He cursed his carelessness. Spotted by one of the soldiers lying in wait to ambush their adversaries, he was left with no choice but to neutralize the humans. What he had failed to anticipate was a tree branch that was insufficient to support his weight. Its breaking had drawn the attention of the entire party, and without his cloaking shroud, Nk’mecci was forced to protect himself. He had taken most of the ambush force, with the others killed by their adversaries. That his kills were born of necessity rather than sport was disappointing.
There were the three last remaining humans, but his chance to take them was fading.
They, at least, might provide one last challenge, but was he up to the task? A drug from his medi-kit provided a powerful stimulant and helped keep his pain at bay, but healing his wounds required the resources aboard his ship. Returning there would likely mean giving up this final chance to take trophies.
For a blooded hunter of any worth, there was only one choice.
* * *
Pulling the incendiary grenade’s pin, Roland threw it toward the center of the glade. The grenade disappeared into the tall elephant grass and began spewing yellow smoke, the color designated as the signal for their extraction. Within seconds the cloud of smoke expanded and rose toward the sky.
“Here they come,” said Coffren from where he crouched next to Roland in the tree line south of the clearing.
Roland felt the first rush of relief begin to wash over him as he watched the first Bell UH-1 helicopter appear over the nearby trees and make a circuit of the area, flying low and fast. Its side door was open and a gunner sat behind an M60 machine gun, aiming the weapon toward the ground as he searched for threats. If anything looked as though it might present a danger to the choppers, Roland knew the gunner would unleash the M60’s fury upon the jungle below them.
“Get ready.”
Wearing the M79 slung across his chest while he gripped his M16, Roland divided his attention between the trees behind them and the second Huey as it maneuvered into view. Unlike his companion, who had assumed an orbit above the landing zone to provide security, this chopper was making a rapid descent toward the clearing. Roland waited until the Huey was less than twenty feet above the ground to slap Coffren’s back.
“Go!”
Both men sprinted from the tree line and into the open. Roland counted the seconds as the chopper dropped to hover mere feet above the ground. The action of its rotor blades flattened the grass, providing a clear approach for the two Marines as they closed the distance. All other sounds were drowned out by the Huey’s engine, which the pilot was already revving in anticipation of takeoff.
Then Roland saw the bolt of green energy punch through Coffren, never hearing the bark of the strange weapon that killed him.
“John!”
Coffren, already dead, was falling to the ground as the Huey’s gunner swung the barrel of his M60 to return fire, and Roland had to drop as a hellish torrent of bullets spat from the weapon toward something he couldn’t see. Rolling away from Coffren’s body, Roland twisted around and came up on one knee, aiming his M16 back toward the tree line, just as another green fireball streaked across the clearing. The shot was off, but still close enough to graze Roland’s left shoulder. Molten heat exploded at the point of impact as he spun and dropped to the grass. The M16 fell from his hand and he landed hard on the grenade launcher that was still slung across his chest, gasping as he felt what had to be a rib crack.
He looked to the edge of the clearing in time to see the mysterious figure—the thing—emerging from the undergrowth forty or so meters away. Even from this distance, Roland saw yellowish-green fluid draining from multiple wounds in its chest and arms. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t human. It was like a nightmare come to life.
The odd weapon mounted to the thing’s shoulder swiveled to aim toward the sky. There was no time or chance for Roland to offer any warning before the weapon fired a stream of hellish green energy skyward. Three of the shots struck the chopper, including one that hit its engine compartment, and the Huey exploded in mid-air, ripping itself apart as it lost all flight and plummeted in a flaming heap to the ground. It disappeared into the trees north of the LZ where a second detonation released a roiling cloud of fire and smoke.
Behind him, Roland could just hear the remaining Huey’s gunner, shouting above the roar of the engine.
“Come on, man! We’ve got to go!”
Without air cover, the chopper was in greater danger of attack by ambush from the trees. Its pilot would want to get the hell out of here, and Roland knew if he didn’t move, he risked being abandoned.
