Li’chinde could smell the blood from the student that the oomans had taken earlier. He groaned softly; even a dog could learn to leave a few creatures alone if it was outmatched. But, they never seemed to pick up on the fact that the oomans were well prepared for any number of attacks that could be made.
He queried Li’koub, and the Warrior muttered that one of the students was indeed missing. "Should we go back for him?" Li’koub whispered.
Li’chinde snarled and replied curtly, "If he cannot follow the simple order of staying with the group, he would not survive long anyway. He has already tasted thei-de; there is no use in going back for him if there is nothing remaining to salvage." Li’koub shrugged in agreement, although he felt that they should at least go back to make sure the armor’s defenses hadn’t been hacked through.
The clan skulked through the cramped halls in silence, seeing to it that they did not capture ooman attention until the time came. However, as Li’chinde stepped through the hellish metal caverns, a familiar, sweet scent tickled at his nostrils, beckoning recognition. It took a moment to place the scent, but it suddenly clicked. Fruit.
He picked up the pace and proceeded around the corner, where the cramped, dark halls gave birth to an enormous room, filled with lush plant life! His skin and hair swam in the atmosphere, taking in all the details without even thinking about it. Warm. Humid. He liked this environment, it felt . . . energetic.
Mahnde, from the middle of the group, burst past the younger ones and even past Li’chinde with an emotion Li’chinde had not seen Mahnde exhibit for decades - - he was showing excitement bordering on giddiness! This terrain was quite close to that he’d seen on the ooman homeworld, and he had taken a great liking to that environment. Now, facing the two Ultimate Hunts here - - Mahnde could die a happy yautja.
Swiftly recalling past events, Mahnde pushed Li’chinde aside and began barking orders to the others. Li’chinde, always an advocate of the seniority system, decided to step back and gave Mahnde his nostalgia trip; the old bat was not likely to live long, given his age. It was best to let him enjoy the moment, for now.
Under Mahnde’s orders, the group moved like a well-oiled machine, slipping into the foliage and disappearing into nothingness. Li’chinde had once seen an old ooman transmission called "Fe-ld Off Drems"; his thoughts now rushed back to those two minutes of transmission that had the others convinced for weeks that the oomans had cloaking technology. Mahnde yanked the naginata from the strap on his back, preparing it for the coming fight. Knowing nothing wiser, Li’chinde vanished into the bushes as well.
Then one of the students, hearing the oomans approaching, got overexcited and stepped out from the forestry and climbed unsteadily up to the top of the door frame, planning to either avoid the attack, or to get the drop on the oomans the instant they came in. Li’chinde nearly burst from the foliage to drag the Young Blood down, but Nemesis, silent as always, dropped his hand to Li’chinde’s shoulder, effectively holding him down. Li’koub, meanwhile, whispered that the oomans were too close; there was no time.
Finally, Li’chinde relaxed and crouched back down. The pauker would get his just rewards, Cetanu would see to that.
"Where the Hell are we?" Ralph asked as he stared at the endless rows of foliage. The question demanded no answer; he knew that they must be in the Ravenno’s hydroponics garden, where the colonists had grown fruits and vegetables for their personal appetites. This was not an uncommon area on starships; the Conestoga-class cruiser they had brought to this world had one, too, albeit small. But this one was, simply put, huge. The ceiling stretched straight up for nearly two-hundred feet, various climbing plants creeping up the walls, an odd contrast of man-made structure and nature’s beauty. Several wide window panes provided illumination from the waning moon outside - - dawn would be here soon. The overall impression was that of a jungle, separated into neatly manicured rows.
"Looks like our castaways had a little greenhouse project going," Cominsky replied, staring down the aisles of plants. He turned and picked what looked like a tomato off of a nearby bush. "Maybe we can get a few snacks, huh?" He bit into the fruit, only to spit it out. "A little too ripe," he decided.
"I’ve never seen a hydro garden this big," Pieper said. "I guess there were so many colonists, they needed a bunch of food."
"Probably so," said Ralph. "I wish we had home-grown veggies instead of that Company crap on long trips." Their garden only yielded one or two edible items a month.
Giger nodded. "Tell me about it."
"I wonder why the leaves haven’t wilted yet," Drew mumbled, thinking out loud. "Shouldn’t they have died a long time ago?"
