The Travels and Travails of Niccolò Machiavelli, Citizen of Florence
This collection consolidates the stories of Niccolò Machiavelli, and his adventures with the Predators and Aliens.
Lions and Foxes
The Predators are tough, but they don't have the Universe to themselves. Fortunately, they are well advised.
[Author's Note: This story acts as a bridge between the Predator/Alien story arc and the Prometheus/Alien story arc.]
My name is Niccolò Machiavelli. I was born in Florence in the Year of Our Lord 1469, and I left Earth, as I now know it is called, in 1527. Since that time, I have lived – with long periods of artificial sleep, and assisted by their strange medicines and potions – with the race called the Yautja. They came to my planet, specifically to my beloved Florence, during the hot summer of 1526, to Hunt. There were three, and with my advice the military forces of the Cardinal Guillo de' Medici killed two of them. The final one intended to destroy the city so their presence amongst the people of my planet would not be revealed, but I persuaded him to spare us. His condition was that I accompany him, and work for him and his people as an adviser. I was given to understand that he – his name is Rom'agna, and he is a senior and respected figure amongst his people – had read my little book on advice to princes and found some value in it.
So now I, who like other people had assumed to live in a place that was the centre of the universe and to be masters of all Creation, reside on another planet, having travelled in a ship that plies between stars as easily as the ships of my time sailed from one island to another. I suppose I am a prisoner, but it is not an unpleasant prison, and my task is to write and advise – tasks in which I find great satisfaction. I know that the Yautja regularly return to Earth to engage in their ritualistic Hunts, and take people from there as well. But the alternative would be the entire destruction of the planet, and the lives of the many outweigh the deaths of the few.
Despite their great prowess in combat, their remarkable weapons, and their incredible machines, there are many things that the Yautja do not understand. One way to put it is that they understand tactics but not strategy, how to fight a battle but not how to win a war. I have tried to teach several of them the game of chess, as a guide to strategic thinking, but they neither understand it nor find it in any way interesting.
But they are aware of this shortcoming, which I why I have been pressed into their service.
By my rough reckoning, on Earth it would now be near the end of the twenty-first century. I understand from Rom'agna that there have been several contacts between humans and the vicious, serpent-like creatures which the Yautja called the 'hard meat' (they call humans 'soft meat'), but that nevertheless the knowledge of them, and of the Yautja, is known only to a few.
I have written several monographs on the hard meat – it is not really in the nature of the Yautja to record history, aside from the Songs of the Hunt. The serpents have long been known to the Yautja, and the Yautja took them to Earth many centuries before I was born, as a part of the Ritual of the Chosen. At some point, the serpents became too strong and numerous to be defeated by Hunting methods, and a whole civilisation had to be destroyed as a means of controlling them.
I know, as well, that the Yautja have seeded serpents on many planets of their dominion, as targets for Hunts, especially Hunts wherein young Yautja prove themselves for adulthood. But the serpents have their own sort o
f strength, and seem to appear on planets and in places far away from where the Yautja seeded them. I believe that one day the Yautja, for all their power, will fall. They believe that their society reached a pinnacle of perfection many centuries ago, and since that time it does not appear to have changed in any way. This is their critical weakness. Eventually, the insidiousness of the hard meat will overcome them, or perhaps the ingenuity and energy of my own people.
I put this view to Rom'agna (using the book-sized box that translates our words so each can understand the other), when he recently visited my chamber. He did not seem surprised; I had the impression that he had considered this and reached a similar conclusion to my own.
"One day?" he said. "But not today?"
"And not tomorrow, either," I said. "Nor the day after tomorrow or the day after that. But one day."
"Probably," he said. "But not soon."
While Rom'agna sometimes comes to my chamber to merely talk – although many of the Yautja find the rooms I have been allocated insufficiently hot for their liking – on this occasion he had a specific matter in mind.
"Are you aware," he said, "of the race called the Mala'kak?"
"I am," I said. "I recently collected some accounts and wrote a short essay on them." I took the paper from my bookshelf and handed it to him. I had even made some drawings, based on the descriptions given to me by several of the Yautja. The Mala'kak are warlike, but not in the same way as the Yautja, and indeed seem mainly to fight amongst themselves. Their ships and machines are as large and sophisticated as those of the Yautja, and the people themselves are of comparable height and strength – if completely hairless, and with a smooth white skin.
The Yautja and the Mala'kak have, since encountering each other several centuries ago, lived in a state of mutual suspicion, each probing for possible weaknesses that could prove to be a crucial advantage. It is like a state of affairs I encountered before the capture of Pisa in 1509: two cities that are too evenly matched to risk an open battle, so instead engage in small conflicts at the edges of their areas of control. Eventually, one gains an advantage – an alliance with another power, recruitment of a force of mercenaries, or the emergence of a particularly clever general – and through trumpeting its advantage wins the war, often without a shot actually being fired.
After Rom'agna had read my paper, he said: "If it came to an open conflict between the Yautja and the Mala'kak, which do you think would emerge victorious?"
I considered the matter. "The Yautja have many strengths," I said. "But also a crucial weakness: you are relatively few in number – only about as many as there were people in my city of Florence, I think. There are many more of the Mala'kak. But they also have a weakness: they fight amongst each other, so their advantage counts for much less. There are two main factions, and two smaller ones that sometimes act in unison, and each faction controls an area of territory. But the fact that you are asking me this question tells me that something has recently changed for the Mala'kak. Is this the case?"
Rom'agna nodded. "It appears that the Mala'kak have themselves reached the point of balancing their factional conflicts," he said. "My concern is that if they cease to fight themselves they will look for other enemies."
I considered. "A very real concern," I said. "In which case, the Yautja might act – not openly, of course – to ensure that there is no balance between the factions that might prove the basis for negotiations and an enduring peace."
"And just how," said Rom'agna, "would we do that?"
"To upset the balance, assist one side or another."
"They might not accept our assistance."
"Probably not. The trick is to make them think that they are using you rather than the other way around."
Rom'agna was silent, pondering my words. "So which of the major factions would we assist?" he said eventually.
"Neither," I said. "The two major factions will be watching each other closely, and they have an interest in stability. Our target should be the larger of the two smaller factions."
