Aliens vs Predator Omnibus

by Steve Perry

  “I can get this in writing.”

  “Yes, and I’ll be legally bound to let you free.”

  “You must know I hate it here. How do you know I wouldn’t just use the opportunity to get out of this bureaucratic hell and then skip?”

  “Like I said, I have a dossier full of information on you. Including your family history. That would be a shameful thing to do, Machiko, and you know how shamed your family’s name is already.”

  Machiko nodded. “Yes.”

  “And may I also suggest that a successful completion of this task will not merely make you an independently wealthy individual… it will add just about all the honor and self-esteem to your individuality you crave so much.”

  She sat back down. “I wonder if there’s enough in the entire universe.” She looked up at her prospective employer. “You’ve certainly done your homework.”

  “Money buys a great deal.”

  “You certainly want it to buy me.”

  “As I said, I think I understand something of your psyche. I’m not buying you. Money isn’t your thing, Machiko Noguchi. I’m offering you freedom… and self-respect within human society. You’d be able to go home again, Machiko. Go home, with your head high.”

  She thought about the offer for a moment more.

  And then she gave him her answer.

  5

  The yautja danced.

  Lar’nix’va danced the dance of Death. Not just a Path dance, but The Path dance.

  His opponent hissed and clacked before his spear, seeming aware of the importance of this battle. Beyond life, above Death. It smelled of its acid, though it had not bled yet. It had just been detected with a sensor and then beaten from the bush where it had been hiding.

  The pack had challenged Lar’nix’va’s assumption of the role of Leader. The kainde amedha chiva, the Hard Meat Trial, would prove his worthiness.

  To Lar’nix’va, though, it was just one more step on his personal path, a path that had engraved itself upon his soul at a very early age.

  The Hard Meat lunged.

  Lar’nix’va dodged backward and performed a graceful flip. A showy maneuver, certainly, but then this kill wasn’t just for sport or for blooding—it was to illustrate for certain that he was worthy of not just a questionable Leadership, but a brilliant and honorable Leadership with more than a touch of pride and swagger. Thus would he take the next step up the ladder, for the other packs that Hunted on this planet would surely have to take note. The situation merited extreme scrutiny, and by his careful and panache-filled Leadership, Lar’nix’va knew that he would attract the attention of the elders. Thus he hoped to command many yautja, not just a pack. Thus he hoped to attract many females, breed many children, and make such a name in the genetic pool as had not been heard in many Passings. To think that the elders had once considered him unsuitable for breeding, had even considered severing his gonads. It was not just ambition that drove this warrior, but outrage. Soon there would be many yautja a few noks shorter than the norm. But they would be superior warriors and good solid breeders, without question. His name would not just be in history books, but written in the annals of the genome.

  With this fire of intention that burned in him, he took a couple of fancy steps, confusing the Hard Meat and impressing his fellows with his nimbleness. Then, before the kainde amedha had the opportunity even to consider the possibility of fleeing, he raced forward and with stunning speed lopped off one of its forward limbs. Even as the sword-sharp length of special steel sliced through the last bit of chitin, Lar’nix’va yanked it back and stepped away from the spray of acid blood, not merely in the prescribed training fashion, but with a glorious flourish and a deep bellow of victory.

  The Hard Meat shrieked, but it bore forward, its long head darting out, drooling and snapping.

  The good thing about the kainde amedha was that, while they could be wily and hard to deal with in the closed space of tunnels and darkness, out in the open they were highly predictable. They sought to attack and kill, and that was it. A warrior merely had to time his attack and defense in cadence to the instinctual performance of his prey.

  Now Lar’nix’va played with that. This was his Dance.

  The Hard Meat struck, its limb dangling horribly. Fortunately, the limb had ceased spurting acid, merely dribbling now, so that Lar’nix’va dared to dart in and attack once more. He saw a perfect opportunity to slash open the creature’s thorax. However, the fight would have been over too soon then, cheapening his glory. He signaled with a whistle his decision to attenuate the battle, and then instead of making it a quick kill, he whacked down with the blade upon the thing’s leg.

