Alien

  ALIEN

  by

  Alan Dean Foster

  Screenplay by Dan O'Bannon

  Story by Dan O'Bannon and

  Ronald Shusett

  A Warner Book

  Alien first published in Great Britain in 1979 by Futura Publication

  TM & © 1979 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  Aliens first published in 1986 by Futura Publications TM & © 1986 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  Alien first published in Great Britain in 1992 by Warner Books,

  by arrangement with Warner Books, Inc, New York

  TM & © 1992 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  This omnibus edition published by Warner Books 1993

  by arrangement with Warner Books, Inc, New York

  Reprinted 1993, 1994 (twice), 1995, 1996

  TM & © 1993 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any

  form or by any means, without the prior

  permission in writing of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or

  cover other than that in which it is published

  and without a similar condition including this

  condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN 0 7515 0667 2

  Photoset in North Wales by

  Derek Doyle & Associates, Mold, Clwyd Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  Warner Books

  A Division of

  Little, Brown and Company (UK)

  Brettensham House

  Lancaster Place

  London WC2E 7EN

  ebook by tardismatrix

  For Jim McQuade

  A good friend and fellow explorer

  of extreme possibilities . . .

  I

  Seven dreamers.

  You must understand that they were not professional dreamers. Professional dreamers are highly paid, respected, much sought-after talents. Like the majority of us, these seven dreamt without effort or discipline. Dreaming professionally, so that one's dreams can be recorded and played back for the entertainment of others, is a much more demanding proposition. It requires the ability to regulate semiconscious creative impulses and to stratify imagination, an extraordinarily, difficult combination to achieve. A professional dreamer is simultaneously the most organized of all artists and the most spontaneous. A subtle weaver of speculation, not straightforward and clumsy like you or I. Or these certain seven sleepers.

  Of them all, Ripley came closest to possessing that special potential. She had a little ingrained dream talent and more flexibility of imagination than her companions. But she lacked real inspiration and the powerful maturity of thought characteristic of the prodreamer.

  She was very good at organizing stores and cargo, at pigeonholing carton A in storage chamber B or matching up manifests. It was in the warehouse of the mind that her filing system went awry. Hopes and fears, speculations and half creations slipped haphazardly from compartment to compartment.

  Warrant officer Ripley needed more self-control. The raw, rococo thoughts lay waiting to be tapped, just below the surface of realization. A little more effort, a greater intensity of self-recognition and she would have made a pretty good prodreamer. Or so she occasionally thought.

  Captain Dallas now, he appeared lazy while being the best organized of all. Nor was he lacking in imagination. His beard was proof of that. Nobody took a beard into the freezers. Nobody except Dallas. It was a part of his personality, he'd explained to more than one curious shipmate. He'd no more part with the antique facial fuzz than he would with any other part of his anatomy. Captain of two ships Dallas was: the interstellar tug Nostromo, and his body. Both would remain intact in dreaming as well as when awake.

  So he had the regulatory capability, and a modicum of imagination. But a professional dreamer requires a deal more than a modicum of the last, and that's a deficiency that can't be compensated for by a disproportionate quantity of the first. Dallas was no more realistic prodreamer material than Ripley.

  Kane was less controlled in thought and action than was Dallas, and possessed far less imagination. He was a good executive officer. Never would he be a captain. That requires a certain drive coupled with the ability to command others, neither of which Kane had been blessed with. His dreams were translucent, formless shadows compared to those of Dallas, just as Kane was a thinner, less vibrant echo of the captain. That did not make him less likable. But prodreaming requires a certain extra energy, and Kane had barely enough for day-to-day living.

  Parker's dreams were not offensive, but they were less pastoral than Kane's. There was little imagination in them at all. They were too specialized, and dealt only rarely with human things. One could expect nothing else from a ship's engineer.

  Direct they were, and occasionally ugly. In wakefulness this deeply buried offal rarely showed itself, when the engineer became irritated or angry. Most of the ooze and contempt fermenting at the bottom of his soul's cistern were kept well hidden. His shipmates never saw beyond the distilled Parker floating on top, never had a glimpse of what was bubbling and brewing deep inside.

  Lambert was more the inspiration of dreamers than dreamer herself. In hypersleep her restless musings were filled with intersystem plottings and load factors canceled out by fuel considerations. Occasionally imagination entered into such dream structures, but never in a fashion fit to stir the blood of others.

  Parker and Brett often imagined their own systems interplotting with hers. They considered the question of load factors and spatial juxtapositions in a manner that would have infuriated Lambert had she been aware of them. Such unauthorized musings they kept to themselves, securely locked in daydreams and nightdreams, lest they make her mad. It would not do to upset Lambert. As the Nostromo's navigator she was the one primarily responsible for seeing them safely home, and that was the most exciting and desirable cojoining any man could imagine.

