Aliens Read online

  'Nice room,' he said without really meaning it. He looked like a country boy, but he didn't talk like one, Ripley thought as he edged the chair a little closer to her. 'I'm Burke. Carter Burke I work for the Company, but other than that, I'm an okay guy Glad to see you're feeling better.' The last at least sounded as though he meant it.

  'Who says I'm feeling better?' She stroked Jones, who purred contentedly and continued to shed cat hair all over the sterile bed.

  'Your doctors and machines. I'm told the weakness and disorientation should pass soon, though you don't look particularly disoriented to me. Side effects of the unusually long hypersleep, or something like that. Biology wasn't my favourite subject. I was better at figures. For example, yours seems to have come through in pretty good shape.' He nodded toward the bed covers.

  'I hope I look better than I feel, because I feel like the inside of an Egyptian mummy. You said "unusually long hypersleep" How long was I out there?' She gestured toward the watching medtech. 'They won't tell me anything.'

  Burke's tone was soothing, paternal. 'Well, maybe you shouldn't worry about that just yet.'

  Ripley's hand shot from beneath the covers to grab his arm The speed of her reaction and the strength of her grip clearly surprised him. 'No. I'm conscious, and I don't need any more coddling. How long?'

  He glanced over at the medtech. She shrugged and turned away to attend to the needs of some incomprehensible tangle of lights and tubes. When he looked back at the woman lying in the bed, he found he was unable to shift his eyes away from hers.

  'All right. It's not my job to tell you, but my instincts say you're strong enough to handle it. Fifty-seven years.'

  The number hit her like a hammer. Fifty-seven too many hammers. Hit her harder than waking up, harder than her first sight of the home world. She seemed to deflate, to lose strength and colour simultaneously as she sank back into the mattress Suddenly the artificial gravity of the station seemed thrice Earth-normal, pressing her down and back. The air-filled pad on which she rested was ballooning around her, threatening to stifle and smother. The medtech glanced at her warning lights but all of them stayed silent.

  Fifty-seven years. In the more than half century she'd been dreaming in deepsleep, friends left behind had grown old and died, family had matured and faded, the world she'd left behind had metamorphosed into who knew what. Governments had risen and fallen; inventions had hit the market and been outmoded and discarded. No one had ever survived more than sixty-five years in hypersleep. Longer than that and the body begins to fail beyond the ability of the capsules to sustain life She'd barely survived; she'd pushed the limits of the physiologically possible, only to find that she'd outlived life.

  'Fifty-seven!'

  'You drifted right through the core systems,' Burke was telling her. 'Your beacon failed. It was blind luck that that deep salvage team caught you when they . . .' he hesitated. She'd suddenly turned pale, her eyes widening. 'Are you all right?'

  She coughed once, a second time harder. There was a pressure—her expression changed from one of concern to dawning horror. Burke tried to hand her a glass of water from the nightstand, only to have her slap it away. It struck the floor and shattered. Jones's fur was standing on end as the cat leapt to the floor, yowling and spitting. His claws made rapid scratching sounds on the smooth plastic as he scrambled away from the bed. Ripley grabbed at her chest, her back arching as the convulsions began. She looked as if she were strangling.

  The medtech was shouting at the omnidirectional pickup 'Code Blue to Four Fifteen! Code Blue, Four One Five!'

  She and Burke clutched Ripley's shoulders as the patient began bouncing against the mattress. They held on as a doctor and two more techs came pounding into the room.

  It couldn't be happening. It couldn't!

  'No—noooooo!'

  The techs were trying to slap restraints on her arms and legs as she thrashed wildly. Covers went flying. One foot sent a medtech sprawling while the other smashed a hole in the soulless glass eye on a monitoring unit. From beneath a cabinet Jones glared out at his mistress and hissed.

  'Hold her,' the doctor was yelling. 'Get me an airway, stat! And fifteen cc's of—!'

  An explosion of blood suddenly stained the top sheet crimson, and the linens began to pyramid as something unseen rose beneath them. Stunned, the doctor and the techs backed off. The sheet continued to rise.

  Ripley saw clearly as the sheet slid away. The medtech fainted. The doctor made gagging sounds as the eyeless toothed worm emerged from the patient's shattered rib cage. It turned slowly until its fanged mouth was only a foot from its host's face, and screeched. The sound drowned out everything human in the room, filling Ripley's ears, overloading her numbed cortex, echoing, reverberating through her entire being as she . . .

  . . . sat up screaming, her body snapping into an upright position in the bed. She was alone in the darkened hospital room. Coloured light shone from the insect-like dots of glowing LEDs. Clutching pathetically at her chest she fought to regain the breath the nightmare had stolen.

  Her body was intact: sternum, muscles, tendons, and ligaments all in place and functional. There was no demented horror ripping itself out of her torso, no obscene birth in progress. Her eyes moved jerkily in their sockets as she scanned the room. Nothing lying in ambush on the floor nothing hiding behind the cabinets waiting for her to let down her guard. Only silent machines monitoring her life and the comfortable bed maintaining it. The sweat was pouring off her even though the room was pleasantly cool. She held one fist protectively against her sternum, as if to reassure hersel constantly of its continued inviolability.

