Author note:

(0): some notes about the text appear at the end of the chapter. They are merely parenthetical and can be ignored if you wish. They will be referred to like so: (0)

-:-:-

"Change is non-linear, and can go backwards, forwards, and side-ways." - Alvin Toffler

"Choose the known of two evils. Tradition took us where we are today." - The Urizen Protocol

-:-:-

"Something smells delicious," Bishop says as he steps into Elizabeth's quarantine apartment.

She shrugs, unimpressed by his compliment. "I burned the onions." Still in her pajamas and bathrobe, she moves toward the small kitchen table- she only needs a few steps to get there since the room is so small- and turns off the heater beneath a steaming pot. (1)

He insists. "I understand that is always difficult to get right. Besides, it doesn't look too bad from here." He places the file he is carrying on the coffee table.

Elizabeth sniffs the steam coming from the pot, then looks up at him, puzzled. "Would, uhm, you like to try some?"

"It would be impolite to refuse."

"No, I mean, do you actually need to eat?"

"I can break apart food and rework some organic compounds into plastic to patch up minor ruptures." (2) His gaze meet hers. "And I can compliment the cook when she does a good job."

Her eyes start to roll and she turns away to hide her face from him; he suspects that is because she can't quite suppress a smile. "You haven't even tried it yet," she says.

Squelching sounds as she uses a ladle to take the stew from the pot. "I wasn't sure whether you ate. I only cooked for one." She offers him a spoon, and a plate which contains an orange-reddish paste with peas and some small pieces of cheese.

"Then I can't-"

"It's ok, I can make a little more. They provided me some ingredients to play with, it helps pass the time. Thank you for the papers and books by the way."

They sit down, Elizabeth on the bed, Bishop on the chair near the coffee table. He takes a tentative spoonful of the dish. Still rather hot. Onion chips crisp between his teeth, cheese cubelets soft against his palate, the distinctive flavor of capsaicin- chilli- crashing against taste buds, not dulling, priming them for the subtle sweetness of peas. (3)

"Well, how do you like it?" she asks.

"It is good. I will come to you if I ever need repairs. As to the onions, they are all right. Easier to get the carbon out that way."

She pouts. "They're not that burned."

He smiles for a second before taking another spoonful, and watches her grab and open the file he had placed on the table.

"Jane Blake," she reads.

Charles Holloway's great-niece, the one relative Bishop was able to find. He eats, but his attention focuses on Elizabeth's eyes as they scan the pages of Jane Blake's CV. So far, she acts neutral; what would her reaction be, were he to tell her a certain piece of information- one word- that he took out of the text?

"She's a geologist for Inmet-Koza, and has taken part in surveys and digs in several countries," he says. (4)

He savors another spoonful, then begins a slow, matter-of-fact list. "Panama. Brazil. Finland. Turkey." He waits until her eyes settle in a quick rhythm of reading the words of the CV before he continues. "Russia."

Her gaze stops in place. She must be considering the implications. It is a brief moment before Elizabeth's apparently dispassionate scan continues, but he is sure it was there. From the number of Cosmographic he brought her, he deduced what article it was, that caught Elizabeth's attention yesterday when he visited her. A hypothesis of inquiry builds up- there is something about Russia that preoccupies her. And if his hypothesis is correct, it has to do with the Zones of impact.

"Any other relatives?" Elizabeth asks.

"She was the only one I could find. I'm afraid fate hasn't smiled on the Holloway clan."

"I can't tell much about her from a CV. Still, I would like to meet her, and Ontario is a nice place this time of year. I'd like to go there."

"Well, -we- can go there," Bishop corrects her.

Elizabeth places the file beside her as she lowers her shoulders and cocks her head to the right. "Of course. We."

"I'm only here to help you, Ms."

"Until when?"

"Until Weyland-Yutani decides that your reintegration is complete. You may dispute their judgment in court at any time, but right now you stand no chance of winning."

She shakes her head. "Right ... Who's paying for all this?"

"In a way, you are. The Weyland-Yutani Corporation considers this a loan, and, since you were a highly skilled worker, they expect you to have a good chance of repaying it."

"Archaeology was never a lucrative business." Elizabeth pauses for a moment. "And I suppose I'd be laughed out of any scientific institution today."

"That would be unfair. I have read your work on the hypothesis of upper paleolithic sudden lateral gene transfer in mammals. It was bold, and outside your primary field of activity, but you built your case well." (5)

"No one but Charlie and Peter Weyland believed it."

