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The soldiers of Anchor squad follow Morrison's lead to the crew-sized
door leading to the access tunnel, trying to stay in formation.
Sergeant Moore quickly gets the door to open, although it does so
with a grating sound, slowly splitting, revealing a long corridor.
Infrequent emergency lights strobe on along the length of the tunnel,
which runs straight almost 80 meters.
"Clear," says Berliner, referring to his tracker, although visibility
down the tunnel is less than ideal.
"Move in," says Moore, falling into place behind Morrison.
Flamethrower in hand, the heavy weapons specialist steps forward into
the tunnel. It seems colder in here. The walls are poor insulation.
Morrison looks like a fire breathing dragon, replete with smoking
nostrils. He keeps the incinerator leveled, directed straight down
the hall. Everything looks clear, so he forges ahead at a steady pace.
Behind the sergeant, Berliner keeps both eyes on his tracker. The
sensor emits a muffled sound, like an electric heartbeat, its signal
uninterrupted.
As Patwardhan literally learns to walk backward, she holds her
shotgun in a little too tight, feeling uncomfortable without its
weight against her. She thinks to check the safety. Feels up and down
along her web to make sure shells are in place, sidearm, medkit.
She's falling behind, and has to jog 10 meters to catch up with the troop. It's a long, terrifying 10 meters.
Sarge doesn't like the looks of this tunnel. Visually, it's tip-top, but there's a certain vibe here, something unspoken in the walls, coming through the chilly air. As a career soldier, Moore has a sixth sense about his surroundings. It always pays to be cautious. "Update, Berliner."
"The tracker's running cold," he reports.
"So what does that mean?" Sarge wants to know.
"It means the atmosphere in here is too cold, and too thin. The tracker's not reading properly. I can barely pick up your own movements." Berliner looks at the tracker forlornly, smacking it
against the heavy form of his pulse rifle. "Fucking thing," he says.
Berliner saddles the tracker in its leather case, giving both hands
to the use of the rifle. He works the pump of the custom-fitted
shotgun, carefully stepping ahead on the metal deck.
"Eyes open, troops," orders the sarge. "Stay in formation. Come on, Doc, hustle!"
Morrison, his incinerator leading the way, keeps his eyes peeled for trouble.
Something warm and wet drips onto his cheek. In an instant,
the soldier jumps to the right side of the corridor, gets down on one
knee, and points the incinerator straight up to where the drop came
from. Angling his shoulder lamp toward the ceiling, he watches
another drop of liquid plummet to the floor. He relaxes a bit, seeing
that its origin seems to be a narrow conduit running the length of
the the tunnel, fastened to the ceiling.
Momentarily startled by the quick movement, but now calming himself,
Sgt. Moore investigates the leak with his finger, ribs a little
between his thumb and forefinger. He sniffs the liquid, as Morrison
gets to his feet. "Water, I think," he says, daring to try some on
his tongue. "Warm water. Looks like this seal's coming loose, is all.
Let's keep moving; we'll fix it later."
Finding no choice but to adopt a sideways jog, Patwardhan hurries to
catch up with her squad mates. Keeping one eye in front and one in
back is tough; she falls behind again. She checks the ammo reading on
the pulse rifle, feeling like she's forgotten something.
"Stay in formation," says the sarge.
Corporal Brimstone moves to a panel set at eye level on the bulkhead.
Big, simple buttons, and a pair of levers. She hits the POWER bar.
White lights ringing the doorway flicker to life. In the wash of
fresh, constant lighting, at least around this particular door, the soldiers are grateful to be able to see out to around 30
meters. "What can we expect on the other side of this doorway, Vitelli?"
"A big cargo hold," he answers.
"I mean, can we breathe it?"
"Affirmative."
For a second opinion, she asks, "Fleming, give me an environmental on
cargo bay B1."
"Just a second," comes the reply. "Tests okay. Proceed, corporal."
"Open the door," she says to the comtech. "Booths, McKenzie: use that
door jamb for cover." Brimstone crouches next to Vitelli as the
smartgunners move into position.
Vitelli starts to pull out his electronics case. "Wait a minute," he
tells Brimstone. "I want to take a look at the circuitry."
She glances at him sternly. "Just open the door, private."
