Microsoft Word - THE COMPLETE ALIEN OMNIBUS, page 57
inactivated.
Exhaust
system
inactivated.
Exhaust
system
inactivated. Fire and explosive gases in cryogenic chamber.’
Motors hummed to life. The four functioning cryonic
cylinders rose from their cradles on hydraulic supports. Their
telltales winking, they began to move to the far side of the
room. Some and intensifying flame obscured but did
not slow their passage. Still pierced through by the chunk of
metallic glass, the dead crawler slid off the moving coffin and
fell to the floor.
‘All personnel report to EEV,’ the voice insisted, its tone
unchanged. ‘Precautionary evacuation in one minute.’
Moving in single file the cryonic cylinders entered a
transport tube, traveled at high speed through the bowels of
the ship until they emerged in the starboard lock, there to be
loaded by automatic handlers into the waiting Emergency
Escape Vehicle. They were its only occupants. Behind the
transparent faceplate, Newt twitched in her sleep.
Lights flashed, motors hummed. The voice spoke even
though there were none to hear. ‘All EEV’s will be jettisoned in
ten seconds. Nine . . .’
Interior locks slammed shut, externals opened wide. The
voice continued its countdown.
At ‘zero’ two things happened with inimical simultaneity: ten
EEV’s, nine of them empty, were ejected from the ship, and the
proportion of escaping gases within the damaged cryogenic
chamber interacted critically with the flames that were
emerging from the acid-leached hole in the floor. For a brief
eruptive instant the entire fore port side of the Sulaco blazed in
fiery imitation of the distant stars.
Half the fleeing EEV’s were severely jolted by the explosion.
Two began tumbling, completely out of control. One
embarked upon a short, curving path which brought it back in
a wide, sweeping arc to the ship from which it had been
ejected. It did not slow as it neared its storage pod. Instead it
slammed at full acceleration into the side of the transport. A
second, larger explosion rocked the great vessel. Wounded, it
lurched onward through emptiness, periodically emitting
irregular bursts of light and heat while littering the immaculate
void with molten, shredded sections of its irrevocably damaged
self.
On board the escape craft containing the four cryonic
cylinders, telltales were flashing, circuits flickering and
sparking. The EEV’s smaller, less sophisticated computers
struggled to isolate, minimize, and contain the damage that
had been caused by the last-second explosion. The vehicle
had not been hulled, but the concussion had damaged sensitive
instrumentation.
It sought status clarification from the mother ship and when
none was forthcoming, instigated a scan of its immediate
surroundings. Halfway through the hasty survey the requisite
instrumentation failed but it was quickly rejuvenated via a
backup system. The Sulaco had been journeying far off the
beaten photonic path, its mission having carried it to the
fringes of human exploration. It had not traveled long upon
its homeward path when overcome by disaster. Mankind’s
presence in this section of space was marked but intermittent,
his installations far apart and few between.
The EEV’s guiding computer found something. Undesirable,
not a primary choice. But under existing conditions it was the
only choice. The ship could not estimate how long it could
continue to function given the serious nature of the damage it
had suffered. Its primary task was the preservation of the
human life it bore. A course was chosen and set. Still
sputtering, striving mightily to repair itself, the compact
vessel’s drive throbbed to life.
Fiorina wasn’t an impressive world, and in appearance even
less inviting, but it was the only one in the Neroid Sector with
an active beacon. The EEV’s data banks locked in on the steady
signal. Twice the damaged navigation system lost the beam, but
continued on the prescribed course anyway. Twice the signal
was recovered. Information on Fiorina was scarce and dated,
as befitted its isolation and peculiar status.
‘Fiorina “Fury” 361,’ the readout stated. ‘Outer veil mineral
ore refinery. Maximum security work-correctional facility.’
The words meant nothing to the ship’s computer. They would
have meant much to its passengers, but they were not in
position or condition to read anything. ‘Additional information
requested?’ the computer flashed plaintively. When the proper
button was not immediately pressed, the screen obediently
blanked.
Days later the EEV plunged toward the grey, roiling
atmosphere of its destination. There was nothing inviting
about the dark clouds that obscured the planetary surface. No
glimpse of blue or green showed through them, no indication
of life. But the catalog indicated the presence of a human
installation, and the communications beacon threw its
unvarying pulse into emptiness with becoming steadiness.
On-board systems continued to fail with discouraging
regularity. The EEV’s computer strained to keep the craft
under control as one backup after another kicked in. Clouds
the colour of coal dust raced past the unoccupied ports as
atmospheric lightning flashed threateningly off the chilled,
sealed coffins within.
