'Independently targeting particle-beam phalanx gun. Ain't she a cutey? Vwap! Fry half a city with this puppy. We got tactical smart missiles, phased-plasma pulse-rifles, RPGs. We got sonic ee-lectronic cannons, we got nukes no flukes, we got knives, sharp sticks—'
Hicks reached up, grabbed Hudson by his battle harness and yanked him down into an empty seat. His voice was low but it carried.
'Save it.'
'Sure, Hicks.' Hudson sat back, suddenly docile.
Ripley nodded her thanks to the corporal. Young face, old eyes, she thought as she studied him. Seen more than he should have in his time. Probably more than he's wanted to She didn't mind the quiet that followed Hudson's soliloquy There was hysteria enough below. She didn't need to listen to any extra. The corporal leaned toward her.
'Don't mind Hudson. Don't mind any of 'em. They're all like that, but in a tight spot there're none better.'
'If he can shoot his gun as well as he does his mouth, maybe it'll take my blood pressure down a notch.'
Hicks grinned. 'Don't worry on that score. Hudson's a comtech, but he's a close-combat specialist, just like everyone else.'
'You too?'
He settled back in his seat: content, self-contained, ready 'I'm not here because I wanted to be a pastry chef.'
Motors began to throb. The dropship lurched as it was lowered out of the cargo bay on its grapples.
'Hey,' Frost muttered, 'anybody check the locks on this coffin? If they're not tight, we're liable to bounce right out the bottom of the shuttle.'
'Keep cool, sweets,' said Dietrich. 'Checked 'em out myself We're secure. This six-wheeler goes nowhere until we kiss dirt. Frost looked relieved.
The dropship's engines rumbled to Me. Stomachs lurched as they left the artificial gravity field of the Sulaco behind. They were free now, floating slowly away from the big transport. Soon they would be clear and the engines would fire fully. Legs and hands began to float in zero-gee, but their harnesses held them tight to their seats. The floor and walls of the APC quivered as the engines thundered. Gravity returned with a vengeance.
Burke looked like he was on a fishing cruiser off Jamaica. He was grinning eagerly, anxious for the real adventure to begin 'Here we go!'
Ripley closed her eyes, then opened them almost immediately. Anything was better than staring at the black backsides of her lids. They were like tiny videoscreens alive with wild sparks and floating green blobs. Malign shapes appeared in the blobs The taut, confident faces of Frost, Crowe, Apone, and Hicks made for more reassuring viewing.
Up in the cockpit, Spunkmeyer and Ferro studied readouts and worked controls. Gees built up within the APC as the dropship's speed increased. A few lips trembled. No one said a word as they plunged toward atmosphere.
Grey limbo below. The dark mantle of clouds that shrouded the surface of Acheron suddenly became something more than a pearlescent sheen to be admired from above. The atmosphere was dense and disturbed, boiling over dry deserts and lifeless rocks, rendering the landscape invisible to everything but sophisticated sensors and imaging equipment.
The dropship bounced through alien jet streams, shuddering and rocking. Ferro's voice sounded icy calm over the open intercom as she shouldered the streamlined craft through the dust-filled gale.
'Switching to DCS ranging. Visibility zero. A real picnic ground. What a bowl of crap.'
'Two-four-oh.' Spunkmeyer was too busy to respond in kind to her complaints. 'Nominal to profile. Picking up some hull ionization.'
Ferro glanced at a readout. 'Bad?'
'Nothing the filters can't handle. Winds two hundred plus. A screen between them winked to life, displaying a topographic model of the terrain they were overflying 'Surface ranging on. What'd you expect, Ferro? Tropical beaches?' He nudged a trio of switches. 'Starting, to hit thermals. Vertical shift unpredictable. Lotta swirling.'
'Got it.' Ferro thumbed a button. 'Nothing that ain't in our programming. At least the weather hasn't changed down there.' She eyed a readout. 'Rough air ahead.'
