Aliens vs. Predators, page 8
He poured anyway.
To Murray’s eyes, the vodka looked like liquid from heaven, crystalline and pure, as it filled the cup to just under the rim. Oh-so-carefully he set the cup on the ground, then recapped the bottle and stowed it away. Then he picked up the aluminum chalice full of nirvana and passed it under his nose, inhaling.
Mmmmm.
The edge of the cup had just grazed his lip when Shrapnel’s voice blared out of his comms speaker, loud enough to make Murray start and his hand jerk. A good half of his precious vodka sloshed out and onto the dirt floor. Shrapnel’s voice had been so loud and irate it hadn’t even been lucid, and anger made Murray’s face go instantly red. In one, fast move, he lifted the cup and poured the rest in his mouth.
Not enough—not nearly enough.
He thumbed on his comms as his fist curled around the aluminum container.
“What the ever-loving-fuck, Shrapnel?” he bellowed. “I can’t understand a damned word coming out of your shit-filled mouth!” He could feel the last of the spilled vodka evaporating on his hand, and he didn’t know if he wanted to scream—which he could do any fucking time he wanted—or go and cut the merc’s throat.
There was a garbled mashup of sound and static, then Shrapnel’s voice slowed enough to be clear, even if it was still at volume twelve on a ten dial.
“Need you to come to the harvester launch area, stat.”
Murray’s teeth ground together. “What the fuck for?” he demanded. “I got better things to do than—”
“It’s important!” Shrapnel practically shrieked through the comms, making Murray wince. “You gotta get over here and see! You gotta—” The rest was powered out by garbled sounds from other people, and maybe… screams?
“Fine,” Murray said. “I’m coming, damn it.” He thumbed off the comms so it would stop giving him an earache, then put the now-empty aluminum shot “glass” back into the case with the bottle of Elit. Next time, he told himself, he’d make sure there was nothing around to interrupt him. He had hardly any time to himself, and almost nothing enjoyable on this trip. He wouldn’t be fucked over again.
After the storage box was locked, Murray buckled on his weapons belt, jammed a dirty hat on his head, and headed out.
* * *
The space the mercs had set up to lower and raise the harvesters was a real shitshow. Murray got paid relatively well because he’d always run a clean and orderly operation, and if anyone from the cartel decided to do a drop-in right now, all those years of effort might as well get tossed into the rift they were yammering about.
First off, they were supposed to run patrol shifts for security, making sure this weird-ass planet hadn’t spawned some new kind of animal that would somehow get past the perimeter traps. At that moment, though, it looked like every merc on the mission was here, which left zero personnel on watch.
Secondly, a bunch of the harvesters were milling around when they oughta be getting ready to go down the cables. Instead they were all google-eyed and slack-mouthed, ignoring the protein packets they were supposed to ingest and tripping over the tangled piles of nets and cables. Murray hated it when his carefully planned logistics were so fuckingly ignored that everything descended into chaos. It would take hours to get this mess back to normal.
And last of all—well.
That was the worst.
Margo was sitting on an overturned cargo box. Her lap and the ground around her were piled with bandages splotched with blood and some other kind of green goo. Shrapnel was hovering over her like a nervous bitch while Jackson, an old merc who’d been a medic in some long-forgotten asteroid war, was gloved up to his elbows in acid-resistant butyl. He poured some kind of grainy white liquid all over her legs.
Murray didn’t know what the hell Margo had gotten into, but as he strode forward, tough as he was, he felt a twinge in his gut as he scanned the damage to the female merc’s lower body.
The legs of her work pants hung in ragged strips, singed around all the edges. Had she caught on fire down in the rift? If so, how the hell? Where Jackson hadn’t yet covered her with white gunk, Murray could see open, wounds festering between the strips of fabric. As he covered the last of the distance to her, he realized her chest was heaving and Shrapnel was holding her in place by clamping down on her shoulders.
