"Wow! Look at that, Niara! When's the last time you've seen that much green?" A bright-eyed girl looked out the transport in wonder. "Sure beats the core worlds for sure. So glad the tickets finally came in and we won the raffle."
The one called Niara, of fair and pale complexion, idly flipped through the pages of what would now be considered the colony directory. Assigned duties, living quarters, how to get around the colony. Also the section on the list of man-eating predators, of which took up maybe a quarter of the entire publication with pictures and all. More impressive was the next section of purely dangerous non-meat eaters. Of course, no one had mentioned that until Niara and her fellow passengers were well underway and told to be grateful they had been awarded this opportunity to leave for a better chance for life at all.
And thus, she and her charge were now over the planet that would hopefully be the last place they would need to move to. Last thing in the way was the space station.
Eriadel bounced up on her seat, excitedly flipping through different viewcams on the passenger liner at the same time to soak in the sights, despite the fact she too would actually be living down there. Her adopted big sister was being boring and reading a book instead of looking at their new home. Well, right now it didn't look like much or like any city she had ever seen. All her homes had been made out of scraps or large sheets of metal, industrial scraps. One time, one time well after she met Niara they even had an apartment! It was more like a closet inside an apartment, but she had to be strong for Niara. Errie did not think Niara knew it was a closet because she had been so excited about getting it. That is what her big sis' always told her, be strong, hold on to hope. She thought hope was a person at first, but then Niara helped explained to her that words could actually mean things more than a person saw.
Niara sighed. Then let a small smile play across her face. "Come here, you munchkin," she said, grabbing Eriadel who made a small squeak in surprise. She held the much younger teenager, unleashing an assault of tickling. Once the dust settled, Niara held Eriadel and rocked back and forth slowly.
"Just think Err," Niara said quietly to the resting kid leaning on her shoulder. "No more running around for rent and a meal every day."
"Can I have pecan pie for breakfast?" Eriadel replied lazily.
Niara let out a chuckle. "We'll see."
/ /
Doctor Urse Daniker sniffed as he listened to the docking bay orderlies shouting out their instructions to the newest additions to LV-923. He did not want to be here. There were things that had to be done on the surface at Dissension. It was not as if his offshore labs could manage without him, but still! The Company did not like delays, no matter the circumstances. It was his hide they would take the pound of flesh from, not those that put him into the situation where he could not fulfill his duties.
Still, he started to put on that fake poster boy face, the training reel dumbshow catering to these miscreants intruding upon his precious time.
"This way please! Passengers disembarking from transport Ganymede Zeta, please this way! You will be transferred over to your welcome guide in a minute over there." A dockworker waved in Urse's general direction, shepherding the latest batch of colonists.
Showtime I guess.
"Welcome ladies, gentleman, small children, to LV-923! We are currently in geosynchronous orbit over the colony proper. This is Greenharbor, our gateway between the surface and the passing United Systems Navy patrol or odd merchant and transport." Doctor Daniker droned off the bullet points like the bored professor with great disinterest in his material. "You'll be escorted shortly down to the surface colony proper via Cheyenne dropship, courtesy of our local United Systems Colonial Marine garrison."
Urse sighed. "They're here because the fences aren't completely finished and the auto defenses not all set up, but nooooo, the colony had to have other companies bid into the controlling shares." Under his breath he grumbled, "Inefficient non-Company rabble."
He put the plastic smile back on. "But that's not important! Because you're here, now! Welcome to LV-923, your permits and ID visas are over there by the corridors adjacent to the hangars we will be meeting the Cheyennes in."
I am going to kill Bruce if he asks me to cover for him again. Of all the projects to interrupt, he chooses this one, Daniker thought, fuming silently as he shook hands and exchanged three-word pleasantries with the new sources of labor and test subjects. Fresh stock to experiment with, especially the scrapyard scamps and other undesirables no one would care about back from wherever they came from.
Oh, yes, how the possibilities flowed. Maybe he might actually like this post. Evaluate the livestock in the cattle pens before it disperses to the four corners of Dissension.
/ /
:::Accessing Weyland-Yutani E.T. briefing packet one-three, sub-section gamma.
:::Standby for excerpt download.
While the historians and archaeologists fought and clawed each other when humanity reached the stars, it became clear that there indeed were other sentient beings and organisms out there. Most notable of them at present is the yautja, or simply "Predator" as dubbed by earlier humans that had the misfortune of being the object of their sport.
