by Steve Perry
That wasn’t a happy thought either, not anymore. Noguchi leaned back on the hard cot and crossed her legs, trying to come up with something that didn’t make her hurt.
Past is over. Think of the future, not of what’s already gone. It was a strong thought, a positive one, and it worked as long as she didn’t remind herself that she relied on it constantly. Some days, it seemed to be all she had.
Except for the Hunt. The queen had been secured and was already producing eggs, which meant two days or less until the next one. It was going to be big, too; she’d gathered as much from the excited chatter of the novices on her way to her quarters. A big Hunt was something to look forward to, and this one sounded as important as any she’d participated in since coming to live with the yautja. Several well respected Hunters would rendezvous with Shell, Leader and warrior alike, and the novices would finally be given their marks, which meant many of them would move on. Blooding, the etched mark of a Leader on his student’s forehead, was the sign that a teacher believed his trainee was trustworthy to Hunt alone.
She reached up and touched the jagged scar above the bridge of her nose, unable to stop herself from thinking about Broken Tusk. Dachande was his yautja name, but the curved tooth of his lower left mandible had been snapped off, and she still thought of him by the description.
Maybe things would have been different if he’d lived. Maybe we’d still be Hunting together…
Not necessarily true. They’d been thrown together under unusual circumstances, to say the least; if they’d met somewhere, anywhere else, perhaps her skull would be a trophy on his wall now.
She sighed, shaking her head. She didn’t believe that. Dachande had been a warrior of integrity and skill, and had respected her enough to Blood her, his final act before dying. They’d saved each other multiple times on that endless, bloody night so long ago. And she’d been so impressed, so changed by the experience that she’d chosen to join with his people. Who were so unlike him, she no longer knew what she was going to do.
There it was, the truth of it. Noguchi rolled over on one side, pulling her knees up, feeling an ache deep in her gut. After a lifetime of carefully building up defenses and learning how hurtful people could be, she’d rejected her own kind in favor of a race she knew nothing about. In her steady climb up the Chigusa corporate ladder, she’d been called an ice queen, frigid, a robot—and on some level, the mean-spirited tags had been accurate. She didn’t really like people—
—and so I gave them up. For this.
She couldn’t discount the powerfully addictive thrill of the Hunt—but she also couldn’t keep telling herself that things were going to get better. She was tolerated, no more; no one had even tried to teach her anything beyond the most basic of yautja language, and she felt even more alone than when she’d been the sole human being on Ryushi. At least then, she’d had her dreams.
Impulsively, she reached out to the wave scanner next to the bed and tapped it on. The obsolete hunk of machinery was set to a search pattern, and started lisping out static as she lay back down, reaching out into the universe for a channel in use. For months upon months, she hadn’t touched the scanner, not even sure why she’d dragged it along; it couldn’t transmit far enough to bother with, and didn’t receive much better. But in the last few weeks, she’d been turning it on more and more. Sometimes, not often, she’d catch a word or two in English or Japanese—and that contact, insignificant as it was, soothed her.
With the soft hiss of blankness washing through the tiny room, Noguchi closed her eyes, finally allowing herself to think about what had happened and what it meant. She’d been berated for saving the mission the first time, in the nest, and ignored for her efforts to help trap the queen once aboard. If one of the Hunters had escaped the queen’s clutches, he would have commanded a new respect; had it been a novice, he might even have been Blooded.
Not an ooman, though. Not some tiny, pale, alien female. Doesn’t matter that I carry Dachande’s mark, or the name he gave me, doesn’t matter that I joined the Hunters with a trophy that most Leaders don’t even hope for—
“…quest emergency… om any… receiving…”
A young man’s voice, barely audible through the blank spots and hissing static, whispered into the small room. Noguchi tensed, straining to make out the message.
“…peat… land/Yutani… mesis…”
Weyland/Yutani, a name she hadn’t thought of in years. The Company.
