Predator - Incursion

by Tim Lebbon

“We’re good.”

  Mains’s combat view came to life and he saw the approaching danger. It looked like three Yautja, converging on their position from three different directions. The closest was an estimated four minutes away, so they had time to prepare, but no time to answer the many questions that still assaulted his dizzied brain.

  How bad was the damage to UMF 12 from the Ochse’s detonation? What was the layout of the huge habitat’s interior? How many Yautja were on board? Where had their ships been going, and why? The suits were equipped with communications channels and failsafes, but not to the extent of having sub-space broadcasters. They could talk to each other anywhere on the habitat, but for now they were cut off from the rest of humanity. Any message they sent with their basic suit transmitters would take years to even reach the Outer Rim.

  “Okay guys, we go offensive,” he said. “Too early to dig in—we have no idea of our surroundings or what’s going on elsewhere. I see no signs of the enemy beyond these three, so once we’ve dealt with them we’ll recce and see just how much shit we’re in.”

  As Mains stood, the ground shook beneath his feet. Immediate surroundings gave the impression of being on a planet, not an artificial vessel. The walls and floor were some kind of dark rock, no straight edges or right angles. Moisture dripped from everywhere and ran in glistening rivulets through channels eroded into the ground. The air was heavy and warm, humid to the point of saturation, and it was only their suits’ climate control keeping them comfortable. Even so, his face mask clouded slightly with each exhalation, misting away in seconds.

  It was hot out there.

  “Faulkner, Lieder, you get thirty yards ahead, camo up and wait. Cotronis, you’ll have to settle down here. Snowdon, ten yards the other way with me.”

  “I want to be—” Cotronis began.

  “Corporal, if those things get past any one of us, you’ll be here to stop them attacking the other’s flank.” Mains’s tone brooked no argument, and he didn’t have time for discussion. In minutes the first of three Yautja would be upon them. Back on Southgate Station 12, with a full complement and battle plans drawn up, they’d lost Willis and Reynolds against just two of these hunter killers. Now, shaken up and weakened, and on the enemy’s home turf, the odds were stacked much higher against them.

  “You got it, Johnny,” Cotronis said.

  “Okay,” Mains said. “Suit lights off, everyone on infrared. Camo up.” His suit obeyed his thought prompt, switching his view and initiating its cloaking shield. Reverse-engineered from captured Yautja technology, their cloaking devices were clunky and threaded through every part of their suits, but worth every gram of weight. As he and Snowdon headed off along the uneven tunnel, she started flickering from view. He made sure his suit sensors were attuned to the devices’ specific frequencies so that he could still make out the shadow-shape of every one of his unit. To outside eyes, however, they would be faded into the dark, damp, stony background.

  “Here,” Snowdon said as the tunnel opened up ahead of them. The ceiling was high, the concave floor sloping down several yards beneath them, and Mains saw at least six other tunnels feeding into the area. There was some tech on the far wall, but he couldn’t quite make it out. His suit scanned it, but was no wiser. Yautja technology seemed to advance quickly and change rapidly, and it also differed drastically from place to place, as if developing independently. For every new discovery, a dozen more questions arose.

  That was why Mains couldn’t put total trust in the cloaking tech. It was of Yautja origin, taken apart and bastardized by the Company’s ArmoTech division, copied by people in labs who would never have need of it in the field. If it worked, it worked, but he’d never bet his life on it. The Yautja were too smart for that, and too inscrutable.

  “Just inside the tunnel?” Snowdon asked.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Not too close, but not out of sight of each other.”

  His display showed one red dot approaching their location from one side, the other two somewhere above and behind them. The local layout seemed complex, so it was difficult to discern just where the Yautja might emerge. What was clear was that they would be upon them in moments.

  Mains and Snowdon crouched and prepared, nursing their com-rifles. He selected wide field nano-shot, having seen how effective it had been on the surface.

  From behind them came the hiss-crack of the defender being fired, a heavy weapon that shot thousands of wire filaments in expanding clouds that would shred any living thing within range. In such an enclosed environment it would be formidable. Mains watched his display and saw Cotronis in close combat with a Yautja. Another three shots from the defender, a piercing scream, and then Faulkner grunted in satisfaction.

