by Peter David
The Regents fighting unit smashes through the impediment in his path. He registers dispassionately how much force was required to pound through the obstruction and the information is then sent to the central repository for all information gathered regarding the humans.
It is his job to test as much as possible the “ground level” resources that the humans possess. Both the Land Commander and the Sea Commander are very interested in the results of his study. It is impossible to know for sure where and when particular information is going to be useful. Ultimately he doesn’t truly care about any of that. His job is to gather intel. The uses to which it will subsequently be put are of no interest to him.
There are more humans in front of him. This is not unanticipated. The primitive ship is infested with them.
His on-board attack systems examine the threat ratio each human represents. Several are fleeing. Their readouts register green. They are thus of no interest to him.
The largest one, however, glows a bright and furious red. It is approaching, coming down the stairs toward him. If there is fear in this specimen, it is being overwhelmed by what appears to be (he surmises) indignation. All of the human’s bodily readings are in the upper levels of what the alien has determined to be human norms. Heart rate, blood pressure, everything is spiking.
It is doubtless preparing to attack him.
This will be interesting.
The alien that was facing Beast looked different from the one he’d seen sprawled out on the examining table. It was shorter, squatter … but even that was simply relative, because it was nearly as big as Beast.
“You think you’re bad? Coming in this place like you’re gonna start trouble? Like you’re some thug? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re just a punk who doesn’t get that this isn’t a game.” Beast looks at the alien. “Well, all right, ‘thug,’ ” he sneered. “Let’s go.”
The alien started climbing the stairs, coming right at him. Beast grabbed the stair rails on either side, elevated his upper body and swung his legs into the alien. He felt a shudder of pain up and down as his feet impacted with the armor, but it was enough to send the creature tumbling backwards down the stairs. It lay in the hatchway, stunned for a moment.
Beast seized the opportunity to vault to the bottom of the stairs. He grabbed the hatchway door, which had been broken open by the alien but was still on its hinges. He swung it as hard and as fast as he could. The alien’s helmeted head was in between the hatchway and the door, and Beast slammed it with all his strength. It jolted the alien, causing its body to spasm.
Beast’s strategy was simple: crack the helmet, get it off, have access to the creature’s head and then pummel it into a fine paste.
He pulled back the door and slammed it a second time, a third time, but by the fourth the alien had gained control of itself. It caught the door and shoved it back wide. Beast jumped away, narrowly avoiding being crushed between the door and the bulkhead.
Beast came around fast and lunged at the alien, but it was too quick for him. Having regained its feet, it picked Beast up and threw him forward. Beast banged hard against the stairs and lay there for a moment, dazed. Then, digging his feet into the stairs, he propelled himself back as the alien lunged for him.
He crab-walked up the stairs, hurrying as fast as he could. The alien came after him, its armored feet clanking heavily on every step like a hammer being struck against a gong.
Beast got to his feet just as the alien almost reached the upper deck. While having the high ground advantage, Beast drove his fists into the creature’s armor as if he were working a body bag. All he managed to do, however, was break a couple of his knuckles. The alien simply stood there, gripping on to the railings for additional traction, taking all the punishment that Beast could dole out and providing no visible reaction at all.
Then, with an almost casual sweep of its backhand, the alien knocked Beast aside.
Beast slammed up against the bulkhead again. He almost sagged to the ground, the world whirling about him, but he managed to keep his feet.
“This isn’t going as well as I’d hoped,” he muttered.
The alien came up the stairs and slowly advanced on Beast. It was hard to be certain about its body language but it didn’t appear at all concerned that Beast would pose a threat for much longer.
Beast backed up, his mind racing, trying to think of something that would hurt it, something that could crack open that damned helmet. Then his eyes fell upon a fire axe affixed to the wall. He yanked it off its brackets and charged the alien.
The human is wielding something. Since it has not yet been proven to be any sort of known threat, the object in its hands is glowing green. Best to test its efficacy in order to determine whether it can, in fact, be a danger to any member of the Regents.
The alien stood there, apparently paralyzed with fear as Beast attacked, swinging the axe with all his strength.
The blade struck the helmet and there was a loud crack of something shattering. Fissures appeared in the faceplate, along with a small hole at the blade’s impact point.
The object in the human’s hand switches from green to red in the alien’s sensory array. It has been reclassified from harmless to a threat. As such, it must be disabled.
The alien reached out for the axe, moving with speed that belied its size. But Beast wasn’t exactly slow afoot either. He twisted to the right, dodging the creature’s lunge, and struck again. The cracks in the faceplate widened and now Beast could actually see a single, alien eye glaring out from within.
He brought the axe around again, but the alien intercepted it with its forearm. The blade glanced off it harmlessly, and with a quick movement the alien sent the axe tumbling. It clattered to the floor near an array of steam lines.
Beast tried to get to it but the alien was blocking his way. He lashed out with a foot, kicking the alien squarely in what Beast imagined was its chest. It rocked slightly back on its heels but otherwise appeared undamaged.