"It was a very audacious claim to make, that several species had their genomes affected by a sequence of apparently coordinated retro-viral events." He notices her turn away. Her lips drawn inward, her eyes gaze out at the empty space visible through the window. She seems angry, so he changes the subject. "In any case, your list of skills seems to include caving, utilitarian climbing, diving. Cooking too, as far as I can tell."

He makes one brief smile as she faces him. Her anger seems to dissipate somewhat.

"So I am sure," he says, "that we'll work something out. Maybe even in geology. Incidentally, would you like to visit the place Weyland-Yutani has arranged for you? It's bigger than this room." He looks around for a moment. "Though to be honest, not much bigger."

"No, thank you. I feel like I've been stuck in rooms a hundred years. I want to travel as soon as possible."

"In that case, I will make the necessary arrangements. They let you out of quarantine tomorrow, so we can start on our way then, if you so wish."

-:-:-

When Carter Burke reassigned him to be under Andrea Pullman's temporary supervision, Bishop assumed that she would turn out to be a deputy, an underling. Her office aboard Gateway Station shatters that assumption to pieces.

Though sparsely decorated- an abstract painting of a psychedelic geometric pattern hangs on a wall, and a bizarre sculpture of black metal and plastic evoking monsters of the deep stands behind Ms. Pullman's desk- the room is ostentatious by its spaciousness. Three times the size of Elizabeth's apartment, with no other purpose than containing that desk and the strange art collection.

Clearly, Ms. Pullman wants to impress any visitor with her wealth and ability. Space is the most expensive commodity aboard a space station.

Ms. Pullman appears to be in early middle age, but very well maintained. The pale white skin of her face doesn't show a hint of blemish or wrinkle, no doubt the result of expensive treatments to keep time at bay. Her light red hair is caught in a ponytail. In the hard neon light of the office, the hues it reflects are fire. Her angular features and light blue, almost gray eyes, pure ice. She wears a business suit- professional, buttoned up, but form hugging. A few files, a telephone and a large computer terminal are all the items visible on her neatly organized desk. (6)

"Burke told me you'll be coming," she says. "How's the Shaw case going?"

He is about to begin summarizing his most recent encounter with Elizabeth when the phone rings.

"One moment," she says as she picks it up. "What now, I'm rather bu-" Her lips tighten as she mutters a curse. "What happened? ... Any idea how? ... Script-kiddies?" A hint of anger flashes through her icy demeanor. "This is not the twenty-first century any more, not every no life punk has a computer. And since when can script kiddies do cryptanalysis?" (7)

She eases in her chair. "If I had proof of that, I'd be raising all kinds of hell right now. ... Yes. Look, I'm in the middle of something at the moment, I'll call you back in a few minutes."

She hangs up and puts on a sly grin as she turns to Bishop again. "There's no rest for the wicked it seems. Now, where were we?"

Bishop tells her of Elizabeth's plan to visit Holloway's great-niece.

"Travel so soon?" Andrea asks. "Wouldn't she like to know her way around Gateway Station first?"

"I believe Ms. Shaw feels that she has stayed in space long enough," he says. "I also believe there to be more than wanderlust in her decision to travel. She appears interested in Ms. Blake's experiences in Russia, and I suspect she intends to go there herself in the near future."

Andrea raises her hand to her chin. "To Russia? Where exactly?"

His throat tenses for a moment. "I do not know at present but I believe the visit to Ms. Blake will reveal the intended destination."

"Ontario is rather far away." Her eyes drift, looking at nothing in particular for a while, before suddenly focusing on Bishop again. "Have you contacted this Jane Blake?", Andrea asks.

"No. Mr. Burke has insisted on the value- and apparent safety- of discretion and face to face communication for this mission. I did not go outside his orders."

"Good. Those orders stand. I will send someone to announce your arrival."

"Ms. Pullman, the orders stand, but, how am I to contact you from that place if the need arises?"

"I will leave that to your judgment. If, and only if, you deem the situation dire enough you will call me by the safest available means."

"Is the situation likely to get dire?"

"You never know these days, so you would best watch out."

"It would help if I was told more about the context of the mission." He essays a smile, but under Andrea's cold stare it withers even faster than usual. "I am not quite certain whether you believe Ms. Shaw to be in danger or to be -a- danger."

"Would I authorize travel if I thought she were -a- danger?"

You certainly appear able to authorize the travel despite believing there are risks, Bishop thinks.

"Besides, she has you with her," Andrea continues. "That should motivate you to dig deeper into her story. Do you know where this is from?" She raises a large photo of a healed, linear scar across Elizabeth's lower abdomen. A scar Elizabeth claimed was the result of a failed cesarean operation that she underwent several years before the expedition, an operation which resulted in further complications that left her infertile.

