Aliens vs Predator Omnibus

by Steve Perry

  “There are only one hundred and thirteen civilians on Ryushi,” he continued, “and besides the thirty or so company staff, we are dealing with freelancers here—not men and women who jump when the voice of the corporation speaks. They are not drones looking for advancement; they are people with children and homes. Quoting regulations will not get you very far.”

  Noguchi felt a flash of anger, but she fought to keep it under control. “What would you suggest, Hiroki? That I bake cookies and invite them on picnics?”

  “I suggest that when you ask for an opinion, you should consider the advice you receive.” Hiroki picked up his sun helmet from the synth-marble coffee table and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the entry controls and looked back at her.

  “Look, I’ll be around for another two weeks, and then you’re on your own. I will do what I can to help in the meantime.” He smiled a little. “I think you will do fine, Machiko.”

  She stood and nodded at him. “Thank you for your… assistance, Hiroki.”

  “It is nothing. Get out of the office once in a while, get your hands dirty.” He opened the door and then grinned easily. “Get some rhynth shit between your toes.”

  Noguchi sat back down and rested her hands lightly on the black-lacquered surface of her desk. Hiroki’s words had stung a bit, but perhaps because there was some truth there; it deserved consideration. Hiroki was, after all, being promoted off of Ryushi. The ones who went up the ladder were generally not those that kept a low profile, as she had been doing.

  Perhaps, it’s time to make some of my own moves… Noguchi took another cigarette from the small silver case in her desk drawer and rolled it thoughtfully between her thumb and forefinger. What was the saying?

  The journey of a thousand kilometers begins with one step…

  * * *

  At first there was only the vision of dark, cracked matter all around, seen through a thick cloud of oily smoke. The electronic eye scanned the pit and then looked up. With a sudden lurch, the lou-dte kalei moved forward, using its segmented pincers to pull itself out of the crater.

  It was a large, armored mechanism, the lou-dte kalei, designed to withstand almost any type of environment so far encountered; it was actually modeled after a kind of predator discovered on Thän, a world of dense metals and poisonous weather. Something like the Hard Meat, but more efficiently built—it could climb, walk, run, or dive into liquid. And while the robot crawler did not Hunt as the real creature could, it served a purpose that was more important than simple survival; it was the bearer of life.

  Dachande switched to the rear gkinmara, another of the rounded eyes that transmitted sensory information. “Lou-dte kalei” was a joke, really, a derogatory term that was sometimes used for a female—literally, “child-maker.” Not that Dachande had ever heard the name spoken to a female’s face. A warrior who would dare such would not be wise, for an insulted and angry yautja female was not something even a not-too-wise male wanted to create. Assuming the warrior was armed and expert, it might almost be an even match, but Dachande would put his wager on the female. His most recent partner had tossed him across a room during the heat of their mating and that had been an accident.

  Mating. Ah, now there was a pleasant thought.

  As if in accordance with Dachande’s thoughts, the heavy dlex ramp in the tail of the crawler lowered and the machine began its function. An egg, the beginning of the Hunt, made its way gently down the plated ramp to be deposited on the dusty ground.

  The crawler moved slowly forward to lay another.

  Dachande rolled the control bar on the table in his private chamber. The front view appeared again in the oval monitor’s screen; the crawler went toward a high mountain of some unknown material, perhaps the cliff was of tjau’ke or compressed dust. This world was a warm place, but not as humid as some. Twin suns and no freestanding liquid in sensory range. The read on the crawler showed that there were still dozens of eggs to be set; the red lines and smudges of the counter changed with each placement. Each egg was coded and tuned to a reader that would maintain the connection even after the egg hatched and became Hard Meat. They would not leave the Hunt until all the prey had been taken. To leave even a single one behind was criminal.

  Dachande had not visited this place before, although the records showed that there had been Hunts here, many seasons earlier. It was listed as wide and spacious, with no antagonists and many hiding places; large, four legged creatures dwelled there naturally, ideal hosts—perfect for training. They would go in fast and dark, that was standard, but there could hardly be anything on the planet to cause them problems. It was but another dry world with little to offer save a place to Hunt. The galaxy was full of such places.

