Aliens vs. Predators, page 19
Fetch had been watching the events for a week before he worked out a better way. Rather than wait beneath the scrubbers, it was wiser to wait above them. When he confided to one of his frequent cohorts, the man warned him against it.
“It’s been tried a bunch of times, but no one ever survives.”
He worked the problem out in his head. To survive meant to be able to walk around the grinding gears without being sucked into them. As starving as he was at the time, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable risk. After all, to do nothing was to die; if he died trying this, at least he’d been doing something.
Then he had an even better idea.
Coming at the problem from a different angle, he had moved amongst the group waiting for the food to fall. One at a time, he planted the idea in their heads that if they were the first up top, then they’d be able to get the food before the others, before it was mixed and dirty. At first no one listened to him, but when some began to starve because the strongest always held the front ranks, they grew more despondent, and more desperate.
With that desperation came the need to try something new.
Fetch had realized that they’d never be able to effectively retrieve the food before it went into the ever-churning garbage filters. But others didn’t, and they began to fall into the mechanism, adding their mass to the rest of the biologicals coming out the bottom, dropping onto the thugs who, at first, didn’t realize what was happening.
Finally, the entire mechanism froze.
Because of him. He’d convinced them to jam the system.
The idea had always been to get someone else to do the work.
Once the scrubbers were jammed, he and a few others walked atop the pulped and mashed bodies, and were the first to collect the food—the only ones to collect the food. Below them came cries of those who were still hungry.
The filters had lurched. They’d soon be running again.
When they were, Fetch would repeat the process. Until then, his stomach was quite full.
* * *
He pressed the memory back into its slot and took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to do, then pulled himself free from beneath the bush and stood. They spotted him immediately and he held up his hands in the universal symbol of please don’t fucking shoot me.
Sometimes the way to win at something was not to play, but to get someone else to play in your stead. This was what he would do. If he survived.
Underbrush burned behind them, but they didn’t appear to care. He felt his entire body pucker as they brought their weapons to bear on him. Three triangular points of light hovered on his chest; he did all he could not to spin and run. Instead, he opened his hands and held them out so that they could see they were empty, and he was no threat. Then he walked carefully toward them. Once his foot came down on a branch that snapped in the night, as loud as a gunshot.
Everyone jumped.
Fetch remained steady. Had he done otherwise, he was sure he would have been shot. He approached the largest of the hunters. Judging from the curve of the torso, it seemed to be female—though he didn’t know the biology of this species any more than he understood the finer points of intergalactic space travel.
She allowed him to get within three meters, then shook her head. She hissed, her body silhouetted by the burning brush.
Fetch stopped and slowly squatted. He never took his eyes off the large hunter. He motioned for her to see what he was doing, then began to draw pictures in the soil. With each picture, he pointed at who he was drawing. First, he drew and pointed to himself. Then he drew and pointed to her. Then he drew the two smaller hunters. He pointed at each picture and their real-life counterpart, over and over until he thought they realized what he was doing.
Then he drew a picture of the one hiding behind the tree, thirty meters away. The female hunter glanced at the location and back at his drawing, then stared at him. Fetch nodded and jerked his head toward where the other hunter was hiding. Then he pointed to the drawing and nodded vigorously.
The female hunter seemed to understand.
She called one of the smaller hunters over and spoke quietly to him. He glanced at the mark on the ground, then toward the tree line where the shadow hid. Fetch thought he saw movement.
The smaller hunter activated the blades in his wrists, and for an instant Fetch thought his heart had stopped. But the leader thumped him on the chest and stopped him where he stood, growling out something in their strange language. Fetch pointed again, more insistently this time.
There were no more threats. He sat back on his heels, and grinned. At least now he was an agent of action, instead of an agent of reaction.
He liked it when he was able to get others to do things that benefitted him.
* * *
Ca’toll glared at the newcomer. From her xenobiological studies, she knew of the oomans, and while she’d known they were busy conducting their own business on the planet, she’d never felt interaction was necessary.
Now this one, a male so puny and looking diseased, had the temerity to come along and act as if they were battlemates. He wasn’t armed and was trying to communicate with her.
She watched as he drew and knew immediately what he was trying to relate. She glanced at Vai’ke, who was also watching carefully. Let her eyes range to where the ooman inferred another Yautja stood, but saw only a tree. Was she to believe the ooman? Was there another Yautja, using a cloaking device to avoid being seen?
That was illogical.
Why wouldn’t a fellow Yautja reveal him or herself?
Ca’toll’s thoughts flashed to Vai’ke, and how he’d pushed Sta’kta in front of the plasmacaster. Her teeth wanted to click inside her helmet but she forced them to be still. Something was going on here that she hadn’t yet figured out, and she had a gut feeling she would pay dearly if she didn’t do so, and soon.
Why would this ooman want to be involved?
Vai’ke snapped out his wristblades.
“Leave him.” Ca’toll stopped him using her combistick to thump his chest. The smaller young blood glared at her. “Let’s see what he wants.” The ooman cocked his head and gestured again, more emphatically, to the childish drawing and then over toward the trees. Again, Ca’toll glanced in that direction.