"Why is that?"
"Because the smaller of the two will have accepted their low position. The larger of the two will have ambitions to become a major player, and will not be closely scrutinised by the others. They will also be concerned that if the two major factions combine then the resulting bloc will seek to swallow up the smaller ones. Ambition, fear and resentment make a potent combination. I understand that that faction has a particular interest in using living weapons – bioweapons, I believe you call them."
"Yes," said Rom'agna. "There is no honour in such weapons."
"Which matters not a whit to them," I said. "If I understand what I have been told correctly, they have sought to develop several bioweapons but have not been able to develop anything sufficiently strong and aggressive to be entirely effective against the other Mala'kak."
"So I believe," said Rom'agna. "But how could we assist them? We have no expertise in bioweapons."
I thought about this for a time. Eventually, I hit upon an idea. "The creatures you call the hard meat," I said.
Rom'agna showed the expression that, for the Yautja, indicated great surprise.
"But when introduced to a population that is not familiar with them," he said, "the hard meat can be extremely difficult to control."
I said nothing, letting him reach the conclusion by himself.
Eventually, he said: "Which is your plan."
"It is," I said.
Part II
Rom'agna had asked – if that is the right word – me to accompany him to his meeting with the representatives of the Mala'kak faction. It was on a barren, windswept planet, where the Mala'kak had established a facility to undertake investigations into new bioweapons.
Rom'agna's ship was preparing to land when he turned to me. "Niccolò," he said. "I am known as a great Hunter. But in this matter, my skills may not be so valuable."
I nodded. "Truly, you are strong and your aim is always true," I said. "But if you want a cunning diplomat, ask a man from Florence. So with your permission, I will be pleased to do the talking."
"You have my permission on this matter," he said.
The ship touched down near a line of massive stone domes, and we were met by a delegation of Mala'kak. Rom'agna, a small troop of his clan-soldiers, and myself were escorted into one of the domes, and then into a Mala'kak ship buried inside one of the domes. We were taken to a bare, cold room which held only a long table and several chairs.
Rom'agna and I sat on one side of the table, and the two leading Mala'kak, who introduced themselves as Katar and Rig'es, sat on the other.
My translation device would, Rom'agna had told me, allow me to understand their language, and for them to understand me.
"And just who are you?" said Katar to me. "A pet of the Yautja?"
"I am here as an honest broker and intermediary," I said. "My client, Rom'agna, has heard of your recent important breakthroughs in the area of bioweapons. He has also heard of the machinations of other factions of the Mala'kak. He finds the implications of those events … interesting."
"Why should he care what happens within the Mala'kak?" said Rig'es. "The Yautja are interested only in their hunting."
"Many of them are," I said. "There are others who are starting to chafe at the old ways and rituals. They are seeking the possibility of gaining territory of their own. You and he might be able to reach an arrangement of mutual benefit."
"And what," said Katar, "could you possibly offer us?"
"A way to make your new weapons much more powerful," I said.
Two of the Yautja clan-soldiers came forward. They were carrying large covered boxes, which they set down on the table.
I uncovered the first of them. It was a glass chamber filled with liquid. It contained a snake-like stage of a serpent. It was alive; in fact, when Katar leaned towards the glass for a closer look the creature made a lunge for him. He started. But he was obviously impressed.
I uncovered the second box. It was an egg, containing a crab-like creature which was the first stage of the serpent's growth. The box was cold to prevent the creature from hatching.
"On my planet, different breeds of cattle are crossed to produce a new breed with the best characteristics of both," I said. "I suggest that you utilise the same principle. With different methods, of course."
Rig'es considered the contents of the two boxes. "If we were to accept these, what would you want in return?" he said.
"These creatures, supplementing and improving your own weapons, would put you in a dominant position within the Mala'kak," I said. "For this, the price is twenty inhabited planets, for Rom'agna to control as his own."
"Twenty!?" said Katar. "I hardly think so!"
Rig'es looked more closely at the contents of the boxes. "But I suppose a possibility is … ten," he said.
"Ten?" I said, pretending surprise. "That is entirely unacceptable to my client. We would not consider less then eighteen."
"Perhaps," said Katar, "twelve might be possible."
"Fourteen," I said. "And you're cutting my throat."
"Your throat needs to be cut," said Rig'es. "But fourteen it is. And that is only because we are in a generous mood."
Our business concluded, Rom'agna, the other Yautja and I departed from the room, leaving the boxes behind.
As we walked back to the ship, Rom'agna said: "I do not pretend to understand what happened there. But I hope that I have not become the owner of fourteen inhabited planets."
"There is no danger of that," I said. "They do not intend to honour their agreement."
"And how do you know that?"
"Because they have what they want, and they believe that they cheated us on the price. Mind you, a wise prince does his best to keeps his bargains, when it is in his interest to do so. But the Mala'kak are not wise, I think. They believe they are lions, but in affairs of state one must be both a lion and a fox."
"Ah. I recall that your book has a chapter on this. I did not understand it then. Perhaps I do now. So they will now infect the Mala'kak with the hard meat?"
"We might hope so. My concern is that this faction might under-estimate the strength of the creatures, and be overwhelmed by them here, on this planet, before they can use them against the other factions. But if that happens, your position will be no worse than before. And the hard meat have a way of spreading, don't they? One way or another."
"They do," said Rom'agna. "Niccolò, you have been of great assistance on this matter, and in many others. Perhaps it is time that I allowed you to return to your home."
I gasped in surprise. Home. Earth. Florence.
But as I thought more deeply of the matter, my heart fell. My wife and children were long dust. I doubted that there was much of Earth that I would recognise now. And what would an adviser to princes do? My name would have been forgotten, my books and writings lost to history.
"My thanks," I said. "But there is no place there for me."
"Then I hope you will remain as my adviser," said Rom'agna. "In affairs of state and strategy."
"As long," I said, "as I am permitted to speak the truth."
"I would not want it any other way," said Rom'agna.
END
Predators' End
Nothing beside remains.
[Author's Note: This story is a sequel to the story Lions and Foxes, continuing the narration byNiccolò Machiavelli of his time with the Yautja race.]
