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.
She pulled her gaze away and looked to her left, toward the ruins of docking bays One and Two. Hoop had already shown her this, but it was still a sad, shocking sight. So many had died there. She was amazed the disaster hadn’t taken out the whole ship. Yet in a way it had, the ripples and effects of the crash still being felt at a much slower pace.
“Welford?” Hoop asked.
“Not long,” the engineer replied. “Lachance, ready to pressurize?”
“Ready,” Lachance said from the bridge.
“Like I said,” Hoop said, “as slow as you can. Don’t want to make any more noise than is necessary.”
In case they hear us, Ripley thought. Her heart hammered, and drips of sweat trickled down her back. Kasyanov had given her some spare clothing, and Ripley knew from its fit that they didn’t belong to the doctor. She wondered whose it had been. The shirt and trousers were tight but not uncomfortable, the jacket snug beneath the arms and across her back. She wore her own boots from the Nostromo. Probably collector’s items now.
The two engineers worked at the door, both efficient and quiet. Ripley had seen them arguing, and Powell more than anyone seemed to exude negativity. But they worked as a team, and there was something almost balletic about their movement, as if they were one body split in two. She wondered how long they had been working together out here. She should have asked. She should have got to know them better, before—
She took a deep breath to compose herself, and Hoop glanced across at her. He’d heard through her microphone. She didn’t return his glance, didn’t want him to see how afraid she was. She needed to be strong. Always had been, working with the crew of the Nostromo, most of them men. It was a trait she liked in herself, and she hated that fear was picking at its edges.
Ripley stood against the left wall of the vestibule, Hoop was in the middle, and Kasyanov and Garcia were to the right. Hoop carried the plasma torch—a serious bit of kit, he’d said—leaving her with a sand pick and the medics with charge thumpers. They were large and unwieldy, but packed a lot of punch. Sneddon was with the engineers, heavy cargo netting piled around her feet.
Ripley had examined the cargo netting, and it was stronger than she’d expected. Triple-core steel wrapped in epoxy-molded carbon fiber, and wound in compressed nylon strands. There were special cutting tools they used to slice the netting if they had to. She’d nodded, but had advised a healthy skepticism. They couldn’t assume that anything would hold the beasts.
“Done,” Welford said. “Lachance?”
“Pressurizing.”
There was an almost sub-audible hum as the airlock beyond the vestibule was filled once more with air. The lights above the heavy doors flickered softly, and after a minute all three glowed a soft green.
“Okay,” Lachance said. “Just check the pressures there, would you?”
Powell looked at the gauges beside the door. He held up his thumb.
“Open it up,” Hoop said.
Welford stroked a pressure pad, and the doors slid apart. Despite their care and the readings, there was still a sigh as the doors opened. Ripley swallowed and her ears popped. She looked across at Hoop, but he seemed unconcerned.
“Okay guys,” Hoop said, “slow and quiet.”
Nervously, Welford and Powell entered the airlock. Ripley moved sideways, so that she could see them inside. As soon as they reached the far door they started repairing the dismantled door mechanism.
Garcia and Sneddon went to work rigging the heavy cargo netting around the door that led from the airlock into the vestibule, leaving one side loose for the engineers to slip past once they were done.
Ripley frowned. No matter how she looked at it, the plan was as loose and woolly as ever. Remote-open the Samson, wait until the aliens came through and got caught in the netting. Use sand picks to hook the netting and drag them back through the vestibule and along the corridor to the ruined docking bays. Open the inner door, shove the creatures through, lock the door again. Blast them into space.
It was like catching a shark in a goldfish net.
Yet there were so many ways the aliens might not play ball. What if they stay in the Samson? Ripley had asked. Welford had suggested a remote drone they used for deep mine exploration. Sending it in, luring them out.
So woolly. So loose.
The others seemed just as nervous. Some of them had seen these things in action—on monitors, on the destroyed dropship, and aboard the Samson. But the ones they’d seen had been small. Not much bigger than the bastard that had burst from Kane at their last meal together. The grown ones, the adults, had existed on their screens as little more than ambiguous shadows.
She shook her head. Her breathing came heavier.
“This won’t work,” she said.
“Ripley,” Hoop whispered.
The others were looking at her, eyes wide.
“Not four of them,” she said. She hefted the sand pick. It was heavy, its end viciously barbed, but it felt insufficient. She swung it too slowly. Her shoulders already ached from holding it.
“We should think of something else,” she said.
“Damn it, Ripley!” Lachance said.
“Quiet!” Baxter hissed. “Welford and Powell have a headset, too!”
She knew they were right. The engineers were almost within touching distance of the dropship, and soon they’d have the last door ready to open.
They couldn’t change their minds now.
And the aliens had been in there for more than seventy days. Their only food source—the bodies of the six miners and dropship crew—had been rotting the entire time. Little food, no water. Nowhere to move and stretch. Maybe they would be tired and weak, and easy to drag away.
Maybe.
Ripley nodded to let the others know she had her fears under control. But really, she didn’t. Hoop knew that— she could see it when he looked across at her. He’s as scared as me.
Perhaps they all were.
But they were also desperate.
Welford and Powell retreated back through the airlock, ducking around the heavy netting that had been hung across the inner door. Welford nodded to Hoop.
“Okay, Lachance, airlock outer door ready to open.”
Ripley heard someone take in a sharp breath, then through the airlock she saw the docking arm’s outer door slide open into the wall. Beyond lay the Samson’s outer hatch. It was dusty, scratched, and docked perfectly central to the airlock.
“Last check,” Hoop said. “Baxter, no view or sound from inside?”
“Still nothing,” Baxter said.
“Welford, Powell, either side of the netting with the plasma torches. Remember, only blast them if you have to. Kasyanov, wait over there with the charge thumper. Ripley, you okay?”