Then the creature charged.
Not as fast as Roland had seen it move earlier, the thing was still able to dodge the Huey gunner’s renewed string of M60 fire. It released a guttural roar that Roland heard even over the chopper’s engine, weaving and dodging the machine gun’s bullets with uncanny speed.
Roland ignored the gunner’s shouts to get aboard, along with the pain from his shoulder and his injured rib. Every breath was like someone stabbing him in the side. Gritting his teeth, he lifted the M79. Without thinking or even really aiming, he pointed the grenade launcher at the creature and fired.
The round landed short, perhaps three meters in front of the thing, but when it detonated, the blast was enough to knock the creature off its feet. Muscled arms and legs flailed as the thing dropped to the ground, hidden by the elephant grass. The Huey gunner raked that area with the M60 as Roland turned and ran for the chopper’s open door.
He stopped short as the other man was thrown backward by another of the green bolts, his body sailing through the open door on the helicopter’s far side. In the cockpit, the pilot’s expression turned to one of horror before the entire side of the canopy disappeared in a burst of fire and glass that was whirled about by the action of the Huey’s rotor blades, and Roland fell to the grass to avoid being struck by shrapnel. A third round from the bizarre weapon ripped through the chopper’s cockpit, killing its co-pilot while Roland could do nothing but watch.
A shadow fell across the grass in front of him, and Roland rolled over to see the creature standing above him. The thing was massive, its hands terminating with oversized claws which were not at all human. Its left arm hung limply at its side, and the same pale yellow-green fluid ran from dozens of wounds across its body. Even the strange helmet it wore to shield its face was marred, likely peppered with shrapnel from the grenade. Its breathing sounded as though it might be labored, and while it looked capable of killing him with little effort, Roland sensed no real malice from the creature. It was studying him, as though he were nothing more than a lab specimen, or even an insect.
“What the hell are you?”
* * *
Nk’mecci was dying.
His wounds from the explosive, coupled with the injuries already sustained, would prove fatal if left untreated. That much he had learned from his ship’s automated medical equipment. Honor precluded him from using those same facilities to heal his failing body. While he had successfully completed his mission—the records of which would be returned to the homeworld with or without his being alive to accompany them—he had failed to carry out the hunt. One might argue that the exercise was unsanctioned, and therefore not subject to the rules and codes observed by all blooded Yautja. Nk’mecci chose not to exploit such a faithless interpretation of the rituals which had defined his people for uncounted generations.
He had failed. Therefore, his life was forfeit.
Sitting at the controls of his ship, Nk’mecci studied the flow of information being relayed to him through the vessel’s network of scanners and recording devices. From orbit high above the lush blue-green world, he was able to watch the land battle currently underway in the section of continent he had left behind. If the data from the scans was accurate, the invading or occupying force with its superior weapons and equipment was currently enduring simultaneous armed incursions at numerous locations across the region.
The attacking force, which seemed to call this land home, had launched a massive, multi-pronged offensive. It was a bold strategy, its scope rivaled only by its audacity and synchronicity. Nk’mecci suspected the targets of this attack would retaliate, bringing to bear all of their supposedly greater weapons and technology. The question was whether their spirit would be broken by this assault, or fueled by a need for vengeance. Regardless, it would be something to behold, though he would not live to see it. He cared not at all about which side might be the victor. It was the thrill of the conflict which drove him, as it did all true hunters.
All that remained for him was to verify that his ship would follow its programmed course home, and that the report of his mission was safeguarded until it could be studied. He was confident his findings would be greeted with much enthusiasm by those eager to partake of a new challenge here on this world which already had afforded so much in that regard.
This much was embodied by the skull sitting before him on the console. Despite his injuries, Nk’mecci had taken the time to ensure it was cleaned and polished, ready for display along with the rest of his collection. His prey deserved such respect, for this was a proper trophy, taken from the remaining human who had proven a worthy adversary. If Nk’mecci harbored any regrets, it was that he would never again partake of such rewarding contests. This prize, along with his report, would provide his clan with all the assurance and encouragement they needed to return to this world and relish in the sport it continued to offer.