  Brett was only listed as an engineering technician. That was a fancy way of saying he was just as smart and knowledgeable as Parker but lacked seniority. The two men formed an odd pair, unequal and utterly different to outsiders. Yet they coexisted and functioned together smoothly. In large part their success as both friends and coworkers was due to Brett never intruding on Parker's mental ground. The tech was as solemn and phlegmatic in outlook and speech as Parker was voluble and volatile. Parker could rant for hours over the failure of a microchip circuit, damning its ancestry back to the soil from which its rare earth constituents were first mined. Brett would patiently comment, 'right.'

  For Brett, that single word was much more than a mere statement of opinion. It was an affirmation of self. For him, silence was the cleanest form of communication. In loquaciousness lay insanity.

  And then there was Ash. Ash was the science officer, but that wasn't what made his dreams so funny. Funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha. His dreams were the most professionally organized of all the crew's. Of them all, his came nearest to matching his awakened self. Ash's dreams held absolutely no delusions.

  That wasn't surprising if you really knew Ash. None of his six crewmates did, though. Ash knew himself well. If asked, he could have told you why he could never become a prodreamer. None ever thought to ask, despite the fact that the science officer clearly found pro dreaming more fascinating than any of them.

  Oh, and there was the cat. Name of Jones. A very ordinary housecat, or, in this insta
nce, shipcat. Jones was a large yellow tom of uncertain parentage and independent mien, long accustomed to the vagaries of ship travel and the idiosyncrasies of humans who travelled through space. It too slept the cold sleep, and dreamt simple dreams of warm, dark places and gravity-bound mice.

  Of all the dreamers on board he was the only contented one, though he could not be called an innocent.

  It was a shame none of them were qualified as pro dreamers, since each had more time to dream in the course of their work than any dozen professionals, despite the slowing of their dream pace by the cold sleep. Necessity made dreaming their principal avocation. A deep-space crew can't do anything in the freezers but sleep and dream. They might remain forever amateurs, but they had long ago become very competent ones.

  Seven of them there were. Seven quiet dreamers in search of a nightmare.

  While it possessed a consciousness of a sort, the Nostromo did not dream. It did not need to, anymore than it needed the preserving effect of the freezers. If it did dream, such musings must have been brief and fleeting, since it never slept. It worked, and maintained, and made certain its hibernating human complement stayed always a step ahead of ever ready death, which followed the cold sleep like a vast grey shark behind a ship at sea.

  Evidence of the Nostromo's unceasing mechanical vigilance was everywhere on the quiet ship, in soft hums and lights that formed the breath of instrumental sentience. It permeated the very fabric of the vessel, extended sensors to check every circuit and strut. It had sensors outside too, monitoring the pulse of the cosmos. Those sensors had fastened onto an electromagnetic anomaly.

  One portion of the Nostromo's brain was particularly adept at distilling sense out of anomalies. It had thoroughly chewed this one up, found the flavor puzzling, examined the results of analysis, and reached a decision. Slumbering instrumentalities were activated, dormant circuits again regulated the flow of electrons. In celebration of this decision, banks of brilliant lights winked on, life signs of stirring mechanical breath.

  A distinctive beeping sounded, though as yet there were only artificial tympanums present to hear and acknowledge. It was a sound not heard on the Nostromo for some time, and it signified an infrequent happening.

  Within this awakening bottle of clicks and flashes, of devices conversing with each other, lay a special room. Within this room of white metal lay seven cocoons of snow-coloured metal and plastic.

  A new noise filled this chamber, an explosive exhalation that filled it with freshly scrubbed, breathable atmosphere. Mankind had willingly placed himself in this position, trusting in little tin gods like the Nostromo to provide him with the breath of life when he could not do so for himself.

  Extensions of that half-sentient electronic being now tested the newly exuded air and pronounced it satisfactory for sustaining life in puny organics such as men. Additional lights flared, more linkages closed. Without fanfare, the lids on the seven chrysalises opened, and the caterpillar shapes within began to emerge once more into the light.

  Seen shorn of their dreams, the seven members of the Nostromo's crew were even less impressive than they'd been in hypersleep. For one thing, they were dripping wet from the preservative cryosleep fluid that had filled and surrounded their bodies. However analeptic, slime of any sort is not becoming.

  For another, they were naked, and the liquid was a poor substitute for the slimming and shaping effects of the artificial skins called clothes.

  'Jesus,' muttered Lambert, disgustedly wiping fluid from her shoulders and sides, 'am I cold!' She stepped out of the coffin that preserved life instead of death, began fumbling in a nearby compartment. Using the towel she found there, she commenced wiping the transparent syrup from her legs.

