Foster, Alan Dean – Aliens Vs Predator – War

Lara frowned, her gut sinking. “Mr. Vincent, I can assure you that—”

“Over and out,” he said. The ‘com went dead.

Ellis looked pale. “What does that mean?” he asked. “Are they—do we have to wait until they call one of the home offices? Find out who we are?”

“It means they already have,” Jess said, his voice tight with anger. He glared out at the growing station, his upper lip curled. “They don’t want us wandering around, telling people what really happened. Probably gonna feed us some bullshit line about quarantine.”

“But it’s standard protocol, isn’t it?” Ellis asked. “Us coming from an infected area?”

Jess laughed, a humorless bark. “Yeah, right. We don’t have sleep capacity, they’d know that. For Chris-sake, if one of us was dorked and corked, we’d all be wiped by now.”

They fell into an uneasy silence as the shuttle low­ered itself over LZ Seven, the station giant now that

they were so close, Lara keeping her hands on the con­trols in case the program glitched. Jess was right, Bunda wasn’t worried about infection—which could only mean that someone, Grigson maybe, had sent word. They were the sole survivors from an infested DS terminal, the only witnesses to a terrible mistake made by Weyland/Yutani, and there was no way the Com­pany was going to let them walk. What was the old saying? Out of the frying pan, into the fire . . .

As soon as the shuttle touched down, Jess stood and walked to the side hatch, talking back over his shoulder.

“We can’t get off, but they didn’t say anything about opening the door, did they?”

Before Lara or Ellis could move, Jess had hit the lock panel, jabbing at the controls determinedly. The thick metal door raised with a hiss and warm air flooded in, warm and almost overwhelmingly fragrant. It smelled of soil and vegetation, of sun-warmed life, of jungle rot. It was exquisite, and Lara and Ellis both stood and moved toward the open hatch, Lara feeling a reflexive need to breathe it in. She didn’t notice that Jess had frozen, gazing out into the sunny morning with a look of disgust on his unshaven face.

“I guess they really don’t want us to get off,” he said softly.

Lara and Ellis stood on either side of him, looking at the six men and women standing some ten meters away, standing near a fuel hatch. Their expressions were grim, their bodies tensed—their hands white-knuckled on the carbine rifles they held, pointed at the open door of the shuttle.

At us.

The half dozen “guards” didn’t move, didn’t speak; they didn’t have to. She and Jess and Ellis were prison­ers, and would be until the Company decided what was to be done with them. And in that second, realizing that the situation was only going to get worse, an idea that had been gradually forming in Lara’s tired mind fi-

nally took shape. It was so obvious that she could hardly believe it hadn’t already occurred to her.

“Jess, Ellis. Back away from the door, slowly. We have to talk.”

The Trader’s log had been destroyed, along with the Trader, the space station, their ship—but the Company didn’t know that. If they did, she and the boys would be dead already.

And as long as they think we might have something they want . . .

Slowly, hands raised, the three of them moved away from the hatch, away from the light, the hope that Lara had felt at the sight of the beautiful world re­born as the idea solidified, the details falling into place.

If they played it right, there was a chance that they could walk away, after all.

Noguchi was in her quarters, sitting on her rumpled bed and lost in thought. The Hunt would begin soon, probably as soon as dusk fell over the planet Shell was orbiting. Most of the eggs would have hatched by now, the face-hugging embryo carriers finding incubators, the aliens born in crunches of blood and bone. They were much more active at night, on worlds that had night; most Hunts started when the day star set over the seeded planet. Even now, as the bugs began their violent domination of their new home, the Hunters would be arguing over the best sites, working through the rankings for each group of warriors, and planning path direction; Hunts usually started scattered, but al­most always ended with all of the groups meeting at a predesignated site—the better to display their bloody trophies, to count losses, and step up in caste.

The problem was, she didn’t know if she could Hunt this time. Seeing the human trophy carried by the young Leader had shaken her, thrown her off-balance in a way that she hadn’t expected. How would she be able to find the focus she’d need to Hunt? The damage that had been done to her respect for the yautja was

deep, and probably irreparable. She was afraid to leave, to go back to a way of life she didn’t really under­stand— but she couldn’t stay, either. The only question was, would she Hunt this last time? Could she?

So heavy was her introspection, the thud at her door made her jump. It had to be Topknot, no one else had ever come to her quarters. Noguchi stood and walked to the door, not sure what she would say to him about her behavior in the ship dock. He hadn’t Blooded her, but she was still a Hunter on his ship; her actions could affect his standing among other Leaders.

To her surprise, Topknot didn’t seem angry when she opened the door. He greeted her instead, his mas­sive claw covering her shoulder, his upper and lower mandibles at rest. The Leader motioned her out of her room and toward the main part of the ship, his small eyes shaded in the low light by the thick bowl of his skull.

She stepped out into the corridor with him, some­how knowing what was next as they moved away from her room.

I’ve known for some time, haven’t I? That it would come down to this . . .

The Leader signed as he walked, punctuating the simple gestures with simple words. He raised his hands, extending his claws. Touched his Blooding mark, a cross shape. Tapped his chest and motioned toward hers, clattering the sounds of proverb.

Those without honor are not part of the Hunt/Clan. Those who do not fight for their honor have no honor.

Noguchi signaled, fist to brow. / know this.

Topknot didn’t speak for a moment, giving her time to prepare for the inevitable. She’d had the impression from the beginning that there was no love lost between Broken Tusk and Topknot, but he’d given her a chance, at least. For that, she still respected the Leader, even as she felt her anger rise.

The first thing she’d learned about Hunter culture was that you were only as good as your last fight; in

that way, every yautja was equal, Leader and novice alike. When a Hunter’s courage or honor was in doubt, he had to fight. She waited, again, already knowing.

Topknot raised his claws again, gurgling the name of her opponent.

Noguchi signaled her understanding. Shorty. She was to fight an unBlooded. If she won, her status would remain unchanged. If she lost—if any Blooded Hunter lost to a novice—

I lose my place in the Hunt. In all Hunts. In time, she’d be given a chance to prove herself again—but consider­ing what she’d been thinking and feeling lately, there wasn’t going to be a later. Her break with the Hunters was imminent.

Noguchi turned her face to an invisible sun, tracing her hand in a half circle. When?

“H’ka-se,” Topknot growled. Now.

They were already walking toward the kehrite, the room where novices learned unarmed and simple blade combat. Noguchi took a deep breath, nodding in­wardly, resigned to whatever fate lay ahead.

Win or lose, it would be a relief.

12

Stupid damn gun—”

Davis Pratt jerked at the shotgun’s cartridge holder as he stumbled through the bushes, wishing that he knew what the hell he was doing, or better yet, that he wasn’t in the middle of the damn jungle with Rembert. Of all the men to be teamed with, something just had to go wrong when he was out taking samples with Harold Rembert—

“Wait, wait a second,” Rembert gasped from be­hind him, and when Pratt felt the touch on his shoul­der, he very nearly turned and shot the fat geologist.

Jesus, he’s trying to give me a heart attack!

“Rembert, keep your damn hands offa me!” Pratt could hear the panic in his own voice and it only made him angrier and more afraid. He’d never seen a bug be­fore, eleven years doing soil tests for the Company and he’d seen a video, but that was all—

—and that was one of ’em, had to be, and what the hell is it doing on Bunda?

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