“The Celestial Visitor”
The night over Drammen was still and clear. A gentle breeze rustled the pine tops, while seagulls called to each other in the distance. The Predator sat at the mouth of the cave, dressing his pitchfork wound with makeshift reindeer moss bandages, when suddenly the air before him shimmered.
Thor Junior, contentedly chewing a stolen baguette, jerked his head up. His ears twitched nervously, detecting what human ears could not yet hear – a deep hum emanating from the sky itself.
The bio-mask flashed an urgent blue.
“Incoming transmission. ‘Manta’-class vessel approaching. Estimated arrival in 0.7 local hours.”
The Predator rose slowly, his shadow stretching long against the rockface. He hadn’t summoned a clan ship. Not a full one, anyway. Just a small supply pod. Something had gone differently than planned.
When the silver craft glided silently over the mountain ridge, even Thor Junior froze in awestruck terror. No larger than an SUV, its streamlined form and shimmering blue edges spoke of technology centuries beyond Earth’s.
The pod hovered a meter above ground, not disturbing a single blade of grass. Moonlight danced across its hull as the hatch opened, spilling soft azure light.
“Cargo loading per Lone Hunter request. Automated mode. No captain aboard,” intoned a mechanical voice in the clan’s tongue.
The Predator stepped forward cautiously. Inside lay:
A new bio-mask – more compact, with barely visible Norse runes along its edges. It pulsed gently at his approach.
A compact plasma emitter – no larger than a human flashlight, but bearing the clan’s mark on its grip.
An anti-gravity belt – a simple bracelet that surrounded its wearer with a blue glow when activated.
A medical nano-kit – a small sphere that immediately escaped his grasp to circle the wound, emitting ultrasonic clicks resembling laughter.
Thor Junior, overcoming fear, sniffed at the open provision compartment and extracted a strange transparent cube that began changing color upon contact with air.
“Clan nutrient concentrate. 5000 calories. Flavor: venison with blood,” the computer explained.
The reindeer dropped the cube with a snort.
At dawn’s first light, the Predator tested his new gear. The anti-gravity belt lifted him five meters up, sending Thor Junior into frantic circles below, bleating excitedly.
The pod, responding to mental commands, shifted from a pile of rocks to its true form. Its scanners had already mapped the region, marking:
“El Verkskoy’s Café” (Ilya Verkhovsky’s heat signature)
“Nattnissen” (site of the “pitchfork incident”)
An old fisherman’s hut smelling of smoked salmon
“Warning: Local laws prohibit unauthorized flight. Compliance with air traffic regulations recommended,” the computer reminded as the Predator considered flying over the harbor.
As dawn painted the fjords pink, the Predator sat on the cliffside watching the town awaken. The pod hovered nearby, occasionally vibrating as if humming to itself.
Thor Junior slept curled around the gravity bracelet he’d accidentally activated with a hoof. His legs twitched occasionally – perhaps dreaming of flight.
Below in Drammen, life continued. The “Nattnissen” clerk hung his infamous pitchfork on the wall with a new plaque: “Anti-Alien Weapon #1”. Ilya Verkhovsky opened his café, occasionally glancing toward the mountains.
The Predator took a sip from Ilya’s coffee thermos – bitter, scalding, strangely pleasant. His gaze moved between the pod, the sleeping reindeer, and the town below.
The bio-mask, sensing his mood, displayed an unusual message:
“Analysis complete. Planet Earth. Status: Not for hunting. For… something else.”
And for the first time in his long interstellar wanderings, the Predator felt this “something else” might prove far more interesting than any hunt.