The pilot's voice sounded briskly over the APC's intercom system. 'Ferro, here. You all read the profile on this dirtball Summertime fun it ain't. Stand by for some chop.'
Ripley's eyes flicked rapidly over her companions, crammed tightly together in the confines of the armoured personne carrier. Hicks lay slumped to one side, asleep in his seat harness. The bouncing seemed not to bother him in the slightest. Most of the other troopers sat quietly, staring straight ahead, their minds mulling over private thoughts. Hudson was talking steadily and silently to himself. His lips moved ceaselessly. Ripley didn't try to read them.
Burke was studying the interior layout of the APC with professional interest. Across from him Gorman sat with his eyes shut tight. His skin was pale, and the sweat stood out on his forehead and neck. His hands were in nonstop motion rubbing the backs of his knees. Massaging away tenseness—or attempting to dry clamminess, she thought. Maybe it would help him to have someone to talk to.
'How many drops is this for you, Lieutenant?'
His eyes snapped open and he blinked at her 'Thirty eight—simulated.'
'How many combat drops?' Vasquez asked pointedly.
Gorman tried to reply as though it made no difference. A minor point, and what did it have to do with anything, anyway? 'Well—two. Three, including this one.'
Vasquez and Drake exchanged a glance, said nothing. They didn't have to. Their respective expressions were sufficiently eloquent. Ripley gave Burke an accusing look, and he responded with one of indifferent helplessness, as if to say 'Hey, I'm a civilian. Got no control over military assignments.'
Which was pure bull, of course, but there was nothing to be gained by arguing about it now. Acheron lay beneath them Earthside bureaucracy very far away indeed. She chewed her lower lip and tried not to let it bother her. Gorman seemed competent enough. Besides, in any actual confrontation or combat, Apone would run the show. Apone and Hicks.
Cockpit voices continued to reverberate over the intercom Ferro managed to outgripe Spunkmeyer three to one. In between gripes and complaints they managed to fly the dropship.
'Turning on final approach,' she was saying. 'Coming around to a seven-zero-niner. Terminal guidance locked in.'
'Always knew you were terminal,' said Spunkmeyer. It was an old pilot's joke, and Ferro ignored it.
'Watch your screen. I can't fly this sucker and watch the terrain readouts too. Keep us off the mountains.' A pause then, 'Where's the beacon?'
'Nothing on relay.' Spunkmeyer's voice was calm. 'Must've gone out along with communications.'
'That's crazy and you know it. Beacons are automatic and individually powered.'
'Okay. You find the beacon.'
'I'll settle for somebody waving a lousy flag.' Silence followed. None of the troopers appeared concerned. Ferro and Spunkmeyer had set them down softer than a baby's kiss in worse weather than Acheron's.
'Winds easing. Good kite-flying weather. We'll hold her steady up here for a while so you kids in back can play with your toys.'
A flurry of motion as the troopers commenced final touchdown preparations. Gorman slipped out of his flight harness and headed up the aisle toward the APC's tactical operations centre. Burke and Ripley followed, leaving the Marines to their work.
The three of them crowded into the bay. Gorman slid behind the control console while Burke took up a stance behind him so he could look over the lieutenant's shoulder. Ripley was pleased to see that there was nothing wrong with Gorman's mechanical skills. He looked relieved to have something to do His fingers brought readouts and monitor screens to life like an organist extracting notes from stops and keys. Ferro's voice reached them from the cockpit, mildly triumphant.
'Finally got the beacons. Signal is hazy but distinct. And the clouds have cleared enough for us to get some visual. We can see Hadley.'
Gorman spoke toward a pickup. 'How's it look?'
'Just like the brochures,' she said sardonically. 'Vac
ation spot of the galaxy. Massive construction, dirty. A few lights on, so they've got power somewheres. Can't tell at this distance i they're regular or emergency. Not a lot of 'em. Maybe it's nap time. Give me two weeks in the Antarctic anytime.'
