Aliens vs Predator 2 - Hunter's Planet Page 7

  "You know what this means, don't you?"

  "There are a number of possibilities. The one I favor is that you're being taken for a ride. I knew that Livermore Evanston was no good the moment I met him."

  "These only mean that Evanston's got some relics of the yautja. Nothing more. Although it could mean that he knows something about them . . . ."

  "Care to list the possible speculations?"

  "One step at a time . . . right now . . ."

  There was a sound of voices. Distant voices, fortunately.

  Machiko and Attila looked at one another for a split second and then immediately hopped back out of the room. With remarkable speed and agility Attila punched the necessary buttons and closed the door behind them.

  They reassumed their places in their chairs, perusing books. A crew member walked past, gazed in for a moment, nodded good day, and then left.

  "Shall we go back in and take another look?" Attila asked after the footsteps had echoed away.

  "Maybe later. We've got a few more days' passage." Machiko nodded thoughtfully. "I need to think about this."

  They went back to their respective reading.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  The hunt was on!

  Abner Brookings, Esquire, lawyer to the bright and the powerful, and gun-fancier extraordinaire, strode through the yanga trees, a beautiful antique rifle cradled in his arms like a well-oiled baby. The sun of this world, a purplish, splotchy affair, was just topping a magnificent frieze of mountains in the distance, and the colors the rays made through the swirling mists against the leaves and vines and flowers and trees were spectacular. Brookings took a deep breath, tasting the sweet and sour life of this world, and again he felt the charge that the hunt always brought:

  Total Hereness.

  How often, in the docket of some musty judge's quarters, or even in rich corporate boardrooms, did his mind wander. Thereness, he called the state, and he decided that human beings lived most of their lives in that quarter-conscious state.

  Some people woke themselves up through Zen meditation. For some, music rang their chimes.

  Others-well, the list was endless, from grav-skiing to poga-licking.

  For Abner Brookings, though, it was the hunt.

  For him it was the Prospect as well as the Act of killing something.

  Today, though, the sensation was particularly acute, for the something was the sort of beastie who could just as likely turn around and kill him.

  "Watcha think, Ab?" said the woman walking abreast of him. "Pretty good day. Think we're going to bag that zangoid?" Petra Piezki grinned and shifted her hold on her large and heavy twelve-gauge shotgun. She was short and stocky with big shoulders, and she liked heavy artillery. Piezki was a lawyer in the same firm as Brookings, a little younger, and not quite the snappy dresser that the dapper A.B. was. In fact, she looked a little like Jungle Jill in her silly khakis. She was dark and gruffly friendly in her Russki sort of way, and a good gal to have a vodka martini with after nailing poor suckers in legal coffins. They'd gone hunting before, but never on this kind of extravagant planet, never for this kind of big game. Brookings could see his own excitement mirrored in the flushed cheeks and the stance of his partner.

  "I think we'd better bag that zangoid, or we're going to have to buy drinks for the whole bar tonight."

  Petra grinned. "We did boast last night, didn't we?"

  "Like the drunk legal eagles we are."

  "Well, it's not as though we haven't had any experience in this kind of sport."

  "Ducks and squirrels, some deer, one mountain lion."

  Petra looked taken aback. "Not! They were alien, fearsome creatures!"

  "The equivalent of the above."

  "Come on, Ab. Give us some credit."

  "What we've actually killed, Piezki, isn't much"

  "The sims, though. The sims!"

  "True-but `virtual reality' in my humble opinion is a term that should be changed to 'verisimilitude reality.' I assure you it's just not the same thing."

  "We'll see."

  "Right. After pointing that gun down the jaws of a charging zangoid, I'm pretty sure that we'll both have different views of this entire business. And goodness knows, on the plus side, it will be a bigger rush."

  There was a long pause, and Abner Brookings took the opportunity to gaze over the party, taking comfort in the numbers and the fact they had a couple of guides, looking competent and hearty as they surveyed with keen eyes the murmuring alien savanna.

