The Predator

by Christopher Golden

  Agent Church, who’d so far acted as spokesman for the group that had requisitioned her services, climbed out of the helicopter behind her and strode toward what appeared to be an outbuilding, a structure the size of somebody’s backyard shed. The guards went along with them, and Casey gazed around, wondering just how much of what she was seeing might be a façade.

  At the shed, Church handed her a clipboard. “Non-disclosure agreement.”

  “I signed that when they recruited me, two years ago,” she replied.

  “It’s a rider,” Church explained. “New information’s come to light in the last day.”

  A shiver went through Casey. Of course, there was new information—without it, they never would have brought her here—but still, she felt her heart racing.

  “I’m in the middle of nowhere surrounded by armed mercenaries,” she said. “Do I have a choice?”

  Church gave her a terse smile. “There’s always a choice.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. She also noticed that he hadn’t challenged her identification of the guards as mercenaries, which meant she was right. Not only were they not regular military, but they weren’t CIA either, or anything else truly official. She felt uncomfortably like she was about to take an almighty leap into the unknown.

  Taking a breath, she signed on the clipboard. The code box outside the shed emitted a hollow click and heavy doors slid open to reveal a small, compact room—some kind of security checkpoint. A technician stood at a workstation laden with scanners, cameras, printers, and other instruments. On the far wall was a Big Red Button that drew her eye instantly.

  The tech stepped forward and used one of the instruments to scan Casey’s retinas, then another to record her handprints. As soon as the tech confirmed that she was clear, Church slammed his hand down on the Big Red Button. The whole room shuddered, and Casey heard a hydraulic whine coming from every wall as the entire chamber jerked and then began to descend.

  Her eyes went wide. The interior of the shed was an elevator.

  “Is it your imagination?” the tech asked in a deep, spooky voice. “Or is this haunted room actually stretching?”

  Agent Church shook his head at the Haunted Mansion reference. “Every fucking time.”

  Moments later the elevator door slid open and Church ushered Casey into a sprawling underground complex, brightly lit and ultra-modern. Technicians bustled about like bees inside a hive, some of them wearing lab coats and scrubs. None of them seemed to take any notice of their arrival and for a moment Casey felt as invisible as a ghost. Then she spotted a bespectacled man headed straight for them as if they were his personal responsibility. The guy had big eyes and a set of gleaming teeth that she thought might give him a grin that could be joyful or terrifying, depending on his mood.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said. “I’m Doctor Shawn Keyes. Thanks for coming.”

  He shook Casey’s hand and ushered her deeper into the hive, keeping up a stream of chatter. “I’m told you pretty much wrote the book on evolutionary biology.”

  “Four, actually,” Casey said, before realizing how much that sounded like bragging. “Um… books…”

  She glanced to her left, and halted in her tracks, staring in stunned amazement at a plexiglass display case. Or, more accurately, at what was behind the plexiglass. A large helmet, loaded with tech and clearly not designed for a human head, sat on display. There were dents and scrapes that she assumed had come from combat, but she had no idea what had worn it. The other items in the display gave her some hints—a chest plate, also battle-scarred, and various weapons that were unlike anything she’d ever seen.

  “My God, this is…” She turned to Keyes. “Am I allowed to swear?”

  Dr. Keyes raised his eyebrows. “Knock yourself out.”

  Casey stepped closer, studying the long battle staff. “Holy. Fucking. Shit. This is alien technology. This is what you brought me here to see.”

  Keyes showed her his grin, then pointed further along the corridor. More plexiglass awaited, and now Casey found her breath freezing in her lungs. Ice trickling along her spine, she stepped toward the glass and stared in at a medical facility that was like something out of a science fiction movie—or more specifically at the treatment table in the center of the room, around which med techs were fluttering like flies around a banquet.

  She gaped and gaped, her mind trying to assimilate what she was seeing. Because strapped to the table was something she had waited her entire life to see.