"Automatic misters, I guess. It’s a wonder they weren’t broken in the crash, though," Giger offered quietly. Hydroponics wasn’t his specialty, but that was the best conclusion he could think of.
"This planet has no rhyme or reason, Drew," Ralph sighed. "Tell me one thing on this entire world that has made sense. The list is verrrry short. However, think of all the messed up factors - - a breathable atmosphere, a crashed ship, two races of alien creatures, endless deserts . . ."
"Maybe they have a back-up system," Pieper suggested.
"For their veggie farm? I doubt it," Giger mused. He then added rather quietly, "If they had any back-up system, it should’ve been for their damn Plenum chamber."
"Well," Cominsky suggested, putting an end to their chatter, "If we can’t get anything useful from this place, we should be moving on. We’re not very far from the hangar, are we, Pope?"
"No, sir," the synthetic answered, shaking his head. "If we rush, we can be there in well under two hours."
"Uh, Sarge," Giger broke in, "Maybe we can get something from here." He plucked another, oddly shaped fruit from a vine. "Perhaps we can pelt the xenomorphs with tomatoes if they give us any trouble."
"Stan Giger: always quick to make smart remarks," Pieper said. Ralph smiled at her acute analysis, then slipped his hand in hers.
"Stop screwin’ around, private," Cominsky chided. "Okay, Marines . . . let’s mo - -"
Cominsky was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream from the back of the group. Everyone’s heart began to race wildly as they whipped around, only to see communications officer Rodney Dorsey lifted into the air by an ownerless spear that seemed to hover in the air. The serrated blade of the primitive, yet strangely high-tech, weapon easily sliced through his chest, and a trickle of blood seemed to stay suspended in the air by magic.
Ralph knew that there was no secret trick there - - it was the blood, dripping down the invisible arm of a hunter. Immediately, he opened fire, but the blurry shape was too fast; it jumped through the row of plants and away from its prey.
"Giger," Cominsky began, gripping his pulse rifle, "Switch on your motion tracker and keep me informed on any enemy movement. Ralph, you’ll be my primary watch, since you seem to have a penchant for spotting these bastards." He checked his ammo counter, then loaded a new clip as quickly as possible. "It’s time to let these bullies know that we don’t like to be picked on."
The idiot that had gotten up onto the door was now being shot at, as Li’chinde had expected. The fool had given away their position, as Li’chinde had expected. All that he hadn’t expected was that he lived to jump into the foliage he should have been in from the start. That same fool now moved up by Li’chinde, counting on the Warrior to give him a shake on the shoulder and words of congratulations. Instead, he received a slap to the face and a chastisement.
"You lulij-bpe!" Li’chinde spat, his mandibles flaring out, "You let them know where we were! The oomans will kill as many of us as we will them! An eta would have realized that!" The student, confused, backed away just as the oomans opened fire, and he disappeared in a river of burner shots, his remains splashing against the far wall and pale, glowing thwei dripping from the leaves.
Li’chinde cursed quite audibly, and then dashed through the greenery to come up on the side of the ooman tribe. One of them, standing mere feet away, brought Li’chinde to a screeching halt. The two warriors regarded each other in silence for a moment, then Li’chinde grabbed the ooman by the head, twisted it violently to break his neck, and flung him to the tribe of his people. Seeing that he was so grossly outnumbered, Li’chinde reached to his back, producing a long, ribbed spear gun. He had rarely had use for it until this moment, but now it felt as comfortable as the religious pinions hanging from his neck.
* * *
"Jesus!" Giger exclaimed, jumping out of the way of Steve Bischoff’s flying body. The man’s head was impaled with a sharp projectile about the size of a forearm, and there was an odd absence of blood as the limp form smashed into the next row of plants. "Sonofa . . ." Giger didn’t wait for his smartgun to begin autotracking - - he just went ahead and began firing blindly into the foliage, his weapon’s withering fire ripping the tough bark and green leaves to shreds. The familiar cries of Predator pain could be heard, a sort of "panther-from-hell" sound that echoed through the vast hydroponics garden.
Upon hearing this, the spirits of the Marines soared, and their fire joined Giger’s, the high-velocity rounds helping to tear any remaining plants to mere litter. The smell of chlorophyll and alien blood was high in the air; shimmering forms leaked green ichor that left an iridescent trail, one that weaved between the rows and rows of flora.