  "You know," said Petra Piezki, "maybe we should have taken along heavier armament." She looked down at her beautiful shotgun with its elaborately carved handle and its beautiful metalwork. "Like a many-millimeter blaster or something."

  "Ah," said Brookings. "Getting a slight bit of jitters, are we?"

  "Of course not. It's just that well, from what those guys were saying about the particular zangoid that was being let loose this morning-I don't know.

  Maybe the first time out here on Blior we should have been a little more cautious, a little less sporting, huh?"

  Brookings hefted his own rifle. "Look, these guns are part of our collections, right?"

  Petra nodded, looking a little pale.

  "We paid plenty of money for them, right?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "So let's use them!"

  Petra thought about that for a moment as the sun burned through the mist and an exotic bird with rainbow plumage thrashed up out of the foliage.

  They were an odd couple, Abner and Petra. When they did criminal law work for the corporation, their nicknames were Bad Cop, Bad Cop. When they did any other kind of work, they were called Shark and Sharkette. There were a whole raft of names they were called behind their backs, but in Brookings's opinion when you were called nasty names as a lawyer, that just meant you were doing your job well.

  Abner Brookings was a full head taller than his compatriot in torts, and blond to boot, a handsome devil. He was forty-five years old, although with his rejuv treatments and his regular exercise and vitamin injections, he still looked a rigorous though experienced twenty-seven. There were those who whispered that Brookings sucked blood to stay young, and he would always air these statements to his office and colleagues with the addendum that if he indeed sucked blood, it was only metaphorical-and could you undo that collar a bit . . . I can't quite get at your jugular.

  He had a straight nose and a square chin; he almost looked prefab. Money had bought him his good looks, and he made little secret of that either-although he added that this way he didn't have to buy women. This was the one area of modesty in a generally arrogant and immodest individual, and he cherished it. He'd had a few wives here and there through his life, and a few children, whom he saw irregularly. Mostly now what he had was an exciting and fulfilling life and lots of money, beautiful women, adventure: a life, in his opinion, far beyond the dreams of lesser human beings.

  In truth, his allusion to "paying" for this expedition had been mere rhetoric, since there were actually professional matters to which the corporation had sent him here to attend.

  Business mixed with pleasure, so to speak.

  However, as true as that may have been, he was quite impressed with what had been done with this planet. As a hunter himself, when he'd heard about it, he'd been intrigued, but he'd had no idea of the true wonderland old man Evanston had concocted on this world so far from the system that laws didn't matter. This made the lawyer in Brookings nervous; but the man, the hunter, it excited.

  Anything was possible.

  They walked through the warming day a little farther in silence. The other hunters in the party chattered; Brookings could smell their jitters. And no wonder. These weren't true hunters; not even true amateurs. They were just rich wannabes who thought by plunking down cool credits they could put on some macho, some stink of cajones.

  Ha!

  There were ten of them, ranging from scrawny to obese. Some Company people; mostly r
emoras, entrepreneurial hangers-on to corporations or to the Independent Man himself, Livermore Evanston. The Man's dream, of course, was to make this world a businessman's rite of passage-all corporation flunkies, all "free market" sorts; anyone with a couple million to rub together and make some money to burn, money to spare should they want to get away and blow apart some unlikely game.

  Chances were, when those Disneyland days came, it would be a cream-puff planet, with no edge. Brookings would have to look for his thrills elsewhere. However, right now he'd get his kicks while he could.

  "So, Nickelson," he finally said, calling out to one of the prefabs. "Any sign of our guest of honor?"

  Hank Nickelson turned and looked through heavy lids at the lawyer. "Yo, Mr. Brookings." He lifted one of his brawny arms and indicated. "I got a reading from about five hundred kays ahead." The man's accent was gilded in Bronx. Brookings wasn't sure it was real. It was a pure tough-guy accent, and maybe The Man had trained his guide especially to talk in Tough Guy.

  Take the other hunt leader, Hans Beinz.