There.
Had she seen something? A flash or a movement, a displacement of air? She shook her head and looked back at the small ooman.
He stood, his full height barely coming to her chest. He was as thin as one of the older oomans she’d seen, but had probably yet to see half of his life. He wore a metal mask, one she’d seen others on this planet wearing. Ptah’Ra had said that they were slaves of the stronger oomans who farmed drug pollen that was then taken and sold. She shook her head. It mystified her, the very idea that someone would find their excitement at the end of a leafy plant rather than in battle.
Ca’toll scanned the area around them. She could easily kill the ooman, but he wore no armor and had no weapons. There would be no honor in it. He was not a threat. Such an action would be beneath her.
Without warning, a shriek split the air.
The ooman threw himself to the ground as the plasmacaster tracked something airborne and fired three times, until its power was depleted. The sound of the weapon echoed through the rift, and Ca’toll could feel the hum through her body. A Xenowing suddenly flopped in several pieces along the rift floor.
Vai’ke pointed at the human. “We should kill it.”
Ca’toll watched him warily. “Like you killed Sta’kta?”
“That was an accident.”
“Was it?”
“You saw it.”
“It did not look like an accident.”
“What are you trying to say?” Vai’ke asked. He pulled himself to his full height, even though he was still only to her shoulder.
She sneered at him. “I don’t believe you are being truthful. I think that’s obvious.” Without responding, Vai’ke glanced down the rift to where Ny’ytap’s body impaled on the tree, several meters away.
“He was a great hunter.” Vai’ke made a sound of regret. “It should have been you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The Xeno should have taken you, not Ny’ytap.”
She narrowed her eyes as her tongue ran over the edges of her mandibles. Where was this going?
“Ny’ytap wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy celebrating to remember that the battle isn’t complete until the ships are back in orbit.”
“I watched you,” Vai’ke said. “Everyone but you celebrated.”
“What was there to celebrate?” She glared at him. “We’d lost a large part of our party. Did you want to lose more?”
“Such is the way of things,” he answered impudently. “If everyone could be a young blood, it would hold no honor.”
“Still, there is a time for celebration, and a time for care and concern. That was not the time for festivity.” Watching Vai’ke carefully, she waited for him to respond, but he went still. It was if he were staring at something behind her. Frowning, Ca’toll turned just in time to get a kick in the face.
Another Yautja!
As befit an experienced hunter, she caught the details even as the kick connected. Finally visible, he was wearing all black—no clan colors. This was what the ooman had been trying to tell her!
She rolled with the kick and let it propel her backward, where she collided with the plasmacaster. She felt the sharp ridges of its hardened shell as her body knocked it aside. Reaching around as she fell, Ca’toll grabbed it, brought it around, and fired. The burst missed, and then there was a dry click.
The weapon needed time to power up.
The razored end of a combistick was turned away by her armor. She yanked up the plasmacaster and let the next blow scrape nastily from the edge, sparks dancing like deadly fireflies in the night.
“Stop!” she bellowed, but if the other heard, he clearly wasn’t going to obey. Who was this, and why wasn’t Vai’ke coming to her aid? In the corner of her display she saw the young blood. He stood back, arms crossed, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. She wondered what his game was.
To one side, the ooman crawled away. He had tried to help her, and she’d been far too slow on the uptake.
Ca’toll rolled to her left and kicked out at the smug Vai’ke. He jumped out of the way as she regained her feet and threw the plasmacaster at her attacker. Something deflected it and the still-charging weapon flew off to the side.
Then Ca’toll could see her attacker. He was taller than Ptah’Ra had been, wearing all black with red bands down his legs. She’d never seen his colors before, so it was unlikely this was a blood feud. Then what? She flicked open her wristblades.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded. He growled in response and lunged with the extended blade. She leapt to the side. “Who are you?” she cried again.
The Yautja attacker ignored her question and went into a full combistick kata that forced her to back away, ending when stopped by a tree. At the last moment she dodged, and the blade scored the tree where her heart had just been beating.
Diving to her right she somersaulted across the ground. He tried to follow, but she was too quick and caught him with a kick to the jaw that sent him reeling. Then Ca’toll jumped and spun again, this time wrapping both her legs around his neck as they both slammed to the earth. She twisted as they fell and landed on his chest, chopping the combistick from his hand. Before he could retaliate, her wristblades were pressed into the flesh just below his helmet.
“I’ll ask you again. Who the pauk are you?”
The answer bubbled from deep in his throat.
“You should know.”
“What does that mean?”
“Why don’t you tell your young bloods how you left me to die!”
“What?” She had no idea what he was talking about.
Then something clicked in her brain, a memory.
Oh, hell.
“Ar’Wen.” He laughed and she recognized the sound from decades previous. Abruptly she stood and backed away, retracting her wristblades. He couldn’t be. Could he? Both her hands went to her head. She removed her helmet.
“Ar’Wen? No—it can’t be—”
He mirrored her movement, removing his own helmet.