The average yautja rarely stands below six feet in stature, and there is evidence for genetic diversity with regards to skin color, appearance, and other traits. They possess large craniums adorned with dreadlocks, deep-set eyes, and a four-tusked mandible array that houses the mouth. Military enlisted personnel take to calling them "crab-faces" or the typical "ugly motherfucker" when first seeing a facial profile. They possess musculature that is able to propel their bodies into the air to leap multiple stories as well as punch holes into plasticrete walls with their bare hands with little to no damage.
Yautjan technology is incredibly advanced, hundreds of years beyond our own if we are unable to reverse-engineer other ancient techs. The yautja have a tendency to set their fallen hunters' technology to self-destruct, although the saving grace is that the impressive explosions have no lasting impact on the environment aside from that which is completely disintegrated. No fallout, suggesting a highly effective, clean power source beyond our comprehension. Of particular note is their use of cloaking technology and plasma weapons, as well as melee weapons made of metals extremely resilient to the famed xenomorph's acidic blood, able to keep most of its edge after repeated exposure.
Their society appears to be a cross between a tribal hierarchy as well as an empire. There are definite clans that each yautja is either born into or swears allegiance to, and also a non-citizen status that is given to the equivalent of criminals. Their lives revolve around what loosely translates as "The Great Hunt." There is a strict "Code of Honor" that dictates appropriate actions for killing other beings, taking them for trophies, and defines non-combatants unless they take hostile action.
For instance, there was a record on LV-367 of a yautjan hunter taking apart a small survey team and their USCM escort. There happened to be an altercation in which a father picked up arms and trained them on the invisible threat that had cut down most of the group. He was protecting his wife and child. The hunter retreated, took his trophies, and left. Children with toys resembling guns have been sent and told to make shooting noises at whatever they could see in areas known to have yautjan activity. Surveillance captured a few of these scenes. Most of the time the yautja would leave the young ones alone, although for some reason a few would interact with the child, even play. Unfortunately, none of the children were killed, which means that more than likely it will be difficult for a hunter to be forced to dishonor themselves and let their peers do the work of disposing the offending hunter.
Such implications suggest that a more open dialogue could be established, namely to stop destroying our colonies pushing out of Sol's neighborhood.
Two other mysterious factions that supercede the authority of all others exist. The only one humanity has really encountered are the Arbitrators that serve as judge, jury, and executioner for the territory they watch over. They are an official form of government that settles disputes between clans, and are the main avenue of diplomacy, not involving the relief of one's head, with other races.
The second appears to be various groups of what are called in another rough translation "Bad Bloods." They are rather secretive, but known for brutality unbecoming these yautjan Codes the clans pride themselves over.
Regardless, this race is incredibly dangerous, but the capture priority is very high. Intact technology is to be secured as covertly as possible. There are reports that some of these Arbitrators actually do work with other races, humans included, to track down lost equipment. Do what you have to in order to secure these things for the Company.
/ /
The Ganymede Zeta's silent guardian glided through the deep dark until the few hundred kilonautical meters outside of the ooman's early warning sensors. They improve after every year, every hunter who failed to uphold the Code and leave no trace, each new discovery made on their own. Truly a worthy prey.
Pyr'mord Nakris guided his huntship to the smaller of the three moons orbiting Trident, the planet marked down in the ooman books officially as LV-923. The locals of course had been the ones to call it Trident, a point that the Hearers at the enclave found interesting. The debates in the colony for what to call the planet, to make it their own. What mythology best matched their situation, the best name, which pantheon and specific culture's name for that god or location. They ended up recording the discussion for the sake of humor to be enjoyed in posterity.
Pyr approached the moon. A wide expanse of wreckages and spacehulks extended around its gravity well. It was a ship graveyard, composed of things from the ancient times, the rebellion against the Old Empire. Ships of all kinds, civilizations, and ages were trapped in this endless wheel of decay. Most interesting was the presence of current day ship variants.
His console flashed with the distress beacon his race had placed near the moon, broadcasting in all sorts of languages and dialects to steer clear of the moon. The copious amount of ships devastated by plasma fire gave good reason to follow the advice. A timer flashed in its yautjan characters, countdown until the orbital defenses locked on and added a new trophy to the planet's collection.
