by DD Barant
It’s the break room I find the most disturbing. Comfortable couches, a few low-slung tables, a large flatscreen TV, a shelf lined with cheap paperback manga. A large, plastic-lined garbage can half filled with little paper cups, all of them stained red on the bottom.
And a row of stainless-steel spigots over a metal trough that runs along one side of the room. Each one has a little plastic sign holder over it, with a paper slip labeled in Japanese.
I don’t know why that detail sickens me so much. They’re pires, they drink blood, getting to sample the product is obviously a perk of working here. It’s just—it’s something about the casualness of it, the fact that obviously the labels are temporary. I don’t speak or write Japanese, but I’ll bet that whoever writes those labels makes little jokes on them. You know, “a nice Caucasion Cabernet,” something like that. Reducing the person whose life they’re consuming into a chuckle for the benefit of their co-workers. Boy, I sure hate Mondays, but did you see what Joe came up with for the new batch?
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just projecting my own perverse sense of humor onto a nasty situation. The labels could be completely factual: Male, Asian, thirty-four.
That’s just as bad. A writer named Hannah Arendt coined the term the banality of evil for the matter-of-fact way the Nazis went about exterminating the Jews, and for the first time I think I truly understand what she meant.
By the time I return to the factory floor, Charlie and Stoker have taken down the rest of the guards. I’m not surprised; between the two of them, they’re like half the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I wonder if Famine and Pestilence are going to show up for the party, too—
Then I look around at the sick hunger all these coffins represent, and realize they’re already here.
The only sound now is the soft, insistent thumping coming from the coffins. I’m staring at a wall of them when Stoker and Charlie join me.
“It’s not what you think,” Stoker says.
“What, you mean I’m not looking at a few hundred warehoused human beings who have been turned into cattle?”
“They’re not human,” Stoker says. “Not anymore.”
That’s not what I expected him to say. “What?”
“They aren’t conscious. That noise you’re hearing, it’s not voluntary movement. Their nerves are being stimulated electrically to help maintain muscle tone. It makes them twitch. It’s on a timer, cycles through every twenty minutes.”
And sure enough, the thumping is dying down. Not all at once, but within a minute it’s gone.
“They’ve been mind-wiped with sorcery,” Stoker says. “No memory, no thought, no cognitive functions at all. All that’s left is the hindbrain, which keeps them breathing.”
I’m a trained psychologist; I know a little bit about how the brain works. “Limbic system?”
He hesitates. “Operational.”
“So they still feel.”
“I doubt that. If they do, it’s on the most basic level: hunger, thirst, sleepiness.”
“Fear. Rage. Arousal.”
Stoker shakes his head. “Even if that’s true, those are nothing but random hormonal surges in immobile slabs of meat. They aren’t people anymore, Jace.” His voice gets quieter. “And they never will be—the process is irreversible. I’m sorry.”
“I hate to be the insensitive one,” Charlie says, “but I had a little chat with one of the guys in the white suits and he told me there’s a tunnel from this place to a house outside the park. A house usually containing a large number of well-armed gentleman who don’t much care for trespassers. Whatever we came here to do, we should do it and leave.”
I shake off the outrage, bury the horror in a bulging file inside my head marked ONLY TO BE OPENED IN THE PRESENCE OF SCOTCH, and put on my game face. “We’re here for the kids, Stoker. I have no idea what a blood farm would want with pire children, but—”
“The kids aren’t here, Jace.” His voice is calm but unapologetic. “They never were.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“I wasn’t lying about the kids—pire children are disappearing off the streets, and the Yakuza that run this operation have something to do with it.”
“If the kids aren’t here,” Charlie asks, “why are we?”
“Because this place had to be shut down,” Stoker answers, “and I couldn’t do it alone.”
I should be angry. I should be furious.
But I’m not. I just feel sad, and very, very tired.
“Okay,” I say. “You get a pass. But just so you know—if there’s a next time, all you have to do is ask.”
He nods. “Thank you. You should go back the way we entered—any reinforcements that show up won’t chase you through the park.”
“Us? What about you?”
“Every blood farm has a sterilization protocol. They won’t use it except in extreme circumstances, like an other-dimensional incursion or a raid by law enforcement. I’m going to activate it before I leave.”
I swallow. “You’re going to … kill them. Everyone in these cubicles.”
“That’s right. And you know why?” He meets my eyes, holds them. “So you won’t have to.”
He pulls a scrap of paper out of his pocket and gives it to me. “Here. This is the name and address of a business that keeps turning up in connection with the missing children—any investigation should start there. I’ll contact you with more information as I get it.” He turns and strides away, toward the offices and labs. I stare after him.
“Jace,” Charlie says. “Come on. Let’s go.”
And we do.
NINE
Charlie and I climb out of the stump and back down to the forest floor, where I stumble across the rotting remains of another pire guard—no doubt the one that was supposed to be guarding the secret entrance. We backtrack along our original trail, hoping our luck will hold.
