Aliens vs. Predators, page 16
How ignorant it had been of the Yautja to fail in their projections, to miss the potential for Xenomorphs to take advantage of other lifeforms that possessed desirable attributes. Above all, how reckless had they been to not research what kind of insectoid organisms existed on LV-363. Such short-sightedness threatened to be the end of them all. Even so, it would be their honor to overcome this malfeasance of planning and nature, and be the first to take down airborne versions of their longtime nemeses.
Sta’kta and the Xenowing—the largest she’d seen so far—had fallen into the depths of the rift. Ca’toll had witnessed Sta’kta’s final assault along the creature’s elongated head and knew it would be dead before it hit the rift floor. It was unlikely the young blood himself could have survived the fall, much less the cascade of acid that had sheeted the entirety of his body. Likely he suffered the same fate as his opponent, and never felt the impact.
Another of the young bloods dead.
Ca’toll flung herself down the cable, at the same time yanking the combistick free of her belt. A glance told her that Ptah’Ra was recovering; he was headed toward the rift floor, but was still far enough away that none of them could see the bottom. With one hand she extended her spear, leaned out, and disemboweled a Xeno that was clambering toward her. When it toppled away, she jabbed another that was slinking behind, piercing it in the throat and pulling sideways. It, too, fell into the blackness below.
To her left she saw T’See’Ka fighting for his life. He was pinned between two almost-grown Xenomorphs. They were clinging to flora on a wall, circling him, cautiously staying just beyond where he could reach them with his wristblades. One would slip in to slash at him then back away again, and the other would launch a similar assault.
Abandoning her cable, Ca’toll retracted her spear and sprang for a clump of vegetation growing along the side of the rift. She grabbed onto it with one hand and it held, if only long enough for her to find a stronger outgrowth slightly farther down. She made her way toward T’See’Ka, moving as fast as she could with all of the handholds she could find, until finally the Xeno above him realized it had turned from hunter into prey.
Instantly it twisted to face her and lunged in her direction, its narrow limbs shooting out. As it stretched forward for a final leap in Ca’toll’s direction, it was an easy thing for her to snap out her wristblades, severing both of its front limbs. It gave a primal scream when it realized its back legs couldn’t hold it, and the planet’s gravity took it down.
Confident T’See’Ka could handle himself against the other Xeno, she turned away, checking to see if any of the other young bloods were being overpowered.
Vai’ke spun on his cable and disemboweled a Xenowing, only to have an unchanged riftwing drop on him from above and try to pull him free. Ca’toll grimaced, but she was too far away, and would never get there in time to assist him. Even so, she still tried to visually map a way toward his position, then realized she wouldn’t be needed.
Vai’ke managed to loop the cable around one foot so that it supported his weight, and while he still couldn’t release his hold, it gave him a substantial increase in stability. With a hefty battle cry, he punched upward with one wrist and pulled, twin incisions appearing across the riftwing’s thorax. An instant later his arm was drenched in viscous liquid. The riftwing fell away, its body careening into several Xenomorphs that had been heading up the wall toward the conflict. They were knocked free and plummeted into the gloom.
It still wasn’t enough.
Ca’toll scowled and wondered if there had been an error in calculations during the Ovomorph seeding, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred. The Yautja in charge of the preparations would never make such an egregious error. Whether this somehow was the result of eggmorphing, or resulted from the melding of the Xenomorphs with a previously undocumented species, they were vastly outnumbered. That was all that mattered in the here and now.
Something flashed on her display screen, and she realized Ba’sta had used his netgun and trapped a young Xeno against the rift wall close to her. It screeched and struggled, but Ca’toll didn’t bother to finish it off—it would be dead soon anyway, forcibly separated into small, acid-dripping cubes as the net drew back into itself. Instead she balanced herself on a strong but stubby growth of brush and unhooked the plasmacaster from her shoulder. After a quick set of adjustments to the controls in her helmet, she did a fast scan and determined the locations of all the young bloods.
