Aliens: The Aftermath

ONE

The large ship glided with shark-like silence through space, its momentum carrying it forward, with only periodic bursts of of its engines to keep it on course. At 385 meters in length and 78,000 metric tons, the Conestoga-class star ship was long and resembled a weapon, with multiple projections thrusting forward from its bow, indicative of its military nature. Battered and heavily modified, its lines were awkward and its engines oversize. No graceful lines for aesthetics; every shape and protrusion served a purpose without regard for appearance. On the side of the vessel, almost as an afterthought, as if a name was inconsequential for such a utilitarian piece of equipment, was the word SULACO.

Inside, the ship was silent. The mess hall, consisting of spartan aluminum tables and benches, framed by aircraft-grade lockers and food dispensing machines, was deserted. The corridors were empty, dark and devoid of the atmosphere required to sustain its crew. Nothing moved in the primary cargo bay, the largest open area on the ship. The dark metal deck had several large areas lower than the deck itself, airlock doors that opened into space for cargo loading. Metal chains hung motionless from the ceiling. The large drop ship was perched securely from its cradle like a giant, malignant steel insect, waiting for its next mission. Dormant cargo loaders, looking like prehistoric robots frozen in time, stood mid-pose where they had been left. A motorized cart with an enormous missile strapped to its top was secured nearby. The lights were dim, giving the bay a cave-like appearance.

In the med-bay, a long row of angled cylindrical canisters were lined up like high-tech coffins. Lights glowed on the covered control panels of only three of them; the others were unoccupied. Insulated umbilical cables hung from the ceiling, connected to the canisters, which emitted thin mists of vapor while its inhabitants slept in deep stasis.

The seats in front of the control stations on the flight deck near the top of the ship were empty; the large bridge area consisted of both upper and lower control panels, giving it a slightly claustrophobic atmosphere, and a central navigation/display table, all of which looked out over large viewports that offered a sweeping view ahead of the ship. In the darkened bridge, the only illumination came from a small scattering of indicator lights as the ship operated automatically, the black display screens unneeded until the crew was revived. Atop one of the forward control consoles was a Hawaiian hula dancer Kewpie doll, frozen in mid-sway, with no movement to spur her hip swinging.

Two of the dark screens suddenly blinked to life, displaying cascading columns of numbers, the speakers emitting garbled electronic noises to the empty flight deck. Another screen flickered to light with a stellar map display. Slowly, almost reluctantly, screens began to come alive and indicator lights began to glow, illuminating the bridge with an almost festive aura.

In the empty hallways, lights sputtered into brightness, and deep within the ship, environmental controls awakened, beginning to bring the interior into the correct temperature for its inhabitants. Air pressure, temperature and oxygen slowly reached the required levels.

Lights came on in the med-bay, illuminating the canisters. Two of the canisters opened, the two semi-cylindrical doors opening in opposite directions like a clam shell to reveal the occupants. One occupant was a small blond girl, one adult female.

The adult female, Ripley, wearing a white tank top t-shirt and white underwear, slowly stirred as her body temperature regained its normal levels. Eyes blinked, as if from a particularly deep, but not altogether rejuvenating sleep. Slowly she sat up, looking around her, bewildered for a moment as to where she was. Almost absentmindedly, she pulled away the electrodes and attachments on her body that had regulated her breathing, temperature and brain functions.