Being a smartgunner is one thankless job, Ragsdale thought as he stared out into the empty wilderness just beyond the perimeter. Always assigned to sentry duty, laughed at because you don’t have to aim . . . I don’t even know why I signed up for the damned thing. He paused, breathing in the crisp, frigid night air. He knew why, he just didn’t want to admit it. The reason: he felt safe. Never would anyone sneak up on him with this second set of eyes he carried. He would never be ambushed or taken by surprise. No matter what, the smartgun would always be watching, electronic eyes piercing through the darkest of nights, the haziest of fogs. That was especially comforting - - seeing as he was alone tonight, isolated from everyone else. Egstad would’ve been here with him if he were . . . still here.
His mind returned to its original thoughts. It’s a trade off, he mused, gripping the weapon lovingly. You get a certain degree of invincibility, but you’re always sneered at and assigned perimeter duty . . . especially while under Michael Cominsky’s direction. It was true . . . the Sarge always favored the tactic of having smarts on watch, since they were basically manned sentry guns. Often, they worked best as an alert rather than an actual defense, the tracking systems a sort of warning that someone (Or, Ragsdale thought, in our case, someTHING) was approaching.
Ragsdale was temporarily distracted by a scream coming from the West Side of camp. He knew that everyone was probably rushing off to see what happened - - who was watching the western perimeter tonight? Was it that asshole Austin? Probably. Man, what a jerk, Ragsdale said, spitting onto the ground and rubbing it in with his boot. Wantin’ to throw the bodies outta the dropship without a funeral or anything . . . I hope that was him. And I hope those scaly sonofabitches are ripping his screwed-up brain out of his head.
He tried to put the thought of of his head. It was bad, to wish death upon someone, even if he were a complete slob like Austin. Nobody deserved to die, unless they had killed someone themselves, or something. But Austin never hurt anybody; he was too much of a coward. A pacifist compared to Pieper.
Slowly, Ragsdale closed his eyes and leaned his head back, hoping to ease the pain in his neck.
"Oh, yeah . . . look at those . . ." The Marine nearly went to the bathroom in his pants as an eerie, ghostlike voice drifted towards him from beyond the perimeter. Was someone out there? No, Ragsdale thought, his pulse racing, Everyone’s been accounted for. If Cominsky knew that someone was beyond the perimeter, he’d kill ‘em for being so stupid. Still, he couldn’t deny that he heard someone from out among the endless ridges and dunes. It sounded almost like . . .
"Austin?" he asked, his voice seeming to boom in the petrifying silence. "Is that you?" He waited, his ears feeling more acute than ever. Ragsdale strained to catch every last sound that could be heard.
No answer. None at all. Maybe I’m going crazy, the Marine thought, disregarding the voice. Maybe this entire situation with us being stranded is making me lose it. The idea certainly did make him sick to his stomach. He wanted to die an old man, next to his wife and children (if he had some by then), passing away in his sleep. It scared him silly to think of him running away from some hideous beast - - or, worse yet, the feeling of one’s own ribcage snapping open.
Without warning, Ragsdale’s smartgun yanked to one side, having picked up some sort of target. The weapon seemed to have a mind of its own as it weaved back and forth, automatically tracking the intruder who was obscured from view by the dark. He tightened his finger on the firing stud, slowly depressing it . . .
He stopped. Shouldn’t it have attacked by now? From Giger’s account of the xenomorphs’ attack, they rushed upon the camp so quickly that the sentry guns could barely pick them up. But whatever was out there now just seemed to . . . pace back and forth. He heard no shrieks or wails, none of the skittery footfalls of the beasts - - so what was it? Ragsdale slowly reached up to his face and flipped over the eyepiece that covered his right eye. Time to see what this thing really is, he thought, switching on his night vision.
"No way," he whispered, staring at the green image before him. There was nothing out there. Not even some harmless native lifeform - - no xeno-whatevers, no fellow Marines, nothing. Software must be going haywire, he sighed. Great. Just what we all need, stranded on a desert world inhabited by hostile alien creatures. Messed up smartguns that chase phantom targets. He looked more closely this time, hoping to see anything that might’ve set off the weapon’s auto-tracking system, but to no avail. The barrel continued to trail the non-existent intruder. Better shut off the targeting, he decided.