'Spunkmeyer, your impressions?'
'Windy as all get out. They haven't been bombed. Structura integrity looks good, but that's from up here, looking through bad light. Sorry we're too busy to do a ground scan.'
'We'll take care of that in person.' Gorman turned his attention back to the multiple screens. The closer they came to setdown, the more confident he seemed to become. Maybe a fear of heights was his only weakness, Ripley mused. If that proved to be the case, she'd be able to relax.
In addition to the tactical screens there were two small ones for each soldier. All were name-labeled. The upper set relayed the view from the video cams built into the crown of each battle helmet. The lower provided individual bio readouts: EEG EKG, respiratory rate, circulatory functioning, visual acuity and so on. Enough information for whoever was monitoring the screens to build up a complete physiological profile of every trooper from the inside out.
Above and to the side of the double set of smaller screens were larger monitors that offered those riding inside the APC a complete wraparound view of the terrain outside. Gorman thumbed controls. Hidden telltales beeped and responded on cue.
'Looking good,' he murmured to himself, as much as to his civilian observers. 'Everybody on line.' Ripley noted that the blood-pressure readouts held remarkably steady. And not one of the soldiers' heart rates rose above seventy-five.
One of the small video monitors displayed static instead of a clear view of the APC's interior. 'Drake, check your camera, Gorman ordered. 'I'm not getting a picture. Frost, show me Drake. Might be an external break.'
The view on the screen next to Drake's shifted to reveal the helmeted face of the smartgun operator as he whacked himself on the side of the head with a battery pack. His screen snapped into focus instantly.
'That's better. Pan it around a bit.'
Drake complied. 'Learned that one in tech class,' he informed the occupants of the operations bay. 'Got to make sure you hit the left side only or it doesn't work.'
'What happens if you hit the right side?' Ripley asked curiously.
'You overload the internal pressure control, the one that keeps your helmet on your head.' She could see Drake smiling wolfishly into Frost's camera. 'Your eyeballs implode and your brains explode.'
'What brains?' Vasquez let out a snort. Drake promptly leaned forward and tried to smack the right side of her helmet with a battery pack.
Apone quieted them. He knew it didn't matter what was wrong with Drake's helmet, because the smartgun operator would abandon it the first chance he got. Likewise Vasquez Drake would appear in his floppy cap and Vasquez in her red bandanna. Nonregulation battle headgear. Both claimed the helmets obstructed the movement of their gun sights, and if that was the way they felt about it, Apone wasn't about to argue with them. They could shave their skulls and fight baldheaded if they wished as long as they shot straight.
'Awright. Fire team A, gear up. Check your backup systems and your power packs. Anybody goes dead when we spread out is liable to end up that way. If some boogeyman doesn't kill you, I will. Let's move. Two minutes.' He glanced to his right 'Somebody wake up Hicks.'
A few guffaws sounded from the assembled troopers. Ripley had to smile as she let her gaze drop to the biomonitor with the corporal's name above it. The readings indicated a man overwhelmed with boredom. Apone's second in command was deep in REM sleep. Dreaming of balmier climes, no doubt. She wished she could relax like that. Once upon a time she'd been able to. Once this trip was over, maybe she'd be able to again.
The passenger compartment saw a new rush of activity as backpacks were donned and weapons presented. Vasquez and Drake assisted each other in buckling on their complex smartgun harnesses.
The forward-facing viewscreen gave those in the operations bay the same view as Ferro and Spunkmeyer. Directly ahead a metal volcano thrust its perfect cone into the clouds, belching hot gas into the sky. Audio pickups muted the atmosphere processor's thunder.
'How many of those are on Acheron?' Ripley asked Burke.
