Aliens vs. Predators, page 6
A demonstration, just to be killed.
INTERLUDE
Each world was chosen for something that made it a unique challenge to a blooding party. Some planets were superheated, and required the hunting parties to adapt or succumb to the environment. There were opposites, of course, but weather was an easy modification to work around. Yautja armor was the result of an ancient and magnificent technology specifically created to allow their species to hunt and survive in even the most extreme surroundings.
As a result, they had to strategize for second and third orders of reaction, such as hostile fauna, or flora, or occasionally warlike creatures. Ar’Wen remembered one blooding party, when he had placed the Ovomorphs in the midst of a battle between hordes of eight-legged creatures. This had been done more as an experiment, and it hadn’t been long before the facehuggers had overwhelmed the indigenous creatures. Then there were hundreds of drones waiting for the nine inexperienced unblooded whose mission it was to eliminate them.
When the senior hunt leader was provided the readouts prior to landing, he and the other two leaders agreed that sending the unblooded out would be nothing short of a suicide mission. Their only option was to nuke the planet and move on, postponing the blooding until they located a more suitable world.
That had been something of a disappointment.
Here on LV-363, Ar’Wen climbed back down into the rift and observed the local fauna, seeing how the planet interacted with the indigenous creatures. This world had a mature relationship with its flora and fauna, likely developed over millions of years. Introducing the Xenos was going to have a cataclysmic effect, both in the rift and up top, since once the Xenos grew larger they would expand their territory.
The Yautja younglings would have their challenges, but if they kept to their teachings they would survive and learn, as if this were any other planet.
On the rift floor, a Xenomorph drone moved from side to side. Young and still not adjusted to the weight of its own head, the bullet-shaped skull tapped along the ground as it used all four legs to ambulate, pinging off rock and dirt alike. It was difficult to tell what local animal had been used for the gestation. Ar’Wen dropped the last several meters, coming to a stop in front of the Xeno.
He became visible.
The creature lifted its head and noted his presence. Still a little groggy from its birth, it shook itself and in doing so, finally came fully out of its daze. It made a noise only Ar’Wen could hear and charged him much faster than one would think such an infant beast could move.
Ar’Wen caught the skull with his hands but was propelled by the momentum, falling onto his back. He held the head and watched with excitement as the mouth extended, then extended again, snapping multiple times at the air as it fought to get to him. He wanted to play with this one. He could kill it with ease, but it was meant for the unblooded. To remove it from the game would be to cheat on their behalf.
Still holding the creature’s head, he climbed to his feet. He lifted the Xeno into the air and swung it around so that it gained enough momentum that when he let it go, it flew into the side of the rift, where a sharp, jutting rock slashed its skull. Ar’Wen sprinted away from it at full speed, toggling his invisibility.
Despite its young age, this one now had a scar on the side of its head. He would track this drone and see which unblooded might have survived, had Ar’Wen himself killed it. Not much of a game as games went—then again, he had little choice in the way that he accomplished his mission.
He checked the time. There were three days before he was scheduled to leave this rock and be on his way to intercept another egg carrier. His mandibles clicked in anticipation. A lot could be done in three days. He definitely wanted to participate in what was about to transpire. After all, it wasn’t every day that an enemy became available for comeuppance.
Watching them prepare for their first excursion into the rift, Ar’Wen wondered if she was the same as she had been back when they were unblooded together. Would she even remember?
Would she even care?
9
In the office part of his tent, Murray slouched on the chair in front of his desk. “Desk” was a pretty stupid description, since in reality it was a beat-up metal card table that had a distinct lean to the left rear. He kept sticking wadded-up pieces of paper under that leg, but somehow they always slipped out, ending up useless. Instead of fixing it, he was starting to compensate by propping the table up with one knee while he sat in front of it.
Pathetic, really, considering the money this operation brought in.
Murray never thought he’d end up some punk-ass middle manager for a corporation, but that sure as shit was what he’d turned out to be. In his visions of the future, he’d been the boss, with unlimited credits in his accounts, private retreats on vacation planets, and expensive bling. Yet here he was: the boss, all right—in charge of crap like supply requests, inventory, production schedules, and assholes like Shrapnel and Margo. Just making sure they didn’t kill the addicts was hard enough, but now they had some kind of creature making dinner out of their workers.
They had more than enough addicts to replace any who died—there were always more—but despite what his mercs thought, they weren’t simply disposable. It took time and money to find the ones who were so whacked out they’d do anything, give up anything, to keep their highs going. There were too many ways to get caught in human trafficking, and lately the legals had come down on that shit way harder than on the drugs.
That meant the cartel had to find willing harvesters, and the price of Khatura pollen was as far out of reach to the street druggies as those private retreats. Yeah, Murray had been to a couple of those, back when the cartel was trying to entice him to ditch his previous employer. It had been a big step up, and Murray knew it, and they knew he knew it.
