Note: Six years is probably too long for fans of Ernie the Xenomorph to wait for another installment of her adventures, but I wasn't satisfied with the Alien 3 plot I wrote, and the spinoff stories weren't very successful, so I'm doing a reboot. I've forgotten a lot of stuff, and gotten older, so forgive me if Ernie doesn't sound like the same Ernie.
RECAP (I've revised all the chapters - go back and read them if you want).
Chapter 99: Ripley faces down Ernie's grandmother in her nest. Ernie, protective of little Newt, stays to help Ripley, hoping to make peace between the human and queen. Of course, Ernie's just been stabbed through the stomach with an alien sword, and shot through the leg, courtesy her deceased daughter.
Ripley shoots Ernie's granny in the egg sac. A lot of stuff blows up. Ripley, Newt and Ernie take an elevator to the roof of the power station, but Grandma follows them.
They escape the power station in a shuttle, just as the place turns into a giant fireball. Unfortunately, Granny has hidden inside the landing gear.
Chapters 100 to 101: Granny makes a dramatic entrance by ripping up Bishop the android and picking a fight with Ripley. Ernie helps out the best she can, and Granny gets jettisoned into space.
Now that things have calmed down, Bishop and Ripley discuss building a cryogenics pod for Ernie.
At this point, Ernie, weakened from the loss of blood, has a near death experience. However, "Ernie's time has not yet come," and she gets sent back to the land of the living by means of a mysterious stone bathtub...
[0000]
Absolute darkness. No light at all. Cave-like.
I drifted in freezing cold liquid, feeling everything like some lost soul from the Titanic after the boat sank. The arctic chill seeped into every crevice in my body, sending both my exterior set of teeth and interior fanged ones into involuntary chattering fits.
They clomped against some plastic-metal appliance...a torture device, perhaps?
What was this? Had I been sent to hell to preach to the spirits in prison?
No...wait. My infrared eye and sonar sense could now pick out details: A cramped coffin-like box, fashioned out of metal, chevron plates suggestive of refrigerator paneling. The metal-plastic tube in my throat connected to machinery on the wall. A chemical smell filled the compartment, possibly bleach and alcohol.
My coffin came with a drain of sorts, an "oxygen scrubber". Like my breathing apparatus, it had been built with acid resistant materials, presumably in the event that I pissed or bled and it washed down there to damage the fixtures.
The tube slowly puffed air. A large amount, not modulated to keep pace with my spiking heart rate. Designed to keep me unconscious, at least, in theory.
Where was I? Did Ripley and Newt go to earth and leave my unconscious body with some scientific outfit, to be dissected and put on display at a research facility?
I could not feel the pull of gravity. Having been submerged in liquid before, I expected to sink a little, but this did not occur. So...probably not deposited on a planet yet, due to that ICC Protocol thing I'd heard mentioned before (whatever that means).
Was I still in transit?
If they didn't dissect me and let me live, would I end up in another lab with probes stuck through my skull? Some kind of repeat of Hadley's Hope?
...Ripley made it clear she didn't like me, that I'd been rescued only because of Newt. She saw me as a danger, didn't she? Why not kill me and save the trouble? She clearly didn't want anybody to exploit my species for...army tech, right?
If so, dissection seemed a real possibility. "You can have the damn thing for your experiments, but I want it dead."
Of course, then, why the breathing equipment?
...Perhaps Newt had twisted her arm and allowed me to live.
Or maybe they thought I was in a coma, and I'd remain suspended in a tank to be observed and monitored. But why not a transparent tank?
Refrigerator paneling. Didn't Bishop say something about building a cryo pod or something with their food freezer?...Guess that would explain the faint meat and produce scents. They probably poured in chemicals to keep the environment sterile...In theory. To the best of my knowledge, a basic bleach combined with my caustic blood would not be a good mix.
On the plus side, my stomach and leg wounds seemed to have closed on their own, perhaps due to a miracle or my Ss'sik'chtokiwij body regenerating itself during my long period of rest.
It appeared I had undergone a growth spurt while I was out, the Pachyrinosaurus-like horn growths around my head a strange new addition.
An alarm klaxon blared at me. A red light flashed on the machine, and I suddenly couldn't breathe...Not oxygen, at any rate.
I panicked, ripping the tube out of my throat.
My thoughts immediately went to Grandmother. Thrown out an airlock, drifting endlessly through space...on what air?
She survived, but how well? Did her body just shut down or become uselessly torpid until she ran into the nearest celestial object, space vehicle, or random piece of debris?...Kind of drifting around lifelessly in the vacuum like a bacteriophage virus waiting for a ride on a passing blood cell? I wouldn't be of any `help' to anybody in that state.
