XII
Aaron fussed with the deep-space communicator. He was checked out on the equipment — it was a requirement of his rating — but he hadn’t had occasion to make use of it since his assignment to Fiorina. Andrews had always handled things on the rare occasions when expensive near instantaneous communication between the installation and headquarters had been required. He was both pleased and relieved when the readouts cleared for use, indicating that contact with the necessary relays had been established.
Ripley hovered over him as he worked the keyboard. She offered no suggestions, for which he felt an obscure but nonetheless real gratitude. The message appeared on the main screen as he transmitted, each letter representing an impressive amount of sending power. Fortunately, with the fusion plant operating as efficiently as ever, there was no dearth of the necessary energy. As to the cost, another matter entirely, he opted to ignore that until and unless the Company should indicate otherwise.
FURY 361—CLASS C PRISON UNIT, FIORINA
REPORT DEATH OF SUPT. ANDREWS, MEDICAL
OFFICER CLEMENS, EIGHT PRISONERS. NAMES TO
FOLLOW. .
When he’d finished the list he glanced back up at her. ‘Okay, we got the first part. All nice and formal, the way the Company likes it. Now what do I say?’
‘Tell them what happened. That the alien arrived on the EEV and escaped into the complex, that it was hunting down the local population one man at a time until we devised a plan of action, and that we’ve trapped it.’
‘Right.’ He turned back to the keyboard, hesitated. ‘What do we call it? Just “the alien”?’
‘That’d probably do for the Company. They’d know what you were referring to. Technically it’s a xenomorph.?
‘Right.’ He hesitated. ‘How do you spell it?’
‘Here.’ She elbowed him aside impatiently and leaned over the keyboard. ‘With your permission?’
‘Go ahead,’ he said expansively. Impressed, he watched as her fingers flew over the keys.
HAVE TRAPPED XENOMORPH. REQUEST PERMISSION TO TERMINATE.
Aaron frowned up at her as she stood back from the board.
’That was a waste. We can’t kill it. We don’t have any weapons here, remember?’
Ripley ignored him, concentrating on the lambent screen.
‘We don’t have to tell them that.’
‘Then why ask?’ He was obviously confused, and she was in no hurry to enlighten him. Just then there were more important things on her mind.
Sure enough, letters began to appear on the readout. She smiled humourlessly. They weren’t wasting any time replying, no doubt for fear that in the absence of a ready response she might simply proceed.
TO FURY 361—CLASS C PRISON UNIT
FROM NETWORK COMCON WEYLAND-YUTANI
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Aaron leaned back in the chair and rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘See? That’s all they ever tell us. Treat us like shit, like we’re not worth the expense of sending a few extra words.’
‘Wait,’ she told him.
He blinked. Subsequent to the expected official acknowledgment, letters continued to appear on the screen.
RESCUE UNIT TO ARRIVE YOUR ORBIT 1200
HOURS. STAND BY TO RECEIVE.
PERMISSION DENIED TO TERMINATE XENOMORPH.
AVOID CONTACT UNTIL RESCUE TEAM ARRIVES.
REPEAT IMPERATIVE — PERMISSION DENIED.
There was more, in the same vein, but Ripley had seen enough. ‘Shit.’ She turned away, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I knew it.’
Aaron’s gaze narrowed as he tried to divide his attention between Ripley and the screen. ‘What do you mean, you knew it? It doesn’t mean anything. They know we don’t have any weapons.’
‘Then why the “imperative”? Why the anxious insistence that we don’t do something they must realize we’re not capable of doing?’
He shrugged uncomprehendingly. ‘I guess they don’t want to take any chances.’
‘That’s right,’ she murmured tightly. ‘They don’t want to take any chances.’
‘Hey,’ he said, suddenly alarmed, ‘you’re not thinking of countermanding Company policy, are you?’
Now she did smile. ‘Who me? Perish the thought.’
The vestibule outside the toxic storage chamber was dimly illuminated, but he inadequate light did not trouble the three prisoners on duty. There was nothing in the shafts and tunnels that could harm them, and no noise from within. The three dents stood out clearly in the heavy door. They had not been expanded, nor had they been joined by a fourth.
One man leaned casually against the wall, cleaning the dirt from under his nails with a thin sliver of plastic. His companion sat on the hard, cold floor, conversing softly.
‘And I say the thing’s gotta be dead by now.’ The speaker had sandy hair flecked with grey at the temples and a large, curving nose that in another age and time would have given him the aspect of a Lebanese merchant.
‘How you figure that?’ the other man asked.
‘You heard the boss. Nothin’ can get in or out of that box.’
He jerked a thumb in the direction of the storage chamber.
‘Not even gases.’
‘Yeah. So?’
The first man tapped the side of his head with a finger.
‘Think, stupid. If gas can’t get out, that means air can’t get in.
That sucker’s been in there long enough already to use up all the air twice over.’
The other glanced at the dented door. ‘Well, maybe.’
‘What d’you mean, maybe? It’s big. That means it uses a lot of air. A lot more than a human.’
‘We don’t know that.’ His companion wore the sombre air of the unconvinced. ‘It ain’t human. Maybe it uses less air. Or maybe it can hibernate or something’
‘Maybe you oughta go in and check on how it’s doin’.’ The nail-cleaner looked up from his work with a bored expression.
‘Hey, did you hear something?’
The other man suddenly looked to his right, into the dim light of the main tunnel.
‘What’s the matter?’ His companion was grinning. ‘The boogeyman out there?’
‘No, dammit, I heard something.’ Footsteps then, clear and coming closer.
‘Shit.’ The nail-cleaner moved away from the wall, staring.
A figure moved into view, hands clasped behind its back. The two men relaxed. There was some uneasy laughter.
‘Dammit, Golic.’ The man resumed his seat on the floor.
‘You might’ve let us know it was you. Whistled or something.’
‘Yeah,’ said his companion. He waved at the chamber. ‘I don’t think it can whistle.’
‘I’ll remember,’ the big man told them. His expression was distant and he swayed slightly from side to side.
‘Hey, you okay, man? You look weird,’ said the nail-cleaner.
His companion chuckled. ‘He always looks weird.’
‘It’s okay,’ Golic muttered. ‘Let’s go. Off and on. I gotta get in there.’ He nodded toward the chamber.
The two men on the floor exchanged a puzzled glance, one carefully slipping his nail cleaner into a pocket.
