Aliens

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 retreated 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.

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 small 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.

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 challenge 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.

Colony architecture tended to the functional. Beautification of surroundings would come later, when the wind wouldn't ruin all such efforts no matter how modest. Wind whipped trash between the buildings—that detritus that was too heavy to blow away. A chunk of metal rocked on an uneven base banging mindlessly against a nearby wall, any echo subsumed by the wind. A few neonic lights flickered unsteadily. Gorman's voice sounded crisply over everyone's suit communicator.

'First squad up, on line. Hicks, get your people in a cordon between the entrance and the APC. Watch your rear. Vasquez take point. Let's move.'

A line of troopers advanced on the main entrylock. No one expected a greeting committee to meet them, any more than they expected to cycle the lock and stroll in without difficulty but it was still something of a shock to encounter the pair of heavy-duty tractors that were parked nose-to-nose in front of the big door, barring any entry. It implied a conscious effort on the part of those inside to keep something outside.

Vasquez reached the silent machines first and paused to peer inside the operator's cab of the nearest. The controls had been ripped out and strewn around the interior. Impassive, she squeezed between the earthmovers, her tone phlegmatic as she reported back.

'Looks like somebody took a crowbar to the instrumentation. She reached the main doorway and nodded to her right, where Drake flanked her. Apone arrived, scanned the barrier, and moved to the external door controls. His fingers tried every combination. None of the telltale lights came alive.

'Busted?' Drake inquired.

'Sealed. There's a difference. Hudson, get up here. We need a bypass.'

No funny cracks now as the comtech, all business, put his gun aside and bent to examine the door panel. 'Standard stuff, he said in less than a minute. Using a tool taken from his work belt, he pried away the protective weather facing and studied the wiring. 'Take two puffs, Sarge.' His fingers deft and deliberate in their movements, despite the wind and cold, he began patching around the ruined circuitry. Apone and the others waited and watched.

'First squad,' the sergeant snapped into his suit pickup 'assemble on me at the main lock.'

A sign creaked and groaned overhead where it had broken loose from its moorings. The wind howled around them buffeting nerves more than bodies. Hudson made a connection. Two indicator lights flickered fitfully. Moaning against the dust that had accumulated in its guide rail, the big door slid back on its tracks, traveling in fits and starts, in sync with the blinking lights. Halfway open it jammed. It was more than enough.

Apone motioned Vasquez forward. The muzzle of her smartgun preceding her, she stepped inside. Her companions followed as Gorman's voice crackled in their headsets.

'Second team, move up. Flanking positions, close quarters How's it look, Sergeant?'

Apone's eyes scanned the interior of the silent structure 'Clean so far, sir. Nobody home yet.'

'Right. Second team, keep watching behind you as you advance.' The lieutenant spared a moment to glance up and behind him. 'You okay, Ripley?'

She was abruptly aware that she was breathing too fast, as though she'd just finished running a marathon instead of having been standing in one place. She nodded curtly, angry at herself, angry at Gorman for his concern. He returned his attention to the console.

Vasquez and Apone strode down the wide, deserted corridor A few lights burned blue overhead. Emergency illumination already beginning to weaken. No telling how long the batteries had been burning. The wind accompanied them partway in whistling down the metal concourse. Pools of water stained the floor. Farther along, rain dripped through blast holes in the ceiling. Apone tilted his head back so that his helmet camera would simultaneously record the evidence of the firelight and transmit it back to the APC.

'Pulse-rifles,' he murmured, explaining the cause of the ragged holes. 'Somebody's a wild shot.'

In the operations bay, Ripley glanced sharply at Burke 'People confined to bed don't run around firing pulse-rifles inside their habitat. People with inoperative communications equipment don't go around firing off pulse-rifles. Something else makes them do things like that.' Burke simply shrugged and turned to watch the screens.

Apone made a face at the blast holes. 'Messy.' It was a professional opinion, not an aesthetic one. The master sergeant couldn't abide sloppy work. Of course, these were only colonists he reminded himself. Engineers, structural technicians, service classifications. No soldiers. Maybe one or two cops. No need for soldiers—until now. And why now? The wind taunted him. He searched the corridor ahead, seeking answers and finding only darkness.

