Aliens

by Alan Dean Foster

  Fine. Leave it at that. She placed a handful of tiny recorder disks on the table before her.

  'I've dictated what I know on these. There are some duplicates. You can read them in your rooms or in your suits.'

  'I'm a slow reader.' Apone lightened up enough to smile slightly. 'Tease us a bit.'

  'Yeah, let's have some previews.' Spunkmeyer leaned back against enough explosive to blow a small hotel apart, snuggling back among the firing tubes and detonators.

  'Okay. First off, it's important to understand the organism's life cycle. It's actually two creatures. The first form hatches from a spore, a sort of large egg, and attaches itself to its victim. Then it injects an embryo, detaches, and dies. It's essentially a walking reproductive organ. Then the—'

  'Sounds like you, Hicks.' Hudson grinned over at the older man, who responded with his usual tolerant smile.

  Ripley didn't find it funny. She didn't find anything about the alien funny, but then, she'd seen it. The troopers stil weren't convinced she was describing something that existed outside her imagination. She'd have to try to be patient with them. That wasn't going to be easy.

  'The embryo, the second form, hosts in the victim's body for several hours. Gestating. Then it'—she had to swallow, fighting a sudden dryness in her throat—'emerges. Moults. Grows rapidly. The adult form advances quickly through a number o intermediate stages until it matures in the form of—'

  This time it was Vasquez who interrupted. 'That's all fine but I only need to know one thing.'

  'Yes?'

  'Where they are.' She pointed her finger at an empty space between Ripley and the door, cocked her thumb, and blew away an imaginary intruder. Hoots and guffaws of approval came from her colleagues.

  'Yo Vasquez!' As always, Drake delighted in his counterpart's demure bloodthirstiness. Her nickname was the Gamin Assassin. It was not misplaced.

  She nodded brusquely. 'Anytime. Anywhere.'

  'Somebody say "alien"?' Hudson leaned back in his seat, idly fingering a weapon with an especially long and narrow barrel 'She thought they said "illegal alien" and signed up.'

  'Fuck you.' Vasquez threw the comtech a casual finger. He responded by mimicking her tone and attitude as closely as possible.

  'Anytime. Anywhere.'

  Ripley's tone was as cold as the skin of the Sulaco. 'Am I disturbing your conversation, Mr. Hudson? I know most of you are looking at this as just another typical police action. I can assure you it's more than that. I've seen this creature. I've seen what it can do. If you run into it, I can guarantee that you won't do so laughingly.'

  Hudson subsided, smirking. Ripley shifted her attention to Vasquez. 'I hope it'll be as easy as you make it out to be, Private I really do.' Their eyes locked. Neither woman looked away.

  Burke broke it up by stepping between them to address the assembled troops. 'That's enough for a preview. I suggest all o you take the time to study the disks Ripley has been kind enough to prepare for you. They contain additional basic information, as well as some highly detailed speculative graphics put together by an advanced imaging computer. I believe you'll find them interesting. I promise they'll hold your attention.' He relinquished the floor to Gorman. The lieutenant was brisk, sounding like a commander even if he didn't quite look like one.

  'Thank you Mr. Burke, Ms. Ripley.' His gaze roved over the indifferent faces of his squad. 'Any questions?' A hand waved casually from the back of the group and he sighed resignedly 'Yes, Hudson?'

  The comtech was examining his fingernails. 'How do I get out of this outfit?'

  Gorman scowled and forbore from offering the first thought that came to mind. He thanked Ripley again, and gratefully she took a seat.

  'All right. I want this operation to go smoothly and by the numbers. I want full DCS and tactical data-base assimilation by oh-eight-thirty.' A few groans rose from the group but nothing in the way of a strong protest. It was no less than what they expected.

  'Ordnance loading, weapons strip and checkout, and dropship prep will have seven hours. I want everything and everybody ready to go on time. Let's hit it. You've had three weeks rest.'

  V

  The Sulaco was a giant metallic seashell drifting in a black sea Bluish lights flared soundlessly along the flanks of the unlovely hull as she settled into final orbit. On the bridge, Bishop regarded his instruments and readouts unblinkingly. Occasionally he would touch a switch or tap a flurry of commands into the system. For the most part all he had to do was observe while the ship's computers parked the vessel in the desired orbit. The automation that made interstellar navigation possible had reduced man to the status of a last-recourse backup system. Now synthetics like Bishop had replaced man Exploration of the cosmos had become a chauffeured profession.

  When the dials and gauges had lined up to his satisfaction he leaned toward the nearest voice pickup. 'Attention to the bridge. Bishop speaking. This concludes final intraorbital maneuvering operations. Geosynchronous insertion has been completed. I have adjusted artificial gravity to Acheron norm Thank you for your cooperation. You may resume work.'

  In contrast to the peace and quiet that reigned throughout most of the ship, the cargo loading bay was swarming with activity. Spunkmeyer sat in the roll cage of a big powerloader, a machine that resembled a skeletal mechanical elephant and was much stronger. The waldo gloves in which his hands and feet were inserted picked up the PFC's movements and transferred them to the metal arms and legs of the machine multiplying his carrying capacity by a factor of several thousand.

