Predator - Incursion (34 page)

“Who the fuck is Shamana?” Halley asked.

“The Yautja you blew away out there.”

“Before it blew us all away.”

“He and his kind have been attacked by something he called the fire lizards. They’ve retreated to regroup, fight back. It’s not an invasion. They’re entering the Human Sphere because they’re running away.”

“And attacking military and civilian outposts as they do so.”

“I can’t pretend to understand their motivations,” Palant said.

“I thought you were supposed to!” Gove said, anger in his voice. “We came all this way to rescue you because you
do
understand them!”

“More than most, probably,” Palant said, “but that’s not saying much.”

“What do you mean by that?” Halley asked. The woman’s circling talk was getting on her nerves. She had a report to prepare and send to General Bassett, and they had plans to make. The
Pixie
wasn’t a big ship, and to contain the fifteen survivors of LV-1529 they’d have to work some magic in the cryo-pod bay. She didn’t have time for this.

“They might appear almost humanoid,” Palant said, “but they’re as similar to us as we are to a fish. Perhaps they’re unknowable, but we have to use what I do know to try to stop this situation getting any worse.”

“How?”

“Your general spoke of brokering a ceasefire.”

“And?”

“I think I can compose a message in the Yautja language that they’ll understand. McIlveen knows enough about their tech and communications systems to prepare a general sub-space message on one of their open frequencies.”

“Saying what?”

“Saying that we know why they’ve fled, and we don’t want to fight them anymore. We want to help.”

Halley smiled, then frowned, realizing that Palant was serious. The silence hung heavy. The gravity of Gove’s loss was a weight inside her, and she knew that such grief would be falling all across the Sphere.

Palant stood, and for the first time Halley saw past her frailty to the strength and determination underneath.

“Major,” she said. “If there’s something bad enough out there that the Yautja fled from it, don’t you think we should be concerned?”

* * *

Akoko Halley had been out of her comfort zone the moment the
Pixie
had taken off from Charon Station. Leaving the bulk of her DevilDogs behind had been a wrench, and although she had a good crew with her—most importantly her right-hand man, Sergeant Major Huyck—their absence cut in the further she was from them.

What Isa Palant was asking her to do made her even more uncomfortable—and yet, deep down, she knew that the scientist was right.

“If we ask permission of your general to do this, he’ll waste time consulting his experts, his advisors. And if Gerard Marshall finds out, it will become politicized. His interest is in the Company and himself, and whatever our reasons for sending the signal, this will place both of those interests above our own.”

Halley hadn’t been surprised that Palant knew Marshall, and the scientist’s dislike of the man made her like the tough little woman more.

But it was a heavy decision to make, a bold step. Especially as Palant and Marshall’s man, McIlveen, had by their own admission only a very cursory knowledge of the Yautja language.

“So how can you guarantee that this device will do what you say?” Halley touched the small datapad that rested on the table between them. It was dusty and scratched, as if it had been through as much as its owners. Palant and McIlveen sat across from her, Huyck to her left and Nassise to her right. Nassise was a good man, strong and quiet, and had been under her command since she was a corporal. He’d saved her life once, and once she had saved his. That had formed a strong bond between them. She trusted him, and though he’d refused any offers of promotion and remained a private, she valued his opinion above most anyone else.

“We can’t,” Palant said, “but we think we can word the statement simply enough that no mistakes will be made. We’ll use words and phrases that are tried and tested. You’ve seen everything we’ve recorded since the two Yautja arrived here, and you were present when I was speaking with Shamana.”

“Before he attempted to nuke us all,” Nassise said. His voice was always quiet, but always carried. Perhaps that was why his opinion bore weight.

“Like I said, they’re unknowable,” Palant said. “But it’s worth a try. It could be that the Yautja incursion, as you call it, is just a prelude to something much, much worse.”

Halley nodded slowly, never taking her gaze from the scientist. Palant stared back. At last Halley’s lips twitched into her version of a smile.

“Put your message together. Tell me when it’s done. I’ll vet it, along with my crew, and then we make a decision.”

“
You’ll
vet it?”

“Unless you want to send it to General Bassett for approval?” Halley asked.
And thereby to Marshall
, she thought, though she didn’t need to say that. “It’s my own reputation I’m risking here.”

“After what you just heard, you’re worried about reputation?”

Halley did not reply. In truth she was not, and she was quite certain that Palant knew that. She was a perceptive woman. A good woman. It remained to be seen if she could achieve everything she hoped.

“It’ll take us half an hour,” McIlveen said.

“I’ll get you restricted access to
Pixie
’s computer,” Nassise said, but Palant shook her head and touched the datapad.

“We’ve got everything we need right here,” she said. “And… thank you.”

Halley nodded once, stood, and left the rec room, marching back down the ramp and back into the storm. Bestwick and Sprenkel were helping the survivors gather their meager belongings in the ruins of the hangar that had been their home for so long. Gove was heading back toward her from the direction of the devastated base, his suit shimmering where it had thickened against the heavier radiation readings coming from that direction.

Halley wanted to be away from this shithole as quickly as possible.

She spoke to her crew, organized a brief search for anyone left behind, then returned to the
Pixie
.

She’d been gone less than twenty minutes.

* * *

Four hours after landing on LV-1529, Akoko Halley authorized a transmission that might change history.

She should have felt scared giving the go-ahead, because it was probably the end of her career, but it was the support of her crew that carried her through. Every one of them—the taciturn Huyck, the quiet Nassise, loyal Gove, and Sprenkel and Bestwick—had agreed that this course of action was the correct one. They had quietly absorbed Palant’s and McIlveen’s thoughts and ideas, listened to the brief message they planned to send, and then given Halley their approval.