Her head was thrown back and her teeth were clamped on the thick plastic handle of a hunting knife. Even so, Murray could hear guttural, agonizing sounds coming from deep in her lungs. He stopped just short of where Jackson was working, just in time to see the guy jerk a syringe out of his belt and slam the needle into the side of Margo’s neck.
It took a good five seconds, then her body relaxed… not unconscious, but not fighting, either. They could still hear her groans, but the volume had dropped by a good seventy-five percent. Even so, they were enough to raise the hair on Murray’s neck.
Shrapnel looked up from where he was holding Margo tight and spotted him.
“What the ever-loving fuck, Murray?” Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed. “Look at this shit, look at this shit!”
“I see it, Shrapnel,” Murray said in his best professionally calm voice. Calm didn’t even belong in the same brain category as what he was really feeling, but the truth wouldn’t help anything. Damn it, this was bad. “Jackson, bring me up to speed.”
“It looks like some kind of acid.” Jackson kept working and didn’t look up. “I’m neutralizing it, but it did some first-class damage before we could get her out of the rift.”
“You gotta get us the fuck outta here, Murray,” Shrapnel bellowed. His voice was loud enough to be heard on the next planet. “I don’t know what’s down there—”
“Monsters.” Margo’s voice was thick around the blade handle, but everyone around could still understand her.”
“Fucking A!” Shrapnel continued at the top of his lungs. “Monsters! Enid told you about them, she told you—and you didn’t listen, you asshole. Now look at Margo, man, look at her! All these burns, she’s gonna have scars!”
It’s not like she doesn’t already, Murray thought. Thankfully a moment of self-preservation kept that tidbit from coming out of his mouth. It wasn’t the time for sarcasm, and he knew that in the past Shrapnel and Margo had been more than just coworkers. Share some alcohol and fuck a couple of times, and you always had a bond, whether or not you couldn’t stand the sight of each other ninety percent of the time.
“I heard you the first time,” he said. This time Murray’s voice boomed over Shrapnel’s, the voice of the guy who was in charge even in a fucked-up situation.
“She’s out for the rest of the operation,” Jackson said. “Gonna take months to get fixed up from this shit. Debridement, bio-grafts, induced coma to handle stress to the organs, the whole med program.”
Murray had a flash forward as to what the cartel would have to say about this when he told them, and he grimaced. Their first reaction would be about cost—profits always came first. This would cut deep into what they’d make by staying here. When Murray had tried to get them to pull out, they should’ve done what he’d asked—but they hadn’t, and that was that.
There would be no sympathy, and there would be no waste of profits on extensive medical bills and rehabilitation and crap. They would tell Murray just to find a way to get rid of her.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Murray told Shrapnel. “I already asked if we could scrap the job, and got a no-fucking-way in response. We—”
Murray wasn’t ready for how fast Shrapnel was, as he was hauled off his feet and slammed against the trunk of the nearby thing that passed for a tree on this dump planet. The air went out of him, but only for a moment. He might be a pencil-pusher, but he stayed in shape.
“You get us off this shithole,” Shrapnel brayed. The merc’s face was right up into his. Spit and probably the remains of whatever he’d eaten at mess spewed from his lips. “Unless you want me to—”
“Do what?” Murray asked. His voice was low and dangerously cold. Shrapnel’s words cut off in a gasp and he blinked, then very carefully he set Murray back on his feet. He didn’t step away, just stood there, his posture stiff.
Tucked deep into his right armpit was the razor tip of Murray’s favorite knife, the one everyone ignored because it hung off his weapons belt and no one had ever seen him use it. He loved being underestimated.
“What are you going to do, Shrapnel?”
“I—I—I’m sorry, boss. I lost my temper.” Shrapnel flinched as Murray let the blade slip, just a little. It was nothing for it to part clothing and ease into the merc’s skin, so very close to the artery there.
“I don’t like people who can’t keep their heads,” Murray said, “and I don’t like being threatened by an employee.”
“I understand. I swear it won’t happen again, honest to God, I’ll never—”
“Shut up.”
Shrapnel did.
