Exo-Hunter Read online

  But no one else in the Union has what I keep on my belt: a miniature Slew Drive. It lets me teleport between locations, Star Trek style, but it takes an hour to charge between rotations. Wouldn’t want to use it in the outers of space, but ship-to-ship transportation works like a charm, as does ship-to-planet.

  “Not again,” Chuy complains. “We don’t know whaaaa—tttt—zzzz—”

  I roll out of the third dimension and into the fourth. Not much here to look at aside from bright white light and open space. The Slew Drive does its thing, and I take a single step. Then I roll back out of the fourth dimension and onto the planet’s surface.

  Chuy was trying to warn me that we don’t know what’s on the surface. Despite my complaints, the only way to check for unadvanced lifeforms is to have a looksee for yourself. The future is advanced, but it’s still a lot clunky and unintuitive.

  The white fades and I’m presented with a blue sky, luminous clouds, and a purple landscape. The ground beneath my feet is…squishy. I bounce from foot to foot. Water seeps out from a myriad of tiny holes.

  “The ground is a sponge…” If the whole planet is like this, that could be a problem. The purple landscape stretches as far as I can see in every direction. It’s pocked with thousands, maybe millions, of round puddles, each one ten to twenty feet across and separated by thirty-foot gaps. None of it is uniform. Some puddles are closer together than others.

  Weird.

  “Sponge World,” I say, bouncing and smiling. My job is to find habitable worlds, but I honestly don’t give a rip. That’s not why I’m here, and not why—

  Uh-oh.

  Movement.

  Three puddles away.

  Water sloshes.

  Something’s in there…

  I reach for my rifle.

  Shit.

  In my rush to reach the surface, I forgot to bring it. But I’m always wearing my handgun. I make the bullets myself, because future people use ‘lazzer’ weapons that cauterize wounds. And yeah, that’s lazzer with two Zs. Somewhere along the past few hundred years, the spelling of some words evolved, usually not for the better, like with lazzer. I prefer to shoot projectiles that let people—or alien monsters—bleed out.

  Before I can draw my gun, the most warped-looking thing I’ve ever seen in my life—like a hairless sloth with skin stretched between its fore and hind limbs—explodes out of the puddle. It glides to the next puddle, belly flops into the water, and then flings itself into the air again, all while snorting like some kind of angry horse.

  “Look at this spaz...”

  When it lands in the puddle just fifteen feet away, its trajectory and intent are clear—it’s hungry.

  And I look like food.

  2

  Evolution is a sick bastard.

  Every planet is invariably different, some more than others. Purple Sponge World here is one of the weirder landscapes I’ve set foot on, but this isn’t a giant leap or even a small step for mankind. It’s a shit show, and I’m the main attraction.

  The puddle jumper is airborne again, gliding between bodies of water, directly toward my stupid ass. I shout in surprise—and honestly a little bit of I just pissed my pants fear—when it opens its mouth. Instead of teeth, which would have been totally normal on most planets, a hundred wormy tentacles blossom and reach out. At the writhing mass’s core is a pulsing and churning throat filled with spikes.

  It’s an aquatic, flying meatgrinder.

  Chuy’s never going to let me live this down.

  If I survive.

  A plan flashes through my mind. Old school visualization. See what you’re going to do, and then do it. If you’ve got a firm grasp of the laws of physics and what your body is capable of, it works like a charm.

  In my mind’s eye, I come to a sudden stop, drop to one knee, raise my weapon, and fire a single round into the puddle jumper’s limb. Animals are animals, no matter what planet they’re on. Letting it know that I’m not prey will send it scurrying away.

  But none of that happens.

  When I plant my feet to stop running, water oozes out of the landscape. My left foot stays planted. My right slides out.

  “Oh, shit!” I manage to shout, as I perform as close to a split as my groin will allow. And then a little bit further. I spasm and flop to the side with an “Oow!”

