'The Risk Always Lives'
(El Riesgo Siempre Vive)
Chapter 1Private Vasquez lay on her back in that curious state when you're mind is awake and functioning but your body is insisting on another five minutes and refusing to move. She lay on an odd white surface and, for a minute or two, couldn't register what it was. After a moment… plastic. What the hell? Plastic! Ah! Now she understood. It was all coming back to her now. Her body grudgingly agreed to move and she sat up, squinting her eyes against the glaring strip lights that grinned down from a cold, metallic ceiling. Feeling a slight tug at two points on her chest, she peered blearily downwards and noticed the small, plastic suckers attached to her dark skin trailing wires which led to a computer, showing all her vital signs as normal. Enough of that! Grumpily she tugged them off herself and brought her arm sleepily upwards to grind the heel of her hand into her eye, forcing herself into the waking world. She threw a puffy-eyed glance over to her right.
She was in the sleeping quarters of a marine space ship, The Sulaco, a huge, military spaceship that was deliberately shaped like a pulse rifle. What she was currently sitting in (feeling as though she had the worst hangover in history) was a hyper-sleep chamber. It was a small, white capsule that was big enough for one person only. The soft mattress would be comfortable were it not for its thin plastic covering which crinkled every time Vasquez shifted where she sat. Vasquez's chamber was one of many (20 or so) that ran the length of the back wall of the sleeping quarters. Out of each one was emerging one of her fellow recruits (less like butterflies. More like dragonflies, maybe.) yawning, stretching and scratching various places. Except the last one. The chamber in the corner. This one was occupied by a certain Ellen Ripley.
Ripley lay, staring blankly up at the raised lid of the hyper-sleep chamber trying to remember why it was she was back here on the Sulaco with these gun-wielding wackos. Only her eyes moved as they narrowed slightly with the effort of remembering. Sulaco, hyper-sleep, aliens. Ah! Aliens. That was why. There'd been a distress call from all the way back on Earth, crying out that there had been human fatalities caused by foul creatures never before seen or even imagined. It was said they looked roughly humanoid with the tails of crocodiles and heads shaped like cast iron penises. They'd taken hold in 3 different states and wiped out entire cities in the process. New York had sent out a plea for help which had managed, somehow, to find its way back to her. Ripley. Why God? Just fucking why! Hadn't she faced these ugly bastards enough times already not to have to come face to ugly fucking face with them for what felt like the thousandth time? But, heck, what can you do? If you have skills that are in demand that will help people and you're the sort of person who is not about to let her fellow humans suffer if you can help it, hell! Why not? She'd long since stopped caring anyway. Still, that didn't stop her grinding her teeth at the crude jokes already breaking out around her, courtesy of the male privates who'd woken up enough to start gabbing.
No sooner was private Hudson awake than he was shooting his mouth off… again!
"Hey, serge," he was saying as Sergeant Apone walked past, "How 'bout a little breakfast over here! Any bacon? How 'bout pancakes? Waffles? You know it's the most important meal of the day, right?"
Apone sighed. He'd known Hudson long enough to know how to deal with him by now. He turned to face him with a big grin on his war-hardened face.
"Sure." He said, his deep voice virtually dripping honey. He swiped a hand over a gleaming white surface, too quick for Hudson to see what he'd grabbed. "How bout a nice tasty bowl of lead?" He asked, his grin unwavering. He raised his hand level with Hudson's head. Handgun. "Served ice cold, of course." Apone finished.
"Er…" Hudson said, cross-eyed as he looked down the short barrel of the handgun, his good mood faltering. Maybe annoying the sergeant this early after hyper-sleep wasn't such a good idea after all. "How 'bout you save that breakfast for yourself, Sir? I 'aint that hungry no more." He said graciously. Despite having been on the receiving end of Apone's annoyance many times, Hudson always felt refreshed after a frank exchange of views with the sergeant. He swung his legs over the side of his hyper-sleep chamber, wincing at the sudden cold of the metal floor. He'd have complained but Apone had disappeared down the ship.
Next to Hudson, private Drake was having considerable trouble waking up. If there were a snooze option on these bloody chambers he'd choose it but when the sergeant tells you to get up, you get up. Full stop. Final. End of.
He wrenched his eyes open a fraction, glaring with utter hatred at the ceiling through blonde eyelashes and half a ton of congealed eye dust. With a groan worthy of any constipated hippo, he forced all his strength into sitting upright. His back complained loudly, having been dormant for the past three months and he, like the others around him, pulled the wires off himself. He yawned and stretched, causing more joints to crack, and pulled himself lazily out of his chamber.
