Ch. 1: Closing the Book

He quietly walked in a world that was a transition from that which he navigated upon a daily basis. He worked in offices and behind desks, the daily grind of an employee who was but a small cog in the massive working machine of progress called a company. And not just any company, the company; as in Weyland-Yutani, the ultra-mega corporation who specialized in interstellar space travel and harvesting, to name but a few of the forms of business and jobs they provided. His name was Christopher Samuels and the one he sought here in this world of metal, wires, sweat, and ingenuity was of particular interest to him in ways that some might not understand.

"Ripley," he called out to the feminine figure crouched by an engine efficiently wielding a blowtorch with expert skill. She turned off the torch and lifted the visor in response. She was young, in her twenties to thirties, twenty-six to be precise, with brown hair in a neat ponytail, green eyes, and a form-fitting grey suit that was not designed with the idea of showing off. She was an engineer, not a "lady" like other women might be. "I'm Samuels. I work for the company."

The woman simply put the visor back into place and returned to work with a pop from the torch. Not a surprise, of course this was to be expected with the announcement of who he worked for. "It's about your mother," he went on over the hissing buzz of the torch. "We believe we may have actually found her at long last, Amanda." He used her first name with the hope of acquiring her attention on a more interested level.

Her response was heartening for she turned off the torch and raised the visor, but this time she stood facing him completely with a look of keen interest that spoke of what lay underneath. "A commercial vessel," he continued to his now-captive audience, "the Anisadora has recovered what we believe to be the flight recorder of the Nostromo."

"Where?" She removed the helmet and headed toward a more secluded area, the better to conduct their business.

"Zeta Reticula," he answered not surprised at the one predictable question from her lips. It hid what most, or at least very many, employees would ignore or fail to see. "The recorder was taken to a small outpost called Sevastapol Station. Sevastapol is a supply depot. It's a permanent freeport facility—"

"I know what it is," she cut in. "What did the recorder tell you?" She walked over to the equivalent of a coffee machine for low-level workers in this dirty and mundane atmosphere.

"We don't know. But it is imperative that we find out." Ripley was at the coffee machine and prepared two cups; the first she passed to Samuels, the other for herself. "Transport's been arranged. We're going out to fly out to…" her expression stopped him.

"We?" She was facing him, half-turned, with a serious look that requested he tell her that he had not just said what he had.

"Me, and another executive." He paused for a beat. "And you… if you're willing."

She looked away from him. She was deep in thought over what he had said, and the potential implications. There were many.

"Look, Ripley, when this came across my desk, I read the case history very carefully." He walked over and strived to be genuine, sincere. It was not actually that difficult. "I know precisely why you are out here still working in the region where she went missing. You are still looking for answers, aren't you?" He pressed on, encouraged by her stillness and silence, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I have personally arranged a place, on the Torrens, for you, if you truly wish to come along. I would encourage it. Maybe there will be some closure for you."

. . . . . . .

The only thing about travel through the vastness of space was that it was long and slow. Nothing really changed and the daily rhythm of day and night ceased to exist. The only way to make the journey was to sleep and let the vessel drive to a set of coordinates determined before the journey. The term hypersleep was once an imaginary word for a future that would probably never come. Now the term applied to the capsules people slept inside for trips. The pods put one into a gentle state of ignorance to the world that only would be disturbed with the changing of the atmosphere. The pods would seal shut and create a new atmosphere around the occupant that slowed their vitals down to once-thought impossible levels enabling many miraculous things to happen. The occupant would not starve, they aged very slowly, and the awakening was a controlled and simple process.

Some people woke up early while others took longer. Amanda climbed out of the capsule that had kept her in stasis until now and gazed around her. All the rest, all four of them, were open, so she was the last to wake up. Didn't matter, they were probably nearing the end of the journey anyway. She stretched, easing her body upright. She had not slept like that in months, years even; and her whole body felt like soft rubber. She was partially glad to be the last to awaken, so none of the men in the crew got to see her dressed in her undergarments; some might see it as the opportunity for crass humor and rude, unflattering comments.

She finally, after what felt like an hour, was out of the pod and had signed in by inserting her keycard at the computer near the locker room. The keycard was the source of identification for all aboard the vessel. It was also a guard against intruders, so if there was someone who did not belong, they would all-too-quickly be found out. Next, she got her suit out of the locker and felt decent, once the zipper was up at just the right spot, and laces on her shoes tied to a perfect fit.

