Aliens vs Predator Omnibus

by Steve Perry

  Ellis nodded again, and Jess walked stiffly away, back to where Lara was continuing her open hail. It was sad, that Jess still carried so much pain…

  Well. That was Jess’s battle, not his.

  Ellis turned back to gaze at Max, remembering how they’d blasted great, smoking holes through the alien mass, how Max had saved him, how they had saved the others, 3017 rounds/121 M108 canister grenades launched 17.57 liters napthal fuel ignited within the terminal space…

  Max was silent. Ellis sat and remembered, for both of them.

  * * *

  The dizziness and nausea had been the worst, the blow to her head leaving her feeling out of touch with herself and her surroundings, but after a few hours’ rest, she’d recovered. The rest of the damage was minor: a twisted ankle, the back of her neck bruised, her abs as sore as if she’d performed a thousand crunches. In another day or two, she’d be good as new.

  Lucky me.

  Noguchi stood at the door to the nest in the empty lower dock, staring in at the captive queen, not feeling much of anything. A sadness, perhaps. The last of the transports had departed, gone for the Hunt; there were only eleven yautja still on board, shipworkers all, and the giant Shell felt as empty and hollow as she did.

  The Hunt would go on into the early-morning hours; she’d already decided to speak to Topknot when he returned, after the Hunters’ feast. Considering the nomadic nature of the Hunter culture, she had no doubts that they’d be passing a human outpost within a few weeks. She wouldn’t be treated very well in the time she had left with them, but she’d fought competently enough to hold her head up. Besides, she’d gotten used to being treated poorly…

  “But you’re not, are you,” she said softly, putting her hand on the window, looking at the giant, unmoving darkness strapped to the back wall. It was the first time she’d been down to see the imprisoned queen since her narrow escape from the nest, and she didn’t like what she saw. There was a single shaft of puny light shining down over the trapped mother, casting most of her in deep shadow. All of her impossibly strong limbs, shackled. Her tiered, lustrous comb, chained back. And most depressing, the thick cord strung between her outer jaws, gagging her.

  The queen was tightly tied, the only real movement that of the eggs sliding through the short, inembranous sac that she’d created only hours after being placed; eggs that were deposited onto a weight-triggered conveyer belt and moved to the side, ready to be loaded into a remote and sent off to some distant world.

  In spite of her general dislike of drama, Noguchi found herself trying to draw some analogy between herself and the queen, perhaps because looking at the trapped animal made her feel the same vague sadness she felt for herself. They were both female. Both out of their element. Hindered warriors, maybe. Beaten down by the Hunters, surely…

  …but not anymore, not for me.

  She couldn’t watch any longer, it was like watching an insect impaled on a pin, dying slowly. Noguchi turned away, walking carefully toward the lift that would carry her back to the main rooms.

  Past empty shelves, past an empty hallway, through the gate to the elevator platform. She touched the symbol of the clawed hand on the control panel and the machine hummed to life, rising smoothly, dark walls sliding past.

  The thought of seeing, speaking to people again, was a frightening one—but exciting, too. What would she say, to explain where she’d come from? Telling the truth, she ran the risk of being whisked away to some corporate debriefing that could last months, depending on who owned the outpost. Chigusa was probably safe, they were an agribusiness. But Weyland/Yutani, or Biotech… it was common knowledge that they were always looking for weapon apps and didn’t mind exploiting whatever or whoever could bring them new opportunities.

  Noguchi grinned as the elevator pulled to a stop, thinking about what a stir it would cause if she handed a burner over to the corporate community. Or a suit of armor, fully loaded—wrist blades, sound loop, filter system, and infra eyes…

  She stepped off the lift, still smiling—and realized that she was smiling. Not about her performance as a fighter, or for shaming a novice, or because she remembered something that had made her laugh from a long time before. She was smiling because she was Machiko Dahdtoudi Noguchi, and she was getting the fuck away from the fucking Hunters, and how hard could having a conversation about work or the weather be, after the year she’d had?

