...I was watching with equal parts revulsion and fascination as the Predator slowly removed its mask and showed me its true face. I had no idea of their aesthetic standards, of course, but by human measures, Christ it was an ugly son of a bitch. Its mandibles flared out as it roared what I was certain was a challenge, spreading its huge hands. But I wasn't so stupid as to just go charging in there; I raised the katana in a challenge of my own and answered, "Come and get me, motherfucker!"

It raised its left arm - and something launched from it. I had less than a second to react, but I deflected the whatever-it-was with my blade. A two-pronged spear tip or a dart, it blurred to one side and buried itself deeply in a tree trunk. Next came a steel (or whatever) net; Harrigan had described something similar, designed to tighten around the prey, the strands cutting into the victim. But a single slash of my katana put paid to that.

Then three red dots appeared on my chest. Each looked for all the world like the beam from a sniper's targeting laser - which of course they were. The stubby device on its left shoulder whirred and pointed towards me. If that was the plasma caster we'd postulated, I was toast.

But it didn't fire. It wasn't hard to guess why.

The Predator had sent me a message: I could kill you so easily. A single shot and you are dead. But I will not. I did not expect to kill you with my other weapons, either; those too were just to demonstrate where you stand.

But now...now you will DIE!

As I'd fully expected, the twin blades, viciously serrated just as Marie had depicted and as Jocelyn had extrapolated, extended from their sheaths.

Now we were getting down to it.

Young Blood was disturbed for the first time. The ooman's blade should not have withstood the arr-thk, the spear dart, or the dr'she, the killing mesh, so well; either should have severely damaged it, yet it was intact as far as he could tell. They had not metal so durable.

Or did they?

He remembered Swift Kill's warning about underestimating them. The yautja had developed the three-metal alloy some time ago, proof even against the acid thwei of the kainde amedha, and those metals were known to occur on the Blue World - though one, the densest of the three, was uncommon - but could oomans have learned the trick of combining them into a crystalline structure almost impossible to break, as his people had?

If so...the ooman would be even more of a challenge. It might even...win.

He snarled at even the possibility. No! It mattered not! Greater odds meant greater glory! The ooman must die, he decided in fury, NOW!

It covered the distance between us with incredible speed. Amazing that something so fucking huge could move so fast. It closed in and slashed viciously; the katana met the blades. Sparks flew. My arms were jarred almost out of their sockets by the impact. Jocelyn was right, it's strong! God, if it gets a hand on me I'm done!

I pivoted on one heel and delivered a backhand slash, twisting the blade as I did. A physiotherapist once told me I had unusual flexibility in my wrists, and I took full advantage of that fact. To my surprise, I actually inflicted a minor wound; the blood or equivalent was a thick sludge, bright, luminous green, more like cyalume than anything else. First blood, I briefly exulted, then had to duck and roll as it roared in fury and slashed at head height. That would've taken my head clean off, I noted, right between third and fourth vertebrae.

It was going for a quick kill. Fine, I thought, I'll do the same.

Swift Kill's warning now carried even greater weight, Young Blood marvelled, as the ooman had, incredibly, drawn first thwei. A minor wound only, to be sure, but that was far from being the point. Still, it should not have been able to...wait. The ooman's breathing carried the sound of age. This, then, was not a young adult, not old either - else it could never have fought so well! - but surely on the older side by their reckoning. Therefore it was more experienced, more cunning.

And, therefore, more worthy!

He'd been wonderfully correct; this one was a master warrior, perhaps the greatest this world had to offer. He would take his trophy with the utmost care and respect as the ooman deserved. He knew they did not truly understand the way of the yautja and felt it was "wrong" for them to hunt and kill pyode amedha; he wished he could explain.

Perhaps Swift Kill could. He would ask.

For that was something the oomans did not know and could not expect:

Young Blood was not alone.

Hidden even more thoroughly by a newer, more sophisticated version of the rhh-kosh, others watched.

Enough defence, I decided, time to go on the attack!