Keeping the knife in his right hand, Murray reached up and placed it flat against Shrapnel’s broad chest. The back of his hand was tattooed in deep black ink on the pitted skin, the head of a viper. The inky image twitched as if it were alive and couldn’t wait to strike. Murray lowered his voice so that only the merc could hear him.
“Don’t fuck with me, Shrapnel. If you do, I’ll kill you.” Murray looked Shrapnel straight in the eyes, making sure to keep his expression smooth, almost pleasant. “And you won’t see it coming. We clear?”
“Yes, boss,” Shrapnel whispered.
“Good.” Murray closed his hand into a loose fit, then stuck out his forefinger and oh-so-gently pushed the merc away.
There was no resistance.
Shrapnel turned without a word and made his way back over to Margo. The shot Jackson had given her had quieted her somewhat, but Murray figured it would only last for a quarter of an hour at the most. She’d have to be taken to the med tent and dosed up solid.
“I want everyone to shut up and listen up,” he yelled. “Eyes and ears on me, no exceptions.” There were a couple of harvesters hanging around, and he glanced at them hard, stopping them before they could skulk away. They were masked, but he could still make out Enid and Fetch.
“You addicts, too,” he continued. “Take the news back to your friends, and don’t fucking change a word. Get it?” They nodded.
“All right, then.” Without looking, Murray slid his knife back into its place on his belt. “Obviously we got a problem here, a big one. I don’t know what it is, but we’re gonna handle this.” He looked around, catching every one of the other mercs in his gaze. “I told all of you before to make sure your weapons were at the ready. Now I’m telling you again, plus some. Clean your guns and pack ’em with the maximum load. Then go to the armory shack and get more guns, as many as you can carry, with as much extra ammo as you can carry. The cartel won’t let us out of here.
“So we stay put and make war with whatever the hell is in the rift.”
14
Stea’Pua followed the others into the rift. He was enjoying himself more than he thought he would. Throughout the journey here he’d been worried that he would be too scared. He didn’t want to let his family or his elders down. He was destined for greatness, they said, and to achieve it he would have to become blooded like the rest of them.
He was still limping from the fight over the combistick.
T’See’Ka carried it proudly, both a trophy and a weapon to be wished for.
Stea’Pua had hesitated. That he knew. He hadn’t meant to, but he did so nonetheless. And now their hunt captain, T’U’Sa, thought worse of him, suspecting that the young unblooded was soft. Stea’Pua was far from soft, and was already devising ways to win back the prize.
Each of them rappelled down on their own cables, and Stea’Pua was eager to reach the bottom. He’d watched T’U’Sa destroy Xenomorphs and was ready for his turn. Though wearing only light armor and his wristblades, he’d trained with them enough that he felt as if he would be able to take down any predator this planet could devise.
U’Brea’Sua hit the rocky bottom first and spun left to check for danger, sliding into the foliage along the rift wall for concealment. Stea’Pua landed next, spinning right, ensuring no danger would come unnoticed from that direction. T’U’Sa and T’See’Ka followed, setting down softly between them. T’See’Ka twirled the combistick, earning him an angry glance from the hunt leader.
The rift was as silent as they’d yet heard it. Normally, they would expect to hear the cries of birds and the whirring of insects. Even the air seemed to have stalled and was no longer slipping past the leaves. It was as though the land knew something was coming, and was waiting for it to happen.
Stea’Pua had an unsettling feeling in his stomach. He stepped further to the side and peered into the encroaching gloom. If a Xeno attacked, he’d only have a second or two to react. So he searched for the movement of a whipping tail or the jerk of a long black head. He looked for so long that, when T’See’Ka tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped.
“What the hell?” Stea’Pua said.
“Just checking to see if you were paying attention,” T’See’Ka said.
“You watch your own sector,” Stea’Pua said. “I’m paying attention to mine.” He gave a hard glance at the combistick, and wanted to say that having it wasn’t the same thing as being the leader, but looked away instead. He didn’t want to give T’See’Ka the satisfaction.