Feeling considerably peppier, Vasquez sloped into the locker room, aiming a sharp slap at Drake's ass as she went. Her bare feet scuffed the floor as she walked. Once in the locker room she faced her locker, braced herself, got a firm grip on the handle and tugged with all her strength. After three tries and with the jarring scrape of metal on metal, the locker door gave way and swung open. Why did she have to get the bloody awkward locker that refused to open unless you bust a gut trying!
Not caring who saw, she peeled off her khaki tank top and threw it over her shoulder. It landed on the floor behind her in a crumpled heap and she didn't care to move it to its rightful place in the laundry basket. That was the good thing about having Bishop on board. Bishop was the android. Whilst, at the same time, having incredible intellectual capacities, he also had a kind, caring disposition and did all he could to help out the humans he travelled with (which often meant that he spent his free time clearing up after the grunts when he had nothing better to do).
"Give Bishop a break, Vasquez!" said a voice behind her. She turned in time to see Lieutenant Gorman swipe her top off the floor and toss it expertly into the laundry basket (although, "laundry cylinder" was probably a more appropriate term for it). "He saved our asses on LV4-26. The least you can do is clear up after yourself." Gorman scuffled his way to the shower room, running a hand over the stubble that covered his head.
Vasquez rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Yeah, he was Lieutenant but Gorman wasn't what you'd call "commanding". He whined rather than ordered so no-one really took much notice of him. Vasquez retrieved an identical tank top from the back of the locker and pulled it over her head. As her head emerged from the neck hole, Hudson's ugly mug popped into view, unshaven, puffy eyed and with hair that look like a twenty year old bog brush that no-one's ever bothered to rinse after usage.
"Hey Vas," Hudson started in his usual, cocky, Texan drawl "How'd ya like a contest?" He crossed his arms smugly and leant against a wall. Oh please! Vasquez was never that interested in what Hudson had to say and she still had her headache that was pounding against the inside of her skull like a captive tornado. Although, having said that, she was incredibly competitive. After a moment…
"Name it, stupido." She challenged.
"Pull-ups." Hudson said, simply. "Whoever does most wins." He raised an eyebrow and smirked, showing yellowing teeth and almost knocking Vasquez flat with a wave morning breath.
Vasquez snorted. She could beat this cocky little shit at pull-ups any day of the fucking week. She was more of a man than he was. And where, exactly, were Hudson's arm muscles supposed to be? As far as she could see, he didn't have any.
"Deal, asshole." She said and gave him an almighty slap on the shoulder. Hudson's knees gave way slightly but, otherwise, he tried not to react.
Vasquez gripped the pull-up pole and waited for Hudson to finish rubbing his shoulder. She grinned. That would hurt more later. Just as Hudson stood by her side, ready to begin their contest, Drake stepped up.
"You kids mind if I play?" He asked. He grinned at Vasquez who returned it. They both had such an evil glint in their eyes that Hudson suddenly felt he should have thought twice about this. Still, if he could beat Drake as well it would certainly be something to show off about to the other privates.
"Hey. Sure man." He said to Drake, trying to sound casual. He shifted over to the side to allow room for Drake (who elbowed him sharply in the ribs anyway). Drake cricked his neck loudly and together, the three of them started their contest.
Half a minute later (and regretting even starting this stupid contest) Hudson was on his fifteenth pull-up and beads of sweat had formed on his brow and on his top lip. Sixteen… c'mon!... Seventeen… gotta beat Vasquez!... Eighteen… He could taste the salty sweat as he licked his lips… Nineteen… Ah to hell with it! Hudson collapsed in a little pool on the floor and, after a moment of revival, pushed himself round on his ass so he could watch the conclusion of the contest that was still evidently raging between Vasquez and Drake. By now, a small crowd had formed. Some cheering Vasquez and some cheering Drake. Others were placing bets.
Both faces were pictures of determination as the battle raged on. Drake's arm muscles were roaring with pain but he wasn't about to lose to a woman. Vasquez's own face was running with sweat but she gritted her teeth and carried on.
With every pull-up his comrades did, Hudson felt that little bit smaller. They'd gone two and a half minutes straight now and showed no signs of giving up.
It was a testament to how insanely competitive both Vasquez and Drake were that they were now only carrying on out of the sheer will to beat each other. Drake was red in the face at this point and starting to groan under his breath. Vasquez, however, even though she was now drenched with sweat (and most likely going to have to change her top again), carried doggedly on, breathing heavily but with a steady rythm.
Private Spunkmire sidled up to Hudson, who was still viewing this from floor level.
