Something off to her right made her halt. It was familiar, almost welcoming. Hefting her rifle she followed it as it grew steadily louder. The sound of running water never became a roar, never rose above a trickle, even when she entered a new chamber whose ceiling was so high she could barely make it out in the filtered light.
Entering, she turned a slow circle as she walked, marveling at the vertical garden that filled the high room, growing up the walls. Or more likely growing down them, she corrected herself. After nothing to eat for many hours save packaged emergency rations, the presence of several kinds of fresh fruit, their multi-hued surfaces glistening with droplets, was tempting. Having seen far too much of what this planet held in the way of surprises, she didn’t go near them. They might contain nothing more threatening than pulp and seeds, she told herself, but she wasn’t in the mood to experiment. Not with anything living, she mused.
Water, however, was another matter.
Setting her rifle aside where it wouldn’t get wet, she approached the nearest singing cascade. Extending a palm, she let the clear liquid flow over it and down the sides of her hand. It was cool, almost refreshingly cold. Did it come from the same source as the central well? If so, then it should be safe to drink. If it was only collected rainwater, even better. After an additional moment of hesitation she cupped both hands, let them fill, then brought the cupful to her mouth and drank. Insofar as she could tell, it was nothing more than it appeared to be.
Leaning into the flow, she let the cold cascade drizzle down over her face. It was more than refreshing. It was rejuvenating. Smiling, she rolled up her sleeve and extended the arm that had been injured in the fight with the neomorphs. Using her other hand, she brushed and rubbed the fresh water over the wound. It was almost as if she could feel the damaged skin healing.
Something that was not running water made a noise.
Blinking away a few lingering droplets, she turned. At first she wasn’t sure what she was looking at, even though it was quite near. Dimly illuminated by the intermittent light, it was almost too pale for details to quickly resolve. As her vision cleared she made out a curving, intelligent forehead, white, with water dribbling onto it and down.
She recognized the neomorph.
Her eyes flicked to where she had set down her rifle. It was very close, almost at hand. She lunged.
Grabbing her face and head, the creature lifted her off the ground. Despite the pain in her neck, she clutched at the ossified arm and struggled to pull free. Effortlessly, the neomorph flung her across the room.
Blood sprayed as she slammed awkwardly against a wall. Something snapped, sending through her a bolt of excruciating pain. Unable to move, her back broken, she could only look on, her expression a mixture of fury and fear, as it came toward her.
The almost human, tooth-laden mouth opened wide.
A noise as of something hitting the ground caused David to pause and turn. After ten years he knew every sound, every slight squeak and scratch, inside the massive structure. Now this, something new. It came from what he had come to call the Drizzle Room. An immature label, perhaps, but one that appealed to his sense of whimsy.
Approaching the access portal with his customary caution, he peered in and let out a sibilant gasp.
Tail switching back and forth, the neomorph had its back toward him. It was hunched over something that was ravaged and broken. From the little that was visible, David recognized the limp body of a member of the landing party’s security team. Further scanning with his exceptional vision, he identified the body as belonging to the team member named Rosenthal. He eyed it only long enough to identify it. His attention, like his real interest, was focused on the neomorph.
It rose and turned slowly in his direction.
He started to retrace his steps. Not running, but retreating with deliberation down the access corridor. Around a turn and down in another direction before he finally stopped and turned to face that which could not be escaped.
Advancing with a gait somewhere between a fast walk and a deliberate trot, it came toward him. When he didn’t move, it halted only inches from his face. In the weakly illuminated hallway, synthetic and neomorph stood facing each other. David remained stock still, not moving a muscle. The creature was equally immobile.
Appearing around the previous corner, Oram raised the carbine he was carrying. A quick tap ensured that the full magazine was properly seated. David saw him out of the corner of his eye.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” the synthetic implored him. Only his lips moved, only his synthetic respiratory system impacted his immediate surroundings.
The creature was likewise exhaling, its fetid breath ruffling the front of the synthetic’s hair. It studied the biped standing motionless before it, the elongated, pointed head tilting slightly to one side. What it was thinking—if it was thinking, in the accepted sense—could only be imagined.
Raising the muzzle of the carbine, Oram stood and regarded the stationary confrontation. It was like being in a cage with a raptor and its potential victim. One wrong movement… one wrong sound, and immobility would be replaced by bedlam.
The neomorph opened its jaws wide. Wider still, its gaping maw right in front of David’s face. He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. With near mechanical precision, the jaws closed. It stood there, gazing inquisitively at a quarry that refused to flee.
With great care and deliberation, David pursed his lips and blew gently into the horror of a countenance.
As it received the exhalation the neomorph’s head drew back, paused, then moved in close once again. There was no sign of confusion in its movements. Only a barely perceived hesitancy. The synthetic blew a second time. Once again the smooth skull eased back. The creature appeared almost—calm.
A slow smile spread across David’s face. His excitement was palpable. It was as if he had, somehow, placed the murderous apparition under a kind of hypnosis. Conscious of Oram’s continued presence, the synthetic addressed him without shifting his gaze from the killing machine standing before him.
“Communication, Captain,” he said, his voice filling the silence. “In the end, communication is everything. It is communication that leads to understanding. Breathe on the nostrils of a horse and he’ll be yours for life—if he doesn’t trample you first. Once your presence, your audacious proximity, is accepted, the beginnings of mutual comprehension ensue. But you have to get close. You have to earn its trust. It’s a universal accommodation.” He leaned forward to blow a third time into the creature’s face.
Oram fired.
The neomorph jerked back, its blood spurting. The panic and dismay that distorted David’s face were unlike any expression the captain had seen on the synthetic’s face since their arrival. His normally composed, always level voice became an aberrant shriek.
“No!”
Ignoring him, a grim-faced Oram kept firing as he advanced. Though not a member of Covenant Security, he was a very good shot and at this range did not, could not, miss. As each blast struck home, the neomorph twisted and jerked violently. Its contortions were accompanied by a continuous, long howl from David.
“No! Nooooo…”
Paying no attention to the synthetic’s pleas and oblivious to anything other than his target, Oram continued firing as he moved forward. Forced backward by the continual, relentless barrage, the neomorph sought to escape. Each time it tried to rush past him or turn, the captain put another shell into it. Eventually trapping it in a corner, Oram slapped another magazine into the carbine and continued to fire, heedless of whatever the creature might do.