PFC Vasquez just stared as (Ripley) walked past. Ripley had received warmer inspections from robots. The other smartgun operator didn’t blink, didn’t smile. Black hair, blacker eyes, thin lips. Attractive if she’d make half an effort.

It required a special talent; a unique combination or strength, mental ability, and reflexes, to operate a smartgun….. Every one of the troopers looked tough. Drake and Vasquez looked tough and mean. (p. 51)

Her nickname was the Gamin Assassin. It was not misplaced. (p. 59)

Vasquez removed her heavy smartgun from its rack and locked it into a work stand and lovingly began to run it through the computer-assisted final checkout….Vasquez smiled affectionately as she worked on it. It was a difficult child, a complex child, but it would protect her and her comrades and keep them safe from harm. She lavished more understanding and care on it than she did on any of her colleagues. (p. 62)

In the midst of chaos and confusion Vasquez and Drake found each other. High-tech harpy nodded knowingly to new-wave Neanderthal as she slammed her sequestered magazine back into place.

“Let’s rock,” she said, curtly.

Standing back to back, they opened up simultaneously with their smartguns, laying down two arcs of fire like welders sealing the skin of a spaceship. In the confined chamber the din from the two heavy weapons was overpowering. To the operators of the smartguns the thunder was a Bach fugue and Grimoire stantisizer all rolled into one. […]

Vasquez reached up just long enough to rip away her headset, her eyes and attention riveted on the smartgun’s targeting screen. Feet, hands, eyes, body became extensions of the weapon, all dancing and spinning in unison. Thunder, lightning, smoke and screams filled the chamber, a little slice of Armageddon on C-level. A great calmness flowed through her.

Surely Heaven couldn’t be any better than this. (p. 118-9)

Off to their right, Vasquez was laying down an uninterrupted field of fire, destroying everythingnot human that came within a meter of her—be it dead, alive, or part of the processing plant’s machinery. She looked out of control. Apone knew better. If she was out of control, they’d all be dead by now.

Hicks ran toward her. Pivoting smoothly, she let loose a long burst from the heavy weapon. The corporal ducked as the smartgun’s barrel swung toward his face, stubling clear as the nightmarish figure stalking him was catapulted backward by Vasquez’s blast. (p. 121)

"Drake!" She was screaming, not calm and controlled anymore. "He's down!"

It took all of Hicks's superior size and strength to wrench her around to face him. "He's gone! Forget it, Vasquez, he's gone."

She stared up at him, irrationa, her face streaked with soot and grime. "No. No, he's not! He's..."

Hicks looked at the other APC's occupants. "Get her away from here." (p. 126-7)

His tirade was interrupted by a loud clack: the sound of a pulse-rifle being activated. Vasquez cradled the powerful weapon beneath her right arm. It wasn’t pointed in Burke’s direction, but then it wasn’t exactly aimed away from him, either. Her expression was blank. He knew it wouldn’t change if she decided to put a pulse-shell through his chest, either. End of discussion.

“You’re all crazy,” he muttered. “You know that.”

“Man,” Vasquez told him softly, “Why else would anyone join the Colonial Marines?” She glanced over at the corporal. “Tell me something, Hicks. Does that mean I can plead insanity for shooting this mierda? If I can, I might as well shoot that sorry excuse for a lieutenant while I’m at it. Don’t want to waste a good defense.” (p. 144-5)

Vasquez looked bored. “Give us a break, Hudson.”

He spun on her. “That’s easy for you to say, Vasquez. You’re a lifer. You love mucking around on these alien dirtballs so you can blow away anything that sticks up bug eyes.”[…]

Her expression was hard. “You’re breaking my heart. Go cross a wire or something.” (p. 176)

“If the APC hadn’t blown, we wouldn’t be standing here talking about it. We’d be driving somewhere talking with the turret gun,” Vasquez pointed out sharply. (p. 183)

Vasquez passed her flamethrower to Gorman and unslung her rifle. From a pouch she extracted several small egg-shaped objects and dumped them into the underslung barrel of the M-41A.

Gorman’s eyes widened as he watched her load the grenades. “Hey, you can’t use those in here!” He backed away from her.

“Right. I’m in violation of close-quarter combat regulations ninety-five through ninety-eight. Put me on report.” She aimed the muzzle of the gun at the oncoming horde. […] The blast from the grenade staggered Ripley and almost knocked Vasquez off her feet. Ripley was sure that she could see the smartgun operator smiling as the light from the explosion illuminated her battle-streaked face. (p. 212)

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