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  ALIENS

  Novelization by Alan Dean Foster based on the screenplay by James Cameron

  A Warner Book

  Alien first published in Great Britain in 1979 by Futura Publication

  TM & © 1979 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  Aliens first published in 1986 by Futura Publications TM & © 1986 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  Alien first published in Great Britain in 1992 by Warner Books,

  by arrangement with Warner Books, Inc, New York

  TM & © 1992 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  This omnibus edition published by Warner Books 1993

  by arrangement with Warner Books, Inc, New York

  Reprinted 1993, 1994 (twice), 1995, 1996

  TM & © 1993 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any

  form or by any means, without the prior

  permission in writing of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or

  cover other than that in which it is published

  and without a similar condition including this

  condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN 0 7515 0667 2

  Photoset in North Wales by

  Derek Doyle & Associates, Mold, Clwyd Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  Warner Books

  A Division of

  Little, Brown and Company (UK)

  Brettensham House

  Lancaster Place

  London WC2E 7EN

  ebook by tardismatrix

  For H. R. Giger,

  Master of the sinister airbrush.

  Who reveals more about us than we wish to know.

  From ADF and points west

  I

  Two dreamers.

  Not so very much difference between them despite the more obvious distinctions. One was of modest size, the other larger One was female, the other male. The mouth of the first contained a mixture of sharp and flat teeth, a clear indication that it was omnivorous, while the maxillary cutlery of the other was intended solely for slicing and penetrating. Both were the scions of a race of killers. This was a genetic tendency the first dreamer's kind had learned to moderate. The other dreamer remained wholly feral.

  More differences were apparent in their dreams than in their appearance. The first dreamer slept uneasily, memories of unmentionable terrors recently experienced oozing up from the depths of her subconscious to disrupt the normally placid stasis of hypersleep. She would have tossed and turned dangerously if not for the capsule that contained and restrained her movements—that and the fact that in deep sleep, muscular activity is reduced to a minimum. So she tossed and turned mentally. She was not aware of this. During hypersleep one is aware of nothing.

  Every so often, though, a dark and vile memory would rise to the fore, like sewage seeping up beneath a city street Temporarily it would overwhelm her rest. Then she would moan within the capsule. Her heartbeat would increase. The computer that watched over her like an electronic angel would note the accelerated activity and respond by lowering her body temperature another degree while increasing the flow of stabilizing drugs to her system. The moaning would stop. The dreamer would quiet and sink back into her cushions. It would take time for the nightmare to return.

  Next to her the small killer would react to these isolated episodes by twitching as if in response to the larger sleeper's distress. Then it, too, would relax again, dreaming of small warm bodies and the flow of hot blood, of the comfort to be found in the company of its own kind, and the assurance that this would come again. Somehow it knew that both dreamers would awaken together or not at all.

  The last possibility did not unsettle its rest. It was possessed of more patience than its companion in hypersleep, and a more realistic perception of its position in the cosmos. It was content to sleep and wait, knowing that if and when consciousness returned, it would be ready to stalk and kill again. Meanwhile it rested.

  Time passes. Horror does not.

  In the infinity that is space, suns are but grains of sand. A white dwarf is barely worthy of notice. A small spacecraft like the lifeboat of the vanished vessel Nostromo is almost too tiny to exist in such emptiness. It drifted through the great nothing like a freed electron broken loose from its atomic orbit.

  Yet even a freed electron can attract attention, if others equipped with appropriate detection instruments happen to chance across it. So it was that the lifeboat's course took it close by a familiar star. Even so, it was a stroke of luck that it was not permanently overlooked. It passed very near another ship; in space, 'very near' being anything less than a light-year. It appeared on the fringe of a range spanner's screen.

  Some who saw the blip argued for ignoring it. It was too small to be a ship, they insisted. It didn't belong where it was And ships talked back. This one was as quiet as the dead. More likely it was only an errant asteroid, a renegade chunk of nickel-iron off to see the universe. If it was a ship, at the very least it would have been blaring to anything within hearing range with an emergency beacon.

  But the captain of the ranging vessel was a curious fellow. A minor deviation in their course would give them a chance to check out the silent wanderer, and a little clever bookkeeping would be sufficient to justify the detour's cost to the owners Orders were given, and computers worked to adjust trajectory The captain's judgment was confirmed when they drew alongside the stranger: it was a ship's lifeboat.

  Still no sign of life, no response to polite inquiries. Even the running lights were out. But the ship was not completely dead Like a body in frigid weather, the craft had withdrawn power from its extremities to protect something vital deep within.

  The captain selected three men to board the drifter. Gently as an eagle mating with a lost feather, the larger craft sidled close to the Narcissus. Metal kissed metal. Grapples were applied. The sounds of the locking procedure echoed through both vessels.