  The burst of giddy good humor lasted as long as it took her to limp two steps away from the elevator. The Shell was not her home, but Earth hadn’t been her home, either. Her entire life prior to her meeting with Broken Tusk had been a pallid one. Socially, living with the Clan had been terrible—but the Hunt itself…

  Nothing matched the thrill of risking everything against success. On Earth, people paid small fortunes to experience even a taste of the hyperawareness and adrenaline high that came from putting one’s life on the line, and that was only a taste. It was simulation, a fake; there was always an out, a panic button, no matter what the experience, the liability laws firmly established.

  Suddenly, she felt a deep longing for what was happening on the planet below the cloaked Shell, the screams of triumph, the hot reek of pouring acid-splash, the dance with the blade. The Hunt, that she’d never know again, and not because she’d chosen to turn away. She’d been cheated, systematically worn down and forced out, it wasn’t fair and she hated them for taking her very life from her.

  Noguchi limped slowly to her quarters, wanting nothing more than to sleep for a while.

  15

  Kelly Irwin was pleasantly surprised to hear a familiar voice coming up from Bunda, particularly after taking orders from Dickhead Briggs for the last couple of weeks—not to mention fending off his man Keene, the walking steroid. It was enough to make a girl want to get shit-faced drunk, and her only hope for Bunda was that the science boys had a stash of something or other put aside for emergencies.

  She’d sent a standard comp alert to the station and had already dropped the lux Sun Jumper into the upper reaches, the planet a dark blur beneath them, before she made vocal contact. The necessary info had been shot back and forth and triple-checked via the Herriman-Weston FC, but Irwin liked the personal touch, always had. Sun Jumpers were so state that she was bored, the auto self-monitoring and IFTDS making it about as complicated to fly as a paper plane.

  Stifling a yawn, Irwin put in the call, watching the fly-by-light with only half an eye.

  “Bunda survey, this is WY-1117 requesting confirmation of landing clearance, come back.” The planet looked pretty in the early starlight, at least, lots of greenery. She was a city girl herself, but nature made a nice backdrop.

  “WY-1117, you’re cleared for Three… Irwin, is that you?”

  She grinned, suddenly awake. She recognized Matt Windy’s soft tones, the clipped way he said her name. He’d been training in communications and pattern control at the same WY program she’d gotten her license from, Earthside. Buddha, how long’s it been? Six, seven years?

  “I’ll be dipped! Windy, I didn’t know you was working the outskirts. What’d you do, piss in someone’s drink?”

  He laughed. “Hey, Company pays top to anyone willing to leave the known universe, don’t knock it. What’s your excuse?”

  “Playing chauffeur, thanks so much for reminding me. Anyway, gets me off of the merch runs, nice change of pace,” Irwin said. “At least usually…”

  Windy laughed again. “Usually? Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying a Jumper, that’s some kind of pilot sacrilege, isn’t it?”

  Irwin grinned again. “Actually, I am getting bored, but it’s more the suit, this time. Briggs, Lucas. A real tight-ass. He’s been after me to bend the laws of physics since Zen’s Respite—and no, I was not allowed to enjoy any of the Company amenities, so shut the fuck up.”

  When Windy spoke again, some of the humor had bled from his voice. “Hey… you know what all this is about? The Assman won’t—”

  Irw
in interrupted, smiling. “Assman?”

  “ASM, you twit. Vincent.”

  Cute, she hadn’t heard that one. “Anyway, you were saying?”

  Windy pitched his voice even lower. “He won’t tell us what’s going on. Shuttle lands this A.M., he says it comes from XT, but no way they’ve got chambers on that thing, and the heads up we got says it happened days ago. So they can’t be carrying, right?”

  Irwin glanced at the cabin screen before she answered. Everyone was still belted, though Briggs looked constipated as usual, shifting in his seat. Whoever was on that shuttle, he wanted ’em bad.

  “Got me,” she said quietly. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, you know? It’s big, though. This guy’s hooked up, had the full service at Zen, priority calls on scramble, two hunks of meat in suits following him to the head, with wipes. And keep shut on this, but we left Zen’s Respite yesterday, dig? Before your ASM put in the call. You wanna make some points, tell him to get his ass out on that deck.”