Hunting here remains fruitful.
GAMEWORLD
BY JONATHAN MABERRY
1
“Who’s ready to die?”
The words blasted out of the speakers and a thousand voices roared back in one huge, inarticulate bellow of bloodlust.
The club’s owner, Sake Chiba, grinned like a ghoul. He was dressed in a glittering green suit with pinned-back collars and a pair of lizard-skin shoes that cost more than most soldiers made in a month. Hogarth Fix watched him from the competitor benches, shouting when the others shouted, screaming when they screamed.
“Who wants to see blood on this deck?” growled Chiba, pointing a stiff finger at the metal floor on which he stood. The pentangle was not padded or sprung, there were no mats. Only unforgiving steel and paint. All of the colors were bright whites and yellows so that blood would stand out. There was always blood. Most of it was red. Some of it was human. All of it was spilled for pay.
Fix sat at the end of the second row of fighters. He wasn’t on tonight’s card and, with any luck, wouldn’t ever have to step into the pentangle. He was a good fighter, maybe as good as most of the men and women here, but men and women weren’t the only things he might have to fight. In the Special Forces, they taught you how to win fights by any means necessary, including a hell of a lot of ruthless, no-compromise hand-to-hand; but they usually sent their operators in loaded down with guns, knives, and explosives. And wrapped in body armor.
Chiba wasn’t about that.
Fighters wore spandex shorts. The women were allowed a sports bra. No cups, no pads. Tape on the hands, but no bite shields or Kevlar-4L, no spider-silk limb pads. None of that. Meat and muscle, blood and bone, and the advantages of knowledge and experience.
Against monsters.
Last night the title match featured a big Serbian kid who had served five tours with the Interglobal Soviet People’s Army, and who had a win record in mixed martial arts matches on Earth of twenty-eight and one. Moose of a guy. Fix wouldn’t have wanted to meet him in a dark alley with anything short of a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. The Serbian went in as the odds-on favorite and if he had thrown down against any of the other guys on this bench he might have walked out. Instead they shoveled him into a body bag. The parts of him that the tiger hadn’t eaten.
If you could call that cocksucker a tiger. Transgenics is a funny thing. The body was tiger, but the jaws hinged open like a snake and the neurotoxin sacs in his mouth were from a puffer fish. The Serb lasted longer than anyone would have guessed once Chiba trotted the beast out of its cage. Eighty-seven seconds. Everyone in the first six rows were speckled red.
That was how this worked. If the Serbian had beaten the tiger, or even lasted the full three minutes, he’d have pocketed enough cash to buy a farm on one of the terraformed moons. A good-sized farm, too. Maybe grow hashish for the crews of the long-range haulers. Instead the cleanup crew had collected enough of him for burial purposes, and his participation fee—a few thousand—went to his mother back on Earth. Fix wasn’t sure what kind of message went with it. Probably airlock failure. That was always popular.
Sake Chiba was still whipping the crowd up for the next bout. He was a big man himself, a former sumo wrestler from New Osaka, who’d retired while he was still on top and invested half his money in promotion and the rest in technologies stocks. He was one of the new class of trillionaires who seemed unable to stop making money. His latest enterprise, Gameworld, was technically off the books, but people knew about it. Whispered about it. Bragged about having been there.
Chiba was why Hogarth Fix was here. Not the fights. Not the mutant monsters. Not this fucking crowd of bloodthirsty privileged dickheads who spent insane amounts of money to watch illegal matches.
Chiba.
If you wanted to bet on it, have sex with it, eat it, or kill it, Chiba could set it up. And because Gameworld was in “the rocks”—a part of the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter that had questionable territorial affiliation—he got away with it.
That was going to change, Fix promised himself. And when it did, Chiba was going to the mat and Fix was going to stroll off with enough money to make sure his kids never had to want for anything. Not ever again. Not after this.