  He slid the long, reinforced arms into a bulging ordnance rack and lifted out a rack of small tactical missiles. Working with the smooth, effortless movements of his external prosthesis, he swung the load up into the dropship's belly. Clicks and clangs sounded from within as the vessel accepted the offering and automatically secured the missiles in place. Spunkmeyer retreated in search of another load. The powerloader was battered and dirty with grease. Across its back the word Caterpillar was faintly visible.

  Other troopers drove tow motors or ran loading arms Occasionally they called to one another, but for the most part the loading and prep operation proceeded without conversation. Also without accident, the members of the squad meshed like the individual gears and wheels of some halfmetal half-organic machine. Despite the close quarters in which they found themselves, and the amount of dangerous machinery in constant motion, no one so much as scraped his neighbour Hicks watched over it all, checking off one item after another on an electronic manifest, occasionally nodding to himself as one more necessary predrop procedure was satisfactorily completed.

  In the armoury Wierzbowski, Drake, and Vasquez were fieldstripping light weapons, their fingers moving with as much precision as the loading machines in the cargo bay. Tiny circuit boards were removed, checked, and blown clean of dust and lint before being reinserted into sleek metal and plastic sculptures o death.

  Vasquez removed her heavy smartgun from its rack and locked it into a work stand and lovingly began to run it through the computer-assisted final checkout. The weapon was designed to be worn, not carried. It was equipped with an integral computer lock-and-fire, its own search-and-detection equipment, and was balanced on a precision gimbal that stabilized itself according to its operator's movements. It could do just about everything except pull its own trigger.

  Vasquez smiled affectionately as she worked on it. It was a difficult child, a complex child, but it would protect her and her comrades and keep them safe from harm. She lavished more understanding and care on it than she did on any of her colleagues.

  Drake understood completely. He also talked to his weapon albeit silently. None of their fellow troopers found such behavior abnormal. Everyone knew that all Colonial Marines were slightly unbalanced and that smartgun operators were the strangest of the lot. They tended to treat their weapons as extensions of their own bodies. Unlike their colleagues, gun operation was their principal function. Drake and Vasquez didn't have to worry about
mastering communications equipment, piloting a dropship, driving the armoured personnel carrier, or even helping to load the ship for landing All they were required to do was shoot at things. Death-dealing was their designated specialty.

  Both of them loved their work.

  Not everyone was as busy as the troopers. Burke had completed his few personal preparations for landing while Gorman was able to leave the actual supervision of final prep to Apone. As they stood off to the side and watched, the Company representative spoke casually to the lieutenant.

  'Still nothing from the colony?'

  Gorman shook his head and noted something about the loading procedure that induced him to make a notation on his electronic pad. 'Not even a background carrier wave. Dead on all channels.'

  'And we're sure about the relay satellite?'

  'Bishop insists that he checked it out thoroughly and that it responded perfectly to every command. Says it gave him something to do while we were on final system approach. He ran a standard signal check along the relay back to Earth, and we should get a response in a few days. That'll be the fina confirmation, but he felt sure enough of his own check to guarantee the system's performance.'

  'Then the problem's down on the surface somewhere.'

  Gorman nodded. 'Like we've suspected all along.'

  Burke looked thoughtful. 'What about local communications? Community video, operations to tractors, relays between the atmosphere processing stations, and the like?'

  The lieutenant shook his head regretfully. 'If anybody's talking to anybody else down there, they're doing it with smoke signals or mirrors. Except for the standard low-end hiss from the local sun, the electromagnetic spectrum's dead as lead.'

  The Company rep shrugged. 'Well, we didn't expect to find anything else. Still, there was always hope.'

  'There still is. Maybe the colony's taken a mass vow of silence Maybe all we'll run into is a collective pout.'

  'Why would they do something like that?'

  'How should I know? Mass religious conversion or something else that demands radio silence.'

  'Yeah. Maybe.' Burke wanted to believe Gorman. Gorman wanted to believe Burke. Neither man believed the other for a moment. Whatever had silenced the colony of Acheron hadn't been a matter of choice. People liked to talk, colonists more than most. They wouldn't shut down all communications willingly.

  Ripley had been watching the two men. Now she shifted her attention back to the ongoing process of loading and predrop prep. She'd seen military dropships on the newscasts, but this was the first time she'd stood close to one. It made her feel a little safer. Heavily armed and armoured, it looked like a giant black wasp. As she looked on, a six-wheeled armoured personnel carrier was being hoisted into the ship's belly. It was built like an iron ingot, low and squatty, unlovely in profile and purely functional.

  Movement on her left made her stumble aside as Frost wheeled a rack of incomprehensible equipment toward her.

  'Clear, please,' the trooper said politely.

  As she apologized and stepped away she was forced to retreat in another direction in order to get out of Hudson's way.

  'Excuse me.' He didn't look at her, concentrating on his lift load of supplies.

