"For right now, we just stay put and see what happens."
The others, however, paid no heed to this advice.
Two men broke and ran back in the direction in which they'd come.
"No, you idiots. Wait!" cried Hans. "There could be danger! Stay together!"
Neither listened. They cut through the quickest way back to the savanna, to civilization.
"Let 'em go, man," said Hank. "We've got our own problems."
"What's happening---"
"I dunno. Those weird signals we been getting. The tech boys have been saying that something weird's been going on for a while now, but the head honchos have been just forging on, you know. Turn on the cameras. We better get this down for posterity."
"And posterior holes, from the sounds of it," said Brookings.
"Camera's been on ever since I saw that thing," said Hans, backing away slightly, as though just in case something else was going to blow out of that chest cavity, or even the head maybe. "Bad stuff." His blaster was up, and his eyes were easing back and forth, catching a wide arc of vision. Feet apart, ready. A professional's stance.
"What do we do?" asked Petra.
"I suggest we see how our guinea pigs do in their path, eh?" said Brookings.
"Stalking horses of their own making?"
"Precisely."
The stalking horses were galloping along, indeed, at a rapid clip.
However, they did not make it.
Before they were halfway through the glade, immediately under a large palm like tree, something shuddered in the foliage, and something black, something netlike folded around them from beneath, hoisting them into an elastic gripped ride. They bounced in their tree-prison only once, before other things rippled through the foliage.
Spears.
Simultaneously these javelins transfixed the attempted escapees. One through the head. The other from shoulder through groin.
Both men had just enough time to let off a yelping screech and wiggle a little bit before the streams of blood started streaming out like beet juice through a colander.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God," cried one of the newbies.
"Shit and damnation. That fuckin' tears it!" said Hank. "This ain't supposed to be happenin'."
"Hank! Stay in formation!"
Ignoring his fellow hunter, the well-muscled man ran forward, spraying a huge plume of energy up into the treetops from where the javelins had emerged.
Defoliation on a massive scale. The leaves did not even have time to burst into flame. They were simply blown into carbon along with many of the surrounding trees, leaving only blackened skeletons behind.
Hank turned around, a satisfied smile broadening his lug's mug. "There. That should hold the bastards down awhile, so we can see what the hell's going on. Hans, what are you showing on your sensors?"
"Nothing."
"Can't see anything up in the trees, either," added Petra.
"Maybe we got whoever it was," said Hank.
"I thought I saw something hopping from tree to tree up there," said a slender, bespectacled woman, who in Brookings's estimation wasn't quite as geeky as the others.
"What-now?"
"No, before."
Hank shrugged. "I guess we're just going to have to sift through the ashes. What do you think, Hans? Some kind of assassination attempt on one of dese worthies here with us?"
"I don't know. Any of you have reason to think somebody's after you?"
"Maybe they were after Blake and Alvarez," suggested Petra.
"Those guys. Unlikely," added a jowly man named Gustavson, profusely sweating.
"May I, as a lawyer, remind you gentlemen that we are presently all on audio and video, and doubtless this may be used in some sort of hearing," said Brookings.
"You can turn that off, buddy," said Hank. "There's no law out here but The Man's."
Brookings shrugged. "Sorry. Guess I'm just on automatic."
"What are we going to do? Take the bodies back with us?" said Hans.
"I'm afraid that I kind of blew them apart as well." "Pick up the pieces, then."
"May I suggest that we pick up our own pieces and get out while the getting's good?" said Gustavson.
"Ve could send back an armored vehicle to paw through the wreckage," said Hans.
"I think that would be wise."
"I just can't figure out what went on there," said Hans.
"I really think we should leave that to the experts," said Hank. "We'll just get the data on this situation now, then get the hell out of here."
"Va. I'm working on it, I'm working on it."
"Christ, you rube. You're going to have to get a little closer than that to get anything."
All this time Abner Brookings had been growing increasingly nervous. Before, the prey had certainly been capable of turning back and biting, but that was all part of the fun. Before, this place had been alien and strange, but that had been the frosting on the cake, fun stuff as well.
Now, though . . .
Now, with an armed and civilized menace mysteriously skulking about among the trees, things were profoundly altered into the truly unknown. Abner Brookings generally faced intelligent opponents in court, and those were not armed. Now he was in quite uncomfortable territory, and the threat to his mortality was not thrilling; it was unsettling on a deeper level than he knew he had.
"Perhaps you should be thinking about a higher calling, gentlemen," said Brookings.
"Yeah?" said Hank absently and brusquely as he made his way closer to the unharmed trees, holding out his sensors to get the best possible reading. "Like what?"
"I'm talking about your charges. You're responsible for twelve lives here, two of which have been extinguished."
Hank shrugged. "Look, buster-you signed the agreement. Did you read the thing?"
Brookings was a lawyer. Brookings read everything he signed. Only as a consultant of the corporation, he hadn't signed anything-this trip was free for him and was all included under his umbrella agreement with the corporation.
"Well-er . . ."
"What it says, Shylock, is you fucking pay your money, you fucking take your chances."
Voices raised among the group. Voices that seemed to be in general disagreement with that sentiment
"Shit. Fuckin' Sunday hunters."
