by Steve Perry
“Okay, okay. This kind of mopey attitude is not the sort of thing I’m in the mood for. Maybe I should just take the dry sleep that Evanston offered.”
Attila shook his head adamantly. “Not and stay in any kind of trim or tone.”
“Ha ha! There’s the drill instructor I know—that’s why I need you. Had I gone alone, chum, you can bet I’d be snoozing in one of those chambers right now, with a nice little sleep aid for company.”
Attila seemed to take that well.
They continued walking along the hallway, chatting lightly as was their wont. The corridors of the ship had nothing of the metal-and-glass sterility usually associated with Long Drag boats. In fact, they were more like an odd penthouse, what with the colorful and tasteful wall patterns and artwork, along with the occasional piece of antique furniture. Livermore Evanston tended to prefer rococo, baroque, and Victorian decorations, and the principal rooms had a strangely cluttered look for a starship. But, then, it was all very homey, especially the fireplace in the dining hall, and it was the private spaceyacht of a rich man. Machiko thought it fascinating.
Attila’s mouth made a slight tic, a sure sign he was consulting his internal chronometer. “All right, that’s fine for the exercise.”
“Anything special you’d like next?” said Machiko.
“Yes, as a matter of fact…”
“Be my guest. Your choice.”
“Actually, if you don’t care to accompany me, you need not,” said Attila.
“You’re too kind. No, actually, I’m enjoying seeing what you get up to when I’m not around. Go ahead—shoot. What did you have in mind?” said Machiko.
“Hmm. Well, maybe we should go over some exercises… can’t be too careful about preparation.”
“Nonsense. I’m up to here with exercises, anyway. Let’s have fun. Your kind of fun.”
Attila brightened considerably. “Yesterday I did have a peek into the library and thought it most interesting.”
“Oh.”
Attila nodded his head emphatically. “Not boring old microfiche or computer screens. Real volumes. Some with leather binding and marvelous illustrations. Exquisite.”
“So you’d like to pore over some antiquities.”
“I’m sure you’d be bored.”
“Not at all. Let’s go.”
Attila looked positively ecstatic. “I’m sure there are rewards. I thought I saw a volume of haiku that would interest you. You are aware of the poetry of your ancestors.”
“Oh, yes. I think I wrote one or two in my romantic youth. Certainly, Til. That all sounds quite grand.”
The library was on the second level. They took the antigrav pneumatic tube box to get there, one of the few items on board the craft with streamlined modem design. The first thing that Evanston had done was to give them a tour of the boat, including a brief glance at the library and art room. He’d given them access to these throughout the trip; at their destination Machiko placed her palm on a light strip. It read her DNA pattern. A door whisked open, revealing a room full of shelved books. The place had a wonderful, comfortable old booky smell.
Attila immediately gravitated to the poetry section, poring over a vellum volume with great awe and reverence.
Machiko discovered a whole section devoted to classic comic books. Now, that interested her. She was looking over a collection of ancient Superman stories when Attila looked up suddenly from his reading and said, “Machiko.” Softly.
“Yes.”
“Shhhh. We’re alone, right?”
“I didn’t see anyone in the corridor, and unless they’ve got visibility dampers on, there’s no one in here.”
“Good. I believe that this library has an annex.”
“No, it doesn’t. Evanston showed us just one room.”
“I’ll bet he has more books. I bet the truly interesting ones are in the annex.”
Machiko got a little annoyed. “What anex?”
“Shhh. I detect no observation equipment in this room, but I’ve noticed that voices do tend to carry through the corridors in this environment.” He got up and walked over to a shelf of books. “My sensors picked up a control box here, behind these books.” He carefully took the books down and placed them on a table. Sure enough, there was some kind of electronic switch on the wail—nothing like on the outside, either.
“Hmm. Curious. Purely mechanical. No identification required.”