'That's one of thirty or so. I couldn't give you all the grid references. They're scattered all over the planet. Well, not scattered. Placed, for optimum injection into the atmosphere Each is fully automated, and their output is controlled from Hadley Operations Central. Their production will be adjusted as the air here becomes more Earth-normal. Eventually they'l shut themselves down. Until that happens, they'll work around the clock for another twenty to thirty years. They're expensive and reliable. We manufacture them, by the way.'
The ship was a drifting mote alongside the massive, rumbling tower. Ripley was impressed. Like everyone else whose work took them out into space, she'd heard about the big terraforming devices, but she'd never expected to see one in person.
Gorman nudged controls, swinging the main external imager around and down to reveal the silent roofs of the colony. 'Hold at forty,' he commanded Ferro via the console pickup. 'Make a slow circle of the complex. I don't think we'll spot anything from up here, but that's the way the regs say to go, so that's how we'll do it.'
'Can do,' the pilot responded. 'Hang on back there. Might bounce a little while we spiral in. This isn't an atmosphere flyer remember. It's just a lousy dropship. Tight suborbital manoeuvring ain't a highlight of its repertoire.'
'Just do as you're told, Corporal.'
'Yes, sir.' Ferro added something else too low for her mike to unscramble. Ripley doubted that it was flattering.
They circled in over the town. Nothing moved among the buildings beneath them. The few lights they'd spotted from afar continued to burn. The atmosphere processor roared in the background.
'Everything looks intact,' Burke commented. 'Maybe some kind of plague has everyone on their backs.'
'Maybe.' To Gorman the colony structures looked like the wrecks of ancient freighters littering the ocean floor. 'Okay,' he said sharply to Apone, 'let's do it.'
Back in the passenger bay, the master sergeant rose from his seat and glared at his troops, hanging on to an overhead handgrip as the dropship rocked in Acheron's unceasing gale.
'Awright! You heard the lieutenant. I want a nice clean dispersal this time. Watch the suit in front of you. Anybody trips over anybody else's boots going out gets booted right back up to the ship.'
'Is that a promise?' Crowe looked innocent.
'Hey, Crowe, you want your mommy?' Wierzbowski grinned at his colleague.
'Wish she were here,' the private responded. 'She'd wipe the floor with half you lot.'
They filed toward the front lock, squeezing past operations Vasquez gave Ripley a nudge as she strolled by. 'You staying in here?'
'You bet.'
'Figures.' The smartgun operator turned away, shifting her attention to the back of Drake's head.
'Set down sixty metres this side of the main telemetry mast. Gorman swiveled the imager's trakball control. Still no sign of life below. 'Immediate dust-off on my "clear", then find a soft cloud and stay on station.'
'Understood,' said Ferro perfunctorily.
Apone was watching the chronometre built into his suit sleeve. 'Ten seconds, people. Look sharp!'
As the dropship descended to within a hundred and fifty metres of the colony landing pad, its exterior lights flashed on automatically, the powerful beams penetrating a surprising distance into the gloom. The tarmac was damp and freckled with wind-blown garbage, none of which was large enough to upset Ferro's carefully timed touchdown. Hydraulic legs absorbed the shock of contact as tons of metal settled to ground. Seconds later the APC roared out of the cargo bay and away from the compact vessel. Having barely made contact with the surface of Acheron, the dropship's engines thundered, and it crawled back up into the dark sky.
Nothing materialized out of the muck to ch
allenge or confront the personnel carrier as it rumbled up to the first of the silent colony buildings. Spray and mud flew from beneath its solid, armoured wheels. It swerved sharply left so that the crew door would face the town's main entrance. Before the door was half open, Hudson had piled out and hit the ground running. His companions were right behind him. They spread out fast, to cover as much ground as possible without losing sight of one another.
Apone's attention was riveted to the screen of his visor's image intensifier as he scanned the buildings surrounding them. The scanner's internal computer magnified the available light and cleaned up the view as much as it could, resulting in a bright picture that was still luridly tinted and full of contrast. It was enough.
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