In the corridor, the lights came alive with a distinctive clink. Motion-sensitive; it helped conserve the power and reduced expenses. Naturally many a commercial vessel possessed these, while other models lacked the feature. Traveling on much steadier legs than earlier, she found her way to the science/medical bay in the ship. Samuels was found there, as pristine and flawless as ever. Not a surprise considering who, or rather what, he was.

"Ah Ripley," he turned with a smile. "I was certain it would not be long before you joined us in wakefulness. I was just inspecting the ship. I must admit this is a rather fine vessel, in fact rather similar to…"

"The Nostromo," she finished for him. There was no need for him to be so polite or tread around the subject as if it were a live explosive. She was okay with the subject of the past. It was the past. It almost hurt that he was being so kind. There was no need for it. "You wake up early?"

"Yes, I don't need as much as the rest of you. The vessel is similar to an M-Class - although some of the specs are slightly different - she is remarkably similar."

"I have actually worked some engineering jobs on ships like this one before. It helps me to do my job if I keep up to date on the designs."

"Indeed," he said with a small smile. "Have you seen Taylor yet? She is not a seasoned traveler and I fear the long sleep may have taxed her rather horribly."

"I'll go and check on her." Taylor was the company executive charged with ensuring the flight recorder was properly delivered and returned to its rightful owners. Still it was a wonder that the company was placing so much emphasis upon retrieval. It was just a flight recorder that would explain why a ship was missing. Why was the company expressing so much interest in this?

"Taylor, good morning," Ripley greeted her in the mess hall. Nina had black hair in a neat ponytail with black glasses to match. She did not acknowledge Amanda except with a slight raise of the head from staring down at the table in the center.

"Ripley it most certainly is not good and I very much doubt that it's morning either." She lowered her head and groaned. "Sorry," she mumbled, "I simply feel like death. Or more like something tore up my insides with a saw." She did appear to have a little bit of color muted by paleness on her face.

Hyper-sleep was not pleasant for some people. Some people woke up at times and promptly began vomiting. Everyone was affected differently. Science was still trying to fix it for individual needs. Clearly there was still a long way to go yet.

"Normally I would not even be here if I had my way. I don't even do long-haul," she muttered, a slight tint of green appearing on her face, probably a trick of the light. "I'm sure you know this, but most legal execs never travel further than the coffee machine. I for one don't know if I will ever understand how anyone can manage to ever put up with the experience."

"You get used to it. Trust me. Though," Ripley continued, "seeing how you are doing, hopefully this will be your only one." She walked over to the cabinet and poured a cup of liquid for herself. It was important after coming out of the long sleep to imbibe plenty of fluids to replace that which was lost over the journey.

Food was best left out of the picture for a few hours. Especially anything that was heavy in fiber for one. The body was simply not prepared to digest it until it had finally managed to recover enough of its internal equilibrium. The theory was that, whether or not you woke up vomiting or calmly, the body was in a state of shock and needed time to adjust. Some did it faster than others, but procedure was to be followed until the time was right. Lots of fluids, liquid forms of sustenance for a number of hours, and then one could move on to the natural forms of food.

"I'm actually surprised that Weyland-Yutani decided to even send an executive for a simple job like this; it's just retrieval. Surely this is not so serious that you are required to supervise us?"

Taylor straightened as best she could and firmly stated, in a practiced, professional tone, "The loss of the Nostromo, both its cargo and crew, cost the company a lot of money. She was a valuable asset to the company and her disappearance is a complete mystery that is very much in need of solving for many reasons. If I can just manage to file a report of conclusion that closes this once and for all, it will look great with my superiors." Her eyes suddenly widened, and her color faded slightly, whether from shock, or the strain of talking so much, was unclear. "Oh Ripley, I'm sorry. That was so insensitive of me. Can you forgive me for talking like that?" She looked over her glasses at Amanda with sincere shame. "I-I understand that your mother was on board and I… that is…"

"It's okay. I forgive you. You're just doing your job, I understand that. When we get the flight recorder, we will both get what we want."

There was silence for a minute and then Taylor looked back at Ripley again. "Did you see Samuels yet? He's probably been up for hours."

"Yep, saw him in the Medbay before coming to see you."

"All personnel please report to the bridge."