  'Why the hell can't Mother warm the ship before breaking us out of storage?' She was working on her feet now, trying to remember where she'd dumped her clothes.

  'You know why.' Parker was too busy with his own sticky, tired self to bother staring at the nude navigator. 'Company policy. Energy conservation, which translates as Company cheap. Why waste excess power warming the freezer section until the last possible second? Besides, it's always cold coming out of hypersleep. You know what the freezer takes your internal temperature down to.'

  'Yeah, I know. But it's still cold.' She mumbled it, knowing Parker was perfectly correct but resenting having to admit it. She'd never cared much for the engineer.

  Damn it, Mother, she thought, seeing the goosebumps on her forearm, let's have some heat!

  Dallas was toweling himself off, dry-sponging away the last of the cryosleep gunk, and trying not to stare at something the others could not see. He'd noticed it even before rising from his freezer. The ship had arranged it so that he would.

  'Work'll warm us all up fast enough.' Lambert muttered something unintelligible. 'Everybody to your stations. I assume you all remember what you're getting paid for. Besides sleeping away your troubles.'

  No one smiled or bothered to comment. Parker glanced across to where his partner was sitting up in his freezer. 'Morning. Still with us, Brett?'

  'Yo.'

  'Lucky us.' That came from Ripley. She stretched, turning it into a more aesthetic movement' than any of the others. 'Nice to know our prime conversationalist is as garrulous as ever.'

  Brett just smiled, said nothing. He was as verbal as the machines he serviced, which was to say not at all, and it was a running joke within the septuple crew family. They were laughing with him at such times, not at him.

  Dallas was doing side twists, elbows parallel to the floor, hands together in front of his sternum. He fancied he could hear his long-unused muscles squeak. The flashing yellow light, eloquent as any voice, monopolized his thoughts. That devilish little sunhued cyclops was the ship's way of telling them they'd been awakened for something other than the end of their journey. He was already wondering why.

  Ash sat up, looked around expressionlessly. For all the animation in his face, he might as well still have been in hypersleep. 'I feel dead.' He was watching Kane. The executive officer was yawning, still not fully awake. It was Ash's professional opinion that the exec actually enjoyed hypersleep and would spend his whole life as £narcoleptic if so permitted.

  Unaware of the science officers opinion, Parker glanced over at him, spoke pleasantly. 'You look dead.' He was aware that his own features probably looked no better. Hypersleep tired the skin as well as the muscles. His attention turned to Kane's coffin. The exec was finally sitting up.

  'Nice to be back.' He blinked.

  'Couldn't tell it to any of us, not by the time it takes you to wake up.'

  Kane looked hurt. 'That's a damn slander, Parker. I'm just slower than the rest of you, that's all.'

  'Yeah.' The engineer didn't press the point, turned to the captain, who was absorbed in studying something out of the engineer's view. 'Before we dock, maybe we'd better go over the bonus situation again.'

  Brett showed faint signs of enthusiasm, his first since awakening. 'Yeah.'

  Parker continued, slipping on his boots. 'Brett and I think we deserve a full share. Full bonus for successful completion plus salary and interest.'

  At least he knew deep sleep hadn't harmed his engineering staff, Dallas mused tiredly. Barely conscious for a couple of minutes, they were complaining already.

  'You two will get what you contracted for. No more and no less. Just like everybody else.'

  'Everybody gets more than us,' said Brett softly. For him, that constituted a major speech. It had no effect on the captain, however. Dallas had no time now for trivialities or half-serious wordplay. That blinking light commanded his full attention, and choreographed his thoughts to the exclusion of all else.

  'Everybody else deserves more than you two. Complain to the Company disburser if you want. Now get below.'

  'Complain to the Company.' Parker was muttering unhappily as he watched Brett swing out of his coffin, commence drying his legs. 'Might as well try complaining directly to God.'
<
br />   'Same thing.' Brett was checking a weak service light on his own freezer compartment. Barely conscious, naked and dripping with liquid, he was already hard at work. He was the sort of person who could walk for days on a broken leg but was unable to ignore a malfunctioning toilet.

  Dallas started for the central computer room, called back over a shoulder. 'One of you jokers get the cat.'

  It was Ripley who lifted a limp yellowish form from one of the freezers. She wore a hurt expression. 'You needn't be so indifferent about it.' She stroked the soaked animal affectionately. 'It's not a piece of equipment. Jones is a member of the crew as much as any of us.'

  'More than some.' Dallas was watching Parker and Brett, fully dressed now, receding in the direction of engineering. 'He doesn't fill my few on-board waking hours with complaints about salary or bonuses.'

  Ripley departed, the cat enveloped in a thick dry towel. Jones was purring unsteadily, licking himself with great dignity. It was not his first time out of hypersleep. For the present, he would tolerate the ignominy of being carried.