"Hey, Ragsdale!" a voice cried out from behind him. He turned, and saw Giger and Cominsky rushing towards him, weapons in hand. "We’ve got some bad news," the wiry Stan said.
"I do, too," Ragsdale replied, fighting the persistent smartgun. Why won’t it stop? "But yours first."
Cominsky shook his large, bald head. "It’s Austin. He’s dead."
"No way," Ragsdale whispered. He couldn’t help but feel he had some hand in it, wishing him that way . . .
"Yup. It seems that some sort of knife was shoved through his neck, and his head was smashed."
"Knife? You don’t think that someone here - -"
Stan shrugged. "Who knows? There were a lot of people who were very unhappy with him today. Maybe somebody went psycho. At any rate, we need to watch each other carefully. There may be a killer among us, somebody who’s gone off the deep end because of our current situation." He paused, watching Ragsdale’s smartgun. "Um . . . you got a target there, pal?"
"That’s my bad news," he replied. "It looks like my gun’s picking up phantom targets. First time it’s ever done that."
Cominsky cocked an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Turn on your image intensifier and look out there for yourself if you don’t believe me." The massive black man slowly walked up beside Ragsdale and snatched a pair of standard-issue night vision goggles from a pouch on his hip. He fit them over his eyes, and Ragsdale almost laughed at the image. He looked like a big, brown toad. A muscular one too, he noted, reassuring himself that it was best to stifle his chuckle.
"You’re right," Cominsky noted, looking around. He slipped the goggles off and returned them to their pocket. "I guess you’ll have to turn her off. But . . ." He paused, thinking over the situation carefully. "I never knew the M-56a had that problem. I thought they fixed that after all those complaints about the original model."
"I know they did," Giger replied. "I submitted a couple of suggestions to the Company myself. Damned ol’ M-56s were too temperamental."
"Well, there’s only one way to settle this," Cominsky sighed, rubbing his temples. "Giger, go get the motion tracker out of your tent."
"Yessir!" The tiny man flew away like a bolt of lightening, rushing off in the direction of his quarters. His foot falls were a nice break in the previous silence Ragsdale had noticed; it was strangely comforting to him in some way, to hear such a common sound again instead of the alien wail of the wind.
Within moments, Giger had returned, carrying with him the boxlike motion tracker. Its strap was hung loosely around his shoulder, and his head was down as he flipped it on. "Here goes," he huffed, out of breath. "Let’s see if it's just your smartgun, or something’s really out there."
Ragsdale heard the telltale "pop" of each sonar wave as it scanned a 180 degree cone in front of the Marines. That sound stuck in his head, sometimes; he’d be on shore leave, walking around in his house and still hear that annoying noise. Pop . . . pop . . .
pop . . . pop . . . pop . . . obviously the effect of working to hard. Thing probably causes cancer, anyway - -
"Ping." He froze with terror as the wave bounced back, having picked up a moving object only a little ways away. The sound was high pitched . . . it couldn’t be more than thirty or forty meters away. "Thirty-two meters," Giger reported. "Pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage." He listened and the object reported back again. "It ain’t coming any closer than that."
"So," Ragsdale sighed, his stomach tightening, "I should be thankful that my gun isn’t screwed up, but there’s something out there that’s invisible." He sighed. "What could it be?"
"A magnetic disturbance, maybe, or some science-crap like that," Cominsky mumbled. "I have no idea."
"Why don’t you throw a flare out and see?" Giger asked. "Clarity is reduced when you use your intensifier, anybody knows that. Maybe there’s something out there that we’re not seeing." He paused as the tracker answered back with another high-pitched noise. "Thirty meters, now."
Cominsky reached around to his left side and snatched up a small trail flare. "Good idea, Stan. For once, you’re not being a smartass." The tiny cylinder glowed bright pink as he flipped off the cap and tossed it into the air. It tumbled over and over, flying through the cold night sky and leaving a trail of acrid smoke as it smacked the hard dirt.
The flare lay there, hissing on the ground for a few long moments. Cominsky cursed as the light revealed nothing; according to the motion tracker, the intruder should only be a meter or two away, well within view of the pink light. But it wasn’t. Just a bunch of dirt and rocks. Except . . .