She caught the word, “Repeat,” clear as day, and then there was a sharp, crackling pop—and the soft voice was gone. There was no way to know how long the message had been out there before her scanner had picked it up; maybe hours, maybe days. Maybe the sender had succumbed to his emergency and was already dead.
Like me, she thought, and finally, the tears came. Noguchi curled into herself and let them fall, wondering where there was left for her to go.
* * *
Six hours after Ellis made contact with the outpost, a D-Ship tractored them in and passed over enough fuel and air to last them to the surface. The fuel wasn’t a problem, but D-Ships weren’t designed to lend air to anything as small as an ETTC shuttle. Lucky for them, the ship’s pilot was clever enough to have adapted one of their locks with an aperture compression tunnel; five minutes after the hookup, the shuttle’s filters were clean, the weaves revitalized, the air changing from stale and dead to amazingly sweet.
Company air. In a just universe, it would smell like shit.
Lara was piloting, Ellis was asleep again, and Jess was trying to come to terms with who they were following. He sat stiffly next to Lara, hands in his lap, the smoldering anger in his gut making it impossible to rest. A Weyland/Yutani D-Ship for a Company survey outpost. Didn’t it just fucking figure.
At least they’d had those six hours to feel good, to feel grateful to whatever God had seen fit to spare them yet again; it wasn’t until the D-Ship made contact that they found out. The channel jockey, a man named Windy, had neglected to mention Bunda’s affiliation. In fact, the obviously nervous Mr. Windy hadn’t given them much at all, besides coordinates and ETAs, and that worried Jess as much as anything. It was a Company planet, only a survey station, researchers and such, but still part of the same system that had so thoroughly screwed them.
Before his well deserved death, Pop had made it clear that Grigson—the exec in charge of volunteer Max teams—had sent them in to 949 to get a log from one of the docked ships, the Company Trader. And that once the data was retrieved, it was up to Pop to get rid of everyone who knew that the Trader had been the source of the alien outbreak.
Grigson sent the orders, but there was no chance in hell he was acting on his own. No chance.
“They probably figure we’re dead anyway,” Lara said quietly.
Jess smiled, just a little. After so much time stuck together, they seemed to be on the same wavelength.
“Yeah,” he said. “Except we’re not, and I figure they probably sent a heads up to every post in this half of the big black, just in case. You heard how Windy was.”
Lara nodded slowly, keeping her tired gaze fixed on the nav screen. They were trail hooked to the D-Ship, nothing for her to do, but she was as by-the-book as they came; if even one number read was off, she’d be all over it.
“Right,” she sighed. “So, any ideas?”
Jess shrugged. “See how it looks once we set down, I guess. I mean, we worked for ’em, and didn’t know how fucked they were; maybe it’s the same for this group. If we tell them what happened, they might help us.”
“Assuming we can get them to believe us,” Lara said.
He nodded. “And assuming they haven’t already sent word back to the suits…”
Of course they had, but he didn’t need to tell her that. The security on Bunda probably already had orders to kill them…
…except why bother saving our asses out here, if they just mean to off us on landing?
The Max, maybe; it was an expensive piece
of equipment—except it would be just as easy to salvage that after their air ran out. Funny, how complicated things got when one found out that they weren’t going to die after all…
“Jess, you think there was something on that log? Besides proof that it was the Company’s fuckup?”
He snorted. “Isn’t that enough? Killing four hundred of their own is plenty, you ask me.”
Lara finally looked away from the screen, frowning. “Grigson wanted that download and he wanted us dead, right? So if Bunda already told the Company that they found us, why wouldn’t they just leave us out here to die, unless—”
“—unless they think maybe we hid the download,” Jess finished.
They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of the shuttle’s systems interrupted only by Ellis’s occasional snore from the back. They could knock themselves out trying to guess what the Company did or didn’t want, what information had been exchanged about the remnants of their team, whether or not they were slated for torture, death, or a vacation; what it came down to was that they wouldn’t know until they knew.