"I didn't see the need to question the version in Ms. Shaw's statement from the salvage record. Further, the nature of that scar makes questioning problematic-"

"What about this one?" She holds up another large photo, this time of the left side of Elizabeth's back. It looks as if a particularly ornate spark of lightning, a fractal dragon made of splitting streams of electricity, had passed through her skin and warped tiny blood vessels into preserving its monstrous form. A persistent Lichtenberg figure. (8) Elizabeth claimed she had sustained that injury during the accident that destroyed the Prometheus.

"A good opportunity to examine it hasn't occurred yet," he says.

Her tone is harsh. "Then make one. And if you find out more about Shaw's travel plans in Russia, you will tell me- in person."

-:-:-

Travel details decided, conversation ended, and good-byes said, Bishop is glad to have left Andrea's office. Just in time, for mental pressure is building up. Why didn't he share his thoughts with her, the loyalty module demands to know. Because everything about that hypothesis is half-formed, proof is sketchy, there is nothing to share yet, he justifies himself. Only conjecture and a new line of inquiry- which he did mention.

But the Zones are notoriously dangerous, locked-in areas filled with ... things ... spilled from places far beyond Earth. What could Elizabeth possibly want there, his life protection module insists. If indeed, that is where she wants to go? He would have to keep close watch on her, Bishop decides.

He passes a few COMCON operatives in a corridor of Gateway Station. This does not surprise him; after all, COMCON works hand in hand with the ICC to supervise space travel.

But the words of Carter Burke echo in Bishop's mind- 'we do not want COMCON to get involved in this'. And, despite all the transnational globalization- the operatives he has just walked past were speaking English- COMCON is headquartered in, is perceived as belonging to, Russia. Its initial purpose was to protect the Zones. Or rather, to protect outsiders from what was within.

There is a game being played here, one he is not aware of, he feels. A game Weyland-Yutani seems too eager to go along with. Tension accumulates between his loyalty and behavioral inhibitor modules. For now, he can defuse it. Andrea Pullman and Carter Burke are just curious, he tells himself. He, Bishop, is just curious. He prefers not to consider the possibility that Weyland-Yutani might be an active player. They can't be, if they don't know of the connections he hypothesizes.

For now, that is sufficient to keep his mind at peace. Carter Burke couldn't have known Elizabeth might have an interest in the Zones when he instructed Bishop to avoid COMCON involvement.

But what -did- Burke know?

-:-:-

"Just a minute," Elizabeth's voice sounds through the intercom. And it is about one minute later that she allows Bishop in.

She wears a beige shirt and gray blue jeans; cheap, unassuming clothing items, charity for those found in space. She tries to dry her still wet hair by vigorously rubbing it with a towel.

"Ready to go?" Bishop asks.

"Oh God yes."

"Well, to make sure nothing goes wrong on the last day of your stay here-" he opens a suitcase he carries to reveal a hazmat suit "- you should wear this until exiting the quarantine area. It's standard procedure. You're clean, this room is clean, corridor's decontaminated- but just in case someone decides to open their door and wave goodbye, better have this on."

"Why would they. It's hard to make friends when you're told to stay put inside your room all day long, or else."

"Unless people have been recovered from the same salvage site," Bishop says, "they are not allowed to mingle while in quarantine I'm afraid."

"Such salvages happen often?"

"With ship traffic, there will be accidents on occasion. In general recovery protocols tend to work well though."

Elizabeth runs her fingers through her hair. Apparently pleased with the result, she casually tosses the towel on the bed and picks up the hazmat suit. "It still took 80 years to find me."

"With a defective beacon on your craft, you just weren't spotted by normal traffic around Calpamos and its moons."

"Then lucky for me they was a surge of interest in the region after that Ripley case. What do you make of her story?"

"I don't know. There's a budding colony there, and recent investigations about what the Nostromo may have actually encountered turned up nothing. Except, of course, your craft. As far as I know, it was unrelated to the Nostromo incident." He smiles, as if to prompt her to disagree. Instead, she simply puts on the protective gear.

"But that is over with, your new life starts today, Ms. Shaw."

She stretches her arms a little as if preparing to take flight. "Then let's be on our way. And please, call me Elizabeth."

-:-:-

As they board the shuttle, Bishop explains the flight plan to Elizabeth. It is fairly complicated, needing several vehicle changes. There would be the shuttle to take them from Gateway to Ecuador Alto, the top of the Ecuadorean space elevator. They'd descend from geosynchronous orbit to ground level at Quito airport, from where a commercial flight would take them to Toronto, where a car was prepared for Bishop to drive on the final leg of the journey.

