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The trouble with Maker’s Hollow wasn't that it was small. The trouble wasn't that it was on the drain-side of the dirty-dishwater flow of the system. Those were, in fact, the good points of the colony. The trouble with Maker’s Hollow, as far as Newt was concerned, was that every three years or so a Weyland-Yutani ship stopped by. And every three years or so, Maker's Hollow got a little bit bigger and little more like any other colonial outpost.
“Miss Newt,” Sen-Ya said from behind her apothecary's counter. Newt smiled at the old woman and closed the heavy wooden door against the wind. Not Earth-wood, of course. Colony-wood, planed smooth from felled wiretrees. Not genetically trees, not wiry, and not real wood, but solid against the autumn weather. Sen-Ya's shop was a mix, that way. Local colonial materials, mixed with exotic accents from other worlds. Newt noticed a few new things. Traded from the recent arrivals, she was sure, looking for the medicines, lotions, soaps, and the other personal items that Sen-Ya made or bought or found. As the only apothecary in Maker's Hollow, Sen-Ya never lacked for business.
“Honored Sen-Ya,” Newt replied. “It’s a pleasure to see you in your fine establishment.” The old woman liked tradition, like the formal customs. Newt had long ago learned that it was simply easier to adapt to the manners of any given situation rather than be stubborn. Ripley, on the other hand -- Ripley could only be polite for so long. Which was why Newt ran all the errands in town.
“My humble store endeavors to meet your needs,” Sen-Ya said in the formulaic answer. With the pleasantries out of the way, she frowned at Newt. “I don’t need any more furs, skins, or bones,” she said in warning. "Finished goods. Currency would be better."
Newt nodded. “I know, Dacen told me last week. I have this – “ She reached into her bag and set the small box on the counter. The latch opened easily, revealing the glint of metal inside.
Sen-Ya bent over to take a closer look. She straightened, shrugging both of her hands. “Relay switches. Common enough.”
Newt closed the box. “I hate to trouble you.”
“But I suppose I could find a buyer for them,” Sen-Ya added grudgingly.
“Veilflower's pretty common,” Newt said.
“Not so common that you have what you need.”
“And I could go find a buyer for these switches myself,” Newt countered sharply. “The whole point of a middleman is that you’re supposed to make things easier for all of us.”
Sen-Ya sucked her teeth for a moment. “The switches for … the usual amount of veilflower? Half a liter?”
Newt nodded.
“Done.”
Newt tucked the stoppered glass bottle in her bag. She pulled her hood up and tied her coat tight before stepping out into the weather.
The wind raced down the street, flinging dust and leaves, rattling shingles and shutters like a choppy shuttle landing. Newt adjusted her goggles and walked crosswise down the gritty tarmac lane. A few other people were out, running errands under the weak, grey light of late autumn. The door to Regis's General Goods slammed open in a sudden gust. Newt grabbed the handle and nodded politely at Regis. The older woman nodded her thanks in return.
Up ahead the lane dwindled into Newcomer Camp. Every three years, the Weyland-Yutani ships arrived with a new load of colonists. Mostly those colonists went to new steads around the planet. But a few hundred or so were always left at Maker's Hollow. New specialists, new entrepreneurs. Expanders and builders of more sophisticated systems. The small colonial outpost has been a raw frontier town seven years ago when Ripley and Newt had answered Hicks' invitation. There'd been work for Ripley that she could stand, clearcutting work, rough earthworks. Jobs that lasted a few weeks to a few months, that took hard physical labor and not a lot of thought. Jobs in the outdoors that didn't smell of recycled sweat and burnt electronics.
Newt had found work, too. A ranger, a forester. Newt always could hide better than anyone. She used that to advantage, turned it into a skill that killed aggressive native predators, trapped nuisance herbivores. Newt was a hunter, a tracker. These days she made more money in finding lost colonists, when the occasion arose.
Before she reached Newcomer Camp, Newt turned south. She would be seeing the camp just as soon as someone disregarded the warnings about magnetic drift and electronics here, and got themselves good and damn lost. She passed through the east forecourt and crossed the creek. The Hicks' homestead came into view, past Second Bridge.
Newt vaulted the paddock fence and went into the barn. The noise of weather cut off abruptly as she was out of the wind. She pushed her goggles back up on her head and slid her hood off. The door to the mudroom was sticking again. Newt made a note to plane it down, when she had a chance. She yanked it shut, removed her dusty outerwear and boots, pulled on the waiting slippers, and opened the door to the house.
