Aliens vs. Predators Page 2

  “Do you think he did it again?” she asked.

  “He better not have, or old Murray will have our asses.”

  “Weren’t you watching?”

  He glared at her, then heard the sound of wings.

  JAI-REEE!

  He brought his rifle around and aimed, moving in quick efficient steps until he was above where Enid hung.

  The sound came again.

  From the depths of the rift it rose, like an immense dragonfly with the face of a monkey and a meter-long proboscis designed to suck the fluids out of its victims. The thrum of its wings caused every other creature in sight to dash into hiding. As Margo pulled at the cable in an effort to haul Khaleed back to the surface, Enid began crying, the sound rattling in his ear.

  “Take it easy, girl,” Shrapnel said. “I got the thing covered.”

  A second JAI-REEE! split the air.

  This one was larger and bore the markings of a fighter. It had scars along one side and a weeping wound on one of its spindly legs, which were very much like those of arthropods. Its trochanter was fat with muscle, descending into a thick femur with two tibias and ending with a tarsus that had the claws of a raptor.

  “Please… oh… please… oh… please.” Enid’s feverish cries came through the comms.

  “Fucking hell,” Shrapnel ground out. He took aim at the monster closest to his harvester—the smaller of the two—and let loose with six rounds that zipped across the space and punched through its carapace. Green blood exploded out the back and the riftwing faltered, then fell, crashing against the side of the rift until the sound receded into silence.

  The larger one spun toward him with a predatory appreciation.

  He shifted his aim and was about to open fire when it dove out of sight, dropping to the bottom where it would probably feed on its dying kin.

  Margo heaved the last bit of cable and dragged Khaleed over the edge. Sure enough, he was mask-free and stoned out of his mind. The masks let the harvesters breathe, but filtered out the narcotic Khatura pollen. The asshole addict had found a way to remove the mask, despite all of the safeguards that kept it locked and harnessed. The mask’s metal mechanics were supposed to make it unremovable.

  Other than that, Khaleed was fine—just on cloud four hundred and nineteen, with his face covered in the red powder. His heart rate was probably through the roof. The pollen was unprocessed and uncut, thus at full strength. They’d need to give him a shot to slow things down, and then shove him in his bunk. He’d be useless for the next rotation, which meant the other harvesters would have to double their work.

  Shrapnel stalked over to the sitting figure, whose eyes rolled up to the whites to stare at the fireworks oscillating through his frontal cortex. Drool laced down his chin just below an idiot’s grin. The merc pressed the barrel of his rifle against the side of the man’s neck and heard a satisfying sizzle. The barrel still hot from the passage of rounds.

  It didn’t even phase the stupefied man.

  “Really, Shrap?” Margo scowled. “Can’t you be human for once?”

  He prodded the drugged addict with the barrel of his rifle, shoving hard enough to make him turn halfway, then roll back.

  “You call this human? He’s a fucking addict.”

  Margo stepped closer and got into his face, and he hated her for it. She thought she was a badass, but she wasn’t. He was just biding his time. Still, he listened to her.

  “He’s not your toy,” she said. “He’s property. He belongs to the cartel. You want to explain to them why you ruined their property?”

  He backed away, wishing for something to shoot.

  “Mr. Shrapnel, can I come up?” Enid asked in a voice so tiny he had to strain to hear it. He spun back toward the rift and bared his teeth.

  “Nice try. Keep harvesting.”

  “But the riftwings…”

  “What about them?”

  “They might—”

  “You should be more frightened of me than them,” he growled into his mic. “Do you understand me?”

  The sound of her weeping was replaced with a strangled, “I understand.”

  While Margo dragged Khaleed back to basecamp, Shrapnel took up his position again. He was down to ninety-two rounds. That should be enough for a while, and he had to admit, he did love shooting the riftwings. He only wished there might be something else to shoot at and kill.

  Something. Anything.

  Anyone.

  Anything to relieve his boredom.

