'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 terminal?'
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 comple
tely 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.'
'Maybe we got 'em demoralized.' Hudson picked up on her confidence. He had some colour back in his face. 'You were right Ripley. The ugly monsters aren't invulnerable.'
Hicks looked up from the console and spoke to Vasquez and the comtech. 'I want you two walking the perimetre. Operations to Medical. That's about all we can cover. I know we're all strung-out, but try to stay frosty and alert. If Ripley's right they'll start testing the walls and conduits. We've got to stop any entries before they get out of hand. Pick them off one at a time as they try to get through.'
The two troopers nodded. Hudson abandoned the console picked up his rifle, and joined Vasquez in heading for the main corridor. Ripley located a half cup of coffee, picked it up, and drained the tepid contents in a single swallow. It tasted lousy but soothed her throat. The corporal watched her, waited unti she'd finished.
'How long since you slept? Twenty-four hours?'
Ripley shrugged indifferently. She wasn't surprised by the question. The constant tension had drained her. If she looked half as tired as she felt, it was no wonder that Hicks had expressed concern. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her before the aliens did. When she replied, her voice was distant and detached.
'What difference does it make? We're just marking time.'
'That's not what you've been saying.'
She nodded toward the corridor that had swallowed Hudson and Vasquez. 'That was for their benefit. Maybe a little for myself too. We can sleep but they won't. They won't slow down and they won't back off until they have what they want, and what they want is us. They'll get us too.'
'Maybe. Maybe not.' He smiled slightly.
She tried to smile back but wasn't sure if she accomplished it or not. Right then she'd have traded a year's flight salary for a hot cup of fresh coffee, but there was no one to trade with, and she was too tired to work on the dispenser. She slung the flamethrower over her shoulder.
'Hicks, I'm not going to wind up like those others. Like the colonists and Dietrich and Crowe. You'll take care of it, won't you, if it comes to that?'
'If it comes to that,' he told her softly, 'I'll do us both Although if we're still here when the processing station blows it won't be necessary. That'll take care of everything, us and them. Let's see that it doesn't.'
This time she was sure she managed a grin. 'I can't figure you, Hicks. Soldiers aren't supposed to be optimists.'
'Yeah, I know. You're not the first to point it out. I'm a freakin' anomaly.' Turning, he picked something up from behind the tactical console. 'Here, I'd like to introduce you to a close personal friend of mine.'
With the smoothness and ease of long practice he disengaged the pulse-rifle's magazine and set it aside. Then he handed her the weapon.
'M-41A 10-mm pulse-rifle, over and under with a 30mm pump-action grenade launcher. A real cutie-pie. The Marine's best friend, spouses notwithstanding. Almost jam-proof self-lubricating, works under water or in a vacuum and can blow a hole through steel plate. All she asks is that you keep her clean and don't slam her around too much and she'll keep you alive.'
Ripley hefted the weapon. It was bulky and awkward stuffed with recoil-absorbent fibre to counter the push from the high-powered shells it fired. It was much more impressive than her flamethrower. She raised the muzzle and pointed it experimentally at the far wall.
'What do you think?' Hicks asked her. 'Can you handle one?'
She looked back at him, her voice level. 'What do I do?'
He nodded approvingly and handed her the magazine.
No matter how quiet he tried to be, Bishop still made noise as the portable flight terminal and his sack of equipment scraped along the bottom of the conduit. No human being could have maintained the pace
he'd kept up since leaving Operations, but that didn't mean he could keep going indefinitely. There were limits even to a synthetic's abilities.
Enhanced vision enabled him to perceive the walls of the pitch-dark tunnel as it continued receding ahead of him. A human would have been totally blinded in the cylindrical duct At least he didn't have to worry about losing his way. The conduit provided almost a straight shot to the transmitter tower.
An irregular hole appeared in the right-hand wall, admitting a feeble shaft of light. Among the emotions that had been programmed into him was curiosity. He paused to peer through the acid-etched crack. It would be nice to be able to take a bearing in person instead of having to rely exclusively on the computer printout of the service-shaft plans.
Drooling jaws flashed toward his face to slam against the enclosing steel with a vicious scraping sound.
Bishop flattened himself against the far side of the conduit as the echo of the attack rang along the metal. The curve of the wall where the jaws had struck bent slightly inward. Hurriedly he resumed his forward crawl. To his considerable surprise the attack was not repeated, nor could he sense any apparent pursuit.
Maybe the creature had simply sensed motion and had struck blindly. When no reaction had been forthcoming from inside the duct, there was no reason for it to strike again. How did it detect potential hosts? Bishop went through the motions of breathing without actually performing respiration. Nor did he smell of warmth or blood. To a marauding alien an android might seem like just another piece of machinery. So long as one didn't attack or offer resistance, you might be able to walk freely among them. Not that such an excursion appealed to Bishop, since the reactions and motives of the aliens remained unpredictable, but it was a useful bit of information to have acquired. If the hypothesis could be verified, it might offer a means of studying the aliens.
Let someone else study the monsters, he thought. Let someone else seek verification. A bolder model than himself was required. He wanted off Acheron as much for his own sake as for that of the humans he was working with.
He glanced at his chronometre, faintly aglow in the darkness. Still behind schedule. Pale and strained, he tried to move faster.
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