Beyond the improvised barricade, the metal corridors of the colony complex groaned under extreme, unnatural stress. Every now and then, James could hear a wet, piercing squeal as the alien species hit one of their many defenses. Seconds later, the heavy blast doors shuddered, the floor beneath their boots violently bucking as a claymore or rigged press-charge detonated. The shockwaves tore through the vanguard of the horde, spraying pressurized, superheated acid across the bulkheads, melting solid titanium down to bubbling slag in seconds.

The acrid stench of scorched metal and dissolved insulation seeped through the ventilation ducts, thick and suffocating. In this claustrophobic, metal-walled abattoir, James reasoned, the human race was definitely not the apex predator. Whoever or whatever had engineered these creatures had constructed the ultimate biological weapon. They were flawless, elegant instruments of absolute eradication—organisms so utterly lethal that even in death, their decaying remains could dissolve an entire squad.

“What’s on your mind?”

James turned to Lieutenant First Class Ellen Louise Ripley. The tall, striking brunette had volunteered to accompany the detail into this meat grinder. Unlike the remaining Colonial Marines, who still clung to their brass-bound arrogance, she understood the bugs on a visceral level. She was the sole survivor of the Nostromo, the only human alive who had witnessed what a single specimen could do to a crew.

“Nothing,” he muttered, dragging a callous, soot-stained hand across his tired eyes. “And everything. I was actually pondering my death and how I’m going to die. Acid or stomach buster?”

She sighed, a slow, hollow sound, and nodded in grim solidarity. “So have I.”

James offered a ghost of a smile, his eyes hollowed by dark circles. “How long since you slept? Twenty-four hours?”

Ripley shrugged, her high cheekbones sharp in the harsh emergency lighting. She seemed soul-weary, thoroughly drained by the nerve-wracking tension that hung over the room like an executioner’s blade. When she finally answered, her voice was distant, detached, stripped of all comfort.

“They’ll get us.”

James nodded slowly, checking the power cell on his arm. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

She looked at him then, her gaze locking onto his with terrifying intensity. “James, I’m not going to wind up like those others. You’ll take care of it won’t you, if it comes to that?”

“If it comes to that, I’ll do us both. Let’s see that it doesn’t.” He paused for a moment, the silence between them heavy with unsaid goodbyes, before reaching down to grab his primary arm. “Here, I’d like to introduce you to a close personal friend of mine.”

He picked up his pulse rifle. With the casually precise, muscle-memory movements of long practice, he snapped open the bolt, dropped out the magazine, and handed the weapon across the crate to her.

“M-41A 10mm pulse-rifle, over and under with a 30mm pump-action grenade launcher.”

Ripley hefted the weapon. It was heavy, front-loaded, and awkward in her hands. However, there was an irrational promise of security in its lethal, cold steel lines—or at least the sense that she would be in some greater measure the master of her own fate when the barricades finally collapsed.

She raised it clumsily, her elbows flaring out.

He smiled at her eagerness to learn, a brief flicker of warmth amidst the darkness. Nothing like one’s sense of mortality on the line to make someone want to learn.

“What do I do?”

Ripley had the stock of the M-41A snugged up awkwardly to her cheek, struggling to maintain her balance while keeping up with James’ instructions. James walked up behind her. She wavered under the weapon’s weight, but he reached out, placing his warm, calloused hand over hers to steady it from shaking too much.

“Just pull it in real tight. It will kick some. When the counter here hits zero, hit this...” He thumbed a recessed release button, and the heavy metal magazine dropped out, clattering loudly against the deck plates. “Just let it drop right out. Get the other one in quick. Just slap it in hard, it likes abuse.”

She turned her head slightly, giving him a cheeky grin. “Do you?”

James smiled back, his eyes glinting in the red twilight of the strobe lamps. “Ma’am, I’m a Marine. I live for the abuse.”

From the far corner of the darkened control room, a gruff, muffled voice echoed through the static. He heard an oorah shouted in agreement and laughed.

“Now, pull the bolt.” She gripped the cocking handle and yanked it back—not very smoothly, but the mechanism locked home with a mechanical clatter. “You’re ready again.”

Ripley repeated the action, her hands smoothing out the rhythm. She paused, her index finger indicating a stout, ribbed tube mounted directly underneath the slender pulse-rifle barrel.

“What’s this?”

“Well, that’s the grenade launcher ... you probably don’t want to mess with that.”

“Look, you started this. Now show me everything. I can handle myself.”

James smiled at her enthusiasm, shaking his head. “Yeah.”

“So?”

He laughed softly and spent the next ten minutes showing her how to thumb the prime switch and clear a jammed high-explosive round.

Later that night, long after the distant screeching had quieted into an agonizing hush, he found her wandering the perimeter section by herself, her boots clicking softly on the grates.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She started, turning quickly, her hand hovering near her sidearm before she recognized him.

“No, the tension is killing me.”

James nodded, leaning his shoulders against the damp bulkhead. “Nerves.”

“Yes.”

He looked at her, pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and handed it to her. She took it from him, their hands touching for a lingering moment before she slid her fingers away and took a deep, dragging pull.