“I really don’t think you should fool with that.” Normally, Machiko would be just as curious as Attila However, she didn’t want to go ruining a good thing by getting caught snooping around where she didn’t belong.
“Come on. If it was all that important, it would have an identity access seal. My spatial and analytical sensors detect a room next door, along with more paper and leather.” His eyes seemed to glow with enthusiasm. “That must have some true antiquarian prizes.”
He began to touch the controls.
Machiko got up. She could order him to stop, she supposed, but somehow it didn’t seem worth it. Attila seemed interested and intent, and it was good to see him so fascinated with something.
Besides, she was getting a little curious herself.
Suddenly a complete panel of the library shelving opened, revealing a door.
Attila looked totally delighted. “Just like in the movies. A secret room.”
He turned another switch, and a soft yellow lambency spread through the new room.
Machiko stepped forward to have a look.
Sure enough, there were books lined on more shelves.
Attila stepped forward, examining spines.
Machiko had noticed something else besides books.
“Fascinating,” said Attila. “How very curious… our benefactor seems to be a war buff. He’s got extensive biographies of generals from Julius Caesar through Napoleon, Rommel, and even Lickenshaun from just a few decades ago. He’s got all the books of John Keegan from Face of Battle to A History of Warfare. He’s got all of von Clausewitz’s writings. Of course, the Art of War. Many first editions. My goodness, he’s even got things by Maenchen-Helfen, the most meticulous collator of Hunnish data concerning my namesake. Perhaps he’s some sort of war-gamer. He’s got that sedentary look about him.”
Machiko walked to the other end of the small room. There was a glass case there, like those used in museums. Set inside the case were several items.
A glove.
A broken javelin.
Half a bloody mask.
And a knife.
“An interesting collection,” said Attila. “And extensive. If he just wanted the data, it would all be stored in—”
“Til,” said Machiko in a sharp, hushed tone.
“My goodness. A first edition of—”
“Til!”
“Coming, coming.”
The android moved to her side. She pointed down at the display. He blinked at her.
“So?”
“Til. The pack I was telling you about?”
“Yes. The yautja. The Predators.”
“This glove… these weapons… theirs.”
“What. The pack’s?”
“Not necessarily. I mean, these are part of their general war culture.”
“I thought their whole culture was war.”
“War. Hunting—all to gain honor, prove themselves.”
“Yes. I’ve heard all your stories.” He looked down through the glass case again, clearly mulling over this new turn of events.
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“There are a number of possibilities. The one favor is that you’re being taken for a ride. I knew that Livermore Evanston was no good the moment I met him.”
“These only mean that Evanston’s got some relics of the yautja. Nothing more. Although it could mean that he knows something about them “
“Care to list the possible speculations?”
“One step at a time… right now…”
There was
a sound of voices. Distant voices, fortunately.
Machiko and Attila looked at one another for a split second and then immediately hopped back out of the room. With remarkable speed and agility Attila punched the necessary buttons and closed the door behind them.
They reassumed their places in their chairs, perusing books. A crew member walked past, gazed in for a moment, nodded good day, and then left.
“Shall we go back in and take another look?” Attila asked after the footsteps had echoed away.
“Maybe later. We’ve got a few more days’ passage.” Machiko nodded thoughtfully. “I need to think about this.”
They went back to their respective reading.
7
The hunt was on!
Abner Brookings, Esquire, lawyer to the bright and the powerful and gun-fancier extraordinaire, strode through the yanga trees, a beautiful antique rifle cradled in his arms like a well-oiled baby. The sun of this world, a purplish, splotchy affair, was just topping a magnificent frieze of mountains in the distance, and the colors the rays made through the swirling mists against the leaves and vines and flowers and trees were spectacular. Brookings took a deep breath, tasting the sweet and sour life of this world, and again he felt the charge that the hunt always brought:
Total Hereness.
How often, in the docket of some musty judge’s quarters, or even in rich corporate boardrooms, did his mind wander. Thereness, he called the state, and he decided that human beings lived most of their lives in that quarter-conscious state.