Beast quickly feinted left, then right, then left again. The alien went for the third feint, lunged at him, and Beast quickly cut right again with the sureness of foot that only someone who had played plenty of soccer could possess. The alien had left just enough space for Beast to dodge past it. It swung a fist around and slammed it into the wall, barely missing Beast’s head as he passed. Had the blow landed, Beast would have wound up as nothing but a red mass against the bulkhead.
Quickly, the towering engineer grabbed the fallen axe and turned to face the alien, who was advancing on him yet again.
The human’s physical capabilities and resourcefulness have been sufficiently tested. It is now time to terminate this exercise and move on.
The alien moved toward Beast with what seemed like new resolve. Beast realized that another shot or two at the faceplate wasn’t going to get the job done.
So instead of attacking directly, he swung the axe and severed the nearest steam line. Hot vapor blasted straight into the face of the oncoming alien.
The eye that Beast could make out within the helmet widened in surprise as the boiling steam enveloped the creature’s head within. There then came an outraged howl of pain as the steam practically cooked the alien’s head inside its helmet. It staggered back, still making those strange noises that sounded like a combination of a whale song and a lion’s roar.
The steam was now blasting everywhere, turning the entire area into a blinding sauna. Boiling vapor didn’t distinguish between friend or foe, and Beast turned and ran like hell, axe still in his hand.
As he sprinted down the hallway, he saw—to his relief—Hopper, with a couple of SCAT guys following him. “It’s right behind me!” he shouted, and suddenly something heavy struck him in the back of the head. Beast fell to the side, tumbling into a cross corridor, the world turning black around him, and he saw something bounce away from him. It was a valve from the steam lines. The alien must have ripped it off the wall and thrown it like a Frisbee. Son of a— was the l
ast thing Beast thought before he passed out.
Hopper barely had time to cast a glance at Beast—just enough to affirm that he was out of the way—and then he and the SCAT team opened fire.
The alien moved forward quickly, its torso twisting and turning in response to the impact of the bullets assailing it. It kept one arm up as a shield lest any of the barrage get near its damaged faceplate. The armor withstood much of the assault, although one shot did tear off some of its knee. The alien did not, however, slow down.
“Fall back, sir!” shouted one of the sailors, and two men converged and formed a blockade between Hopper and the alien. This momentarily angered Hopper, because he wanted to be in the thick of the battle. It only belatedly occurred to him that they were doing exactly what they were supposed to: protecting the ship’s CO. In point of fact, he had no business being where he was at all. He should be someplace safe, ordering others into dangerous situations while he oversaw everything from a distance. But he wasn’t accustomed to thinking that way. Besides, he rationalized, the death of Stone and of the John Paul Jones’s captain and XO were proof enough that, in this situation, there was no safe place.
The alien continued to advance and, as if adapting its armor to up its protection, the impact from the blasts weren’t even slowing it anymore. It reached out and a low, angry roar came from within its helmet.
Beast’s “thug” snatches the glowing red weapons out of the hands of its assailants. They are hopelessly primitive, and nowhere near on par with the weapon that was actually able to do damage to the Regent they had captured. The Regent, however, has long since departed the ship, and now the warrior is finding that he can quickly assess and dispose of the other types of weapons the humans wield. These devices, for instance. They are easily broken, and can also be used against those who attempt to destroy him.
He snatches the weapons from the two humans facing him. The triggering mechanism is too small for him to utilize. Instead he simply reverses the weapons and uses them as bludgeons, slamming them onto the heads of the two humans. Their heads explode in a shower of bone and brain. The danger readout on both of them goes from red back to green. The humans go down immediately, leading the warrior to conclude that the inefficiently created humans only have one brain apiece rather than a far more elegant three. Poorly designed race. Next thing you know, they’ll turn out to only have one heart.
The two terminated humans had come together to prevent access to the third. This would indicate that the third is of some rank. This merits further investigation.
The remaining human fires its weapon at him—both the man and gun are glowing red. Its hands are shaking, its vital signs are at the high end of the scale and beyond. The human is terrified. That is good. At least it shows that the human appreciates the gravity of the situation.
He reaches the human and grabs the weapon from its hand. He snaps the weapon with no trouble as the human backs up. It bumps up against a wall and the warrior studies it meticulously, recording everything he sees. Of particular interest is what appears to be an insignia on its armor—extremely pathetic armor, it should be noted, being nothing more than some manner of thin material unable to repel even the most minimal of assaults. The insignia obviously denotes rank. This will be useful when it comes to deciding which of the humans to capture and which to simply dispose of. Certainly the higher-ranked ones will have demonstrably different brains and will be more useful and informative about the race as a whole when it comes to dissection.
Suddenly the human shoves him, which he had not been expecting. Does it not yet realize that he is superior in every way? That resistance is futile? Perhaps a more convincing demonstration is in order.
Hopper watched in shock as, with a whir and a click, something snapped into place on the alien’s armor. He didn’t have to be a scientific genius to realize it was some kind of blasting weapon, and it was targeted on him.
“Crap!” shouted Hopper as he yanked away from the creature’s grip, which happened to be on his uniform sleeve at that moment. The sleeve tore away from his shirt and he sprinted down the hallway. As he ran, he yanked out his walkie-talkie and shouted into it, “Raikes! Combat! Right now!”