  “He’s been out there for the last twenty minutes, since your comp signal,” Windy said. “Assman’s sweating on this, and I don’t blame him.”

  While they were talking, the Sun Jumper had dropped to an LZ alt, the dark treetops spinning beneath them like a corrugated sea. At the edge of her vision, Irwin thought she saw a flash of light somewhere deep in the jungle. It was gone before she could finish turning her head, but it reminded her that she wasn’t getting paid to actually enjoy herself. Time to pay attention.

  “Listen, gotta fly,” she said. “You still gonna be on channels after we land?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Meet you in ten, then,” she said, and tapped off the ’com, calling up a list of stats in the same movement. Fan pressure, skis down, bleed flaps flux, the numbers as text as they got. A yawn. Good ol’ Windy, though. Briggs could go play corporate cloak and dagger; she was going to find Windy and see if he still had a taste for cheap whiskey, among other things.

  * * *

  Of all the outposts in the known goddamn universe they pick mine to land on, as if I didn’t have enough to do already, bringing the Company down on the back of my goddamn neck—

  “Do you hear something?”

  Kevin Vincent glanced at Cabot, then turned his face back to the star-flecked sky, uninterested in hearing anything unless it was Briggs’s ship. “No.”

  Cabot persisted. “I thought I heard… like a howl or something.”

  Probably Rembert, howling for supper.

  To say so would be cruel; Cabot and the missing geologist were friends. Pratt and Rembert hadn’t checked in since before lunch, and day teams were required to put a call in every eight hours, which meant they were officially a couple hours overdue. No big deal, except they wouldn’t answer a 26 hail, the code for, “drop everything and answer your goddamn radio.”

  Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. They’d probably just dropped their damn radio, but it was one more hassle in a day of hassles. He’d have to send out a team if they hadn’t shown by midnight. With any luck at all, Briggs would have his business finished by then and be gone.

  Sure, why would he want to stay here? Little operation like this, no frills, he’ll want to be out of here before the dust settles—

  His wishful thinking was interrupted when he heard what Cabot had. A distant sound, southwest of the station maybe a couple of klicks—a kind of weird, harsh trilling sound, like nothing he’d ever heard before. Cabot looked at him, a vaguely smug expression in his eyes.

  “Mating season?” Vincent asked, knowing that it wasn’t. And he’d never heard a sound like that coming out of a primacet, the only Bunda inhabitant with lungs big enough to project that kind of noise…

  Before Cabot could do more than shake his head, the lights of a transport ship appeared on the near horizon, followed closely by the rumbling purr of an expensive engine. To hell with strange noises, probably an injured bird. Vincent had more important things to deal with.

  He straightened his shoulders as the small ship moved toward them, wishing he’d never agreed to the admin position. He’d been six months away from his phytobiology doctorate when his theory on the medical applications of bryophytes had crashed and burned. The Bunda position was only two years and the idea of being an ASM had been appealing, a chance to raise his income, to relax far away from the viciously fevered world of scientific patenting…

  …and what I got was a shitload of paperwork and the nickname “Assman.” And the joy of groveling before men like Briggs.

  The ship was a Sun Jumper, a private-elite. Briggs was definitely the highest suit ever to come to Bunda, the ship worth more than Vincent would see in his lifetime, with extensions. It smoothly moved over the deck, the blast of heated air from its thrusters whipping at their clothes, and set down as gently as an extremely expensive feather.

  Before the engines had finished powering down, a ramp slid out from near the back of the ship and the shining metal above it parted, melting to either side. Vincent and Cabot waited, Vincent taking a deep breath, reminding himself that this would be over soon.

  Lucas Briggs stepped out onto the ramp looking as cool and elegant as he’d looked over the ’phone, his impeccably tailored suit the color of dried blood. Two men—two very large men—stepped out behind him, their stone faces and darting gazes telling Vincent who they were. Keene was the blond who’d placed the call on Briggs’s behalf; the other was of some Asian descent that Vincent couldn’t place. Both looked extremely capable.