They had been generous… in the beginning. Nowadays the generosity was still there, but behind it were the subtle threats, implied actions that might involve Murray or the few people in the galaxy he actually cared about—his mom, his little brother. He’d gotten too fucking good at his job—his crappy middle management job—and as a result, the times he could get away to enjoy those retreats was getting as scarce as Khatura pollen on Earth.
Muttering to himself, Murray swiped at the layer of dust coating his computer screen, keyed into the secure comms, and began typing. Despite the almost tropical environment, that shit came out of the ground everywhere. All the machinery was covered, it settled into the crevices of everyone’s clothes, even somehow got into his damned mouth. Murray couldn’t wait to get off this shithole, and hopefully the message he was sending would do the trick.
There weren’t a whole lot of places that the Khatura flower grew, but the cartel could damn well find a location with indigenous animals that didn’t kill off people.
//date withheld//
//Location: Montana//
To: Scar Face Major
From: Montana 1
Request immediate withdrawal of green ore quarry development to fresh location. Current situation unstable and treacherous due to newly discovered predatory and carnivorous animals. One worker deceased. Will commence packing and prepare for departure.
Please advise new locality.
//Montana 1 out//
Murray hit “send” and tipped his chair back on two legs, staring at the smudged screen, as if that would somehow make a response magically appear. It wasn’t like he was top of the hierarchy, but he wasn’t on the bottom, either. He couldn’t recall ever requesting that an operation be moved mid-harvest. So—
The computer made an irritating noise that Murray could never quite identify—something between a high-pitched bell and a long fart. Obviously not a notification sound he would have chosen, but the cartel seemed to think it was different enough that it wouldn’t be ignored. He had to admit they were right.
//date withheld//
//Location: withheld//
To: Montana 1
From: Scar Face Major
Request for immediate withdrawal denied. Current quarry conditions profitable. Continue and complete development. Worker supply unlimited. Defend location as needed.
//Scar Face Major out//
“Oh, you blood-sucking, greedy bastards,” Murray said. “Like you fuckers don’t already have so much money you could burn credits for fuel!” For an instant all he wanted in the universe was to swing his open palm across the miserable, cockeyed table and empty it of everything—the dirty little computer, the paper printouts they insisted were safer than digital worksheets, the schedules, and all the bullshit that came with it. They probably spent more on those old-fashioned tree shavings than they paid him.
Ultimately Murray lowered his hand, even if he did ball it into a savage fist. He could destroy everything in this tent and it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference. He could even have everything packed up and loaded on the transports… except the fucking cartel wouldn’t send a ship for them to rendezvous. Yeah, he could get the harvesters out of the rift, but they would have his head for disobeying.
They were stranded here until Scar Face decided to come for them.
Sitting there for a few minutes, he mentally went over what needed to be done. He’d been on LV-363 before, several times, with zero problems. Always during harvesting season, obviously. Arrive, do the job, make sure everyone else followed orders, then get out. Go enjoy life somewhere for a couple of weeks, even if he always knew the cartel could pull him out of whatever temporary paradise he’d found.
This time, however, it was a whole new playground—one that included an unknown player, or possibly two. Sure, harvesters died all the time; they got their masks off and overdosed, they didn’t fasten the safety lines and fell, they didn’t bother to eat when they were supposed to, and the lack of potassium stopped their clocks. But having some unknown… creature kill a guy and—what had that worker claimed? Eat him?
Murray wanted to call bullshit on the whole thing, but the guy was gone, and there didn’t seem to be much of a body left to bring up.
Shit.
He flicked on his comms, overriding anything else on the channel.
“Montana one to all personnel,” he said. “Put all harvesters on hold fifteen minutes before descent, and report to central tent for briefing.”
* * *
As ordered, Shrapnel and Margo and the other eight mercs arrived at the tent before the next shift of workers went down. Murray could tell from the expressions on their faces they were pissed about being called—probably felt too much like the military or a prison. He didn’t give a shit whether they liked it or not, just as long as they were there. Whatever their background, here they felt free to bitch and moan, and while there was a lot of that going on right now, Murray wasn’t in the mood.
“All right,” he said, voice loud enough to cut over the complaints. “Listen up.”
Most of them quieted, but the mouthier ones kept talking among themselves. Murray gave it a full ten seconds—a lot for him—then slammed an open palm on the metal table in front of him. The metal reverberated, and if it didn’t exactly sound like a gunshot, it was loud enough to finally get their attention.
“I said, listen up.” There were some surly looks, some surprised ones, some unreadable ones. “I’m sure the news of what happened to one of Shrapnel’s harvesters has already made the rounds. By now, it’s probably blown out of proportion, because fuckers don’t know how to keep their mouths shut.”
Murray glanced at Shrapnel, but the jerk only lifted his chin. “People got a right to know what might be out there,” he said defiantly.
Murray grimaced. “Sure they do. When I say so—and I don’t remember doing that.” Shrapnel started to open his mouth, but Murray held up a finger. His expression was dangerous. “Don’t.”
“It was that woman,” someone said from the back. “Edith or whatever her name is.”