Not knowing what lay beyond this murky coffin troubled me.
Say, for example, the ship carrying me as cargo had exploded, and I only had this little box between me and the void of space.
Or what if I opened the compartment and found myself falling out of an airplane or shuttle?...No, the center of gravity was wrong for that.
I still ran the risk of opening an electrical panel and electrocuting myself...or doing something else that kills me...or kills my dear friend Newt...Presuming she's nearby.
Still, needed to do something, or drown. Grandmother may have survived the harsh vacuum of space, but I never heard of a Ss'sik'chtokiwij breathing underwater, and I didn't want to risk death to check if I could.
What to do...
I pushed on the walls...all of them.
The walk-in freezer at Hadley's Hope had a big fat button you could slap to unlatch the door from the inside. No such button existed here. If it had, in fact, been built from cold storage equipment onboard the Sulaco, this would make sense, since a hinged freezer door would be an inconvenient nuisance on a space vehicle. A lock-and-slide would be far more appropriate for the turbulence of interstellar travel.
Of course, I'd never seen the refrigerator latches on the Sulaco or other space vehicles, so still feared an unyielding latch of some sort, maybe even an electronic one (though if it had been electronic, I could at least hope to vanquish it by sticking bits of metal into my mouth, doing an impression of a car battery).
The warning klaxon kept blaring.
I knocked politely on each wall, then, when no answer came, I got annoying with it.
Nothing.
I knocked on the walls like a police officer, beat on them with my fists.
No answer.
Seeing stars now, I've got no air in my lungs. Don't know why I haven't passed out.
While in one of his better moods, perhaps to prepare me in the event of my fellow Ss'sik'chtokiwij attacking me again, scientist Roger Shattuck had shown me Kill Bill Volume 2. This program featured a scene where a woman uses her fists to escape a wooden coffin buried deep underground.
I attempted the same hand move: Knife hand to fist, knife hand to fist, throwing it at the metal with all my might.
In an awesome display of physical prowess, my fist punched through the metal wall like a piece of cardboard, and with still more remarkable muscular power, enlarged the hole with my claws until I could fit my entire head through the opening.
Just kidding. In my battle weakened, emaciated state, I only managed to put a few dents in the aluminum-steel. It would take me years to develop the immense strength Mother used to rip open doors and whatnot. As always I had to employ more resourceful problem solving.
If I were human, it's likely I would have been dead by now.
I couldn't melt my way out of this either. The freezing liquid diluted the strength of my acid. In terms of effectiveness, I'd compare it to dumping ordinary drain cleaner into a water filled, stopped up sink. Instead of making holes, it just lightly etched interesting patterns into the walls. It reminded me of how they mix pig urine and paint to make those crazy inside cover designs in old children's books.
I searched my surroundings once more.
I had not been placed in a hermetically sealed container. It had a lid.
Simple, makeshift construction. Well, simple-ish. I presumed there to be some refrigeration equipment on the other side of the walls, but that wouldn't have any impact on the opening on opening the compartment. Plus, if the coffin's ultra low temperature derived from being dragged behind a spacecraft with no insulation, clawing my way out in that direction would deprive me of a useful armored box...again, provided I actually possessed Mother's fierce strength.
A sliding lid, no hinges. Cryogenics pods on the Sulaco had fancy electronically locking lids and so forth, but, judging by the hasty construction, I doubted my captors (whoever they were) had enough time to make so fancy for me.
The general design of the lid and its frame indicated the point where it opened and slid back. No handle on the inside — I guess nobody seriously expected a person to lock themselves into the freezer by mistake.
I stuck my claws into the dents I'd made, and tugged.
The lid cracked slightly, bubbling at the breach, but I encountered immediate resistance.
Upon closer examination, I found the lid had been fastened, or possibly padlocked shut, by means of some new welds. I suspected Ripley, in a fit of extreme (possibly justified) paranoia, had fashioned this contrivance to prevent me impregnating her.
Red light filtered down from above. I peered through the narrow gap: Not floating in space. It...seemed I hadn't even left the Sulaco. We appeared to be experiencing a power failure, only the emergency backup lights for illumination.
I'd been sequestered in some storage area, it seemed. White barrels and lockers and totes piled up, dirty wall to wall. No telling how long this unimportant storage room would retain oxygen.
I sucked in life giving air from the small gap, contemplating my next move.
Again, water diluted the potency of my acid.
I glanced back at the drain. Of all places in the container, this would be the most vulnerable to my diluted chemicals. Perhaps I could exploit this somehow.