  Vincent cleared his throat and stepped forward, determined to make things pleasant. “Welcome to Bunda, Mr. Briggs. This is Tom Cabot, our Research Team Coordinator. I hope that you had—”

  “Save the pleasantries, Vincent,” Briggs said, stepping close enough that Vincent could smell his subtle cologne. He had that lightly tanned, muscle-stim look that the privileged tended to wear to parties, and an attitude to match. If he noticed Cabot at all, he didn’t bother acknowledging him, and hardly glanced at Vincent’s face.

  “Where are they?” Briggs asked, apparently not interested in extending any pleasantries himself.

  Terrific. “Deck Seven, sir. As requested, they’ve been isolated and watched since their arrival…”

  Briggs didn’t seem to be too big on expressing praise, either. Vincent continued, feeling entirely out of his league.

  “…and, I’m sure you’re eager to—ah, interview them. If you’ll follow me…?”

  Briggs looked bored. “Nirasawa, Keene, go with him, search the shuttle. I’ll be along shortly, I want to make sure Irwin refuels before she goes wandering off.”

  The bastard was addressing his own people, ignoring him entirely. Vincent gritted his teeth in what he hoped looked like a smile, saw Cabot assume the carefully blank expression of a man on the brink of rolling his eyes.

  Lord, please keep this man from ruining my life…

  Briggs was waiting.

  “Of course,” Vincent said, motioning toward the deck’s flight prep room behind them; he’d had it cleaned for Briggs’s arrival, although he was starting to see that trying to impress Lucas Briggs would be a monumental waste of time. “Mr. Cabot, please show Mr. Briggs to Seven when he’s finished his business here. This way, gentlemen.”

  The two blank-faced guards followed obediently as Briggs turned around and moved back up the ramp. Cabot looked miserable, but Vincent couldn’t muster much sympathy for the man; if Briggs decided to fuck with them, file a report on Bunda, “Kevin Vincent” was going to be the name at the top.

  Thinking of how great it was going to be when the contract expired on his administrative experience, Vincent led the guards through the efficiently bland prep room, the bizarre sound that he and Cabot had heard a few moments earlier the very last thing on his mind.

  16

  The shabby little transport was clean, no trace of the log in the system or on hard copy. It would have made things a lot easier, of course, but Briggs wasn’t particularly disap
pointed. He was a negotiator, not some Company thug. Without a challenge, what was the point?

  Not that there will be much challenge here…

  He could see how easy his job would be from outside as he’d watched his guards finish their search, Vincent watching over them anxiously. The three people he’d come to see were in terrible shape, grubby and tired-looking, not to mention rather fragrant. Even outside, the warm Bunda air pressing down from a cloudless night sky, he caught the unpleasant scent of their nervous sweat and unwashed bodies…

  …and that horrible musky smell… That seemed to be coming from the dark wilderness far below, where unseen creatures shuffled randomly through the undergrowth. He hoped his runners would cave quickly; Bunda was one of those stinking Company murkholes that wouldn’t be livable until they cleared the green, hooked up a compressor, and paved it over with plasticrete.

  It shouldn’t take long; the trio backed against the wall inside had the helpless look of the desperately unprepared, and would probably give up the data before he could even finish his pitch. It was anticlimactic, really.

  Assume nothing. Be ready, be sincere, don’t forget what’s at stake.

  Briggs breathed deeply, realizing that he was a little nervous himself; he tended toward overconfidence when he was uncertain. If they didn’t have the log, it was all for nothing…

  No. They had it. Positive thinking.

  When Nirasawa called the shuttle empty, Briggs stepped aboard, silently reaffirming the names with the faces as he motioned his men to move back, give him some room. They did the best they could, looking strangely dwarfed by the MAX at the back wall. Vincent made no move to leave, leaning against one of the pilot seats, although his man Cabot had already disappeared. Briggs thought about asking the botanist to do the same, but decided it didn’t matter; he would know better than to open his mouth—and if he didn’t, or if things got out of hand, one less paper-pushing biotech was no great loss.