The Hicks' family common room was large and vaulted and warm. Lamps placed on the eight posts illuminated the edges of the room, and the oil-lanterns hanging over the table provided light for meals, crafts, reading, projects, and school. The fireplace on the outside wall was huge, but three-quarters shielded and blocked off, unused in this warmer season. Soon enough the brick stopper would be removed by the older Hicks children, the hearth cleaned, and the solstice fires lit.
The Hicks children in question were mostly sitting at the table when Newt walked in. Morris, with his long dark dreadlocks and long, gangly limbs, was changing Elsie's diaper. Juney knit, Alonzo read aloud, and Zorah was just putting the clean dishes away. All of the children seem to not notice, or at least not mind, Ripley's meticulous field-stripping of a Mark III service rifle at the near end of the table.
Morris looked up at Newt's arrival. He nodded, his mouth full of safety pins.
Newt nodded back. "Brisk out there," she told the family.
"We know," Ally said, coming in from the front room. Ally Hicks smiled at Newt. "Dwayne was out early, with the flock. Glad to see you."
Newt sat on the bench next to Ripley. She pulled the jar of veilweed out of her bag. "Do you want me to make tea?" she asked.
Ripley looked at Newt with a wry grimace. "I'm not a child, or an invalid," she said. "Don't talk to me like your senile grandmother."
Newt rolled her eyes, not mentioning that Ripley rather looked like a grandmother. Her grey hair stuck out from the twist Ripley wore. Her face was taut and lined, windchapped and sun-baked. "This is practical, not condescending," she said. "You kept me up last night, even from the other room. We all of us sleep better with the veilweed. When Weyland's in town. Hicks, too." She met Ally's eyes. The woman nodded briskly as she tied a scarf around her neatly braided hair.
"I'll have a third of that," she said. "And we hope they leave on schedule." Ally's hands were quick and sure as she poured the veilweed into a pottery jar and stoppered it.
Zorah, finished with her chores, stood near Ripley. She touched the stock of the rifle with one finger. Ripley gave her a quick smile. "Going to help with this, Zee?" Zorah nodded enthusiastically and picked up the contact cleaner.
Newt found a few clean mugs in the cupboard. She remembered the same lessons, the drill in cleaning and maintaining weapons. All sorts of weapons. Pulse sidearms in the re-purposed hold of the Agamemnon, a medical ship turned into a refugee transport. Carbon-steel glaives in the port city of New Braslila on Manduhai Four. Smokeless powder cartridge rifles in the mountains of Red Burn. Glass knives on board Rodina. An adolescence measured in death-dealing.
Newt hadn't killed anything intelligent in eight years.
The kettle on the back of the wood-burning stove was warm. Newt moved it over the hotbox. She stirred the wood without opening the door, the wood handle of the permanently-installed poker warm and smooth in her hand. After a few moments she could hear the water in the kettle simmering.
"Was nice of you to bring Dacen by last night," Ally said to Newt. She walked past Newt, around the far side of the table, to the shelf with the accounts. Ally pulled down this year's ledger, found a pencil, and brought them to the table where the abacus sat waiting.
Newt made sure her face betrayed no expression. "Thank you for inviting us," she said. "And he said to let you know he can't remember red beans and rice so good as yours."
Ally scoffed. "Your man doesn't need a special invitation," she said, opening the ledger. "You're welcome here, he's welcome here. We trust your judgment."
The clatter as Ripley dropped the power pack was loud. Everyone startled and looked at her. Ripley bent sideways and picked the battery off the floor. "Sorry," she muttered with complete insincerity.
Newt pulled the kettle off the stove just before it started to whistle. She poured the hot water into two mugs, then added a spoonful of veilweed to each. She set one mug down next to Ripley and took the other with her towards the hearth. Newt sat in the chair next to the small fire. She held the mug in both hands, waiting for the tea to cool. This was her favorite chair. The wall curved in a bit, the hearth protruded. It was sheltered and warm, a small space. Newt pulled her feet up on the front of the chair. She wasn't as small as she once was, but she still fit.
Ally watched Newt and looked back at Ripley. "Are you two still fighting about this?"
"Takes two to fight," Newt said quietly.