Cominsky did a double take as something caught his eye. It was hard to describe - - something was there, and yet it wasn’t. A ghostlike image, similar heat shimmering off hot blacktop in a burning summer. A glimmer of light, just invisible enough to go unnoticed by a casual observer. In fact, Cominsky wasn’t sure if it was there at all. Giger and Ragsdale didn’t say anything, that was for sure.
A strange feeling passed over Cominsky. A sense of premonition, that same dreadful gut pain that one gets when something bad is about to happen. Look at your chest, a voice inside of him whispered. Quick . . . His eyes slowly drifted down to his broad chest, where strong muscles rippled underneath a dark tee shirt.
He gasped. Centered directly over his heart . . . was an upward triangle of three red dots, like laser scopes off of sniper rifles. The Sergeant was petrified and puzzled at the same time; he wanted to yell, to scream, but he couldn’t. That ghost out there in the desert was targeting him. Finally, he managed to squeeze the words of his throat: "Oh, shit, fire! Now!"
The next few moments passed by in a blur. Ragsdale let loose on his smartgun. The rounds flew out of his barrel in a bright, glaring star of fire; an animal scream pierced the night as luminescent green blood spilled on the ground. Cominsky jumped to the left, scraping his elbow in the dirt and dodging a bolt of pure energy at the same time. The deadly, blue-white projectile soared past him, landing only a few feet away and causing a wave of heat to spill over the immediate area. Cominsky detected a pungent aroma in the air; he decided it was a combination of flare smoke and melting boot sole - - he felt the bottoms of his feet getting warmer as the rubber burned off onto the ground.
"There it goes!" Giger said, looking up from the motion tracker and watching the blood-spilling ghost run up over a nearby ridge. "C’mon, Sarge! Let’s get him!" Though every muscle in his body protected against it, Cominsky heaved himself up and managed to run along behind Ragsdale and Giger.
"What’s happening?" a voice asked from behind him. The Sergeant turned, only to see Private Wood standing before him. A look of panic was on his face.
"I dunno, Private, but there’s something out there, and it ain’t a man or a xenomorph," Cominsky rumbled, continuing. Wood trailed behind him like a lost puppy. His breaths came in short heaves as he climbed up the massive ridge leading up from the Ravenno and the camp. Up and up he went, occasionally slipping on the numerous bits of gravel and other debris that tumbled down the mountain in the wake of Ragsdale and Giger. He could make out their forms now - - they were silhouetted against the pale moon that hung in the night sky. Apparently, they had stopped and were watching over the top.
Cominsky was a physically fit man, but was still extremely weary after the long trek up the steep slope. He and Wood came up behind their companions heaving and huffing. "Shhh," Ragsdale said, holding up a finger to the Sarge. Under different circumstances, Cominsky would’ve reprimanded him, but he was both too tired and too afraid to argue. "I think I can see him," he added.
Cominsky silently peered over the rocks and into the gulley below.
Every move he made hit Li’chinde like another shot from the burners. Many of the blasts still held in his body; these ooman burners were more like the ancient slings and arrows than the energy weapons he carried. Finally, he reached a slight rise in the gully he had stumbled into, and he sat down to tend his wounds.
He tapped a few buttons on the gauntlet’s keypad, then the console snapped shut and started charging the medicomp. As it charged up, Li’chinde sat back and reflected on what had happened. The dark ooman had been faster than he’d expected, leaping out of the way of his plasma caster’s projection, and the man with the intelligent burner had gotten a few hits off before he had gotten away. And thus, here he was; powering up his medicomp, as it was his last hope. Paya obviously frowned on this Hunt. Li’chinde cut off his cloaking system so that it would power up faster, and then he made a quick glance to make sure no one saw him.
Finally, a quiet beep informed Li’chinde that the medicomp was ready. He jerked the tiny cylinder out of his gauntlet and pulled it in half, causing the charged needles on both sides to pop out. Li’chinde bit down on his lip, relaxed his abdominal muscles, and plunged the needles into his chest, just below his ribcage. The lip escaped and bellowed out a roar of pain as the electricity bound his inner wounds and cauterized his outer ones. The bullets would remain in his body, but they would not be a future problem. He let out and sucked in a heavy gasp for breath as he pulled the needles back out and replaced them in his gauntlet. He tried to stand up, but dropped back to the stone he was sitting on. The wounds were no longer a threat to his health, but they still stung like anything when he moved around.
