"Steve Perry - Aliens vs Predator - 1 - Prey" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

"Goddamned cheap fucking doppler!" Tom said, trying to get the computer to
adjust its scan. "What the hell was that? A ship?"

"Not hardly. That acceleration would probably turn people into seat
pancakes. Nova debris, maybe, old rock spat out by a real big planet-buster
blast."

"Yeah? Maybe it's God on His way to the Final Reckoning. Better scrub your
conscience clean, Scotty."

"I'm just a grunt, pal, don't blame me for the way the universe gets run."

"Fucking spectrograph missed it altogether." He slammed the heel of his
hand against the console. Nobody wasted any money on these ships for such
things as decent hardware.

"Like we were going to chase and catch it even if it was solid platinum,
right?" Scott smiled. "It's not our job, buddy. One more rock in the dark, who
cares?

Seated in front of the sensor array on Ne'dtesei, Yeyinde watched the alien
ship dwindle in their wake. He was Leader; his very name meant "brave one" but
he knew the warriors called him "Dachande" when they thought his ears too dull
to hear them. That name meant "different knife," and it referred to his left
lower tusk, broken in a bare-handed fight against the Hard Meat, the kainde
amedha, they of the black armored exoskeletons and acid blood. He smiled
inwardly at the name. It could be considered an insult, but he was proud of
it. The Hard Meat, save for the queens, were no smarter than dogs, but they
were fierce and deadly game. Good prey upon which to train the young warriors.
He could have had the tusk capped and reground, but he had left the broken
fang a dull stump to remind himself-and any warriors who felt brave or
particularly stupid-that only one yautja of all had ever faced the Hard Meat
unarmed and walked away. As befitted a true warrior, Dachande himself never
spoke of the battle, but let others tell the tale, holding a serious mandible
at the embellishments they added in the singing of it. He was Leader of the
Ne'dtesei, son and grandson of ship leaders and warrior trainers, and he bowed
to no one in his skill with blade or burner. He had taken hundreds of young
males out to learn the Hunt and had lost but a dozen, most of whom would still
be among the living had they obeyed his orders.
 But he sighed at the ship now so far behind him as to be invisible to even
the sensors' keen eyes. Oomans flew in that vessel. He knew of them, the
oomans, though he himself had never Hunted them. They were tool folk, had
weapons equal to those of the yautja, and were, if the stories could be
believed, the ultimate pyode amedha. Soft Meat. But with deadly stingers, the
oomans. A true test of skill. What were they doing out here? Where were they
bound? A pity he was locked into this Hunt, responsible for a score of itchy
would-be warriors full of themselves and ready to show off their prowess.

Well. Someday he would Hunt them, the oomans.