  Eventually she let out a gasp, suddenly aware both that she’d been holding her breath and that her heartbeat had become a drumroll. But why wouldn’t she respond that way? Hell, in the space of a few seconds her whole life had changed.

  She stared again at the creature on the table. It had to be at least seven feet in height, and massively powerful. Bipedal humanoid, she told herself, trying desperately to reassert an air of scientific professionalism. The skin of the creature seemed reptilian at first glance, but she realized almost immediately that that was a lazy comparison— mental shorthand for something not of this earth. What she’d first taken to be hair, considering the way it hung like dreadlocks from the alien’s head, now appeared to be a cluster of thick appendages, but she had no idea what purpose they might serve. Its mouth hung slightly open, and what a mouth it was—arthropod-like mandibles, and sharp inner teeth. There were undersea creatures with uglier mouths, but not many. The thought made her wonder if the alien might be amphibious, but that was a question for later.

  Later, she thought with excitement, mind already racing ahead to the moment when she’d be able to examine it in person.

  “Agent Traeger,” Church said.

  A man inside the lab turned toward the window. Handsome, intelligent, arrogant, was Casey’s snap judgment.

  “Dr. Brackett?” Traeger asked. She gave a tentative nod and he smiled. “Would you like to meet a Predator?”

  Predator, she thought. Fuck, yeah, she wanted to meet a Predator.

  Dr. Keyes stepped aside with a chivalrous flourish to allow her to precede him into the decontamination chamber. Casey had never thought of herself as claustrophobic, but stepping into the blinding-white, antiseptic box room made her skin crawl. Her thoughts flashed back to an old Meryl Streep movie, Silkwood—a true story about a woman purposely exposed to radiation in order to shut her up. Casey had been twelve when her mother showed her that movie, to let her know that the truth always had enemies. Science had always been about truth for Casey, and the movie had been one of the foundations of that quest. She’d had nightmares, yes, but she hadn’t let them stop her. Karen Silkwood had died for the truth. Mama Brackett hadn’t raised a fool—Casey didn’t want to die—but she’d risk anything for answers to the questions that haunted her.

  The decontamination chamber had a partition down the middle, so two people could move through it at the same time. She and Keyes entered through the airlock hatch, which sealed shut behind them with a loud hiss. She’d have jumped at the sound, but Casey felt keenly aware of the attention turned toward her in that moment. She was the newcomer here, the wild card, and she didn’t want to give them any reason to rescind their invitation. Not when she was this close to a truth denied to all but a handful of people on the planet.

  She stared at the sign on the wall. MANDATORY DECON—STERILE IN, STERILE OUT.

  “Chamber secure,” announced a recorded voice. “Remove garments.”

  Casey scanned the chamber for the speaker broadcasting the voice. Sounding braver than she felt, she said, “You’re not gonna buy me a drink first?”

  On the other side of the partition, Keyes would be stripping too, but Casey was sure that anyone with a good view of this particular process would have their eyes on her. She did not hesitate, nor did she care. She’d grown used to people taking a second look at her with her clothes on, and she certainly understood why a gaze might linger on her without them. It wasn’t arrogance, just acceptance of something she had no
control over— namely, her genetic make-up—and she didn’t have time to waste worrying about it.

  “You do this sort of thing a lot?” Casey called across to Keyes.

  “Pays the bills,” he replied through the partition. “My, uh, father headed up one of the first contact teams.”

  Curious, Casey felt an urge to ask him about it, but Keyes quickly changed the subject.

  “So, how’d they rope you into this?”

  Through the plexiglass, she could still see the Predator on the table. Suddenly, she didn’t want to be talking anymore, didn’t want to think about Karen Silkwood or her mother. She didn’t want to answer Keyes’ question. The Predator waited for her, an answer to so many questions, but one that would lead her to thousands more. Still, Dr. Keyes was her host, so she had to make nice.