The black ooman . . . this would make his skull all the sweeter to rip out. His, and the one that held the smart burner.
"Can someone tell me what the hell that thing is?" Stan Giger whispered as he watched the immense alien repair its wounds in the gulley. "I mean, this thing doesn’t look at all like those other xenomorphs that attacked the camp."
"I dunno," Cominsky heaved, still catching his breath from the long climb up. "A seven-foot tall Jamaican monster than can turn invisible at will and uses highly advanced weaponry? This is just plain weird." His description was accurate enough; the alien was indeed tall and had a headful of long, scaly dreadlocks. Its face was either featureless or covered by some sort of breathing apparatus - - Cominsky couldn’t exactly tell, except for the fact that it had two long, ovoid eyes and a sort of snout or muzzle in the center. Though this appeared metallic, the rest of its body was reptilian in appearance, with sharp talons on the end of each finger and enormous feet that wore . . . sandals. Whatever this thing is, Cominsky decided, It is not a dumb animal. This thing can think, and is self-aware . . .
"You think this is our pal who set off the commotion in the desert the other night? He looks smart enough," Ragsdale murmured. The giant didn’t seem to notice or hear them as he applied a glowing blue gel to several wounds. The substance hissed and began to steam as it touched his skin, and he released that same cry of pain that he had before. Not human . . . and yet not animal.
"You read my mind," said Cominsky. "I bet this ain’t part of the native wildlife, either." He gave the creature another good, hard look. His body was covered in mesh. Armor plated his shoulders, knees, and a section of his chest, gleaming softly in the moonlight. I wonder if it knows we can see it . . . "What’re those around his waist?" Several small objects were dangling from various leather straps attached to the alien’s belt.
"Looks like skulls," Giger observed. "I think I see a xenomorph hand there, too. A trophy from the other night, maybe?" He squinted hard to make out every detail.
"Good question," Ragsdale said. "But I’ve got a better one: where’s Wood?" It had just occurred to them all that the private had remained silent during this entire name, not making a single comment. Cominsky turned to look behind him, only to find empty air.
"Damn," he whispered. "Where is that boy?" Some of these new recruits could be such dumbasses, thinking with their balls instead of their brains. Assuming they have any of either, Cominsky mused.
"There." Giger pointed out to another ridge, forming the dip that made the gulley. "He must’ve sneaked around and come up over that hill." He was about the same distance from the alien as they were, only on the opposite side. It was obvious that Wood was now on his stomach, wiggling forward slowly, rifle in hand. No way . . .
"Tell me he’s not doing what I think he’s doing," rumbled Cominsky.
Ragsdale winced. "I think so. Look, he’s sighting the thing." All three Marines watched in horror as the boy braced his pulse rifle at his shoulder, closing one eye and aiming carefully for a shot to the monster’s head. "Jesus . . . I can’t watch this."
Slowly, as not to alarm the alien below him, Wood reached into his pocket and extracted a brand new clip of ammo. He slid out the old one . . . reached up . . . put in the new one - -
Snap. The small sound of the clip popping into place almost echoed in the dead silence around the gully. Cominsky stared in horror as the monster looked up towards Wood, making a sort of guttural clicking noise of curiosity. The boy was too afraid to aim; his shots hit the dirt beside of the enemy, sending gravel and miniature clouds of dust into the air. Tears filled his eyes as he tried to sight the creature, but to no avail, and soon three red dots were glowing on the boy’s barely visible chest.
Cominsky looked away, but he could still see the resulting blast out of the corners of his vision. Reluctantly casting eyes towards his fallen comrade, he watched Wood’s corpse sag and roll down the ridge, finally coming to a stop at the monster’s feet. It was a gruesome sight as smoke billowed from his torso, filling the air with the smell of cooked meat. The beast roared a loud war cry as he reached down with one massive hand and ripped the head and spinal cord out of the body. He shook it in the air a few times, bits of sinew flying off, then clipped it to his belt.
Tears filled the Sergeant’s eyes as the monster went invisible and prowled away, eerily satisfied at the recent kill. He knew the whole troop was looking to him for courage, so he held the tears back; there was nothing in this job as hard as suppressing your humanity.