It was a hell of a risk, but it had to be done sooner or later. So I closed in, centred myself and brought the katana from knee to head height (mine, that is) diagonally, a classic Samurai stroke. But the Predator blocked it easily and swung in with a punch from its left fist. Even as it hit and slammed me off my feet, I cursed myself for not seeing it coming.

Problem was, I couldn't see much of anything now; my vision was blurred. Concussion, I wondered blearily, or were my retinas detached? I'd read somewhere that that could happen with severe blows to the head...oh, not again, I groused, I'd needed laser surgery to fix the problem - then I ended up with cataracts as a side-effect and had to have follow-up surgery for those, too. Still, it did mean I could happily ditch the specs for the first time in forty-odd years, I'd been wearing 'em since I was 9...

Focus, dammit, Master Sergeant Lance Aldrin, my Academy combat instructor, yelled in my mind. That's your problem, McAllister, it's always a problem with smart guys: got so much goin' on in their heads, they can't FOCUS! If I EVER manage to teach you ANYTHING, you smart, DUMB son of a bitch, it'll be this: in hand-to-hand combat, think about ONE! THING! AT! A! TIME! FOCUS ON THAT ONE THING AND DEAL WITH IT!

It was a harsh lesson - well, several, to be honest - but well-learned in the end. I graduated Aldrin's course with much more than a merely passing grade. I learned to focus. It was time to do just that.

Right. First problem: can't see straight. Is there anything I can do about that right now?

No.

Okay. Next: the big bad-ass motherfucker is going to bone me like a fish any second. Can I do anything about that?

Yes. Raise sword. I did.

Deflect blow. Did that.

Evade next strike. Yep, no prob, roll to one side.

Are we doing any better on the vision front? Hmm, yeah, things seem to be clearing. Not concussion, no retinal detachment, just stunned.

He wouldn't deliver a killing punch. That would be too easy, I realised as my cogitation returned to normal levels. They've been butchering us for centuries, they have to know our anatomy in exquisite detail by now. They know exactly what we can and can't take. That's how he was able to knock Candy out without killing her, because she was unarmed and hence out of bounds by his code.

Not that that doesn't mean he can't or won't knock me senseless.

So stay out of reach, you prat. That's why you went for a longer blade, trading balance and stability for reach and weight.

I stood. None too steadily, it's true, but I refused to die except on my feet. I raised the katana to eye level and prepared to strike.

Then something odd caught my eye; I could've sworn there was the briefest flicker. As if...

I almost dismissed it as battle fatigue.

Almost. But I knew my peripheral vision was excellent. Plus there was a measure in Unit psycho-analytical testing we called the RAQ, the Reality Appreciation Quotient. It was a qualitative measure of how closely one's perceptions matched, or RAQued (racked - see the pun?), up to objective reality, and mine was very high - which meant I wasn't the sort to imagine things. Therefore I did see something.

So I feinted towards the Predator -

- then whirled around and rushed forward. My worst fears were realised:

I stopped dead. Against nothing.

Nothing visible, anyway...

Swift Kill was astounded and impressed. It was not known that oomans had such sharp yh'shi, the vision of the side. He was discovered. There was only one honourable thing to do.

He revealed himself.

The other Watchers did likewise.

"Oh, no!" Candy cried in despair. The Predator wasn't alone! If Kelly had had any chance before, he surely didn't now!

Young Blood, too, was startled. It was not for a lowly one like him to question the ways of a Leader, of course, but for Swift Kill to reveal himself while not Hunting was unprecedented. But then, so was the ooman's discovery of him, so the one balanced the other, Young Blood supposed. He was uncertain of how to proceed, so he made the appropriate gesture of appeasement to his mentor and clacked a request: May I proceed?

Swift Kill nodded. His student had comported himself magnificently throughout his Hunt, behaving honourably at all times. He was a credit to his mentor and the Final Prey he had selected was worthy indeed. Songs would be sung about this. The tales of Young Blood's prowess on the Blue World would surely attract a number of eligible females. The youngster would father many strong suckers.