  Va. Ve haf der pheromone tracker on high. She is in our sights." Big teeth shone through a scowl on the Wienerschnitzel face.

  A fake German accent, no doubt learned from old World War II films.

  Give me a break, thought Brookings.

  Then again, maybe it made the excitement and uncertainty more entertaining for the others. For Brookings, though, it was like being in a bad VirtReal Adventure.

  Oh, well, when the actual shooting started, real reality would take over.

  "Good," asserted one of the newbies, a twitchy little geek in glitter-blue sunglasses and mousy mustache. Name of Sherman something, and he'd drunk milk the night before at dinner. "I . . . I can't wait for the action to start."

  "You sound as though you're trying to convince yourself, friend," said Brookings, unable to resist the opening.

  "Going to be nasty, I can just feel it," said Petra. "I just hope we all coughed up the insurance premiums that were strongly suggested. Particularly the mauling-and-lost-limbs charge."

  That got some eyes bugging.

  "Hey, goofball," said Hank. "We don't need none of that, now. Everybody's gonna be safe, long as they follow the rules. And rule number nine is, Keep your big mouths shut if your group head tells you to." Glare. "And I'm tellin' you."

  Petra shook her head and laughed. She looked over to Brookings for backup, but the lawyer just gave her a "This is your shit you just stepped in, colleague" look that he'd perfected with partners in court.

  Petra shut her mouth.

  After a while Hans looked up from his machine encumbered arm, a puzzled expression knit over his meaty face. " Funny. I'm not getting anything on the motion sensors."

  "Maybe the zangoid is asleep."

  "What? With the sun up? The thing had a good rest last night. Morning is its most active period."

  "Maybe it's caught something, and it's chowin' down."

  Hans tongue probed his cheek thoughtfully. "Ja. Ja. Must be!" His eyes, though, did not look sanguine.

  "What you think, Petra?" said Brookings, drolly. "Perhaps the fearsome critter has found a perch on a tree somewhere and is presently patiently waiting to feast on your liver."

  Petra smiled "No, on your brain, good buddy. It likes soft food."

  Brookings let off a hearty chuckle and slapped his colleague on the back. "That's the spirit. Stupid jokes. Bonhomie. Bonding. That's what makes this a hunting safari of some quality and note."

  With renewed vigor they advanced to the forefront of the party, following immediately behind the two leaders. The others in the group, though, did not look so reassured. In fact, the general consensus, if expressions were to be read, was that perhaps they should all just go back and play something lighter and less troublesome, like a few holes of golf.

  The zangoid had been beacon marked. Hans and Hank followed their sensors and tracers into a large copse of tall trees, a denser part of junglelike terrain. The smells were more pungent here, the rising damp steam more oppressive.

  They filled out into a small clearing.

  There was something in the middle of a clearing, and Brookings could see the digitals and dials grow excited.

  Horns pointed. Va. There."

  "What's it doing?"

  "Just lying there," said Hans.

  "Odd," said the other leader. "Zangoids prefer to remain in the brush. You generally have to flush them out. What's it doing in the open?"

  "Maybe it's a retarded specimen," said Brookings.

  Both leaders flashed dirty looks at the lawyer. They were big and dominating enough that Brookings cringed a bit at their obvious displeasure. He'd have to be a little more discreet with his quips out here. He couldn't hide behind the robes of a judge, and these boys could kick his tail, easy.

  Still, it gave him a little thrill to be so saucy with them; a part of the dare of this whole expedition.

  They approached the zangoid.

  The beast was lying prone on the ground, on its back, quivering.

  Zangoids are generally feline in principle, with a lizardy head and hide and six limbs-four legs and two arms. Some called them "snake centaurs" because of their resemblance to creatures of Greek mythology. They were fearsome beasts with talons on mobile limbs, claws on their "hands," and sharp teeth in their head. They were most definitely carnivores, preferring their meat from the fresh, quivering, and bloody counter. Although they hunted in packs, a zangoid on its own was a far more fearsome and dangerous beastie, which made it an ideal hunting animal. Thus it had been imported to Blior, and thus it was being used for preliminary safaris. The leaders had hunted lots of zangoids before and knew their habits, making this a reasonably safe expedition, despite the obvious snarling viciousness of the things.