"Verify: four red moons rise, pyode amedha soar," he clicked and uttered in the guttural mother tongue. Pyr'mord paused, easing off his controls and scratching under his jaw.
"Received." Another hunter's face, this one old for a yautja and having quill-like protrusions akin to an elder human's long white hairs marking its face, took over his ship's main screen. "Confirm." The huntship grinded back to life, remote control linked to it from someone on the face of the moon.
Pyr'mord undid his mask and locked his gaze with the Arbitrator. No mere elder, this was an even more wizened individual whose authority transcended the clans. The Arbitrator caste ruled over the Code and the Hunt themselves. The Arbitrator grunted after a brief pause. "Welcome to the local Arbitrator enclave, Pyr'mord of clan Nakris." The console winked back into its regular array.
The youngblood let out a breath of relief. His hunt could now start, once he learned the local laws of this quadrant's Hunt.
/ /
:::Accessing Weyland-Yutani internal communique, unlabeled.
:::SPARTAN registers equivalent to human amusement. Weyland-Yutani network security is still lacking.
:::Standby for excerpt download.
Xenomorphs are top priority. New containment teams must be sent immediately and United Systems military chain of command interdicted by Company-affiliated officers. The forces on the ground are expendable once the specimen(s) are captured. Combat synths on-site will determine if remaining human assets are to be eliminated or also used for experimentation. All other orders are to be dispensed by WYC staff or MOTHER.
For those of you new to the team, please for the love of god remember to secure all of your equipment, hormone masks, and suits! It is a deadly mistake to miss a single step. Don't be the next experiment because you were separated from the main group and your mask was not attached when an infection form catches you.
Despite popular belief, you cannot have an embryo removed once implanted. ((REDACTED text embedded, internal memo: the procedure at present time is too much risk for little reward. There are plenty of hands across the colonies willing to work. No one is that important.))
There is an excellent dissertation by one of our more prominent scientists, Benjamin Darkarlov, should there ever be a need to explore the intricacies of this project. I will attempt to produce a concise version here for quick reference.
A xenomorph hive community is managed by a mature queen, who continually dispenses eggs. These eggs contain infection forms, dubbed "facehuggers" for more than obvious reasons that you will hope to never experience firsthand. The life-cycle begins when a host is subdued by the facehugger. A metamorphic embryo is implanted in a subdued host, which usually finds its way into the host's stomach, sometimes trachea. In any case, the embryo draws upon the host's nutrients and, through some mechanism as of yet still unknown, DNA that ultimately affects the later stages.
The birth of the larval stage is abrupt and has a one-hundred-percent death rate, and the result is affectionately referred to as the "chestburster." I do not need to provide the gory details as I am sure you can find photographs elsewhere.
Once the larva has amassed enough nutrients and a safe place to hide, it molts into the mature phase of its life.
There are too many variations that can occur, but I will try to keep it succinct to the main types in a typical hive.
In general, their colors tend towards black and darker tones of green, blue, sometimes red to make a heavily brushed copper. Most adopt a slouching stance and rarely ever stand straight, but are most comfortably fast when on all fours, and can easily grapple a marine into non-lethal submission. Their torso area looks like a ribcage, but is armor as much as aesthetic. What look to be cords of muscle are textured into their carapace inside of oval protrusions, as if looking underneath the skin.
The xenomorph has a signature oblong and domed head, although older and more mature variants will possess a flaring crest. They see using some sort of echolocation, perhaps an electromagnetic sixth sense like a shark or some other Terran animals do, and their senses are incredibly sharp in nearly every environment.
The large jaws of the primary set are not to feared nearly as much as the inner secondary jaws. I have seen that hydraulic rod of diamond-sharp teeth pierce through four inches of industrial metal beam before. It still had enough power to render my synthetic accomplice disabled and missing a chunk of his head. The xenomorph does however have a degree of control over the force of this secondary jaw, I have seen it used to knock hosts unconscious regardless of protection.
Each xenomorph sports a long tail, sometimes bony, sometimes ribbed. They all terminate in some form of weapon, whether a sharp tailblade, a long hollow barb with paralytics, or some other deadly instrument.
The most dangerous aspect besides the obvious ones are the xenomorph's acidic blood. There is a pressurized compartment between the armor chitin and the actual flesh that upon rupturing will spray this acid. Please remember this in close quarters.
