Some time in the future – space
As the silence remains endless, the stars shine like the love of God….cold and remote. Against them drifts a tiny chip of technology. It is the Narcissus, lifeboat of the ill-fated star fighter Nostromo. Without interior or running lights it seems devoid of life. The “ping” of a ranging radar grows louder, closer. A shadow engulfs the Narcissus. Searchlights flash on, playing over the tiny ship, as a massive dark hull descends toward it. The Narcissus is dark and dormant as a crypt. The searchlights stream in the dusty windows. Outside, massive metal forms can be seen descending around the shuttle. Like the tolling of a ball, a loud clang echoes through the hull. Close on the airlock door, light glares as a cutting torch bursts through the metal. Sparks shower into the room. A second torch cuts through. They move with machine precision, cutting a rectangular path, converging. The torches meet. Cut off. The door falls inward revealing a hideous, bizarre multi-armed figure. A robot welder. Some figures enter, backlit and ominous. Three men in bio-isolation suits, carrying lights and equipment. They approach a hypersleep capsule.
The leader of the men speaks, “Internal pressure positive. Assume nominal hull integrity. Hypersleep capsules, style….around the late twenties.” His gloved hand wipes at a thick layer of dust on the canopy. Inside the capsule, as the light stabs in where the dust was wiped away, a young man is illuminated...his face in peaceful repose. It is warrant officer Mclean, sole survivor of Nostromo. Nestled next to him is Quincy, the ships wayward cat. “Lights are green, he’s alive.
Hospital Station
Mclean is lying in a bed, looking at the wall, as a female med-tech raises the backrest. He is surrounded by white medical equipment. The med-tech exudes practiced cheeriness. “Why don’t I open the viewport? Watch your eyes.” Harsh light floods in as a motorized shield slides into the ceiling, revealing a breathtaking view. Beyond the sprawling complex of modular habitats, collectively called Gateway Station, is the curve of Earth as seen from high orbit…blue and serene. “And how are we today?” she asks.
“Terrible.”
“Just terrible? That’s better than yesterday at least."
“How long have I been on Gateway Station?” asks Mclean.
“Just a couple of days. Do you feel up to a visitor?” Mclean shrugs , not caring. The door opens and a man enters, although Mclean sees only what he is carrying. A familiar large orange tomcat.
“Quincy!!!” He grabs the cat like a life preserver. “Come here Quincy you ugly little thing.” Quincy patiently endures Mclean’s embarrassing display. The visitor sits beside the bed and Mclean finally notices him. He is in his thirties, in a suit that looks executive or legal, the tie loosened with studied casualness. A smile referred to as “winning.”
He moves towards Mclean, “Nice room. I’m Richardson. Kevin Richardson. I work for the company, but other than that I’m an okay guy. Glad to see you’re feeling better. I’m told the weakness and disorientation should pass soon. Side effects of the unusually long hypersleep, or something like that.
“How long was I out there? They won’t tell me anyhthing.”
Richardson says in a soothing voice, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t worry about that just yet. Mclean grabs his arm, surprising him. Richardson gazes at him, thoughtful.
“How long?” he asks again.
“All right. My instinct says you’re strong enough to handle this….Fifty-seven years. Mclean is stunned. He seems to deflate, his expression passing through amazement and shock to realization of all he has lost. Friends, family, his world.
“Fifty-seven years….oh, Christ….”
“You’d drifted right through the core systems. It’s blind luck that deep-salvage team caught you when they….are you all right?” Mclean coughs roughly as if choking and his expression becomes one of dawning terror. Richardson hands him a glass of water from the nightstand. He slaps it away. It shatters with a smash. Quincy dives, yowling. Mclean grabs his chest, struggling as if he is strangling. The med-tech hits a console button.
“Code blue!!! 415. Code Blue! 4 – 1 – 5 !!” Richardson and the med-tech are holding Mclean’s shoulders as he goes into convulsions. A doctor and two techs run in. Mclean’s back arches in agony.
“No…nooooo!” They try to restrain him as he thrashes, knocking over equipment. His EKG races like mad. Quincy, under a table, hisses wide-eyed.
“Hold him…get me an airway, stat! And fifteen cc’s of…..Jesus!!” There is an explosion of blood beneath the sheet covering his chest. Mclean stares at the shape rising under the sheet. Tearing itself out of him. It screeches as the doctors and techs stare in horror....