  2

  Ny’ytap and T’U’Sa sat at the controls of the hunt ship. Their faces were lit only by the orange and red lights of the console as the two male Yautja concentrated on entry into the planet’s atmosphere.

  They’d been dropped by the mothership at the edge of the system and had worked their way to the rift planet, scanning for any stray ionic activity. Nothing registered, except for the trace of a vessel that might have passed several weeks earlier. This could have been the seeder ship.

  Ny’ytap was the larger of the two and bore an acid scar on the side of his face, a remnant from his own blooding. Once a renowned battlemaster, he’d been reduced in rank to elite captain. While elite captain was something most Yautja could only wish to attain, he’d let it slip on more than one occasion that he’d never get a chance at clan leader, much less elder.

  T’U’Sa was faster than Ny’ytap, faster than Ca’toll, always first to the prey and often laughing at others who were too slow. He was the youngest of the hunting captains, and the most eager to show his abilities.

  Ca’toll sat in the back with their nine juveniles.

  She was the smallest of the adult Yautja, but she’d beaten both T’U’Sa and Ny’ytap in many a hunt. As one of the few female hunting captains, she might not be the fastest or the strongest, but what she lacked in those traits she more than made up for in guile. She watched closely as they descended to the planet’s surface.

  The previous ship would have seeded the planet with Ovomorphs to prepare for the blooding of the nine. Each of their wards came from honorable families belonging to the Rhyhalotep Clan, and it had been the desire of the clan leaders to have their offspring learn the old ways. Some of the young ones wouldn’t survive. If things really went wrong, it might be that none would survive.

  Ca’toll, T’U’Sa, and Ny’ytap had worked together as hunting captains on three previous occasions, so it had been an honor when the clan elders selected them to lead this particular initiation. Other captains might try to keep their wards safe, but what good would that do? No, the three of them were known not to coddle their wards. Those who survived would hold a special place in the records, able to proudly state who their hunt captains had been, and why they were held in such high esteem. Through their actions, the way they conducted themselves, they would emblazon their names into the lore of the clans.

  As long as they survive, Ca’toll reminded herself.

  Some of the Ovomorphs would have already hatched, spurred to action by the diverse selection of the planet’s indigenous species. Others might still be waiting, however, and if an unblooded were to come across one that was hatching, they would be required to use minimal weapons and defeat the spiderlike facehugger as a test of their inherent speed and skill.

  While some hunting captains might arrange for controlled kills, Ca’toll and her two companions eschewed such shortcuts. They believed in the chaos and the glorious randomness of the hunt.

  Previous scouting reports had indicated there were several mammalian species of moderate size, easily sufficient to host a Xenomorph. Of particular interest, however, were the reports of the large avian predators that lived in the rifts. These creatures were as tall as a small Yautja, but possessed wings like an insect. They were also omnivorous, eating anything and everything by grabbing hold and drawing life fluids through a proboscis.

  The hunting captains had decided not to tell the juveniles about these creatures, in order to see how they would react. Their armor would protect them from serious harm, at least in theory, but it was the fear stimulus the captains would be tracking.

  Fear was a killer, and Ca’toll had revealed what she had been told when she was blooded—that fear was nothing more than then anticipation of the unknown. To be afraid of the unknown, she had told them, was absurd.

  Fear—h’dlak—was to be quashed.

  Death was inevitable.

  Death was honorable.

  Fear was ignorance. It was not honorable.

  Thrusters slammed the ship down, making Ca’toll squint. She saw through the console screen that they’d landed in a clearing surrounded by a thicket of trees and scrub. Remote sensors around the ship indicated that in the immediate vicinity, there were no lifeforms larger than a bilge rat.

  Ny’ytap stood and began giving orders. Within moments the ship was secured and cloaked. They hauled their supplies and ammunition down the ramp and half a kilometer away toward the nearest rift, where they would set up their forward operating base. Standard operation procedure dictated that they mustn’t operate anywhere near the ship. It was their sole lifeline back to the mothership and the clans. If it was destroyed, they would all be dishonored. If that happened, they might as well as be dead—even if they were rescued later, they’d be termed bad bloods and outlaws, hunted by the likes of Ny’ytap in his prime.