As his smartgun finally picked up a target and yanked right to track it, Giger could make out the form of two, glowing eyes. I can only equate it to looking into the eyes of the Devil himself, he thought as he pressed the fire button. Two portals to an evil, malicious soul that has no pity on mankind, only looking upon us as inferiors. This thought added fuel to his fire as he continued to blast the blurry image. The form just couldn’t seem to move fast enough to evade the weapon’s accurate targeting system, and soon a blood-curdling death scream could be heard. The Hunter de-cloaked and fell to the floor, blood flowing out of countless wounds across its body.
"Yeah!" Giger exclaimed, turning to report his recent kill to his friends, "I got one! I - - "
He was face-to-face with a featureless mask, eyes burning with anger and hatred for his aggressor. Somehow - - Giger couldn’t put his finger on it - - this one looked . . . older? Was that it? Could this be the "leader of the pack"? If so, Giger answered, getting a definite lock on the beast, they’d better elect a new one. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pressed the smartgun’s trigger, the bullets tearing into the relatively unprotected belly skin at point blank range. The creature was obviously surprised at this, as it took several minutes for it to painfully hoist itself to its sandaled feet.
"Yeah!" the thing coughed, mocking Giger’s earlier words, "I got one!"
Giger merely smiled. "Not this human, you didn’t." He opened fire again, and it was gruesomely obvious that it was now dead.
The battle raged all around Giger, now; blasts of white-blue energy and high-powered machine guns tore through the garden, leaving organic refuse strewn about on the blood stained floor. Cominsky was making every bullet count; he didn’t fire unless he had a clear shot, didn’t reload unless every round was used. A real pro, Giger thought as he ran over to Ralph. They don’t train ‘em like that anymore.
"How’s it going?" Ralph asked over the deafening firefight. "Gotten any of the SOB's yet?
Giger nodded. "Two. I’m really starting to rack up those kills, bud." He watched as Ralph’s fingers crept towards the front of his rifle, slipping into the nook that housed the grenade launcher trigger. He yanked back, the recoil pushing against his hip with an impressive amount of force. The projectile soared across the room and directly into a cluster of invisible hunters. The result - - an alien massacre - - was bizarre, as were the accompanying sounds.
"Marines!" Cominsky exclaimed, heading for the door at the far side of the room, "It’s time to get out of here!" He paused to fire at a pursuing mirage. "Maybe we can seal these things off in here!"
Everyone turned and followed their leader, more than happy to escape this hellish slaughterhouse. Giger was more than willing to put the pain on the Hunters, as a sort of revenge for Ragsdale . . . not to mention the countless others who had met their fate at the clawed hands of the Predators.
Giger watched in mortified terror as Mike Jetson, his old weapons trainer, was brought to his knees by a flash of energy that left a gaping hole in his chest. The corpse hadn’t even fallen to the floor before two parallel blades appeared out of thin air and lopped Mike’s head off for a trophy.
Giger let loose with renewed fury. These bastards were slowly picking off everyone and everything that had ever been special to him. Ragsdale, Mike, his feelings of security . . . and, perhaps in the next few hours, his life.
That thought stuck with him, even as he and Ralph began to weld the door shut.
Li’chinde dropped his spear gun once the oomans dashed from the room, melting the doors together as they went. There was obviously no hope in following through that way, and if there were a way, it would be a death trap. The battle was over, for now. Pools of red and green painted the metal floor and some of the walls; blood of both races dripped from the leaves like fallen rain, the drops echoing as they spattered onto the ground beneath. The smell was unmistakably that of death.
Corpses were everywhere – On the ground, pinned to walls, hung from trees, even. It served to be one of the most unholy sights the clan leader had ever seen. As he strode through the middle of the large, overgrown room, he took note of the faces of those who had died. Tinke, Ri’jugo, Kaska, No’kuub… All New Bloods. Li’chinde could only be thankful that Li’koub and Nemesis and Mahnde were still…
…Mahnde? For the first time, Li’chinde noticed that Mahnde was not among the standing. He rushed from body to body, ripping off facemasks and checking each face for confirmation of what he feared. Finally, he came upon a body whose stomach had been blown out. Li’chinde could see the bloodstained floor grate through the hole that once held his abdomen. He also saw Mahnde’s ceremonial naginata lying a few feet away.
