Bishop was careful not to drift too close to the station as he guided the dropship toward the upper-level landing platform As they approached, they passed over the ruined armoured personnel carrier. A shattered, motionless hulk outside the station entry way, the AFC had finally stopped smoking. Ripley stared as it slipped past beneath him, a monument to overconfidence and a misplaced faith in the ability of modern technology to conquer any obstacle. Soon it would evapourate along with the station and the rest of Hadley colony.
About a third of the way up the side of the enormous cone that formed the processing station, a narrow landing platform jutted out into the wind. It was designed to accommodate loading skimmers and small atmospheric craft, not something the size of a dropship. Somehow Bishop managed to maneuver them in close. The platform groaned under the shuttle's weight. A supporting beam bent dangerously but held.
Ripley finished winding metal tape around the bulky project that had occupied her hands and mind for the past severa minutes. She tossed the half-empty tape roll aside and inspected her handiwork. It wasn't a neat job, and it probably violated twenty separate military safety regulations, but she didn't give a damn. She wasn't going on parade, and there was no one around to tell her it was dangerous and impossible.
What she'd done while Bishop was bringing them in close to the station was to secure Hicks's pulse-rifle to the side of a flamethrower. The result was a massive, clumsy siamese weapons package with tremendous and varied firepower. It might even be enough to get her back to the ship alive—if she could carry it.
She turned back to the dropship's armoury and began loading a satchel and her pockets with anything that might kill aliens: grenades; fully charged pulse-rifle magazines; shrapnel clips; and more.
Having programmed the dropship for automatic lift-off should the landing platform show signs of giving way, Bishop made his way aft from the pilot's compartment to help Hicks treat his injuries. The corporal lay sprawled across severa flight seats, the contents of a field medical kit strewn around him. Working together, he and Ripley had managed to stanch the bleeding. With the aid of medication his body would heal The dissolved flesh was already beginning to repair itself. But in order to reduce the pain to a tolerable level, he'd been forced to take several injections. The medication kept him halfway comfortable but blurred his vision and slowed his reactions. The only support he could give to Ripley's mad plan was moral.
Bishop tried to remonstrate. 'Ripley, this isn't a very efficacious idea. I understand how you feel—?'
'Do you?' she snapped at him without looking up.
'As a matter of fact, I do. It's part of my programming. It's not sensible to throw one life after another.'
'She's alive.' Ripley found an empty pocket and filled it with grenades. 'They brought her here just like they brought all the others, and you know it.'
'It seems the logical thing for them to do, yes. I admit there is no obvious reason for them to deviate from the pattern they have demonstrated thus far. That is not the point. The point is that even if she is here, it is unlikely that you can find her, rescue her, and fight your way back out in time. In seventeen minutes this place will be a cloud of vapour the size of Nebraska.'
She ignored him, her fingers flying as she sealed the overstuffed satchel. 'Hicks, don't let him leave.'
He blinked weakly at her, his face taut with pain. The medication was making his eyes water. 'We ain't going anywhere.' He nodded toward her feet. 'Can you carry that?'
She hefted her hybrid weapon. 'For as long as I have to. Picking up the satchel, she slung it over one shoulder, then turned and strode to the crew door. She thumbed it open waiting impatiently for it to cycle. Wind and the roar from the failing atmosphere processor rushed the gap. She stepped to the top of the loading ramp and paused for a last look back.
'See you, Hicks.'
He tried to sit up, failed, and settled for rolling onto his side One hand held a wad of medicinal gauze tight against his face 'Dwayne. It's Dwayne.'
She walked back over to grab his hand. 'Ellen.'
That was enough. Hicks nodded, leaned back, and looked satisfied. His voice was a pale shadow of the one she'd come to be familiar with. 'Don't be long, Ellen.'
She swallowed, then turned and exited, not looking back as the hatch closed behind her.
The wind might have blown her off the platform had she not been so heavily equipped. Set in the station wall opposite the dropship were the doors of a large freight elevator. The controls responded instantly to her touch. Plenty of power here. Too much power.
The elevator was empty. She entered and touched the contact switch opposite C-level. The bottom. The seventh level she thought as the elevator began to descend.
It was slow going. The elevator had been designed to carry massive, sensitive loads, and it would take its time. She stood with her back pressed against the rear wall, watching bars of light descend. As the elevator descended into the bowels of the station the heat grew intense. Steam roared everywhere. She had difficulty breathing.
The slow pace of the descent allowed her time to remove her jacket and slip the battle harness she'd appropriated from the dropship's stores on directly over her undershirt. Sweat plastered her hair to her neck and forehead as she made a last check of the weaponry she'd brought with her. A bandolier of grenades fit neatly across the front of the harness. She primed the flamethrower, made sure it was full. Same for the magazine locked into the underside of the rifle. This time she remembered to chamber the initial round to activate the load.
Fingers nervously traced the place where marking flares bulged the thigh pockets of her jumpsuit pants. She fumbled with an unprimed grenade. It slipped between her fingers and fell to the floor, bouncing harmlessly. Trembling, she recovered it and slid it back into a pocket. Despite all of Hicks's detailed instructions, she was acutely aware that she didn't know anything about grenades and flares and such.
Worst of all was the fact that for the first time since they'd landed on Acheron she was alone. Completely and utterly alone. She didn't have much time to think about it because the elevator motors were slowing.
The elevator hit bottom with a gentle bump. The safety cage enclosing the lift retracted. She raised the awkward double muzzle of rifle and flamethrower as the doors parted.
An empty corridor lay before her. In addition to the illumination provided by the emergency lighting, faint reddish glows came from behind thick metal bulges. Steam hissed from broken pipes. Sparks flared from overloaded, damaged circuits. Couplings groaned while stressed machinery throbbed and whined. Somewhere in the distance a massive mechanical arm or piston was going ka-rank, ka-rank.
Her gaze darted left, then right. Her knuckles were white above the dual weapon she carried. She had no flexible battle visor to help her, though in the presence of so much excess heat its infrared-imaging sensors wouldn't have been of much use, anyway. She stepped out into the corridor, into a scene designed by Piranesi, decorated by Dante.
She was struck by the aliens' presence as soon as she turned the first bend in the walkway. Epoxy-like material covered conduits and pipes, flowing smoothly up into the overhead walkways to blend machinery and resin together, creating a single chamber. She had Hicks's locator taped to the top of the flamethrower, and she looked at it as often as she dared. It was still functioning, still homing in on its single target.
A voice echoed along the corridor, startling her. It was calm and efficient and artificial.