PREDATOR IF IT BLEEDS

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  * * *

  The Predator growled in a particular clicking noise before speaking softly. “Nan-deThan-gaun.” With that, he put an end to the soft meat’s prattle.

  * * *

  “You don’t have it. Do what you can. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Trina didn’t like the tightness in the captain’s voice. It said he was looking death in the face and didn’t know if he’d survive.

  Trina typed line after line of careful script, giving her control of the Oxenham. She was the new captain of the torpedo cruiser and had the highest permissions. In truth, she’d copied most of what the previous person—Shaw Doty—had done. There was no need to reinvent the wheel. This time, though, she linked control of the vessel to her wrist pad and to her voice.

  Emery hovered behind her, looking as tense as she felt. “Have you got it?”

  “I think so. Oxenham, vent the rear port atmo and open door Engineering 3B.”

  The entire cruiser shuttered and listed, causing the two of them to stumble to the side. Trina cursed under her breath. “Kaida, keep the Psychopomp synced with the Oxenham. Don’t let that umbilical corridor break.”

  “On it. Don’t do that again if you can help it.”

  “Roger that.”

  Emery eyed her as the two of them got their collective balance. “That was a dumbass move.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Now I know I have control.” Trina felt heat run up the back of her neck. “Let’s get out of here before that ‘predator’ ghost finds us.”

  * * *

  Captain Ahmed stopped when he saw Vito pinned to the wall. He knew it was a trap. Instead, he aimed his weapon, looking for the blurred air, and switched his comms to crew only, cutting Gunnar from the conversation. “Vito is down. Gunnar is about to go. Trina, what’s your status?”

  “I’m in and getting control. I need just a couple…”

  “You don’t have it. Do what you can. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ahmed didn’t answer. He watched and listened as Gunnar ran to his death. Now the only thing the consultant was good for was information: who or what was the enemy?

  The air blurred.

  Gunnar shouted something.

  The blurred air became a creature of whispered legend. Ahmed went cold with fear and determination. As soon as he got a good aim on it, he fired. It was too late. The blast rebounded off the creature’s shield. At the same time, the Predator sliced Gunnar from groin to sternum. Ahmed fired again as the Predator stabbed Vito in the side and pulled his own projectile weapon.

  The ship rocked as it fired, causing the curved metal blade to miss.

  Ahmed turned and ran. His mind moved faster than he did in the EVA suit. He knew he couldn’t outrun the creature—his old mentor had whispered of these hunters when he was in his cups. “If you run into one, run and don’t look back. Don’t try to save anyone if you want to save yourself. Run, Tariq. It’s all you can do.” He had to outthink it. The booby-trapped body was his only salvation.

  He unspooled the grappling hook from his belt. It was usually used to hook onto the outside of a space vessel. Now, it would either save his life or be part of his death. He bared his teeth in a fierce grin. He would fight for every second of life as he always had.

  * * *

  Ten meters away from the body, Ahmed waited in the open. If he was right, the Predator would reveal himself as he came in for the kill. The explosive under the dead man’s body might be enough to hurt the monster and allow him and the rest of his crew to escape. He held the grappling cord in one hand and his blaster in the other.

  The Predator came, snarling.

  Ahmed yanked the cord attached to the tripwire and prayed the explosion would kill the monster.

  He prayed in vain.

  * * *

  As the captain’s curses and the sounds of fighting died away, Kaida broke in. “Orders, Captain? …Captain?”

  Trina jerked her head at Emery. “Answer her.” The two of them had heard the explosion and the captain’s dying words in a language neither of them knew. That put Emery in command whether he liked it or not.

  He knew this as well as she did and scowled. “Orders are to stay put, Kaida. Don’t leave your station. Be ready to evac on command.” Emery shifted from foot to foot before taking off at an almost run. Trina could see him sweating inside the EVA suit despite the climate controls.

  “But the captain…”

  “Will be fine or is already dead. Man your post.”

  There was a pause then Kaida’s voice came back tremulous with an underlying core of steel that promised pain. “Yes, sir.”