  On the plus side, my body bounces against the spongy ground, which breaks my fall, just in time. The puddle jumper glides over me, its wormy face reaching out and grazing my body as it passes. Its pale stomach is swollen and translucent. Through the skin, I see wriggling wormy things with black eyes. If they’re parasites, I should probably put the thing out of its misery. But the possibility of those little freaky assholes being babies tempers my desire to unleash my inner Rambo.

  With a pistol…

  Whatever.

  My entire back is wet, soaked with the otherworldly water, which smells kind of like algae. I pat down my body, searching for any sudden pain or missing limbs, ending with my crotch. Everything is unharmed and in place.

  I sit up, gun aimed, but finger no longer on the trigger.

  What would it say about me if the first thing I did upon setting foot on an alien world was shoot a pregnant mother?

  The puddle jumper splashes down twenty feet away, disappearing beneath the water. For a moment, I think it’s given up. Then I notice the water. It’s spinning. Becoming a whirlpool.

  The puddle jumper is swimming in circles.

  Building speed.

  “Aww, shit,” I say, and I jump to my feet, intending to put some distance between us. My pulled groin protests, turning my sprint into a pathetic limp. I curse with every step. “Shit. Fuck. Shit.”

  The sound of sloshing water propels me past the pain. I’ve dealt with worse, but it’s been a long time since I’ve lived the rugged life of a Marine on mission and in battle.

  I’ve gone soft, I think, and then I grunt as I holster my weapon and pick up speed.

  I tap my throat mic. “Chuy, what’s your ETA? The local wildlife is hostile. I could use a pick-up sooner than later.”

  Our comms are implanted, allowing me to communicate with any member of the crew. All I need to do is tap the side of my neck to activate it, and then start my sentence with their first name. Sometimes I just leave it active and just need to say someone’s name and start chatting, like they were in the room. Her response comes in loud and clear: hysterical laughter broadcast right into my head.

  Great…she’s watching.

  “Chuy!” I say over her wheezing. “This is serious!”

  “I can see that, Jean-Claude,” she says through fits of laughter.

  I grit my teeth. Before being ripped out of 1989, my team watched Bloodsport together. It was an okay movie, but the man’s ungodly crotch made all of us squirm. Van Damme either has no balls, or broken hips. Either way, ouch. But good for him, I guess. He’s the only dude in Hollywood who got famous for spreading his legs.

  Was the only dude… That world is long since gone, and since all media from the years before the ethnic purge has been destroyed, we’ll never get to see any other movies in which he and his elastic taint starred.

  A splash turns me around.

  The puddle jumper is airborne again, gliding right for me.

  But I’m ready for it this time, and I’m not even going to use my gun. I’m going to use a Marine’s first and most dangerous weapon—his mind. The creature might be perfectly evolved to hunt in this environment, but like Cro Magnon man facing a saber-toothed cat, I’m going to survive by outsmarting it.

  Instead of running away directly toward another puddle, allowing it to continue its fluid attack, I’m charging between two puddles thirty feet apart. The next puddle in front of me is a hundred feet off—and the puddle jumper won’t come close to reaching it.

  If it wants to keep using the water as a launching pad, it’s going to have to veer off.

  And that’s going to buy me time.

 
; And distance.

  Then all I need to do is rinse and repeat, until Chuy arrives.

  Part of me would rather get sucked into that meat-grinder maw than face Chuy’s ridicule, but I’m not going to let anything or anyone end my life until I know that every member of my team is safe.

  I watch the puddle jumper’s approach. It twitches its hooked forelimbs back and forth, adjusting its trajectory. The creature’s black eyes are locked on me. I look for intelligence in them, but I see only hunger, a supposition that is supported by the tentacles now jutting out of its mouth.

  I’m past the two pools.

  The puddle jumper is going to veer off in three…two…

  My brow furrows.

  Two and a half…

  “Seriously?!” I slide to the spongy ground like Ricky Henderson stealing second. It’s not enough.

  As the puddle jumper glides toward me, closing in for the kill, I’m forced onto my stomach. I reach out with my fingers and punch through the flexible ground. Chunks tear free, but I’m jolted to a stop, and the alien predator overshoots me again.