I gulped down air, swam back to the drain, ripping out filters and chunks of equipment. I knew this could pose a risk, as all drainage systems in spaceships generally operate by a vacuum system, meaning removal of air from the compartment, and the creation of an actual vacuum in the coffin, but I already had no air, and I've read that a vacuum lowers the boiling point of acid anyway.
I found sharp edged pieces in the drainage apparatus, cutting a finger claw with one, flinging blood on the locking pin and solder while I breathed through the crack.
The water slowly drained around me. Under the dim light, I could only see outlines of my acid's caustic bubbling action on...whatever it was they'd locked me in with. I kept sucking in air bubbles, flicking acid, forcefully shoving the panel back and forth.
After what felt like an eternity, the locking...device made an unpleasant crunching sound, creating a very uneven, ugly fissure through the fastener.
The damaged little bits of metal still kept me imprisoned. Groaning, I continued fighting it.
I persisted. More blood, more fighting with the hatch.
At long last the `pin' snapped free, hatch slamming all the way back with a deafening clang.
I burst from my coffin, gasping in warm, free air.
When I caught my breath, I frowned. No gravity.
Dizzy. Light headed. Zero gravity does that to you. I hovered in midair, flipping upside down as I scrambled for moorings.
Decidedly Brutalist architecture in that room. Well, what I could ascertain from night vision and the backup lights. The Sulaco on the whole generally did have a form-following-function aesthetic, with emphasis on function. Of course, nobody really says to their mate, "Hey, let's go touring some cargo bays, I hear they're really beautiful."
What I did find beautiful: The labels on the totes, barrels and freezer lids. Meat. Just reading them made my mouth water.
A mouse floated in the air beside me, tiny feet scrambling uselessly for purchase. The sheer hardiness of this rodent astounded me. No cryogenics, apparently living off rice and other grains uncovered by chewing a hole through something...for months. Its ancestors likely would have had to breed in order to have any sort of staying presence.
And the fact that its presence (and likely a few family generations) had gone unnoticed for so long, while obviously dipping into the food supply...
Water boiled out of the coffin in gallons. Not one hundred percent positive about the science, but I assume it had something to do with microgravity, water molecules flying loose en masse, and super cold liquid hitting the warmer outside air. I doubt you could cook macaroni with it.
Although I didn't appreciate being locked inside a coffin, the thought of a flooded spaceship alarmed me. I swam through the air to a bulkhead, clawed along until I reached handlebars, used them to clamber down to the refrigerator hatch.
I tugged and pulled on the handle, propped my feet up on the sides and yanked with all the effort I could muster, but unfortunately I'd applied too much force during my escape, and it refused to budge from its compartment.
I abandoned the endeavor, deciding it best to go ask Ripley and Bishop how to clean up the mess...if Ripley didn't get scared and throw me out an airlock first.
Of course, close to the point of starving to death, I ripped open a floor panel and inhaled a few frozen steaks first. I gave a prayer of thanks as an afterthought.
I imagine the door to this storage area would have opened at my approach, but, obviously, the power...
Fortunately, such a high traffic area did not require complicated security measures. The guy with the bags of rice and pallets of kidney beans wants to get into the kitchen without typing in a security code every time. A simple foot pedal got me out into the hallway.
I...had to force the door shut again to avoid recreating the elevator scene from The Shining with water.
Red emergency lights only. Not sure why.
No change in the bland Brutalist design. White walls (well, probably white, the emergency lights made everything red), marred with scuff marks and grease from the countless brushing of people's hands.
Big space station. It appeared as if I stood in the narrow section of the Sulaco's dog bone structure. At one end, the one closest to me, an oversized door, the familiar scents indicating it to be the vehicle bay we'd fought Grandmother in.
I hadn't eaten that many steaks, but the microgravity made my stomach feel oddly full.
Alarm klaxons blaring. No sight of anything living...or moving, for that matter—no machines. I passed weapon and equipment storage rooms (security locked).
I hazarded a guess, by the height of the ceiling, that another floor of rooms could be accessed in a hallway above my head, confirmed when I discovered ceiling hatches and ladders at regular intervals.
I caught Ripley and Newt's scents, stronger and more recent.
Food scents...they'd briefly eaten something...from a cafeteria at the far end...the freshest scents around a room marked Cryo Bay.
Still had no idea what happened to the power. I used a lever to get in. Had to shove the door open.
For some reason, the artificial gravity kicked back in. I spasmed as sudden pain shot through me.
Twenty machines, loaded with medical equipment, propped up glass coffins. Fantastic view of space out the window. I fancied I could see Grandmother floating by, but probably imagined it. I had been out for awhile.
