Aliens vs. Predators Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Leave us a Review

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  Interlude

  4

  5

  Interlude

  6

  7

  8

  Interlude

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Interlude

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  Interlude

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  Epilogue

  A Short Glossary of Yautja Terms

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  THE COMPLETE ALIEN™ LIBRARY FROM TITAN BOOKS

  The Official Movie Novelizations

  by Alan Dean Foster

  Alien, Aliens™, Alien 3, Alien: Covenant, Alien: Covenant Origins

  Alien: Resurrection by A.C. Crispin

  Alien 3: The Unproduced Screenplay by William Gibson & Pat Cadigan

  Alien

  Out of the Shadows by Tim Lebbon

  Sea of Sorrows by James A. Moore

  River of Pain by Christopher Golden

  The Cold Forge by Alex White

  Isolation by Keith R.A. DeCandido

  Prototype by Tim Waggoner

  Into Charybdis by Alex White

  Colony War by David Barnett

  Inferno’s Fall by Philippa Ballantine

  Enemy of My Enemy by Mary SanGiovanni

  The Rage War

  by Tim Lebbon

  Predator™: Incursion, Alien: Invasion

  Alien vs. Predator™: Armageddon

  Aliens

  Bug Hunt edited by Jonathan Maberry

  Phalanx by Scott Sigler

  Infiltrator by Weston Ochse

  Vasquez by V. Castro

  The Complete Aliens Omnibus

  Volumes 1–7

  Aliens vs. Predators

  Ultimate Prey edited by Jonathan Maberry & Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  Rift War by Weston Ochse & Yvonne Navarro

  The Complete Aliens vs. Predator Omnibus by Steve Perry & S.D. Perry

  Predator

  If It Bleeds edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  The Predator by Christopher Golden & Mark Morris

  The Predator: Hunters and Hunted by James A. Moore

  Stalking Shadows by James A. Moore & Mark Morris

  Eyes of the Demon edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  The Complete Predator Omnibus by Nathan Archer & Sandy Scofield

  Non-Fiction

  AVP: Alien vs. Predator by Alec Gillis & Tom Woodruff, Jr.

  Aliens vs. Predator Requiem: Inside The Monster Shop by Alec Gillis & Tom Woodruff, Jr.

  Alien: The Illustrated Story by Archie Goodwin & Walter Simonson

  The Art of Alien: Isolation by Andy McVittie

  Alien: The Archive Alien: The Weyland-Yutani Report by S.D. Perry

  Aliens: The Set Photography by Simon Ward

  Alien: The Coloring Book The Art and Making of Alien: Covenant by Simon Ward

  Alien Covenant: David’s Drawings by Dane Hallett & Matt Hatton

  The Predator: The Art and Making of the Film by James Nolan

  The Making of Alien by J.W. Rinzler

  Alien: The Blueprints by Graham Langridge

  Alien: 40 Years 40 Artists Alien: The Official Cookbook by Chris-Rachael Oseland

  Aliens: Artbook by Printed In Blood

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  A L I E N S V S . P R E D A T O R S : R I F T W A R

  Print edition ISBN: 9781789098440

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781803361192

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London, SE1 0UP.

  First edition: August 2022

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  © 2022 20th Century Studios.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  www.titanbooks.com

  To Zachary Ochse, because there is no better son.

  PROLOGUE

  The Ovomorph pulsed with life. Writhing within the amniotic fluid was a creature perfected by an unknown hand eons ago. Then the Yautja encountered them, harnessed them, and found a use for them.

  Now the creatures were bound to the Yautja system of honor and the hunt, so thoroughly that the two species would never be separated. This egg, in all its hideous beauty, was the beginning of a cycle that would help transform a young Yautja into a strong and valued member of their society, as he or she began to fulfill their destiny.

  Seeding a planet for the unblooded was the first step in the developmental process. The source of the Ovomorphs remained hidden behind various impenetrable levels of bureaucracy and wasn’t deemed necessary for those who were to become future hunters. During the down times, however, traveling between the stars, Ar’Wen couldn’t help but wonder where the creatures had originated.

  Xenomorphs had been their primary antagonists as far back as any record he had found. If there was a time when they hadn’t been the Yautjas’ mortal enemies, their greatest prey, it lay beyond memory and was of no consequence. What mattered to Ar’Wen was that he was here, a shepherd of sorts whose mission was to provide for others that which they could not provide for themselves.