“You left me,” he rasped. “You left me to die.”
“No! I did no such thing.” Ca’toll’s thoughts whirled. In her mind she could see the young blood he once was behind the now-adult features. His smiles. His frowns. His laughter. His tears. They’d once been friends. “I saw you go over the edge. You were dead!”
“Far from it, Ca’toll,” he said, saying her name like it was a bad taste in his mouth. He pushed to a sitting position. “I was more alive—more in pain—than I ever thought possible. And when I finally recovered, you had already taken the ship back home. You left me there.”
“That’s impossible.” She shook her head. “Your indicator lights went dark—the display registered you as dead.”
“A malfunction,” he hissed.
Part of her was thrilled to see the familiar Yautja in front of her, her battle companion and the one with whom she’d been blooded. The other part was mortified. What if she had left him alive? How could she have done such a thing? It was the opposite of honor—it was disgrace. She asked the only thing that came to mind.
“Why did you wait so long to show yourself?”
Ar’Wen had gotten all the way to his feet. “The oomans were terraforming the planet,” he answered. “I had to smuggle myself out in one of their ships.”
Ca’toll fought to keep her voice steady and strong.
“What have you been doing all this time?”
He appraised her, then hissed. “Working out how I was going to kill you.”
“It was an accident!”
He stared at her, motionless, before he finally spoke in a low voice.
“Never leave a body behind.”
And there it was, coming back to haunt her. The others didn’t know her history—no one did. There’d always been a reason she was so relentless, and that reason was standing right in front of her…
Living proof of her failure.
45
The rays of the sun began to slip past the crest of the rift’s edge, high above.
The darkness dwellers would seek the shelter of their holes until night fell again. An enormous scar across the surface of the planet, this rift—and others like it—was a deadly place for anything that could become prey. With no place to flee, they’d created ingenious ways to hide from predators.
Like the jivenings—when daylight struck them, they burrowed and pulled the ground over themselves. The only creatures unafraid of the light were the myriad insects that went about their pollination duties and sought to use the light to their best benefit.
* * *
Fetch raked at the side of his metal mask, desperate to be free of it. Not only was the weight becoming unbearable, his body was ringing with the need for Khatura—triggered by the sudden rush of adrenaline. Hiding behind a tree, he slammed his face several times against it, but to no avail. He managed to dent the mask and make his cheekbones throb, but that was about it.
Meanwhile, the two hunters fought.
The larger of the pair, the one who’d tried to remain hidden, had finally decided to show himself, which meant Fetch had nothing more to offer. To prove the point, the other smaller hunters had descended on cables and appeared on either side of Fetch. Two of them grabbed him by his arms and shoulders and forced him to the ground, while another righted the laser gun.
“Whoa,” Fetch protested. “Wait a second—there’s no call for that!” For once he wished Shrapnel was around. The big asshole would have been more than happy to fire on the pair. Who knew what they intended to do to him now?
Meanwhile, the two large ones had stopped overt fighting, but judging from the sounds they were making—guttural grunts rising and falling—it seemed as if the violence could erupt again at any moment. They had removed their helmets, revealing deep-set staring eyes beneath thick brows, wide mouths with tusks and pointed teeth, and thick braided hair bordering a spotted bare skull.
If the masks had been fearsome, the faces were the stuff of nightmares.
Fetch willed his luck to return. He needed it to survive, and the way he was being held left it impossible for him to defend himself. He wouldn’t stand a chance with these things.
Then something happened he didn’t expect.
The smaller hunter, who he had seen collaborating with the invisible one, attacked the female leader from behind. Without warning, he swung a long stick with a meter-long razor spear that sliced through her suit and drew blood.
She leaped away from the assault, then twisted to face both opponents, but the smaller of her two attackers grabbed the newcomer by the arm and they both sprinted for the other side of the rift. A moment later Fetch could hear them climbing noisily upward.
He wished he understood what the hell was going on. Besides a few burning pieces of flora and some eviscerated fauna, there was nothing left here. As if to underscore his worthlessness, the pair who held him let him go and rushed to help their fallen leader. She groaned as she settled back onto the ground. One hunter pulled some kind of spray from a pouch and handed it to the other, who sprayed the wound. Fetch’s eyes widened as he watched it close and the blood ceased flowing.
Damn, that would come in handy.
Wanting to see more, he started to inch forward then he felt something tug at him. Then another tug, followed by a flash of pain.
Was this how a fish felt?
Fetch turned to glare at whatever was holding him, then realized he was looking directly up at the underbelly of one of the flying monsters. He couldn’t stop the scream that bubbled out of him. The laser gun pivoted around and affixed three dots of light on the chest of the creature, just inches above Fetch’s head..
“Don’t!” he cried, throwing up his hands, even though it would be useless. If they fired, he’d be drenched in an acid bath. He’d much rather a faster death than having his blood, bones, and organs boiled away. In his peripheral vision he saw the female poke her fingers at something on her shoulders. An instant later, the target dots blinked out.