"Who you betting on?" He asked. Crap! That was the last thing Hudson's ego needed. He crossed his arms round his legs grumpily and didn't answer. Spunkmire shrugged. "Drake's tough for sure but that Vasquez, man! She's one gutsy bitch. My guess is it wasn't smooth talkin' that got her into the marines. My bet's on her." No shit! Vasquez had proved to be one hell of a fighter, despite her small frame. She'd put the sergeant in mind of a pit bull and been hired on the spot. Not that she couldn't stand up for herself verbally. One of her sharp comments, punctuated with her native Spanish, could cut one of the other marines down in a second flat.
By now, Drake was coming to terms with the fact that he would have to admit defeat. He could almost hear every muscle in his upper body screaming at him. It was true. He was tough but he was no match for the diminutive Spaniard still going all-out beside him with no sign of letting up. With a small smirk he released the pole and dropped to the ground with a thud. Despite the fact he was red in the face with a vein standing out visibly near his temple he managed to stay standing upright to reserve his dignity. He saluted as the other privates jeered.
Determined to prove a point, Vasquez carried on, doing five more final pull-ups before joining Drake on the floor. Breathing heavily and very sweaty, she crossed her arms and jutted her jaw at Drake in triumph, fixing him with a dark-eyed stare. A cheer went up from the other privates (accompanied by the odd grumble from those who had lost bets and who were now being forced to pay up by their fellow recruits and a grunt of contempt from Hudson). Vasquez received many slaps on the back and handshakes for her victory.
You had to give it to her. Vasquez was a hard nut and a bit of a bitch but it's what made her such a good soldier. Save for the quiet bit of respect she had for Drake she had a heart made of stone. That's how she liked to appear, anyway.
Vasquez sauntered past, catching a swift high five from Dietrich, the only other female marine in the corps. Vasquez turned and hissed at Hudson as she passed,
"Perdedor." Hudson had known Vasquez long enough and lost to her enough times to know what that meant: "Loser".
Hudson was now in a fowl mood. It didn't take much to tip him over the edge when winning or losing was involved. He tore off his own sweat-soaked top and lobbed it at the open door of his own locker, missing by several feet. This didn't improve things and he kicked the crumpled pile of material across the locker room so that it scooted across the floor and came to rest, twisted round Corporal Hicks's ankle. Without a second's hesitation, Hicks picked up the shirt and chucked it back to Hudson. It landed on the furious soldier's head, adding insult to injury.
"Cool it Private!" Hicks snapped.
Hudson made obscene gestures at the Corporal's back as he entered the showers, finding a cheap triumph (despite the fact that Hicks was oblivious) and grinning like an idiot. So busy was he with exercising certain fingers that he didn't notice another person walk up behind him.
"Wow. That is really mature, Hudson." Hudson spun round and found himself face to face with Ellen Ripley.
"Shit! What's wrong with you? What you have to go creepin' up on me for? " He exploded. Ripley's expression barely changed as she stared calmly into Hudson's furious, scruffy face.
"I'm not the one acting like a fucking child." She said quietly. "Get your shit together, Hudson. There's a good chance you or I or both will be dead by this evening so don't give me any of your bullshit. We have a serious job to do here." Hudson sat down on a bench, his explosive mood subsiding.
"Vasquez beat me again, man! A goddamn girl!" He grumbled, talking to his knees, not having taken in a word that Ripley had said. Ripley put her hands on her hips, unable to believe what Hudson had just said.
"You just don't get it do you? This isn't like before. This isn't a couple of cockroaches in a warehouse. This is alien infestation on a massive scale. Three states have been overrun, Hudson. Three! With that wide a range, it's possible there's more than one queen this time. And these bastards work fast. By the time we get there another two states might have gone down and if they manage to spread across seas there's no telling where they'll end up. If we don't somehow beat them at their own game we could be looking at human extinction." This seemed to wake Hudson up a bit. He had family back in Austin, Texas. If the aliens reached there they could all be cocooned, impregnated and killed by those slimy fuckers. His brother was going to be twenty one in a few months. Hudson had promised to be back by then. He suddenly seemed to become twelve years old again.
"Sorry, Ripley." He mumbled, still talking in the general direction of the floor.
"Just get your head out of your ass and look at the bigger picture, Hudson." Ripley replied as she pulled a fresh top over her head. "We need as many able minded soldiers as we can get." She left Hudson alone in the locker room with that stinging emphasis and walked to the mess hall.
The mess hall was a long room that was all clinically white plastic and scrubbed steel (much like the rest of the ship really). The soldiers all sat, considerably more refreshed at a long table. Swearing, laughing and coarse slang filled the air as Ripley, having collected her breakfast, sat down at an end table between Lieutenant Gorman and the android Bishop.
