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.