A stange smell hung from his latest kill. Not a fearful stink, like the first kill, but a metallic stink. Copperish, in fact. It must have been the blood beginning to dry. Li’chinde wasn’t in much of a hurry to return to the ship, so he stopped to inspect his latest trophy.
He had peeled off most of the skin and scalp, but it was still covered in blood, and the brain remained inside, with cords hanging down over the spinal column. The features were thin; this must have been a young one. Still, it had been the only one to try and finish him; a sure sign of either incredible bravery or incredible idiocy. In many cases, the two were intertwined.
The flat, featureless desert stretched on in all directions, so Li’chinde was secure in the knowledge that he would have plenty of time to prepare if either species decided on a counterattack. The only real features were the canyon leading to the Hard Meat-infested crash site, the ooman camp behind him, and his ship, not more than half a mile away.
He stood and began walking to his ship, taking in all the details. It was as he’d left it, but Hrr’kak was standing outside, waiting for Li’chinde to return. Judging by the look on his face, he had already smelled the new trophy, if not seen it.
When the Hunter reached the ship, Hrr’kak turned and asked, "Why did you not ask for backup? With the help of we, the Blooded, we would have killed all the oomans in camp and had glory wash over us like water!"
Li’chinde turned to him and replied, "I only intended to check their defenses. Things got complicated."
Hrr’kak finally noticed the cauterized scars covering his leader’s body. He also took in that his left foot was covered in blood and some kind of pinkish gelatin. "A dishonored kill?" He enquired, motioning to his foot.
Li’chinde nodded and muttered, "A dishonorer of the Lou-dte Kalei; the child maker."
Hrr’kak stayed quiet as Li’chinde shambled into the ship; obviously, it had been a long night for him.
"Hey, Smartie? Want one?" Drew Raimes asked, handing out a tic-tac. Ralph willingly took the tiny candy and popped it into his mouth. The minty flavor seemed to eliminate the hot, disgusting taste that was in his mouth, and he supposed he could feel thankful for that, if nothing else. "Shouldn’t they be back by now?" Raimes asked, adjusting his glasses on his pudgy face.
"I guess so," Ralph sighed. He and Drew had been shooting the breeze for some time inside Ralph’s tent, discussing the current turn of events - - like Austin’s death and the disappearence of the Cominsky, Ragsdale, and Giger. At first, the young boy had seemed extremely geeky; however, Ralph had grown to appreciate his humor. "I don’t know where they could’ve gotten off to, but I don’t like it. What if that some sick SOB who wasted Austin got to them?"
Drew shook his head. "Doubtful. The Sarge could snap a man’s neck like a wet toothpick - - no way anybody could get to him." He poured another tic-tac out of its flimsy plastic container and placed it into his mouth. "You know what confuses me?"
"No."
"These things have been around for over almost two-hundred years, and they still haven’t figured out to make ‘em any bigger than a roach turd." Ralph didn’t exactly understand this comment at first, but then he realized it; Drew was talking about the tic-tacs. "I mean, they didn’t even try to. They could have maybe marketed a ‘King Size’ or something. I would’ve bought it."
"Do you realize how pathetic this is?"
Drew shook his head. "No. What?"
"Here we are, two guys stranded on a desert planet that’s home to a bunch of hostile xenomorphs and God-knows-what-else, talking about tic-tacs." He smiled. "I dunno. Just seemed odd."
"Well, we don’t have to talk about tic-tacs. We can talk about Mars bars, or Snickers . . ." Drew chuckled. "Sorry. A little ‘oh-my-god-we’re-stuck-here’ humor."
"Don’t worry. I think a good dose of humor is what we all need right now." Ralph shook his head. Where were they? Had they indeed been killed by whoever cut up Austin? There was something bizarre about his death - - the way his skull was crushed, his brains spilled out like pudding; his jammed pistol in the dust; his Playboy magazine, about ten feet away from his body . . .
Perv, Ralph decided. He was probably too engrossed in some girl’s tits to notice his attacker. Dumbass. He was dead weight, anyway . . . He mentally slapped himself across the face. It was awful to think of someone like that, like a piece of refuse that could be disposed of if unsatisfactory. Still - - weren’t some people born jerks? Wasn’t it that they could never change, and that they’d remain a dreg of society forever? That was certainly the way it seemed, sometimes.