But Candy had had all she could take. She abandoned her position and raced towards them, skidding to a halt before the biggest Predator whom she deduced in a desperate flash of insight was the leader, before a startled Duane could stop her. Ignoring his yells to come back, what the fuck did she think she was doing, she fell to her knees and pleaded, "No! Stop this! Please!"

Swift Kill had never been so astonished. The female ooman was unarmed and hence powerless, yet if he understood her language properly, she was begging him to intervene, to stop the Hunt. It was unheard of - and impossible. "I cannot," he answered in his own tongue. To her, it would sound like "Kh'ki-clack".

She did not, could not understand him. Yet, he saw with surprise, she did.

In a second flash of desperate insight Candy realised the alien had refused her plea. "Please, you're their leader, he'll do what you tell him! Please, Kelly's a good man, he doesn't deserve to die! If...if there has to be a kill...then kill me, instead. Take my life for his. Please, I'm begging you." She hung her head before the alien, offering her vulnerable neck, utterly defenceless and uncaring for it.

It was a gesture Swift Kill understood. But the reason for it...that was beyond him. Was she the Final Prey's mate? Was their bond so strong she would give her life for his, as he was certain was her intent? Not all races were alike; only a fool would think so. Swift Kill had not survived over a hundred Hunts, many against oomans, some even against queens of the kainde amedha, by being any kind of fool. Yautja would not behave in this manner, to be sure - but oomans, of course, were not yautja. Their ways were different, he knew full well. Not better or worse - just different.

This was not a question which could be decided by supposition, he knew, but to honour her courage - one quality respected by both races - it had to be decided. But thanks to the Wise Elders with whom he had been privileged to speak before he and the others present set off to accompany Young Blood on this Hunt, perhaps there was a way. No-one was sure if it would work, so this would be a good field test. He engaged the newest device of yautja science: the tre'ss-ka, the translator.

"You are...his mate?" Swift Kill asked. Well, it sounded like ooman speech; apparently it was working. Hopefully it would work as well in the other direction. When the ooman replied, it became clear that it was so, as he understood her speech perfectly. The Wise Elders were indeed wise.

Candy looked up, astonished. The voice sounded electronic, harsh - a translator, she comprehended, shades of Star Trek. "No," she answered, "his...well, mainly he's my friend. I don't know how much that means to you, but on our world it means everything. I am offering my life for his. I know it's against your code of honour to kill unarmed prey, so please give me a weapon and I will gladly die fighting."

"Candy, NO!" I screamed. "Get the fuck away from here!"

"I'm sorry, Commander," she quietly but firmly responded, "but I cannot in good conscience obey that order." She stood and bravely faced the Predator. "Do your people have personal names? Mine is Candy. What's yours?"

It - no, he, she decided fairly - answered with a short string of sibilants which the translator rendered as"Swift Kill". Short and to the point, she reflected. "And...his, please?" she asked, indicating Kelly's opponent.

"That one is Young Blood," was the reply. Swift Kill considered something curious: her name sounded almost yautja - Kh'ndi. He marvelled yet again at how different and yet how similar their two peoples truly were.

"Thank you. Now...why? Why do you do this? Why do you come to our world and murder our people? What's the point?" she cried.

"We...are this way. We know no other. We can live no other. The Hunt is All."

"The Hunt is All," the others - including Young Blood - echoed. It was clearly a cultural thing.

Realising this, Candy tried desperately, "But can't you change? We believe life is all about change. Life is change. Anything which can't change can't improve. You're more advanced than we are, surely you know that better than we do! Surely you can find a better way, one that isn't so wasteful!"

Swift Kill did not respond immediately. What the ooman was saying touched upon an aspect of yautja culture that had long been forgotten except by a very, very few. Finally he rumbled, "There was a time...once, long, long ago, we did try. We tried to change. But in the end we found we could not. The drives, the instinct, they are too strong, evolved over untold millennia. There was war, between those who tried and those who did not. The struggle was brief...its end inevitable. We returned to the old ways. The alternative was death. We are what we are."