While it is several centuries since I departed my beloved city of Florence, I often dream of it. Most of all, I remember its diversity: its artists and shopkeepers, its cooks and sailors, its engineers and prostitutes. If something needed to be done, there was always someone who could do it. Fathers taught sons, mothers taught daughters, masters taught apprentices.
Perhaps that is what I find strangest in living with the Yautja. As far as I can tell, there are only Hunters. True, they have many wonderful and surprising machines, but when I ask one of the Yautja how this or that works I receive only a blank stare. Not only do they not know, they do not care. Their huge ships, their weapons, even the little box that translates our tongues: they all come from a far time of Yautja history.
This is, I believe, the reason for Rom'agna's request that I begin to compile a history of the Yautja race – a general history, not merely another collection of Songs of the Hunt. There are archives of books – or, rather, the electronic tablets that record words and information and are read in a manner like a book – but no-one has read them for many, many years.
Durable as the machines of the Yautja are, they remain machines, with all the flaws and limitations of any machine. To take an example from the records I have examined: three hundred years ago (that is, of my years), the Yautja had over a hundred of the ships they use to traverse the vast distances between the stars and planets. Two hundred years ago, there were about eighty. One hundred years, thirty-six. At present, they have only sixteen. If a ship – or any other piece of equipment – breaks down, no-one knows how to repair it.
When I first realised that the natural life-span of the Yautja is very long (although they are re-invigorated by periods of cryo-sleep in special tubes), I thought that they were one of Creation's most fortunate species. Now, I am not so sure. They breed very slowly, and they train their young only to Hunt. (It occurs to me, as I write, that I have never encountered any Yautja females; I am not sure they even exist.) The Yautja path, once set, never changes – and their path was set many centuries ago. My species, on the other hand, live quickly and change often. I sometimes wonder meandering, dangerous, wonderful where their path has led them. But I do not regret my decision to remain with the Yautja.
I often discuss these matters with Rom'agna. He is not the leader of the race – as far as I can tell, there are no leaders here, in the sense of princes or senators – but he is a respected figure and, by the standards of the race, a creature of thought and consideration.
"I am concerned," he said to me recently, "that soon we will have no working ships left."
I nodded. "According to my calculations, that will happen within fifty years," I said. "There are books in the archives that explain the basis of their operation, and presumably how they can be repaired. But the process is complex and would take time to learn. It is beyond my own understanding. When I lived in Florence, the most sophisticated machine I had ever seen was one that was designed to throw large rocks. Yet there was also a great appetite for learning."
"I do not think there are any Yautja who would choose spending time on books over Hunting," he said. "The people we have who might be called technicians – those who prepare our medical kits, for instance – do those tasks only on the occasions when they are not Hunting or training for Hunting. Which is not very often."
"And therein lies the problem," I said.
He gave a gesture of agreement. "There is another matter, Niccolò," he said. "I believe that you will soon need to undergo another regular treatment of cryo-sleep and organ rejuvenation. There are only a dozen of the tubes still operating, and there are many Yautja that wish to use them. But I have said that one should be made available for you. You should go to the facility tomorrow. I understand that you will have to sleep for five of your years."
"I will," I said. "And I trust that you will still be as you are now when I awaken."
He made an expression that might have been a smile. "I have no plans for changing," he said.
I have never enjoyed the process of cryo-sleep and the potions that go with it, although I long ago accepted it as the price for my unnaturally extended life. In particular, I dislike the difficult experience of re-awakening. When I was finally fully awake and the tube opened, I knew immediately that there had been great and unexpected events.
The medical facility was deserted, and large parts of it were effectively in ruins. Some of the machines were still running, powered by the generators located far below the city, and when I found a chronometer I realised that I had slept for nearly ninety years.
I left the facility and made by way back to my chamber. Everywhere were signs of combat and destruction, and soon I realised why.
The hard meat had come.
I encountered numerous corpses of the alien creatures, cast-off skins, and empty eggs. I hurried, knowing that to dally in one place would quickly invite the attentions of the serpents. When I finally reached my chamber, I found it untouched. But it contained one of the holographic tablets that the Yautja use for recording information. When I activated it, an image of Rom'agna appeared.
"Niccolò," he said. "It has been three years since we last spoke. "In that time, the hard meat have reached this planet. When and how they arrived, no-one knows, but they appeared in vast numbers, so it is likely that they came many years ago and have remained in hiding, building an army. Already, half of the Yautja have fallen, and those of us who remain are hard pressed.
"These hard meat are strong and clever. They have some features not unlike our own, which has led me to think that at some point they used one of the Yautja as a host. They have also shown themselves able to think in tactical terms, choosing the best time and place to strike.
"I remember what you said about the Yautja not having changed in many centuries. I believe you said in your book that a prince must adapt to circumstances. Perhaps I should have read that passage more closely.
"The medical facility where you were sleeping was attacked early, and damaged severely – perhaps the hard meat made it a target so we would not be able to obtain medicines for our wounded. I do not know if you survived. If you wake and find this message, know that I have hidden a small ship which you can use to escape this planet. Its location is at the end of this message, and it has supplies of fuel and food, as well as instructions for its use. You might choose to return to your planet, you might choose to go elsewhere. I hope, in any case, that you might one day write the story of the Yautja people, as well as you can."
In the image, he began to pull his weapons on: the shoulder blaster, the knives, the spear, the spiked throwing disk. He picked up his helmet.
Before he put it on, he said: "We met as enemies but I believe we part as friends. I believe your people have a saying at such times: good luck. And goodbye, Niccolò."
He put his helmet on and hefted his spear. Then the image faded and was gone.
A set of co-ordinates showing the location of the ship appeared. It was not far.
I gathered as many of the Yautja books as I could carry, as well as implements for writing and recording.
On a shelf, I found a copy – yellowed paper, faded ink – of my little book. I had brought it with me from Florence. I laid it next to the tablet with Rom'agna's message. A gift for parting.
I found the little spacecraft. It was still capable of operation, and I was able to learn how to use it. And so I departed the broken planet, and its vanished people.
I will go … where? The map in the little ship indicates the presence of an artificial island in space, a creation of people from Earth, within a reasonable travelling distance. Perhaps I will go there, and see what has become of my descendants. One story has ended. Another may be beginning.