  Trina waited until the comms cut out before she said, “You didn’t have to be so blunt.” Her breath came in soft pants as she hurried to keep up with him.

  “Yes, I did.” He was one step in front of her. “You’re my responsibility now. Your job is to get to the Psychopomp and get out of here.”

  She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t like what he was implying. “What about you? What’s your job?”

  “Make sure you do yours or die trying.”

  They turned the corner to the hallway with the airlock attached to the Psychopomp. The other end held a limping monster. It roared its fury as Emery moved to meet it.

  “Get ready for netball.” It was the only warning Trina gave as she watched the Predator run at them. She cut the artificial gravity to the Oxenham.

  Emery was ready. “Get to the Psychopomp now.” He launched himself at his mortal enemy.

  Trina did as she was ordered and opened the inner airlock door. She overrode the commands to open the door to the umbilical corridor between the two ships while keeping the inner airlock door open for Emery to get through. “C’mon, Emery. It’s open.” She pulled herself into the tunnel, moving fast through the weightlessness of it.

  Emery’s answer was a cry of pain and a whispered, “Go!”

  Whirling as she grabbed one of the side handholds, she looked back at the open airlock. Against hope, she prayed for Emery to reappear. He did not. “Psychopomp, open airlock hatch 2D.” Behind her, the airlock door unsealed and opened. Before her, the air blurred in the Oxenham airlock. “Oxenham! Emergency shut all airlock doors!” The Oxenham airlock inner and outer airlock doors rolled shut in a hurry.

  Trina swung herself in the direction of the Psychopomp. “Kaida, emergency evac as soon as I’m in. Don’t wait.”

  “What—?”

  Trina slammed into the Psychopomp airlock and hit the emergency uncouple to the umbilical corridor. The airlock door cycled shut as the corridor detached. “Go, Kaida! Go! Evac!” Trina wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a blur in the tunnel between the two ships just before the Psychopomp jerked to the side and spun. As the ship’s thrusters fired, she whispered, “Oxenham, self-destruct. Primary override Delta-Echo-Alpha-Delta. Now.”

  The last thing Trina did was order the measured drop of salvage claim beacons, leading back to the drifting space vessel graveyard. A couple of the beacons wouldn’t be in perfect alignment after the Oxenham imploded, but it was close enough for the Kosana Salvage Company to find the salvage claim again. That was all that mattered.

  That, and that both she and Kaida had survived.

  * * *

  Salvage beacons 1A through 1G at the above coordinates in outer rim section, Sector Kilo-Mike-Kilo, Quadrant 7429, have been dropped, claiming the entire find for the Kosana Salvage Company.

  Anomaly: There was a live torpedo cruiser drifting in the midst of the wreckage with an SOS beacon lit. Per space-maritime law, the crew of the Psychopomp boarded the scavenger vessel. For unknown reasons, the skeleton crew of the pirate vessel had turned on each other, murdering one another and setting booby traps. There was also a wild animal loose on the ship. The animal killed crewmember Zuri Becker and Security Chief Emery Mazur. Booby traps killed civilian consultant Gunnar Larson, Medic Vito Cocci, and Captain Tariq Ahmed. Larson’s booby trap set off the self-destruct on
the torpedo cruiser. Due to this last, salvage beacons 1A, 1B, and 1C will be slightly out of alignment.

  Salvage claim find reward to be split between Navigator Kaida Asari and Engineer Trina Gannon. Death benefits are due to the families of Zuri Becker, Vito Cocci, Emery Mazur, and Tariq Ahmed.

  Witnessed by Kaida Asari, Navigator.

  Witnessed by Trina Gannon, Engineer.

  * * *

  “You expect me to put my thumbprint to this?”

  Trina didn’t have to look at Kaida to know she’d been crying. “Yes. I do.”

  Kaida gazed at the ceiling of the Psychopomp. “Don’t you think they’re going to want proof?”

  “I’ve already taken care of that. If the company cares enough to ask for proof, I can send them what I’ve packaged up.” She’d already cobbled together a decent set of audios and visuals for the report, backing up her words. The rest she’d erased from every machine that kept track of these things.