His mandibles rattled in what for his people was a sigh of regret. "I am sorry. We cannot grant your plea. The Hunt goes on."

You'll forgive me if I don't act surprised, I barely had time to think as Young Blood attacked.

Or rather, started to. He was interrupted by the bravest, most reckless act I have ever seen or even heard of:

Candy, still unarmed, threw herself between us and screamed, "NO!"

She should have died. Against any human opponent she surely would have; no human could have reacted quickly enough to halt in mid-strike.

But Young Blood was far from human. The blades halted just as they touched her forehead, the thin cuts they inflicted mute testimony to the keenness of their edges. A fraction of a second later and she would now be dead. She'd counted on his inhumanly swift reactions and what appeared to be a bone-deep taboo against killing unarmed prey, even accidentally. He hissed in frustration and fury. "Move aside!" he demanded.

"No," she refused. "Commander, stay right behind me! As long as I'm between you and him, he can't touch you - and you can't kill me, CAN YOU?!" she actually taunted him.

Young Blood attempted to move around her, but she moved with him. "You must move aside!" he commanded. "This is...it is not honourable!"

"I DON'T CARE!" she screamed. "I WON'T LET YOU!"

Driven by his cultural imperatives, he sheathed the blades so as not to cause inadvertent injury, for even that was forbidden, and gripped the ooman by her upper limbs to force her out of the way. But she folded her arms in that peculiar way they had, set her feet shoulder-width apart...and, somehow, something changed within her. She...settled.

To his utter astonishment, he discovered he could not move her. It was like trying to move a tree. He exerted what should have been sufficient strength to snap an ooman in two. It had no effect.

He brought all his strength to bear.

She remained in place.

"It's a talent some of us have," she explained brightly. "It takes a long time to learn, but...well. I can do this all day. Can you?"

Young Blood was totally baffled. How was this possible, that an ooman, a female yet, could do something a yautja could not? Confused, desperate, he backhanded her as he had once before, measuring the blow as he had before to cause unconsciousness without major injury. But this time, somehow, it had no effect.

She smiled serenely. "I wasn't ready then. I wasn't prepared. But I am now."

This was intolerable! The Hunt must be completed! There was only one honourable alternative!

I'd already worked it out. Young Blood would not, could not quit. I suspected his own people would put him to death if he did. He...didn't deserve that. What they did wasn't wrong by their lights. But if he couldn't finish the hunt...

I had to be sure. "Swift Kill!" I called. "What happens if Young Blood can't kill me?"

He gave the answer I'd expected and dreaded. "He must select another. That one must be equally worthy."

"I can't allow that," I told him quietly. "That was the reason I challenged him, so he wouldn't kill anyone else. Candy, you know that. I am ordering you one final time: step aside."

"You know I can't, sir," she demurred.

I sighed. She was leaving me no choice. I could only hope she wouldn't hate me. "Duane...Directive Four. That's an order."

"Sir..." he protested, but acquiesced as I knew he would. "Under protest again, Commander..."

Candy looked at me, puzzled - then unbelieving as she felt a brief, painless tingle in her head...and began losing consciousness. "No...!" she pleaded as she understood, but collapsed anyway. I caught her one-handed as she fell.

Look, Directive Four was not my idea. But the DA had insisted. Suppose, she suggested, a Unit member somehow went off the rails? Trusted as they were, such a one could pose a tremendous risk to civilians. A way was needed to circumvent that possibility whilst posing minimal risk to the member in question. Thus Directive Four, which caused the implanted transceiver to send a harmless pulse of electric current, just a few microvolts, directly to the sleep centre of the brain. Only the DA, Ed, Duane and myself possessed the relevant codes for each of our subordinates.

Only Ed and I could knock Duane out...and only Ed could do it to me.

The only reason I agreed to it at all was because I'd never expected to have to use it. Then again, who could've seen this coming?

I'm sorry, Candy. Thank you for trying, you crazy loveable brave little insubordinate idiot. I hope you'll forgive me one day.

"She isn't dead," I told the Predators, "only asleep. We don't kill our own."