“T’See’Ka,” she barked into her coms. When the young Yautja turned his head to look at her, she tossed the weapon to him. He caught it without hesitation. “Pass it to Ba’sta, below and to your right.”
He obeyed instantly. Ba’sta’s arm shot out, his training taking over where his reticent personality might’ve failed him. He scanned below, trying to determine the next recipient.
“To Stea’Pua!” Ca’toll ordered, and Ba’sta complied. Stea’Pua caught the plasmacaster, but was still too far above the rift floor to do what she wanted.
“Ptah’Ra, how far are you from the bottom?” she asked. Even as she asked the question, her display found and marked his location as a few feet above where she wanted him to be. Beneath her helmet, Ca’toll’s mandibles flared in anger. He was the one whose size and stature would benefit them the most, but not where he was. “Stea’Pua, pass it to Ptah’Ra, who will descend and plant the plasmacaster in the soil, h’ka-se—now!”
Neither young blood hesitated. She had barely vocalized the order when Stea’Pua flung the weapon and Ptah’Ra snatched it out of the air. Ptah’Ra then dropped down the cable at a nearly dangerous speed, and Ca’toll followed.
They descended into darkness.
38
Somehow Shrapnel had managed to fall asleep. It must have been the backlash of all the adrenaline that had been released while he’d been fleeing. His body had shut down on its own. He woke with dirt in his eyes and blinked it away, still afraid to move. He also smelled the sweet, alluring scent of the Khatura--was he becoming an addict?
Outside the small cave he could still hear violence—the sizzle of powerful weapons, the cries of the dying, victory whoops from the living.
The bipedal hunters, whatever they were, had come prepared for a fight—maybe they were doing it for some sort of sport. He didn’t see how anything could be worth this sort of shit. Somehow he and Murray’s cartel had managed to get between the hunters and the hunted, which apparently meant they were fair game. For at least the hundredth time, he wanted to punch Murray into the next system for leaving him behind. Shrapnel understood cowardice better than most—it could save your life—but he also knew there was strength in numbers.
Right now he had an even bigger problem.
Say he was able to get out of this cave alive, and say he was able to avoid contact with all the new nasties that called this shithole of a planet home. Say he found a way to climb all the way out of the rift without the riftwings, the bug-creatures, or the hunters noticing him.
What then? What was left?
There was no way off this damned pile of dirt, and he’d be marooned like the old stories he’d heard about wild men on barely breathable planets who went nutso and attacked rescuers when they finally arrived. Shrapnel didn’t want to be that sort of lost cause. He wanted to have a future. He wanted to get back to the main belt where he could gamble and party, then get a shot for whatever ailed him the next morning so he could up and do it all over again.
There was a disgusting squirming in his ear, and he swiped away a millipede-like thing that was trying to dig in there. Fucking bugs. He hated bugs. A memory surfaced through the mire of his depression and he laughed quietly, remembering the first time he’d ever seen a Carcozian spider. How he’d grabbed a flame thrower and not only fried it to a black smudge, but burned down the tent and one-tenth of their stock of Khatura.
Fun times.
Suddenly there was a sound from somewhere behind him.
He quieted the voices in his head and listened.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
A minute.
Nothing.
It must have been all in his mind.
Was he high on Khatura again?
Shrapnel was ready to dismiss it as nothing, when it came again. Not so much a sound as a displacement of air.
“Who’s there?” he whispered, immediately feeling stupid for even asking the question. Then something lightly touched his leg. He kicked out and was rewarded with a screech.
A screech?
It sounded human, so it couldn’t be one of the monsters or one of the hunters. So who was it?
He kicked out again.
This time there was a hiss of pain.
“Stop!”
“Enid?” He couldn’t believe it. “Is that you?”
“Please.” Her whisper was thick and garbled. “Don’t tell them.”