  A small tarei’hsan ran in front of the egg-layer, dark in color and spined like an insect of some sort. Its tail curved over its body and ended in a point, and its arms were much like the arms of the lou-dte kalei. The crawler rolled over it, the treads crushing the tiny bug into the mottled ground. Dachande shook his head. Better it should die thus, for stupidity did not further any race and running under tank treads was not high up the scale of cleverness.

  He watched as the counter ran slowly backward. They were close to this place, this dust world, but there was still plenty of time for the Hard Meat children to find hosts. The tagged babes should be drones by the ship’s arrival, but there was not so much slack that they would have time to colonize. Timing was all.

  Dachande smiled. Part of being a Leader was not to seem excited by the prospect of a training Hunt, but in the privacy of his chamber, he allowed himself to feel the warmth of things to come. And somehow, this one felt different—there was an air of… something.

  He switched the monitor off and stroked his broken tusk absently. He was too old to muddle himself with cosmic questions, but he knew the words of his ancestors: Thin-de le’hsaun ‘aloun’myin-de/bpi-de gka-de hsou-depaya—Learn the gift of all sights or finish in the dance of fallen gods.

  Dachande cackled and stood up. Philosophy was not his bent. He was a warrior. Let the old ones worry about such things. He was a doer, not a thinker. It was better that way. Almost always.

  4

  Machiko Noguchi couldn’t find the green crayon. There was the jade one and the blue-green, but the emerald-green was missing, and it was the only color that would work for the dragon’s eyes.

  She sighed and carefully dumped out the crayon pack. Things had been going so well until now, it wasn’t fair. It was her day off from school and she had received permission to play quietly in her room for two whole hours before dinnertime. The picture of the dragon was going to be a gift for her father; she knew that he had been talking about a promotion for a long time, and that today he had an important meeting with his supervisor.

  And the green was misplaced. Her parents had taught her to put things in their place because order was a very important rule; knowing where things were was a crucial ingredient to a successful life. She felt vaguely anxious as she sorted through the different shades—what if it wasn’t there? What then?

  Machiko spotted the crayon and nodded to herself. She had put it in with the blues by mistake, that was all. It was understandable; she would just have to be more careful…

  She heard the front door open and close downstairs as she meticulously shaded in the dragon’s eyes—emerald with gold rims. A cool spring breeze wafted in through her open window with the sounds of small children playing down the street. A good day. And it was going to be a beautiful picture, a long-tailed, proud dragon with green and lavender scales and red taloned feet—

  Machiko frowned and looked up. Her mother had not called out to her. Mother had gone to the store to buy things for a special dinner, her father’s favorite dishes. But Mother always called to her when she returned from an errand. Perhaps she had gone back outside to carry in more things…

  Machiko stood and walked to the door of her tidy room where she paused and listened. Maybe she had not he
ard her mother come in after all; the house was very still. She was about to go back to her picture when she heard a noise.

  “Mother?” Nothing.

  It had been like a heavy sigh, that noise. From down the hall—her father’s study or perhaps her parents’ room. Machiko was suddenly not sure if it was a good day at all. The silent house was not peaceful anymore, it was—empty.

  Bad.

  She walked very slowly down the hallway, staying close to one wall. Her feet seemed like lead; with each step, her fear increased. Her mother would have surely answered, wouldn’t she? Who was in their house? Should she leave?

  Yes. Machiko decided that it would be good to wait outside for her mother to return. She would say that she had heard a noise and her mother would know what to do.

  Except the front door…

  Was past the study. Past her parents’ room.

  Machiko felt her legs trembling. The back of her neck was damp and sticky, and her stomach felt as if it were made of stone. She took another tentative step and hesitated. And she heard another noise.

  All at once, Machiko relaxed. It was her father! That was the sound of his chair creaking back, as familiar a sound as his voice or the clatter of his key cards. She straightened up and started toward his door, smiling in relief. He had come home early, that was all.