  Cursing silently to herself, she hunted through the organized confusion until she found Apone. The NCO was chatting with Hicks, both of them studying the corporal's checklist as she approached. She kept quiet until the sergeant acknowledged her presence.

  'Something?' he asked curiously.

  'Yeah, there's something. I feel like a fifth wheel down here and I'm sick of doing nothing.'

  Apone grinned. 'We're all sick of doing nothing. What about it?'

  'Is there anything I can do?'

  He scratched the back of his head, eyeing her. 'I don't know Is there anything you can do?'

  She turned and pointed. 'I can drive that loader. I've got a class-two dock rating. My latest career move.'

  Apone glanced in the direction in which she was pointing The Sulaco's backup powerloader squatted dormant in its maintenance bay. His people were versatile, but they were soldiers first. Marines, not construction workers. An extra couple of hands would be welcome loading the heavy stuff especially if they were fashioned of titanium alloy, as were the powerloader's.

  'That's no toy.' The skepticism in Apone's voice was matched by that on Hicks's face.

  'That's all right,' she replied crisply. 'This isn't Christmas.'

  The sergeant pursed his lips. 'Class-two, huh?'

  By way of response, she spun on her heel and strode over to the loader, climbed the ladder, and settled into the seat beneath the safety cage. A quick inspection revealed that, as she'd suspected, the loader was little different from the ones she'd operated Portside on Earth. A slightly newer model maybe. She jabbed at a succession of switches. Motors turned over. A basso whine emanated from the guts of the machine rising to a steady hum.

  Hands and feet slipped into waldo gloves. Like some paralyzed dinosaur suddenly shocked back to life, the loader rose on titanium pads. It boomed as she walked it over to the stack of cargo modules. Huge claws extended and dipped slipping into lifting receptacles beneath the nearest container She raised it from the top of the pile and swung it back toward the watching men. Her voice rose above the hum of the motors.

  'Where you want it?'

  Hicks glanced at his sergeant and cocked an eyebrow appreciatively.

  Personal preparation proceeded at the same pace as dropship loading but with additional care. Something could go wrong with the APC, or the supplies crammed into it, or with communications or backup, but no soldier would allow anything to go wrong with his or her personal weaponry. Each of them was capable of fighting and winning a small war on his or her own:

  First the armour was snapped together and checked for cracks or warps. Then the special combat boots, capable of resisting any combination of weather, corrosion, and teeth Backpacks mat would enable a fragile human being to survive for over a month in a hostile environment without any supplemental aid whatsoever. Harnesses to keep you from bouncing around during a rough drop or while the APC was grinding a path over difficult terrain. Helmets to protect your skull and visors to shield your eyes. Comsets for communicating with the dropship, with the APC, with whichever buddy happened to be guarding your rear.

  Fingers flowed smoothly over fastenings and snaps. When everything was done and ready, when all had been checked out and operational, the whole procedure was run again from scratch. And when that was over, if you had a minute, you spent it checking out your neighbour's work.

  Apone strode back and forth among his people, doing his own unobtrusive checking even though he knew it was unnecessary. He was, however, a firm believer in the for-want-of-a-nail school. Now was the time to spot the overlooked snap, the forgotten catch. Once things turned hairy, regrets were usually fatal.

  'Let's move it, girls! On the ready-line. Let's go, let's go You've slept long enough.'

  They formed up and headed for the dropship, chatting excitedly and shuffling along in twos and threes. Apone could have made it pretty if he'd wanted to, formed them up and called cadence, but his people weren't pretty, and he wasn't about to tell them how to walk. The sergeant was pleased to see that their new lieutenant had learned enough by now to keep his mouth shut. They filed into the ship muttering among themselves, no flags flying, no prerecorded bands tootling Their anthem was a string of well-worn and familiar obscenities passed down from one to the next: defiant words from men and women ready to challenge death. Apone shared them. As all foot soldiers have known for thousands of years there's nothing noble about dying. Only an irritating finality.

  Once inside the dropship, they filed directly into the APC The carrier would deploy the instant the shuttle craft touched down. It made for a rougher ride, but Colonial Marines do not expect coddling.

  As soon as everyone was aboard and the dropship doors secured, a klaxon sounded, signaling depressurization of the Sul
aco's cargo bay. Service robots scurried for cover. Warning lights flashed.

  The troopers sat in two rows opposite each other, a single aisle running between. Next to the soldiers in their hulking armour, Ripley felt small and vulnerable. In addition to her duty suit she wore only a flight jacket and a communications headset. No one offered her a gun.

  Hudson was too juiced up to sit still. The adrenaline was flowing and his eyes were wide. He prowled the aisle, his movements predatory and exaggerated, a cat ready to pounce As he paced, he kept up a steady stream of psychobabble unavoidable in the confined space.

  'I am ready, man. Ready to get it on. Check it out. I am the ultimate. State-of-the-art. You do not want to mess with me Hey, Ripley.' She glanced up at him, expressionless. 'Don't worry, little lady. Me and my squad of ultimate killing machines will protect you. Check it out.' He slapped the controls of the servocannon mounted in the overhead gun bay careful not to hit any of the ready studs.