  I flop onto my back, totally soaked now, and I watch the puddle jumper land, hooking one clawed limb into the soft terrain and using its momentum to pull off a fluid 180-degree turn.

  My feet slip twice before finding traction, but then they propel me away from the puddle jumper. And just in time. It swings one of those hooked claws at me. The near miss spritzes the back of my head with the water dripping off its body.

  I can feel the thing chasing me. Its weight compresses the sponge, sending out rolling shockwaves. The ground beneath my feet becomes unstable. It’s like running on a trampoline while the fat kid at the party is jumping on it, cake in hand, laughing at you with blue frosting-coated teeth.

  Bobby Brumelstroot. A jackass from middle school. I still feel angry about my childhood bullies on occasion, but then I remember they’re all dead and I feel a little better.

  The puddle jumper adds humor to horror by roaring. I’ve heard a lot of animal calls over the years, both on Earth and on other planets. They’re generally the same—loud, deep, and intimidating.

  The puddle jumper’s roar sounds like a wet fart blasted from the ass of a hippopotamus with irritable bowel syndrome.

  And I can’t help but laugh so hard I nearly fall on my face when the ground beneath me sinks, and I miss a step.

  “God’s sake!” I shout, and I draw my pistol again.

  Have no choice.

  The thing is gaining on me. In a few seconds, my ground-up head will be in its gullet.

  Shooting a stationary target while moving is a challenge. Hitting a moving target while in motion is all but impossible, unless you’re unleashing hell from a mini-gun. Winging a moving target while sprinting through a fucking bouncy house…

  Well, that’s exactly the kind of challenge for which God made me.

  When the ground beneath me rolls up, I jump.

  The extra upward momentum and lower gravity propel me into the air, even without damn flying-squirrel membranes between my arms and legs. I twist around, taking aim, and—

  “Gah!”

  The puddle jumper’s mouth is right there! Its tentacles graze my cheeks. Little barbs at the ends hook onto my skin.

  I fire a round.

  The creature jolts.

  The tentacles tear from my cheeks.

  I land on my back, gun still aimed at the puddle jumper, and I slide ten feet before coming to a stop.

  The creature twitches its leg while spinning in circles. It’s confused by the pain. Unsure of where it came from. So, I reinforce the message.

  I stand and point my gun in the air. “Hey, asshole!”

  Black eyes twitch toward me.

  I fire the gun again. The puddle jumper flinches. Takes a step back.

  Message received.

  “If you’re done screwing around with the wildlife,” Chuy says in my ear, “you might want to start running again.”

  “Situation contained,” I say. “I showed it who’s the boss.”

  “Hijo de las mil putas,” she whispers. “Have a look around you, Tony Danza.”

  While the puddle jumper continues to back pedal, several more pools of water are swirling now. My gunshot woke the natives. “I’m just…ugh…”

  “You reap what you sow, cabrón. Now, start running.”

  Lil’ Bitch’n—what I named the boxy, shit-shaped transport vehicle that carried us away from Earth for the first and last time—descends ahead of me, still moving forward, hovering a few feet off the ground. Chuy stands in the open rear hatchway, still laughing and waving me on.

  For a moment, I’m confused by what I’m seeing.

  Why is she still laugh—

  Goddamnit…

  She’s reenacting the final scene of Megaforce, a movie that is more 80s than the 80s could have ever hoped to be. Knowing I have no choice but to play out her humiliating recreation, I run for the open hatch. She’s all smiles and encouragement. “Deeds, not words,” she shouts, and I nearly smile back.

  She’s a pain in my ass. She’s also my best friend.

  We’ll laugh about this whole debacle for the next few months.

  Then her smile fades, and her rifle comes up.

  I glance back. A dozen puddle jumpers are behind me. Some airborne. Some running. Several of them are much larger than the one I faced down.

  “Hold your fire,” I say, and I pour on the speed despite the pain in my crotch and the water-logged clothing tugging against my skin. Chuy shouts a command to whoever is flying—probably Drago—and Lil Bitch’n comes to a stop.