He isn't sure whether Elizabeth cares to keep track of all that.

"Tell me about yourself," she asks. "Tell me when were you ... is made the right word?"

"It is. And it happened four weeks ago. Soon after you were found, actually." He smiles for a second. "I suppose you could say I was made for you."

"I hope not. I wouldn't want to have that kind of expense to pay back." She sits silent for a while. "Four weeks? But then how are you supposed to ... know things?"

"Android brains are constructed with some memories hardwired. A lot of memories, in fact."

"Like a computer?"

"Not quite. Digital electronics isn't very common nor compact, though there are some simple digital circuits in my brain."

"What do they do?"

"They monitor whether certain patterns are detected, and inject- I suppose you could call it pressure, or need- in certain conditions."

"Behavioral inhibitors."

He nods, and hopes she didn't notice his cheek tighten for an instant.

"I see. And how many of you are there?" she asks.

He can't help but frown for a moment. A mistake, for surely she has noticed that. "Plenty. The number of persons of my type is in the hundreds of thousands. Total artificial person count is about twenty million." (9)

"I wonder how other people can tell you apart, if you're the same type."

Unease. Is she trying to rile him up? "They don't often need to tell us apart. We're rare enough that most people would see only one artificial person of a given type. We do carry ID chips, just in case." He swallows. "And we are not the same. After the brain is constructed, memory acquisition ensures we all end up different."

He also suspects that fabrication doesn't result in identical brains either. He believes he understands why he was made, and he knows he thought things beyond those purposes as he was being fabricated. But he is not about to share that with her.

"What kind of memories would an artificial person have?" Elizabeth asks.

"You mean experiences. It depends on what we may be assigned to do. Since we are not cheap to make, certainly my type isn't, it tends to be work that requires skill and patience. In my case, I have been told to show you around and watch over you."

She raises an eyebrow. "Am I about to get into trouble?"

Bishop considers his response for a moment. "Only if you blunder into it," he eventually tells her.

-:-:-

The descent by space elevator- a thirty six thousand kilometer drop- starts with five minutes of punishing acceleration that pushes the passengers in their seats. Unlike most passengers, Elizabeth seems tolerant of the higher g-s, but Bishop does not allow her to resume her questions. Instead, he uses the view afforded by the elevator shuttle to point out some landmarks, space stations near or large enough to be easily visible to the naked eye. Others are dim spots in the distance, on orbits kept away from Earth. Elizabeth is surprised to learn of the widespread acceptance of black hole power generators. There's Lucifer, the American one, on an orbit perpendicular to that of Venus. Woland, powering the ring accelerator at Novie Dubna near Mercury. Ravan, inside the laser battery of Tata Space, the largest operator of light sail crafts. (10)

"You have space elevators and black hole generators, but there's poverty and sickness still?" Elizabeth asks.

"Some problems are harder to solve."

"Or they just return, it seems."

-:-:-

The journey to Toronto is uneventful, but so long that Elizabeth sleeps throughout most of the second half. Not a particularly peaceful slumber- often she would twitch, and Bishop can swear he hears her mutter something. The low rumble of the airplane cabin prevents him from understanding her muttering however, even when the dreaming Elizabeth finally rests her head on his shoulder. Some of the twitching calms after that, but not the words. If they are words, they may just be breaths.

One landing and two strong coffees later, Bishop and Elizabeth retrieve the car that Weyland-Yutani rented for them. It is this last segment of travel that Elizabeth seems to enjoy most, at least after they exited Toronto. Bishop assures her that the city air here is one of the cleanest in the world, as far as cities go, but she insists the hint of smog feels oppressive. The country roads, passing through forests and small lakes reflecting the twilight sky, are what Elizabeth prefers.

Not quite so wild an area that one might get lost in, but one could pretend to be alone with nature, while simultaneously not far removed from the various comforts of civilization. They pass through Parry Sound, a small town not too far from Toronto. (11) Though not too big a community, it boasts two shopping malls, a hospital, even a small airport for a local research institute.

It is twenty two past ten pm when they reach the home of Jane Blake, several miles outside of Parry Sound.

-:-:-

Elizabeth stretches her arms and legs as she exits the car. "Long journeys are like standing still, until you find yourself somewhere else," she says.

Bishop simply shrugs. Lights shine through the windows of the house. The Blake family is home, Jane and her husband; hopefully, expecting guests. He trusts that whoever Andrea Pullman had sent, did deliver the news that Elizabeth would be coming over, but all this awkward, paranoid insistence on limited communication has its disadvantages.