She thought perhaps a lot of that was because of their respect for her, and their realization that she was behind the plan, and that was good enough.

“You sure these sub-space plane levels are right?” Palant asked as she and McIlveen sat before the
Pixie
’s main communication board. Gove was with them, guiding them through the process.

“Sure as I can be.” McIlveen was nervous, but excited. Halley knew that he was a Company man, sent here by Marshall to oversee Palant’s work. Yet he was ready to bypass one of Weyland-Yutani’s Thirteen in order to send this transmission. That fact solidified her opinion that this was the right course of action.

“Okay, we’re good to go,” Gove said. “Message is uploaded. Just press ‘send’.”

Halley expected some sort of pause from Palant, a loaded moment heavy with the potential for objection. Instead she stroked the
SEND
button and sat back, and on countless planes below and around that in which they existed, the sub-space message spread across the galaxy.

We understand what has happened to you. We know why you are traveling into the Human Sphere. We know about the fire dragons. For our good, and for yours, we must call an honorable truce and confront the threat together.

Yautja Habitat designated UMF 12, beyond Outer Rim
September 2692
AD

“Cover!”

“Eleven o’clock!”

The rattle of nano-ordinance spitting from a com-rifle, the roar of a thousand sparkling explosions, the screech of a target being shredded and killed, the hiss of shrapnel blasted by superheated gas, the thuds of stones impacting combat suits.

“L-T,
drop
!”

Mains reacted even before his suit could process and analyze the thought, folding his knees and rolling as Snowdon unleashed a glimmering spray of laser fire inches from his head. The suit indicated that it was armoring his entire left side, hardening around muscles yet still monitoring his muscular electrical impulses, allowing movement.

A weight slammed down onto his legs and thrashed at him, heavy blows across the upper legs and torso that pummeled him down again and again into the ground. His com-rifle slid across the gritty surface and he reached for his sidearm, suit glitching as it attempted to keep up with the chaotic movement. The squirming attack by the injured Xenomorph pressed him down.

He grasped the laser pistol’s grip and his arm was pinned down by spidery, chitinous hands.

Another spray of laser fire and the hands fell aside, severed from the arms.

Mains felt the patter of fluid across his body and the suit reacted, its surface consistency altering at microscopic levels in an attempt to shed itself of the spatters and slicks of deadly acid.

He rolled and shoved the dead alien away from him, kicking the steaming, leaking parts. Its blood splashed and smoked across the floor, separate limbs still twitching. Then it seemed to erupt from within, showering him with slick parts and a film of acid. His suit hummed as it struggled to shed the deadly layer, and encased as he was, he still smelled burning.

“What the hell just happened?” Snowdon shouted.

“Two on your left!” Faulkner called.

“I’m going for that rock!” Lieder.

“Plasma!” Snowdon warned, and Mains’s suit visor darkened as she lit up the attacking Xenomorphs with two grenades.

Screeching, screaming, they looked like giant insects thrashing in the flames, spitting acid and shedding body parts that skittered across the floor leaving patches of melting ground, still blazing, still deadly.

Mains ducked right and crouched beside Snowdon. Before them lay a scene of devastation. The wide, low space was burning, walls and ceiling pocked and blasted from the unleashing of their com-rifles’ full fury. Dead and dying Xenomorphs formed bizarre sculptures within the flames, casting shivering shadows and sometimes still moving, still striving to reach their prey with their last shreds of life. As they died, they burst apart, spilled blood sizzling and splashing.

Beyond the shadows and the flames, a second wave appeared and charged.

Mains opened fire. His com-rifle shook and bucked as he sent several spurts of nano-ordinance toward the enemy, then his suit display indicated that he was out of that ammunition. On instinct he switched to micro-dot munitions, more dangerous than nano—especially at close range, because of the risk of errant charges.

His vision flowered with a thousand explosions and a Xenomorph came apart. Another ploughed through its showering remains, hands clawed and reaching, its body slick and streamlined, glimmering with the promise of a painful, bloody death.

A plume of laser fire came from his left and the creature fell in two.

“Head to the surface!” Mains shouted. “There’s an opening at ten o’clock.”

“Too many of them!” Faulkner said.

“I’m out of nano,” Mains said, but his suit indicated that Snowdon and Lieder still carried a small supply. “Lieder, Snowdon, clear a path.”

He and Faulkner moved to the right and forward, picking off Xenomorphs as they scampered forward, and allowing their comrades the opportunity to open up with sustained bursts of exploding ordinance. The ground shook and a great swathe of ceiling crashed down, hazing the air with dust and smoke.

Mains instructed his suit to drop a sensor-based schematic of their location. If his vision was lessened, he could rely on the suit’s sensors. He didn’t
like
doing that, because he’d always been one to trust his own senses. Suits could go wrong.

“Single file!” Mains shouted, leading the way along the scorched path.

A shadow jumped ahead of him and he took it down with a laser blast. He jumped over it, emptying another shot into the domed head as he did so. Wet internal matter splashed across his feet and legs, and he cringed. He knew what Xenomorph blood could do. He’d never fought one, but he knew Marines who had. Many of those who survived were in veterans’ homes, melted and scarred by such encounters.

Their suits were designed to withstand Xenomorph blood. So far, they were holding up, but his suit’s power was down to seven percent, challenged and drained by the demands he was putting on it.

This is our last engagement
, he thought, and the idea was terrifying. They had to get to the surface, out through the atmosphere skin and into vacuum. The Xenos couldn’t follow them out there—at least not in theory—and they’d have a chance to make it to that docked ship. It was their last chance to make it off UMF 12.