  Wearing full pressure suits, the three boarders entered their airlock. They carried portable lights and other equipment. Air being too precious to abandon to vacuum, they waited patiently while the oxygen was inhaled by their ship. Then the outer-lock door slid aside.

  Their first sight of the lifeboat was disappointing: no internal lights visible through the port in the door, no sign of life within. The door refused to respond when the externa controls were pressed. It had been jammed shut from inside After the men made sure there was no air in the lifeboat's cabin, a robot welder was put to work on the door. Twin torches flared brightly in the darkness, slicing into the door from two sides. The flames met at the bottom of the barrier Two men braced the third, who kicked the metal aside. The way was open.

  The lifeboat's interior was as dark and still as a tomb. A section of portable grappling cable snaked along the floor. Its torn and frayed tip ended near the exterior door. Up close to the cockpit a faint light was visible. The men moved toward it.

  The familiar dome of a hypersleep capsule glowed from within. The intruders exchanged a glance before approaching Two of them leaned over the thick glass cover of the transparent sarcophagus. Behind them, their companion was studying his instrumentation and muttered aloud.

  'Internal pressure positive. Assuming nominal hull and systems integrity. Nothing appears busted; just shut down to conserve energy. Capsule pressure steady. There's power feeding through, though I bet the batteries have about had it Look
how dim the internal readouts are. Ever see a hypersleep capsule like this one?'

  'Late twenties.' The speaker leaned over the glass and murmured into his suit pickup. 'Good-lookin' dame.'

  'Good-lookin', my eye.' His companion sounded disappointed. 'Life function diodes are all green. That means she's alive There goes our salvage profit, guys.'

  The other inspector gestured in surprise. 'Hey, there's something in there with her. Nonhuman. Looks like it's alive too. Can't see too clearly. Part of it's under her hair. It's orangish.'

  'Orange?' The leader of the trio pushed past both of them and rested the faceplate of his helmet against the transparent barrier. 'Got claws, whatever it is.'

  'Hey.' One of the men nudged his companion. 'Maybe it's an alien life-form, huh? That'd be worth some bucks.'

  Ripley chose that moment to move ever so slightly. A few strands of hair drifted down the pillow beneath her head, more fully revealing the creature that slept tight against her. The leader of the boarders straightened and shook his head disgustedly.

  'No such luck. It's just a cat.'

  Listening was a struggle. Sight was out of the question. Her throat was a seam of anthracite inside the lighter pumice of her skull; black, dry, and with a faintly resinous taste. Her tongue moved loosely over territory long forgotten. She tried to remember what speech was like. Her lips parted. Air came rushing up from her lungs, and those long-dormant bellows ached with the exertion. The result of this strenuous interplay between lips, tongue, palate, and lungs was a small triumph of one word. It drifted through the room.

  'Thirsty.'

  Something smooth and cool slid between her lips. The shock of dampness almost overwhelmed her. Memory nearly caused her to reject the water tube. In another time and place that kind of insertion was a prelude to a particularly unique and loathsome demise. Only water flowed from this tube, however It was accompanied by a calm voice intoning advice.

  'Don't swallow. Sip slowly.'

  She obeyed, though a part of her mind screamed at her to suck the restoring liquid as fast as possible. Oddly enough, she did not feel dehydrated, only terribly thirsty.

  'Good,' she whispered huskily. 'Got anything more substantial?'

  'It's too soon,' said the voice.

  'The heck it is. How about some fruit juice?'

  'Citric acid will tear you up.' The voice hesitated considering, then said, 'Try this.'

  Once again the gleaming metal tube slipped smoothly into her mouth. She sucked at it pleasurably. Sugared iced tea cascaded down her throat, soothing both thirst and her first cravings for food. When she'd had enough, she said so, and the tube was withdrawn. A new sound assailed her ears: the trill of some exotic bird.

  She could hear and taste; now it was time to see. Her eyes opened to a view of pristine rain forest. Trees lifted bushy green crowns heavenward. Bright iridescent winged creatures buzzed as they flitted from branch to branch. Birds trailed long tail feathers like jet contrails behind them as they dipped and soared in pursuit of the insects. A quetzal peered out at her from its home in the trunk of a climbing fig.

  Orchids bloomed mightily, and beetles scurried among leaves and fallen branches like ambulatory jewels. An agouti appeared, saw her, and bolted back into the undergrowth From the stately hardwood off to the left, a howler monkey dangled, crooning softly to its infant.

  The sensory overload was too much. She closed her eyes against the chattering profusion of life.

  Later (another hour? another day?) a crack appeared in the middle of the big tree's buttressing roots. The split widened to obliterate the torso of a gamboling marmoset. A woman emerged from the gap and closed it behind her, sealing the temporary bloodless wound in tree and animal. She touched a hidden wall switch, and the rain forest went away.

