Planet of Game: The Home Stretch

At the moment, Stan Giger's world consisted of shrieking alien bugs and smartgun fire. That was all he saw, all he heard; he was a machine, acting as one with his weapon as it tracked and he fired.

Alien. Aim. Fire.

It was all he could think of, his reactions numbed to the exploits of his comrades. It was him, his smartgun, and his targets. No Marines, no room, not even a floor. No others.

Alien. Aim. Fire.

After having spent the past few days waxing alien dirtbags like these, it almost came as second nature to Giger. If one could compare his current mental state to anything, it would be that of a comatose individual. He was a metaphorical rock - - he wasn't doing the firing, his arms were. They had the brains now. These monstrous aliens that had seemed so frightening were merely cannon fodder, now, no more, no less.

Alien. Aim. Fire.

He had learned their weaknesses, learned how they reacted. In a tight space, like the corridors of this ship, the xenomorphs were volatile and unpredictable. However, in an open area such as the the ventilation room he was standing in, he could easily foresee the movements of his foes. The only reason the first attack had been such a massacre was that they weren't expecting it . . . armed with the knowledge the handful of Marines had now, they could have easily saved ten, twenty men.

Giger smiled a particularly evil grin as a bug walked right into his sights.

Alien. Aim. Click. For a moment, the computer hacker didn't even realize anything was wrong. It wasn't until the horrible lizard-insect began to creep towards him that he came to one, frightening conclusion:

I'm out of bullets. Immediately, the soldier hit the button to release his ammo drum, the empty hunk of metal falling to the floor with a clang.

The xenomorph crept closer, its mouth watering with the prospect of an easy meal. Only now could Giger hear the report of gunfire around him, the joyous war cries of his friends as they sprayed bullets into the oncoming alien horde.

He quickly shoved his hand into the ammo satchel he carried, fingers groping for a new magazine. I'm in some real pretty shit, now, he thought as his search turned up nothing. Yanking off his smartgun harness, he cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he not noticed that that was his last drum? Why had he not looked at his weapon's indicators?

Because you were thrown into complacency, he answered, throwing down the last bit of his smartgun's gear and drawing the two pistols he kept handy for emergencies. These bastards may wither under our fire, but you sure as Hell can't stand any hand-to-hand combat with 'em.

Crossing his wrists one over the other - - a rather showy move that wasn't really needed - - Giger let loose with his handguns. The small caliber rounds had a difficult time piercing the beast's hard exoskeleton, but he managed to succeed. It's better than nothing, Giger observed.

In the moment he had to pause, Giger tuned his self in on the sounds of combat around him . . . and he didn't like what he heard.

"Damn! Sergeant, my clips have run dry!" exclaimed a truly frightened vet known only as Stern.

" . . . out of ammo," cried another.

" . . . the Hell's happening?!?" a voice asked no one in particular.

Giger was jolted from his respite by a shrieking alien that was leaping down from the fan. He caught the thing in the head with one of his pistols, the result being reminiscent of snapping the top off an old-fashioned soda pop bottle, the liquid inside gushing out the neck.

As the wriggling alien corpse fell to the floor, Giger allowed a moment's worth of contemplation. What was this sudden lack of ammunition, spreading through the platoon like a plague? Certainly it was impossible for every single Marine to run dry at the exact same moment . . . right? One helluva lethal fluke, he thought as he lined up the sights on his pistols.

"Attention, privates!" Cominsky boomed over the rata-tat-tat of the remaining weapons, "It seems as though we were a bit too liberal in our usage of fire in the previous confrontations." As the Sarge paused to kill an approaching bug, Giger remembered just what he was talking about: the en masse barrages in the mess hall,, the garden, the sick bay. "Private Shipley, Private Raimes, and I are the only ones with ammunition left. We'll distribute extra clips to those with pulse rifles. For those of you that we can't supply, use what you can - - pistols, flamethrowers, knives, torch wielders, whatever." Once again he had to stop to defend himself. "Use accuracy and fire in short, controlled bursts. Don't worry . . . we'll get through this. Stay frosty!"

