This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/WegianWarrior on 2024-09-28 07:23:26+00:00.
My ship hung silently in space, not quite drifting. While its sensors sucked up every stray photon, every little electromagnetic wiggle, I read in silence.
Quietly I flipped a page of the printout. It didn’t make sense to stay quiet inside my cosy cabin, but I did anyway. It helped me get in the mood for the coming hunt.
The dominant species in this part of the galaxy was the Spa’ala-aelans. Large, vaguely bovine-like aliens, the Spa’alans were descended from herbivores like almost every other sentient xeno out there. But while most xenos expected - and feared - a loud, obvious predator to come tearing through their midst, the Spa’alans feared the quiet ambush.
Some species fear the small and nimble predator - the rat that snuck into nests and stole eggs. Some species fear the large and unstoppable beasts - the bear chasing after you. And some fear the ambush - the snapping jaws of a wolf.
But our task was to make sure all feared man. Man who could be nimble, unstoppable, and hidden - all at once. And once they feared us, we would rule them through that fear. And the printout told me that the Spa’alans feared the ambush.
Which was boring, but ever since humanity had decided to accept the role thrust upon us by xeno xenophobia, we have taken some pride in catering to expectations. What was the point in being the ultimate predator if the prey was not in fear? How could they fear us, if we didn’t play on their paranoia?
So it was my thankless task to float around. The squat, efficient hull of my vessel was camouflaged with carbon poles and taut metalized mylar into a much more imposing vague wedge shape.
Imposing if you’re a bull headed Spa’alan, that is. The printout told me the shape resembled the skull of the apex predator from their homeworld, a beast that got wiped out before humans started to play with fire. Racial memories can hang around for a long time, unless overwritten.
It was several days later when a quiet little alarm went off, letting me know that one of the remote sensors had picked something up. A fleet of transports had just dropped out of hyperspace, and started the long trek from one jump point to the next. Their projected course would take them right past where I was, but they would be caught midway between jump points when passing me. I hummed tunelessly as I started plotting a course and making plans. Cold and passive as I was, they wouldn’t know what hit them before it was too late to turn around. They would have no option beyond trying to burn past me, or fight me. And herbies know next to nothing about how or why humans fight.
I had had enough time to study their formation as they fell towards the star. Several large transports in a tight group. A few faster, combat capable ships along the outer rim. Bulls protecting their cows and calves, according to printouts. An instinctive behaviour - when they recognised me as a threat, the faster ships would likely form a wall between me and the transports. I was, however. planning on abusing another of their instincts to catch my prey.
I sprung my ambush as they were halfway between jump points. A cold launched missile, accelerated on cold trust only, had been underway for hours. As I engaged my engines and let my railgun send a projectile against one of the fighting craft, the missile silently selected the rearmost transport and started homing in on their drive array.
As expected, the bulls had formed a wall. I took the occasional potshot at them to keep their focus on me. The stricken transport fell further and further behind the main formation as they burned hard towards the jump point. I was accelerating too, and would catch up with the stricken transport a short time before the main formation reached the jump point and hypered out.
It would be a short time, but it would be enough time.
Enough time that they would see me cut the transport off from the herd. Enough time that the escapees would spread the word. But not enough time for them to watch me rip and tear into the transport. They would have plenty of time while in hyperspace to imagine the results.
As I drifted past the transport - although drifting isn’t quite the right word when moving at near relativistic speeds - I let two carefully aimed shots loose against the lagging transport. One at the communications array. which had been transmitting a long series of cries for help, emergency messages, and Spa’alan curses. And one towards the damaged engine, crippling it completely. As the other transports started phasing out, I reversed trust and slowed down until I was flying in formation with the crippled ship.