"Well," Amanda put down the empty cup having just finished imbibing the last of her drink, "looks like we're up."

Taylor just lowered her head to the tabletop and clasped her hands on the back of her neck. "Oh, please," she groaned, "just go in without me; really. If I move one inch from this spot, I am going to be sick, I swear I will, I just know it."

"The only way you are going to possibly get over it at all," Amanda said firmly, grabbing Taylor's left arm, "is if you start actually moving." Taylor pulled away with a moan.

"Taylor," Samuels calmly said as he walked in on the scene. "You cannot stay on board the vessel forever. Your presence is required for the initial contact and transfer." He gently removed Amanda's hands and grabbed Taylor firmly by the shoulders and pulled her from the seat. He was firm, yet gentle, nonetheless. "The only cure for something that is brought about by being motionless is motion. If you are going to be sick, then you will be sick, but your body will begin to jumpstart back to life that much sooner than if you attempt trying to be a statue."

"Oooooh, pleeeaaaasssseee," she groaned as he gently helped her reluctant feet march to the bridge, "just let me rest."

"You already had several days' worth of that Taylor," Amanda said.

"Greetings to all of you," stated the ship's captain, Verlaine. She possessed light-colored brown hair and was professional enough to not be intimidated by the all-male crew she commanded. Rather, they served her completely with their backs, brains, and hearts. At least one guy had said that was supposed to be the motto of anyone who served onboard the Torrens. Another had said, anyone who thought they could run the ship like her, or secure deals, would find themselves bounced out of there so fast it would make you wonder how you wound up back where you started. "Hope you all had a rather restful trip."

"Oh…" groaned Taylor, her color fading to pale and doubling over.

"Uh-uh-uh, here we go, here we go," said one voice somewhere up front.

"Double or nothing, it happens in less than five," said a deep voice near the left and closer to the group.

"You are so on and you are so gonna lose; deal." Another from up front, this one a bit higher in pitch than the others.

"Oh… uh-aaauugghh." That was the best way to interpret the sounds of Taylor losing all control of her stomach and depositing the contents into a bag that was quickly handed to her by Samuels. When had he…? Best not to ask, decided Ripley. "Gro-aauggghh."

"Alright, boys; hand 'em over." Verlaine turned back to the men who began to start pulling things from the pockets or seemingly out of nowhere. In a matter of minutes, an assortment of various items appeared, ranging from cigarettes to flasks filled with goodness-knew-what to credits and even a number of rare items you almost never saw anymore, like dollar bills or even a few highly-polished and well-kept silver dollars. "Now you remember what I made so give it over before I have to hurt you," Verlaine said to one of the men up front.

"The deal was—" he objected.

"You know what it was. You lost the bet, which means I get the pot. Now fork it over."

"Dude," interjected a man who looked like he worked on engineering and was no stranger to being dirty, "you want her to take it out of your paycheck? Cause she can and she will do it you know."

"Okay, fine. Here," he said passing a number of objects Amanda could not see to Verlaine. She heard him hiss, "Eat it."

"I heard that, and I most certainly will," smiled Verlaine, "Anthony you're up." This was directed to a man who got up from his chair with a downcast face and went back to the mess hall and returned with a pail and mop.

"Should have never bet on Samuels," he groaned to himself. "Thought for certain you might get a bit green around the gills, until I learned the truth. And of course they wouldn't let me take back the deal, or change it."

"I will make this unfortunate loss worth your while, I promise." Samuels' statement caused Anthony's features to brighten. He began to mop with more enthusiasm and apologized to Taylor as he began to gently pull her to her feet to get at a spilled patch of vomit.

Taylor was indignant. "You actually," she growled, cheeks flushed red with shame and anger, "you bet on me throwing up? And more than once at that?! I can't believe you people."

"At least you look a bit better now," stated Verlaine with a slight smile. "Trust me. That is nothing compared to the reactions that some poor souls have to the stasis pods. With some… well let's just say that it is far more spectacular, and even results in the doctors having to help them find their balance in the sickbay."

"Now," Verlaine clapped her hands, "back to the point. We are nearing the end of the trip, and so glad you could join us Ripley, after all you are part of the focus on this journey."

"I must admit, Captain, that you keep this vessel of yours in fine working order." This came from Samuels.

"Yeah well Samuels she was not always in this 'fine' condition; took a number of contracts and fittings before she was what you see now. Thankfully, she pays for herself now."