"Damn right we are," Ripley said at the exact same moment.
Ally rapped the table with her knuckles. "This is stupid," she told them. "Y'all are stupid. Fighting over the perfectly natural order of things."
Newt flushed bright red. She had heard Ally's discussions of "the perfectly natural order of things" with the children, and it was all far more graphic than any education about sex Newt had gotten. Not that Ripley had left her completely uninformed in that arena. Just, Ripley's advice about sex was practical, and Ally's made much more allowance for feelings, and desire, and the sort of want that had caught Newt entirely off-guard the first time she and Dacen had kissed.
"She can date," Ripley said firmly. "Date, fuck, marry or not marry, I don't give a damn. But did he tell you about his plans?" She turned, pointing at Newt. "Did she tell you?"
"Of course," Ally said. "Weeks ago."
Newt closed her eyes for a moment.
"Weeks?" Ripley's voice was very soft. "You told Ally weeks ago you were leaving?"
"We're not going on a Weyland ship," Newt heard herself say. Which didn't answer any sort of question. "And we'll be back! I'm not going forever! I just want to ... " Newt trailed off under the collected gaze of the room. "I just want to know I could do it. That I can." She shrugged and looked away. "I don't want to be scared, or blind, or stupid."
"There, see?" Ally said to Ripley. "Not on any Weyland ship. What more do you want?"
Ripley stood abruptly. The bench scraped loud across the floor. She leaned forward, fists on the table, mouth open to speak. Newt saw Ally's back straighten very, very slowly. Newt made a move, half to nearly getting up. She didn't want them to fight. She didn't want any of them to fight. Fighting, shouting, these things were hard for Newt. And she was already in the smallest chair in the lowest corner in the room.
Ripley saw the abortive motion and closed her mouth. She lowered her head, then straightened. She sighed, rubbing both hands through her hair quickly, roughly. The twist came undone entirely, half-braided hair falling every which way. "What I don't want," she said with deliberation, "is the goddam veilweed tea." Ripley looked at Ally. "Do you still have that shitty flower-wine?"
"Last season's?" Ally nodded. "I do. But if you stop calling it shitty I'll let you have some of this season's wine, instead."
Ripley sat down. As she did so, Zee resumed putting the weapon back together. The rest of the kids picked up their activities as well. The moment had clearly passed. Newt sipped her tea. It was cool enough to drink. She took a large swallow, too fast, and regretted it. But she drank the rest down quickly anyway. She didn't like it when the grown-ups fought.
But I'm a grown-up, too, Newt silently protested to herself. It was hard to remember that, sometimes. Hardest to remember when the Weyland-Yutani ships were in town, when the officers drove by in their semi-armored vehicles, when the new colonists walked into the stores with their W-Y labelled bags and their W-Y scrip and their Weyland-fucking-Yutani-assigned lands and jobs and colony expansion plans.
Colonial development gave Newt bad dreams.
The veilweed tea settled on her, and Newt uncurled in her chair. She watched as Ally uncorked a bottle and poured a glass for Ripley. When Ripley took it, she held Ally's gaze a moment, then nodded. Ally patted Ripley once on the shoulder and went back to the homestead's accounts.
Newt watched them. Dacen was coming by in a bit, with the next year's shipping schedule. They could talk things through with Hicks and Ally and Ripley. Newt wanted to talk to them. She wanted their advice, their knowledge. She wanted to know where she and Dacen could go, what they could safely see. She wanted to travel again, this time without the nightmares and Ripley's endless drills. Dacen wanted to start a life here, in Maker's Hollow, with Newt. But he wanted to get out and go to school first, get an education that would let him take better work in the colony on his return. And Newt wanted to be with him while he did so.
She closed her eyes. She couldn't hardly hear the wind through the thick walls. The fire was warm. The chair was cozy. Her family was around her. The future was uncertain, but not impossible. Newt listened to the quick clicking of the abacus, the knitting, the gentle sound of pages turning. The quiet murmurs of conversation. The past was a thing Newt never had to return to.
***
Ripley looked up when Ally stood. Ally picked up the knit throw from the chest near the bedroom door and tucked it in around Newt as the younger woman slept. Ripley nodded, once, and looked back to the Mark III she was cleaning. Zee slid the charge plate into the receiver with a nice, solid, clack. "Good girl," Ripley told her. "Now, can you take it apart with your eyes shut?"