He hit the bow deck running, the alien right after him, making a continuing, thundering noise as if it were a T-Rex in pursuit of its next meal.
Hopper burst out of the passageway leading to the bow deck, the alien in pursuit. Please be there, Raikes, please be there, he thought desperately. He could sense that, impossibly, the creature was gaining on him. A shot exploded just to his right, and then to his left, each accompanied by a high-pitched whine. It’s shooting some kind of ray blaster at me. Unbelievable.
He’d been able to avoid it because of the twists and turns of the corridor, but now he had the straightaway of the bow deck in front of him and the alien would have a clear shot. There was nowhere to hide, no way of avoiding it, and as he heard the shrill sound of the blaster powering up again, he braced his shoulder blades, certain he was going to be cut down any second.
That was when he heard a loud clang from behind him. He turned, his feet still moving, so he almost tripped himself.
Nagata had come out of absolutely nowhere; maybe from the shadows, it seemed, like a freaking ninja. Hopper wasn’t sure if that was an apt comparison or borderline racist, but he didn’t care at that moment. All he knew was that Nagata was holding a sledgehammer that he’d acquired from God-knew-where and had just knocked the blaster clear off the alien’s shoulder. The alien spun to face him and Nagata, with a furious yell, swung the sledgehammer and brought it crashing up against the alien’s faceplate. Half of it shattered and the alien let out an infuriated roar, grabbing at Nagata. The Japanese officer spun out of the way like a dancer and whipped the hammer around once more. This time it took the alien in the back of the helmet, staggering it. Nagata ducked, spun, ducked again, and swung low, striking the area of the knee where some of the armor had been shot off. This caused more consternation and fury for the alien, who seemed to be flummoxed over the fact that it couldn’t get its hands on the swiftly moving officer.
The human is formidable for one of its species, but it repeats its moves in a pattern that can be analyzed. It should attack with its weapon from over there … now.
The alien’s fist lashed out, seemingly in anticipation of where Nagata was going to move, and caught him squarely on the side of the head. Had it been a human fist that had made contact, Nagata might have been able to shake it off. As it was, it was like being struck by a boulder. Nagata went down wordlessly.
The alien took a step toward him, looking ready to crush Nagata’s head beneath its foot.
“Hey! Big ugly!”
Whether the creature understood what he was saying was anyone’s guess. Nevertheless, it slowly turned toward Hopper, who was standing at the far end of the bow deck with his hands cocked in boxing form.
“Come on!” he shouted. “You and me! Man to … whatever the hell you are!”
The visible half of the alien’s face stared at Hopper impassively, although Hopper realized that it could have been smiling or frowning or laughing uproariously and he still wouldn’t have been able to tell.
The ranking creature demands personal combat. Perhaps they actually have some manner of honor system. How very surprising. That being the case, the warrior has no choice but to respect that request, even though it will mean the certain death of the ranking human. Which may well be a waste since the human could have been of further use to scientists. He will endeavor to leave as much of the corpse as possible intact for subsequent examination.
The alien advanced on Hopper. It brought its hands up slowly, mimicking Hopper’s defensive posture. Hopper circled it, feinting, punching, trying to get into or at least near the part of the faceplate that would give him access to the creature’s face. The armor could certainly withstand anything that he landed, but if he could get at the exposed area, he had confidence that his right jab would be able to do so
me serious damage. Maybe even take the bastard down.
The alien watched him carefully and, whenever Hopper tried to land a blow, the alien brushed aside his attempts, as if Hopper were a first grader challenging a high school senior. But that didn’t deter Hopper as he dodged and weaved, staying just out of reach of the alien’s return punches. “Yeah! Yeah, not so easy? Not so easy one-on-one! Not like when you’re using your popguns to kill my brother,” Hopper’s voice was going up in pitch, his building anger beginning to blind him, make him faster, make him sloppy. “All you had to do was talk to us, man! We would’ve welcomed you! We were thrilled to see you! But no, you had to be a bunch of murdering alien douche bags—!”
An armored fist suddenly struck him square in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. He swung wildly, missed, and before he could recover, the alien punched him in the face, knocking him backwards and nearly tearing his head off.
Nagata had apparently recovered enough to shout, “Get the hell out of there!”
Hopper, dazed, reached back for the deck rail, swung a leg over. The alien stopped where it was, cocking its head, clearly puzzled by the move. It probably thought that Hopper was willing to commit suicide rather than continue what was clearly a hopeless fight.
Slowly Hopper raised the walkie-talkie to his face. He could feel his lip starting to swell, which irritated the hell out of him since it had only just recovered from getting punched by Nagata. “I sure hope you’re there, Raikes,” he muttered.
Raikes’s voice came over the speaker, “Always am, sir. Fast as she goes, on manual.”
The alien slowly advanced on Hopper, who continued to lean against the rail. Below him the ocean was surging against the ship. In the distance the sun was drifting down toward the horizon line. It was probably going to be the longest night that anyone on the John Paul Jones had suffered through. He wondered briefly if he would be alive to take part in it.
With a slow, steady tread, as if waiting for some last-second offensive move, the alien came toward him, ready for anything.