"Nor do we," Swift Kill replied. "Remove her. She and the one who removes her will not be harmed."

Duane was already approaching, but he had very sensibly divested himself of all weaponry. He picked her up in a fireman's carry and retreated in good order.

Young Blood didn't stand on ceremony. He simply attacked instantly the moment the two were clear.

Of course I was expecting it. What, you think I'm stupid or something?!

He meant business now, as if he hadn't before. His strikes were rapid, precise and forceful, as Jocelyn had again deduced. His discipline was incredible. I was able to make a shrewd guess as to the relationship between him and Swift Kill: there was a mark on each Predator's forehead, a scar, in a ritualised S-shape. I believe it was their equivalent of a huntsman in the UK being blooded the first time he took part in a successful fox hunt (though that was now illegal, and rightly so in my opinion. Oscar Wilde was quite right).

It was clear which one showed deference to the other. So Swift Kill was, I concluded, Young Blood's instructor or mentor. I bet he was proud of his young charge. By their lights, he admittedly had reason to be. Christ this fucker was fast! He was slashing now high, now low, too fast for me to pick up on any pattern.

The first time he got through my guard and slashed my torso, I didn't even feel it at first; it's true, I know now, that you don't feel the keenest blade...and his were the sharpest blades on this entire planet. ArmorLite™ was impervious to stabbing or slashing moves attempted by any human, but of course...well.

But then I did feel it and, oh, God, it hurt!

He roared in triumph as he saw he'd scored. It was more by pure instinct than anything else that I did exactly the right thing: I realised he would move in to capitalise on this weakness of mine, crouched a little - and stuck the katana straight out in front of me. He misjudged my stance, came in hard - and screamed in agony as the TiCrIr blade plunged into and through his right arm. Desperate to avoid the possibility of his jerking backwards and depriving me of my only weapon, I quickly twisted it and pulled with everything I had.

There's one advantage a non-serrated blade has over a serrated one: it comes out as easily as it goes in even if it hits bone, which I'm pretty sure mine did. The katana slid smoothly out of his arm, trailing more of that green glowing slime he used for blood.

Now he had an injury more severe (I fervently hoped) than mine, and in his blade arm at that. My odds were looking better. Still bad, but better.

I'd expected him to rage at me, spit or whatever their equivalent was, but he didn't. Surprisingly he didn't seem angry at all.

If I wasn't already committed to the mindset of having nothing to lose and thus nothing to fear, this observation would've scared the shit out of me. It meant his control was even better than I'd feared. Swift Kill must be one hell of a mentor. I bet I'd have lasted two minutes against him, if that.

Young Blood did exactly what I'd hoped he wouldn't: he slowed the pace of his attack, his strikes much more measured. It was all too clear that if he had underestimated me at any point, he definitely wasn't doing that now. He was falling back on his basic training precisely as he should, substituting skill and finesse for speed and brute force, and he certainly was skilled. It made him ten times more dangerous.

As if he wasn't lethal enough already.

I reassessed my odds. Nope, Jocelyn was right.

I was so screwed.

But, I also knew, this would fulfil the requirements of the Hunt: the honourable kill of a most worthy prey. It meant he would leave.

No more New York citizens butchered on my watch.

No more Billys.

Marie would be safe. My team would be safe.

It was enough, I decided. No, I wasn't going to just quit, let him kill me, though I was so tired and I hurt so much it was honestly tempting, but...no. He would know and that would cheapen his trophy - undoing everything I'd worked to achieve.

Then again...

I didn't want to die.

Dammit, I didn't want to die!

Dylan Thomas was right, dammit all! Rage, rage against the dying of the light!

A strategy, a desperate last hope, occurred to me, based on something Mike had said. It was by far the biggest risk I'd ever taken or even contemplated, but it could work. I struck out with new hope. He parried, returned my strike, went low - and caught me straight across the belly.

Dear God, I had never, never known such pain. My scream of agony was all too genuine. So was my folding up, cradling the wound.