  The limb was tough. The blade bit into it but did not sever it. The spear was stuck. Acid streamed out. Rather than pull on the spear and risk a slash from the jaws or remaining limbs, Lar’nix’va abandoned it, leaping back with fancy footwork.

  Then, rather than receive another spear from his fellows, he did the glorious thing.

  Lar’nix’va pulled out his short blade.

  He heard the mandibles of the pack behind him chatter with disbelieving approval. This was an insane thing to do, but a little insanity in the Leader was always respected.

  Lar’nix’va capered around the Hard Meat speedily, and then, before it could do anything in defense, he jumped. His leg muscles drove him up onto its back, and with a powerful blow the new Leader brought the blade down upon the back of the cranium. The sharp steel pierced the armor, driving perfectly into a node that controlled the creature’s reflexes. Before he could be grabbed, Lar’nix’va bounded away.

  The Hard Meat screamed.

  It rolled and convulsed.

  Maddened and in terrible pain, it tried to leap toward the warrior responsible, but its limbs would not respond. With a clatter and clunking it fell into a hellish heap.

  Lar’nix’va darted in, grabbed his spear, which had fallen away, and with a fluid motion rammed the weapon down and through the thorax with such force that the Hard Meat was pinned to the ground.

  Then Lar’nix’va leaped away.

  With the life of the thing leaking into the dirt, he turned to his fellows.

  “Can you doubt now that I am a Leader?” he said.

  “No,” said a tall warrior named Bakuub, sullenly. “We cannot. However, there is more to a Leader than an individual feat. You well deserve your skull here, and the honor that this kill heaps upon you, a milestone on your Path. However, we must see how the pack works under you. Times are serious, and we cannot hazard a bad choice.”

  Lar’nix’va could feel the blood rush to his head. However, he controlled his temper. By rights all he had to do was call this a challenge from the troublesome fool and defeat him in a duel. However, Bakuub was correct. They were in a troublesome position. Most likely Bakuub would be killed in such a duel, and the pack—Lar’nix’va’s pack—would thus lose efficacy.

  This, after all, was the pack that would lead Lar’nix’va to greatness. It was a good pack, and the yautja knew it well. No reason to dismantle it when such was not necessary. What was the saying? Thin-de le’hasuan ’aloun’myin-del bpi-de gka-de hasou-de paya. “Learn the gifts of all sights, or finish in the dance of the fallen gods.”

  Lar’nix’va had no intention of moving his feet and shaking his spear in that particular festivity.

  “Very well. We should have an exercise. A portrayal of teamwork.”

  “Yes,” said Bakuub.

  “A Hunt!” said another.

  “A challenging Hunt,” chimed in a third bellow.

  “But what is worthy of such a Hunt? What will truly test our merits as a working unit?”

  Lar’nix’va’s mandibles clattered together in a sly yautja smile. “The most truly worthy prey. The other creatures who hunt on this planet, who have no doubt caused the death of our Leader. A prefatory foray into their realm.”

  “Yes.”

  “Pyode amedha,” cried another.

  “Wait,” s
aid Bakuub. “Is it wise to do this before we know what truly transpires upon this planet?”

  “You are not revealing cowardice, are you, Bakuub?” said Lar’nix’va.

  “Soft Meat!” cried a warrior.

  “Yes. A true challenge,” echoed another.

  Lar’nix’va nodded. “The others agree. We must hunt the oomans. We must hunt the clever hunters. And we shall hunt our loosed Hard Meat at the same time.” He grabbed a spare spear and waved it in the air. “Hunt and thus our glory as a pack will be restored!”

  The cheers of his companions buoyed his spirits, and his soul began to yearn for killing.

  6

  “I don’t know about this,” said Attila the Hun. “I don’t know about this at all.”

  “Don’t know about what, Til?”

  “This entire enterprise. It smacks of duplicity. It smells of trouble. It reeks of—”

  “I think the phrase you’re groping for so literarily is ‘It’s very suspicious.’”