"Approaching the station, we are within talking distance easily."

"Got it Marko. Prep comms so I can say hello." She looked to Taylor who was now fully recovered and standing professionally straight. "I believe your contact is Marshal Waits, yes? I'll patch us through to him so we can get the ball rolling."

"Good," sighed Taylor, "let's just get this over with. I don't want to keep a certain group of people waiting any longer than is necessary."

"Everyone does have their briefing documents I presume?" Samuels asked.

"On the table facing the door if you missed 'em." said Verlaine from up front.

The Torrens glided through the vastness of space towards the gas giant Zeta Reticula. It resembled the planet Jupiter in some respects except for the vast difference in their respective sizes. Orbiting it looking very much out of place in the vast blackness of space: Sevastapol Station.

"Sevastapol Station." said Verlaine. She may have been talking to herself, but it was difficult to not be impressed, if not disturbed. The sight of something so massive elicited many emotions in various people. There was something disturbing about the station, something…alien one might say. Perhaps the sight of something so foreign built by the hands of man sitting in orbit around a planet was the cause of the sensation that something was out of place. One way or another, Sevastapol was a monument to tragedy.

"Sevastapol Station this the Torrens registration number MSV-7760 registered on a Weyland-Yutani bond. You are holding the flight recorder unit of the Nostromo; we request permission to engage and dock with you, over." Verlaine switched the intercom over after her speech to hear the reply.

"(kzzzzt) This is Marshal Waitttss-aits (kssssh) we have (kssshh) serious (kssh) situation (kzzzt) do not (kkssss)…"

"Hello? Marshal?" More static came over the intercom. Verlaine tried again. "M-Marshal you're breaking up, say again?" The static was overwhelming now. There was nothing else discernable. All the same, Verlaine gave a brief pause of the span of a few minutes before making another, equally futile, attempt.

Ripley's eyes narrowed as she gazed at the orbital station; something was not right with the picture. Something right about… there; a small imperfection that could be part of something bigger. "Is that damage?" This was aimed at Samuels.

"It looks like damage…" he agreed though he sounded uncertain. Impressive that even his eyes could not tell.

"Pull up grid 74, tight angle please." commanded Verlaine. A few keystrokes and the magnified image appeared on the monitor. The sight was shocking.

"Man, it looks like the dry dock bay is wasted," commented Jones. "Great."

"I cannot pull the Torrens into that. I doubt anybody alive could." Verlaine was correct. The docking bay was a like frayed rope, only made of metal instead of fibers. No ship could possibly get close to connect and there was also debris littering the area, floating around, making the task that much more impossible.

"Well, then we have no choice but to—"

"There is a way," interject Amanda cutting Taylor off. "Pull the Torrens alongside the dock within the set reach of the cables and then we pull ourselves across and board from there." She turned to Taylor and answered her unspoken query. "Spacewalk."

Verlaine's eyebrows rose at the statement. A look of new respect was clearly visible on her face. "You are a gutsy one. It can be done, but we will have to line her up just right before you can cross over."

"That gives us the time needed to make ready for our departure. Let's go." Samuels was in agreement. Taylor was aghast and protested but was in a suit and ready approximately fifteen minutes later.

Verlaine looked over everything with an expert eye, making sure that all of it was in working order. "Looks like the long-range comms are down so I outfitted Samuels' suit with a radio booster."

The airlock door opened. "I can only keep the Torrens in transit for 24 hours, remember that."

"You will have heard from us by then," reassured Samuels.

Taylor followed Ripley into the darkness of the airlock muttering profanities in her anxiety. "My contract does not cover bloody space walks," she groaned.

"Just focus on your breath Taylor; slow, controlled, deep breaths. In and out, in and out, just keep that rhythm and you will be fine." Samuels was a comforting presence just by speaking but Taylor clearly was not able to overcome her fears so easily. She just moaned of how she did not want to do this.

"Depressurizing," stated Ripley. The hiss of air departing from the enclosed space to permit the sterile vacuum of space in, nearly overwhelmed all other sounds; almost all of them. Taylor's breath began coming in harsh, rapid gusts; she was beginning to hyperventilate in an already stressed state of mind which was not good.

"Oh, but I am so hating this."

"Just breathe Taylor. Just breathe. It will be alright. Shadow me Taylor, you to Samuels."

