Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  A tentacle of fear looped around her and she fought against letting it tighten. “But we were only friends,” she blurted.

  “No. You dated the human.”

  She resisted decisively, slack-jawed. “You’re wrong. That’s borderline treason. I wouldn’t have broken our laws and I definitely wouldn’t have betrayed our kind.”

  Lycidius rapped his knuckles on the tabletop; the skin was nicked with scars. He plainly hated that this briefing session had fallen to him, but he kept on. “Satisfying or not, what I said is the truth.”

  The tentacle of fear tightened, causing her hands to shake. “If it is, then why didn’t Desya tell me?”

  “Desya lets his fear of hurting people get in the way of confronting them. He’s always had a misguided conscience.”

  Snofrid couldn’t accept that she’d chosen to be with a human. If word of her crime somehow spread to the Inborn police, she’d be shamed with the title of vagrant and expelled from Inborn society. She’d been sorry for Desya last night, but now she feared for herself. “Where is he?” she asked. “Atlas.”

  “You don’t want to know the answer to that question,” Lycidius advised.

  “Tell me.”

  He met her eye, deliberating. “All right. Atlas is gone. You broke up.”

  Her hand trembled on the table. She felt naked, even in her clothes. They broke up. She’d committed a Level Three Offense to be with him and they’d broken up! Her anger flash-fired and her ravaged pride collapsed. She wanted to—needed to—believe there was a redeeming reason for this choice. “Why?” she said, her voice cracking.

  “Desya will tell you in a few weeks. Clearly you can’t handle what I’m telling you.”

  She rose up in protest. He had no justifiable reason to deny her. She wanted the choices she’d made to make sense, not to leave her with the belief that she’d had no morals or self-respect. “I need to know why I would do this.”

  “You don’t need to know, you want to know,” he corrected. “You’re asking for facts without thinking of how they’ll affect your life. Have a conversation with Desya in a few weeks.” Lycidius parted his mouth, flashing a silver tongue barbell. “He says you were doing better before you lost your memories.”

  Her frustration sizzled, so much that her ears flushed red. She hadn’t denied the possibility of discovering negative or shocking things about her life, but having dated a human was too much. Dealing with the situation wasn’t a matter of moving on or accepting the past; it would stain her life permanently.

  Lycidius noted her despair, and a flicker of regret tempered his face. At first, it seemed he might offer a consoling word; instead, he said, “Don’t feel sorry for yourself. You’ve lost memories, but have some resilience.”

  “I’d only be weak if I were feeling sorry for myself.” Her words broke off when a phone vibrated in her pocket. She angled away from him as she drew out her phone.

  “Tell me who’s calling,” he said.

  Ignoring him, she held the phone to her ear. “Neko? I know its Hatred Day, but I’d like to leave the house.”

  “You’re in luck,” Neko said. “Your assistance is required at the northwest barrier watchtower. Remus Leathertongue has been killed.”

  Snofrid had to verify she’d heard him clearly. “You want me to come to a crime scene?”

  “Under normal circumstances, I’d never ask,” he explained. “But since all thirteen of Hollowstone’s beast specialists failed to identify the beast that killed Remus, I’ve acquired special permission for you to visit the scene.”

  “Why me?”

  “Beast Biology is your major and you hold the top scores in your class. Also, you’ve successfully assisted us once before,” he answered. “I’ll brief you on further details when you arrive. That is, if you feel well enough to come?”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine,” she said.

  After he hung up, Snofrid lowered the phone in wonder. She hadn’t expected the day to include being called to a crime scene, but then again, most of what she’d seen since leaving the slum had been far from what she’d expected.

  “I’ll fly you to the crime scene,” Lycidius offered.

  She disliked the idea of him tagging along, but there was no way of getting there on her own. “The body is at the northwest barrier watchtower.”

  “Tell me who was killed.”

  “Remus Leathertongue.”

  Lycidius’s face fell dark.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Remus Leathertongue is the Chancellor of Hollowstone’s only son.” Lycidius grabbed a black jackal-head gasmask off the rack and accessed the antechamber. “Get your supply satchel and come with me. Hatred Day just started.”

