Aliens vs Predator Omnibus

by Steve Perry

  Dahdtoudi lowered the viewer and stood for a moment. She rubbed absently at the jagged scar between her eyes, faded white now.

  “It won’t be long,” she said. She would make them understand, tell them of Broken Tusk’s bravery and skill. And how everything had gone wrong…

  Milo gazed at her. She stretched her sore muscles and then mounted him for the ride home.

  * * *

  The Leader sighed inwardly at the yautja assembled before him. They were as ready as he could make them, pumped and hungry to kill. They stood in line next to the ship, their burners loaded and blades sharpened.

  But he also had orders to seek after Dachande’s group on this Hunt, an extra pain he could have done without. That ship had never returned.

  He had known Dachande. Old broken tooth had been a good Leader and a strong warrior, but something had gone wrong, and those in charge wanted to know what. As they always did when it was not they who had to determine it.

  Vk’leita shook his head as he reviewed the young yautja. He had Hunted with Dachande, he respected him, as had many—but he was surely dead, and dead was dead, all that mattered was the way of it. More than a long cycle had passed, probably too much time to ascertain much of anything. The dead from that trip would be sun-grayed bones scattered by the local scavengers by now.

  He nodded at the other Blooded, Ci’tde. Ci’tde would take the group on the initial scouting trip. The Hunt would start in earnest after the light fell away.

  The Leader stayed at the ship and ran through some practice drills while he was alone. Young males took a lot of energy to train, and he relished the time away from them. Besides, he would have to check the ui’stbi, the geography, for remnants of recent Hunting. He could do some through the ships’ gkinmara, but much would have to be done on foot. He was looking forward to stretching himself, covering ground, loosening up the ship-stale muscles.

  He finished practice and then sat on the ground to clean his armor. The yautja would not be back until the suns had passed through their high point, so he had plenty of time…

  Behind him, a sound of movement.

  Vk’leita was on his feet instantly. The sound had come from the other side of the ship. He snatched up his burner and started toward the sound.

  He reached the front of the ship and let out a warning hiss.

  Nothing.

  Suddenly a small figure stepped into view. Vk’leita pointed at the creature and almost fired—

  —he lowered the burner uncertainly. The creature was no yautja, it was the size of a child—but it wore armor and a wrist blade. The creature moved slowly toward him, hands out.

  Ooman!

  The Leader raised his weapon again. The sickly, pale, ugly face of it—

  It stepped closer and tilted its head to one side.

  He could have fired. Had the other yautja been there, he might have, that was the proper response to a threat. But this small creature did not seem particularly threatening, even though he knew the stories. And neither did it seem to be afraid. If anything, it carried itself proudly, almost as if it were a warrior. Oomans were supposed to be cowards, sneaky, deadly when cornered, but seldom stand-up face-on fighters. And it made him curious.

  “Who are you?” said Vk’leita.

  The ooman pointed at itself. “Da’dtou-di.”

  Vk’leita flared his mandibles. The creature’s accent was awful, strange, but he understood. Female? An ooman female? The name was “small knife,” feminine form—

  Going against a lifetime of training, the Leader reslung his burner and moved closer. This bore investigation. The ooman stood still.

  When he was a few paces away, he stopped and eyed the ooman carefully. It wore tresses like yautja, and carried the weapon; its pieced-together armor was part warrior—he recognized the Hard Meat shell—and part unknown.

  The ooman motioned at itself again. “Da’dtou-di,” it said again. It reached up and touched its face.

  The Leader peered closer. It had a mark on its head. It looked like—no, it couldn’t be. He took another two steps and bent to stare at the ooman. It did not flinch as he practically stuck his mask in the thing’s face.

  The mark—

  It was Blooded! A Blooded ooman! That couldn’t be! It was not possible. But there was the mark, right there! and, and—the mark was—

  Dachande’s.

  What the unholy pauk?

  Vk’leita growled. “You know Dachande? Where is he?”

  Da’dtou-di shook her head and then pointed at him. She touched her own face again, now where mandibles would be if she were yautja. With one of her fingers, she mimed a break.