Most xenomorphs will only live long enough to act as worker drones or the slightly larger warriors. If a hive becomes established enough, elder individuals may molt into what we call praetorians, which are walking tanks that require multiple WY-102 rounds to pacify and incredibly difficult to subdue without casualties if appropriate equipment is not available.
This leaves the matriarchal queen. Except in extreme times of duress, the queen will remain atop her egg sac, especially if synth RANSOM flamer squads are deployed to coerce cooperation. However, if she engages in combat, it is acceptable to advance in an alternative direction to conserve Company resources and formulate a new plan, perhaps on the ship while in the air. Please be sure to secure any specimens in stasis and remove potential threats before re-entering Inner System space.
:::SPARTAN note: excessively wordy. Original author thinks too highly of self. Removal of unnecessary details would increase data relay speed to human interface by sixty-seven-point-two percent.
/ /
An unassuming speck flew across the void with thrusters burning smoothly. There was no signature, no distress signal, just a little bit of damage apparent in spurts of oxygen leaking from a small canopy, intermittent as if someone was trying to stop a floodgate with a wine bottle cork.
One thing for certain is that this escape pod did not want to be found. A contradictory philosophy for a vessel whose purpose was to be retrieved again.
Well that wasn't the brightest idea, Tyver. 'Let's just hop on the first connecting flight.' 'It'll take too long to splice into the timetables, too risky.' 'There's no way it could be that bad if you roll the dice,' the figure hunched over and incredibly cramped in the pod lamented. The one time precautions aren't taken, you hop off the resupply onto a fucking USCM carrier and trip the alarms. Genius!
Despite what his peculiar talents could do, nothing could magically repair the corrosive damage caused by the acidic blood that the Xenomorph was so famous for. Some of the heavier munitions had managed to pierce his carapace. Nothing improved the aim of stormtroopers than a thirteen-foot target made up of a black and gray hued nightmare.
A rapid beeping interrupted the oddly human-like praetorian's reverie of stupidity.
"H-h-h-aaaabitable pl-pl-plaanet detected. Full burn activated-ed-ed-ed-ed," the onboard computer voiced in its vaguely female but electronic voice. "This vehicle was manufactuuuuyyrreeed by by by by Wey-Yu corp, building better woorrrlllllldddsss…" The voice trailed off and the electronics within the pod puffed, hissed, smoked, then popped.
Of course, this all happened right after the escape pod began shooting towards said planet. The pod managed to reach the atmosphere in record time, but upon doing so began a bad corkscrew maneuver, landing brake fans rattling and threatening to break off.
If I had food in my stomach, I would hurl. Is Xeno vomit acidic? That would make a bad situation wo- The thought was stopped short by a slight bout of dry-heaving.
The spinning was replaced by a hard crash, skidding off the alien world's surface. The pod had managed to hit a small glen, creating a deep gouge in the otherwise pristine field.
Once the spinning stopped, Tyver had to wait for his own head to stop spinning. The computer had just enough juice to say one last thing:
"World: LV-V-V-923. Distress beacon inactive. Estimated-ated-ated-ated walking distance twelve-point-four kilometers. Have a pleasant day!"
The young teenager let out a hissing growl that rumbled in tune with an explosive burst of electricity that obliterated the annoying hardware, shredding the inside of the escape pod. The metal screeched and groaned as Tyver not only erupted from his shell, but purposefully ripped apart every piece he could sink his claws into.
Then, he walked over to the grass away from the broken wreckage. Took one deep breath. Closed his eyes, or rather, what would be considered equivalent to be closing off the senses a Xenomorph use for sight. And toppled over onto his back, curling his long tail around himself, enjoying the fresh air. Hopefully he could stay here, be alright, catch some local game every now and then. There was that human presence though, might be problematic.
He opened his eyes suddenly when his sixth sense notified him of something closing in. Something big. He rolled and adopted a defensive posture, letting out low hiss.
Tyver however did not expect the three legged titan that rounded the corner, letting out a bellowing challenge of its own. It bit off a rather large branch and began crunching the entire thing, turning a menacing gaze at the surprised juvenile praetorian. He was taking some small comfort in seeing it was an herbivore.
That comfort soon inverted when the long-neck snarled and chomped its jaw twice at the Xeno, beginning to charge.
Oh shit.