  This planet was the fifth one Ar’Wen had seeded on behalf of the elders. Oomans called it LV-363. The Yautja identified it as a rift world because the surface was split by deep gashes, as if a giant, zealous juvenile had taken an oversized wristblade and tried
to carve something into its surface. The elders had designated it as perfect for seeding, with a wide variety of fauna that included two- and four-legged mammals, including primates of sufficient size to host the embryos. It also would provide an excellent battleground for groups of juveniles who were ready to become blooded.

  The rifts would add to the difficulty and create several unpredictable problem sets that the juveniles would need to overcome. Neither the juveniles nor those who were training them would know of Ar’Wen’s presence. It had taken time and effort for him to rise in the hierarchy, to the point that he was entrusted with the seeding process. Those beneath him in the training strata weren’t privy to his activities.

  As well, there was another reason for choosing the rift. Senior xenobiologists on their homeworld of Yautja Prime believed that if a Xenomorph implanted a species of the local fauna—in this case the winged insectoids—a mutation might emerge. There were those who rejected the theory, but to Ar’Wen it seemed entirely plausible. The winged creatures were at the top of the planet’s food chain, and had no viable predators. The only exception was a type of microphage that strained the host’s endocrinological system, slowing its hunger and keeping it from ranging too far or killing too many of the other species.

  It was as if the land itself had installed a governor on the insects’ ability to flex their superiority over every other life-form on the planet.

  Setting aside his musings, Ar’Wen returned to the task at hand. His mission was always the same. Having prepared the Ovomorphs, he had located the best area for placement, seeded the testing ground, set the beacon, then returned his ship to a hidden location. Once he had accomplished the first three tasks, he opened the manifest that identified those who would participate in the hunt.

  In that moment, everything changed.

  Instead of leaving before the blooding began, he chose to stay.

  The time had finally arrived to settle an old score.

  Ar’Wen had been waiting for this chance for fifteen years, since the day that had ruined his life—the day when the one he’d most trusted had let him down, leaving him for dead, broken on a planet to which he refused to give a name.

  Because of his many years living a solitary existence, Ar’Wen had become a scholar of all things relating to vengeance. Ironically, there was a phrase from ooman history that identified it as “a dish best served cold”—meaning, he believed, as a deadly surprise. The Yautja believed in the here and now, and chose to reap the whirlwind whenever the opportunity arose.

  Other species he’d encountered believed that the best method to achieve vengeance was to act as if their nemeses didn’t exist, starving them of any satisfaction that might be gained from their deed. To Ar’Wen, that was a coward’s way.

  No, he would have his vengeance.

  He would reap the whirlwind.

  Of more immediate concern, however, there were oomans present on this ugly rock. Several groups, scattered across the surface, each one appearing to be entirely cut off from the others. From what he could ascertain they were drug collectors, gathering for resale as much as they could of the pollen that grew along the upper edges of the rift, like fuchsia-colored beards. Those in charge were oomans who used their people like tools, wasting them, breaking them, and then leaving their remains like so much garbage.

  That was humanity by definition. The waste of a species.

  Ar’Wen hadn’t had much interaction with them, but in the course of his preparations he’d studied the records. They possessed distinct potential, and yet so many of their kind utterly lacked the willpower that would enable them to reach for anything resembling greatness. That a species would prey upon its own in such a self-serving, self-destructive fashion lay beyond anything Ar’Wen had ever been taught or believed.

  Ever a contradiction, oomans had the ability to be nearly as honorable as Yautja, and some rose to the challenge. He’d seen the recordings. He’d heard the stories—yet they also had the capacity to define what it meant to be horrendous. They had yet to learn that the worst of their species would always drag down their best.

  Societies were by their very definition hierarchical, with the members of each culture grouped into castes—and there they should remain. Yet instead of seeking to become perfect within their own appropriate niches, oomans tried to claw their way to the next level.

  A waste of time and destined to fail.

  Here was a host of oomans preying upon the suffering of others. They were what their culture deemed a “criminal organization,” and their motivation was profit. They had identified a population with a built-in need and determined the best way to exploit it—oomans called them “addicts”—a weaker caste who allowed themselves to be controlled in order to procure what they needed. This placed the drug collectors at the top of their own food chain.

  Another ooman trait—one which inevitably would lead to their downfall—was pity. An utterly useless concept, concerning oneself with another’s inability to achieve. All this meant was to suffer in their stead. If anything could be said for the ooman criminals, it was that they exhibited no such wasteful behavior.

  In the end, he supposed, the oomans might provide additional hosts for the Xenomorphs. That, at least, would provide them with purpose.

