'Hey,' Private Frost said to someone out of Ripley's view, 'you take my towel?' Frost was as young as Hudson but better-looking, or so he would insist to anyone who would waste time listening. When it came time for bragging, the two younger troopers usually came out about even. Hudson tended to rely on volume while Frost hunted for the right words.
Spunkmeyer was up near the head of the line and stil complaining. 'I need some slack, man. How come they send us straight back out like this? It ain't fair. We got some slack comin', man.'
Hicks murmured softly. 'You just got three weeks. You want to spend your whole life on slack time?'
'I mean breathing, not this frozen stuff. Three weeks in the freezer ain't real off-time.'
'Yeah, Top, what about it?' Dietrich wanted to know.
'You know it ain't up to me.' Apone raised his voice above the griping. 'Awright, let's knock off the jawing. First assembly's in fifteen. I want everybody looking like human beings by then — most of you will have to fake it. Let's shag it.'
Hypersleep wear was stripped off and tossed into the disposal unit. Easier to cremate the remains and provide fresh new attire for the return journey than to try to recycle shorts and tops that had clung to a body for several weeks. The line of lean, naked bodies moved into the shower. High-pressure water jets blasted away accumulated sweat and grime, set nerve endings tingling beneath scoured skin. Through the swirling steam Hudson, Vasquez, and Ferro watched Ripley dry off.
'Who's the freshmeat again?' Vasquez asked the question as she washed cleanser out of her hair.
'She's supposed to be some kinda consultant. Don't know much about her.' The diminutive Ferro wiped at her belly which was as flat and muscular as a steel plate, and exaggerated her expression and tone. 'She saw an alien once. Or so the skipchat says.'
'Whooah!' Hudson made a face. 'I'm impressed.'
Apone yelled back at them. He was already out in the drying room, toweling off his shoulders. They were as devoid of fat as those of troopers twenty years younger.
'Let's go, let's go. Buncha lazybutts'll run the recyclers dry C'mon, cycle through. You got to get dirty before you can get clean.'
Informal segregation was the order of the day in the mess room. It was automatic. There was no need for whispered words or little nameplates next to the glasses. Apone and his troopers requisitioned the large table while Ripley, Gorman Burke, and Bishop sat at the other. Everyone nursed coffee tea, spritz, or water while they waited for the ship's autochef to deal out eggs and ersatz bacon, toast and hash, condiments and vitamin supplements.
You could identify each trooper by his or her uniform. No two were exactly alike. This was the result not of specialized identification insignia, but of individual taste. The Sulaco was no barracks and Acheron no parade ground. Occasionally Apone would have to chew someone out for a particularly egregious addition, like the time Crowe had showed up with a portrait of his latest girlfriend computer-stenciled across the back of his armour. But for the most part he let the troopers decorate their outfits as they liked.
'Hey, Top,' Hudson chivvied, 'what's the op?'
'Yeah.' Frost blew bubbles in his tea. 'All I know is I get shipping orders and not time to say hello-goodbye to Myrna.'
'Myrna?' Private Wierzbowski raised a bushy eyebrow. 'I thought it was Leina?'
Frost looked momentarily uncertain. 'I think Leina was three months ago. Or six.'
'It's a rescue mission.' Apone sipped his coffee. 'There's some juicy colonists' daughters we gotta rescue.'
Ferro made a show of looking disappointed. 'Hell, that lets me out.'
'Says who?' Hudson leered at her. She threw sugar at him.
Apone just listened and watched. No reason for him to intervene. He could have quieted them down, could have played it by the book. Instead he left it loose and fair, but only because he knew that his people were the best. He'd walk into a fight with any one of them watching his back and not worry about what he couldn't see, knowing that anything trying to sneak up on him would be taken care of as efficiently as if he had eyes in the back of his head. Let 'em play, let 'em curse ECA and the corps and the Company and him too. When the time came, the playing would stop, and every one of them would be all business.
'Dumb colonists.' Spunkmeyer looked to his plate as food began to put in an appearance. After three weeks asleep he was starving, but not so starving that he couldn't offer the obligatory soldier's culinary comment. 'What's this stuf supposed to be?'
'Eggs, dimwit,' said Ferro.
'I know what an egg is, bubblebrain. I mean this soggy flat yellow stuff on the side.'
'Corn bread, I think.' Wierzbowski fingered his portion and added absently, 'Hey, I wouldn't mind getting me some more a that Arcturan poontang. Remember that time?'
Hicks was sitting on his right side. The corporal glanced up briefly, then looked back to his plate. 'Looks like that new lieutenant's too good to eat with us lowly grunts. Kissing up to the Company rep.'