The yautja slumped next to the body and disconnected the tubes holding the corpse’s biohelmet in place. Mahnde’s biohelmet – The design had been in Mahnde’s family –MY family -- for generations. Slowly, Li’chinde lifted the biohelmet off, revealing the face of what the oomans would call his tio, his uncle. Mahnde’s face still held the look of confusion; the sudden realization that you were going to die. The soulless eyes looked to the ceiling, as though reading a message inscribed on the metal above them.
It was only at this point that Li’chinde realized the whole of what he’d done. This quest to finish the kiande amedha and to kill the Abomination Hrr’kak had produced had resulted in the death of half his clan, two trusted friends, and now his relative (not to mention the head pilot). Looking into those dead eyes, he was stricken with the epiphany that his actions had cast a death sentence on their entire tribe.
On this note, Li’chinde looked up and realized that a crowd had gathered; those that survived the fight now encircled Li’chinde and the body that had so recently been Mahnde. Looking around, Li’chinde couldn’t help but wonder if they knew what he did. Rrajigii, the best of the New Bloods, stepped forward slowly, removed the religious necklace he wore, and placed it on the chest of the deceased Ancient.
Li’chinde slowly stood up and sucked in his emotions – The entire clan was watching him; this was no time for weakness. He walked a few paces to the side and picked up the ornate naginata that Mahnde once bore. As the last living relative of the Ancient, the spear and biohelmet that had followed the family for generations were now his. Li’chinde removed his facemask and squeezed his face into the horned, masterfully sculpted helmet, feeling the gas pressure sucking the mask onto his face. As a final act, he reached down and closed the blank eyes of his last living relative.
There was now one more reason to stalk down these oomans – At first, it had been avoidance, keeping the youths away from them. Then, as the war intensified, they had somehow found themselves on the offensive against both races. Therein lay the folly – Li’chinde had granted the New Bloods the permission to kill restricted game, and for that error, Cetanu claimed his last relative. If only Bakka had understood this… Li’chinde thought bitterly, turning away from the past and looking onward to what could still be achieved. He would no longer allow the New Bloods to fight the oomans; they came here looking for Hard Meat, and that’s what they would Hunt. And if they were to run across the oomans again, they’d walk away from the fight. Dishonor in the name of virtue is better than death in the wake of Paya’s law.
Cominsky could see the escape ship, sitting in the hangar in all of its mechanical glory, like some industrial angel sent by the Lord to save a meager handful of leathernecks on a wretched world in the corner of the galaxy. Indeed, she was their salvation, here to raise the Marines above the clouds and into space, to the waiting transport in orbit. Finally, Cominsky would be able to return to his family, away from the insidious venom of the corrupted Company, the same venom that had irreparably hurt him and his men on numerous occasions.
I’ve worked for Weyland-Yutani so long, he thought, giving his men the order to move ahead and secure the vehicle, I can’t really remember anything else. My childhood, my home, my family Christmases, all overshadowed by the Company. "Building Better Worlds", they say . . . yeah, maybe so. But not without destroying a few in the process.
Something was odd, here, in the hangar. Something out of place, an indistinguishable thing that defied explanation. An elusive, evil presence that crept about stealthily at the corners of his vision. It was . . . as though . . . the shadows were . . .breathing.
Cominsky turned, and everything played out before him in gruesome slow motion. His heartbeat pounded a timpanic rhythm in his ears. His pupils dilated, coming in to focus on the formless specter mere feet away. Worst of all, however, was the feeling the combat-hardened man had in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time: sheer and utter terror. After facing horrible war atrocities, being engulfed in the most strenuous and demanding of situations, after being pinned down in a Rigelian jungle for three days with mortar fire exploding around him - - nothing could compare to the inevitable sense of doom that pervaded Cominsky’s heart.
He could see the source of his anxiety, now - - an immense, writhing wraith that blended in with the soft shadows of the hangar. Cominsky did not hesitate; he had learned to move as quickly as possible in combat. Without a moment’s reluctance, he brought up his weapon, the distinctive "chak" of the pulse rifle barely audible over the inhuman, nails-on-chalkboard shriek . . .