END
The Auriga
When dealing with the aliens, there is no such thing as safe.
[Author's Note: This is the third story narrated by Niccolò Machiavelli, in the series which begins with Lions and Foxes, and continues with Predators' End.]
It was only after many months of travel – much of the time asleep in the cryo-tube of the little ship – that I approached the space-island indicated on the map. I did not know what to make of it. It was, after all, centuries since I had last seen and spoken to members of my own species. Rom'agna had provided some information in the tales of hunting he had recounted but I still had very little idea of what to expect.
From a distance, I studied the island for a long time. Eventually, I concluded that it was essentially military in nature, a far but recognisable descendant of castles and fortified camps. This could be an advantage to me, as I had often dealt with men of a military nature.
After a lengthy period of consideration, I turned on the transmission device that would, according to the instructions left for me, enable me to speak across the void.
"My name is Niccolò Machiavelli," I said. "I seek contact."
There was a lengthy delay. A message came back but it was in a language I did not understand – albeit human. I cannot deny that I was nevertheless delighted to once again hear a human tongue.
I repeated my message. After a few minutes, another voice came back – this one speaking in a language that was a similar to my own Italianete speech.
"Who did you say you were?" said the voice.
"My name is Niccolò Machiavelli," I said. "To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Private Vincente Distephano," said the voice. "Ha! I always knew the Italians got around!"
"I am from Florence," I said. "What is your home?"
"New York," he said. "But my people came from Turin."
"Ah, I know Turin," I said. "I studied Latin there."
"Ha!" he said again. An excitable people, the Turinese.
He gave me directions on how to dock with the island. It was called, he told me, the USM Auriga. I assume that the designation was a reference to the constellation, or perhaps to the famous slave of that name.
I guided the little ship into a chamber as instructed, with large doors opening and then closing behind me. When the chamber was again filled with air, a number of military men approached. I could tell immediately which of them was the one in command here.
I got out of the little ship to face the men. I gave them my salutations, which Private Distephano, who was with the group, translated. He introduced me to the commander, General Martin Perez. I knew the type, and I knew what would impress him.
The Yautja ship contained a number of their weapons, including two pistols which shot a sort of concussive energy bolt. Rom'agna had told me that such weapons could fire thousands of such bolts.
"General, please accept this as a gift, in return for your courtesy in allowing me to board," I said, handing him one of the pistols.
Generals always like guns, as did this general. He – through Distephano – welcomed me fulsomely, and offered me food and quarters, and said that I should tell him my story over dinner. I accepted.
Throughout this, I carried the translation device that had allowed me to communicate with the Yautja and other races. If I understood it correctly, the box 'heard' a new language, and, when it had heard enough, could translate one to another. As Italian and the language spoken by Perez – the tongue of the English, which I had heard once or twice before – were not very different, it did not take the box long to perform its task.
Over a meal, I recounted my story. I was surprised to learn that he was familiar with my little book and other writings; in fact, he said they were required reading in the training of senior military officers. I will not say I was displeased with this news.
And so I remained on the Auriga for several days, as a guest of the general, with Distephano acting as guide and companion. Through Distephano, I gained an outline of the many events, adventures and travails experienced by my people.
On the third day, I was walking with General Perez, when I asked him about the function of the facility. In answer, he took me to a mezzanine balcony, overlooking an open area that Distephano had earlier told me was called a 'basketball court'. On this day, the court was deserted, save for a tall dark-haired woman. As I watched, she walked to one end of the court, and then, without apparently looking, threw the ball she was carrying over her head and towards the far end of the area. It sailed unerringly through a metal hoop.
I watched the woman for a while. She did not smile, but moved with a sense of strange and graceful purpose. She had a figure 8 marked on her forearm. There was something about her that seemed oddly familiar.
Another man was observing her from the balcony.
"Doctor Wren," said General Perez, in the disdainful tone that men of action reserve for men who, they believe, think too much.
"General," said Wren, in a tone of equal disdain. Perez introduced me to Wren, whose title was 'Chief Scientist'.
Wren turned back to the woman. "A remarkable achievement, don't you think?" he said to me.
"That depends on what you are trying to achieve," I said.
Wren smiled – a smile like a leather glove. "What are we trying to achieve?" he said. "Well, to make her … more … than she was before. Stronger. Tougher. A better fighter. So we can learn from her and apply the lessons and the technology more broadly. It is an old aim, I admit. We went as far as we could with training and chemical supplements. We needed something more … radical. A secret ingredient."
"And where," I said, "did you find a secret ingredient?"
"Let me show you," he said.
The three of us left the woman and went to an area which was a collection of laboratories. We came to a room with a metal door. Wren pushed a button on the wall, and the metal door slid aside.
I gasped in surprise and more than a little fear.
Hard meat.
"Don't worry," said Wren. "There is an unbreakable transparent partition between us and it. It can't escape. We have taken all precautions. We know what we have. It's safe."
"I doubt it," I said.
"This is why," said Perez, "this facility is located a long way from populated areas. And of course has several dozen well-armed, well-trained soldiers ready for any problem."
"This is the last specimen that we currently hold," said Wren. "Although we have made … arrangements … to rectify that."
I suddenly realised why the way in which the dark-haired woman moved seemed familiar.
"Yes, Ripley is a key part of this project," said Wren.
I watched the alien pace around the cell. Every now and then, it stopped, apparently looking more closely at some little piece of the wall.
"Sometimes," said Perez, staring at the alien, "they seem almost intelligent."
"Well, they aren't," said Wren. "Or, rather, only in the way that animals can be intelligent."
I said nothing, but I thought of the Yautja.
I excused myself. I returned to the little ship and collected the other bolt-gun, which I placed in a secret pocket of my coat. I determined that I would leave the Auriga as soon as possible. However, I had been invited to share a meal with General Perez, and I was reluctant to depart without saying a proper farewell.
As I ate with the general, I told him that I would be leaving within the day. He asked me where I would go. To tell the truth, I had not given this matter much thought.
"May I suggest," he said, "that you go to Earth, and there make yourself known to certain military officers, as well as executives of a company called Weyland-Yutani. I will send a message ahead, and provide you with a list of names, as well as directions on how to reach Earth, of course. I am sure they would be pleased to use your particular expertise – and also to examine your ship and what it carries."