  It was very good for a solido, but now that it had been shut off, Ripley could see the complex medical equipment the rain forest imagery had camouflaged. To her immediate left was the medved that had responded so considerately to her request for first water and then cold tea. The machine hung motionless and ready from the wall, aware of everything that was happening inside her body, ready to adjust medication provide food and drink, or summon human help should the need arise.

  The newcomer smiled at the patient and used a remote control attached to her breast pocket to raise the backrest of Ripley's bed. The patch on her shirt, which identified her as a senior medical technician, was bright with colour against the background of white uniform. Ripley eyed her warily, unable to tell if the woman's smile was genuine or routine. Her voice was pleasant and maternal without being cloying.

  'Sedation's wearing off. I don't think you need any more Can you understand me?' Ripley nodded. The medtech considered her patient's appearance and reached a decision 'Let's try something new. Why don't I open the window?'

  'I give up. Why don't you?'

  The smile weakened at the corners, was promptly recharged Professional and practiced, then; not heartfelt. And why should it be? The medtech didn't know Ripley, and Ripley didn't know her. So what. The woman pointed her remote toward the wall across from the foot of the bed.

  'Watch your eyes.'

  Now there's a choice non sequitur for you, Ripley thought Nevertheless, she squinted against the implied glare.

  A motor hummed softly, and the motorized wall plate slid into the ceiling. Harsh light filled the room. Though filtered and softened, it was still a shock to Ripley's tired system.

  Outside the port lay a vast sweep of nothingness. Beyond the nothingness was everything. A few of Gateway Station's modular habitats formed a loop off to the left, the plastic cells strung together like children's blocks. A couple of communications antennae peeped into the view from below. Dominating the scene was the bright curve of the Earth. Africa was a brown, white-streaked smear swimming in an ocean blue, the Mediterranean a sapphire tiara crowning the Sahara.

  Ripley had seen it all before, in school and then in person. She was not particularly thrilled by the view so much as she was just glad it was still there. Events of recent memory suggested it might not be, that nightmare was reality and this soft, inviting globe only mocking illusion. It was comforting, familiar, reassuring, like a worn-down teddy bear. The scene was completed by the bleak orb of the moon drifting in the background like a vagrant exclamation point: planetary system as security blanket.

  'And how are we today?' She grew aware that the medtech was talking to her instead of at her.

  'Terrible.' Someone or two had told her once upon a time that she had a lovely and unique voice. Eventually she should get it back. For the moment no part of her body was functioning at optimum efficiency. She wondered if it ever would again because she was very different from the person she'd been before. That Ripley had set out on a routine cargo run in a now vanished spacecraft. A different Ripley had returned, and lay in the hospital bed regarding her nurse.

  'Just terrible?' You had to admire the medtech, she mused. A woman not easily discouraged. 'That's better than yesterday, at least. I'd call "terrible" a quantum jump up from atrocious.'

  Ripley squeezed her eyelids shut, opened them slowly. The Earth was still there. Time, which heretofore she hadn't given a hoot about, suddenly acquired new importance.

  'How long have I been on Gateway Station?'

  'Just a couple of days.' Still smiling.

  'Feels longer.'

  The medtech turned her face away, and Ripley wondered whether she found the terse observation boring or disturbing 'Do you feel up to a visitor?'

  'Do I have a choice?'

  'Of course you have a choice. You're the patient. After the doctors you know best. You want to be left alone, you get left alone.'

  Ripley shrugged, mildly surprised to discover that her shoulder muscles were up to the gesture. 'I've been alone long enough. Whattheheck. Who is it?'

  The medtech walked to the door. 'There are two of them actually.' Ripley could see that she was smiling again.

  A man ente
red, carrying something. Ripley didn't know him but she knew his fat, orange, bored-looking burden.

  'Jones!' She sat up straight, not needing the bed support now. The man gratefully relinquished possession of the big tomcat. Ripley cuddled it to her. 'Come here, Jonesey, you ugly old moose, you sweet ball of fluff, you!'

  The cat patiently endured this embarrassing display, so typical of humans, with all the dignity his kind was heir too. In so doing, Jones displayed the usual tolerance felines have for human beings. Any extraterrestrial observer privy to the byplay would not have doubted for an instant which of the two creatures on the bed was the superior intelligence.

  The man who'd brought the good orange news with him pulled a chair close to the bed and patiently waited for Ripley to take notice of him. He was in his thirties, good-looking without being flashy, and dressed in a nondescript business suit. His smile was no more or less real than the medtech's even though it had been practiced longer. Ripley eventually acknowledged his presence with a nod but continued to reserve her conversation for the cat. It occurred to her visitor that if he was going to be taken for anything more than a delivery man, it was up to him to make the first move.