Shrapnel almost laughed. Like he was going to tell anyone where they were? The irony of the situation didn’t escape him. A guard and a harvester hiding in the same damned hole, on a planet large enough for them to get lost and never find each other again. Talk about fickle fucking fate.
He shook his head, although she probably couldn’t see him, and kept his voice low.
“Don’t worry about that, Enid,” he said, keeping his voice down. “We’re in the same boat.”
“What are those things?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” His next question was automatic. “Are you okay?” As soon as he said it, he wasn’t sure why he’d bothered. Just reflex, I guess.
She didn’t respond.
“Enid?”
“I—I’m fine.’ She swallowed hard enough that he could hear it. “I just want to go home.”
“Murray’s on the ship,” he told her. He couldn’t keep the anger out of his tone. “He has it locked up tight.”
“What about the others?” She sounded hopeful, stupid kid.
“What others?” This time he couldn’t stop a sharp laugh. He’d yet to see anyone else from their party. “I’m pretty sure we’re it.”
Enid let out a long, high whine that ran at the top of his ability to hear it. He knew how she felt, but he wasn’t about to own up to it. He might be stuck in a hole, but he was still Shrapnel. Still the baddest motherfucker of the mercs hired on for this fucking project.
He inhaled, steeling himself for the next thought that had to come. They couldn’t stay in this hole forever. More than being marooned, his greatest fear was coming face-to-face with one of those hellish monsters, the ones the hunters were after. He had a far-fetched notion that he might be able to communicate with the hunters, but the other creatures out there were pure evil with too many sets of teeth.
Not to mention the winged ones. Fucking wings.
The only hope he could come up with was to make a run for it.
“How far back does this cave go?”
“I don’t know,” she answered after a moment. “I was too scared to look, but I think I’m at the end.”
“Are you sure? Try going back farther.”
“Okay.” Shrapnel could hear the fear in her voice.
“No,” he said quickly. “Wait.” Crawling backward, he carefully headed toward where he’d heard her voice, until his hand brushed her foot. She sucked in air for a scream, but he made a shushing sound before she actually let it out.
“I have something,” he told her. “A passcode card. You need to save me if you want to save yourself.”
“Save myself?” She sounded confused.
“Like I said, the ship’s locked up, if it’s even still here,” he said in a low voice, “but in case we get separated or something, if you can get back up top, the card’s got the passcode for the number two cargo door at the rear. Depending on what Murray did after I left, it might or might not work.”
“What about you?” Enid asked.
“I know the code—I have it memorized,” he answered. “You’ll need it and the card. Save me and we’ll get the fuck out of here.” He felt her hesitation, but after a moment he heard the displacement of dirt, and there was a shift in the ceiling as dust settled on his back. With the dust came the smell of damp earth and something else—something that made his eyes water.
“Careful,” he grumbled. “You’ll bring it down on us.”
“My feet are dangling above something,” she whispered. “It might be a step down. I think there’s a cave back here.”
Hope shot through Shrapnel. “Wait! A cave? Can you make it farther in?”
“Hold on,” she said, and by the way she said it, he could tell her tongue was in the corner of her mouth. “I think I can—shit!”
Then nothing.
“Enid?”
Nothing.
“Enid, where are you?”
“I’m here,” came a voice from further away than it should be. “The drop was a little more than I expected.”
“Where’s here?”
“I think it’s another room in the cave. Do you have a light of some kind? I can’t see a thing.”
Shrapnel cautiously moved toward Enid’s voice. As he went, he breathed in the sharp smell again, this time stronger. It was a chemical smell, and he knew instinctively that using fire would be a very bad idea. A memory tickled—he’d smelled something like this before, but he couldn’t place it.
Yeah, no open flame.
“No, but…”
He scooted forward until his feet found the ledge. Carefully he slid his legs over the side, then balanced himself with both hands and lowered himself into something squishy. His boots sunk several inches into the ground and the reeking air floating around him made him gag.
“What the hell is this place?”