A sickening feeling formed in the pit of Giger's stomach. All but three soldiers out of ammunition? How were they supposed do defend against the fleet of xenomorphs? The engineer watched as almost everyone pulled out handguns and began to fire. The sounds of battle changed from cocksure yells and automated weapons into screams of fear and hisses of flamethrowers. He couldn't take his eyes off the sheer desperation of his fellow troops - - it wasn't long until the first casualty occurred. It was Stern, and Giger could see the fear on the man's face as he was dragged into the fan by a bug, destined to be facehugged by the crablike larvae of the xenomorph species. What're we gonna do?

Giger got his answer as soon as he completed the thought. Ralph was standing before him, clutching a flamethrower as though his life depended on it - - which it probably did. "Giger?" he said.

Stan was too mortified to speak. He merely stuttered, the same words playing over and over in his head: We're going to die. We're going to die. We're going to DIE.

"Stan!" Ralph yelled, slapping the man out of his trance. "Dammit, man, I need your help!"

Giger shook his head, trying to rid himself of the wincing pain. "What can I do?" he asked as cooperatively as possible.

"Giger, I came to you because if there's any man on this planet that can get that fan started, it's you."

"Huh?" Stan asked, looking up at the immobile blades. He was confused.

"You heard me."

"But . . . that would suck us up too, Smartie. Earn your nickname - - we'd be mincemeat."

"I've already discussed this with Cominsky. Everyone's gonna have to hold onto these crates." Ralph gestured to the supply boxes on the floor. Giger's eyes there . . . then to his smartgun . . . and then, finally, to the defunct activation switch on the far wall.

The mind that had been so lethargic and empty at the beginning of the battle had just launched into lightspeed. "Give me three minutes, Ralph," Giger said, handing his pistols to his friend. "Cover me." He ran over to his smartgun on the floor, picking up the harness and looking the thing over.

Please, God, he prayed, Please . . .

He found what he was looking for soon enough: his smartgun's battery. Extracting the small, yet highly powered cell, Giger doubled back and made his way to the boxlike control panel on the wall. He opened it.

Lord, I've been asking for your help quite a bit lately, and thus far you've watched over my friends and me. Now, I need your divine aid again. He pried the cover off, exposing the thin circuit boards and a mass of multicolored wires. Okay, he thought, disconnecting the two power plugs, If I can just attach this cord to . . . yes, like that, and . . . damn. Not that one, maybe . . . aha! Okay, twisting that one on . . . His hands moved deftly about the battery, twisting copper coils about the conductor nodes and flipping various switches.

Ralph was doing a pretty good job of covering his rear. Giger had to commend the young man for his precise sharpshooting talents - - he'd never seen someone with two pistols take down two separate enemies before. What concentration that must take. Concentration that you don't have right now, Stan, he told himself. Focus, just focus . . . keep up the good work . . . almost there . . .

Beaming, Giger slammed the cover back on the panel and flicked the smartgun's battery on. The rechargeable device read full, and Giger screamed the only warning he was going to give: "Hold on!" His fist hit the enormous red button, the one labeled "on" and surrounded by warnings stenciled in yellow. Immediately, the fan whirred to life, slow at first, then gradually gaining speed. I hope they heard me, he wished.

Giger grabbed the nearest supply crate, looping his bony arm around the handle and allowing Private Shipley to grab hold of his midsection. Already, he could feel the pull on his feet, and he looked around to make sure everyone had a grip on something remotely stationary.

They all did. Good. Now, just to sit back and watch the show, Giger mused. He glanced over his shoulder as his body started to rise vertically and the unintelligent xenomorphs realized their plight.

It was wonderful, hearing the evil little bastards get sucked up into the madly slicing fan. Shrieks of pain and squeals of terror were drowned out by the deafening fan, which not only removed the diced exoskeletons but the acidic blood as well.

Giger smiled as the last of the aliens disappeared. Heh heh. How d'ya like that? A giddy feeling washed over him, but not for long.

How were they going to turn the damned thing off? It was next to impossible to reach the red button from here; Giger still stretched his free arm to try, but not only was the distance too great, but the force of the fan was more powerful than ever. He had to thing of something, and, worst of all, Shipley's grip was slipping . . .

An idea occurred to Stan, one of the best and simplest ideas he'd ever had. Without hesitation, he reached into Shipley's vest and began groping around.