Ralph was ripped from his philosophy by a blurry form rushing into his tent. Everything happened so quickly that it took him a minute to realize it was Giger, followed by Cominsky and Ragsdale. All of them were wide-eyed and huffing from running a long way, weapons in hand.
"Where the Hell were you guys?" Drew asked, staring at his breathless friends. "We thought you got killed by that same guy who did Austin. You okay?"
Giger nodded. "Yeah, Raimes, we’re fine - - but Wood isn’t. He’s dead."
"What?" Ralph asked.
"You heard me. He’s been killed. But we’ve got a shitload of even worse news for you guys."
"What now?" Ralph groaned inwardly.
"We were out in the desert," Ragsdale began, "And we followed this . . . this thing out into the gully beyond the perimeter. It killed Wood."
"What was it?" Drew inquired, half-worried and half-engrossed. "Another one of those aliens?"
"Oh, it was an alien, all right. But not one of those things that attacked our camp last night - - it must’a been one of the same dudes who made the commotion in the desert. You know, all those explosions?"
Ralph cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "How can you be sure?"
"Believe me, it was not one of those xenomorphs," Cominsky heaved. "It was about seven or eight feet tall and wore some sort of mask. To me, it looked sort of reptilian, and had long dreadlocks that hung past its shoulders."
Ralph almost laughed at the image. "A Halloween costume meets the Creature from the Black Lagoon meets Bob Marley?" He was a bit unsure as to their credibility. "Hey, mon, come on down to da intergalactic island, mon."
"You wouldn’t laugh if you’d seen it," Giger said, flipping a cigarette out of the pack he kept in his back pocket. "This thing was as smart or smarter than us. Technology like you wouldn’t believe - - makes the latest Company shit look like a bunch of baboon-made cardboard." He lit up his cancer-stick and took a long drag. "Weapons that fire highly focused energy, fast acting medicines, the ability to go invisible . . . all that technology, owned by Bob Marley." He grinned, mocking Ralph’s earlier comments.
"Wait," Drew said, running the list over in his head. "Cloaking devices? Ray guns? This is years ahead of anything the Corps has."
"You may laugh at those ‘ray guns,’" mumbled Cominsky, removing his boot. "But I was pretty far away from ground zero and it melted half my shoe off." He held up the footwear and showed it to both Marines. They were starting to believe them, now.
"Why do you think they’re here?" Ralph asked.
Ragsdale shrugged. "Looked like part of an invasion force or something to me. A scout, maybe?"
"No," decided Giger, flipping some ash onto the ground. "If he was a scout, he wouldn’t have attacked in the first place - - he would’ve immediately reported back that we were here. No. Did you see those skulls? The pride he carried himself with? He could be some type of warrior, sent here to wipe out the aliens." Everyone nodded.
"Or," Drew whispered, "A hunter." Everyone stared at him. "Well, think about it," he continued. "The skulls could be trophies, or something." The tent was silent as the Marines pondered that, only the sound of the wind violently whipping outside. A hunter, Ralph thought. It’s a hunter . . . we’re the game, the prey - - something to be mounted on a wall and boasted about, nothing more than smart rabbits to these things. He paused, thinking things over. I wonder if they’d eat us, too . . .
"Well," Ragsdale sighed, breaking the silence, "What’re we gonna do? Wait until the Company sends a rescue team?"
Cominsky shook his head. "I might’ve done that when it was just the xenomorphs here. They’re just dumb animals. But these - - these things, these . . . Predators - - are smart. They can analyze our weaknesses, just like any human enemy." He sighed, knowing that his decision could either be deliverance or death. "I think we should use the escape ship aboard the Ravenno."
"What?" Drew whimpered. "That ship is probably crawling with those things. Why can’t we just wait all this out? Regulations say that we can expect a recon team here in a little under two weeks."
Ralph shook his head. "Cominsky’s right. I looked at our supplies, and they’re starting to run low - - ammo, food, water, everything. Our only chance is to hope we can reach the hangar."
Drew took off is glasses and started to wipe them on his shirt, a nervous habit of his. "But - -"
He was cut off by a faint, pantherlike roar that wafted by on the desert winds.
"That’s it," Cominsky said, getting up. "Make sure you’ve got your weapons primed and ready, fellas. We leave camp in twenty minutes, and we’re going inside the Ravenno."