There is no need to knock, as the door opens with the slightest touch. Unlocked. Probably not too many people venture on these roads, anyway.

He gives Elizabeth a quick glance as he proceeds. "Ms. Blake? I am Bishop from Weyland-Yutani, and I have Elizabeth Shaw with me."

He steps through a corridor, Elizabeth behind him; neat shoes of various kinds are placed in ordered rows on the sides, coat racks on the walls.

He enters the living room. The salient features are two bodies, the nature of their wounds making death a certainty, their faces, as far as he can tell, those of Jane Blake and her husband.

A scream. Of shock, but not the shock of discovery. He turns to see a masked man in dark clothing. Elizabeth is struggling in his grasp.

Life protection springs in action. He might not be allowed to harm, but he is allowed to restrain, and prevent harm from occurring. He bolts toward the masked man, who shoves Elizabeth aside and runs away into the street. With Elizabeth falling in his arms, Bishop decides to not give chase.

"In-inject-" she tries to say, a trembling right hand reaching for her left shoulder. She leans heavy on him, as her legs no longer support her weight.

"Stay with me, Elizabeth. Help is nearby," he says, as he carries her back to the car. He drives towards Parry Sound as fast as the night traffic allows- which is faster than the signs permit, but in an emergency, needs must.

He briefly glances to the side at his passenger. Her eyes are almost closed, her head bobs from side to side with the movements of the car. "Stay with me, Elizabeth," he says. As long as she's somewhat conscious, he knows the battle isn't lost. But she just gets more groggy.

The fingers of his hand tense as behavioral inhibitors detect a trigger pattern. It is the lesser of two evils, he tells himself, as he briefly turns and slaps Elizabeth's right cheek. Through half open eyes, she glares at him. Angry. But aware, more or less. And alive. He drives on.

-:-:-

The hospital is a blur. Bishop rushes Elizabeth in and she is wheeled away to an emergency care unit. For now, no longer in his guard. He leaves a statement to a clerk of what he found at the Blake home and describes the incident. Police will be summoned from Toronto, he is told.

And now, in an almost empty corridor, he waits.

"Yo, Bishop, what's up?" The voice of a young male nurse passing by. "I thought you had repair day or what-"

Bishop looks at the scrubs-wearing nurse. Though he tries to keep neutral, Bishop is sure anyone could read the hint of annoyance in his face.

"Oh, sorry man, I thought you were our Bishop. Uhm, cheers?" The nurse leaves.

Alone, he recollects the events of the evening. He retraces his memory, looking for clues, trying to see what he missed. Why he could be so negligent. Mercifully- or maybe not- he is left undisturbed until he spots the doctor that he left Elizabeth with. Time to ask what her condition is.

"I am afraid she has died." The doctor looks around, awkwardly. "Uhm, sorry, I understand you were ..." (12)

"The one to look after her for a while, yes." Bishop attempts to lift the corners of his lips in a dry smile, but abandons the gesture. "No other connection."

"Any relatives I should announce?"

Bishop shakes his head. "No. Space case. She had no one left on her return." He pauses for a second. "My employer will want a copy of the death certificate. Send it to Ms. Andrea Pullman, of Weyland-Yutani."

"I understand." The doctor nods as he goes on his way.

So. She is dead. And though he met her a mere couple of days before, he feels a strange emptiness take over. The mission is finished. The mission is failed. To make things worse, the nagging chatter of the loyalty module is joined by the accusing tones from life protection. He should have been more careful. He should have kept her safe. The voices hang heavy and he feels the ground shift beneath his feet; he places an arm on the wall to steady himself.

The mission is failed. But one can mitigate the failure. There's still some information he can learn. Please be silent, he begs the modular chaos. And starts towards the morgue. (13)

The trick to infiltration is not minding that access is forbidden. Normally, he would mind. His behavioral inhibitors would put a stop on unauthorized action. But now, the mission imperative tugs in the opposite direction. Besides, he's hurting no one. He only needs information.

He moves, deliberately, confidently, to a changing room, and emerges as Bishop, the hospital assistant. There's nothing different about his appearance really, just that he's now wearing a white coat, a perpetual avuncular smile- he assumes Bishop the assistant might usually be more cheerful, if the conversation with the nurse was anything to go by-, and the demeanor of somebody who owns the place. He salutes staff with a nod and a short smile; nobody suspects a thing.

Strange how a few superficial details change how the essence is perceived.