“Enid,” Shrapnel said sullenly.
“I don’t care if her name is the President,” Murray retorted. “Since when do y’all not have the brains to ignore the ravings of an addict?” Most of them suddenly found their boots very interesting. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I thought.” His gaze swept the space. “Just in case it wasn’t just a riftwing attack, I contacted the main base.” It was always good to make himself looked concerned to the employees. “Just like I thought they would, they said to stay put. There’s way too much money to be made—for all of us—out of this harvest.” He gave it a moment, then continued before their mutterings could grow into arguments.
“If there really is anything to that druggie’s story, other than a far-out exaggeration of a riftwing attack—and I’ll tell you right now, that’s what it is—then just be fucking ready, okay? Make sure your weapons are cleaned and loaded—”
A couple of voices started in, but Murray cut through them.
“Shut up. I’ve seen how some of you don’t take care of your shit.” He let the silence fill the tent. “And carry extra ammo. If you want heavier firepower, fine. Just don’t be jackasses and start shooting each other or the workers. We’ve got extras, but the supply isn’t endless.” He turned his back on the mercs. “Dismissed.”
They muttered to one another as they filed out, a concoction of words made of threats and bragging and bullshit. It just never ended. Enough of this; he had paperwork—always—to get to.
“Boss?”
Murray glanced over his shoulder and saw Shrapnel standing there.
“What now?”
“What about the other thing Enid saw, you know—the two-legged thing?”
“What about it?”
“If it’s—”
Murray spun to glare at the merc. “And that’s the million credit question, isn’t it? ‘If.’ She’s a fucking addict, Shrapnel. She lives, breathes, eats and shits Khatura pollen.”
“But—”
“But what? You ever done that pollen? Of course not. If you had, you’d be hanging on one of those harvester cables, cuz that drug don’t let go. It don’t give take-backs. Those harvesters are batshit crazy, man. A sane person can scare his own pants off staring at a dark room when they don’t know what’s in it. It’s dark as hell in the rift. How much worse do you think these junkies are?”
Shrapnel pressed his lips together, then shrugged.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Of course I’m right,” he ground out. Murray gestured toward the tent’s opening. “Now, get the fuck outta here and go back to work.”
10
Movement, above. Light.
Go up, over edge. Too open.
Food moving. Too many, outnumbered.
Not seen, hide.
Watch.
Want solitary food.
Wait.
Want mother.
Watch.
Wait.
11
“Margo, get the hell over here,” Shrapnel said.
He tapped impatiently at the ground while he waited. His face was hot with the dress-down he’d received from the little man, Murray. If this had been an alley on one of the stations or a corridor in a mining colony, that asshole would have been plastered all along it, his begging filling the space as much as his blood.
“Margo, where are you?” He turned toward their tent. She hurried out, slinging her rifle over her shoulder and straightening her shirt.
Shrapnel felt his aggravation rise. “Were you taking a nap?” He glanced around in disgust. “After all that’s going on, you were getting your beauty sleep?”
She grinned, her scarring making the effort anything but pleasing to the eye. “All the beauty sleep in the world ain’t gonna help me.” She stopped in front of him. “You know how it is. You catch a nap whenever you can.”
“That was in the marines, not on guard duty,” he growled. “You sleeping on duty is why we lost one of our harvesters.”
“That’s not fair.” Her grin disappeared. “He wasn’t mine to watch. He was your—”
“Enough excuses,” Shrapnel snapped. “Murray wants you to find Khaleed’s body. See what happened. Your harvester Enid claims there’s a monster down there.”
“And you want me to go instead of you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“We can afford to lose you, but not me.” He pointed to the rift. “Get going.”
* * *
“Beauty sleep, my ass,” Margo muttered as she turned and left Shrapnel. He was nothing but a coward. “It’s not a bad thing to be afraid,” she told herself. “Fear’s what keeps people alive—but let that fear sink its grimy claws into you, keep you from doing your job—well, that’s when you oughta retire.”
She approached the rift’s edge and stared into it. Glancing at the sky, she figured they only had about twenty minutes of sunlight left inside it, so now was a good time to descend. She went to Khaleed’s cable and found it loose, devoid of weight. Either he’d fallen, or something had ripped him free.
She checked her M41A pulse rifle and noted that she had ninety-seven rounds remaining. Snugging her helmet into place, she pulled on her gloves and prepared to descend. She’d never been afraid of heights, but she did have a thing about the dark. She didn’t want to be anywhere without light, if possible.
Grabbing the auto descenders from her belt, Margo affixed them to the cables. She snagged the remote for the power pulleys and released the tension. Her descenders allowed her to lower herself slowly enough that she could keep an eye on the rift walls and down in the rift itself, in case one of the riftwings decided it wanted to take a bite out of her.
So far the riftwings had pretty much left them alone, with only a few early attempts to attack. A few well-placed shots and the creatures had learned that humans were a worse target than anything else in the rift. These days they approached the guards and even the harvesters with a lot more caution, flying around them like human-sized bees.