Recognizing an order when he hears one, Vitelli lets the motion
tracker hang around his neck and reaches for a lever marked OPEN. At
Brimstone's signal, he pulls the lever, and the massive door creaks
and groans, then struggles to move up through the ceiling. Crouched,
with a dog's-eye-view under the doorway, Brimstone can see cargo
crates, arranged in such a way along the walls that they create a
wide aisle leading to the crew section to the right. There's a huge
flatbed elevator on the left, about 15 or 20 meters distant.
The huge door's mechanical rumble suddenly gives way to a horrible
metal squealing sound, and the doorway jams after raising only about
a meter. The blessed lights around the doorframe brown out, and don't
come back on. Vitelli flicks the door control levers, with no
response. Silently, he vows to get a cigarette in his face at the
next possible opportunity.
McKenzie reaches into a pocket, bringing out a pair of tiny stick-flares. He strikes them against the bulkhead and tosses them, one at
a time, under the doorway. "Should stir up the shadows a bit. Now
it's time for the limbo. I'll holler at you when the coast is clear, and y'all can follow." He quickly lays down on the cold metal deck, folding the smartgun neatly against his body while drawing his
standard issue 9mm. Prone, and ready to shimmy under the partially open door, McKenzie twists his body to shine his shoulder lamp in the corporal's direction. "What do you say, boss? Should I go in and break dance?"
Vitelli laughs out loud to himself, bending over to take a look under
the door. McKenzie's flares burn hot and pink in the room beyond, hardly
shining on anything at all. Against the far wall, only the sharp angles of enormous stacks of cargo. Some of the shipping modules are ten meters high and wide. No survivors in sight. The air in there is
maybe a tad bit warmer, too.
The motion tracker doesn't pick up anything, prompting Vitelli to volunteer, "I'm going in. Nothing in there but cargo boxes." He
slings his rifle, pulls out his pistol, gets on his stomach and begins to crawl, taking a second to look back toward Brimstone. "You
know, boss, it's when I'm in these positions," grunt, "that I
remember how lucky I am to be your subordinate.
Booths' polished boots squeak as he propels himself on his back,
using sort of a kick-push-slide, keeping the smartgun parallel to his
body. He cranes his neck. "Mac, cover my ass. I'll cover yours on the
other side."
McKenzie waits only long enough for Booths to get under before starting in himself. Booths gets to his feet, lowering the smartgun's
muzzle to hip-level, facing out. Vitelli is already looking
around. "Tracker's still clear," says the comtech.
"Okay, boss, we're clear," Booths reports. He pans his lamp, letting
his comset camera pick up the scene for Fleming's benefit, while
covering Brimstone and McKenzie's entrance.
Vitelli, alone and in the dark, moves toward the nearest stacks of
cargo. His lamp falls on a crate three meters high and wide marked
CALIFORNIA GIRL TUNA CANNED. Another nearby crate, ten meters long
and half as high, apparently contains nonbromated flour from China,
nearly twenty tons of it. He starts to hum an old song, glancing down
at his tracker as he moves down the line: Werner Steel, Gordon
Welding, Merck Medical, Webster Electronics Incorporated, Exxon, and
more, in all shapes and sizes of containers. Much of it is simply
stamped WEYLAND-YUTANI.
Sabo and Duarte have set up one sentry gun, and are in the process of putting up another. The guns are spaced about five meters behind the APC, covering the service corridor running back to the main hangar.
The guns aren't yet armed, but their sensors are aware and active.
The first gun swivels listlessly, scanning its arc of fire on a low
threat setting.
Observing from the cramped mainframe terminal aboard USS Gaines, the
android Leon looks away from a set of monitors, noticing a flashing
white light on another console. URGENT FLEMING EYES ONLY, reads a communique memo. He pulls on a headset and taps out a sequence. In moments, he's on a private channel with the APC. "Fleming," he says. His voice cuts through the hushed, muffled
transmissions coming through the lieutenant's comm array. He responds
tersely, "I'm a little busy here, Leon."
"I have an urgent communique from USMCHQ."
Preoccupied, he forgets about the message almost as quickly as he
resolves the interruption. "Patch it through. I'll read it later."
"Yes, sir."
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