  The android looked taken aback. “Well, don’t you agree? I mean, from out of the blue comes a Greek bearing a gift. I believe the dictum states clearly that one should be chary of such.”

  “I don’t think ‘Livermore Evanston’ sounds very Greek, do you?”

  “The fact that he didn’t come with a bloody Trojan horse doesn’t change the fact that… that… well, that this whole thing sounds not only fishy but dangerous!”

  The look on Attila’s face was so sincerely chagrined that Machiko Noguchi slowed down to a walk. She halted her assistant and trainer, who was of course not at all winded. She herself spoke breathily, and a light patina of sweat covered her forehead.

  “Aren’t we wading a little deep into the ancient kingdom of mixed metaphors?”

  Evanston had agreed that Machiko should keep in shape, and as there were no exercise machines or rooms devoted to same, she was allowed to avail herself of the circular corridor, on the second deck, which was pleasantly similar to a short track.

  Round and round and round.

  Puff and puff and puff…

  The thing was, if Machiko didn’t do some strenuous exercise as well as her kata and her little soft-shoes with holographs thrown up by good ol’ Til, she’d be so antsy she’d be in a thoroughly nasty mood and probably insult or hit someone. And if not him, then one of his several toadies who ran this boat.

  What had happened was this:

  She’d signed on.

  That simple. She’d accepted Livermore Evanston’s offer, laid down her Joanna Hancock right by his own squirrelly scrawl.

  As promised, it took only the weekend for all the red tape to get bleached and snipped. Evanston had advised her to take the day afforded her to pack and make arrangements for what she wished to bring with her.

  All she’d wanted to take with her were a few paintings she’d grown fond of, some phones and some music cubes, a painting set she found helped her meditate…

  And, of course, Attila.

  Attila was a little trickier, since her license for him extended only to Company territory; and Evanston seemed a little nonplussed about taking a training android to Hunter’s Planet (that simple term seemed to be the favored appellation, spoken with a wide range of irony and emphases and melodrama by both the impresario himself and the crew). However, once assured that Attila would not only help keep her in tip-top fighting and physical trim, but, with his multi-faceted abilities, actually be of help in the effort, the Boss agreed.

  Besides, he adored the name.

  People at the office were appropriately stunned and impressed by her company and her swift departure. She gave them a quick toodle-loo and showed them her backside, though not quite in the way that perhaps she would have preferred.

  She and Attila were ensconced in luxurious quarters aboard the spaceyacht. Evanston asked if perhaps “the Hun” wanted his own room, or perhaps just a broom closet somewhere, and when Machiko had answered that Attila always slept in the same room, like a “big teddy bear,” the fat man had just leered.

  All to the good, if it kept the guy’s mind away from the possibility of any midnight peregrinations. Machiko honestly doubted that Evanston had any designs in that direction. Doubtless, money, power, and sheer personality kept him deep in whatever sexual activities he pleased to partake of. No, he surely hadn’t taken ages to trip out to Buttlick, Milky Way, to try to jump a scarred, overmuscled, stringy-haired gal’s bones, no matter how sexy she might be. He had come because she was, in his words, “unique.”

  That didn’t mean, though, that he wouldn’t try, the lech.

  Actually, Evanston was fortunate.

  Starships could go lots faster now than in days of yore. And though Blior, in the Norn system, was a far way out of the normal sphere of interstellar activity, it happened to be in the same Einsteinian neighborhood as Dullworld, relatively speaking.

  “I’m as much a warrior in the land of mixed metaphors as I am in any other land,” said Attila. “But truth to tell, I rather liked it back where I was.”

  “Even though I was miserable?”

  “Ah, but you would have been so much more miserable without me. I had a purpose, a positive value reinforced every single day. What being, biological or manufactured, can truly look for comfort in his duties?” Attila sighed. “For a while I could.” He looked off sadly at a stolid bulkhead, as though staring through some imaginary porthole into the depths of space. “Now I’m just a bag carrier.”