The computer experienced no strain as it tried to bring the
EEV down safely. There was no extra urgency in its efforts. It
would have functioned identically had the sky been clear and
the winds gentle, had its own internal systems been functioning
optimally instead of flaring and failing with progressive
regularity.
The craft’s landing gear had not responded to the drop
command and there was neither time nor power to try a second
approach. Given the jumbled, precipitous nature of the
landscape immediately surrounding the beacon and formal
landing site, the computer opted to try for a touchdown on the
relatively smooth sand beach.
When additional power was requested, it developed that it
did not exist. The computer tried. That was its job. But the
EEV fell far short of the beach, slamming into the sea at too
acute an angle.
Within the compartment, braces and bulkheads struggled to
absorb the impact. Metal and carbon composites groaned,
buffeted by forces they were never intended to withstand.
Support struts cracked or bent, walls twisted. The computer-
concentrated all its efforts on trying to ensure that the four
cylinders in its care remained intact. The crisis left little time
for much else. About itself the computer cared nothing.
Self-care was not a function with which it had been equipped.
The surface of Fiorina was as barren as its sky, a riot of
grey-black stone scoured by howling winds. A few twisted,
contorted growths clung to protected hollows in the rock.
Driving rain agitated the surface of dank, cold pools.
The inanimate shapes of heavy machinery dotted the
mournful
landscape.
Loaders,
transports,
and
immense
excavators and lifters rested where they had been abandoned,
too massive and expensive to evacuate from the incredibly rich
site which had once demanded their presence. Three immense
burrowing excavators sat facing the wind like a trio of gigantic
carnivorous worms, their drilling snouts quiescent, their
operator compartments dark and deserted. Smaller machines
and vehicles clustered in groups like so many starving
parasites, as if waiting for one of the larger machines to grind
to life so they might eagerly gather crumbs from its flanks.
Below the site dark breakers smashed methodically into a
beach of gleaming black sand, expending their energy on a
lifeless shore. No elegant arthropods skittered across the
surface of that shadowy bay, no birds darted down on skilled,
questing wings to probe the broken edges of the incoming
waves for small, edible things.
There were fish in the waters, though. Strange, elongated
creatures with bulging eyes and small, sharp teeth. The human
transients who called Fiorina home engaged in occasional
arguments as to their true nature, but as these people were not
the sort for whom a lengthy discussion of the nature of parallel
evolution was the preferred mode of entertainment, they
tended to accept the fact that the ocean-going creatures,
whatever their peculiar taxonomy, were edible, and let it go at
that. Fresh victuals of any kind were scarce. Better perhaps not
to peer too deeply into the origins of whatever ended up in the
cookpot, so long as it was palatable.
The man walking along the beach was thoughtful and in no
particular hurry. His intelligent face was preoccupied, his
expression noncommittal. Light plastic attire protected his
perfectly bald head from the wind and rain. Occasionally he
kicked in irritation at the alien insects which swarmed around
his feet, seeking a way past the slick, treated plastic. While
Fiorina’s visitors occasionally sought to harvest the dubious
bounty of its difficult waters, the more primitive native
life-forms were not above trying to feast on the visitors.
He strolled silently past abandoned derricks and fossilized
cranes, wholly intent on his thoughts. He did not smile. His
attitude was dominated by a quiet resignation born not of
determination but indifference, as though he cared little about
what happened today, or whether there was a tomorrow. In
any event he found far more pleasure in gazing inward. His all
too familiar surroundings gave him little pleasure.
A sound caused him to look up. He blinked, wiping cold
drizzle from his face mask. The distant roar drew his gaze to a
point in the sky. Without warning a lowering cloud gave violent
birth to a sliver of descending metal. It glowed softly and the
air around it screamed as it fell.
He gazed at the place where it had struck the ocean, pausing
before resuming his walk.
Halfway up the beach he checked his chronometre, then
turned and began to retrace his steps. Occasionally he glanced
out to sea. Seeing nothing, he expected to find nothing. So the
limp form which appeared on the sand ahead of him was a
surprise. He increased his pace slightly and bent over the body
as wavelets lapped around his feet. For the first time his blood
began to race slightly. The body was that of a woman, and she
was still alive. He rolled her over onto her back.
Stared down into Ripley’s unconscious, salt-streaked face.
He looked up, but the beach still belonged to him alone.
