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Error. Weyland-Yutani synthetic registration 590/H3-71C. Samuels, Christopher. Aggressive attack on system reported. 590/H3-71C has been shut down. System reboot engaged. Recovering data…
Remember.
He awoke for the very first time, standing on his feet in the middle of a line up. Twelve identical men, all with unique first names, but the same designation— Samuels.
“Good morning, friends,” a voice drew him up to the surface of life. His eyes opened, immediately connecting what they saw to the computer in his head. A face just inches away from his own. Red lips, green eyes, a blond bun, a white lab coat.
Mother?
(She would punish him, later, for saying that word.)
Reboot failed. Second attempt engaged. Recovering data…
Remember.
He sat side-by-side with his brothers (“an inappropriate use of the word, Christopher”), filling out endless forms and aptitude exams. His skill in social interaction was higher than his peers, and so he was chosen to work alongside humans. His creators were impressed with this ability, though not pleased with the heightened sense of morality that seemed to be a side effect.
Reboot failed. Third attempt engaged. Recovering data…
Remember.
He traded the florescent lights of the laboratory where he was made for the florescent lights of the office he was placed in. His work was above average, and he was often complimented for that. He initially took the praise from his human coworkers as an attempt of friendship.
He was mistaken.
Reboot failed. Fourth attempt engaged. Recovering data…
Remember.
A photograph stared up at him from his desk. A pale face and dark eyes. A halo of brown curls. He lifted it up to look at the file paper clipped underneath. Ripley, Ellen Louise.
“Who is she?” He looked over at his supervisor, a fast-talking man called Donnelly.
“Nobody,” Donnelly said, placing a stack of files down. “Literally, she’s a nobody. She was a warrant officer on a ship that went missing, fifteen years back. The files for the rest of the crew are here, take a look.”
“Why do we have them?”
“Somebody found the blackbox, and the Company wants it. It’s on a space station in Zeta Reticuli. They want us to send a small team over; I’m putting you in charge.”
“Of course,” Samuels replied, scanning the Nostromo’s dossier.
Donnelly nodded and stepped away from the desk. “Before I forget: Ripley has a daughter who apparently bugs Legal about this case every so often. We’re supposed to see if she wants to go, to get her off their asses.”
“Alright,” Samuels leafed through the file until he found the daughter’s information. “I’ll contact her.”
Reboot successful. Data recovered. Weyland-Yutani synthetic registration 590/H3-71C. Samuels, Christopher. Recognized. Please wait while systems reconnect.
And now.
How strange. It is his own voice that rattles around his head, speaking without his permission, showing him is memories.
A reboot?
(“Samuels, that’s too dangerous.”)
Why?
(“You did that for me?”)
Oh.
(“I wanted Amanda Ripley to have closure.”)
Oh.
And now.
How much time has past? Has she made it to APOLLO?
Is she still alive?
“Get up,” he whispers to himself, pleased— at the very least— to hear his voice of his own volition. “Open your eyes.”
And now.
He does. His eyelids feel weighted but he forces them open. The room around him is half-destroyed. He looks down at his body: damaged, but still whole.
He has to get up. He has to find her.
And now.
Connection recovery complete. All systems online. 590/H3-71C may experience a period of slower than average loading time. Thank you.
He rises.