Boggs inhaled sharply, gagging on his own vomit.
With an abrupt, convulsive twist the arachnoid horror jerked Boggs’s head right off his shoulders, as cleanly as Golic would have removed a loose bolt from its screw. But not as neatly.
Blood fountained from the headless torso, splattering the creature, Rains’s body, the staring Golic. It broke his paralysis but in the process also snapped something inside his head.
With ghastly indifference the gargoyle tossed Boggs’s decapitated skull to the floor and turned slowly to confront the remaining bipedal life-form. Its teeth gleamed like the platinum ingots which had been torn from Fiorina’s bowels.
Howling as if all the legions of the damned were after him, Golic whirled and tore down the tunnel. He didn’t look where he was going and he didn’t think about what he’d seen, and most of all he didn’t look back. He didn’t dare look back.
If he did, he knew he might see something.
Bishop’s remains had been carefully laid out on the worktable.
Bright overhead lights illuminated each component. Tools rested in their holders, ready to be called upon. The profusion of torn hair-thin fibre-optic cables was staggering.
Some Ripley had simply tied off as best she could. Her experience did not extend to making repairs on the microscopic level. She’d spent a lot of time wiring the parts together as best she could, sealing and taping, making the obvious connections and hoping nothing absolutely critical lay beyond her limited talent for improvisation.
She wiped her eyes and studied her handiwork. It looked promising, but that meant nothing. Theoretically it stood a chance of working, but then theoretically she shouldn’t be in the fix she was in.
No way to know without trying it. She tested the vital connections, then touched a switch. Something sizzled briefly, making her jerk back in the chair. She adjusted a connection, tried the switch again. This time there was no extraneous flash.
Carefully she slipped one bundle of fibre-optic filaments into what she hoped was still a functional self- sorting contact socket.
A red digital readout on the test unit nearby immediately went from zero to between seven and eight. As she threw another switch the numbers wavered but held steady.
The android’s remaining intact eye blinked. Ripley leaned forward. ‘Verbal interaction command. Run self- test sequence.’
Then she wondered why she was whispering.
Within the battered artificial skull something whined. Other telltales on the test unit winked encouragingly. A garbled burbling emerged from the artificial larynx and the collagenic lips parted slightly.
Anxiously she reached into the open throat, her fingers working inside. The burbling resolved itself as the single eye fixed on her face.
‘Ripley.’
She took a deep breath. She had visual, cognition, coordination, and memory. The external ears looked pretty good, but that signified nothing. All that mattered was the condition of the internal circuits.
‘Hello, Bishop.’ She was surprised at the warmth in her tone.
After all, it wasn’t as if she were addressing a human being.
‘Please render a preliminary condition report.’
There was a pause, following which, astonishingly, the single eye performed an eloquent roll in its socket. ‘Lousy. Motor functions are gone, extracranial peripherals nonresponsive, prospects for carrying out programmed functions nil. Minimal sensory facilities barely operative. Not an optimistic self-diagnosis, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she told him honestly. ‘I wish it could be otherwise.’
‘Not as much as I do.’
‘Can you feel anything?’
‘Yes. My legs hurt.’
Her lips tightened. ‘I’m sorry that—’
‘It’s okay. Pain simulation is only data, which from the rest of my present condition I infer is probably inaccurate. Confirm?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘I’m afraid that your legs, like most of the rest of you, has gone the way of all flesh.’
‘Too bad. Hate to see all that quality work lost. Not that it matters in the scheme of things. After all, I’m just a glorified toaster. How are you? I like your new haircut. Reminds me of me before my accessories were installed. Not quite as shiny, though.’
‘I see that your sense of humour’s still intact.’
The eye blinked. ‘Like I said, basic mental functions are still operative. Humour occupies a very small portion of my RAM-interpretive capacity.’
‘I’d disagree.’ Her smile faded. ‘I need your help.’
A gurgle emerged from between the artificial lips. ‘Don’t expect anything extensive.’
‘It doesn’t involve a lot of analysis. More straightforward probing. Where I am right now they don’t have much in the way of intrusive capability. What I need to know is, can you access the data bank on an EEV flight recorder?’
‘No problem. Why?’
‘You’ll find out faster from the recorder than I could explain. Then you can tell me.’
The eye swiveled. ‘I can just see it. You’ll have to use a direct cranial jump, since my auxiliary appendages are gone.’
‘I know. I’m all set. . I hope.’
‘Go ahead and plug in, then.’
She picked up the filament running from the black box and leaned toward the disembodied skull. ‘I’ve never done this before. It won’t hurt or anything?’
‘On the contrary, I’m hoping it’ll make me feel better.’
She nodded and gently inserted the filament into one of several receptacles in the back of his head, wiggling it slightly to make sure the fit was tight.
‘That tickles.’ She jerked her fingers back. ‘Just kidding,’ the android told her with a reassuring smile. ‘Hang on.’ His eyes closed and the remnants of his forehead wrinkled in concentration. It was, she knew admiringly, nothing more than a redundant bit of cosmetic programming, but it was encouraging to see that something besides the android’s basics still functioned.
‘I’m home,’ Bishop murmured several minutes later. ‘Took longer than I thought. I had to run the probe around some damaged sectors.’
‘I tested the recorder when I first found it. It checked out okay.’
‘It is. The damaged sectors are in me. What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
‘McNary Flight Recorder, model OV-122, serial number FR-3664874, installed—’
‘Are all your language intuition circuits gone? You know what I mean. From the time it was emergency activated. What happened on the Sulaco? Why were the cryotubes ejected?’
A new voice emerged from the android’s larynx. It was female and mechanical. ‘Explosive gasses present in the cryogenic compartment. Fire in the cryogenic compartment.
All personnel report to evacuation stations.’ Bishop’s voice returned. ‘There are a large number of repeats without significant deviation in content. Do you wish to hear them all?’
Ripley rubbed her chin, thinking hard. ‘No, that’s sufficient for now. Explosive gases? Where did they come from? And what started the fire?’ When no response was forthcoming she became alarmed. ‘Bishop? Can you hear me?’
There was gurgling, then the android’s silky faux voice.
‘Sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be. Powering up and functioning are weakening already damaged sectors. I keep losing memory and response capability. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. You’d better keep your questions brief.’
‘Don’t null out on me yet, Bishop,’ she said anxiously. ‘I was asking you about the report of fire.’
‘Fire. . — *crackle— *. . yes. It was electrical, in the subflooring of the cryogenics compartment. Presence
