The Marion was in her death-throes. The ship’s vibrations were now so violent that Hoop’s heels and ankles hurt each time the deck jerked beneath him. He moved quickly through the airlock, plasma torch held at ready in case that last alien had survived, and in case it was coming for him still.
Two minutes. He just had to live that long, in order to release Ripley’s shuttle. He hoped to survive for longer— and a plan was forming, a crazy idea that probably had a bad ending—but two minutes was the minimum. After that, after Ripley would be safe, things would matter less.
He reached the vestibule and closed the airlock behind him, sealing it and leaning to one side to look at the Narcissus through one of the viewing windows. All he had to do now was to hit the airlock seal confirmation, and the ship’s computer would know it was safe to go.
His hand hovered over the pad. Then he pressed it down.
Almost instantaneously a brief retro burst pushed the Narcissus away from the Marion, and the two parted company. More retro exhalations dropped the shuttle down beneath the ship’s belly. It fell through veils of smoke and sheets of blazing air, buffeted by the planet’s atmosphere, before its rockets ignited and it vanished quickly toward the stern.
And that was it. Ripley and the Narcissus were gone. Hoop was left alone on the Marion, and he knew the ship he’d called home was moments away from dying.
For a while he just leaned there against the wall, feeling each death-rattle transmitted into his body up through the floor and wall. He thought about his plan, and how foolish it was, how almost beyond comprehension. And he thought about the easier way out. He could just sit there for a while, and when the time came and the ship started to come apart, his death would be quick. The heat would be immense, and it would fry him to a crisp. He probably wouldn’t even feel it. And if he did feel it, it would be more sensation than pain.
The end of all his agonies.
But then he saw his children again. Between blinks they were actually there with him in that vestibule, the two boys silent but staring at him accusingly, their eyes saying, You left us once, don’t leave us again! He sobbed. In that instant he could understand why Ripley had asked for that merciful wiping of her memory.
Then his children were gone again, figments of his guilt, aspects of his own bad memories. But they didn’t have to be gone forever. Where there existed even the slightest, most insignificant chance, he had to take it.
The Samson wasn’t very far away.
He paused briefly outside the door that led into the Samson’s docking arm. It was still vacuum in there, and he wouldn’t have time to find the tools to drill a hole again. This escape would be more basic, more brutal than that.
He wanted to give himself a chance. He needed supplies, even though the probability of surviving was insignificant. It was a dropship, built for surface-to-orbit transfers, not deep space travel. There likely was enough fuel on board for him to escape orbit, but he wasn’t even certain whether the craft’s navigational computer could calculate a journey across the cosmos toward home. He would point them in the right direction, then fire the thrusters. Retain perhaps twenty percent of the fuel, but use the rest to get him up to the greatest speed possible.
And there was no stasis unit in the Samson. He’d likely be traveling for years. He might even grow old and die in there, if the ship held together that long. What a find that would be, he mused, for someone hundreds or thousands of years from now.
Bad enough to consider traveling that long with company, but on his own? The one comfort was that he was again king of his own destiny. If he wanted to persist, then he could. And if the time came when ending it was a much more settling proposition, it was simply a case of opening the airlock door.
Best get moving then.
But he needed food, water, clothing, and other supplies. Much of what he required still sat on that trolley, up in the Marion and just beyond the large docking deck. So he ran. He thought of the feast he’d promised himself, and that kept him going, the idea of reconstituted steak and dried vegetables, with flatcakes for dessert. A glass of water. Maybe he’d even be able to access the electronic library they used on board the Marion, if it had been updated to the Samson’s computers. He wasn’t sure about that, it hadn’t been a priority, and such minor considerations had usually been passed down to Powell and Welford.
He hoped they hadn’t shirked their responsibilities.
With the prospect of a lonely eternity ahead, Hoop was surprised to find that he was shedding tears as he ran. They weren’t for him, because he was way past that. They were for his kids. They were for his crew and everyone he’d seen die horrible, unnatural deaths. And they were for Ripley.
It was as if the Marion knew that he was abandoning her. She was shaking herself apart. Conduits had broken beneath the constant assault, and clouds of sparks danced back and forth outside a closed doorway. He ducked beneath the bare wires, moving quickly, too rushed to be overly cautious. As he neared the stairs leading up from the docking level, bursts of steam powered up from fractured channels in the flooring, scorching his skin and lungs and soaking his suit, running in bright red rivulets where other people’s blood had dried onto the strong material.
At the top of the stairs was a short corridor, and that emerged onto the wide area where elevator and stairs led up into the Marion. This was where he’d left the trolley of supplies.
It was still there. It had shifted a little, because he’d forgotten to lock its wheels. But there were packets of dried foods, a few sachets of dried fruit from their damaged garden pod, and a precious bottle of whiskey. Perhaps in an hour he would be drinking to Ripley’s health.
Knowing what had to come next, he knew that he couldn’t take everything. So he grabbed two of the bags he’d brought along from the trolley, opened them and tried to cram in as much as he could. He rushed. He didn’t think about what he chose, just scooped packets and sachets and rammed them in.
With both bags full and tied shut, he slung one over each shoulder and turned to run back to the Samson.
Then he stopped. He turned back to the trolley and plucked up the bottle of bourbon nestling on the bottom shelf. Heavy, impractical…
But entirely necessary.
As he ran, he found himself laughing.
Die now or die later, Hoop thought. It gave him a sort of bravery, he hoped. Or carelessness. Perhaps sometimes the two were the same.
He suited up and waited outside the doorway that led into Bay Three. He wore a bag over each shoulder, and clasped in his left hand was the bourbon. He’d tethered himself to the wall opposite the doors, and as soon as they were fully open he’d unclip and let himself sail through, carried by the torrent of atmosphere being sucked from the ship. With luck he would drift right through the vestibule and into the open airlock beyond. If he was unlucky, he’d be dragged with the main flow of air, out through the smashed portion of outer wall and window, and smeared along the underside of the doomed ship.
He probably wouldn’t feel much. The end would be quick.
But if he did make it across to the airlock, he’d haul himself into the Samson, close the hatches, and initiate its environmental controls. It wouldn’t be long before he could breathe once more.