Ripley started to tap her fingers on the window, thought better of it, and brought her hand back to her side. There might be something out there listening. As she stared, another gush of superheated gas flared from the base of the processing station.
'How long before it blows?'
'There's no way to be sure. One can extrapolate from the available figures but without any degree of certainty. There are too many variables involved that can only be roughly compensated for, and the requisite calculations are complex.'
'How long?' Hicks asked patiently.
The android turned to him. 'Based on the information I've been able to gather, I'm projecting total systems failure in a little under four hours. The blast radius will be about thirty kilometres. It will be nice and clean. No fallout, of course About ten megatons.'
'That's very reassuring,' said Hudson dryly.
Hicks sucked air. 'We got problems.'
The comtech unfolded his arms and turned away from his companions. 'I don't believe this,' he said disconsolately. 'Do you believe this? The RSS guns blow a pack of them to bits, the fire door's still holding, and it's all a waste!'
'It's too late to shut the station down? Assuming the instrumentation necessary to do it is still operational?' Ripley stared at the android. 'Not that I'm looking forward to jogging across the tarmac, but if that's the only chance we've got, I'll take a shot at it.'
He smiled regretfully. 'Save your legs. I'm afraid it's too late The dropship impact, or the guns, or whatever, did too much damage. At this point overload is inevitable.'
'Terrific. So what's the recommended procedure now?'
Vasquez grinned at her. 'Bend over, put your head between your legs, and kiss your ass goodbye.'
Hudson was pacing the floor like a caged cat. 'Oh, man. And I was getting short too! Four more weeks and out. Three of that in hypersleep. Early retirement. Ten years in the Marines and you're out and sitting pretty, they said. Recruiters. Now I'm gonna buy it on this rock. It ain't fair, man!'
Vasquez looked bored. 'Give us a break, Hudson.'
He spun on her. 'That's easy for you to say, Vasquez. You're a lifer. You love mucking around on these alien dirtballs so you can blow away anything that sticks up bug eyes. Me, I joined for the pension. Ten years and out, take the credit, and buy into a little bar somewhere, hire somebody else to run the joint so I can kick back and jabchat with the customers while the money rolls in.'
The smartgun operator looked back toward the window as another gas jet lit up the mist-shrouded landscape. Her expression was hard. 'You're breaking my heart. Go cross a wire or something.'
'It's simple.' Ripley looked over at Hicks. 'We can't stay here so we've got to get away. There's only one way to do that: We need the other dropship. The one that's still on the Sulaco Somehow we have to bring it down on remote. There's got to be a way to do that.'
'There was. You think I haven't been thinking about that ever since Ferro rolled ours into the station?' Hudson stopped pacing. 'You use a narrow-beam transmitter tuned just for the dropship's controls.'
'I know,' she said impatiently. 'I thought about that, too, but we can't do it that way.'
'Right. The transmitter was on the APC. It's wasted.'
'There's got to be another way to bring that shuttle down. I don't care how. Think of a way. You're the comtech. Think of something.'
'Think of what? We're dead.'
'You can do better than that, Hudson. What about the colony's transmitter? That uplink tower down at the other end of the complex? We could program it to send that dropship a control frequency. Why can't we use that? It looked like it was intact.'
'The thought had occurred to me earlier.' All eyes turned toward Bishop. 'I've already checked it out. The hardwiring between here and the tower was severed in the fighting between the colonists and the aliens—one more reason why they were unable to communicate with the relay satellite overhead, even if only to leave a warning for anyone who might come to check on them.'
Ripley's mind was spinning like a dynamo, exploring options, considering and disregarding possible solutions unti only one was left. 'So what you're saying is that the transmitter itself is still functional but that it can't be utilized from here?'
The android looked thoughtful, finally nodded. 'If it is receiving its share of emergency power, then yes, I don't see why it wouldn't be capable of sending the requisite signals. A lot of power would not be necessary, since all the other channels it would normally be broadcasting are dead.'
'That's it, then.' She scanned her companions' faces 'Somebody's just going to have to go out there. Take a portable terminal and go out there and plug in manually.'
'Oh, right, right!' said Hudson with mock enthusiasm. 'With those things running around. No way.'
Bishop took a step forward. 'I'll go.' Quiet, matter of fact. As though there was no alternative.
Ripley gaped at him. 'What?'
He smiled apologetically. 'I'm really the only one present who is qualified to remote-pilot a dropship, anyway. And the outside weather won't bother me the way it would the rest of you. Nor will I be subject to quite the same degree of . . mental distractions. I'll be able to concentrate on the job.'
'If you aren't accosted by any passing pedestrians,' Ripley pointed out.
'Yes, I will be fine if I am not interrupted.' His smile widened. 'Believe me, I'd prefer not to have to attempt this. I may be synthetic, but I'm not stupid. As nuclear incineration is the sole alternative, however, I am willing to give it a try.'
