Aliens: The Marines' Entry
Oh dear. Now my muse feels the story was a bit unfair to Gorman - had he just explained why they 'can't have any firing in there', the Marines would've understood. So here I've rewritten that scene slightly...though in fact it's not Gorman who explains.
I've borrowed, but slightly changed, a bit from the novelisation.
Hadley's Hope Atmosphere Processing Station
The APC
Ripley looked again at the location of the colonists taken by the Aliens...and had an uneasy thought. Was where they were a coincidence? Somehow she couldn't make herself believe it. She remembered the Alien nest on the Nostromo, which had held Brett and Dallas, and that it had been very hot. Clearly the things liked the heat. Doubtless the processing station was hot, too, despite its coolant.
Coolant...
Holy shit...
Without immediately making her concerns clear, but with growing apprehension, she asked Gorman, "Lieutenant, what do those pulse rifles fire?"
"10mm explosive-tipped caseless," he answered. "Standard armour-piercing round, why?"
Her voice rose a little. "Well, look where your team is. They're right under the primary heat exchangers."
"So?"
"So if they fire their weapons in there, won't they rupture the cooling system?"
Burke reacted for the first time with equal concern. "Ho, ho, ho. Yeah. She's absolutely right."
Irritably Gorman demanded, "So? So what?"
"Look. This whole station is basically a big fusion reactor."
That brought Gorman up short. He stared at the screen in horror. His orders were clear: the Marines' job was to identify the xenomorph threat, if it existed - which clearly it did - and engage them. Engaging them meant firing at them, and unless the things had some kind of natural armour their shots would likely go right through, as they were designed to.
But such shots always produced collateral damage even if you didn't miss. If that happened here...!
"Right?" Burke went on. "So you're talking about a thermonuclear explosion, and adios, muchachos," he finished with an inappropriate flippancy.
"Oh, great. Wonderful," Gorman cursed. "Shit!" He put his head in one hand. That he was clearly rattled did not endear him to Ripley. This was, as she'd tried to tell them, far from a standard "bug hunt". It was understandable, given his lack of experience and Marine SOP (which was to blast the motherfucking hell out of their targets), but he was in command. He had to cope with this.
Initially his solution was the worst he could've picked. "Look. Uh...Apone."
Processing station
Apone snapped his fingers to draw the Marines closer so everyone could hear the El-Tee - comms were tricky enough down here.
The APC
"Look. We can't have any firing in there."
Processing station
Their immediate reaction was one of shock, incredulity, rage.
The APC
"I, uh, I want you to collect magazines from everybody," Gorman stammered.
Processing station
"Is he fuckin' crazy?!" Hudson cursed.
"What the hell are we supposed to use, man, harsh language?" Frost growled.
The APC
"Flame units only," Gorman continued, "I want rifles slung."
Processing station
"Sir," Apone began, "I -"
"Just do it, Sergeant." Though flustered at the way things were going wrong, he was still the CO. Then he made his worst judgement. "And no grenades."
The Marines exchanged glances which bordered on fright. Even Hicks looked uneasy. Not even grenades?!
The APC
But it was Ripley who saved the day. "Wait, we have to - Sergeant -"
Gorman blustered, "Hey! You have no authority to -!"
"Can it!" Ripley spat. "Fuck my authority! You are ordering them to risk their goddamn lives in there! The least we can do is tell them why they can't use guns! Apone, this is Ripley! I don't know if they meant for this to happen, but the colonists are right under the primary heat exchangers - and so are you. If you fire those rifles in there you'll probably damage the cooling system, and -"
Processing station
Corporal Dwayne Hicks was almost too smart to be a Marine. In fact this out-trip (if he made it back) would qualify him for the Marine Corps Sergeant's Exam, which he would probably pass. He looked up - and saw a coolant valve, likely freon, encrusted with Alien resin. He put two and two together - and got six. "Holy shit, Top, she's right! If we lose coolant, she's talkin' nuke!"
Apone stared at him. Hicks was known for seldom speaking - but when he did, it was worth hearing. "We're under a fuckin' bomb?!"
"No, not as such," Ripley answered, "but that's what the station would turn into. So do not fire in there."
The APC
Ripley looked at Gorman. "But you're in charge, Gorman. I'm just," she barely smiled, "a consultant." Who just saved all your asses.
Sounding not at all confident, Gorman said, "The orders are confirmed, Sergeant. No rifles, no grenades. Flame units only."
"Sir," Apone pointed out, "we only have three."
"I'm well aware of that, Apone. Carry out my orders." He turned to Ripley. "Is this - deliberate? Did they know?"
Ripley sighed. "I've no idea. Best we assume they did."
Processing station
"All right, sweethearts," Apone fell back on the Marines' ingrained habit of obeying orders...however dumb they were. But this, he admitted, made sense. "You heard the man. Pull 'em out. Come on, let's have 'em." Though it was clear they'd rather dole out their own blood, the Marines complied. "Come on, Vasquez. Clear and lock."
With an innocent expression Vasquez handed over the small charge unit for her smartgun, as did Drake.
She said nothing about the spare unit she had. Nor did Drake.
"You too. Give it up, 'Ski. Come on, let's go," Apone continued, gathering ammo. "Crowe, I want it now. Give it up."
The smartgun operators' eyes met. Fuck the nuke risk. If there were as many of these things as Ripley claimed, and if they were half as bad as she said, then no fuckin' way were they going in there without firepower. Marines were expected to give their lives if need be, but not to give them away.
"Right on, Vas," Drake leered quietly as each clipped their spare units into place. The smartguns really were smart; it was impossible for them to fire without the fingerprints of their assigned, fully trained operators - in fact, not even Gorman could fire them. Taking a leaf out of Old Man's War, the M56 was coded to its assigned operator for the sake of safety (and accountability, especially in a FUBAR). It was equally impossible to fire them by accident even though the rounds were loaded directly, like a 12-gauge, rather than in a separate clip.
Neither Marine had ever fired by accident. Unlike most guns, the default state of the M56 was to be loaded.
"Let's go, Marine. Give it up," Apone finished. "Frost, you got the duty. Open that bag."
"Thanks a lot, Sarge," Frost returned sourly, receiving the (fuckin' heavy!) load of ammo.
"Hicks, cover our ass," Apone ordered. "Head 'em out, people."
One might wonder how Hicks could obey this order, being unarmed. The answer, as Apone well knew, knowing his people as he did, was that Hicks was not, in fact, unarmed. He drew out a pump-action sawn-off 12-gauge and cocked it as a bemused Frost stared. "Where'd you get that, Hicks? When I saw that bulge, I thought you were smuggling liquor, except that'd be out of character for you. Steal it from a museum?"
He was curious, not sceptical. Marines were expert with every kind of weapon, even if it was old and/or obsolete. The Corps taught that just because a gun was old, which this one clearly was (though beautifully kept), that didn't mean it wasn't still dangerous. It was why they were issued knives.
Then again, 'dangerous' was a Marine's middle name.
"Been in my family for a long time. A relative on my Pop's side was a cop back in 1983, till he retired. Cute, isn't it?"
"Some family," Frost returned. "Can it do anything?"
Hicks showed him a single shell. "Not your standard military-issue high-velocity armour-piercing round, but you don't want it going off in your face, either." He kept his voice down. "I always keep this handy. For close encounters. I don't think it'll penetrate anything far enough to set off any mushrooms."
"Yeah, real cute." Frost favoured the sawn-off with a last admiring look. "You're a traditionalist, Hicks."
The corporal smiled thinly. "It's my tender nature."
THE END
"Hicks!"
"MARINES! WE ARE LEAVING!"
- Aliens