Some people woke themselves up through Zen meditation. For some, music rang their chimes. Others—well, the list was endless, from grav-skiing to poga-licking.
For Abner Brookings, though, it was the hunt.
For him it was the Prospect as well as the Act of killing something.
Today, though, the sensation was particularly acute, for the something was the sort of beastie who could just as likely turn around and kill him.
“Watcha think, Ab?” said the woman walking abreast of him. “Pretty good day. Think we’re going to bag that zangoid? Petra Piezki grinned and shifted her hold on her large and heavy twelve-gauge shotgun. She was short and stocky with big shoulders, and she liked heavy artillery. Piezki was a lawyer in the same firm as Brookings, a little younger, and not quite the snappy dresser that the dapper A.B. was. In fact, she looked a little like Jungle Jill in her silly khakis. She was dark and gruffly friendly in her Russki sort of way, and a good gal to have a vodka martini with after nailing poor suckers in legal coffins. They’d gone hunting before, but never on this kind of extravagant planet, never for this kind of big game. Brookings could see his own excitement mirrored in the flushed cheeks and the stance of his partner.
“I think we’d better bag that zangoid, or we’re going to have to buy drinks for the whole bar tonight.”
Petra grinned. “We did boast last night, didn’t we?”
“Like the drunk legal eagles we are.”
“Well, it’s not as though we haven’t had any experience in this kind of sport.”
“Ducks and squirrels, some deer, one mountain lion.”
Petra looked taken aback. “Not! They were alien, fearsome creatures!”
The equivalent of the above.”
“Come on, Ab. Give us some credit.”
“What we’ve actually killed, Piezki, isn’t much.”
“The sims, though. The sims!”
“True—but ‘Virtual reality’ in my humble opinion is a term that should be changed to ‘Verisimilitude reality.’ I assure you it’s just not the same thing.”
“We’ll see.”
“Right. After pointing that gun down the jaws of a charging zangoid, I’m pretty sure that well both have different views of this entire business. And goodness knows, on the plus side, it will be a bigger rush.”
There was a long pause, and Abner Brookings took the opportunity to gaze over the party, taking comfort in the numbers and the fact they had a couple of guides, looking competent and hearty as they surveyed with keen eyes the murmuring alien savanna.
“You know,” said Petra Piezki, “maybe we should have taken along heavier armament.” She looked down at her beautiful shotgun with its elaborately carved handle and its beautiful metalwork. “Like a many-millimeter blaster or something.”
“Ah,” said Brookings. “Getting a slight bit of jitters, are we?”
“Of course not. It’s just that—well, from what those guys were saying about the particular zangoid that was being let loose this morning—I don’t know. Maybe the first time out here on Blior we should have been a little more cautious, a little less sporting, huh?”
Brookings hefted his own rifle. “Look, these guns are part of our collections, right?”
Petra nodded, looking a little pale.
“We paid plenty of money for them, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So let’s use them!”
Petra thought about that for a moment as the sun burned through the mist and an exotic bird with rainbow plumage thrashed up out of the foliage.
“That’s the sort of game these things are suited for.” He shook his head. “Man killers… I dunno.”
Brookings grinned, showing his perfect teeth. Some of them were implants, and they were all personally attended to by an expert dentist at extraordinary price. However, Abner Brookings had learned that nothing befitted a good sharky lawyer like a flashy set of choppers. “Petra, Petra! This isn’t paddle tennis. This isn’t null-grav ball! We’re here for the challenge. We’re both gun collectors, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“And a sport gun isn’t truly a sport gun until it’s been christened by the blood of a challenging kill.”
Petra cocked a civilized eyebrow. “So you say.”