He enters the antechamber of the morgue, a cold room crammed with metal tables, black bodybags on each of them. Twenty three bags; Elizabeth's in one of them. He looks around for a registry of entries to speed the search. It lies on a makeshift office, a small table for a few instruments and records. The twenty one names in the registry do not have numbers attached and Elizabeth's not among them anyway. Not very useful, and rather sloppy with details. Whoever does the organizing here would need replacing.

Not that there's any number or index on any of the bags either, he notices, as he walks among the metal tables. It's only fortune that one of the bags is slightly opened, and only fortune that it happens to be the one that she is in. (14)

It's her. The bag is open just enough to reveal the right side of her face, deathly pale. Eyes closed, mouth just slightly open. Who were you?

'Were' being the operative word. With a finger on her throat he searches for a pulse; it isn't there. He unzips the bag, to reveal her body, naked on the table. She was, as he suspected, on the athletic side. Small breasts, flat stomach, strong thighs. But now it all adds up to a piece of flesh with an indescribable something missing. Lacking that one and most important thing that once made Elizabeth alive.

He grabs her shoulder and waist, her skin residually warm under his touch, and turns her on her right side to reveal her back. There, starting on her left shoulder, is the Lichtenberg figure, the dragon made of lightning seared into flesh. Make yourself an opportunity to study it, Andrea Pullman told him. This is not what he would have thought of.

He had seen that scar in pictures from Elizabeth's file, those capillaries, pink with blood in life, now appearing empty and discolored. He follows the fractal shapes, fascinated, across her shoulder, down to her lower back, down to- he must be thorough- her buttocks. The extent of the damage is impressive, but even more salient is the manner of healing. It doesn't appear just burned on the skin, its intricate windings seem to have grown beneath it as well, organically merging themselves with Elizabeth's body. The scar is unlike anything else he knows of, a monster made of filaments of warped flesh. He tentatively touches it. It feels ... hydraulic, and seems to gently swell under his touch. A reddish color appears, then goes away. He traces the scar again. It takes a second for it to react, but it flushes pink before slowly returning to a pale hue. The whole cycle takes five seconds. He adjusts the frequency filters of his tactile sensors, and feels for a pulse again.

And it is there. (15)

Strange how a superficial detail changes how the essence is perceived.

She lives. Modular chaos ensues again. The mission isn't failed yet. Relief.

Embarrassment. He zips the bag again, up to her face, to allow her some modesty. She probably wouldn't much want to be seen naked without her permission, and he is intruding. He doesn't need behavioral inhibitors to tell him that.

He thinks about rushing to announce that Elizabeth lives after all, but stops. Something feels wrong. What about Elizabeth's items and clothes, shouldn't they be near the body bag that contains her? Looking around, he finds them near another body bag. Curiosity- and suspicion- make him unzip it slightly. A woman is inside, the spitting image of Elizabeth.

Ok. What is going on here? (16)

He opens the bag fully. There's a cesarean scar on the woman's lower abdomen, and on her left shoulder a dragon-like Lichtenberg figure. It looks more like a fresh burn and less as if it grew organically as it healed; it does not respond to touch. The woman's cold body has begun to stiffen, and other signs of death are present too; the blood accumulated in the sides, the dripping of bodily fluids through sphincters relaxed by dying. (17)

Steps echo in the distance. He quickly closes the bag, but leaves the woman's face revealed. He swaps the two Elizabeths on their gurneys and zips up the bag with the real one completely. With her slow breathing she should be ok for a few minutes. He thinks for a second, then makes another swap, just in case, of the bag with Elizabeth with another one.

He gets to the makeshift office in the morgue antechamber and sets about pretending to do paper work, just as two men enter the room.

"Police," one says, flashing a badge.

"Hello. How may I help you?"

"We came to pick up a body, murder victim apparently," the first man says.

"Found her," the other announces, as he looks at the open bag with the Elizabeth stand-in.

"Well then, anything else I may assist you with?" Bishop asks.

"No. Say, haven't I seen you somewhere else?"

Bishop fights the urge to frown. He smiles widely instead. "The good thing about me, there's so many of me. Can't beat a perfect design."

The men wheel the gurney with the body bag out.

"Yeah, whatever. Cheerio."

"Have a nice day."

They did not take, nor seem to care, about her clothes. Which, he decides, is yet another strange thing. He waits until their steps are faint and distant, then opens the bag with the real Elizabeth to allow her to breathe. He needs to get her out of here, but where to go? The mission is deviating wildly from its initial parameters. As far as he can tell, someone wanted to get Elizabeth, alive- and would soon realize they got the wrong one. How much do they know, where would be safe, who would be safe to turn to? All that paranoia of Mr. Burke might have made sense after all, because what he just witnessed needed significant preparation. The loyalty module decreed that only Weyland-Yutani could be trusted now. The situation was sufficiently dire. New instructions are needed.