I thanked him for his generosity.
We were finishing the meal when an alarm sounded. Distephano, carrying a big gun, came rushing into the dining room.
"It's out and moving!" he said.
In a moment, Perez was up, and he and Distephano were rushing through the corridors. I trailed along behind.
"It must have found a weakness in the cell wall," I heard Distephano saying.
"Not important at the moment," said Perez, as he drew the pistol he always carried. "Where is it going, do we know?"
"Last seen heading towards the gym," said Distephano.
"Anyone in there?" said Perez.
Distephano spoke into the little radio he carried. A voice came back.
"Ripley," said Distephano to Perez.
"Dammit!" said Perez. "Have a heavy-gear squad meet us at the main door. No-one goes in until I get there."
We arrived at the main door of the gym, where we met a quartet of armed soldiers. Perez pushed the button to open the door, and we went in.
The basketball court was empty, save for Ripley. She was bouncing a ball slowly. She turned to face us.
"It got out and it's coming for you," said Perez to her.
"I know," she said.
"It's not safe here," he said.
"No, it isn't," she said. She looked past him at me. She stared at me for a few seconds. Then she went back to bouncing the ball.
"Anyway, looks like it isn't here," said Distephano, glancing around.
"Wait," said Ripley.
There was a sudden hissing sound – from above.
The alien was on the balcony.
It launched itself into the air, crashing down a few metres from Ripley.
I had not realised how large they were when seen close. How terrifying.
It seemed to be staring at Ripley. Slowly, it moved towards her.
The soldiers, including Perez, raised their guns.
"I wouldn't do that," said Ripley, "unless you want acid all over this nice clean floor. And yourselves as well."
The alien was looking only at Ripley. She dropped the ball and let it roll away. She leaned towards the alien. She pursed her lips in a gesture not unlike a kiss.
Suddenly, the inner jaw of the alien lanced out at her. But Ripley was ready. She dropped to the floor and somehow slipped through the creature's legs. In a moment, she had climbed onto its back, holding onto its massive, curved skull. She punched a particular spot, and the alien gave a shriek.
The alien, enraged now, twisted and swung its body. Ripley lost her grip and was thrown across the court. She managed to turn herself in mid-air, landing on her feet, like a cat. But now she was cornered. She looked at the alien. She smiled.
The alien charged at her, snarling and hissing.
I drew the Yautja gun and fired. The bolt hit the alien and knocked it into the far wall. But its skin was not pierced by the concussive bolt, so there was no shower of acid.
Carefully, Distephano approached it where it lay. He prodded it with the end of his gun. It was dead.
"Pretty cool, Nick!" he said.
"Outstanding, Mr Machiavelli," said Perez to me.
"You don't live in a society of predators for centuries without learning one or two things," I said, as I put the gun away.
Ripley looked at me. She said nothing.
Perez activated his radio. "End alarm and stand down," he said into it. "Tell Wren that he can have a dead one to play with."
"Very well," said the voice on the other end. "And, sir, the Betty has come into sensor range."
"With your permission, General," I said, "I will take my leave."
"That's a pity, but I understand," said Perez. "I will get you that information right away and have it relayed to your ship, and send that message to Earth, before our other guests arrive."
Perez led the soldiers out, leaving me alone with Ripley.
"I believe you know," I said, "how this is going to end. How things always end when these creatures are involved. My ship could carry two people. I would be pleased to take you away from this place."
She continued to stare at me. Then she gave a shrug so faint that I could have imagined it.
So I turned and went back to my little ship. Within a few minutes, the USM Auriga was behind me.
And so I eventually returned to Earth, after such a long time absent. I made contact with some of the people that Perez had recommended, and provided them with some machines and weapons from the Yautja ship. In return, I negotiated a very significant sum of money.
I made many inquiries, but no-one could tell me what became of the Auriga, Perez, Distephano, Wren, and Ripley.
I live in Florence once again. I teach at a small university, and spend a good amount of each day writing of my travels and travails, and recording the story of the Yautja race, as best I can. The life-extending treatment given to me by the Yautja is now fading, and thus so is my time.
My name is Niccolò Machiavelli. I was born in Florence in the Year of Our Lord 1469. I will see, perhaps, only one more summer. So be it. I am at peace.
END
Florence 1527
The Predators have been hunting on Earth for a long time. Not always without challenge.
[Author's Note: This story acts as a prequel to the trilogy of stories narrated by Niccolò Machiavelli: Lions and Foxes, Predators' End, and The Auriga.]
The summer of 1527 was unduly hot in the city of Florence but the matter which occupied the mind of my lord and employer, the Cardinal Guillo de' Medici, was not the heat but the problem of the Syracuse mercenaries. This band of thirty soldiers had, indeed, proved extremely useful in our recent conflict with the city of Livorno, when the troop had confronted and defeated a force of over a hundred Livornese soldiers. But now, despite having received full payment for their services, the Syracuse were showing themselves to be reluctant to leave our fair city and its pleasures. And everywhere they went, every tavern and brothel, they left behind a trail of destruction and disarray. They had even engaged in fights with the Firenze Guard, the soldiers that answered to the Cardinal and acted as the police of the city.
"A wise prince should not allow challenges to his authority before the eyes of his people," I said to the Cardinal, as we discussed the matter in his official chamber, in the palace.
"I agree, but I am reluctant to make enemies of such a band of soldiers," he said. "They would think nothing of offering their services to Livorno, or any other city."
"Then our goal should be to remove them from this city but on as friendly terms as possible," I said.
An official entered. "Dakur, head of the mercenaries, has arrived, as per your request," he said. "I regret to say that he appears to be a little drunk. That is often the case with these people. And he has two of his men with him."
The Cardinal sighed. He gestured for Dakur to be brought in. Two Guards pushed him into the room. Dakur's men stayed in the antechamber. I had previously organised for them to be given flasks of wine.
"Florence thanks you for your valuable services," said the Cardinal to Dakur. "And we are pleased to see that you have chosen to spend much of your reward in our city. But now it is time for you to move on."