Him, and this utterly unexpected new arrival. Leaving her to
go for help would mean delaying treatment which might save
her life, not to mention exposing her to the small but still
enthusiastic predators which inhabited parts of Fiorina.
Lifting her beneath her arms, he heaved once and managed
to get her torso around his shoulders. Legs straining, he lifted.
With the woman on his shoulders and back he headed slowly
toward the weather lock from which he’d emerged earlier.
Inside he paused to catch his breath, then continued on
toward the bug wash. Three prisoners who’d been working
outside were busy delousing, naked beneath the hot, steady
spray that mixed water with disinfectant. As medical officer,
Clemens carried a certain amount of authority. He used it now.
‘Listen up!’ The men turned to regard him curiously.
Clemens interacted infrequently with the prisoners except for
those who sought him out for sick call. Their initial
indifference vanished as soon as they spotted the body hanging
from his shoulders. ‘An EEV’s come down.’ They exchanged
glances. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ he snapped, trying to divert
their attention from his burden. ‘Get out on the beach. There
may be others. And notify Andrews.’
They hesitated, then began to move. As they exited the wash
and began grabbing at their clothes, they stared at the woman
Clemens carried. He didn’t dare set her down.
II
Andrews didn’t like working the Communicator. Every use
went down in his permanent record. Deep-space commu-
nication was expensive and he was expected to make use of the
device only when absolutely and unavoidably necessary. It
might develop that his judgment would not agree with that of
some slick-assed bonehead back at headquarters, in which case
his accumulated pay might be docked, or he might be denied a
promotion. All without a chance to defend himself, because by
the time he made it out of the hellhole that was Fiorina and
back home, the cretin who’d docked him would probably be
long since dead or retired.
Hell, why was he worrying? Everyone he’d ever known
would be dead by the time he got back home. That didn’t
render him any less anxious to make that oft-anticipated
journey.
So he did his rotten job as best he could and hoped that his
rotten employers would eventually take note of his skill and
professionalism and offer early retirement, except that now a
rotten, unforeseen difficulty had arisen with the sole intent of
complicating his life. Andrews harbored an intense dislike for
the unforeseen. One of the few compensations of his job was its
unremitting predictability.
Until now. And it compelled him to make use of the
Communicator. Angrily he hammered the keys.
FURY 361—CLASS C PRISON UNIT—IRIS 12037154.
REPORT EEV UNIT 2650 CRASH
OCCUPANTS - BISHOP MODEL ANDROID,
INACTIVE HICKS, CPL. —ES
MARINES—L55321—DOA RIPLEY,
LT.—CO SVC.-B515617—
SURVIVOR UNIDENTIFIED
JUVENILE FEMALE—DOA
REQUEST EMERG. EVAC. SOONEST POSSIBLE—
AWAIT RESPONSE SUPT. ANDREWS M51021.
[Time delay transmis 1844—Fiorina]
Clemens had dragged the woman out of the water and had
hustled her up to the facility as quickly as possible. So quickly
that her condition and not her gender had dominated their
thoughts. Reflection would come later, and with it the
problems Andrews envisioned.
As for the EEV itself, they’d used the mutated oxen to winch
it ashore. Any of the mine vehicles could have done the job
quicker and easier, but those which had been abandoned
outside had long since given up the ghost of active function,
and those within the complex were too valuable to the
inhabitants to risk exposing to the weather, even assuming the
men could have safely hoisted an appropriate vehicle outside.
Simpler to use the oxen, unaccustomed as they were to the
task. But they performed effectively, save for one that
collapsed subsequently and died, doubtless from having been
subjected to the unfamiliar strain of actual work.
Once within reach of the mine’s sole remaining operational
external crane, it was easy enough to secure the badly damaged
escape craft to the bracing and lower it inside. Andrews was
there when the men went in, soon to emerge and declare that
the woman hadn’t come alone, that there were others.
The superintendent wasn’t pleased. More complications,
more holes in his placid daily routine. More decisions to make.
He didn’t like making decisions. There was always the danger
of making a wrong one.
The marine corporal was dead, likewise the unfortunate
child. The android didn’t matter. Andrews was somewhat
relieved. Only the woman to deal with, then, and just as well. She
presented complications enough.
One of the men informed him that the Communicator was
holding an on-line message. Leaving the EEV and its contents in
the care of others, the superintendent made his way back to his
office. He was a big man in his late forties, muscular, powerful,
determined. He had to be all of that and more or he’d never
have been assigned to Fiorina.
The reply was as terse as his original communication.