  “Father,” she began, and reached out to knock. “I thought—”

  Her words faltered as the door to his study swung inward. She had time to register surprise that he had left it unlatched before she saw him. Before she saw the knife.

  And the blood.

  Machiko screamed and ran to her father’s side, where she pleaded and cried for him to get up, to speak, to stop pretending. She pulled at him for a long time. When he finally fell to the floor, she was drenched in his blood. He opened his eyes and sat up, smiling gently at her, arms spread.

  “This is for you, Machiko,” he said, and embraced her. Except that now his arms were claws and his head was a dragon’s. His forked tongue flickered out as his gold-rimmed eyes began to bleed emerald tears. He pulled back to look at her as she began to wail in terror.

  “You are my child,” the words rasped from his dragon-face. “Redeem me…”

  * * *

  Noguchi sat up quickly, her breath coming in short gasps. She almost screamed before she realized where she was.

  “Lights,” she called out shakily. Her room glowed gently to life. Noguchi hugged her knees to her chest and tried to breathe deeply. Always the same dream—except she had not had it for a long time.

  She had been covered in her father’s blood when her mother had found her. There had been no note, only the Death Poem that her mother would not let her read until years later, but the reason had come to light that same night: the esteemed Akira Noguchi, an accountant for the Yashido Company, had been fired for embezzlement. The same man who had scolded her when she had lied about stealing a piece of candy at the age of five, the man who had taught her the value of order. The father who had taught her honor…

  “Bastard,” she murmured, angry. Except her voice didn’t sound angry at all. The memories came back so easily when she let them, and now she was helpless to stop them. She had ripped up the dragon picture after the funeral; it had never been finished. The stain on their family’s name had eventually faded, and when she was in college, her mother had remarried. She had met her stepfather once. He had seemed like a pleasant man, but she never got past the feeling that her mother had married him so that she would no longer be a Noguchi.

  She and her mother spoke occasionally, but any closeness they had once shared was gone. Keiko Noguchi Ueda had never understood how her daughter had really felt. When she had called her mother with the news of her move to Ryushi, her mother had been so proud. “Your father would have been pleased,” she had said. Her father.

  Noguchi took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. None of that mattered anymore, she did not need to think of it. She was a corporate overseer for a major corporation on a planet far from Earth, and she was good at her job. She would become better in time; she would earn the ranchers’ trust and would carry out her position with—with—

  “Honor,” she whispered. And try as she might, she could not hold back the single tear that coursed down her cheek.

  * * *

  The Lector had made it to Ryushi a little before local nightfall. Scott knew there would be some hard workdays ahead for the ranchers and The Lector crew, but as pilot, he had minimal responsibilities for a few days. About damned time for a break.

  He and Tom stepped off the ramp and into the deepening twilight of the desert world. They were at the edge of a small, dingy town that smelled like manure, straight out of an old Western vid. There was no one to greet them. In fact, the place looked uninhabited.

  Scott grinned. “Looks like somebody forgot to organize the parade,” he said. He turned to look at Tom—and Tom wasn’t there.

  Scott spun and looked around. The Lector, too, was gone. Behind him lay only a vast, dusty plain, with mountains far in the distance.

  “Tom!” he shouted. No reply.

  Scott turned to look at the deserted town. It was almost full dark now, but there were no lights in any of the empty windows. There were only a few faded, almost nondescript buildings, their doors latched against the hot, sandy winds that blew mournfully through the lonely settlement.

  Scott cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

  “Hello! Is anyone here?”

  Nothing. In spite of the weather, Scott was suddenly cold. He took a few steps toward the nearest structure and then stopped.

  A high, piercing cry came from inside the building. It had the same shrill tone of an animal in pain—except it was angry. The keening wail rose to a fevered pitch, the sound of insanity and hatred. There was nothing human about it.