What the Hell're you doing, Stan?" the frightened Texan asked. "You haven't gone all queer on me, have you?" Despite their obvious problem, he was remaining optimistic.

Gotta admire that, Giger thought as he found what he was looking for. His hand closed around something and whipped up, revealing Shipley's pistol. As best he could, he aimed at the control box and fired, draining the thing's magazine into the panel.

Giger had to try really hard to keep from wetting his pants in happiness as the fan slowly grinded to a halt.

* * *

Li'chinde looked over the walls until he found a grating about twenty feet up. He bared his claws and climbed onto the wall using his bare hands and feet. Each pull up burned into his limbs; it's not that he was weak, but climbing a metal wall using your talons and toenails was an exercise in endurance.

Nemesis watched the Warrior quizzically, then realized what Li'chinde was planning to do. To make things easier on the old man, Nemesis pulled out his spear gun and fired a shot at the grate, blowing it off its hinges to the floor. Then, with practiced ease, he ripped the spear out of the mangled grate and shoved in back into the gun. Every little bit helps, he thought silently to himself.

Li'chinde finally pulled himself up into the newly-created gap, glad that he'd correctly guessed that this was an air duct. By now, the rest of the clan had seen what he was doing and started climbing the wall themselves. One slid off the smooth metal wall to the floor while another tried using Li'chinde's grip marks he'd left in the wall to get up easier.

"Use your grappling hooks, idiots!" Lichinde barked at them. He'd have used a grappling hook himself, but a clan leader has to handicap himself a little. He moved back in the duct to let the others in. Pauk, is it cramped in here...

Within a minute, the whole clan was in the air duct, crawling through the dark tunnel. There was barely enough room; Li'chinde's shoulder rubbed against the metal walls and ceiling as he crawled through. The pinions around his neck jingled against the stainless steel barriers surrounding him. He couldn't even look behind him to check on his clan; his massive form took up the entire breadth of the duct.

These were hardly conditions for a yautja, he thought quietly as the squeezed along, his claws leaving scratches and gouges in the smooth metal.

Stop. Li'chinde froze at the sound of the voice. He'd only heard it in his head; there were no echoes of a voice. Did he imagine it? No, it was...

It was Paya. The gods' voices had again returned to the clan leader. He exhaled in relief; he knew that they hadn't abandoned them.

Listen.

Li'chinde thought this to be a rather strange order from a god, but he did so faithfully. He heard nothing except the grumbles of those behind him, asking why they had stopped. He also heard.... Something hitting hard against metal. Metal bending, breaking, tearing... and after that, he heard hisses. The Hard Meat! In these conditions, the yautja would be mincemeat. He jerked his fist, causing the wrist blades to activate. Then, with a little effort, he moved his arm into a position where he could cut through the air duct. Wherever he came out, it'd be a better fighting place than this. The kic'ti-pa cut through the metal like a knife through butter, hacking the wall open into a hole large enough to crawl through. He slid through the opening and fell into what looked like a hallway, yelling at the others to follow him. They too heard the hissing and began crawling as fast as their bodies could take them.

Nemesis was the first out, followed shortly by Li'koub. They quickly set to work cutting more and larger holes to get the New Bloods out faster. The hissing had stopped; the Hard Meat were about to pounce within the air duct. Li'koub was pulling a younger one out when the boy was ripped back into the duct, then dragged back behind a corner. Li'koub fell back and saw a dark blur tear through the duct after the other New Bloods still trapped inside. That's a big one... he noted, pulling his spear out.

As the roars of pain started, a stream of yautja blood began running out of the duct through the holes cut in it, dripping into the hallway onto the feet of those who'd escaped. Nemesis climbed back into the duct, aiming his spear gun at the beast doing the killing. But before he got a shot off, he heard more hissing behind him and hastily dove through the hole as a second creature pounced from behind. This one crawled through the gap into the hall and reared up to its full height, causing the survivors to stare up in awe. The beast was enormous, even for its species, and its head was topped with a horned crown like that of a queen. Its teeth twisted into a sadistic grin as it glared at the predators-turned-prey huddled in front of it.