  As if a mandible were broken. Dachande.

  “Go on.”

  The ooman used her hands as teeth and made tearing movements with them. Then motioned “Dachande” again. Thei-de. Dachande was dead.

  Da’dtou-di moved closer to him and then cautiously reached up to rest her tiny hand on his shoulder. She greeted him.

  Vk’leita tilted his head, fascinated, and returned the gesture. This was unheard of. He was standing here as if he had a brain listening to a pauking ooman talk to him in sign language, telling him about the death of a Blooded warrior. She was ooman, but she called herself Da’dtou-di in the warrior’s tongue. She bore Dachande’s mark, no way around that, no warrior would tell an alien what that mark meant, much less how to apply it, not under any circumstances. And she had come to him to speak of Dachande’s death. But something else, too…

  “Hunt?” Vk’leita asked. “You’ve come to Hunt with us?” He unsheathed his blade and made jabbing movements in the air.

  Da’dtou-di tilted her head and exposed her small teeth. She raised one arm into the air and threw back her head. A long, strange cry came from her, of aggression and eagerness, he guessed.

  The Leader listened to the eerie sound and then circled the ooman. She was little, but moved well; she carried the marks of a warrior, and she had known Dachande. He studied her thoughtfully.

  This was unprecedented, but there was really only one option. She was Blooded. However it had come to be, there it was. The rules of the Hunt had never been stretched so much, he was sure of that. But what could he do? He was a warrior, he had his code and he had lived his life with it too long to deny it now. He would let her Hunt with them. Perhaps they could exchange languages, and he would learn Dachande’s fate. Perhaps she would choose to leave with them, to return to their home and teach them ooman ways—surely that would be a great victory, to have found an ooman warrior?

  Well. Perhaps covered much of the galaxy, didn’t it? Who could say?

  The Leader raised his own arm and howled. After a moment, Da’dtou-di joined him.

  There was much that they could teach one another.

  For Donald Maass

  Special thanks for the able editorial input from Kij Johnson and Janna Silverstein

  PROLOGUE

  Dtai’k-dte sa-de nav’g-kon dtain’aun bpide.

  “The fight begun would not end until the end.”

  Tarei’hasan shit.

  Nat’ka’pu illustrated how silly the old yautja saying was by feinting to the left, then slipping around the sparring spear thrust out by his opponent. With astonishing speed the Leader followed through with a lightning lunge, grasping the edge of the student’s mask and ripping it off his face, shearing off a couple of tightly bound ringlets of hair in the process. Yellow eyes blazed with surprise. Mandibles clicked with shame. The student yawked with displeasure, attempting to slap Nat’ka’pu back with the blunt side of the spear. But with a creaking heave of his armor the Master took advantage of the cocky student’s bad positioning, hacking down on the elbow with the blunt edge of his leather gauntlet, forcing the weapon to slap down onto the floor. Then, before the snot-nosed fool could even begin another sorry howl, the expert reached in and boxed the warrior’s right tusk so hard that it looked to the others as though the young one’s head would be ripped from his mus
cle-grieved neck. The student could only give to the force so adroitly positioned. With a gasp he toppled to his knees.

  “Nain-desintje-da.”

  The pure win, of course. Nat’ka’pu expected nothing less of himself. However, he spat upon his victim with open contempt. The fool should have lasted longer in battle. For all his young pride and strength, he was one of the more thoughtless sparring partners that the Leader had ever faced.

  “You have much work before you if you wish to feel the sting of the Hard Meat’s thwei upon your brow—if you survive that long.”

  The student—a snarly, oily fellow named Ki’vik’-non—just glared back silently and woodenly.

  “Get away from my sight,” snapped the Leader. “Go and wash disgrace and defeat from your eyes. And cleanse your ears as well. You smell of childbearer’s musk. Hurry, Ki’vik’non—or your betters will wish to mate with you.”