  Scott stumbled backward and fell. He scrambled at the ground, tried desperately to pull himself back to his feet, but he couldn’t seem to manage it. He tried to crawl away from the horrible sound but it filled his ears and surrounded him. From behind, he heard the door swing open and the shriek of the creature got impossibly louder.

  There was no escape. Scott began to scream. He screamed because he knew what it was, the thing, and he knew that to look at it meant death.

  —the Jabberwocky—!

  * * *

  Scott woke up in a cold sweat in a dark room on The Lector, still over a week out from Ryushi. He did not get back to sleep that night.

  * * *

  Under the pouring rain, Yeyinde aimed at the Hard Meat drone with his burner and depressed the control. The running bug howled and fell back in a gout of thwei, limbs clattering.

  Behind him the Leader shouted commands to the other students as the hot, harsh liquid splashed down from the sky, obscuring suit vision.

  Another drone ran toward him and Yeyinde fired again, excited and anxious all at once. He felt fear clench his bowels briefly, but the cold twist was quickly overriden by heat. The beast in him snarled and grew proud: Two! His first Hunt and there were two in his name!

  The threat seemed to fall away as the bugs stopped their assault. Yeyinde spun around, looked for more to kill. Between the burning rain and the hanging trees of the dto, it was hard to see.

  The Leader, ‘A’ni-de, called out. The Hunt was completed. The yautja cheered and hissed their triumph, Yeyinde’s voice among them. He looked through the dancing young warriors for Nei’hman-de, whose blood he shared by the same father. Nei’hman-de was a strong yautja and fast fighter, but he surely did not kill two. Nei’hma-de and he had grown together, play-Hunting as growing suckers—and now they would share their first kill, share the victory of the Blooding. How could life get any better than this?

  “Nei’hman-de!” Yeyinde moved through the rain and called for his mei’hswei. “Nei’hman-de!”

  A talon fell hard on his shoulder. ‘A’ni-de.

  “Nei’hman-de is dead,” the Leader said c
oldly. “He did not move properly. Now go stand at your kill for approval.”

  Yeyinde widened his eyes. “But Nei’hman-de is—”

  ‘A’ni-de backhanded him roughly, sent Yeyinde to his knees in the mud. “You question?” The Leader glowered over him, tusks flared.

  Yeyinde bowed his head in submission. After a tense moment, ‘A’ni-de stalked away.

  The young warrior stood and trudged through the downpour back to the fallen drones. That a warrior’s life was hard, he knew. That yautja sometimes died, he knew as well. Nei’hman-de, gone. It did not seem real that it could be.

  Unbidden came a memory. Of a lime when he and his brother had sat drinking c’ntlip, the fiery brew that fogged mind and body with pleasure. Someday they would be Leaders, not only of ships but of other Leaders. Great would be their fame. Stories would be sung of their Hunts for a thousand years, each of them was certain. It had been as clear as the high mountain air to them. Warriors together, they would Hunt, they would make the females howl in ecstasy, they would father each two hundred sucklings. Much could be laid to the liquor, of course, but he and his brother had truly believed the core of their fantasy. They would be the ones to survive and rise; it would be the other un-Blooded who would fall. Of that there had been no doubt, none.

  Only now, it was his brother who had fallen and his own head was hung low after his first Hunt…

  Yeyinde raised his eyes and saw the results of his prowess. Two bugs lay on the watery ground because of him. And at that moment, he saw the Path; there would no longer be a place for the dreams of youth in him. Nei’hman-de was gone, but he was alive—and now a warrior. And a warrior did not waste his time looking over his shoulder at the past. Done was done. Regret would not bring back the dead.

  Yeyinde held his head high as ‘A’ni-de traced a claw wet with Hard Meat thwei in the space between his eyes. He ignored the sharp sting as the acid thwei cut into his flesh to mingle with his own blood, blood that neutralized much of the Hard Meat’s power. The burning mark was proof of his skill and his adulthood, a jagged etched badge for all to see. Of all the yautja on this Hunt, only he had killed two. Never again would he bow to the kinship of other males; aligning oneself with a loser was not the Path, and any yautja could lose…