  The Halo Eater

  Walk faster,” Lycidius urged, as he strode into the garage.

  “I’m right behind you,” Snofrid called. Unlike him, she wasn’t keen on visiting the crime scene. Although beast attacks were a common cause of death, the Chancellor’s son falling victim to one—especially on Hatred Day—was suspicious.

  “Identify the beast quickly and then leave the crime scene,” Lycidius directed. “Don’t stop for reporters and don’t talk to the authorities. They’re going to try to get you to make a statement, but you need to get in and out without problems.” He jerked his chin at a red tarp. “We’ll take my Steelrunner.”

  The Steelrunner was a flying transport he’d designed and built himself. Apparently, he’d sold the design a year ago for fifty-seven million silvers. Upon first glance, she understood why someone had paid so much for the gold-and-black titanium transport’s design, but kept all flattery to herself. With a black carbon fiber frame and swingarm, the Steelrunner stretched to an impressive twelve feet. It sported gold ape-hanger handlebars beneath which gleamed two deadly toroid pulse guns that could be operated by a foot pedal.

  “Ride on the pillion,” he said. “Hurry.”

  As she mounted the back of the Steelrunner, he swiped his Tag over a scanner display on the control panel; the vehicle awoke, belching blue fire from its exhaust. Its long seat arched upward and holographic radar, scope and course-plotting displays sprung from the windshield. She scooted back when he rocked himself into the seat. “There are no grip bars,” he informed. “Hold onto me or you’ll pancake on the platform. This hits three-sixty.”

  She wrapped both arms around his torso with calculated indifference. “It might be a good idea to put grip bars on a two-seater,” she hinted.

  “This isn’t a two-seater.” He skewed his body left and the Steelrunner rotated to face the exit of the garage. Her stomach did a flip as the transport lunged forward, speeding from the platform.

  “You should make it a two-seater,” she cried, tightening her grip on his waist.

  The sky traffic was white-knuckle pandemonium, but luckily, Lycidius proved to be a highflier. He piloted with greedy domination, gunning the engine as he dusted off slowpokes. Snofrid found the experience both exhilarating and terrifying. The city had burst to life; she was shocked to see so many people out of their homes on Hatred Day.

  Blinding sunlight coursed into a jungle of buildings which bowed around and beneath one another, forming arches, sky bridges and tunnels. The rain had made a frozen shell over the snow, which paved the streets like rivers of stardust. Along the sidewalks the people walked with purpose: crowds spilled down office blocks, some stopping to buy from vendors and hawkers, and others leaping from the paths of careless drivers; crowds streamed down the steps of churches, temples and mosques, praying for aid; crowds rushed toward transportation stations, hoping to catch the next bullet train or skyline vessel; crowds carpeted the trade docks, haggling for first pick of the produce, meat and liquor flown in by confederate merchant vessels; and crowds basked outside cafés, pubs and restaurants, relishing the perks of the morning as if this day were like any other. Students congregated on snowy university campuses, smoking in alcoves, chatting under trees, and typing last minute
assignments before the first classes of the day. Bluecoat transports were parked on every street corner, radioing in the day’s first disturbances. Tanks patrolled the streets downtown, flanked by heavily armed military units and fighter crafts. Attack helicopters and drones defended the airspace and deployed soldiers who fast roped onto rooftops, platforms and walkways. Everywhere, memorials were in service. The largest of these was held at the Bluecoat Headquarters in the Golden Circle where the Chancellor was addressing the city at a Hatred Day Memorial Parade for fallen troops.

  Hither and thither, the roar of working machinery was echoed by honking horns, blaring Jumbotrons and wailing sirens. Electronic music pulsed above all other sound by the time they slowed in the sky traffic near the city square—a major commercial intersection located in Vancastle, just outside the threshold of the Golden Circle. A mingle of smoke, gasoline and grilled food scented the air. Coupled with an influx of tourists, the city square was a blend of delightful chaos and flourishing anarchy. On the highest platforms of the square, Inborn protests were in progress. The activists popped in their cardinal-red clothing as did their signs, which were plastered with demands for a city-wide Inborn extermination.