I had one chance. Just one. The timing had to be perfect or I would be dead.

Oh, God, that hurts so bad...

Young Blood sensed victory was close as the ooman howled and its thwei flowed freely. It buckled in clear agony. He knew its end was near. But by the Code, simply allowing it to die was dishonourable. It had earned a merciful death, more than earned it. Everything he had ever heard about oomans being the ultimate pyode amedha was true, and more. He flexed his injured arm to prepare to deliver the honourable death blow that would cleave the creature's thwei-pumping organ in two and thus kill it instantly.

He raised his arm. One strike, and -

NOW!

With the very last of my strength (if that's the right word) I thrust upwards. My strike was perfect; the blade slid into Young Blood's body and penetrated his spine as I'd intended. I twisted it, nearly breaking both wrists with the effort, and the tactic had exactly the effect I'd hoped for. There was a wet sound of cartilage (?) snapping - and Young Blood's back broke. His scream was choked by the green slime which spewed from his mouth.

He'd made exactly the same mistake as Mike's nemesis had: he'd assumed I was done, dying.

And I'd deceived him, just as Mike had. Slashed through his spine as Mike had.

"SHIT HAPPENS, MOTHERFUCKER!" I screamed in triumph as I whipped out the blade. "THAT'S FOR BILLY DAVIES!"

Young Blood collapsed. I am utterly certain he was dead before he hit the ground.

I almost collapsed myself, but somehow I stayed mostly upright, one knee on the ground. I knew Swift Kill and the others would respect me more if I didn't fall.

I didn't.

There was absolute silence. Then the Unit broke it with heartfelt cheers. The SWATs fired shots into the air. Marie flipped the Predators off.

And Swift Kill regarded me thoughtfully. At least I think it was thoughtfully. Hell, he was a fucking alien, how'm I supposed to know?! I'm a New York cop, not a Starfleet officer!

I was still in agony, but I somehow managed to stand. Duane took the risk of calling for a medkit and running to me with it, but Swift Kill didn't try to stop him. He was still unarmed, after all. "Hold still, sir, I gotta disinfect -"

"There's something else first," I rasped. I staggered to where Swift Kill stood and straightened up, the closest anyone outside of Joey DiMaggio could come to eyeballing a Predator. I'm only 5'10". I did my best. Always do. "I won. Yes?"

"You deceived him," Swift Kill observed, neutrally as far as I could tell.

"He underestimated me. How is that my fault?"

"It is not," Swift Kill admitted. "His was the fault for not remembering: your kind are truly crafty, clever. He briefly forgot that." A sound almost like a sigh, his mandibles clacking. "An able student, but his memory was never the best." He nodded. "You are the victor. Your victory is honourable. By the Code of the Hunt, I so declare." Then he seemed...well, I don't know how I know this, given a face not even remotely human in its configuration or physiognomy, but I am certain to this day that he looked...solemn. "There is a thing which must be done. The ancient ones of your kind did this also, to mark a true Hunter."

I understood. He wanted to mark me in some way, as tribal hunters marked themselves with the blood of their kills, to demonstrate proper respect for my victory - perhaps even with his mark. I nodded.

Swift Kill produced a stylus (well, it looked like one, and form follows function as always). He pressed it once, and a tiny drop of something greenish was exuded, falling to the sidewalk.

Where it etched a small hole. In concrete.

Corrosive, obviously, to form a permanent mark. Hell, this is gonna hurt. Then again, how can I hurt any more than I already do? Eat your heart out, Nietzsche, maybe you did know what you were talkin' about.

It wasn't too bad, considering (trans.: Owww, fuuuuuuck!). Swift Kill drew his mark with utmost care and precision on my forehead, giving me something that I knew would later prove very hard to explain to the powers that be (though it did somewhat improve my luck with the ladies...). Fuck 'em, I decided in a rebellion against authority à la Streetcat, I've earned this. It's not every cop who takes down a Predator with just a sword, especially when he's been practically gutted!