I waited for the airlock to cycle, glancing at myself in the internal monitor. My combat suit was bone white, but with red paint on the hands. forearms, and lower face plate. According to the printout it should register as the colour of blood to the Spa’alans. Sharp, pointed studs covered the knuckles and the back of my hands. A tranquiliser-gun on my right hip mirrored the much-more-lethal gun on the left. If any of the transport’s passengers was less than meek, the red would be more than just paint when I was done.
Pausing to interface a portable AI-powered hacking unit to a Spa’alan data terminal, I slowly and methodically made my way through the transport. Engineering deck was devoid of xenos, likely evacuated when my missile struck. The small bridge was deserted, the crew likely seeking the comfort of the herd as my plasma cutter made short work of the armoured bulkhead. That left, if my printout had been correct, the habitation area. A reinforced deck, large enough to hold the crew and passengers. Large enough to make a stand… if the herbies had the bravado to stand up to me.
I paused. The habitation area was sealed, of course. But the real bother was the three young males standing in front of the contracted doorway. They were nervous, yes, but they had either chosen or been forced to take on the role of grown bulls. Protectors of the herd. A bulwark against predators. A disposable distraction. Or, from my point of view, three sentients not thinking things through. I sighted to myself as I stepped into their line of view and fired my tranq-gun.
Two of the young males dropped before they had taken two steps towards me. The third kept coming. Either I hadn’t gotten a clean shot, or he was so full of adrenaline-analogs as to counteract the drug. I holstered the gun, braced one foot against the deck, and waited. Just as he lowered his head to spear me with his twin horns, I let my right fist fly forward. The combat suit’s hydraulics whined as I made contact. Through the audio pickups I could hear his skull crack, his spine compress, his hooves sliding on the deck plates. He crumpled in a heap in front of me, blood gushing from his mouth. I sighted again. The young male was dead or dying, a lost opportunity.
I studied the doorway for a few seconds. The herbies inside had likely witnessed the short battle through hidden pickups. so any delays on my part would weaken the shock effect. And since haste was needed… I started punching the door, with the suit’s augments turned up to the maximum. Each blow buckled and bent the door panels, until the door collapsed into a heap of broken parts. I slowly stepped over the heap and surveyed the room beyond.
Sixty one.
Add in the three young males I had already taken care of, and it made a full eight squared. Which, if the printour was correct, was what I could expect to find on a transport - a ship would might comfortably fit two dozen humans. I kept still, the combat suit’s faceplate an unreadable surface as I waited to see what the herbies would do.
They had all moved towards the back of the open deck. Young ones innermost, a semicircle of females making a wavering wall between them and me. Through the microphones and amplifiers of my suit I could hear their breathing and nervous movements. As I slowly started moving towards them, between food dispensers and discarded personal items, one of the females took a hesitant step forward from the group.
“There were three males?”
I considered her question. Perhaps they had not watched the short skirmish after all.
“Two of them might survive for a while longer.”
“One was my offspring.”
“None of them could stop me.”
“The herd will trample you for this.”
“The herd abandoned you. You are the weak, the stragglers, the sick that are expendable.”
Each of my words made her shudder. I took a step forward. She took two back.
“You’re… you’re human, are you not?”
“I am Man, yes. And you’re just herbies - just… prey. That is all you kind have ever aspired to be.”
“Meateater… predator… but the herd will be back.”
“Omnivore, to be pedantic. And they won’t - not in time to help you. Or at all. The weak, sick and lame are sacrificed. It is the herbie way, is it not?”
I brought a fist down on a computer terminal as she started to speak… It crumpled and caught fire in a most satisfactory way. They all stared at it as the fire alarm went off. No one moved, apart from some of the younglings cowering in the back of the group.
“You are prey that got caught. Your drives are down. Your coms are down. Your mainframe is compromised. You are dead meat talking. And if you all don’t fall into line, life support is the next system to fail.”
“How could you know that, predator?”
I looked at her. Still in front of the small herd, as if protecting them… or hoping to die first so she didn’t ha…
Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1fr8yaj/predator_and_prey/