  “One down.”

  Mains had no time to reply. Across the open space in front of him, a Yautja darted from the dark mouth of a corridor, running quickly along the slope and drawing close. Mains held his fire but Snowdon unloaded, the nano-shot seeking its target and then ripping the air apart in a thousand glaring detonations. Mains’s suit dimmed his view, but the reaction time wasn’t perfect. In infrared, the explosions were blinding.

  The Yautja jigged to the side and slipped, sliding across the floor and leaving a trail of glowing blood behind it.

  Mains zeroed on the alien, finger squeezing around his trigger.

  The enemy’s shoulder blaster unleashed a hail of shots directly at them. Mains’s suit hardened as he ducked. Rock rained down in a stinging hail as the blasts impacted the ceiling, then a heavier slab growled as it dipped down and struck the floor between him and Snowdon. She gasped, and through the haze he saw her cloaking system fail.

  It didn’t matter. The Yautja already knew where they were, and as Mains dropped to his stomach and slid beneath the fallen ceiling, the alien rose in the entrance before him. Nine feet tall, heavily muscled, partially armored, wearing several trophies from its most respected kills—long golden claws, a heavily-toothed jaw, a Xenomorph skull—it glimmered with fresh blood, its own war suit sparking and letting off arcs of strange energy.

  The Yautja screeched in delight as it crouched and stepped into the reduced opening, lashing out with a heavy spear.

  Mains swung his com-rifle and deflected the blow, taking the opportunity to crawl quickly backward into the wider corridor. He looked for Snowdon on his display, but the reading was confused.

  The Yautja slid beneath the fallen ceiling and came for him again, swinging the spear toward him, its point glimmering in the weak light. It caught him a glancing blow across the chest. His suit deflected it, but the impact knocked him onto his back. A warning chimed, and like a flipped beetle he was suddenly vulnerable. He couldn’t use the com-rifle so close, not programmed to nano-shot, and as he instructed his computer to reprogram the rifle the Yautja leapt at him, claws tensed, spear raised, ready to plunge down at his face mask in a killing blow.

  Light flared and the Yautja fell, torso tumbling back, the heavy head striking Mains’s stomach. His combat suit, sensing no threat from a weapon, failed to solidify. Mains gasped and rolled to one side, kicking the head away. It rolled and came to rest staring at him through its helmet mask. Perhaps it still saw.

  Snowdon appeared beside him, laser pistol drawn.

  “Faulkner and Lieder are fighting two more,” she said, holding out her hand. Mains took it, she helped him stand, and they headed back through the tunnel.

  Mains checked his suit status. All good.

  “Snowdon, you okay?”

  “Bit banged up,” she said, but she didn’t run like it. She ran like an Excursionist, concerned for her friends and eager to engage the enemy once again.

  Cotronis nodded as they passed her and headed in the other direction, toward the sounds of combat, the flashes, the glare and roars and screams. Mains heard the defender firing again as they skidded around a corner. Past where Faulkner and Lieder were crouched a whole section of walling disintegrated and hazed into the air.

  Th
ey were at a junction of three tunnels, theirs and two others leading off at gentle angles. A few steps along one tunnel lay two Yautja. One was pulped and dead. The other was thrashing around, splashing its strange green blood up the walls. Bits of it had come off, and the entire tunnel structure around it was pocked with holes. Dust and grit drifted across the floor.

  “Don’t let it self-destruct!” Mains shouted.

  “In its own habitat?” Lieder asked.

  “We don’t know!”

  Lieder nodded and darted forward, com-rifle aimed at the other tunnel. She moved along to the Yautja, drew her laser pistol and delivered the coup de grace.

  The third tunnel brightened, Mains’s view darkened automatically, and then a volley of explosive shots slammed in around them. Faulkner was lifted from his feet as the ground beneath him erupted, striking the wall hard. Mains heard something crack.

  “Just one along there?” he asked, and Lieder confirmed.

  “But it’s packing some serious firepower,” she said.