  “It’s all a lie.”

  Trina turned the other woman to face her. “Do you want to tell them that a ghost murdered our crewmates?”

  “Not a ghost. A Predator.”

  Trina shuddered. “I don’t know what that is. I don’t want to know. If you’re smart, you’re going to take your reward and settle down on a nice safe planet or space station. That’s what I’m going to do. We’re set for life. If you want to hunt these things, you’re on your own. This was my last scouting run.”

  Kaida stared at her for a long moment then pressed her thumb to the screen. “You’re right. We’re done.”

  Trina pressed her own thumb to the screen before she sent off the final report from the Kosana Scout Ship Psychopomp. She prayed that nothing would follow them home.

  SKELD’S KEEP

  BY S. D. PERRY

  820 AD

  When Jarl the Sword’s Son and the fighters returned from their successful travels—the monasteries across the sea had yielded many treasures—there was a story waiting at Jormungand’s house. Three different messengers had come from the north weeks apart to carry the news.

  The first item related that Skeld the Boarstooth had been killed by the warlord Asger the Spear, who had taken Skeld’s lands as his own. There had been a great, bloody battle in the early fall, and Asger and his men had won.

  The second story was that Asger had gone mad, and was burning the farms and villages near Skeld’s Keep, slaughtering livestock and driving people into the wilderness.

  The latest was that Asger was dead, and had been dead since the day he’d taken the Keep. It was Skeld and his council who were murdering everyone within reach; they had risen from their graves as draugar, as the long wet days of fall crept into the early days of winter. Now they roamed the borders of Skeld’s lands and fed on any man that dared come close.

  Jarl didn’t believe in draugar—a monster story to tell children over the fires—but he believed that it would be just like the dishonorable Skeld to spread such a tale, to keep a weakness hidden. If he’d suffered heavy losses to Asger, he was vulnerable. Skeld was getting old, and Jarl the Sword’s Son had more gray in his beard than red; if he meant to have his revenge on the Boarstooth—as honor dictated—what better time? The Keep boasted three fine long houses, stables, a high wall, and the sturdy stone watchtower that had given the place its name.

  Jarl’s Keep. He liked the sound. He would stock it with fighters and women and spend his late years making sons and drinking and watching over the villages that gathered round for his protection, making raids as it suited him. All that had to be done was for him to take it.

  When the warriors had gathered to celebrate their successful return, Jarl stood up. Stelgar shouted at the drinking men to shut up and listen, for the Sword’s Son would speak. The laughter and calling died quickly, drink-bright eyes turning toward Jarl. Jormungand the Skull was chieftain, but Jarl had been his best fighter and raider for long years. It was Jarl who trained the new fighters; it was Jarl who led them.

  “I want to take Skeld’s Keep,” he said, loudly and clearly. “Skeld once said that I was no fighter, and he spat at my feet. I have waited many years.”

  There was a rumble of approval. The ordeal of waiting to take revenge was proof of good character.

  “It is said that Skeld has become a draugr. I believe he has run out of fighters, and looks to frighten men away with stories.”

  “What’s a draugr?” Ult called. Ult was from inland.

  “Almar, will you speak of draugar?” Jarl asked.

  Almar was strong, a good fighter, and was also the most superstitious man Jarl had ever met. He was full of lore and always carried charms and fetishes to battle. He stood reluctantly.

  “There are times that when a willful man dies, he becomes a draugr,” Almar said, his low voice a rumble in the warm lodge. “The draugar are not alive but stalk the living, eating their flesh and drinking their blood. They swell and grow tall, some as tall as giants, and can weigh as much as an ox. They carry no weapons, for each has the strength of ten. It is said they are hideous to behold, corpse-blue and stinking; it is said that a draugr spreads madness to all who hear its voice. It will attack every man or animal it sees until the flesh rots from its bones.”

  Someone made a joke about man-bones and there was another swell of laughter, but Jarl saw that Stelgar wasn’t laughing; nor were Helta the Bowman or Ult or Thrain, all strong men, all top fighters. They looked interested.

  “How are they killed?” Ult asked.