Before he could fire, the shape moved, a subtle change that was sure to be lethal. In that fatal moment, Cominsky did something he had never done before: he froze. He was tired. Too tired to go on. Tired of the Weyland-Yutani Company, tired of his job, tired of trying to stay alive, tired of being forced into confrontations. He was at the end of his rope, a desperate man who had simply lost the will.
The thing moved again, surprised at the lack of defense the intruder presented. Perplexed as it was, it continued the motion, this time more purposefully. A long, black chitinous form was coming straight at Cominsky. He didn’t flinch, just waited for the pain - -
"I think he’s coming around," a voice said. "Sarge? Are you okay?"
Cominsky slowly opened his eyes, a rumbling headache forming and threatening to beat his brains into pudding. "Wha . . ." he managed to moan, over the pain.
Ralph smiled, his pathetic excuse for a goatee twisting with the movement. "Hey! Guys! He’s all right!" the private called to his comrades. A small, albeit tired, cheer rose up from the assembly of Colonial Marines.
"Ungh . . . what . . . what happened?"
"Well," Ralph began, helping the leader to his feet, "After that firefight in the garden, you just sort of . . . passed out. Pope says it was due to a combination of fatigue and lack of fluids." He held out an open canteen, which Cominsky willingly partook of, the wonderfully wet liquid quenching his thirst and forcing back the growing headache.
The battle-hardened veteran was finally able to look at his surroundings. He examined the room with wide eyes, oddly refreshed from his little respite. Even if I did have one weird dream just now, he thought.
Their current location was a large, sparse area, the only items breaking the monotony being several large supply crates that probably weighed the same as Cominsky three times over. An enormous fan was set in the ceiling - - which, thankfully, was off at the moment, probably deactivated in the Ravenno’s crash. Cominsky guessed that, if otherwise, he and the troops would have long ago been reduced to human ribbon by the six sharp blades above. "Where . . ." his voice trailed off.
"This is an engine ventilation room," Pope explained, stepping closer and keeping his eyes glued to the ship’s blueprints. "Whenever the ship was running, this fan - - " he pointed to the ceiling " - - carried by-product gasses out of the ship." He scanned over the map in his hands. "It seems as though this is one of several. The first fan is in the engine room itself."
"I daresay they had to turn it off before doing any work in there," Pieper surmised. "Right, Pope?"
The android nodded. "Yes, Ms. Pieper. The maintenance crew would always shut off the fans before venturing anywhere near the vent rooms."
"Why didn’t you continue through the ship?" Cominsky asked. The headache was almost gone now, and he was starting to get a grip on things.
Everyone was stunned. "Um," Pieper began, "Sir . . . we felt it best that you lead us. We don’t have the proper . . . leadership skills . . ."
"Nadia, you know that you’re next in the chain of command after me. Why didn’t you take over?" He paused, shaking his head. "You’d be really screwed if my head were on some Hunter’s wall right now, wouldn’t you?"
"I did take over, sir," the girl explained, her voice wavering. "I gave orders to stay put until you recovered."
Do you feel like shit now, Cominsky? An annoying voice asked in the back in the back of the Sergeant’s head. Would you like some salt with that foot in your mouth? He sighed and put it out of his mind, the voice fading away. What was said was said, and he couldn’t do anything to change it. "Sorry, Pieper," he explained. "Just a little . . . groggy, I guess." He desperately wanted to change the subject. "So, Pope, Giger - - where to next?
"The locker room," Pope answered. "From there, I believe that we have a ‘straight shot’ to the hangar."
The hangar, Cominsky thought. The hangar . . . "Is there any way to get to the hangar without taking the ship’s grand tour?" he asked, disgruntled at the number of detours they had to take. "Straight shot" my ass . . .
"Sorry, sir," the android replied. "Private Giger and I plotted the most direct course."
Cominsky nodded. "All right, then. Let’s get moving." He picked up his pulse rifle off the floor and went to the head of the group. Time to get out of this death trap, he thought, shuddering as he looked back up at the fan. Don’t even wanna think about what that’d do to - -
Something caught his eye . . . something in the fan, just beyond the motionless blades . . .
"Xenomorph!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.
One became ten.
Ten became fifteen.
Fifteen . . . became thirty.
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