'All right. Let's get on it. What'll you need?'
'The portable transmitter, of course. And we'll need to check to make sure the antenna is still drawing power. Since we're making an extra-atmospheric broadcast on a narrow beam, the transmitter will have to be realigned as precisely as possible. I will also need some—'
Vasquez interrupted sharply. 'Listen!'
'To what?' Hudson turned a slow circle. 'I don't hear anything.'
'Exactly. It's stopped.'
The smartgun operator was right. The booming and scratching at the fire door had ceased. As they listened, the silence was broken by the high-pitched trill of a motion-sensor alarm. Hicks looked at the tactical console.
'They're into the complex.'
It didn't take long to get together the equipment Bishop needed. Finding a safe way out for him was another matter entirely. They debated possible exit routes, mixing information from the colony computer with suggestions from the tactical console, and spicing the results with their own heated personal opinions. The result was a consensual route that was the best of an unpromising bunch.
It was presented to Bishop. Android or not, he had the fina say. Along with a multitude of other human emotions the new synthetics were also fully programmed for self-preservation Or as Bishop ventured when the discussion of possible escape paths grew too heated, on the whole he would rather have been in Philadelphia.
There was little to argue about. Everyone agreed that the route selected was the only one that offered half a chance for him to slip out of Operations without drawing unwelcome attention. An uncomfortable silence ensued once this course was agreed upon, until Bishop was ready to depart.
One of the acid holes that was part of the colonists' losing battle with the aliens had formed a sizable gap in the floor of the medical lab. The hole offered access to the maze of subfloor conduits and serviceways. Some of these had been added subsequent to the colony's original construction and tacked on as required by Hadley's industrious inhabitants. It was one of these additions that Bishop was preparing to enter.
The android lowered himself through the opening, sliding and twisting until he was lying on his back, looking up at the others.
'How is it?' Hicks asked him.
Bishop looked back between his feet, then arched his neck to stare straight ahead. The chosen path. 'Dark. Empty. Tight but I guess I can make it.'
You'd better, Ripley mused silently. 'Ready for the term
inal?'
A pair of hands lifted, as if in supplication. 'Pass it down. She handed him the heavy, compact device.
Turning with an effort, he shoved it into the constricted shaft ahead of him. Fortunately the instrument was sheathed in protective plastic. It would make some noise as it was pushed along the conduit but not as much as metal scraping on metal He turned on his back and raised his hands a second time.
'Let's have the rest.'
Ripley passed him a small satchel. It contained tools, patch cables and replacement circuit boards, energy bypasses, a service pistol, and a small cutting torch, together with fuel for same. More weight and bulk, but it couldn't be helped. Better to take a little more time reaching the uplink tower than to arrive short of some necessary item.
'You're sure about which way you're going?' Ripley asked him.
'If the updated colony schematic is correct, yes. This duct runs almost out to the uplink assembly. One hundred eighty metres. Say, forty minutes to crawl down there. It would be easier on treads or wheels, but my designers had to go and get sentimental. They gave me legs.' No one laughed.
'After I get there, one hour to patch in and align the antenna. If I get an immediate response, thirty minutes to prep the ship, then about fifty minutes' flight time.'
'Why so long?' Hicks asked him.
'With a pilot on board the dropship it would take half that but remote-piloting from a portable terminal's going to be damn tricky. The last thing I want to do is rush the descent and maybe lose contact or control. I need the extra time to bring her in slow. Otherwise she's liable to end up like her sister ship.'
Ripley checked her chronometre. 'It's going to be close You'd better get going.'
'Right. See you soon.' His farewell was full of forced cheerfulness. Entirely for their benefit, Ripley knew. No reason to let it get to her. He was only a synthetic, a near-machine.
She turned away from the hole as Vasquez slid a metal plate over the opening and began spot-welding it in place. There wasn't any maybe about what Bishop had to do. If he failed they wouldn't have to worry about holding off the aliens. The bonfire that was slowly being ignited inside the processing station would finish them all.
Bishop lay on his back, watching the glow from Vasquez's welder transcribe a circle over his head. It was pretty, and he was sophisticated enough to appreciate beauty, but he was wasting time enjoying it. He rolled onto his belly and began squirming forward, pushing the terminal and the sack of equipment ahead of him. Push, squirm, push, squirm: slow going. The conduit was barely wide enough for his shoulders Fortunately he was not subject to claustrophobia, any more than he suffered from vertigo or any of the other mental ills mankind was heir to. There was much to be said for artificial intelligence.
In front of him the conduit dwindled toward infinity. This is how a bullet must feel, he mused, lodged in the barrel of a gun. Except that a bullet wasn't burdened with feelings and he was. But only because they'd been programmed into him.
The darkness and loneliness gave him plenty of time for thinking. Moving forward didn't require much mental effort so he was able to spend the rest considering his condition.