Wierzbowski stared past the corporal, not caring if anyone should happen to notice the direction of his gaze. 'Yeah.'
'Doesn't matter if he knows his job,' said Crowe.
'The magic word.' Frost hacked at his eggs. 'We'll find out.'
Perhaps it was Gorman's youth that bothered them, even though he was older than half the troopers. More likely it was his appearance: hair neat even after weeks in hypersleep, slack creases sharp and straight, boots gleaming like black metal. He looked too good.
As they ate and muttered and stared, Bishop took the empty seat next to Ripley. She rose pointedly and moved to the far side of the table. The ExO looked wounded.
'I'm sorry you feel that way about synthetics, Ripley.'
She ignored him as she glared down at Burke, her tone accusing. 'You never said anything about there being an android on board! Why not? Don't lie to me, either, Carter. I saw his tattoo outside the showers.'
Burke appeared nonplussed. 'Well, it didn't occur to me. I don't know why you're so upset. It's been Company policy for years to have a synthetic on board every transport. They don't need hypersleep, and it's a lot cheaper than hiring a human pilot to oversee the interstellar jumps. They won't go crazy working a longhaul solo. Nothing special about it.'
'I prefer the term "artificial person" myself,' Bishop interjected softly. 'Is there a problem? Perhaps it's something I can help with.'
'I don't think so.' Burke wiped egg from his lips. 'A synthetic malfunctioned on her last trip out. Some deaths were involved.'
'I'm shocked. Was it long ago?'
'Quite a while, in fact.' Burke made the statement without going into specifics, for which Ripley was grateful.
'Must have been an older model, then.'
'Hyperdine Systems 120-A/2.'
Bending over backward to be conciliatory, Bishop turned to Ripley. 'Well, that explains it. The old A/2s were always a bit twitchy. That could never happen now, not with the new implanted behavioral inhibitors. Impossible for me to harm or by omission of action, allow to be harmed a human being. The inhibitors are factory-installed, along with the rest of my cerebral functions. No one can tamper with them. So you see I'm quite harmless.' He offered her a plate piled high with yellow rectangles. 'More corn bread?'
The plate did not shatter when it struck the far wall as Ripley smacked it out of his hand. corn bread crumbled as the plate settled to the floor.
'Just stay away from me, Bishop! You got that straight? You keep away from me.'
Wierzbowski observed this byplay in silence, then shrugged and turned back to his food. 'She don't like the corn bread either.'
Ripley's outburst sparked no more conversation than that as the troopers finished breakfast and retired to the ready room Ranks of exotic weaponry lined the walls behind them. Some clustered their chairs and started an improvised game of dice Tough to pick up a floating crap game after you've been unconscious for three weeks, but they tried nonetheless. They straightened lazily as Gorman and Burke enter
ed, but snapped to when Apone barked at them.
'Tench-hut!' The men and women responded as one, arms vertical at their sides, eyes straight ahead, and focused only on what the sergeant might say to them next.
Gorman's eyes flicked over the line. If possible, the troopers were more motionless standing at attention than they had been when frozen in hypersleep. He held them a moment longer before speaking.
'At ease.' The line flexed as muscles were relaxed. 'I'm sorry we didn't have time to brief you before we left Gateway, but—'
'Sir?' said Hudson.
Annoyed, Gorman glanced toward the speaker. Couldn't let him finish his first sentence before starting with the questions Not that he'd expected anything else. He'd been warned that this bunch might be like that.
'Yes, what is it, Hicks?'
The speaker nodded at the man standing next to him 'Hudson, sir. He's Hicks.'
'What's the question, soldier?'
'Is this going to be a stand-up fight, sir, or another bug-hunt?'
'If you'd wait a moment, you might find some of your questions anticipated, Hudson. I can understand your impatience and curiosity. There's not a great deal to explain All we know is that there's still been no contact with the colony Executive Officer Bishop tried to rise Hadley the instant the Sulaco hove within hailing distance of Acheron. He did not obtain a response. The planetary deepspace satellite relay checks out okay, so that's not the reason for the lack of contact We don't know what it is yet.'
'Any ideas?' Crowe asked.
'There is a possibility, just a possibility at this point, mind that a xenomorph may be involved.'
'A whaat?' said Wierzbowski.
Hicks leaned toward him, whispered softly. 'It's a bug-hunt. Then louder, to the lieutenant, 'So what are these things, if they're there?'
Gorman nodded to Ripley, who stepped forward. Eleven pairs of eyes locked on her like gun sights: alert, intent curious, and speculative. They were sizing her up, still unsure whether to class her with Burke and Gorman or somewhere else. They neither cared for her nor disliked her, because they didn't know her yet.
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 retre
ated 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.
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