No.

Too many of her companions had paid with their lives that day trying to reach the Queen. To kill it now would negate their sacrifices.

In this situation even honor offered only one course of action.

Retreat.

She dropped the gun and ran.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, echoing inside her helmet, her heart drumming a machine-gun beat in her chest. Her feet pounded a counter rhythm on the steel floor of the nesting chamber.

She barely heard any of it.

All she was aware of was the sound of the Queen's pursuit ....

And the implicit sound of her own mortality.

Leaving Ryus.h.i.+ and joining the Hunters had seemed like the logical thing to do at the time, the right thing to do. The yautja code, as she perceived it, seemed enviable, clean. As she had waited alone on Ryus.h.i.+, she had waited for just such an opportunity, feeling herself changed in the crucible of her experiences at Prosperity Wells.

Now the decision just seemed stupid and vain. A romantic fantasy. Hard to think of anything but fear and survival when there were tons of drooling Death bearing down upon her. Whatever had made her think that she could match the ways of these half savages? What had she hoped to prove to herself?

She ran for her life.

It seemed as though she could feel the heat of the creature's breath on her neck. She certainly heard the clank and clack of its chitin, the stretch of its tendons.

Up ahead was the door . . . the pa.s.sageway to safety. It was round and small and could close quickly.

Standing on the other side, hand up and off to the side, was an unexpected figure at the controls.

Shorty. She could not see his expression because of his mask.

h.e.l.l, she didn't know if these things had expressions-she just couldn't read mandible positioning.

Shorty's arm twisted.

A chak of controls.

The door slammed down hard, cutting off her exit.

In its very middle was a triangular window. Two of the Hunters-neither of them Shorty-moved up to that window and gazed into the chamber.

Neither of them moved a muscle to get the door up. Neither of them made an effort to save her.

They just stared at her, spectators of some deadly morality play.

Whatever had made her think that she could live by these creatures' bizarre laws?

Much less gain their respect?

She spun around.

The monster Queen was not as close as she feared, but neither was she far.

And she was gaining all the time.

Well, she'd worry about saving face after she saved her own skin.

She feinted in one direction, and the Queen quickly responded, s.h.i.+fting its weight in a twinkling and investing its momentum in its bid to make quick work of this available tormentor.

Then Machiko s.h.i.+fted, dodged, and sprinted for her true objective.

There was more than one way out of any trap.

She headed for the vent and the restraining cable she had noted before.

Machiko leaped with all her strength and began to scramble up this rough ladder.

She made the climb in record time, but even as she made the grill, she heard the beast below her. It apparently wasn't going to just sit around and watch her get out.

She didn't waste a moment.

Perched upon her shoulder was a laser.

She fired it, and its brilliant beam cut through the wires speedily. She turned it off and pried off the grillwork, making a hole wide enough for her slender body to slip through.

Just about it. A moment or two and she'd be out of danger.

Even as she was tasting her safety, she felt an awful tug on her hair.

The Queen had reached up and grabbed her dreadlocks. Fortunately, the Queen wasn't the only one with sharp and nasty claws.

Machiko let go of one of her grips and twisted her wrist forward in a manner that triggered her retractable blades. With almost the same movement she slashed backward.

She cut off her dreadlocks.

She also severed most of the Queen's hand.

It shrieked.

She could feel it thump back onto the floor noisily and messily, the wound spilling acid, none of it, fortunately, over Machiko.

Machiko pulled herself up through the hole she'd made in the grating, her muscles performing the function smoothly and efficiently. She once more was grateful for her training, her workouts, her endurance . . .

. . . and her luck.

She wiggled through quickly, not giving that b.i.t.c.h down there any time to renew her attack. It was wailing pretty fiercely, and she could smell the acridity of its pumping blood wafting up through the opening.

She did not pause to make sure it was okay but scuttled through the pipes as quickly as she could. There was still the possibility, after all, that it would thrust its good claw through the opening and grab her foot.

Her dreadlocks were expendable. She wasn't exactly trying to attract male action among the Hunters. h.e.l.l, maybe they even had some glue ons she could use.

Her foot, though . . . her foot was a different matter.

She needed her foot.

Too bad about the Queen's fingers. But the Hunters would be able to get control of the thing, and it would certainly still be quite able to do what they needed it to do: namely, lay the eggs they needed for their blooding exercises.

Negotiating her way through the air venting was a matter of relying on her intuition and sense of direction.

Over. Up. Down.

Eventually, she came to another grate.

She put her back against the wall, brought her legs up. Kicked. Kicked again.

The grate banged out of its fixture, fell back onto the floor.

She slipped out lithely and fell the few feet onto the metal deck, landing on the floor on all fours, sleek and ready as a cat.

The Hunters were standing there, watching her.

Just standing there in expectant repose.

She tore off her helmet and took in a deep breath. She gave the ritual greeting of a warrior's victory.

She wasn't sure what she expected. A thank-you? As far as she knew, there was no such phrase in the Hunter vocabulary.

She'd saved their bacon, and they had nothing to say.

They just looked at her, -as though trying to perceive what this strange Outsider that Dachande had Blooded was composed of. This honored companion they could never understand . . .

Then they did something remarkable.

They bowed.

She'd bowed for them before . . . something from her j.a.panese ancestry she'd shown them. They'd just stared at that, seemingly uncomprehending ....

And now they were bowing.

All but one.

The others turned and left to be about the business of taking off from this planet. Of dealing with this captive Queen . . .

All but one.

The one lingered. He took his helmet off and his eyes were like lit coals in the darkness.

Shorty His mandibles danced menacingly.

He took a step forward, quick and menacing.

Machiko stood her ground.

Just inches short of her, the young Hunter stopped.

Machiko did not move. She did not blink She just stared directly back at her challenger.

The mandibles bristled.

But then the Hunter spun, stalked away.

His steps echoed in the hallway.

She'd stared him down. Shorty dared not challenge her now, dared not hurt her after her incredible display of valor, after she'd risked her life to ensure the success of this operation.

No. She wasn't one of them.

But they owed her more than ever now.

She felt the bliss of an endorphin rush ....

. . . wings of lightning . . .

Chapter 3

Heart of thunder . . .

Machiko crouched, holding her blade steady, waiting for the first move of her opponent.

For a moment the samurai warrior, in full medieval regalia, was just as motionless. His own long blade gleamed in the late-afternoon sun like a slender medallion of death, pendant from an azure sky.

The samurai warrior stepped forward, pleated armor a jangle off an obviously immaculate build. She fancied she smelled the musky competence wafting off him.

She tasted a back beat of fear.

He moved again, and he stepped forward with a familiar and startling arrogance.

He seemed in a hurry, as though he wanted to finish up this particular butcher's order of slice 'n' dice and move on to the next bit of delicatessen fun.

"Hey," she called in j.a.panese. "Are you hiding a salami in that codpiece, you miserable, impotent coward!"

The eyes shot open with fury.