  “The Inhuman War is a government conspiracy,” people yelled. “It’s not about freedom; it’s about CONTROL!”

  “Protect our youth,” others pleaded. “Without peace, there’s no future for any of us!”

  “Bomb Inborn cities!” more demanded. “Send in an airstrike and end this war!”

  “We don’t negotiate with aliens!” a group of shirtless teens chanted. “We kill aliens. Kill the aliens! Kill the aliens!”

  Snofrid blocked out the noise, though in one way she did find herself agreeing with their pleas: there wouldn’t be a world to fight over if the war endured much longer.

  Wailing sirens blasted from the south sky-tunnels where she saw police and news helicopters hovering over the area. From the extent of the damage, she guessed that multiple charges had been detonated. The support beams had been ripped out like weeds. Piles of rock, bubbled plastic, and broken glass were strewn about the collapsed tunnel, which had melted in the flash heat. The dozens of tarps spotting the rubble converted her exhilaration into dark curiosity. How many more people would die before this year’s Hatred Day had run its course?

  A transport with colorful wings abruptly cut them off. It was piloted by a burly man with purple dreadlocks, who made a crude gesture before releasing black smoke into their faces. Snofrid coughed and stiffened her hold on Lycidius. The Steelrunner pulled up, speeding to safety of its own accord, as if it had sensed that the other transport was too close. Grounding out a grunt, Lycidius accelerated and forced the man out of the stream of traffic, sending him swerving around a cell tower.

  “Go back to your slum!” Lycidius yelled.

  They left Vancastle and soon Snofrid saw the north barrier watchtowers of Westerbridge through the smog. Sky-high at two-hundred stories, the towers resembled a ribbon of lighthouses, their spotlights sweeping the forest like yellow eyes. It seemed that Remus’s death was being considered a high profile crime. Forensic teams were already conducting a walkthrough around a black tarp near the base of one of the towers, collecting trace evidence into biohazard bags; sketch artists were drawing out the area and photographers were capturing photos; and around the main area of disturbance, beast specialists consulted heatedly with police detectives. People in yellow jackets closed off the scene with barricade tape, holding back waves of reporters.

  “All unauthorized personnel must remain outside the perimeter,” a yellow-jacket man shouted as he taped off the scene. “That includes reporters.”

  “Can you tell us the identity of the victim?” more than one reporter demanded. “Why are so many law-enforcement officers present?”

  “Outside the perimeter!” the man roared.

  Lycidius touched down on a parking platform crammed with news crafts and Wildlife Department vehicles. “Keep an eye out for Neko,” he advised. “They’ll arrest us if they think we’re civilians.”

  “He’s over there.” Snofrid pointed at a beat-up Wrangler jeep that had swerved up the walkway behind them and parked beside the steel fence. A young man with a green clipper-cut hairdo and suspicious green eyes slid from the pilot’s seat, slamming the door behind him. His gasmask, which rose just above his nose, overflowed with sharp teeth and his grey-plaid suit was worn and frayed over his slim frame.

  “Neko,” Lycidius called. “What did you find?”

  “Not a thing,” he muttered, handing Snofrid a navy coroner jacket. “That rat-bastard Fergus Dripper has denied me access to the body. It’s fortunate he likes Snofrid so much.”

  “She’ll get you in,” Lycidius guaranteed. “Does the Chancellor know it was his son?”

  “When he knows, we will know that he knows.”

  “Call me after you wrap up. We need to be ready if this thing goes from bad to worse.” Lycidius cocked his jackal gasmask at Snofrid. “I’ll come for you in one hour,” he said. “May we meet again.”

  Snofrid uttered the phrase for the sake of courtesy. She dismounted the pillion. While the men exchanged a last word, she scanned the sky for signs of the Chancellor’s aircraft, the Black Dagger. Only police crafts zipped through the haze. She felt a flash of empathy as she pictured his reaction to Remus’s death.

  Lycidius accelerated westward off the platform. Neko offered his arm to Snofrid. Glad to see a familiar face, she circled her arm through his—which stiffened slightly—and they headed toward the entryway.

  “I didn’t know forensic pathologists came to crime scenes,” she said.