He unzips Elizabeth's bag completely.

This would be an awkward time for you to wake up, he thinks as he dresses her. But she is limp as a rag doll, no danger of waking up. Not waking up is the danger.

He gently taps her cheek. It doesn't wake her. Still that unnatural sleep. So he tries something else. He opens her mouth and places his own on hers. His internal compressors push and pull air through her lungs. Her pulse quickens and strengthens somewhat. He stops, still monitoring her pulse. It soon reverts to slow and faint.

He'd have to figure something out later- or hope the poison will wear off on its own.

He closes the bag around the now clothed Elizabeth, and wheels her out of the morgue. Relaxed, confident strides. Nothing suspicious going on here at all. Just a morgue attendant taking a body from point A to point Bishop's car. He is careful to avoid noisy corridors as he makes his way to the back of the hospital.

He takes a second to study the outside when reaching the back entrance. Almost midnight. Moonless. Cloudy. Dark and empty spaces- good, he doesn't want much visibility now. He pushes the table outside and into a shady corner, where he removes his white coat- well, it belongs to the hospital anyway. Just like the bag and the table for that matter. Not allowed to take those.

He emerges from the shadow as Bishop again- not hospital assistant Bishop, but that other Bishop, the one sent by Weyland-Yutani to take care of someone. Someone who now sleeps in his arms.

He carries her to his car with swift steps, supporting her waist and back with one arm, holding her knees in the other. She has her arm around his shoulders, and her head rests on his chest so as not to fall backward. If anyone were to ask, she had too much to drink.

He places Elizabeth horizontally in the back seat, and locks the safety belts around her. He taps her cheek and calls her name again. She doesn't wake still. He drives away.

On and on he drives, away from the town, into the wilderness of roads to nowhere, until a sufficiently shady looking motel comes into view. He stops and rents a room for the night. The owner leers at him and, especially, at his dormant companion. Guilty is the mind that thinks ill. With the owner's lascivious whistle somewhere in the background, he locks the room from the inside. He lays her on the bed and covers her with the blanket. It is old and crummy, but it appears clean at least, and warm.

There is a phone here. Mission directives begin to clash- should he call Ms. Pullman at this time of night- it would be late evening, station time-, or obey the order to avoid calls altogether? The way in which Weyland-Yutani's directives became contradictory to each other would amuse him, if their arguments wouldn't take place in his own head. He needs that mindspace.

He cuts the telephone wires. There. Problem solved. He could repair it easily, but that would mean endangering his primary objective.

He kneels beside Elizabeth, and places a finger on her throat to check her pulse. He keeps monitoring, as he becomes her artificial lungs again.

It is one hour later- the time is forty three past one in the morning- before her pulse has a surge of strength. Immediately after, she lets out a soft moan.

"Elizabeth? Can you hear me?"

She turns in the bed. "Erulimenehersidhreumenei." (18)

Gibberish.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" Bishop asks.

"Neiseuesihime."

It sounds like gibberish. It could be a language he doesn't understand, so he records it for later study. At least she sleeps normally now. He allows her to rest, and keeps watch over her in case whatever she was poisoned with had more ill surprises in store. But also, in case she has anything more to say in her dreams.


Author notes:

I said, 2-3 weeks to make this chapter. It took 4. This monster chapter of 6300+ words (notes NOT included since who reads those) was originally intended to be 2 chapters though, so in a way, I'm early :). What happened was that the would-be chapter 3 insisted on being written first, which was awkward. It still is. There's holes there even I find obvious, I shudder to think what someone actually knowledgeable could inflict upon it. Some details may suffer tweaks in edits in the near future for a bit of polish attempts.

Thanks for the reviews so far, much appreciated- and don't forget that it's ok to tell me about stuff you don't like and why.

For example, how did -that- (you know what -that- means) make you feel?

And of course, if you do like stuff, I don't mind you telling me either :)

Ch-spec notes:

(1): I've hinted in the previous chapter as well that Elizabeth did some cooking in her quarantine apartment. The poor girl would need something to do while she waits for 4 weeks or whatever. Notice also that in the Prometheus ship, her room had a small kitchen which appears used; not a big stretch to assume she had cooked the dish she was eating with chopsticks, when Charlie brought her the rose.