  The cruel joke set the others on the deck of the ship into a braying, clicking laughter—derision. With as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances, the fallen would-be warrior rose to his feet with a clatter and creak of his awu’asa. Sunken deep in their orbs, his yellow eyes shone hatred and disrespect before he clanked back into the ranks. Something was wrong with this one, Nat’ka’pu thought. This Ki’vik’non lacked the sense of honor that drove a good warrior. He bore watching. Nor would it be a good idea to turn his back on Ki’vik’non when they were alone.

  Suddenly the enunciator in the wall of the kehrite blared.

  “Kainde amedha!”

  The Leader’s mandibles rippled with satisfaction, even anticipation.

  He turned to the younglings, his eyes blazing with challenge.

  “Prepare your souls for some true action!”

  * * *

  The ship of the yautja descended from the clouds and skated across the tops of trees. This was a fertile planet, which suited yautja purposes just fine. Besides its variety of terrain, it had plenty of species of life, many quite vicious and dangerous, making it prime Hunting material.

  The yautja were Hunters who traveled from world to world, proving themselves with the skill of their kills. Nor was Hunting just sport for them; it was a way of life. It was the Path. The philosophy that bound their bones more surely than did their sinews. They were Predators, and they often ate what they could, but more often they collected and preserved only trophies to testify to their prowess. They were Predators of meat physical, meat spiritual, and below their ship now was one of their favorite tastes in predatory effort.

  Kainde amedha. Hard Meat.

  And Hard in more ways than one. Upon this Hard Meat, sown in chosen areas, the youth of this race cut their tusks. Upon this Hard Meat, the inexperienced learned the Truth of the Path, turned experience into value, came of age, became a true yautja and could father younglings with pride and pass on the courage and honor that separated Beings of Will from the dross of mere instinctual life.

  The Hard Meat was valuable prey for the Hunter, because it could turn the tables with a flick of a claw.

  There was no more valuable target for Predators than other predators, for in difficulty is there courage and honor. And honor and courage were of paramount value in these creatures’ lives.

  Their ship looked like a combination between a fish and a huge engine tube. With a strange flash of greenish hue, it landed in a clearing. A broad ramp extended from it, and down the ramp the Hunting party strutted. Seven of them there were: four students, the Leader, and two adjutants. The students and Nat’ka’pu carried only spears; the adjutants carried burners.

  They were giants, these warriors. Their average height was two and a half meters, and even the shortest, at a mere two meters, had broad shoulders and biceps that strained against their leather jerkins. They wore armor and masks, and their tough, wirelike hair hung in dreadlocks from the back of their necks. The first step toward becoming a warrior was the agony of the pleating of these locks, a process that took months of ritual and scalp pain, performed in public sessions. If there was any sign of tears or even the tiniest voicing of pain, then the intricate weavings would be undone, and the candidate had to start from the beginning.

  Nat’ka’pu was in the forefront of the party, as befitted his rank. The two adjutants held sight-amplification equipment. They quickly scanned the terrain. The short one grunted, then pointed.

  The prey was spotted.

  Nat’ka’pu called for the binoculars. He trained them on the bushes, saw the squatting, partly hidden form of the Hard Meat.

  How odd. It was not a Queen, and yet it was discernibly larger than the average drone. The Leader tapped his mandibles thoughtfully against his mask, then turned to face his charges.

  “Who demands the honor of facing this fresh Meat first, alone?”

  They all brandished their weapons as one, fiercely and yet quietly. This was all part of the ceremony.

  Nat’ka’pu laughed mockingly. “You are fools, all of you, and yet at the first part of the Path lies the door of the fool.”

  “Perhaps you should show us the door, Leader,” suggested Ki’vik’non.

  “Perhaps I should show your intestines the point of my spear!” barked the commander.

  “It is true,” said the short adjutant, whose name was Lar’nix’va. “These are rank beginners and have never sucked Hard Meat before. It is not fitting that a few feints be made by the Blooded—especially when the Blooded is said to have fought the Hard Meat bare-fisted.”

  “And torn off its head!” spat Nat’ka’pu proudly. “Very well. But mark my methods, for I will leave the final killing to you, my students.”