“I don’t know,” Enid answered from a foot or two away, still a disembodied voice. “Just a cave, I guess.”
“What’s all over the floor?”
When she didn’t answer, Shrapnel reached down and drew his finger through what had to be some sort of stinking guano. Then he knew where the chemical odor had come from—a build-up of gasses in the small cave. This place was a bomb just waiting to be lit.
“For God’s sake,” he said. “It’s a lair. Be careful and don’t light anything. I think I’ve got something that’ll work.” He reached into one of his cargo pockets. At first he thought it was gone, then his fumbling fingers found it and he pulled it out and snapped it on. A small chemical light stick.
Sickly green light illuminated the den. Enid gasped and Shrapnel’s mouth dropped open as he realized what they’d walked into. Dug into the walls surrounding them were dozens of haphazard smaller holes, each containing a pulsing white sac. The floor was mounted with speckled green droppings, and hanging from the ceiling was the largest riftwing he’d ever seen, far too fat and bloated with eggs to fit the narrow hole through which they’d entered.
“Oh, fuck,” Shrapnel whispered. “Don’t make a sound or we’re dead meat.”
As they stared, the riftwing’s back end pulsed. The creature pushed, and a long rope of white mucus fell from it to the ground. Then the mucus coalesced into a long, worm-like mass that slithered toward them.
Shrapnel hopped out of the way, but Enid wasn’t as quick. It snatched at her leg and held on.
Then she screamed.
39
Sta’kta struck the floor of the rift hard enough to knock all the air from his body. What saved him from death was the Xenowing’s body. As they both hit the rift floor, it cushioned Sta’kta’s fall in a sickening squelch of acidic liquid that flew in all directions.
Disoriented, he managed to roll over, the world a blur, like stars during a mad hyperdrive jaunt through systems. He tried twice to stand but fell back to his knees each time. Managing it on the third try, he felt as if he’d been too long on the receiving end of a crate of Gollanz ale.
He staggered to the wall of the rift, using its earthen sides for support. In doing so he disturbed a hive of native wasps, and slapped them aside as they buzzed angrily. Several landed on the dead creature, then sizzled and popped as the acid immediately obliterated them. Despite his circumstances, he grunted in humor.
Evolution sure was gahn’tha-cte—ruthless.
Several meters ahead, Ny’ytap was impaled on the sharp end of a tree branch several feet above the rift floor.
Beneath him lay a Xenomorph furiously struggling to get to its feet, despite its shattered legs. The creature looked up at Ny’ytap, dangling above, and it fought to reach the hunt leader’s trailing foot. It was a hideously pathetic dance as the groaning Yautja jerked his leg out of reach.
He lives, Sta’kta thought, stunned and fighting with disbelief. The hunt leader’s agony had to be indescribable, though—trapped, his flesh pierced, unable to defend himself against even the most pitiful attacker. His blood poured from the wound, ran down the branch, and pooled on the ground below. Even the slightest motion yielded another unintelligible sound.
The Xeno fought to pull itself inch by inch closer to where it could snag its prey’s legs with its claws. Shaking off paralysis, Sta’kta lurched toward them. He was halfway there when another Xenowing emerged from the recesses of the shadows and swooped toward him.He let himself fall flat, and the creature soared over him and angled toward Ny’ytap.
To all appearances the hunt leader’s fall had been broken by the side of the rift and, ultimately, the tree branch that had pierced his left side at an upward angle. His struggle to avoid the injured Xeno revealed that he was still alive but trapped, unable to gain purchase that would allow him to escape.
The Xenowing landed on Ny’ytap’s chest.
Its position hid the body from view, the wings flapping as the groans became louder. Cursing as he searched for a weapon, Sta’kta found a thick length of dead wood. He used it as a cane to propel himself forward, and when he reached the broken Xenomorph, he plunged it into the creature’s mouth over and over until the beast was dead. As the acid ate away at the branch, Sta’kta stumbled and fell, barely missing the pool of acid surrounding the dead form.