“We wait,” Jess said finally, scruffing at the stubble on his chin. “Wait and see what’s what. We thank whoever’s calling the shots for pulling us in, get Ellis to a med program, hit the showers, and just—just wait and see.”
Not the most comforting of answers, but it was the best he could do. Lara was together enough to handle herself, whatever came up; Ellis, on the other hand… physically, he was a lot better, but Jess wasn’t sure how he was doing otherwise. There was a vague look in his eyes now that wasn’t there before his sacrificial ride in the Max. And he sometimes talked about the suit like—well, like it was more than a suit.
Gonna have to watch out for him… The kid had saved his life, and tried to save Teape and Pulaski; Jess wasn’t about to let anything happen to him.
“Looking at—ETA five hours, twenty minutes,” Lara said. “About 1100 on Bunda.”
In just before lunch. Jess tried to think of some clever comment to go with the news, but he was too wasted. He really should try to get a little more sleep—except they were going to land in the middle of Company in just a few hours, and that thought cinched the knot of rage in his belly. No way he could sleep.
That they were basically unarmed, exhausted, and outnumbered didn’t make a difference. If the biotechs on Bunda didn’t know how fucked the Company was, he was going to make sure they fully understood the situation. And if they did know, if they embraced the avarice and treachery of Weyland/Yutani with open arms…
…then they’re gonna be sorry they ever picked up our call. Real sorry.
Jess sighed inwardly, wondering when he’d become such an optimist. Whatever happened next, it wasn’t going to be up to him.
10
According to the files that Nirasawa had pulled, the head paper pusher on Bunda wasn’t used to dealing with execs; Kevin Vincent was a botanist who’d been moved into admin by pure happenstance, a chart watcher for the thirty-plus techs on the small planet. Considering Vincent had made the monumental error of letting one of his people answer the Nemesis shuttle’s CDS, Briggs couldn’t be more pleased with the circumstances; in his experience, scientists were a mostly spineless bunch, and Vincent wouldn’t know that the mistake was a minor one—or that Briggs had been aware of the situation since well before the contact had been made. With as long as the shuttle had been drifting, there was no chance of infection, but Briggs didn’t want anyone to meet with the survivors before he did.
He grinned, looking forward to meeting Vincent and exercising his persuasive skills. The man would be under his thumb in less than a minute.
Nirasawa silently brought him a drink while Keene put in the call, the beverage as much for effect as anything. A suit holding a cocktail would scare the shit out of a botanist stationed someplace like Bunda.
“Mr. Briggs?” The granite-faced Keene had stepped into the cabin, his massive frame tucked into a tailor-made suit, a brown so dark it was almost black. The equally bulky Nirasawa was dressed the same; Briggs liked the look of a matched set.
Briggs nodded, tapping the connect key on the contoured wall unit, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his drink. A thin-faced man, 40 TS or so with straggly blond hair, peered into the cabin.
“Mr. Briggs?” Vincent was already scared; Briggs could see the sweat on his upper lip, the high-res screen showing him each beaded droplet in perfect clarity. “I’m Kevin Vincent, ASM377, Bunda survey—”
“I know who you are,” Briggs said. “And I understand you contacted a shuttle from Nemesis before you alerted the home office…”
He leaned forward, setting the drink down and staring coldly at the nervous Vincent. “…and that you’ve already sent assistance to this shuttle. Is this accurate information?”
Vincent nodded rapidly, talking to match it. “Yes, sir, the A1 didn’t say anything about not talking to anyone in distress and my crew put in a call immediately to—”
“Yes, I understand all that,” Briggs said. “What you don’t understand is how extremely delicate this matter is, and how continued… mismanagement of this situation might result in some rather severe consequences.”
Vincent looked miserable, and said nothing.
Time for the push…
Briggs lifted his glass again, relaxing his tone. “Earthside wants me to handle this personally, but I’m still twelve hours away, give or take.” The shuttle would set down in just under three. “Tell me… can I trust that the Company will have your full cooperation?”
