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