Hank shook his head sorrowfully and waded out into the unknown. He directed the sensors in a wide arc.
He stopped in his tracks.
"Shit, Hans."
"Vat?"
"There ain't just something out there . . . there's several somethings out there, moving, and I can't see a goddamned one of them."
"Look-over there . . . ," cried one of the Sunday hunters.
Brookings followed the pointed finger.
Yes. There looked like something fuzzy and displaced among the trees. Leaves shook and a branch visibly bowed.
"Get your asses down here," shouted Hank. He pointed his blaster up at the trees. "Or I'm going to mow those trees down, just like I did-"
There was only a brief flicker.
A thunk, and a tearing.
A sharp intake of breath
The next thing Brookings knew, Hank staggered, equipped with a new appendage.
A javelin just like the one that had killed the others had almost magically appeared, transfixed in his chest, bloody barb sticking out of his side.
Hank looked down at the spear.
For a moment he tried to pull it out of his body, and then he keeled over dead.
"Damn!" Hans said no other words of benediction for poor Hank's departing soul. He just ran forward, screaming, pouring out a blast of energy from his gun.
For his trouble he was rewarded with one of the boomerang devices. It sailed through the air, again seemingly out of nowhere, and cleanly sliced through most of his neck.
The head whipped back on the remaining strands of skin and muscle. A fountain of blood whooshed up into the air. The blaster scorched the earth harmlessly
under Hans's clenched fingers. Upside down, horrified and stunned eyes stared at the party for a moment, aware . . .
And then the light died in them.
The body toppled over, still twitching. A gout of fire churned up some more dirt.
And then it was over.
For Hans . . .
A rush of adrenaline and panic suffused every cubic centimeter of Brookings's body. He looked down at his antique, expert rifle-and it seemed as useless as some stick.
The stink of death was in the air, and Abner Brookings had no desire to add his own to the mix.
He reached over with his rifle and tapped Petra on the shoulder.
"I don't like the turn of events. Let's go."
"Maybe we should grab the blaster."
"Uh-uh. That's going to invite another attack. Let's see how fast you can run. Follow."
So saying, he turned and started running back the way they'd come.
The remaining hunters were mostly frozen, transfixed with terror. Their protectors, after all, had been killed, and now they were effectively alone in the wild in a confrontation with an unknown enemy.
Two of them began firing randomly into the brush.
Mistake.
Deep in the pit of his instinct for survival, Brookings knew this was a mistake. Exactly how, he had no idea . . . but there was something . . .
He didn't dwell on the subject. He just ran on it, offering absolutely no resistance.
Petra's footsteps and huffing sounded behind him. The woman was smart. Follow the lead of your betters . . . a practice that Brookings had always used personally.
He was in good shape, a good runner, and he felt the chemicals of his fear charging through his muscles like well-oiled, high-octaned pistons.
The path back was beaten, and the other end was clear and free. If he could make it back there, Brookings had the feeling that he could make it.
Behind him he heard the shrill sounds of shots and screams.
The massacre he'd foreseen was in the offing.
He put on a burst of speed.
Behind him he heard the sound of a trip, the stutter of attempted renewal of balance, and the chuff of bushes swept aside by a fall.
"Brookings. Give me a-"
A muffled yell.
Brookings's natural inclination was just to keep on running. However, he sensed he was in an area of safety, for now. He could spare a few seconds ....
And boy, would Petra owe him.
It was better than money. It was a power that Brookings actively cultivated. He stopped, went back to where his fallen colleague was lying on her stomach, struggling to get up.
"Come on, chum." Brookings reached down and pulled Petra up by her arm. "No time for lying about. We've got to save our---"
He realized that the squelched screaming wasn't coming from the distance.
It was coming from Petra.
Affixed to her face was some sort of crablike creature. Brookings could see the ridges of blood where it clung, like some hellish mask.
Brookings let go and backed away.
There was nothing he could do. Nothing.
Abner Brookings was a man of quick, decisive powers, and he made a fast decision now. He was going to have to leave Petra to fend for herself.
The sound of the dying filling his ears, he turned and ran for all he was worth.
* * *
Chapter 8
The planet Blior was an Earth-type world, fourth of seven planets around a GO sun. It had five moons, none of which were large.
When Machiko had read the specs on the computer in her prepping work, she had understood why Livermore Evanston had taken the time, the trouble, and the huge expense to settle and colonize this world for his own business purposes. It was an ideal world, with a nice atmosphere, a perfect axial spin, which gave it mild seasons, and a terrific balance between sea and land. There were twenty-nine Australia-sized continents distributed around the planet. Evanston had actually started his colony on only one, leaving lots of room for growth.
This island continent was called, arrogantly enough, Livermoreland, with its capital city dubbed Evanstonville. When the rich man's yacht landed at the compound's spaceport, and Machiko stepped out onto the fresh tarmac and got a lungful of the air, any doubt of the planet's beauty and worth was immediately erased.
However, she was distracted by what was waiting for them: a group of twenty-one people, dressed in exaggerated military garb, reminiscent of the plumage sported by officers in the Napoleonic wars. They raised rifles and fired into the air in salute to the return of their obvious leader.