Dakur, a very big man with scars from endless battles, gave a snarling laugh. "But we like it here!" he said. "We might stay!"
An official came into the chamber. He came to me and – as arranged – whispered in my ear.
"My Cardinal, honoured guest," I said. "I have distressing news. Dakur's colleagues in the other room have suffered a terrible accident. While drinking, they fell down the steps and have broken their necks."
"How terrible!" said the Cardinal. "Both of them, you say?"
"Together," I said.
"I did not see any steps," said Dakur.
"Yet steps there are," I said. "If there were not, your men could not have fallen down them."
Dakur looked at me, and then at the Cardinal.
The Cardinal shook his head in a show of sympathy. "Terrible, terrible, these accidents while drinking," he said.
Dakur started to snarl. Then his expression changed. He started to laugh instead.
"You," he said to the Cardinal, "are a hard man to like."
"To be liked," I said, "is not a worthy goal for a prince."
"I would hate to see your … skills … not gainfully employed," said the Cardinal to him. "You may know that the city of Bologna has a new lord, young but reportedly a man of ambition. Should you and your men see a way to curtail his ambitions – by, say, burning part of his city – it would be the sort of action that Florence would see as valuable and worthy of further reward."
Dakur scratched his chin. "Bologna, you say?" he muttered.
The door opened again and Luigi Fatello, the captain of the Firenze Guard, entered. He bowed.
Generally, I do not like the Cardinal to be interrupted. But Fatello was not a man given to rashness. If he entered in this way, the matter must be important. I gestured for him to speak.
"My lord," he said to the Cardinal. "There has been a … disruption in the brothel district. Several of the Syracuse were drunk and rowdy, and a troop of Guard soldiers were sent to arrest them. But now all are dead."
"All?" I said. "The Syracuse and the Guards? How?"
"I … I do not know," said Fatello. I found this disturbing. "I have been to the place and all have been killed in a way I do not understand. I have ordered that the site not be disturbed until there is further inspection."
"Four Syracuse and a dozen of my soldiers?" said the Cardinal. He rose from his chair and turned to Fatello. "Show us," he said.
It was the courtyard of one of the city's more popular brothels. But now it looked more like a slaughterhouse. The bodies of men lay about, still clutching their arms.
Fatello showed me their wounds. They were, indeed, highly unusual.
He pointed to a severed arm. But the blade that had cut it had been so sharp that the wound had scarcely bled. All of the injuries had been inflicted with blade weapons, but ones much different to any that I knew. In several cases, the metal breastplates of the Guards had been pierced.
Dakur was with us. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" I said to him.
"No, and I ever seen many battlefields," he said.
"Captain Fatello," said the Cardinal. "You said that there were four Syracuse and a dozen Guards. But I see only three Syracuse and eleven Guards."
Fatello looked around. Eventually, he pointed to some marks on the ground. "Here," he said. "Two of the bodies have been dragged away."
We followed the marks. They led to a brick wall three metres high.
"So whoever did this carried the bodies while they climbed this wall," I said. "That is … impressive."
"Even I would find it … difficult," said Dakur. Fatello grunted. He made no secret of his dislike of Dakur. The feeling, I am sure, was mutual.
A Guard came up to us. "My lords," he said, "we have found a witness. In the brothel."
We returned to the courtyard and went into the brothel. The front room had torn curtains and overturned furniture. The Syracuse had been here earlier, obviously.
The madam of the house greeted us as her employees tried to clear a space for us. "I am sorry," she said, "that we are not in better shape."
The Cardinal took a look at the madam, herself a handsome woman. "Your shape is fine," he said. Clearly, this was not the first brothel the Cardinal had seen.
"Bring in the witness," said Fatello.
A Guard brought in a young woman, presumably one of the ladies of the place. He threw her roughly to the floor. She was bedraggled, wearing only the thin gown of her trade, and trembling with fear.
The Cardinal glanced at me. I touched the collar of my robe and glanced at the girl. He nodded.
"Do not treat a citizen of Florence so!" he snapped to the Guard. He gestured to two other Guards. "Take this man away and punish him!"
The two Guards took the other man out. As they passed, I made a gesture to indicate that the Cardinal did not, in this case, want that order to be obeyed – but only to be seen to be given. It was a code we often used.
The Cardinal took off his own robe and wrapped it around the girl.
"There you are, my dear," he said. "No harm will come to you."
I glanced at the madam. She was obviously impressed by the Cardinal's actions. So now the story of how the Cardinal cared for his people, even the most lowly, would be told. A good return, for the investment of a robe.
"What is your name, child?" said the Cardinal.
"L … Loretta," said the girl.
"Loretta, please tell us what happened here tonight, in the courtyard," said the Cardinal. "As best you can."
The girl ceased her trembling. Despite the heat, she drew the robe more closely around herself.
"One of the Syracuse had bought me for a few hours," she said. "They are pigs, those ones. And they were drunk as well. They started a fight, right here, in this room."
"That is when I called for the Guard," put in the madam.
"The one who had been my customer said that he would take me back to their lodging," continued Loretta. "I did not want to go, but he held me by the wrist. He dragged me into the courtyard. The other three Syracuse were there. And then the Guard arrived. They all drew their weapons and began to fight. And then … then … the man who was holding me … his hand … it was cut off."
The severed arm, I thought.
"By one of the Guard?" said the Cardinal.
"N … no," said Loretta. "I saw only the blade."
"A sword?" said Fatello.
"No, a curved blade, silver, not like the straight swords of the Guard," said Loretta. "But it seemed to come from nowhere. As if a ghost wielded it. And then there was more fighting, and the Syracuse and the Guards fell. I could see the blades but no-one was holding them. Then all the soldiers were dead. And then … then – " She hesitated.
"Please go on," said the Cardinal.
"They appeared," said Loretta. "They were demons. Like men, but taller, and with metal helmets, like knights. Their blades seemed to be attached to their arms. One moment, there was nothing, and the next the demons were there. Three, although I believe only two fought. The other one, the largest, appeared to be watching."
"Describe them more," said Fatello.
"I … could draw them," said Loretta.
"She has some little ability in this," said the madam. She brought sheets of parchment and a stick of charcoal for the girl, who began to draw.
