Ellen Ripley stepped through the docking collar with the soft hiss of equalizing pressure still in her ears, a sound like a sigh that belonged to the ship rather than to her. The Nostromo felt colder than she expected, as if the void outside had left frost along the inner seams of the corridor. She paused to let the others file ahead—Dallas, Kane, and Lambert already joking about shore leave on Thedus—and for one unguarded moment she rested her palm against the bulkhead. The metal vibrated faintly with the heartbeat of distant engines, a low, patient thrum that said, I have carried many strangers, and I can carry you too.

She had shipped out on plenty of commercial tugs, but never one this old. The lighting panels overhead flickered once, twice, then steadied, casting everything in a bruised yellow. Somewhere aft, water dripped with metronomic regularity—plink, plink—into a collection pan. The smell was machine oil and ozone, coffee left too long on a warmer, and beneath it all the ghost of some floral disinfectant that had given up trying years ago.

“Ripley, you coming?” Ash called from the junction ahead. The science officer’s smile was thin, polite, unreadable. She nodded, adjusted the strap of her duffel, and followed.

They passed the galley. Parker and Brett were already there, arguing over who had to inventory the spare air scrubbers. Parker glanced up, gave her a quick once-over. “Third officer, right? Hope you’re good at poker. The pay on this boat’s a joke.”

“I’m good at everything that matters,” Ripley answered, deadpan. Parker barked a laugh and went back to his argument. She liked that—no ceremony, just the job.

Her quarters were smaller than a prison cell, but at least the bunk was hers alone. She stowed her bag, sealed the lock on the small drawer that held the only personal thing she’d brought: a flat holo of Amanda, gap-toothed and seven years old, waving on some forgotten beach. The frame dimmed automatically to conserve power. Ripley stared at the dark rectangle for a moment, then tapped the lights to full. No shadows.

On her way to the bridge she took a wrong turn—deck plans still locked in her head like a half-remembered song—and found herself in a narrow maintenance shaft. A maintenance drone glided past, red sensor eye blinking. It paused, as if surprised to see her, then continued on its programmed rounds. She felt a sudden certainty that the ship was watching, cataloguing, deciding. She shook the thought off.

Dallas was already in the pilot’s chair when she arrived. He swiveled, greeted her with a nod. “You’ll take second shift on navigation. Ash has the science station, but he’s… particular. Don’t let him rattle you.”

“I don’t rattle,” she said.

Dallas’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

Stars filled the forward viewport, hard and unsympathetic. Somewhere beyond them lay Sol, Amanda, Earth’s daylight that no longer belonged to her. Ripley sat at the console and ran a finger across the smooth surface of the astrogation screen. The Nostromo’s course stretched out in a thin green arc toward the outer rim: weeks of routine, then months of sleep, then whatever company contract waited on the far side.

She touched the screen again, and the arc glowed brighter. For an instant she imagined the line continuing past its plotted end, racing on into black nothing. She wondered whether the ship ever dreamed of such detours. Probably not. The Nostromo was a practical beast; it carried ore and people, nothing more.

Still, as the others settled around her and the engines deepened their note, she felt the hull lean into its acceleration like a horse testing the bit. Somewhere inside the iron skin, circuits opened and closed, valves sighed, pumps counted heartbeats in gallons per minute. A living mechanism, half awake, patient.

Ripley keyed the intercom. “Mother, this is Third Officer Ripley confirming arrival on station.”

A soft chime answered—Mother’s acknowledgement, neutral and maternal. The overhead lights dimmed to cruise level. The stars outside did not move, yet she felt the tug of motion, the way sailors once felt the tide.

She took a slow breath, tasting recycled air and the faint copper of anticipation. “All right,” she said quietly, to no one and to the ship. “Let’s go to work.”