“Six months in a tightly confined space? That shuttle’s designed for five people, max, for short trips. Eight of us? We’ll end up killing each other.” He shook his head. “And how long do you figure it’ll take?”
Sneddon raised an eyebrow.
“Well… years.”
“Years?”
“Maybe three until we reach the outer rim, and then—”
“It’s impossible!” he said.
Sneddon tapped the tablet’s screen again, and Hoop looked. She’d certainly done her homework. Examples manifested and faded on the screen—lifeboats at sea, strandings on damaged orbitals, miraculous survivals dotting the history of space disasters. None of the timescales were quite what Sneddon was describing, but each story testified to the will of desperate people to survive, whatever the situation.
However hopeless.
“We’d need to check the shuttle’s systems,” he said. “Fuel cell, life support.”
“And you’re chief engineer, aren’t you?”
Hoop laughed. “You’re serious about this.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her for a while, trying to deny the shred of hope she’d planted in him. He couldn’t afford to grab hold of it.
“Rescue isn’t coming, Hoop,” she said. “Not in time.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“So you’ll—”
“Hoop!” Kasyanov’s voice cut in over the intercom. “Ripley’s stirring. I could sedate her again, but I really don’t want to pump her full of any more drugs.”
Hoop leapt to the wall and hit the intercom button.
“No, don’t. She’s slept enough. I’ll be right down.” He smiled at Sneddon, and then nodded. “I’ll speak to Ripley, get her access codes.”
As he left the science lab and headed for med bay, the ship’s corridors seemed lighter than they had in a long time.
4
937
Not only was she still light years from home, but she’d docked with a damaged ship in a decaying orbit around a hellhole of a planet, alongside a dropship full of the monsters that haunted her nightmares.
Ripley might have laughed at the irony.
She’d successfully shaken the idea that it was a dream, or a nightmare—it had taken time, and convincing herself hadn’t been easy—but the explanation still eluded her.
How was this all possible?
Perhaps the answers were on her shuttle.
“Really, I’m ready to walk,” she said. Kasyanov—a tall, fit woman who obviously looked after herself—shot her a disapproving look, but Ripley could see that the doctor held a grudging respect for her patient’s stubbornness.
“You’ve barely walked for thirty-seven years,” Kasyanov protested.
“Thanks for reminding me. But as far as my body’s concerned, it was yesterday.” She’d already stood from her bed and dressed while Kasyanov and Garcia were elsewhere, determined to prove herself to them. And she’d been pleased at how good she actually felt. The sedative was still wearing off, but beneath that she was starting to feel her old self again. Whatever Garcia had done for her— the saline drip, the other drugs—was working.
“Patients,” Kasyanov said, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah, who’d be one, right?” Ripley stood from the bed, and as she was tying the boots that had been given to her, Hoop breezed into the bay.
“Oh, you’re dressed.” He feigned disappointment, then said, “You’re looking good!”
Ripley looked up and raised an eyebrow. “I’m twice your age.”
“I’ve had a few long trips myself, you know,” he replied without missing a beat. “Maybe one day we can have a drink, compare sleeps?” He smiled as he spoke, but maybe he was a little bit serious, too.
Ripley laughed despite herself. Then she remembered. The image was never far away, but for a few seconds here and there she could forget. A burst of laughter, a smile, a friendly comment would hide the memory beneath the mundane.
“I’d like to take a look at the Narcissus,” Hoop said.
“You and me both.”
“You haven’t spent long enough in it already?”
Ripley stood and stretched. She was tall, lithe, and she enjoyed the feel of her muscles finding their flexibility again. The aches and pains meant she was awake and mobile.
“I’ve got some questions for the computer,” she said. “Like why the hell it brought me to this shit hole.”
“Thanks,” Hoop said.
“You’re welcome.”
Ripley saw the doctor and medic exchange glances, but couldn’t quite read them. She hadn’t yet worked out the dynamic there. Kasyanov, as the doctor, was clearly in charge of med bay. But she also appeared nervous, scared, and Garcia seemed to be the one most at ease.
“Come on,” Hoop said. “I’ll walk you to the docking bay.”
They left med bay together, and Hoop remained silent. Waiting for my questions, Ripley thought. She had so many. But she was afraid that once she started asking, none of the answers could satisfy, and nothing he said would be good.
“You say you don’t know why you docked with us?” Hoop asked finally.
“I was asleep when the shuttle docked, you know that.” Something troubled Ripley, nudging at her consciousness like a memory trying to nose its way in. A suspicion. An explanation. But her mind still hadn’t completely recovered from hypersleep, and she didn’t think she’d like what it had to say. “What’s that?” she asked, nodding at the heavy object draped over Hoop’s shoulder. It looked like a stumpy, box-shaped gun.
“Plasma torch,” he said. “In case they get free.”
Ripley laughed. It burst from her in a rush, like she was vomiting disbelief, and she couldn’t stop. Her eyes burned. Tears ran down her face. She thought of Hoop trying to scorch an alien with his box-gun, and the laughter turned hysterical. Between breaths it sounded like she was trying to scream, and when she felt Hoop’s hands on her shoulders she lashed out at him, seeing only his shadow through tear-distorted eyes—long arms, spiky edges.
She saw an alien bearing down and clasping her to its chest, that long curved head raising, mouth sprouting the silvery, deadly teeth that would smash through her skull and free her at last from her nightmares.
“Ripley!” Hoop shouted.
She knew who he was, where she was, but the shakes had set in. Trying to believe they were physiological, she knew the truth. She was scared. Properly, completely fucking terrified.
“That?” she said, gasping and swiping at the plasma torch. “You really think…? Have you seen one of them, close up?”
“No,” he said softly. “None of us have.”
“No, of course not,” Ripley said. “You’re still alive.” The hands squeezed harder and she leaned into him. To her own surprise, she welcomed his embrace, his smell, the feel of his rough beard against her neck and cheek. She took great comfort from the contact. It made her think of Dallas.
“But you have,” he said.
Ripley remembered the time in the shuttle, moments after the Nostromo had bloomed into nuclear nothingness and she’d believed it was all over. The alien, slow and lazy for reasons she didn’t understand, but for which she gave thanks. Because it’s just fed? she’d wondered at the time, Parker and Lambert fresh in her mind. Because it thinks it’s safe?
She nodded against his shoulder.
“Where?” he asked, quietly but with urgency. “When?”
“I can’t answer that right now,” she whispered. “I… I don’t understand. But soon I will.” She pulled back from him, wiped angrily at her eyes. It wasn’t appearing weak in front of him that troubled her—it was feeling weak in herself. She’d seen that thing off, blasted it into space, and she should no longer be afraid. “The shuttle. There are answers there.”