Vincent couldn’t answer quickly enough. “Yes, sir. Everyone—whatever you need, our entire operation is at your disposal.”
Briggs nodded. “Fine, that’s fine. I want the shuttle quarantined, no one in or out, and no interaction between your staff and the people on board, physical or verbal.”
Vincent nodded, swallowing heavily before speaking. “Uh… there may be someone in need of medical attention, Mr. Briggs.”
Briggs knew that already, knew everything that had passed between the shuttle and Bunda. Three people were on board—a communications tech on contract, a volunteer ground-squad leader, and a MAX Doc. The MAX tech, a Brian K. Ellis, had been injured somehow.
“No interaction,” he repeated, in a voice that promised death and destruction to anyone stupid enough to disobey. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Briggs smiled coldly. “Then we have nothing more to discuss.”
Vincent nodded, finally wiping the sweat from his face with the back of one hand. “Yes, sir. I’ll have our LZ coordinates sent to—”
Briggs tapped the disconnect before he could finish, satisfied that his instructions would be followed to the letter. With nonexec types, fear was usually the best motivator, especially with scientists. All Vincent wanted now was to get Briggs the hell away from Bunda as quickly as possible, so that he might return to his quiet little study habits.
He glanced around the plush cabin and saw that Keene had disappeared, probably gone back up to flirt with Irwin. The pilot struck Briggs as distinctly uninterested in male company, but Keene’s intellect didn’t exactly parallel his size. As long as he didn’t interfere with her flying…
“Nirasawa, call up the psych profiles on our three survivors and run persuasion thresholds… I want direct and indirect stim, relationship differentials, and method probabilities.”
The guard had been standing patiently next to the cabin entrance, waiting for direction. “Right away, Mr. Briggs. Shall I report orally, or would you prefer an interjection in the files—”
Holy hell.
“Just write it up, let me know when you’re finished,” Briggs snapped, unable to sustain his irritation for more than a second. He was quite content with the smooth progression thus far and feeling positive about the outcome.
The Marine, she’ll be the one. If it was volunteers only, I might run into trouble—but barring the deceased “Pop” lizard, she�
��s the most likely to have dealt with the material, and still be Company loyal…
Really, he’d already won. Everyone had their price, gain or loss; once he found hers, or the tech’s or the volunteer’s, it was just a matter of convincing them that he would live up to his half long enough to uncover the data.
If they were obtuse enough to believe him, they deserved what they would get.
* * *
The yautja didn’t keep time the way humans did, but Noguchi knew they were close to the Hunt when the first ship docked to Shell. Just a few came aboard, all Blooded, but it was only the first; within hours, four more transports had paused long enough to discharge anywhere from two to seven Hunters, veterans all. It seemed that only Topknot’s trainees would be first Hunting; the rest had come for pleasure, which reinforced what she’d already suspected—this was easily the biggest Hunt she’d seen, and she had to wonder if there was more than one queen populating whatever planet they’d be fighting on. For so many Hunters, the grounds would have to be seeded with hundreds.
After crying herself to sleep, Noguchi woke up unaccountably refreshed and at ease. Soon, she knew that she’d have to make some hard decisions; she chose to enjoy the mood rather than question it. She’d dressed in one of her three onboard “outfits,” skimpy clothing she’d be embarrassed to wear anyplace but in the overhot Hunter environment—the bodysuit was Nylex, but still frayed after so much wear—and spent a few hours running through forms in the ship’s kehrite, training room. Yautja days were about thirty hours long, and they slept for just over a third of that period. The two or three quiet hours that she could claim for herself—excepting the handful of night workers, of course—were often the best of her day.
A quick rinse in cold basin water, a breakfast of s’pke, a kind of fruit stew, and the rest of the ship was awake. Topknot didn’t call for training, another clue that the Hunt was near; he and the other Blooded were cleaning and readying weapons, testing audio loops—they wouldn’t need blending camo, what Noguchi had come to think of as the invisibility factor, since bugs didn’t have eyes—and marking out territories on a screen map.