Evanston saluted them, smiling broadly.
"A little flourish of mine I enjoy. I employ a great many people, and we often have old-fashioned reenactments of famous battles from various parts of history. Gives my security forces a chance to exercise. We have an adequately trained force of two hundred people, with a hundred reserve. Of course, they also have other jobs and functions."
"Security force? You're in the middle of nowhere. What do you need a security force for?"
The smile became a frown. "You never know. The unprepared planet is the doomed planet." He brightened. "Besides, it amuses me, Warfare, after all, is a form of hunting. And re-creation of battles is a valid sport. No one is hurt-much less dangerous than what people pay me for. I'm hoping to make these kinds of re-creations a larger part of the entertainment here one day."
"Have you had any run-ins with belligerent intelligent life?"
"No, but that doesn't mean that I won't," he said sharply, momentarily showing a harsh side. He softened, allowing the charm to flow back in. "Please. Allow a rich man his paranoia. After all, I allow you a sidearm." He nodded down to the holster, which held an oldfashioned .38 revolver, a weapon that Machiko felt comfortable with and had requested permission to use.
"True. It seems to be a scary, unexpected universe." She nodded at the uniformed people. "If you've got all these guns and warriors here, what do you need me for?"
"You and the others I've employed recently are specialists, Machiko. My security forces are merely people with guns and a lot of time on their hands. You are a past master-an artist, if you will."
She let it drop and watched for a moment as the military sorts marched off to canned martial music. She was amused by this display, but mostly she was impressed by the scenery around her.
This was an incredible world.
She'd seen that on the way down, through the viewers. Evanston had shown them a special travelogue detailing some of the features. The usual panoply of waterfalls, crashing surf, sunsets, throbbing music, majestic mountains, jewel like jungles, purple waves of grain, et cetera. Machiko always just sort of tuned these kinds of things right out. You could doctor the hell out of images, and even though you could get some wonderful 3-D in-your-face special effects out of the medium, there was absolutely nothing like being there.
Blior had that pristine, rapturous glow of nature and creation and life and rock and water and pure air that the homeworld of Earth must have owned at one time, before Man and the alien infestation sullied it with agriculture, industry, and his own fungous-like growth.
Even when she had been in a spaceship, she could almost smell it. Blior had that quality. It was a lifeworld, and to Machiko, despite her own difficulties with that particular state of being, these were the kind of planets to her taste.
"Very habitable," she said coolly, her reserve checking her enthusiasm.
"Rather nice piquant touch to the air, don't you think?" said Evanston, who had accompanied them down the ramp. Just on the edge of the launchpad, a large limousinoid carrier was pulling up. He gestured for them to move toward it. "Like an excellent year of Beaujolais, just decanted."
Attila sniffed tentatively. "Smells of exhaust to me."
"My goodness, Machiko. Your crony has an extraordinarily sour frame of mind for one embarking on such an exciting adventure." Although Evanston clearly didn't like Attila, he bo
re the android's presence with a bluff kind of humor that Machiko appreciated. Odd rich duck that he was, he was the kind of impresario whose language, carriage, and demeanor were at least always entertaining.
"You have to excuse Attila. He resents anyone who enjoys life."
"To the contrary. I applaud. I'd enjoy life a great deal myself-if I had one."
"Please, just ignore him. He really does have a heart of gold."
"Is that how they make androids these days? Well, I suppose gold is a good deal cheaper now."
"Sticks and stones, Mr. Evanston." The mouthy android shrugged. "Okay, okay. Actually, I say this begrudgingly, but it is quite a world, and from my stay on your ship-which I enjoyed immensely, particularly your library-I'd venture to say that the eponymous city we are about to behold will be quite something as well."
"Absolutely, absolutely. But I warn you both-don't compare the ship to the world. The city is most explicitly not constructed along classic masculine lines. You will see Victoriana or whatnot here and there, where appropriate however, for philosophic purposes I've instructed the designers to dispense with most of the curlicues."
Attila shrugged. "Perhaps you'll allow me to have access to your yacht occasionally?"
Evanston beamed. "Certainly. Glad to keep you interested. Considering your disapproving intellect, I seem to have captured some of your imagination."
"Any warlike nature is just a program I employ when necessary. The purpose of war is to bring peace."
"Ah yes. That Chinese war philosopher said that, didn't he?"
Attila seemed impressed. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Lao Tzu?"
"Precisely. But didn't he also say, `The purpose of peace is to prepare for war'?"
"Only in terms of balance."
"Your interpretation. Allow me mine." Evanston gestured. "Besides, this is not about war . . . . Hunting is far more primal, elemental."
"And these days, exclusive... ," said Machiko. She gave Attila a "Would you please shut up" kind of look, and the android nodded grudgingly.
"Also, this world is about far more than hunting. I'm not, after all, totally bloodthirsty." The irony was rich in his voice, and Machiko's chuckle was honest. "This world is about enterprise."
"Free enterprise?" said Attila, taking on an interested tone.
Aliens vs Predator 2 - Hunter's Planet Page 8