Li'chinde recognized it in an instant. A Praetorian; a guardian of the Queen. The beast curled into a crouch, preparing to jump, when Li'koub clubbed its crowned head with his spear, prompting the beast to spin around and slap the Warrior. Li'koub fell backwards to the floor, letting the spear slip from his fingers. It turned to gut the Warrior, and Li'chinde and Nemesis joined the fray. Li'chinde locked horns with the beast, holding its arms in place while Nemesis tried to get a hold of the creature's skeletal tail. Nemesis planted his feet and grabbed the tail mid-swing, holding the poison-tipped weapon at bay. The creature looked behind to see what was going on, and Li'chinde twisted hard on the monster's arms, breaking both of them. The Praetorian howled in pain and brought its leg up, kicking Li'chinde to the floor. Then the creature rolled over, bringing its full weight on Nemesis, who somehow kept the presence of mind to keep hold on the creature's tail.

The tail was coiling up, though, Nemesis noted. Then, like a spring, the tail jerked forward, carrying the Warrior with it. Nemesis was more surprised than anyone to find himself hanging like a piñata from the creature's tail, and that look of astonishment remained on his face as he was slammed on the walls as the creature tried to get him to let go. Between slams, he adjusted his grip to hold the tail with one hand, while he used his free hand to grab his grappling hook launcher. He took quick aim and fired.

The grappling spear connected to a far wall, then began pulling Nemesis towards the wall. Nemesis held onto the Praetorian's tail and the grappling hook, both pulling his arms in opposite directions. Although it felt like he was being ripped apart, the Praetorian's tail was securely in place.

As the beast concentrated on Nemesis, it failed to notice that Li'chinde had gotten back up. The clan leader extended his wrist blades and jumped on the creature's back, shoving the twin knives into the creature's neck. Its tail relaxed and the body slumped to the ground dead. The Young Bloods stood in awe, marveling at the bravery of the three Warriors. Sure, they could've pumped a speargun round into the beast and been done with it, but they had taken it out close-range.

As the three yautja regrouped, Nemesis remembered that there was a second Praetorian in the duct. He looked in and saw it feasting on the corpses of the two Young Bloods that hadn't made it out of the duct in time. No time for heroics, Nemesis reflected, launching a blast of energy from his shoulder cannon into the beast. The shot hit the creature's lower back, blowing it to ragged pieces. Hissing blood ate through the thin metal of the duct and chewed into the floor of the hallway, carving a small hole through the floor. This gave Li'chinde an inkling of an idea.

On a hunch, Li'chinde peeked down into the lower deck where a floor used to be. He realized that if they went down to the next level through the gap, they would end up on the deck above the ooman tribe. Not that he was thinking of engaging the oomans again; to the contrary, he saw this as a good way to avoid them. Following behind the oomans would be suicide, unless the species was dumber than the yautja had determined. Better to stay out of sights.

Drawing a deep breath, the Hunter slid down through the floor grate and fell to the lower floor with a heavy thud. Nowhere near as graceful as he'd like, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He pulled himself up using the pipes protruding from the walls, then used hand signals to tell the others that the coast was clear. As the others jumped down, the Warriors stood watch to make sure there were no more Preatorians; after all, they usually traveled in groups of three, but only two had attacked. Li'koub glanced to Nemesis for insights on the curiosity, but found no answers in his mute partner.

Li'chinde moved up to the edge of a corner and peeked around the side to make sure it was clear, but what he saw was among the only things he hadn't expected. The third Praetorian lay in a mutilated heap, various pieces tossed carelessly against the walls. There were no obvious wounds of ooman weapons; it looked more like it was... Ripped apart. He also spotted pale green burn marks and a strand of dark, leathery skin.

He stepped out into the corridor and cursed quietly. Hrr'kak's legacy lived on in the Abomination born from his heart. Judging by the condition of the Praetorian corpse, this hybrid was big, even for its kind. Killing it wouldn't be easy; he just hoped that their tribe found it before the oomans did. It was common practice for the clan of the Abomination's host to hunt down the product, and it seemed that every time his clan deviated from custom, they shrank in numbers.

They skulked through hallway after hallway, the identical halls not helping the fact that Li'chinde had only the slightest idea of where they were going. He was going by smell for the most part, leading his tribe by the musk of the central Hive, where there was doubtlessly a Queen. Or a worthless Hunt. Li'chinde just wasn't certain of the facts anymore; everything on this perfect little planet seemed to be backwards.