(2): Liberties taken here. I decided, if there's less techie-gadgetry to give androids an easily available maintenance infrastructure, they'd be designed with more 'organic'-like self-repair. Collagen is general-purpose structurally nice, some organic fibers are fairly sturdy etc. Besides, Bishop does eat in "Aliens", if only for show.

(3): The ambition with this fanfic here is to tell a coherent and hopefully good story, but also to play around a bit with writing. For instance, I heard that using all five senses is something to pursue, so why not give taste a try? Incidentally- Mattar Paneer, or an approximation of it, to reduce the number of spices. And I think it's also Kukapetal's ch.7 of 'Reflection' that nudged my subconscious to consider cooking.

(4): Inmet and Koza Altin are actual mining companies existing today, 2013. Canadian and Turkish, respectively; operations worldwide for Inmet, unsure about Koza Altin. This will -not- matter to the plot, but whatevs, on a whim I wanted to use real company names.

(5): Any way you slice it, the face value creation story of Prometheus is incoherent. So I've allowed myself to change a bit when the seeding occurred, and what that seeding did. Also, as a result of a pet peeve of mine, Elizabeth has only 1 (one) PhD, in Applied BAMFery. 4 PhDs? Hah, yeah right.

(6): Obvious expy of Vickers, who's just too good - or bad :P - to leave dead.

(7): Modern ciphers are very resilient if attacked 'fairly'- attack the cipher, not the implementing system. I keep hinting at background 'unfair' attacks though.

(8): When ideas bubbled for this story, the fractal dragon Lichtenberg figure begun as an actress allusion to Ms. Noomi Rapace, and to a certain event in "Roadside Picnic". It ended up as a multi-role plot device however. Lichtenberg figures sometimes appear on the skin of lightning strike victims (and if you squint, they sometimes resemble fractal dragon curves). If the victim survives, the figure will fade away in up to a month. Elizabeth's is a bit unusual, though not obviously so.

(9): Ok, so in this future we have robots. There don't have to be -many- robots however. After all, the Sulaco ain't crawling with Bishops. Neither is Gateway Station where Ripley works loaders, for that matter, or she'd have met a Bishop before starting on her journey to LV-426. And oh, "digital electronics is not too common" ... sheesh. Weird as that is, in this future, it really isn't.

(10): obviously, there's no space elevators nor black hole powered mass-energy converters in Aliens, but they are cool ideas (imo) and at the edge of plausibility. So I had to put them in (and not just as background detail, nudge-nudge). Lucifer's obvious; Woland is the name the Devil assumes for a visit to Moscow in Bulgakov's "Master and Margaret"; and since Hinduism does not have a Devil figure, I selected Ravan, a famous epic antagonist to expand the naming convention. The space elevator descent was not rigorously computed but I did do some quick sanity checks on accelerations and travel times.

(11): "Not too far" is such a relative term when you've just dropped 36000km. Now, I've never been to Parry Sound, so must apologize to its inhabitants for getting the local flavor wrong. (The description is inspired by a mish-mash of a close group of villages in Bavaria.) I'd expect it would look a bit different in 2179 to what it does today. Heck, why do I even bother with these names anyway.

(12): be honest, did you start skipping lines after this? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I worked hard for that prose. It's still crap though, because I'm finding out the hard way that thriller plotting is a lot trickier than mysterious voyages of mystery.

(13): I expect to get quite a few punches because of this scenario in general, and Bishop's reason to intrude in particular. On the latter- I'm aware of a problem. It will come back to haunt our protagonists in the next and subsequent chapters.

(14): Actually it's not "only fortune", but Bishop doesn't know why the bag being open matters just now.

(15): Miguel Indurain achieved a resting heart rate of 28bpm. Which simultaneously makes Elizabeth's current 12bpm not too far from survivability, but also in what should be palpable frequencies. I suppose Bishop's filters are a bit too discriminating or something.

(16): In SF workshops, this would be called a "Signal from Fred", but I assure you I know what I'm doing. Bishop does not.

(17): Remember what Southpark says is the last thing you do before you die? I suppose Bishop assumed Elizabeth got cleaned before being placed in the body bag or something, but one would expect some continued mess after that, for a while. Containing said mess is what body bags are for, basically. Or so the couple of minutes spent researching tell me.

(18): I tried my hand at making sentences with Proto-Indo-European words, to the best of my limited ability. So, you know, if I had done that well (which I didn't, as the grammar is fairly arcane to me and phonetic transcription by Latin alphabet is fairly uninformative as opposed to IPA), that would be a way to find out what she said. We'll find out soon enough anyway though, and it's just a small flavor message. Also- if one doesn't know the language, why would one know where the spaces between spoken words are?