  “I wrote a letter when I was six. Said I loved animals and if NASA ever found a space animal, they should call me. A couple years ago, they put me on a short list because of a paper I wrote on hybrid strains. A computer had cross-referenced my letter.”

  “NASA still had the letter, huh?”

  Casey shook her head. “The Oval Office. I wrote the letter to Clinton. He thought it was cute, so it’s been in there ever since.”

  With a hiss, the room abruptly flared with white heat. Casey flinched as the top layer of her skin burned off. It lasted only seconds, after which she felt a prickling over her entire body. It stung a little, but just for a moment.

  “Protocol complete,” said the recorded voice.

  Still inside the decontamination chamber, they stepped past the partition and quickly shrugged into hazmat suits. Casey had worn the gear plenty of times before. Keyes went to the interior hatch and placed his hand on a palm scanner while pressing his eye to the retina scan.

  “Keyes, Shawn H.”

  The hatch shushed open. This time, Keyes forgot all about chivalry. He led the way, and Casey didn’t blame him. This was his territory now, and the spring in his step told her that the presence of the Predator excited him as much as it did her.

  Inside the main lab, Traeger approached with his hand extended. “Thanks for coming. I’m sure you have questions.”

  “Two, actually.” Casey nodded at the creature on the treatment table. “Why do you call it a Predator?”

  Traeger gave a small shrug. “Just a nickname. The data suggests it tracks its prey, exploits weakness. Seems to… well, enjoy it. Like a game.”

  “That’s a hunter.”

  “I’m sorry?” Traeger replied, brow crinkling. His dark features gleamed in the bright laboratory lights, and she couldn’t help thinking he probably got plenty of second looks himself. Though he seemed like he knew it. The man clearly thought a lot of himself and didn’t like being corrected.

  “That’s a hunter,” she reiterated. “Not a predator. Predators kill for food, to survive. There’s only one animal on Earth that hunts for sport.”

  Traeger rolled his eyes.

  But Casey barely noticed his reaction. Once again, her thoughts had turned away from conversations with those around her. Traeger had intrigued her for ten seconds, but Traeger was only human. She moved closer to the table where the Predator lay, studying it with a sense of wonder she had always yearned for but rarely felt.

  “You,” she said to the unconscious creature, “are one beautiful motherfucker.”

  Traeger slid up beside her, so silently she wasn’t aware of him until he spoke. “I’m going to assume your second question is: ‘Why am I here?’”

  She turned, shot him a grin. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out.

  “Our test results yielded something a little… odd,” Traeger went on. “We were wondering if maybe you could shed some light on it.”

  He nodded to Dr. Keyes, who produced a tablet and turned it to show Casey the readout on its screen. She studied it for a moment, deeply intrigued, and then she felt the blood draining from her face. No, no, no. This couldn’t be.

  “Is this a joke?” she asked, hoping sincerely that it was.

  Keyes shook his head. “We ran the gene sequence ten times. This specimen has—”

  “Human DNA,” Casey said. She turned to stare at Keyes and Traeger, wondering how such a thing could be possible. It didn’t make any sense at all. One look at the Predator and anyone could see it was extraterrestrial. This wasn’t a lab-created monster. Humanity didn’t have the scientific knowledge to breed a creature like this.

  Close to the recumbent alien she noticed a blood centrifuge. And perched above it was a vial of clear, viscous liquid, which made her wonder…

  But Traeger was speaking again. “We know about spontaneous speciation,” he said. “Mostly plants and insects, but—”

  “Some mammals,” Keyes interrupted. “Sheep, goats. Red wolves are known to be a hybrid of coyotes and gray wolves.”

  “Exactly,” Traeger replied. “Possibly some form of recombinant technology, or—”

  Casey frowned. “Guys, I get it.” Who did they think they were dealing with here? “You want to know if someone fucked a Predator.”