Feelings and programming. Organic tantrums or byte snits? Was there in the last analysis that much difference between himself and Ripley or, for that matter, any of the other humans? Beyond the fact that he was a pacifist and most of them were warlike, of course. How did a human being acquire its feelings?
Slow programming. A human infant came into the world already preprogrammed by instinct but could be radically reprogrammed by environment, companions, education, and a host of other factors. Bishop knew that his own programming was not affected by environment. What had happened to his earlier relative, then, the one that had gone berserk and caused Ripley to hate him so? A breakdown in programming—or a deliberate bit of malicious reprogramming by some stil unidentified human? Why would a human do such a thing?
No matter how sophisticated his own programming or how much he learned during his allotted term of existence, Bishop knew that the species that had created him would remain forever shrouded in mystery. To a synthetic mankind would always be an enigma, albeit an entertaining and resourceful one.
In contrast to his companions there was nothing mysterious about the aliens. No incomprehensible mysteries to ponder, no double meanings to unravel. You could readily predict how they would act in a given situation. Moreover, a dozen aliens would likely react in the same fashion, whereas a dozen humans might do a dozen completely different and unrelated things, at least half of them illogical. But then, humans were not members of a hive society. At least they chose not to think of themselves as such. Bishop still wasn't sure he agreed.
Not all that much difference between human, alien, and android. All hive cultures. The difference was that the human hive was ruled by chaos brought about by this peculiar thing called individuality. They'd programmed him with it. As a result he was part human. An honourary organic. In some respects he was better than a human being, in others, less. He felt best of all when they acted as though he were one of them.
He checked his chronometre. He'd have to crawl faster or he'd never make it in time.
The robot guns guarding the entrance to Operations opened up, their metallic clatter ringing along the corridors. Ripley picked up her flamethrower and headed for computer central Vasquez finished welding the floor plate that blocked Bishop's rabbit hole into place with a flourish, put the torch aside, and followed the other woman.
Hicks was staring at the tactical console, mesmerized by the images the video pickups atop the guns were displaying. He barely glanced up long enough to beckon to the two arrivals.
'Have a look at this,' he said quietly.
Ripley forced herself to look. Somehow the fact that they were distant two-dimensional images instead of an immediate reality made it easier. Each time a gun fired, the brief flare from the weapon's muzzle whited out the video, but they could stil see clearly enough and often enough to watch the alien horde as it pushed and stumbled up the corridor. Each time one was struck by an RSS shell, the chitinous body would explode, spraying acid blood in all directions. The gaping holes and gouges in the floor and walls stood out sharply. The only thing the acid didn't chew through was other aliens.
Tracer fire lit the swirling mist that poured into the corridor from jagged gashes in the walls as the automatic weapons continued to hammer away at the invaders.
'Twenty metres and closing.' Hicks's attention was drawn to the numerical readouts. 'Fifteen. C and D guns down about fifty percent.' Ripley checked the safety on her flamethrower to make sure it was off. Vasquez didn't need to check her pulse-rifle. It was a part of her.
The readouts flickered steadily. Between the bursts of fire a shrill, inhuman screeching was clearly audible.
'How many?' Ripley asked.
'Can't tell. Lots. Hard to tell how many of them are alive and which are down. They lose arms and legs and keep coming until the guns hit them square.' Hudson's gaze flicked to another readout. 'D gun's down to twenty rounds. Ten.' He swallowed. 'It's out.'
Abruptly all firing ceased as the remaining gun ran out of shells. Smoke and mist obscured the double pickup view from below. Small fires burned where tracers had set flammable material ablaze in the corridor. The floor was littered with twisted and blackened corpses, a biomechanical bone-yard. As they stared at the monitors several bodies collapsed and disappeared as the acid leaking from their limbs chewed a monstrous hole in the floor.
Nothing lunged from the clinging pall of smoke to rip the silent weapons from their mounts. The motion-sensor alarm was silent.
'What's going on?' Hudson fiddled uncertainly with his instruments. 'What's going on, where are they?'
'I'll be . . .' Ripley exhaled sharply. 'They gave up. They retreated. The guns stopped them. That means they can reason enough to connect cause and effect. They didn't just keep coming mindlessly.'
'Yeah, but check this out.' Hicks tapped
the plastic between a pair of readouts. The counter that monitored D gun rested on zero. C gun was down to ten—a few seconds worth of firepower at the previous rate. 'Next time they can walk right up to the door and knock. If only the APC hadn't blown.'
'If the APC hadn't blown, we wouldn't be standing here talking about it. We'd be driving somewhere talking with the turret gun,' Vasquez pointed out sharply.
Only Ripley wasn't discouraged. 'But they don't know how far the guns are down. We hurt them. We actually hurt them. Right now they're probably off caucusing somewhere, or whatever it is they do to make group decisions. They'll start looking for another way to get in. That'll take them awhile, and when they decide on another approach, they'll be more cautious. They're going to start seeing those sentry guns everywhere.'
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