  “Come on. You’re my trainer, my associate, my secretary, my alter ego, my—”

  “Your robot slave.”

  “No… that’s absurd. Again… you’re my… my…”

  She wanted to say “friend and boon companion” or something sweet and supportive, but somehow the words stuck in her throat, like peanut butter.

  Maybe that was why she’d run off with the yautja. They had hard and steely emotions, just like her. Honor and valor were all, and emotions soft and tender or simply good-natured were nonexistent.

  A reality where shame and weakness could be fought with and defeated, and a noble Death was as much a victory as a noble conquest.

  “My better half.”

  “Oh, dear. Don’t strain yourself.” But Attila the Him was smiling, happy with whatever crumbs of genuine approval she threw his way. “Still and all, I am on record: This is a bad idea. You will regret it, and I already regret it But, then, I have very little choice in the matter.”

  “That’s right, guy. And don’t you forget it.” She smiled. “Would you rather have assumed my lovely job back there? How well would you have done on a mining world without me?”

  Attila was silent for a moment “Very well. Point taken.”

  “We do this job, make some money… and we can start up something on our own… our dream, Til…”

  “Your dream, you mean.” Truculently.

  “Hey. You came up with it, not me.”

  Still walking, round and round and round.

  “A suggestion, merely.” The accompanying sniff was affected, Machiko knew. Attila didn’t have sinuses.

  “Our own school of martial arts and ‘Spiritual Training through the Physical.’ That’s the exact phrasing you used. I liked it then and I like it now.”

  “What, back on Earth?”

  “Still a world of opportunity… That, or some other older civilization. With culture. Plays, musical events… art, Til. Real art, not just books in some dank library. Panoramas, cities, things to do…”

  Although he was fighting it, the android clearly was brightening. “Yes… yes, I do admit… it all sounds very tasty indeed.” Darkness again, lowering of the prominent brow ridge. “But we’ve got to survive this next leg first. And we don’t know exactly how long it will be.”

  Machiko shrugged. “I told you about my experiences with the Predators, Til. I told you about what I had to do to reconnect with human beings again. I told you about the hell on Ryushi. My anguish on Gordian. I survived. I’ll survive aga
in.”

  A look of profound thoughtfulness had taken hold of the android’s face. “Yes, but it all proves that you’re a magnet for trouble.”

  “C’mon, Til. If that’s true, you’ll actually be able to prove out all these great fighting theories of yours… and actually see me in action.”

  A sheepish look appeared on Attila’s face. He said nothing, and Machiko did not needle him.

  It had always been one of Attila’s private embarrassments that he’d never actually had a fistfight or a street scuffle, let alone been involved in anything like a battle or a fight for his semilife. That was, as far as he knew. All the war stuff, after all, had been fed into the neural complex center of a practically tabula rasa android. His body had been around for a while, and his personality and odd subaware stuff were still clinging to his artificial neurodes and dendrites and synaptic colloids, but he had no substantial memory of his past. Machiko used this fact to reassure him. Perhaps, she claimed, he’d in fact been a valiant warrior in some antilitter campaign and had been taken captive by the slobbish enemy, his brain hastily and poorly scrubbed of memory. Identity he’d never felt in short supply of; memory was an entirely different affair.

  Not that Attila was ever in short supply of things to do. While Machiko was doing her forty-hours-plus of bureaucratic nonsense per week for the corp, he would read, paint, master musical instruments, and compose music, becoming a well-rounded—indeed, a renaissance—robot. However, when Machiko was around, his focus of attention was entirely upon her, as if he were some sort of faithful Labrador retriever. At first ever-single and self-sufficient Machiko found this annoying. However, she rapidly got used to it and now actually enjoyed it.

  Attila was along on this trip as much for company as anything else. She enjoyed the surprising aspects of her personality that she displayed around him. It was like discovering a new Machiko inside her, a funny and clever Machiko, though more vulnerable, more hurt than she’d ever admit to anyone else.

  “Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of,” said Attila.