer Ripley in play. Plan proceeding satisfactorily. Anticipating further update within twelve hours.

I have a purpose once more.

Before undocking with the Marion, Lachance assured them all that he was the best pilot on the ship. His brief display of humor did little to lighten the mood.

Even when Hoop leaned over to Ripley and informed her that the Frenchman might well be the best pilot in the galaxy, she still struggled to hold down her vomit.

Bad enough this was their one and only chance. But forced to make the journey in this dropship, it seemed as if fate was rubbing their faces in the worst of everything that had happened.

Once the internal atmosphere had been restored, they’d been forced to remove their headgear in order to conserve the suits’ limited oxygen supplies.

Anything not bolted or screwed down in the Samson had been sucked out during decompression. But there was still the blood, dried into spattered black smears all across the cream-colored interior paneling, the light-blue fixed seats, and the textured metal decking. And there was the stench of decomposition, still heavy even though the ship had been in vacuum for almost a whole day.

An arm was jammed beneath one row of seating, clawed fingers almost wrapped around the seat post, bones visible through scraps of clothing and skin. Ripley noticed the others doing their best to not look at it, and she wondered whether they knew who it had been. There were tattered insignia on the torn clothing, and a gold ring on one finger.

They should have moved it aside, but no one wanted to touch it.

And aside from the human detritus, there was what had been left behind by the aliens.

The interior of the Samson’s passenger hold was laid out with two facing rows of seating across an open space, twelve seats per side. In this open space were fixings for equipment storage—they’d secured their various weapons there—and a raised area containing low-level cupboards and racks. Even when sitting, passengers could see over this raised portion to communicate with one another.

At the rear of the cabin, two narrow doors were set into the bulkhead. One was marked as a bathroom, the other Ripley guessed led into the engine room.

They had all chosen to sit as close as possible to the slightly raised flight deck. Lachance and Baxter sat up there, with Ripley and Hoop on one side of the passenger cabin, Kasyanov and Sneddon on the other. None of them wanted to sit at the rear.

None of them even wanted to look.

In their time aboard the ship, the aliens had made the shadowy rear of the cabin their own. The floor, walls, and ceiling were coated with a thick, textured substance. It clung around the two doors, crossing them here and there, like bridges of plastic that had melted, burned, and hardened again. It looked like an extrusion of some kind, dark and heavy in places, glimmering and shiny in others, as if wet. There were hollows that bore a chilling resemblance to shapes Ripley knew well.

The aliens had made their own place to rest, and it was a stark reminder of what had been in here until so recently.

“I hope this trip is quick,” Sneddon said. Kasyanov nodded beside her.

“Lachance?” Hoop asked.

“Last checks,” the pilot said. He was propped in the flight seat, leaning forward and running his hands across the control panels. A screen flickered to life in front of him, two more in the bulkhead by his side. “Baxter? Have we got a link to the Marion’s computer yet?”