Vasquez had taken her place at the table next to Drake and the sergeant. She picked up the lump of tough crap that occupied the middle of her plate and, wrinkling her nose, dropped it back. It actually made a clanging sound as it hit the flimsy disk of steel. Deciding she'd leave that for now she picked up her steel mug and took a hearty swig of the contents. She coughed in disgust.
"How's the cuisine?" Apone asked with a grin. As always he had a fat cigar sticking out one side of his mouth which filled the air with a pungent, grey haze.
"The coffee tastes like shit, man." Vasquez replied in her usual, blunt manner. Apone chuckled and slugged his own coffee too fast to register any flavour it may have. Vasquez reached out and grabbed the rock (which, she would learn later, was supposed to be corn bread) from her plate and ripped off a hunk, having to bite down hard to retrieve the quantity she wanted. Apparently this… stuff didn't like to be broken apart.
"It makes it easier if you dip it in the coffee." Spunkmire said across the table to her. He demonstrated. The soggy bread looked easy enough to bite apart now but the taste of each breakfast item on its own was bad enough without mixing them. Vasquez wrinkled her nose.
"Yeah. Thanks, man." She replied, not convinced but being polite enough about it. Spunkmire wasn't too bad a guy. She chewed moodily as she looked around at the other grunts. Hudson came to sit opposite her and chose this moment to bait Sgt. Apone again.
"Hey serge," he was saying. "How come you're always smoking those? You compensating for somethin'?"
"Only on your behalf, Hudson." Apone replied, smoothly.
"Nah, man. He'd need real big, badass cigars to compensate for that." Drake joined in. The surrounding soldiers laughed. Hudson, trying, once again, to appear light hearted laughed loudly but stabbed the corn bread with his fork so violently that his plate flipped over. Evidently he was still bitter about the pull-up contest, despite Ripley's lecture. As the plate spun on the spot, the corn bread made a bid for freedom and bounced off the table and onto the floor. With a dive, Hudson vanished to retrieve his breakfast. When he reemerged, his escapee corn bread was covered in dust and grit. He wrinkled his nose.
"Er… anyone want mine?" He asked the table as a whole. The other marines all shook their heads. Having to force down their own was bad enough.
"C'mon, Hudson. Don't be like that." The sergeant said kindly, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. Hudson smiled "Eat it." Apone added. Hudson's smile vanished "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, remember?"
"Er… right, serge. Yeah." Hudson said, uncertainly, looking at the grey lump in his hand. Brushing off the worst of the dust, he gingerly took a bite.
Vasquez reached upwards and pulled a roll-up out from a fold in her red bandana and lit it, enjoying watching the piss-taking of poor Hudson. He was just one of those guys that nobody really liked and nobody really hated. He was just fun to pick on.
On the end table, Ripley shook her head, tiredly. They'd never learn. Even after what had happened last time and they'd all almost died. They'd lost Private Frost on that awful day. And yet, even after bringing Hudson up to date with the gravity of the situation and reminding him of the horror they'd be facing, he was right back on form making cheap jokes, not being serious at all and taking the rest of the troupe with him. Ripley sighed and turned to Bishop.
"Either they've all suffered amnesia during hyper sleep or they think that, because we beat a handful of aliens once, we can do it again without breaking a sweat." She said, annoyed. "Are you sure we have to take them with us?" She added sarcastically, jerking her head back at the noisy marines. Dressed as he always was in his navy jumpsuit, Bishop passed the corn bread past Ripley to Gorman and replied,
"Trust me, I'd happily leave them here but we need everyone we can get. The military on Earth are already attempting to try and make them submit." Ripley knew that by "them" Bishop meant the aliens and ran a hand through her thick, brown hair with a slight snort.
"What are they gonna do? Shove a gun in their faces and yell "freeze"? Put them in cages and keep them as pets? That won't help them. They don't know what they're dealing with. The aliens won't submit. They're smarter than the humans and they know that and if the military aren't equipped enough to at least keep them at bay, the hundreds of fresh new hosts will only make them stronger." Bishop nodded solemnly.
"What I don't get is how they reached Earth in the first place." He said, frowning.
"There'll be a human behind it. There always is." Ripley replied. "Probably some government operation that's got out of hand. Remember Burke?" She added, remembering how Carter Burke had tried to impregnate herself and a little girl they'd rescued so he could smuggle aliens back with him.
Again, Bishop nodded. Oh yes. He remembered Burke. Deciding he'd stop this conversation for now he didn't reply. Instead he kept silent and waited for the humans to finish eating.