  “So are we.” Mains opened up and the others joined in, lighting up the tunnel with nano-shot, laser sprays, and plasma bursts. After three seconds he signaled a cease, and they hunkered down in the tunnel, waiting for the smoke to clear.

  Molten rock dribbled down walls. Dust drifted, catching light from a fire further along the tunnel. Several errant nano-shots sparked and zigged through the air, exploding in small blasts.

  Mains sent instructions to one of his shoulder drones. It parted from his suit and drifted through the destruction. He switched views and checked out the drone’s feed, arming its weapons at the same time. The infrared view was confused by the heat of plasma blasts, so he switched to normal view, the scene now lit by fires. The drone moved slowly, its small camera panning left and right. The tunnel floor had been ripped up, walls fractured, ceiling dripping molten rock that splashed and hardened in complex patterns.

  No sign of the Yautja.

  “Stay sharp,” he whispered, knowing he didn’t really need to. He checked his suit scan for movement, and saw only himself and the other Excursionists lit up. But this was a warren, and he couldn’t afford to trust the scan fully. Back to the drone view, and the tunnel beyond the battle site grew darker again. “Looks like the target fled and—”

  A shadow shifted, a clawed hand swiped, and the feed from the drone suddenly cut out.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mains said. He sent an order for the drone to self-destruct, but the Yautja must already have crushed it, disabling its systems. “Faulkner, Snowdon, wait here. Lieder, with me.” Com-rifle set to plasma, he stormed into the ruined tunnel, Lieder close behind.

  Twenty yards in, past the flames and torn-up walls, his suit scan showed no signs of movement. Even when the huge Yautja reared up before him, it showed that nothing was there.

  Mains skidded to a halt. “Drop!” Lieder bellowed, and Mains fell to one side. The Yautja swung down two heavy bladed weapons, one in each hand, and he heard them whistling through the air.

  Lieder fired. The plasma shot struck one weapon and ricocheted, blasting into the wall and sending the melting metal blade across the alien’s chest. It screeched and swiped at its chest with its other hand, then unleashed a fusillade of shots against Lieder from its shoulder blaster.

  Mains rolled onto his back and fired his com-rifle almost point-blank. The shot struck the Yautja beneath the chin, and for a couple of seconds light glared from its mask’s eyepiece as the plasma charge melted into its skull and illuminated from the inside out.

  The dead alien released a low, sad sigh, then slumped down beside him.

  “Check for any more,” Mains said.

  “I’ve been checking, L-T,” Cotronis said. “Nothing on my scans, but their signals earlier were weird, in and out.”

  “Yeah, they must be carrying some sort of new stealth tech,” Faulkner said.

  “You okay?” Mains asked Faulkner.

  “Com-rifle broke in half. And a bruised ego.”

  “No need. We did well.” Mains was breathing hard as Lieder helped him to his feet, her hand grasping his for a few more seconds before letting go. They smiled at each other, and Mains felt a sudden twinge. It’s all just a matter of time, he thought. They’d crash-landed on a Yautja habitat, their ship had exploded, and in just an hour they’d already fought off four Yautja. How many more would come at them? How long would their ammunition last?

  How lucky could they continue to be?

  “L-T, you should see this,” Cotronis said. “All of you. Feeding it through now.” Cotronis sent through the view from one of her own shoulder drones, and while they kept one eye on their surroundings, they all gasped at what they saw.

  The drone had drifted through the tunnels toward the wider, central portion of the habitat, and it hovered in the shadow of an overhang, showing the habitat’s interior. It was cavernous. The interior space must have been almost a mile across and two long, roughly tubular, so poorly lit that the drone viewed through infrared.

  The inner surface was far from smooth, with rocky mounds, dark ravines, and other, stranger shapes lining it all the way around. Artificial gravity was employed here—through centrifugal force, partly, although the Yautja must have been using a more arcane means to produce a result that felt so close to standard. It meant that the entire inner surface was habitable.