All but three pods had their lights off. The ones with the lights...clearly something had gone wrong.
For one thing, red is not a good color for a medical readout. Also, the EKG, EEG and BP readouts should not be blank, and the pod probably shouldn't make unpleasant squawking noises every couple seconds.
I couldn't understand the buttons and menus on the pods, they used unfamiliar medical abbreviations, and at other times gave options for dangerous things I didn't dare touch, like Body Temperature, Adrenaline and Defib. Worse, the digital windows and virtual buttons frequently got pixellated and winked out like a destroyed enemy in a Nintendo game.
At the moment, the underwear clad pod occupants all looked placid...a curly haired `Sleeping Beauty' dozing under glass, plump faced `Sleeping Beauty Junior' in the pod next to her, Hicks the injured soldier guy bland faced, occasionally grimacing from some PTSD...
Unfortunately, the moment passed, and they all convulsed and thrashed in their pods, as if dreaming about sliding down The World's Bumpiest Luge.
Tandem luge rides...also not a good thing to have inside a cryo pod.
I couldn't comprehend a lot about the equipment, but I did understand the words `Emergency Release,' and that a big red button inside the little glass box would aid this `Emergency Release.' It typically required a key, but, being a glass box, I only needed to smash it with my fist and push a button.
I selfishly chose Newt first, though I did pop the red buttons down on the other two pods afterwards.
The glass lid on the girl's pod slowly raised, visor like, exposing the doll-like figure, wreathed in icy vapors.
No breath. I would have seen the dragon-like puffs of white steam. Unnaturally pale. I feared she had already died.
I removed the wires and tubes, lifted the child's sodden body from the chill liquid, spread her out on the floor.
Still no sign of life. I stifled a sneeze as I gazed sadly at the little unmoving body.
She couldn't die. Not now. Not after we'd been through so much, and gone through so much to save her, to bring her here for a new start on life.
"C'mon, Newt. You're the only family I have left." I searched around the pods for something, anything, that could help me.
I knew some first aid. Right away, it seemed right to turn her over to expel liquid.
Glimpsing a red box with a cross on it, I tore it open: A small computerized device, gas mask on one end, air bladder on the other, small oxygen tanks attached to the sides to ensure air in an emergency shortage situation.
I pushed the `ON' button and the machine talked to me. "What is your emergency?"
"My friend isn't breathing. I took her out of the cryogenic thing—"
A robotic voice, reminding me of that computer from the old children's television program, Read All About It. "For a victim of drowning, check that the airways are open and clear. Place one hand on the forehead, pinch the victim's nose with finger and thumb to open the mouth..."
"I thought I kind of did that already." I rolled Newt over, following the directions. She did still have fluid in her airways. I turned her on her side to let it escape, rolled her on her back again. "Now what?"
The machine purred as air swelled into the balloon portion. "This rescue device will create an airtight seal and provide rescue breaths to the victim. Place and hold the mask portion over the victim's nose and mouth until their lungs have filled and the chest rises. The mask can be adjusted to fit small adults and children. Simply turn the knob on the side portion."
"Okay..." The knob made the soft plastic material retract around the child's face. The moment the pads had a perfect fit around her lips and the bridge of her nose, the machine pumped air into her.
The machine didn't come with a chest compression feature. It told me to kneel next to her, heel of my hand in the middle of her chest, other hand on top with interlocked fingers, and to not touch her ribs, but I've heard you haven't really done successful chest compressions until you've broken a couple ribs.
That being said, I have an exoskeleton, and didn't know my own strength. With a fragile child like this, I feared I would punch a hole through her body in the attempt.
Still...she could die anyway.
"Arms straight, press down to a third of the depth of the chest. Allow chest to rise."
The machine came equipped with disco music, instructing me to do compressions to the rhythm of Staying Alive, and after thirty compressions, told me to pause for the automatic air puffer.
The gravity cut out on me during this process, making positioning difficult. I resorted to affixing slime to her body to limit movement, straddling her waist and wrapping my stumpy tail around a railing to secure a firm CPR position.
I noticed, in retrospect, a few belts fastened to the floor for this apparent purpose, but my method served the intended purpose.
All of this hadn't transpired in a vacuum (no pun intended). The artificial gravity came back, cryogenic fluid hitting the floor with a noisy splash.
Water sloshed in the pod behind me, then the sound of bare feet awkwardly hitting a metal floor. A retching, vomiting sound followed.
A messy splashing sound of stomach contents voiding. More stumbling footsteps on metal.
At the point where I had just barely understood the lifesaving importance of The BeeGees, and developed a good rhythm, someone screamed, and a fire extinguisher bashed me in the side of the head.