'Move out.'

Vasquez resumed her advance, more machinelike in her movements than any robot. Her smartgun cannon shifted slowly from left to right and back again, covering every inch ahead every few seconds. Her eyes were downcast, intent on the gun's tracking monitor instead of the floor underfoot. Footsteps echoed around and behind her, but ahead it was silent.

Gorman tapped a finger alongside a large red button 'Quarter and search by twos. Second team, move inside. Hicks take the upper level. Use your motion trackers. Anybody sees anything moving, sing out.'

Someone ventured a couple of lines a capella from Thor's storm-calling song at the end of Das Rheingold. It sounded like Hudson, but Ripley couldn't be sure, and no one owned up to the chorus. She tried to watch all the individual camera monitors simultaneously. Every dark corner inside the building was a gateway to Hell, every shadow a lethal threat She had to fight to keep her breathing steady.

Hicks led his squad up a deserted stairwell to the town's second level. The corridor was a mirror image of the one directly beneath, maybe a little narrower but just as empty. It did offer one benefit: They were pretty well out of the wind.

Standing in the middle of a knot of troops, he unlimbered a small metal box with a glass face. It had delicate insides and like most marine equipment, a heavily armoured exterior. He aimed it down the hallway and adjusted the controls. A couple of LEDs lit up brightly. The gauges stayed motionless. He panned it slowly from right to left.

'Nothing,' he reported. 'No movement, no signs of life.'

'Move out' was Gorman's disappointed response.

Hicks held the scanner out in front of him while his squad covered him, front, back, and sideways. They passed rooms and offices. Some of the doors stood ajar, others shut tight The interiors were similar and devoid of surprises.

The farther they went, the more blatant became the evidence of struggle. Furniture was overturned and papers scattered about. Irreplaceable computer storage disks had been trampled underfoot. Personal possessions, shipped at great cost over interstellar distances, had been thrown thoughtlessly aside, smashed and broken. Priceless books of real paper floated soddenly in puddles of water that had leaked from frozen pipes and holes in the ceiling.

'Looks like my room in college.' Burke was trying to be funny. He failed.

Several of the rooms Hicks's squad passed had not just been turned upside down; they'd been burned. Black streaks seared walls of metal and composite. In several offices the triple-paned safety-glass windows had been blown out. Rain and wind gusted through the gaps. Hicks stepped inside one office to lift a half-eaten doughnut from a listing table. A nearby coffee cup overflowed with rainwater. The dark grounds lay scattered across the floor, floating like water mites in the puddles.

Apone's people systematically searched the lower level moving in pairs that functioned as single organisms. They went through the colonists' modest, compact living quarters one apartment at a time. There wasn't much to see. Hudson kept his eyes on his scanner as he prowled alongside Vasquez looking up only long enough to take note of a particular stain on one wall. He didn't need sophisticated electronic analyzers to tell him what it was: dried blood. Everyone in the APC saw it too. No one said anything.

Hudson's tracker let out a beep, the sound explosively loud in the empty corridor. Vasquez whirled, her gun ready Tracker and smartgun operator exchanged a glance. Hudson nodded, then walked slowly toward a half-open door that was splintered partway off its frame. Holes produced by pulse-rifle rounds peppered the remnants of the door and the walls framing it.

As the comtech eased out of the way, Vasquez sidled up close to the ruined barrier and kicked it in. She came as close as possible to firing without actually unleashing a stream of destruction on the room's interior.

Dangling from a length of flex conduit, a junction box swung back and forth like a pendulum, driven by the wind that poured in through a broken window. The heavy metal box clacked against the rails of a child's bunk bed as it swung.

Vasquez uttered a guttural sound. 'Motion detectors. I hate 'em.' They both turned back to the hallway.

Ripley was watching the view provided by Hicks's monitor Suddenly she leaned forward. 'Wait! Tell him to—' Abruptly aware that only Burke and Gorman could hear her, she hurried to plug in her headset jack, patching herself into the intersuit communications net. 'Hicks, this is Ripley. I saw something on your screen. Back up.' He complied, and the picture on his monitor retreated. 'That's it. Now swing left There!'