  As they prepared to break into groups, Ny’ytap pulled the other two adults aside.

  “We followed the ion trace and found an ooman ship nearby,” he said, voice like glass rattling against stone. “That means in addition to the seeding ship, there are oomans infesting the area. We must avoid them, and not engage.”

  T’U’Sa grinned. “Then what are we to do with them?” His voice was like gravel in the wind.
br />   “Nothing,” Ny’ytap snapped. “We leave them alone. We are here to blood the young ones and return them to their clan as warriors.”

  “Not all Yautja still continue the old ways,” Ca’toll said. Her voice was sharp and low, sweet grass with razors.

  “Those who do rise higher in power,” Ny’ytap countered. “We are here to determine if these nine are destined for greatness.”

  “Why don’t we move the ship, if we’re so close to the oomans?” T’U’Sa asked. “Contact is inevitable.”

  “Nothing is inevitable except for honor earned and a swift death,” Ny’ytap responded. “The oomans are near where the Ovomorphs were seeded. We will stay where we are.”

  “Didn’t the seeder realize that?” Ca’toll said. “It makes you wonder what he or she was thinking.”

  “Perhaps the oomans arrived after the seeding.” T’U’Sa shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She peered at him. “And if a Xenomorph attacks them?”

  “Then it attacks them,” Ny’ytap said. “We will not interfere.” He made an irritated sound with his mandibles. “We have our mission, they have theirs, whatever it may be. They should never know we are here. Explain it to your unblooded so that they understand—to be seen is to be dishonored.”

  She nodded assent. So did T’U’Sa.

  They separated and Ca’toll took her three aside. Hetah was the only other female Yautja in the group. Small for her size, she was cunning and quick. Ptah’Ra was big shouldered and would grow into them, making him one of the largest Yautja she’d yet to see. Sta’kta was sized between the other two and thick around the waist. He barely fit into his armor and refused to have it adjusted.

  Her blooding crew wore her colors: red, gray, and white in an oscillating camouflage pattern. The hunting captains could cloak their armor with a push of a button, but only in extreme circumstances. By order of the Clan, the unblooded were expected to survive while being seen. It was part of the challenge that would prove their mettle.

  Ny’ytap and his crew wore jet black, while T’U’Sa’s colors were black and green. Everyone wore the clan symbol of the Judone Tree. The unblooded’s armor would shift visual spectrum frequencies as the wearer passed into new locations, but it wasn’t as effective as those worn by the adults. This limitation would increase the need for them to count on stealth, and decrease their desire to cling to technology.

  They’d spent a lot of time in the ship, entering the system from the Lagrange point, and it showed. Ca’toll needed her unblooded to unwind, to develop a sense of themselves and of the planet. For them, this was the first time off their homeworld, and they still had the tendency to be wide-eyed and wondering. The young ones needed to become focused.

  So she took Hetah, Ptah’Ra, and Sta’kta aside, gave them instructions, and soon they were moving through the upper limbs of the trees. Hers was an old hunting game simplistically called “follow the leader.” She picked places among the limbs that were just right for an individual’s weight, but the slightest misstep could send them crashing to the earth below. Taking intentionally longer strides, she forced her followers to observe her carefully and stretch the limits of their agility. If they didn’t follow correctly, they’d pay the price.

  The trees grew tallest nearer the rift, as if the organic substance at its edge and the outflowing damp air promoted growth. The taller the growth, the more lush the foliage and the more frequent the fauna. Birds of all colors and sizes exploded from the branches as they approached. Tree rodents found bolt holes, and branch snakes hissed at their passing, but the Yautja, young and old, were as silent as a stealthy breeze, pushing through the forest until they came out just above the rift.

