Alan Dean Foster - Aliens

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.