The two men who shared the operations bay with her watched as the image provided by the corporal's camera panned until it stabilized on a section of wall full of holes and oddly shaped gouges and depressions. Ripley went cold. She knew what had caused the irregular pattern of destruction.

Hicks ran a glove over the battered metal. 'You seeing this okay? Looks melted.'

'Not melted,' Ripley corrected him. 'Corroded.'

Burke looked over at her, raised an eyebrow. 'Hmm. Acid for blood.'

'Looks like somebody bagged them one of Ripley's bad guys here.' Hicks sounded less impressed than the Company rep.

Hudson had been making his own inspection of a room on the lower level. Now he beckoned to his companions to join him. 'Hey, if you like that, you're gonna love this.' Ripley and her companions shifted their attention to the view being relayed back to the APC by the voluble private's camera.

He was looking down. His feet framed a gaping hole. As he leaned forward over the edge they could see another hole directly below the first and beyond, dimly illuminated by his helmet light, a section of the maintenance level. Pipes conduits, wiring-all had been eaten away by the action of some ferocious liquid.

Apone examined the view, turned away. 'Second squad, talk to me. What's your status?'

Hicks's voice replied. 'Just finished our sweep. There's nobody home.'

The master sergeant nodded to himself, spoke to the occupants of the distant APC. 'The place is dead, sir. Dead and deserted. All's quiet on the Hadley front. Whatever happened here, we missed it.'

'Late for the party again.' Drake kicked a lump of corroded metal aside.

Gorman leaned back and looked thoughtful. 'All right. The area's secured. Let's go in and see what their computer can tel us. First team, head for Operations. You know where that is Sergeant?'

Apone nudged a sleeve switch. A small map of the Hadley colony appeared on the inside of his helmet visor. 'That tal structure we saw coming in. It's not far, sir. We're on our way.'

'Good. Hudson, when you get there, see if you can bring their CPU on-line. Nothing fancy. We don't want to use it; we just want to talk to it. Hicks, we're coming in. Meet me at the south lock by the uplink tower. Gorman out.'

'Out is right.' Hudson would have spat save for the fact that no suitable target presented itself. 'He's coming in. I feel safer already.'

Vasquez made sure her suit mike was off before agreeing.

The powerful arc lights mounted on the front of the APC illuminated the stained, wind-scoured walls of the colony buildings as the armoured vehicle trundled down the main service street. They passed a couple of smaller vehicles parked in a shielded area. The APC's gleaming metal wheels threw up sheets of dirty water as it rumbled through oversize potholes Internal shocks absorbed the impact. Wind-blown rain lashed the headlights.

In the driver's compartment, Bishop and Wierzbowski worked smoothly side by side, man and synthetic functioning in perfect harmony. Each respected the other's abilities. Both knew, for example, that Wierzbowski could ignore any advice Bishop gave. Both also knew that the human would probably take it. Wierzbowski squinted through the narrow driver's port and pointed.

'Over there, I think.'

Bishop checked the flashing, brightly coloured map on the screen between them. 'That has to be it. There's no other lock in this area.' He leaned on the wheel, and the heavy machine swung toward a cavernous opening in the wall nearby.

'Yeah, there's Hicks.'

Apone's second in command emerged from the open lock as the armoured personnel carrier ground to a halt. He watched while the crew door cycled and slid aside. A suited Gorman was first down the ramp, followed closely by Burke, Bishop, and Wierzbowski. Burke looked back, searching for the tank's remaining occupant, only to see her hesitate in the portal. She wasn't looking at him. Her attention was focused on the dark entrance leading deep into the colony.

'Ripley?'

Her eyes lowered to meet his. By way of reply, she shook her head sharply from side to side.

'The area's secured.' Burke tried to sound understanding 'You heard Apone.'

Another negative gesture. Hudson's voice sounded in their headsets.

'Sir, the colony CPU is on-line.'

'Good work, Hudson,' said the lieutenant. 'Those of you in Operations, stand by. We'll be there soon.' He nodded to his companions. 'Let's go.'