  I plan out my approach, timing each step perfectly.

  Then the spacecraft reverses straight toward me!

  I leap at the last second, soar twenty feet inside the cargo bay, crash to the floor, and roll to a stop at the far end. By the time I’ve righted myself, the rear hatch has closed, and we’re moving forward again. Puddle jumpers thud against the hull, and then we ascend toward the heavens from whence we came.

  Chuy stands above me. “You injured?”

  “My pride,” I say, and then I move and grunt. “Pretty sure I pulled a hammy, too.”

  She shakes her head and contains her laughter for just a moment. Then she slides down next to me, our backs against the wall. “I know you’re eager to move on to the next planet—”

  “And maybe our people.”

  “—but this was reckless.” She gives me a stern look. “You’re not going to save anyone if you’re dead, and I can’t do this without you.” She smiles at me. It’s damn near sweet. Then she adds, “Next time you pull something like that, I’m going to punch you in the dick.”

  She didn’t need to threaten consequences. I learned my lesson the moment my legs split apart. “Fair enough.”

  “Good,” she says. Then she raises her arm and taps a button to start a holographic projection. It starts with an aerial view of me standing on the surface, surrounded by puddles, not yet running for my life. “Now then… I recorded the whole thing.”

  3

  The future is clunky. The technology is impressive—Slew Drives, artificial gravity, energy weapons—but I always pictured the future being sleek and stylish. It’s actually kind of boxy, dark, and metallic. And the buttons. What’s with all the buttons? The bridge’s controls are like an homage to Eagle, the Apollo lunar module that landed on the moon...which I’m told was first colonized by 3D printed cement structures made from regolith (moon dirt) and piss.

  The Bitch’n’s interior is comparable to a roomy submarine. Lots of big spaces. Tall ceilings. But there is nothing pretty or inviting about it. Angles everywhere. Not many windows, though I made sure my quarters had one. I suppose the harsh, utilitarian design—or lack thereof—is a byproduct of space travel’s first conquerors being evil sunzabitches.

  How pissed would they be to know that I exist?

  Just thinking about it makes me smile.

  I should take up
Drago’s plan. Get a harem. Single-handedly repopulate the galaxy with people of color. The idea of being a dad frightens me, though. My father was the epitome of sacrificial love, working every day of his life to provide for his family. Right up until the day he died of a heart attack. He set a high bar, which I’ve applied to my life in the Marines and to those under my command. Given how that’s turned out, I’m pretty sure I’m not really father material.

  One kid would be bad enough, but hundreds? Thousands?

  Exo-hunting pays well, but not that well.

  I roll onto my side, body still aching from my off-ship adventure. Future medicine works fast. I’ll be good in a few hours. But there’s still enough discomfort to make me think twice about doing stupid things.

  My bed is a glorified cot, but it’s next to a circular porthole about the size of a tire. Aside from the bridge, it usually has the best view on the ship. Sponge World fills the window, its violet surface lit by a yellow sun. From here, it’s beautiful and inviting. At first glance, the Union is going to have a hard time believing the planet is not suitable for colonization. But our post-debacle analysis revealed that the ‘continents’ are actually giant floating masses, impossible to build on. The puddle jumpers got lucky. Had the planet been habitable, they’d have been facing extermination.

  Just another species wiped out by the selfish desires of humanity.

  People might not be warring anymore, but the lesser denizens of the galaxy aren’t getting a fair shake. Extinction of every species that doesn’t taste good is acceptable, as long as the proliferation of people continues.

  When God said, ‘Be fruitful and multiply,’ I really don’t think this is what He had in mind.

  Religion, like animals, is a thing of the past. The white supremacist movement was birthed from religious groups, but belief in a higher moral power went out of style once power was achieved.

  I was never a churchgoer; I’m agnostic.

  Chuy on the other hand…is a staunch Catholic, even now. She’s the only one left in the universe.

  Does that make her the Pope? Space Pope Chuy?

  I’ll have to ask her.