After a while, she handed the drawing to the Cardinal. He inspected it and passed it to me.
"Now draw the blade," said Fatello.
Loretta did, handing him the drawing. "This is as nothing I have ever seen," said Fatello. "There are no forges in Florence that could make this, and perhaps none in Italy."
"Demons," repeated Loretta. "Or angels. Although one bled."
"How so?" said Fatello.
"One of them was cut, I think by a soldier of the Guard. On the chest, not a deep wound. When he appeared, I saw blood. But green, not red. Do demons bleed?"
The Cardinal looked at me. I gave a small shake of my head. It was an indication that what was needed now was certainty. A prince cannot be seen to not be in control of any given situation.
"Definitely not," he said. "And I say this as a Cardinal of Mother Church. These were not demons. Foreigners, perhaps. Maybe from one of the lands described by the traveller Polo. And we have seen soldiers and assassins that have great skills in camouflage. This is, no doubt, what you saw, dear child. Not demons or ghosts. And rest assured we will hunt them down and render justice to them."
He took a purse filled with coins from his pocket and handed it to Loretta. "Take this, as a sign of our respect for your courage," he said. "And tell no-one of this. Do you understand?"
Loretta nodded. The Cardinal glanced at the madam, who also nodded. She knew that her business could be closed down with a word from him. So she would stay silent, if that was what he asked. And perhaps he would recommend her establishment to visiting dignitaries and merchants as well.
"Collect the bodies," I said to Fatello. "Including the Syracuse. If anyone inquires, say that the deaths were caused by foreign assassins, possibly employed by Livorno, who will soon be tracked down."
Fatello nodded. He and Dakur went to the task.
The Cardinal and I walked back to the carriage. "What is your advice on how to proceed, Niccolò?" he said.
"The fact that the assassins – we might call them that – killed both Syracuse and Guards indicates that they have no special interest in either. That they made no attempt to hurt the girl indicates that they were interested only in men of arms."
"So … a fight for its own sake?"
"Perhaps. But only two of them fought while another observed. That sounds like an officer with inexperienced troops, or perhaps a master with apprentices. Not unlike when we have our own soldiers fight against prisoners. And taking the bodies might mean that they sought proof of their achievements."
The Cardinal nodded. We got into the carriage and started back for the palace.
"What do you make of the assassins not being seen?" he said.
"Perhaps the girl was mistaken, although I do not think so," I said. "Perhaps, as you say, they were adept at camouflage. Or perhaps they were, indeed, demons."
"Pah!" said the Cardinal. "Demons! There are no such things! Or angels either!"
"For a man who holds a high position in the church," I said, jokingly, "you are not a man of great faith."
"Those two things have nothing to do with each other," he said. "Niccolò, I am glad I have you to advise me. It is useful for one in my position to have an adviser who can be counted on to speak the truth."
"A good prince," I said, "deserves no less than honest counsel."
Part II
Some people believe that the power of a prince is built on the stones of his fortress, but it might equally be said that it is built on paper: specifically, the letters, petitions and complaints that are offered by the people. The Cardinal received many such correspondences, and I often spent some time in the office where they are handled, as a means of understanding the popular mood and gathering intelligence. So the officials who work there were not surprised when I visited. It was the day after the fight – the slaughter – at the brothel.
I surmised that the assassins, if that is what they were, still had to eat, and would require a place of lodging. I read through the correspondence of the past few days for information that might assist me in my investigations, looking for anything especially peculiar.
There was only one letter that provided a clue. It was from a butcher in the San Lorenzo market. He was complaining that he had recently been the victim of several thefts of calf carcasses and parts of carcasses. He put the view that this meant the Firenze Guard should be immediately turned out in force to deal with the matter above all others.
I was aware that stealing food was common, but stealing carcasses would not be an easy undertaking, given their weight. It would require a strong man, at least – a man who might equally be capable of scaling a high wall while carrying the corpse of a Syracuse.
I went to visit the butcher, who turned out to be a burly fellow with blood encrusted under his fingernails. I introduced myself as a counsellor of the Cardinal, and suggested that the Cardinal had a great and personal interest in his complaint.
"That's good," said the butcher. "It's hard enough for an honest man to make a living without half of his stock being stolen." He gestured to several carcasses hanging on hooks. Yes, stealing one would take a considerable effort.
"Your letter said that there were also parts of carcasses stolen," I said.
"Yes, some were sliced in two," he said. "Here, I have one of the parts that remained."
I looked; it had been cut with a blade sharper than any that might be made in Florence. Clearly, our assassins had been at work.
"Was there any indication of where the thieves may have gone?" I said.
"There were spots of blood from one of the carcasses," said the butcher. "They led towards the third district. I followed the trail but it petered out near the Ifazi plaza."
The third district was an area of abandoned building and old warehouses. Plenty of places for assassins to hide.
I thanked the man and assured him that the thieves would be brought to justice. As I walked through the market, something caught my eye. It was a baker, preparing bread for the ovens, throwing flour onto the table as he kneaded the dough.
An idea began to form in my mind.
"My lord, you should not be here," I whispered to the Cardinal as we waited in the shadows of the Ifazi plaza. It was late afternoon. "It is likely to be dangerous."
"A good prince is willing to be involved in action," said the Cardinal. "You wrote as much."
"No, I don't think I did," I said.
"Well, you should have."
I could not help but smile. The Cardinal was, after all, one of the Medici clan. They were not known for their retiring nature. He had endorsed my plan only on the condition that he could participate, or at least observe closely. There was, of course, a further agenda: evidence of personal bravery could only assist his ascendency to higher office. Like the Papacy, for instance.
I looked around at the plaza. There were soldiers on the balconies of the overlooking buildings, hidden under canvas. There were other soldiers, hidden around the plaza. In the plaza itself, around a broken well in the centre, Dakur and a dozen of his Syracuse – the others were sharing the shadows with men of the Firenze Guard – were drinking wine and playing games of dice. They were making a good deal of noise. It had been this way for several hours.
Then, as planned, Captain Fatello led a troop of Guards, about twenty, into the plaza.
"Cease and desist, troublemakers!" he shouted. "You are under arrest!"