  “They are already dead,” Almar said. “They can’t be killed. Burn them, or chop them to pieces. And burn the pieces, and throw the ashes into the sea. And that is all I know of draugar.”

  He sat down, nervously fingering one of the charms he wore on a string around his neck.

  “We have just returned from a long journey,” Jarl said. “I know some of you have business to tend to, wives to keep warm, and would not choose to travel again so soon… But I will speak to Jormungand on the morrow and leave the next, to put an end to Skeld the Boarstooth. If he is a draugr, I will burn him and claim the Keep. If he is a man, I will do the same. Are there those who will accompany me?”

  Stelgar stood immediately. He was Jarl’s closest ally and sworn brother since childhood. “Skeld has no honor. When he spat at your feet, he spat at mine. I will come.”

  Helta and Ult and Thrain stood. All were of Jarl’s age, all had fought beside him for many years. Thoralf rose, still grinning.

  “Sigrid will keep warm whether I’m here or not,” the younger man said, to new laughter.

  More men stood up to be counted: Rangvald the Hammer, Geir, Bjarke, Sten the Reckless, Egil… Seventeen in all, a mix of young and old, enough to drive a small knorr up the coast, enough to take the Keep if the stories about Skeld’s losses were even close to accurate. A week on the sea would bring them to the borders of the Boarstooth’s lands.

  The chosen men settled down to feast and drink, their spirits high at the prospect of brave battle; there was no satisfaction to be had stealing from the Jesus-men, who died on their knees. Even those who wouldn’t travel were excited, satisfied that the Sword’s Son would have his revenge on the dishonorable Skeld.

  Almar did not volunteer. He clutched at his talismans, his thick face a mask of worry.

  * * *

  In the warmth of the hovering ship, Tli’uukop and the three young Hunters watched the small vessel riding the coast, the men that drove it armed with primitive weapons, blades and bludgeons and spears, a few simple projectile devices. Tli’uukop—One Eye, to his students—was pleased. He had promised the young Hunters that the long trip would be worth their time, but after many days of watching men working in crop fields or pulling food from the sea, they’d grown impatient. The thick musk of their agitation was barely filtered by the ship’s cyclers. One Eye had been about to announce that they would travel to fight the great white animals of teeth and talon instead when the ship informed them of the traveling men, detecting t
he forged metals they carried.

  One Eye felt a growl of anticipation stir in his throat, and was immediately joined by his students. All three were recently Blooded, and all from prestigious lines. As Blooded, they were free to pursue their own Hunts, but additional training by an elite Hunter was considered an honor, and One Eye had come from a long line of great Hunters, elites and clan leaders. After an honorable retirement following the loss of his eye, he had chosen to teach, and found that he liked it. Taking Unblooded on their first outing wouldn’t have suited him—Unblooded Yautja were tiresome creatures, vibrating with bloodlust and inexperience—but training a select few in the finer points of tracking and wrist blade was a different matter entirely.

  “They’re small,” Shriek observed. Shriek was tall and angular, with thick mandibles. He was an excellent fighter but tended to rush to battle. He’d gotten his name for the distinctive sound of his victory cry.

  “Primitive,” Ta’roga said, dismissively. Ta’roga was a prodigy with a fixed blade, but was far too sure of himself. “They wear skin, not armor.”

  As usual, Kata’nu said nothing. Of the three, One Eye thought Kata’nu the most promising. His physical skills were not as advanced as Shriek’s or Ta’roga’s, but the slight, nimble youth looked before he thought, and thought before he spoke.

  “When I first saw them, I thought the same,” One Eye said. “Too weak to fight, too small, too simple. But they think. They reason, and adapt. Experienced Hunters have been bested by them on a level field.”

  “When will we begin?” Shriek asked, too quickly.

  “When they leave their vessel to cross the land, you will track them,” One Eye said. “Study them; watch what they do. You will choose an appropriate target and engage at your best discretion.”

  “I will take a dozen trophies,” Ta’roga trilled.

  “Trophies are the result, not the reason,” One Eye said, as he said often. “The Hunt is the practice of the Hunt. It’s an experience, not a goal.”