“I speak from a long tradition of gentlemen hunters. Believe me, there will be absolutely nothing like the feeling of composure, contentment, and satisfaction you’ll feel in your old age when you sit down in your study with your snifter of cognac and view the trophies on your wall, right beside your tasteful gun collection.” He coughed and shivered exquisitely at the very notion. He pointed over to the guides, two brawny extrafabs slightly bent under weaponry and powerpacks. “Besides, should we run into trouble, we’ve got friends here with blasters.” He pulled out a bit of Tartonian snuff and snorted it up his nostrils. “People don’t pay the money they do for this expedition to get killed. They pay for the illusion of danger.”
Petra shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m feeling somebody squatting on my grave, doing something obscene.”
“How amusing. It’s called fear, my good friend. It’s fresh and original and primal, and when you’re through it, you’ll go back to your normal humdrum—and then, before you know it, be back for more.”
“I just want to get through this now, and maybe later I can buy you a drink, pat you on your back, and tell you how right you were.”
They were an odd couple, Abner and Petra. When they did criminal law work for the corporation, their nicknames were Bad Cop, Bad Cop. When they did any other kind of work, they were called Shark and Sharkette. There were a whole raft of names they were called behind their backs, but in Brookings’s opinion when you were called nasty names as a lawyer, that just meant you were doing your job well.
Abner Brookings was a full head taller than his compatriot in torts, and blond to boot, a handsome devil. He was forty-five years old, although with his rejuv treatments and his regular exercise and vitamin injections, he still looked a rigorous though experienced twenty-seven. There were those who whispered that Brookings sucked blood to stay young, and he would always air these statements to his office and colleagues with the addendum that if he indeed sucked blood, it was only metaphorical—and could you undo that collar a bit… I can’t quite get at your jugular.
He had a straight nose and a square chin; he almost looked prefab. Money had bought him his good looks, and he made little secret of that e
ither—although he added that this way he didn’t have to buy women. This was the one area of modesty in a generally arrogant and immodest individual, and he cherished it. He’d had a few wives here and there through his life, and a few children, whom he saw irregularly. Mostly now what he had was an exciting and fulfilling life and lots of money, beautiful women, adventure: a life, in his opinion, far beyond the dreams of lesser human beings.
In truth, his allusion to “paying” for this expedition had been mere rhetoric, since there were actually professional matters to which the corporation had sent him here to attend.
Business mixed with pleasure, so to speak.
However, as true as that may have been, he was quite impressed with what had been done with this planet. As a hunter himself, when he’d heard about it, he’d been intrigued, but he’d had no idea of the true wonderland old man Evanston had concocted on this world so far from the system that laws didn’t matter. This made the lawyer in Brookings nervous; but the man, the hunter, it excited.
Anything was possible.
They walked through the warming day a little farther in silence. The other hunters in the party chattered; Brookings could smell their jitters. And no wonder. These weren’t true hunters; not even true amateurs. They were just rich wannabes who thought by plunking down cool credits they could put on some macho, some stink of cajones.
Ha!
There were ten of them, ranging from scrawny to obese. Some Company people; mostly remoras, entrepreneurial hangers-on to corporations or to the Independent Man himself, Livermore Evanston. The Man’s dream, of course, was to make this world a businessman’s rite of passage—all corporation flunkies, all “free market” sorts; anyone with a couple million to rub together and make some money to burn, money to spare should they want to get away and blow apart some unlikely game.
Chances were, when those Disneyland days came, it would be a cream-puff planet, with no edge. Brookings would have to look for his thrills elsewhere. However, right now he’d get his kicks while he could.
“So, Nickelson,” he finally said, calling out to one of the prefabs. “Any sign of our guest of honor?”
Hank Nickelson turned and looked through heavy lids at the lawyer. “Yo, Mr. Brookings.” He lifted one of his brawny arms and indicated. “I got a reading from about five hundred kays ahead.” The man’s accent was gilded in Bronx. Brookings wasn’t sure it was real. It was a pure tough-guy accent, and maybe The Man had trained his guide especially to talk in Tough Guy.