The others howled in approval; Duane got it from context and tossed me a Marine salute. Swift Kill hissed in approval of my stoic acceptance of the, frankly, agonising pain, and rumbled, "It is done. You are Blooded. Choose your trophy."

I was about to vociferously refuse on the grounds that it wasn't our custom, but then again they might not even comprehend such a refusal. I'd won in fair combat, I'd been properly marked by their (doubtless very ancient) custom, and so a trophy was mine by right. I wondered briefly if they'd allow me to reclaim Billy's skull and spinal column, for Violet's sake - but then I had an idea. "There is something I want."

"Name it."

"I want...I want you to leave this world and never, EVER return!" I yelled. "That is my trophy! By your own rules, you must grant this!"

I think they looked shocked. I'm fairly sure of it. Every targeting beam of every plasma caster abruptly focused onto my body. Clearly they were incensed as well. But Swift Kill roared furiously, his mandibles flaring, "No! It is FORBIDDEN to kill a victor! You ALL know this! Fire, any ONE of you, and I will KILL YOU ALL! THIS, TOO, YOU KNOW!"

It was clear that they did. Every beam winked out. They obviously took his threat - or rather, it seemed to me, his statement of the way things would be if they didn't comply - very seriously. For all I knew, maybe he could pull it off.

Satisfied they wouldn't violate their own customs, he turned to me. "I...do not understand."

I was honestly touched by the genuine puzzlement and confusion I heard in his synthesised voice. "My people know about yours. We've known for forty of our - do you know how long the time measurement we call a year is? It's the time it takes our world to orbit its sun once. - for forty, that's this many -" I held up both splayed hands four times, and he nodded in understanding, "- years. The rulers of our world, what we call the government, want to capture one of you, and your technology."

"We know this." A dry laugh. "They will not succeed."

"They might, one day," I warned him quietly. "Our technology is constantly advancing. Imagine our warriors...with your weapons. Your alloys. Your stealth tech. Just imagine what the Hunt would be like then. And what happens when we go to the stars, as I believe we will one day? Maybe then, we will hunt you! How would you like THAT?!" I demanded.

Somehow I could tell he was reconsidering his position...and quite naturally he didn't like that idea one little bit. "It is...possible. But it would be wrong. You are too young and simple to use our science properly."

I didn't take offence for the simple reason that he was right. The thought of that stealth tech ending up even in legitimate hands, let alone those of some nutter and/or terrorist, was a chilling one. To an assassin it would be manna from heaven, washed down with ambrosia. The CIA...dear God, they'd love it. "True. Which is why I don't want you to take the risk." I sagged wearily, my strength draining away. "Just...go. Please, just go. Close Earth as a hunting ground. There have to be others you can hunt out there." Selfish though that is...

"There are," he readily admitted, "but we have found none who are so...worthy."

It was weirdly flattering to be considered worthy prey for butchery and mutilation. But it had to end. "Nevertheless, that is the trophy I demand. You know you cannot deny me."

"I cannot," he conceded, "but such a decision is not truly mine to make. I am a Leader, but I am not Leader in the sense you mean." Oh, fuck a duck, I hadn't thought of that. "I must consult the Wise Elders. Only they can decide such a thing."

The context was obvious: Predators too old even by their standards to hunt, advising the youngsters, providing a semblance of government. But what would they decide, and how long would it take? What would happen in the meantime?

I asked, and was told it would take as long as it took - but there would be no Hunts in the interim. Certainly they would never return to New York. "Each Hunting ground is normally used only once. It is the Way."

On hearing that, I could at last relax in the knowledge that my city was safe from these creatures now. In fact..."Okay, Dr. Holmes," I quipped, "don't suppose you could spare the time to stop me bleeding out...?"

Duane's and Swift Kill's booming laughter was the last thing I heard before passing out.

Yeah. You try fighting an alien creature twice your weight, from a higher-gravity world, getting slashed nearly to the bone - twice - and staying conscious. I'm so sure. I'd bloody well earned a spell of unconsciousness. So I took one.

Well, okay, I just passed out. As Frankie might say: whatevs.