  8

  McKenna slumped half-asleep in the strobing darkness in the back of the rumbling bus. Not merely a prison bus, as he’d first thought of it, but a bus full of head cases being treated by Veterans Affairs. Prisoners and patients, all in one. Had they all been railroaded the way he had, or were the loonies actually loony? He thought he knew the answer, but really, what was crazy? All he knew was that the men who had captured him and put him on this bus were not about to forget about him, which meant there was nothing simple about this bus, or where it might be headed.

  Exhausted, lulled by the jostling of the bus and the growl of its engine, he slipped deeper into sleep and found himself lost in something that might have been a dream or a memory, or perhaps a little bit of both.

  In the dream-memory, McKenna can still hear the crack of a baseball bat against the ball. He can still see the astonishment on his son’s face as Rory realizes he’s just gotten the first hit of his life. Awkwardly, in shock and disbelief, Rory begins to run toward first base, helmet bobbling on his head. It’s way too big, that helmet. McKenna said something to the coach about it the previous week, but budgets for pee-wee league baseball being what they are, what can the heart-attack-in-waiting Coach Jeff do?

  McKenna’s in the stands, surrounded by other parents. People whose kids have all done this before, dads who’ve all had the remarkable pleasure of their sons having even rudimentary skills at baseball. Hit, catch, run. Now McKenna watches Rory stumbling around the bases and knows his own astonishment is even greater than his boy’s. A cheer burbles up in his throat and he begins to shout, “Go! Go!”

  Rory’s headed for second base, a mixture of exultation and terror on his face. McKenna sees the ball arcing across the sky from the outfield, and he knows this dream is about to shatter.

  “Slide!” he shouts. “Slide, buddy, slide!”

  For a second, McKenna thinks Rory is going to make it. But that’s when his stumbling gait causes the bobbling helmet to jostle right off his head. The helmet falls, hits the dirt, and McKenna is still thinking Slide, buddy, slide! when Rory stops and turns around, crouches and reaches for the helmet.

  McKenna feels himself deflate. He can only watch, helpless, as the second baseman tags Rory out. Kids in the stands erupt in laughter… and not just kids. One beefy dad sitting just over McKenna’s shoulder swears loudly.

  “What are you doing, you moron?” Beefy bellows amidst his profanity.

  McKenna reacts, no hesitation. Slams an elbow into the asshole’s sternum. The guy crumples, gasping for air.

  Out on the field, Rory glances around in confusion. He knows he’s been tagged out, knows he screwed up, but he doesn’t understand the laughter yet. Doesn’t understand that it’s directed at him. In a few seconds he will get it, the moment will sink in. Rory will see the cruelty for what it is, the mocking, and he will be angry… but he’ll never be able to
sort out just why the people are so mean. And if it happens again, if his helmet bobbles off his head, he’ll still turn around and pick it up because he needs his life to be orderly, and the helmet is supposed to stay on.

  In this moment, though, none of that has happened yet. Rory hasn’t had that cruel epiphany. Half in dream and half in memory, McKenna wants desperately to wake up before he sees the sudden change that knowledge will have on his son’s features. He’s not a praying man, but this is a dream, and so maybe a little of his childhood churchgoing lingers. Maybe there’s a tiny bit of praying going on in this dream.

  For once… for fucking once… it’s a prayer that is answered.

  McKenna snapped awake, fully alert, just as he’d been trained. But he remembered the dream, and he was grateful as hell to have left it behind.

  “Hey, Baxley,” one of the guys was shouting from the back of the bus, his eyes alight with that manic quality.

  Coyle, McKenna thought. The guy’s name is Coyle. Nebraska Williams had pointed out all the other guys, and provided him with their names, before McKenna had drifted off to sleep.

  “Here we go,” the guy called Baxley muttered, up at the front of the bus’s cage.

  “Question for ya,” Coyle went on. “How do you circumcise a homeless man?”

  Baxley’s eyes thinned to slits. It was clear to McKenna in that moment that these guys had a history.

  Undeterred by Baxley’s forbidding expression, Coyle grinned. “Kick your mom in the chin!”