T’U’Sa toggled all of them on the comms. “Now is the time. Before the day is over, one of you will be blooded. I can feel it. Can you?”
Stea’Pua felt his own blood warm as he flexed his wristblades. Of course he could feel it. The sizzle in the air. The anticipation of what was to come. His brothers had told him about how all great warriors could sense violence from the taste of the air. Not that he could taste anything different, but he could feel something, something different—
A Xenomorph exploded from the brush, heading straight for them.
Stea’Pua shifted to a fighting stance, but the Xeno leaped against the hillside and bypassed him, launching itself at T’See’Ka. Before there was time to extend the combistick, T’See’Ka swung and caught his attacker on the side of the head. The Xeno tumbled in the dust as it rolled uncontrollably. Then it found its footing and twisted, coming back toward the four Yautja.
Stea’Pua let his knees sink in a tactical squat, flexing his wristblades, ready for the attack, while T’See’Ka extended the combistick so that it was a double spear, capable of slicing or pinning the alien. U’Brea’Sua held back in the shadows, unknown and unheard, waiting for an opportunity to attack from behind. His wristblades were flexed and ready, but his stance was that of a statue where he held as still as he could until his target came within reach.
The Xeno paused and shook its head, saliva raking the leaves next to it. It was closest to Stea’Pua, and gave him a predatory tilt of its eyeless head. Stea’Pua sunk deeper into his stance, fully ready to leap left or right if he was charged. And that’s what the Xeno did. It charged—barreling toward him with teeth telescoping and snapping at the air.
Stea’Pua brought a hand up to claw it as he leaped to his left, but suddenly found himself falling sideways as he was pushed away. T’See’Ka had shouldered him aside, knocking Stea’Pua to the ground as he set the spear ready.
The Xenomorph came on, unable to stop, impaling itself on the staff, its blood searing everything nearby with the smoky tendrils of its death. The spear penetrated all the way through its back, jutting past the creature’s spine.
“T’See’Ka, you pauk-de!” Stea’Pua growled to his feet. “That was my kill!”
“I’m blooded now,” T’See’Ka rumbled in response. “You’re not.”
“Because you stole my kill!”
“It’s not my fault you leaped out of the way. Your fear got to you.”
“My fear—” He felt his face redden. “I didn’t leap anywhere. You shoved me.”
“You fell,” T’See’Ka said, smiling sadly. “I don’t know why you won’t admit it.”
“Enough fighting, you two,” T’U’Sa commanded. He turned to T’See’Ka and punched him hard enough in the chest to send him flying on top of the Xeno’s corpse. “And you! Where is your honor? That was his kill!”
T’See’Ka rolled off the body of the alien, his back smoking from contact with the acid blood, but he kept quiet. It was clear he wanted to say something, but he held back. He’d crossed the line and he knew it—had been too eager for the kill.
Stea’Pua glared at him. As dishonorable as he was, T’See’Ka was the only one of the crew who thus far was blooded, and the unfairness of it was remarkable. Still, he wouldn’t have a glorious tale to tell. Whenever he would be asked how he became blooded, T’See’Ka would know he cheated. His honor was forever besmirched. Stea’Pua granted himself that.
When he was blooded, he’d be proud of the moment. If his blooding was great enough, he might even create a song about it, to sing to members of his clan. He was destined for great things and his honor demanded that the greatness be constant.
There was a loud rustling behind them. They all spun and saw something unimaginable headed toward them—from above.
It was a riftwing.
Except it wasn’t.
This was something new, a combination—a Xenowing. It had the head and tail of a Xeno on the body of a riftwing, including the wings. It crashed heedlessly through the greenery over their head as it dove toward its prey—them.
Stea’Pua and the others somersaulted out of the way as the Xenowing touched down on the rift floor. It prowled around the dead Xenomorph, then spied T’See’Ka and leaped for the newly blooded Yautja. But T’U’Sa wasn’t going to let that happen. He pegged it with his shoulder cannon, three beads of red light on its torso, and fired.
Inconceivably, he missed.