  However, Abner Brookings could tell from the expressions on Hank's and Hans's faces that lying down on its back in the middle of a clearing was not generally one of the zangoid's known habits.

  "What's it doing?" piped one of the subamateurs.

  "Is it having some kind of attack?" asked another. "Maybe it's sick."

  There were other suggestions, including calling it a day and going home. However, Hank put up his hand for silence.

  With his gun poked forward, he took , a few steps closer to the creature.

  Brookings watched, his own safety off, as the zangoid went through what appeared to be a series of seizures. Its wide eyes were rolled back in its head, and its splayed legs trembled spastically.

  "Look. There's something growing in its chest," whispered Petra

  "Looks likes a pulsing growth or something," added another hunter.

  "Shhhh!" said Hans with full Germanic sibilance.

  Brookings watched with interest and disappointment. There was plainly something wrong with the zangoid, which, while interesting enough, meant that in all likelihood they weren't going to be able to hunt the thing.

  A bulge had indeed formed in the creature's lower chest, and it seemed to pulse, as though the zangoid's heart was beating far too hard. The animal's mouth had opened and snapped closed, and it had bit off part of its tongue. Rich red blood streamed down its side.

  Every movement of the beast screamed its clear state of delirious agony. Its lizard eyes seemed expanded to the point of popping out of their sockets. It stank of blood and urine and feral fear.

  The whole atmosphere around it was charged with an electric precognition of terror and violence; Brookings could feel it thrumming through the very ground. It raised his hackles.

  He thrilled.

  He could tell that Petra felt it as well. The young, stocky woman looked on the verge of bolting and running. Brookings placed a comforting grip on her arm, staying her. Then he turned his attention back to the event at hand.

  "Stay back," cautioned Hans. "We don't haf any idea what's happened."

  "Shit, man. The Boss pays a lot of money for dese things," said Hank. "He's gonna wanna know just what went wrong with d
is one and-"

  "Jesus Christ!" cried one of the new women.

  With good reason.

  The chest was expanding again, this time not retracting, just growing like some fleshy, bony balloon. A bulbous, puslike, veiny head formed at its peak, as though it were some kind of gigantic carbuncle in bad need of lancing.

  It burst.

  Blood spattered in all directions, a particularly large splatter falling and drenching Hank. But this was all peripheral to the main show, which Brookings watched with horrified fascination, rifle down and ready.

  Emerging from the hole came a crimson-drenched wormlike creature the size of a heftily muscled arm.

  "What the hell is that?" cried Petra.

  "Some kind of parasite, it would seem," said Brookings. "Some kind of creature on this world they don't know about? If so, it has an amazing gestation period if the beast was just let loose this morning."

  "Nein, " said Hans. "This zangoid was let loose several days ago to adjust to the environment. Experiment."

  Both the hunter-guides looked as though they were undecided about whether to try to capture the creature or just blast it.

  The creature didn't wait for their decision. It squiggled out of its host-clearly dead now, damaged tongue lolling, ribs spoked up like tombstones-and scurried for cover.

  "Quick," cried Hans. "Hank-shoot it!" He raised his own blaster.

  Hank wiped off a layer of blood and raised his own weapon.

  Before either could twitch a trigger, however, something tore through the shrubbery. It was going almost too fast to see, but Brookings, who had excellent eyesight, made out the dim outline of some kind of boomeranglike device.

  It whooshed through the air.

  It sliced into the thick worm creature, cleanly lopping off its head.

  The worm thing writhed in death throes.

  The device that had killed it whisked back into the bushes, disappearing from sight.

  "What the hell-" said Hans.

  Brookings crouched, looking around. "It looks as though we're not the only ones hunting today."

  "What do we do?"