Fix watched Chiba’s eyes as he worked the crowd. The man fed on this. Not on the fun, not on the energy, maybe not even on the money. No, he was like a vampire. He fed on the adoration, and that’s what this was. People worshipped him as the celebrity’s celebrity.
“Do you want blood?” demanded Chiba.
People—some of whom were as rich as Chiba—were screaming hysterically, pumping their fists in the air, faces flushed red, eyes wild. One of them, the actress from London who was in those movies about the ice dancer on Europa, started the chant.
“Blood! Blood! Blood!”
The rest of the crowd took it up at once.
“Blood! Blood! Blood!”
Fix glanced around at his fellow competitors. Eighteen men, eleven women, one surgical hermaphrodite. Five of them had won several matches here. This wasn’t the Roman circus, as one of them had told him during training. Sometimes it was human against human. Sometimes the fighters on this bench won out against the trans-G animals. Helga, the troll-like woman next to him, had broken the neck of an orangutan last Tuesday. She still had bandages over the stitches, but she’d won, and when the bandages came off she swore to go back onto the floor to “paint my name in the blood of anyone or anything they send out of the gate. Take that to the bank, newbie.” That’s what she’d told him.
The animals weren’t the only things here that had paid a visit to their local Dr. Frankenstein. Helga’s muscle mass had no origin in nature. The metal struts supporting the Mexican wrestler’s back sure as hell weren’t original packaging. But that wasn’t something the Gameworld recruiters told guys like Fix. Not until they’d already signed on. Which meant that half the people on the competitor bleachers were as unenhanced as he was.
The Mexican had talked about it with him the other night. “They need someone to die out there,” he said philosophically, “because people don’t come all the way out here to watch us thumb wrestle. You don’t pay these ticket prices to see two knuckle-draggers batter each other to a split decision. Fuck that. You got to have something dead on the floor by the end of the night. Chiba’s got a reputation to keep up. But… screw it. Who wants to live forever, right?”
That was how it was.
Fix pretended to sm
ile, faked his war chants, shook his fists, and felt his heart hammering against the inside of his chest. He had been a soldier for a lot of years, and a rough and tumble street kid before that. He’d killed with guns and knives and his own hands, and he’d walked off battlefields littered with fallen comrades. But he had never, not in all his life, been this scared.
2
They didn’t call Fix’s number that night.
Or the next.
Or the next.
“Don’t worry,” said Helga. “You’ll get your shot, sweetie.”
“Can’t wait,” he lied. He was sure he’d told bigger lies than that, but he couldn’t remember when.
Life on Gameworld was strange. Long periods of calm and even some luxurious living, interspersed with intense workouts and shocking violence. Every day.
This was day sixteen for him. Most fighters, he learned, didn’t get their first undercard match for a month or two. There was that much competition to be noticed as having fought for Chiba. They called the dormitory the Box of Scorpions, which was a name that everyone seemed to think was stupid and juvenile but no one could shake. It was mentioned in a lot of the press, and customers could even pay to bunk down with the fighters. A few—only the really tough ones or the abominably stupid ones—paid to train with the team. Everyone else was scared off by the wording of the personal injury waivers.
The fighters could choose to train at any time. Never against each other, of course. But Chiba seemed able to tap an endless supply of willing sparring partners. Fix spent a lot of time watching the other fighters train, studying their moves, gauging their skill, calculating how much was natural talent, how much was learned technique, and how much came from actual experience. That was one of his gifts, perhaps his most useful one. He could read people. He’d been able to do it growing up in the slums of Gary, Indiana, fighting for food money, fighting for money to keep his three younger sisters fed and dressed and healthy after their single mother rode a needle into the big black. It served him well, even against better fighters, when a judge suggested he box in a local gym or spend six months in juvie. It helped him when another judge suggested that the military might be a better calling than working a prison detail mining precious metals on an asteroid. And it had kept him alive all through his twelve years humping battle rattle around the solar system.
PREDATOR IF IT BLEEDS Page 33