  That said, the Leader turned and walked jauntily. He’d weaken the thing so that his charges could dispatch it easily. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to going back and selecting a bulb of c’ntlip to drink with his bloody meal, to the relaxation it would bring and the pleasant dreams of his wives, waiting for his valiant seed back home.

  The yautja called this world Var. It was used only off and on for Hunting, despite its merits. The Brave People were vagabonds of a sort and had a wide field in which to range, touching on a variety of worlds. Too long in one place created stale kv’var—exercises. It blunted the warrior’s soul, and made the Path rocky and illusory.

  When a flotilla of ships had returned to Var, however, there was a distinct change. There were oomans here now, that new growth of intelligent Soft Meat who were colonizing worlds. Nat’ka’pu knew that yautja lore spoke of many expeditions to the homeworld of the oomans with delicious results. Adventures to make a warrior smack his lips. The notion of performing kv’var on a world where humans had settled—albeit only in one small area, and with odd purposes and circumstances—stirred his blood. At the very least, hiding their activities from the Soft Meat would give him a sense of superiority. And if Nat’ka’pu actually encountered them and was forced to hunt oomans? Well, then, all the better. Nat’ka’pu could use some ooman skulls to dangle from his trophy cages. Perhaps that would even gain him some new conquest with females.

  The thought stirred his seed within his loins and churned up his blood. He could feel the aggression knotting in his muscles, and his great heart beat a song of battle.

  He advanced, his spear held out in front of him, part of the ritual of Readiness.

  The Hard Meat did not stir behind the covering of the bush, which was not unusual. It was daylight, and though the Hard Meat was not nocturnal, it preferred to slink through areas of darkness. That it was out in the open at all was a wonder, but then, Nat’ka’pu had seen them in such circumstances before. Nor did they usually travel alone, though the detectors showed no other Hard Meat in the area. Just as well, however. The situation suited him perfectly. It was as though it were tailor-made for such a training exercise, and Nat’ka’pu was never one to push away a challenge of fate, even when it was presented upon a tray of precious metal.

  Had he merely wanted to kill the beast, he would have appro
ached it in his shiftsuit and turned a burner on it There was no valor in that, though, and certainly no lesson for the snot-noses. No, he had to face the thing full on. However, for the beast to be fought properly, it had to be aware of his presence. This one seemed to be in an odd and awkward kind of repose. If it had been dead, their sensors would not have picked up its signs.

  So what was wrong with it?

  Carefully, his warrior’s instinctual antennae out and questing for information, Nat’ka’pu advanced, his spear firmly placed before him, ready for any sudden charges.

  He came into full view of the creature.

  The Hard Meat was indeed a large one.

  It looked like the obscene skeleton of some larger monster, and Nat’ka’pu could feel the familiar worm of fear threatening to wriggle in his gut. His said his kantra, though, which kept the fear at bay, and used the spurt of adrenaline to sharpen his senses.

  Yes, the monster was obscene in every sense.

  Part reptilian, part insect, part arachnid, and all evil, with no glow of nobility or honor whatsoever. Just sheer vicious need to kill and procreate.

  Its head was like a banana with teeth. No eyes. It had a reptilian tail, and long mantislike limbs. Pipes rose from its back like periscopes out of hell.

  Something different about this one, thought Nat’ka’pu. Something odd, besides its large size.

  His boot stepped on a dry twig.

  Snap.

  The response was immediate.

  The Hard Meat rose up like a vehicle on hydraulic crane legs, and a soul-chilling hiss escaped from its mouth. Thick saliva dripped from its jaws, and it reared up for what looked like the beginning of a charge.

  Nat’ka’pu went immediately into the Warrior’s Stance, the position from which all martial-arts moves in such Hunt battles derived. His mind spun ahead, calculating the maneuvers that would be necessary when this creature attacked.

  The Hard Meat always attacked. These were not shy creatures. They were vicious fighters, albeit with limited intelligence. They were tenacious and cunning, with a terrible focus, and deadly weapons at their disposal. Even in Death they could be deadly; their blood was acid that could eat through some yautja armor, all yautja flesh.