  Here and there around the tube, settlements were visible. They seemed very small, single buildings sprouting from the uneven surface, with an occasional taller structure. Ships were moored close to some of these places. Each settlement was different, and as was usual with the Yautja, each ship varied in size and design. There were no larger buildings or ships, no places that might contain a gathering or congregation. These hunters were loners, and even though they all coexisted on the same huge habitat, still they lived alone.

  “How many do you think?” Lieder asked.

  “Not as many as I’d feared,” Cotronis said.

  “Yeah, but a lot more than we could wish for,” Faulkner said.

  The floor beneath their feet shook, a subtle vibration that Mains wasn’t sure he’d felt until he glanced at the others. They had all sensed it, too.

  “Maybe the Ochse did more damage than we thought,” Lieder said. “Great. It would be a boring day otherwise.”

  “Snowdon, what do you think?” Mains asked.

  “I think we’re making history,” she said. “Far as I’m aware, we’re the first humans inside a Yautja habitat. Those four that came at us didn’t launch a concerted, synchronized attack. If they had, they’d have taken us. Each was acting alone, and from what anyone can tell that’s the way these things operate. Occasionally you’ll see them in pairs—or even threes, like we did on Southgate Station—but that’s pretty unusual, and it could be that was a family pack teaching a youngster to hunt. Or it might have been an initiation. This place looks like it’s been around for a long time.”

  “But now a lot of the ships have left,” Mains said.

  “Yeah, and there are more docked outside on those mooring structures,” Cotronis said. “Maybe they move their ships out there and prep them for flight.”

  “Right,” Mains said. “So maybe we need to steal one.”

  Someone took in a sharp breath, but he wasn’t sure who.

  “Lieder?” Cotronis asked.

  Their pilot took a while to reply. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You’re the only one who’ll have even a slight chance of flying one of their ships,” Mains said, “and from what I can see, that’s our only hope of getting out of here.”

  “I can do my best,” Lieder said. “Snowdon can help me translate controls, perhaps. But Johnny… nothing like this has ever been done before. We’ve captured a bit of their tech, a few bits of bodies, but nothing substantial. And every ship is different, sometimes vastly different, built and modified by individual Yautja.”

  “I know,” Mains said. “It’s just a long shot, and between now and
then, we’ve got to survive.”

  The floor bucked again, dust drifting down around them.

  “That’s if this damned thing holds together. So, let’s make a plan. Cotronis, call your drone back. We’ve got to assume the rest of those bastards aboard know that we’re here, and probably know that we’ve just offed their four buddies.”

  “Which means this silence is nothing of the sort,” Cotronis said.

  “Calm before the storm,” Snowdon said. “They’ll be getting ready to hunt.”

  16

  GERARD MARSHALL

  Charon Station, Sol System

  July 2692 AD

  Gerard Marshall was in a safe place. He knew that. General Paul Bassett himself used Charon Station as his main place of residence, and it had been the Colonial Marines’ headquarters for over a century. In that time, no enemy action had ever damaged or killed anyone on Charon Station.

  Space was a dangerous place. There had been accidents and one notable disaster, but if Marshall had been asked to choose the safest place in the Human Sphere in which to sit out a potential war, where he was now would have rated very highly.

  Which was why news of the attempted sabotage had given him palpitations.

  They’d caught one of the station’s support staff making his way down toward a munitions store on one of the outer cells of the station. He’d been carrying a bomb. The cell was held far away from the bulk of the structure, but Marshall had heard from several sources that any detonation of the ordinance stored there would have blown most of the station into shrapnel. Any surviving portions and occupants would have been sent spinning into space, to die a slow, suffocating death.

  The man had made it through three levels of automated security before being halted by human guards. They had sensed his nervousness, questioned his presence there, and then shot him when he pulled a gun.

  The bomb he was carrying was still being examined, but it appeared to be homemade.

  Marshall swilled a glass of single malt and stared at the view from his window. Deep space, peppered with stars. It was said that the ancients had viewed space as a dark blanket with pinprick holes to the outside, and in some ways he supposed they had been right. The real pinpricks were the dropholes, however, and they were man-made. Those stars he was looking at now were likely long-since dead, and the enormity of distance once again crushed him down.