‘And you’re looking for help from us Y-chromo boys.’
‘You got something better to do?’
‘Why should we put our asses on the line for you?’
She finally glanced up at him, her eyes steely. ‘Your asses are already on the line. The only question is what you’re going to do about it.’
X
Accompanied by prisoner David, Aaron showed Ripley through the vast storage chamber. When they reached the section where the drums were stored, he paused and pointed.
‘This is where we keep it. I don’t know what this shit’s called.’
‘Quinitricetyline,’ David supplied helpfully.
‘I knew that,’ the assistant superintendent grumbled as he checked his notepad. ‘Okay. I’m off to work out the section assignments with Dillon for the paintbrush team. David, you get these drums organized, ready to move.’ He turned and headed in the direction of the main corridor.
‘Right, Eight-five,’ David called after him.
‘Don’t call me that!’ Aaron vanished into the darkness of the distant corridor.
Ripley examined the drums. They were slightly corroded and obviously hadn’t been touched in some time, but otherwise appeared intact.
‘What’s this “Eight-five” thing?’
David put gloved hands on the nearest container. ‘Lot of the prisoners used to call him that. We got his personnel charts out of the computer a few years ago. It’s his IQ.’ He grinned as he started to roll the drum.
Ripley stood and watched. ‘He seems to have a lot of faith in this stuff. What’s your opinion?’
The prisoner positioned the drum for loading. ‘Hell, I’m just a dumb watchman, like the rest of the guys here. But I did see a drum of this crap fall into a beachhead bunker once. Blast put a tug in dry dock for seventeen weeks. Great stuff.’
In another part of the storage chamber prisoners Troy and Arthur sorted through the mass of discarded electronics components. Troy shoved a glass bead into the cylinder he was holding, thumbed the switch, then disgustedly wrenched the bead free and began hunting for another.
‘Goddamn it. One fucking bulb in two thousand works.’
His companion looked up from his own search. ‘Hey, it could be a lot worse. We mighta got the paintbrush detail.’ He tried a bead in his own tube, hit the switch. To his astonishment and delight, it lit.
The two men filled the air duct with little room to spare, slathering the interior surface with the pungent quinitricetyline.
‘This shit smells awful,’ Prisoner Kevin announced for the hundredth time. His companion barely deigned to reply.
‘I’ve told you already; don’t breathe it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Fuckin’ fumes.’
‘I’m in a fuckin’ pipe with it. How can I keep from breathing it?’
Outside the toxic waste storage chamber other men were dumping buckets of the QTC and spreading it around as best they could, with brooms and mops and, where those were lacking, with their booted feet.
In the corridor Dillon was waiting with Ripley. Everything was proceeding according to plan, though whether the plan would proceed according to plan remained to be seen.
He glanced toward her, analyzed the expression on her face.
Not that he was particularly sensitive, but he’d seen a lot of life.
‘You miss the doc, right?’
‘I didn’t know him very well,’ she muttered by way of reply.
‘I thought you two got real close.’
Now she looked over at him. ‘I guess you’ve been looking through some keyholes.’
Dillon smiled. ‘That’s what I thought.’
The nausea didn’t slip up on her; it attacked hard and fast, overwhelming her equilibrium, forcing her to lean against the wall for support as she gagged and coughed. Dillon moved to support her but she shoved him away, fighting for air. He eyed her with sudden concern.
‘You okay?’
She took a deep breath and nodded.
‘Whatever you say. But you don’t look okay to me, sister.’
Aaron surveyed the convicts who’d accompanied him — some nearby, others on the walkway above. All carried primed emergency flares which would ignite on hard contact.
‘Okay, listen up.’ All eyes turned to regard him attentively.
‘Don’t light this fire till I give you the signal. This is the signal.’
He raised his arm. ‘You guys got it? Think you can remember that?’
They were all intent on him. So intent that the man nearest the vertical air duct dropped the flare he’d been holding. He clutched at it, missed, and held his breath as it slid to the ledge near his feet.
His companion hadn’t noticed. Straining, he knelt to retrieve it, let out a sigh of relief. .
As the alien appeared behind the grate on which the flare lay poised precariously, and reached for him.
The man managed to scream, the flare flipping from his fingers to fall to the ground below.
Where it flowered brightly.
Aaron heard and saw the explosion simultaneously. His eyes widened. ‘No, goddamn it! Wait for the fucking signal! Shit!’
Then he saw the alien and forgot about the flames.
They spread as rapidly as the desperate planners had hoped, shooting down QTC-painted corridors, licking up air vents, frying soaked floors and walkways. In her own corridor Ripley heard the approaching flames and pressed herself against unpainted ground as the air vents overhead caught. A convict nearby wasn’t as fast. He screamed as heat ignited his clothing.
Morse rolled wildly away from the licking flames, in time to see the alien scuttle past overhead.
‘It’s over here! Hey, it’s here!’ No one had the inclination or ability to respond to his alarm.
It was impossible to keep track of half of what was happening. Injured men flung themselves from burning railings or dropped from the hot ceiling. Prisoner Eric saw the fire reaching for him and darted at the last possible instant into the safety of an uncoated service pipe, barely squeezing through in time to avoid the blast of fire that seared the bottoms of his feet. Another man died as the alien emerged from a steaming ventilation duct to land directly on him.
Running like mad, Aaron and one of the convicts raced for the waste disposal chamber, trying to stay ahead of the flames.
The assistant superintendent made it; his companion wasn’t quite as fast. . or as lucky. The fire engulfed but did not stop him.
As they stumbled into the storage chamber junction, Ripley, Dillon, and prisoner Junior managed to knock the burning man to the floor and beat at the flames on his back. Aaron fought to catch his breath. As he did so a scuttling sound overhead caught his attention. With unexpected presence of mind he grabbed a QTC-soaked mop and jabbed it into the nearby flames. Holding the makeshift torch aloft, he jammed it into the gaping overhead duct port. The scuttling noise faded.
The prisoner died in Junior’s arms, his mouth working without producing words. Junior rose and charged into the smoke and fire, screaming.
‘Come and get me, chino! Come and get me!’
In the main access corridor smoke inhalation toppled another man. The last thing he saw as he went down was the alien rising before him, silhouetted by the flames and incredible heat. He tried to scream too, but