  She jumped slightly as the video monitor suspended over the bed came to life. An older woman gazed anxiously down at her Night-duty medtech. Her face was full of honest, not merely professional, concern.

  'Bad dreams again? Do you want something to help you sleep?' A robot arm whirred to life left of Ripley's arm. She regarded it with distaste.

  'No. I've slept enough.'

  'Okay. You know best. If you change your mind, just use your bed buzzer.' She switched off. The screen darkened.

  Ripley slowly leaned back against the raised upper section of mattress and touched one of the numerous buttons set in the side of her nightstand. Once more the window screen that covered the far wall slid into the ceiling. She could see out again. There was the portion of Gateway, now brilliantly lit by nighttime lights and, beyond it, the night-shrouded globe of the Earth. Wisps of cloud masked distant pinpoints of light Cities—alive with happy people blissfully ignorant of the stark reality that was an indifferent cosmos.

  Something landed on the bed next to her, but this time she didn't jump. It was a familiar, demanding shape, and she hugged it tightly to her, ignoring the casual meowrr of protest.

  'It's okay, Jones. We made it, we're safe. I'm sorry I scared you. It'll be all right now. It's going to be all right.'

  All right, yes, save that she was going to have to learn how to sleep all over again.

  Sunlight streamed through the stand of poplars. A meadow was visible beyond the trees, green stalks splattered with the brightness of bluebells, daisies, and phlox. A robin pranced near the base of one tree, searching for insects. It did not see the sinewy predator stalking it, eyes intent, muscles taut. The bird turned its back, and the stalker sprang.

  Jones slammed into the solido of the robin, neither acquiring prey nor disturbing the image, which continued its blithe quest for imaged insects. Shaking his head violently, the tomcat staggered away from the wall.

  Ripley sat on a nearby bench regarding this cat-play. 'Dumb cat. Don't you know a solido by now when you see one? Although maybe she shouldn't be too hard on the cat. Solido design had improved during the last fifty-seven years Everything had been improved during the last fifty-seven years. Except for her and Jones.

  Glass doors sealed the atrium off from the rest of Gateway Station. The expensive solido of a North American temperate forest was
set off by potted plants and sickly grass underfoot The solido looked more real than the real plants, but at least the latter had an honest smell. She leaned slightly toward one pot. Dirt and moisture and growing things. Of cabbages and kings, she mused dourly. Horsepucky. She wanted off Gateway. Earth was temptingly near, and she longed to put blue sky between herself and the malign emptiness of space.

  Two of the glass doors that sealed off the atrium parted to admit Carter Burke. For a moment she found herself regarding him as a man and not just a company cipher. Maybe that was a sign that she was returning to normal. Her appraisal of him was mitigated by the knowledge that when the Nostromo had departed on its ill-fated voyage, he was two decades short of being born. It shouldn't have made any difference. They were approximately the same physical age.

  'Sorry.' Always the cheery smile. 'I've been running behind all morning. Finally managed to get away.'

  Ripley never had been one for small talk. Now more than ever, life seemed too precious to waste on inconsequential banter. Why couldn't people just say what they had to say instead of dancing for five minutes around the subject'

  'Have they located my daughter yet?'

  Burke looked uncomfortable. 'Well, I was going to wait unti after the inquest.'

  'I've waited fifty-seven years. I'm impatient. So humour me.'

  He nodded, set down his carrying case, and popped the lid He fumbled a minute with the contents before producing several sheets of thin plastic.

  'Is she . . . ?'

  Burke spoke as he read from one of the sheets. 'Amanda Ripley-McClaren. Married name, I guess. Age sixty-six at . . time of death. That was two years ago. There's a whole history here. Nothing spectacular or notable. Details of a pleasant ordinary life. Like the kind most of us lead, I expect. I'm sorry. He passed over the sheets, studied Ripley's face as she scanned the printouts. 'Guess this is my morning for being sorry.'

  Ripley studied the holographic image imprinted on one of the sheets. It showed a rotund, slightly pale woman in her midsixties. Could have been anyone's aunt. There was nothing distinctive about the face, nothing that leapt out and shouted with familiarity. It was impossible to reconcile the picture of this older woman with the memory of the little girl she'd left behind.

  'Amy,' she whispered.

  Burke still held a couple of sheets, read quietly as she continued to stare at the hologram. 'Cancer. Hmmm. They stil haven't licked all varieties of that one. Body was cremated Interred Westlake Repository, Little Chute, Wisconsin. No children.'

  Ripley looked past him, toward the forest solido but not at it She was staring at the invisible landscape of the past.

  'I promised her I'd be home for her birthday. Her eleventh birthday. I sure missed that one.' She glanced again at the picture. 'Well, she'd already learned to take my promises with a grain of salt. When it came to flight schedules, anyway.'

  Burke nodded, trying to be sympathetic. That was difficult for him under ordinary circumstances, much more so this morning. At least he had the sense to keep his mouth shut instead of muttering the usual polite inanities.