"Affirmative," came his calm reply from the rear as the cycle finished, the alarm and red, flashing lights ceased, and the door hissed open to reveal the station before them.

Up close, it was even greater in magnitude than initially realized. The station was absolutely huge; a true city or vast metropolis floating in the midst of space and orbiting a planet. What it had taken to build this thing - to put all of this into motion from the nuts and bolts to the people - the idea was simply staggering.

"What in the world happened here?" Ripley asked, observing the damage to the docking bay as they rappelled along the cable to the nearest air lock in the station.

Taylor swore behind Ripley in her shock and amazement at the sight before her disbelieving eyes. "You're doing great," Ripley called to Taylor looking back over her shoulder, "Just keep—" KAFWOOM! An explosion erupted from nearby and sent metal and all manner of other debris outward. "Just keep moving!" Ripley shouted it rather calmly, but an exceptionally large piece of debris was coming all too close.

As Taylor froze gasping in shock, fear evident, the large piece of metal that looked like it belonged to something round impacted the cable causing Taylor to scream for she was the closest on the line to the point of impact. Samuels yelled out for them to hold on as the cable began to bend, the strain finally making it give way. It snapped, making all three of the helpless beings attached go flying off, Taylor's screams ringing in Amanda's ears, as the world dissolved into spinning and disorientation with the pinpoints of stars, the planet, and the massive station all enter and exit her field of vision at an unbelievable rate of speed.

Amanda's frail senses just managed to help her keep her sense of balance; enough to register the fact that the station appeared to be getting closer, and then she impacted against the side. Her hand miraculously shot out and seized ahold of the nearest handhold which was a rail meant to enable people to move in and out of airlocks if maintenance ever needed to be performed on the station exterior.

"Samuels! Taylor! Respond anybody!" Nothing. Weary and gasping from the surge of adrenaline and emotion, Amanda "climbed" hand over hand towards the lever which opened the doors so she could hover over to the interior and pull down the other lever sealing off the doors and activating the repressurization of the room. The woman fell to the floor in a heap, numbly registering the impact.

Samuels… Taylor… Mother…

. . . . . . .

[Just Missed You]

Blane

Verlaine, you on the lookout for a navigational officer? I have a friend that has just lost his ship and he's looking for work. I can vouch for him; he's got good papers.

Same old story – the megacorps undercut him, picked up all his clients. Contracts are getting harder and harder to come by for the smaller companies and I'm thinking of getting out myself while I still have something to sell. Sounds like you're doing okay though. Dropped by the docks and heard you just shipped out. Sevastapol Station – what a dump. Still, I hear Weyland-Yutani pay well.

Good luck to you – if you can't beat 'em, right? Let's catch up when you get back.

Blane

November 13th, 2137

[RE: Nostromo Incident]

Saul

To N. Taylor

RE: Nostromo Incident. Weyland Yutani File #D99398476

Hey, Taylor, I got your case request. It may take me a while to dig out the files and the incident happened before my time at the company, so I'm a bit fuzzy on the details.

In 2122, the Weyland-Yutani cargo vessel the USCSS Nostromo went missing. No trace was found of its cargo or crew. Apart from a new science officer, the rest of the crew had worked together before, seven in all:

Dallas – Captain
Ash – Science Officer
Kane (or is it Cain?) – Executive Officer
Ripley – Warrant Officer
Lambert – Navigation Officer
Parker – Chief Engineer
Brett – Engineer Technician

Weyland-Yutani lost a lot of money from it; it's a bit of a black mark in the history. Get the impression they don't like to mention it. Anyway, I'll try and find the files later, clarify some of the points. If you want I can help you go through them? Maybe some of your luck will rub off on me, I hear upstairs have an eye on you for something big.

November 15th, 2137

[Torrens Manifest]

Torrens

Owner: Verlaine, Diane
Contractor: Weyland-Yutani

Outbound & return transportation for Weyland-Yutani retrieval team to Sevastapol Station.
Team consists of three W-Y employees: Samuels, C, Ripley, A, Taylor, N.

Passengers: Samuels, Christopher. Ripley, Amanda. Taylor, Nina.
Number of Deck – Two
Number of Crew – Four

Interstellar communications antenna. Long haul hypersleep chamber. Commercial passenger/cargo ship retrofitted from tow rig. Retains operational heavy-duty tow umbilical.

November 15th, 2137