  Ca’toll stopped suddenly, crouching on a long, thick branch, and Hetah and Ptah’Ra halted behind her. But Sta’kta slipped, and had it not been for the other two, he would have fallen several hundred meters into the dark maw of the rift below. He hung for a moment before the other two pulled him to safety.

  Far to one side, Ca’toll spied movement. Using the targeting oculator in her bio-helmet, she zoomed in.

  Ooman, male.

  Armored, weapon.

  Over the edge of the rift in front of him hung another figure on a cable. Female, unarmored, no weapons. Her face was covered by a curious mask. Below them in the semi-darkness, she spied one of the flying creatures she had researched. Riftwings—dangerous only if you let them sneak up on you.

  An alarm went off inside Ca’toll’s visor. Biometrics picked up the movement and shape of a Xenomorph. She zoomed to the maximum, and there it was, far down on the floor of the rift.

  Hunting.

  Soon to be the hunted.

  The game is on.

  3

  Ny’ytap watched his two hunting captains take their unblooded in different directions—one to the right and the other to the left. Part of their mission was to scout, but another part was to familiarize themselves and the young ones with the flora, fauna, and terrain. Knowing one’s environment was essential for any battle. This was standard whenever they arrived on a new planet; learning the process was part of the blooding program.

  He stretched his shoulders inside his armor. He was older by half than his two captains. He should have been clan leader by now, but he’d forsaken that to become a battlemaster, in order to obtain greater yin’tekai—honor—by defeating a rival clan who was trading Yautja technology for monetary gains. To become such a warrior was a magnificent achievement, but like becoming a temple guard, it also disqualified one from ever becoming a clan leader.

  This rankled him still. In truth, he’d never thought they would block him from becoming what he’d been destined to become. His father had been a clan leader, as was his grandfather. He’d certainly earned it, but because of his scarring, the clan elders seemed to have decided that he’d seen enough combat and had elected him to run their blooding program.

  For many, this was the highest rank they could attain, so he should be proud of the accomplishment. But for Ny’ytap it felt like a demotion or, worse, retirement. He was an elite. A veteran. He was a weapon of war being wasted in the monitoring of pups.

  Nevertheless, he had a mission. His was the responsibility of ensuring the safety of the unblooded—in this case, the offspring of an influential clan. As always, there was danger inherent in blooding the young Yautja and preparing them for adulthood. They would be put in situations where they might get killed, but death was still something to be avoided. The unblooded were destined for greater roles in Yautja society. So, while the blooding wasn’t fixed, it could be… moderately controlled.

  Before they’d left the home world, Ny’ytap had been pulled aside by many former clan leaders and fellow battlemasters. They treated him as if this would be his last blooding assignment. He’d snapped at them for even the implication, but deep down he felt as if it might be true. Ny’ytap, however, did not want to go gently into the darkness. He wanted to die fighting. He desired to bathe himself in the blood of his enemies and take them down with him.

  When he’d been younger, his desire for battle had caused many to label him as a tyrant or a bully. The reality couldn’t be farther from the truth. He was neither of those things, and cared deeply for his wards, as if they were of his own clan. Yet his blood sang with the need for battle. Any battle.

  It had taken many years and tremendous effort to control it.

  As a youngling, Ny’ytap had fought any and every Yautja who came into his path. He didn’t care. He just needed to fight. His essence begged for it, and yielded him little control over his own behavior. As he matured and became more experienced, he learned better ways to harness that energy so that he could unleash it when it mattered. After all, his fellow Yautja weren’t his enemy.

  Everything else was.

  It had been far too long since he’d been challenged. Ca’toll couldn’t challenge him. T’U’Sa couldn’t either, regardless of what the warrior thought of himself. Ny’ytap doubted there was anything on this dull planet capable of even coming close, and pride fought with pity at the idea.

  “Ooman, armor, weapon sighted.” It was Ca’toll, and she passed the coordinates.

  “Leave him,” he responded. “Stealth. Don’t let him know we are here.”