  “They don’t. I’m here on your behalf.” He peered down at her, his voice gentling. “Yesterday, you mentioned that you remember the city. But what about people? Have you remembered anyone at all?”

  “Just bits here and there,” she said, “but nothing concrete. Which is why I’m so grateful you agreed to do an examination.”

  “I respected the girl you were. If I can restore her, I will.” He snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Additionally, I have a medical interest in your case. The conditions of your lost memories are peculiar, which reminds me, how much do you recall about beasts?”

  “Well, if something is missing, I wouldn’t know.”

  “What’s a Snapping Reefer?” he tested.

  Snofrid’s tongue started off at full throttle, as if she were reciting extracts from a glossary: “Snapping Reefers are lengthy, legless, flesh-eating reptiles of the suborder Serpentinus. With multi-jointed mouths and overlapping scales, the Reefer has the ability to ingest prey larger than itself. The Reefer’s venom is a form of—”

  “That should do,” Neko interrupted. “Fortunately for us both, your knowledge seems untouched.” He handed her a visitor’s badge, a pair of latex gloves, some boot covers and a smock. “Let’s be brief and thorough. I don’t care for the stench of this one.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she promised, trying not to let intimidation bully her confidence.

  After rechecking the sky and finding no sight of the Black Dagger, she suited up and then followed Neko through a body scanner at the entry to the crime scene. They were forced to sign a waiver with their thumbprints, stating that they would refrain from discussing the identity of the victim until it was made public by the Chancellor’s administration, under penalty of prosecution.

  Then they were finally granted access.

  On the way to the kill site, the crowd of personnel bustled and shoved aggressively while others loitered in groups, consulting in aggravated tones.

  “Chancellor Leathertongue is going to demand a logical explanation,” a man with a shiny detective’s badge yelled. “Find me security footage even if you have to pull it out of your own ass!”

  “The unprofessionalism of this crime scene is embarrassing,” a female sketch artist nattered. “And…it just got worse. Take a look, Callahan. They’re bringing in that teen off the street again.”
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  Snofrid let go of Neko’s arm when she caught sight of Remus’s corpse. It was girdled by a ring of yellow evidence marking tents and the tarp was drawn back to reveal the boy’s upper half. His bejeweled gasmask was shredded, revealing a purple, bloated face, glossed with blood. Runny fluid leaked from his smashed nose, split mouth and ears. His abdomen had also bloated, and was wiggling, as if something were alive inside. Maggots had hatched and begun to feed on his tissue and the unnatural curve of the spine suggested that it had been snapped.

  “The cadaver doesn’t disturb you, I hope?” Neko inquired, prying open a blood collection kit. “The maggots can’t be removed without removing evidence.”

  “The smell is worse,” she said, cupping a hand over her mouthpiece. “But still not as bad as Gehenna.”

  “Dr. Aberthol,” a team leader blurted, as she broke from a group of her colleagues. “What have you and your assistant determined?”

  “We’ve been with the body all of three seconds, so only that it is dead,” Neko muttered, as he fastened on a pair of goggles. Flipping a switch on the side, he examined the ground around the body.

  Snofrid watched him swab clear sludge from the neck. “Saliva?”

  “It is. But since all the security cameras in this section of the city were being replaced, we’re on our own finding who’s responsible. Go on. Make your analysis.”

  Dropping her hand, she braved the stench and reminded herself to begin with the physical characteristics. Fighting off a gag reflex, she wrestled up the lip of Remus’s gasmask, where she discovered severe bruising along the jawbone. He was dragged, she realized immediately. But why to here? It’s not a secluded feeding site. Leaning closer, she studied the gashes in his skull, which indicated that he’d struck rocks along the way. She couldn’t help but pity the human, for she knew his death had been slow and excruciating. In her opinion, being torn apart by a beast would be among the worst deaths.

  After coming up for a short breath, she examined the claw lacerations on his neck and figured this injury had been the one to kill him—the carotid artery had been cut like a rope. Working her way down, she prodded his abdomen and was horrified when the skin broke open and spills of fly larva ran onto the tarp. “I think Remus was feasted upon while still alive and then dragged here hours after his death,” she said.