  Putting aside thoughts of a clearly inferior species, Ar’Wen, returned to the task at hand. His mission was to enable the young and inexperienced Yautja to graduate from unblooded and become young bloods.

  All they needed to do was survive.

  All he needed to do was bide his time.

  1

  LV-363 had few redeeming qualities. Breathable oxygen. Normal gravity. Almost no human occupation. Enough flora in the rifts to create humidity, and a never-ending supply of Khatura, which could only grow on the desolate planet.

  Murray ran the operation, and the addicts harvested the flower pollen, but it was Shrapnel who did most of the work. Even the other merc, Margo, didn’t do as much as he did, but wasn’t it always like that? He never got his rightful due. To Murray and the bosses, he was only good for lugging crates and slugging riftwings. It was pure ageism. What he counted as experience, the rest of them considered “over the hill.”

  Shifting the M41A pulse rifle to his right shoulder, he moved closer to the rift, a deep gash in the landscape. He wore heavily personalized and modified body armor that he’d bought on the black market from a Colonial Marine. He’d adjusted the knees and elbows to allow for more freedom of movement, and was able to carry three weapons and a drop pouch with extra ammo. Then he’d added a clear polymer paint that could be programmed to match the colors and textures of whatever was around him, making him blend in with almost perfect camouflage.

  Shrapnel slid his helmet goggles into place and ran through the various visual fields. Peering over the edge, he inhaled, appreciating the funky aroma of the mass of flora that grew there. Ship life was nothing but recycled air, and no matter what filter upgrades were installed, after months in the can the air on board smelled like vomit and flop sweat. Even the sweat was strictly regulated, though. It was dry in space, and water was at a premium.

  The treacherous drop to the bottom was studded with bushes thrusting their roots between rocks in an effort to get closer to the sun. This north-south crack in the planet’s surface was one of hundreds like it, gifted with full sun for only two hours a day. Far below he could just make out movement on the rift floor—six-legged rodents they called jivenings and what looked like an albino raccoon with a gray striped tail. In the trees he thought he spotted a couple of the native monkeys that for the most part stayed hidden in the daytime. Tiny birds moved from flower to flower on the various plants along with flybees, insectoid creatures that looked like a fly but acted like a bee.

  Nothing on this godforsaken planet played by the rules.

  The rift was silent during the long hours of darkness, but as light began penetrating the gloom, birds began calling to each other or marking their territory. Clouds of f
lybees swarmed here and there. Beetles rubbed their wings before they took to the air, searching for smaller prey to eat. Among the native flora and fauna, a pair of human figures dangled from cable harnesses.

  For the most part, all of these were harmless. Shrapnel noted and dismissed them, knowing that his two harvesters were safe. He was watching for something much bigger and more dangerous. The largest and most dominant apex predator on the planet: the riftwing.

  Human-sized and omnivorous, these aggressive winged insectoids boasted proboscises and needle claws. Impervious to the narcotic pollen of the Khatura plant, riftwings scanned for their prey on multiple visual spectrums. Their wings moved like those of a dragonfly, almost too fast to see, but the thrumming sound they made in the air offered a clear indication when one was near. Another was the call it gave when it was on the hunt, a jai-reeee that filled the rift with sound and sent all other creatures scuttling for safety.

  Shrapnel keyed his mic.

  “Enid, status.”

  “Harvest back one ready to lift.” The tired and muffled voice of a woman came back.

  “You’re working too slow,” he said.

  “I—I’m wo-wo-working as fast as I can,” she said.

  “Khaleed, your status.”

  Silence.

  “Khaleed.”

  Still nothing.

  Shrapnel strode over and tugged at the cable. He should have received a tug back, but got nothing in return. He tugged again.

  Still, nothing.

  “Margo, get your ass over here,” he said.

  The other merc trotted over from where she’d been sitting. She wore no armor, just a ship’s jumpsuit and rubber boots to keep from getting static electrical shocks. Margo had a pistol on her hip and an M37A2 shotgun angled across her back.

  “Khaleed?” she asked.

  Shrapnel nodded.

  Margo had probably been pretty a decade before, but now, with a broken nose and a flattened cheekbone from being hit by space debris during an out-of-station chase, any beauty had been shorn away. One eye hung droopy where the cheek was flattened, and an ear on the same side had a missing lower lobe. She wore her black hair short with a buzz of fuzz going down the center. Her neck was tattooed from when she’d been in the marines.