Dakur and the Syracuse laughed. They drew their weapons. So did the Guard. There was the clash of swords and the shouting of conflict. They fought – or, rather, gave a good impression of fighting.
I studied the buildings lining the plaza. Suddenly, the heavy door of a stable opened. But there appeared to be no-one there.
Then one of the Guards gave a shout of pain and pitched forward. There was a metal arrow in his back.
I leaped out of the shadows. "There!" I shouted, pointing at the stable door.
Immediately, the soldiers on the balconies cast off the canvases and stood. They threw what they had been given. Bags of flour.
The bags burst on the ground, releasing a storm of white powder. Near the stable door, three shapes – like tall, armoured men – began to emerge, made visible by the flour. One of them held a device like a crossbow; it was what had killed the Guard. He looked down at his hands, suddenly realising that he could be seen.
The men in the plaza, Syracuse and Guards alike, turned towards their foes.
The soldiers hidden around the plaza emerged from cover. The soldiers on the balconies picked up bows.
Dakur charged the nearest assassin, waving his sword above his head. But the assassin was fast. He grabbed Dakur by the throat and lifted him off his feet. A curved, silver blade emerged from his arm.
Then Fatello charged as well. He was a fine swordsman; when the assassin, still holding Dakur, slashed at him Fatello fended off the blade and stabbed with his own sword. It pierced the assassin in the stomach, and there was a spurt of green blood. He dropped Dakur, who immediately struck out with his own sword, striking the assassin in the leg. He howled in pain. Other soldiers began to attack. One soldier, then another, went down but the others pressed on.
A troop of Guards and Syracuse attacked one of the others, the one with the crossbow, striking at him with swords and axes. He knocked several of them back.
"Down!" I shouted to the men. They all went down – and a shower of arrows smashed into the assassin. In a moment, the men were up again and attacking from all sides. The assassin fell.
The one that Dakur and Fatello was fighting also went down. He struggled to his knees – and then Fatello swung his sword. The head of the assassin left his body.
"The third!" I shouted. "Where did he go?"
"This way!" shouted Fatello. He pointed to the trail of flour footprints leading back into the stable.
Before I could stop him, the Cardinal ran with Fatello and Dakur into the stable. I followed, with three soldiers.
The footprints went through the stable and into a ruined, open warehouse. And then, in the middle of the warehouse, they ended.
"How could he do that?" said the Cardinal.
"If he went neither on nor back, left or right," I said, " then he must have gone … up."
We looked up. There was a rope pulley above us. And there was the assassin, clutching the rope and still coated with enough flour to be visible.
He realised he had been seen. He let go of the rope, plunging into the midst of our group. Dakur immediately lunged at him. But the assassin snapped his arm-blade out and stabbed. The blow caught Dakur in the chest. He dropped to the ground, awash in blood.
"Get the Cardinal away!" I said to the soldiers. They formed a protective group around him and ran towards a corner of the warehouse – a position that could be defended.
Fatello was fencing with the assassin, doing his best to buy time for the others to get the Cardinal to relative safety. This assassin was quick and powerful – more than the others had been. He dodged Fatello's lunge, swivelled, and impaled the captain on his blade. Fatello fell beside Dakur.
He looked at me, and then towards the Cardinal and the soldiers defending him. I did not think the three Guards, brave as they might be, would be able to stand against him.
I was between the assassin and the Cardinal. I lifted my hands to show him that I held no weapons.
He gave a grunt and started to brush by me. When he was a little way past, I drew my dagger from the secret pocket of my coat and stabbed him in the back.
He gave a cry of pain and surprise, and staggered a little. But he did not fall. He reached for the dagger and pulled it from his flesh, dropping it to the floor.
He looked at me. Then he touched a device, a little box, attached to his belt. He gave a series of sounds, but the voice came from the box.
"You have … no honour," he said, in a snarling, growling tone.
"My honour," I said, expecting a blow from the deadly blade, "is to defend my lord, my city, and my own. The ends justify the means."
He seemed to give a start of surprise. He raised his hand to point at me.
"You … are … Machiavelli?" he said.
Now it was my turn to be surprised. But I said: "I am."
He gave a nod. "The Prince," he said. He touched a place on his wrist, and the blade retracted and disappeared. He touched another place, and with a crackle of sparks, as from a bonfire, he became solid in form.
He brushed some of the flour from his shoulder. He looked at me as he did so.
"Yes, my idea," I said. "To make visible the invisible."
I gestured for the Cardinal and the soldiers to approach. I did not think there was any danger now.
The assassin took another device from his belt. He touched a spot on it, and it began to make a sound, not unlike the regular chirping of a bird. The assassin made a fist, and then extended his fingers. It reminded me of the way a stone hurled from a catapult breaks into fragments on impact.
"I will depart," he said. "But you will die." He placed the device on the ground and turned to go.
I understood what the device would do. My beloved Florence, my family, my lord, all would be destroyed.
I stood in front of him to bar his way. He made to push me aside.
"Do not do this," I said. "I beseech you."
"You have seen us," he said. "Now you must die."
"No," I said. "There is another way. The Cardinal is a man of great power here. He will ensure that no word of this is spoken or recorded."
"I will," said the Cardinal.
The assassin looked at him, and then at me. "There would be … a price," he said. "You must come with me, Niccolò Machiavelli. To be an adviser to myself and my people. To be at our service."
I considered. "And then you will leave Florence and never return?" I said. "Not you, or any of your kind?"
"Yes," he said.
I made my decision. I turned to the Cardinal. "The lives of the many," I said, "outweigh the fate of one. With your permission, my lord, I will take my leave of you. But I ask you to please ensure that my family is provided for."
The Cardinal nodded. "I will so ensure," he said. "And you have my permission to leave my service, Niccolò. With my regrets."
We clasped hands.
The assassin picked up the device. He touched it, and the noise ceased. He attached it again to his belt.
He began to walk away, with myself at his side. "Where are we going?" I said. "Across the ocean?"
"Further than that," he said. "You will see."
"You have me at a disadvantage," I said. "For I do not know your name."
He stopped. He took off his helmet, and for the first time I saw his true face. "My name," he said, "is Rom'agna. Of the Yautja."
END
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