  'You always think you can make it up to somebody—later you know.' She took a deep breath. 'But now I never can. I never can.' The tears came then, long overdue. Fifty-seven years overdue. She sat there on the bench and sobbed softly to herself, alone now in a different kind of space.

  Finally Burke patted her reassuringly on her shoulder uncomfortable at the display and trying hard not to show it 'The hearing convenes at oh-nine-thirty. You don't want to be late. It wouldn't make a good first impression.'

  She nodded, rose. 'Jones. Jonesey, c'mere.' Meowing, the cat sauntered over and allowed her to pick him up. She wiped self-consciously at her eyes. 'I've got to change. Won't take long. She rubbed her nose against the cat's back, a smal outrage it suffered in silence.

  'Want me to walk you back to your room?'

  'Sure, why not?'

  He turned and started for the proper corridor. The doors parted to permit them egress from the atrium. 'You know, that cat's something of a special privilege. They don't allow pets on Gateway.'

  'Jones isn't a pet.' She scratched the torn behind the ears 'He's a survivor.'

  As Ripley promised, she was ready in plenty of time. Burke elected to wait outside her private room, studying his own reports, until she emerged. The transformation was impressive. Gone was the pale, waxy skin; gone the bitterness of expression and the uncertain stride. Determination? he wondered as they headed for the central corridor. Or just clever makeup?

  Neither of them said anything until they neared the sub-leve where the hearing room was located. 'What are you going to tell them?' he finally asked her.

  'What's to tell that hasn't already been told? You read my deposition. It's complete and accurate. No embellishments. It didn't need any embellishments.'

  'Look, I believe you, but there are going to be some heavyweights in there, and every one of them is going to try to pick holes in your story. You got feds, you got Interstellar Commerce Commission, you got Colonial Administration insurance company guys—'

  'I get the picture.'

  'Just tell them what happened. The important thing is to stay cool and unemotional.'

  Sure, she thought. All of her friends and shipmates and relatives were dead, and she'd lost fifty-seven years of reality to an unrestoring sleep. Cool and unemotional. Sure.

  Despite her determination, by midday she was anything but cool and collected. Repetition of the same questions, the same idiotic disputations of the facts as she'd reported them, the same exhaustive examination of minor points that left the major ones untouched—all combined to render her frustrated and angry.

  As she spoke to the sombre inquisitors the large videoscreen behind her was printing out mug shots and dossiers. She was glad it was behind her, because the faces were those of the Nostromo's crew. There was Parker, grinning like a goon. And Brett, placid and bored as the camera did its duty. Kane was there, too, and Lambert. Ash the traitor, his soulless face enriched with programmed false piety. Dallas . . .

  Dallas. Better the picture behind her, like the memories.

  'Do you have earwax or what?' she finally snapped. 'We've been here three hours. How many different ways do you want me to tell the same story? You think it'll sound better in Swahili, get me a translator and we'll do it in Swahili. I'd try Japanese, but I'm out of practice. Also out of patience. How long does it take you to make up your collective mind?'

  Van Leuwen steepled his fingers and frowned. His expression was as gray as his suit. It was approximated by the looks on the faces of his fellow board members. There were eight of them on the official board of inquiry, and not a friendly one in the lot. Executives. Administrators. Adjusters How could she convince them? They weren't human beings They were expressions of bureaucratic disapproval. Phantoms She was used to dealing with reality. The intricacies of politicorporate maneuvering were beyond her.

  'This isn't as simple as you seem to believe,' he told her quietly. 'Look at it from our perspective. You freely admit to detonating the engines of, and thereby destroying, an M-Class interstellar freighter. A rather expensive piece of hardware.'

  The insurance investigator was possibly the unhappiest member of the board. 'Forty-two million in adjusted dollars That's minus payload, of course. Engine detonation wouldn't leave anything salvageable, even if we could locate the remains after fifty-seven years.'

  Van Leuwen nodded absently before continuing. 'It's not as if we think you're lying. The lifeboat shuttle's flight recorder corroborates some elements of your account. The least controversial ones. That the Nostromo set down on LV-426, an unsurveyed and previously unvisited planet, at the time and date specified. That repairs were made. That it resumed its course after a brief layover and was subsequently set for self-destruct and that this, in fact, occurred. That the order for engine overload was provided by you. For reasons unknown.'

  'Look, I told you—'

  Van Leuwen int
errupted, having heard it before. 'It did not however, contain any entries concerning the hostile alien life-form you allegedly picked up during your short stay on the planet's surface.'

  'We didn't "pick it up",' she shot back. 'Like I told you, it—'

  She broke off, staring at the hollow faces gazing stonily back at her. She was wasting her breath. This wasn't a real board of inquiry. This was a formal wake, a post-interment party. The object here wasn't to ascertain the truth in hopes of vindication it was to smooth out the rough spots and make the landscape all nice and neat again. And there wasn't a thing she could do about it, she saw now. Her fate had been decided before she'd set foot in the room. The inquiry was a show, the questions a sham. To satisfy the record.