Aliens (aliens universe)

by Alan Dean Foster

  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 Sulaco'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 sm
all 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.

  '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. 'Vacation 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.