“He was right,” Charlie says, speaking so quietly I can barely hear him. “I’ve seen farms like that before. Those people were never coming back.”
“He played us. Again.”
“Yeah. Think the tip he gave you is more of the same?”
I sigh under my breath. “Maybe. It’s worth taking a look at, I guess.”
“Huh.”
“What do you mean, huh?”
“Usually getting yanked around like this would set you off. Instead, you’re considering letting him do it again.”
I stop and stare at Charlie’s outline in the shadows. “You know he’s not going to just hit a switch and terminate all those prisoners. He’s going to burn the whole place down so it can never be used again.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Yeah, it does. And that’s why I’m not more pissed. I may not like being used, but Stoker and I are on the same page about this. It had to be done. So no matter how irritated I am, no matter how little I trust him, I’m still willing to look at the information Stoker’s giving me. Because maybe there’s another one of these horror shows out there that needs to be shut down.”
“And what if that’s what he’s counting on? What if the next target is something else, something not quite so noble?”
“Then he’s in for a serious disappointment.”
We keep moving. There’s no explosion behind us, no gout of flame, but Stoker may be using some kind of sorcery to demolish the place that melts the tech into a puddle or even sends it to another dimension. He’s been known to use that kind of High Power Level Craft before.
Statistically, most mountaineering accidents happen during the descent, not the climb. It makes sense, not just from a physical but also from a psychological point of view; you’re already tired, and you’re subconsciously thinking the job’s over. You’ve attained your goal, and now you’re just going home. That’s a recipe for mistakes, and a mistake on the side of a mountain can kill you.
The place we’re traveling through is much more dangerous than the side of a mountain.
By the
time we know they’re there, they’ve already surrounded us. One second we’re alone, the next we can hear little rustles and growls from every direction. We stop back-to-back, our weapons already out, and wait.
A light flares: a match, being struck. There’s a man standing there, naked except for a leather tool belt slung around his waist and a pair of thick leather gloves. He uses the match to light a candle, which he then sticks in the crook of a tree.
“Hi there,” he says affably. “Ready to die?”
He’s wiry, with the kind of leathery tan only aboriginals and homeless people who live on nude beaches get. His tool belt is crammed full of sharp objects, from knives and hatchets to things I can’t identify. His face is long and lean, with a hawk-like nose and a pointed chin, his black hair lengthy and braided into a single plait.
“Not just yet,” I answer. “I don’t usually jump into a grave with someone I just met. I prefer a little conversation first, maybe a drink and some dancing.”
He laughs, a low, throaty rumble. “Oh, I think I can provide that. We love to dance.”
I glance around. The dim, flickering light of the candle reflects off at least a dozen pairs of yellow eyes in the shadows. “Me, too. Why don’t we start with introductions? I’m Jace Valchek, and this is Charlie Aleph.”
“The Bloodhound?” His eyes widen, not in surprise but delight. “No. You’re not serious.”
“Sometimes she is,” Charlie says. “Not often, though.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Yeah, that’s me. So what?” It occurs to me that maybe revealing my identity is a mistake. If Zhang could auction me off, so could a pack of half-wild thropes.
“So that’s the Splatter?” He points at my gun.
“The what?”
“You know, the thing you’re so proud of, makes you think you’re invincible?” He’s grinning now.
“Yeah. That’s it.” Great. Bad enough no one who encounters my gun takes it seriously, now it’s acquired its own absurd reputation. I don’t care for magic, but some kinds I hate worse than others.
“Well, we wouldn’t want you to use that on us,” he says mockingly, and I hear the distinctive barking of thrope laughter from all around. “But don’t worry, you won’t have to. We’re all big fans.”
I blink. “You are?”
“Sure. Hey, you kicked Ghatanothoa’s ass. Now that we know who you are, we wouldn’t dream of hurting you.”
I relax, ever so slightly. “That’s good. Because we’re just passing through, we’re not looking for any trouble—”
“Oh, no trouble,” he says casually. “No trouble at all. We’ll take real good care of you until the ransom’s paid.”
Ah, crap. Here we go again …
Which is when the ninja drops out of the trees.
I like to think I’m adaptable, and that I know an opportunity when I see one. So I do my best to put a round into Mr. Toolbelt’s chest while he’s still gawking at the guy all dressed in black with a shiny katana in his hand.
Apparently I’m not the only one with good instincts, though, because the thrope handyman has already dived into the undergrowth. One of his pack lunges forward, trying to claw out my throat, and he makes just as good a target. I shoot him.
And then we’re in the middle of another battle. This one doesn’t go as smoothly as the last.
Facing a thrope in one-on-one combat is a nightmare. You’ve got an opponent who’s bigger, stronger, and faster than you are, with razor-sharp claws on both hands and feet, plus jaws powerful enough to deform sheet metal. That’s the floor model, bare basics. If you’re facing a thrope that’s prepared, he’ll be armed—anything from close-up weaponry like a mace or ax to longer-range stuff like javelins or bows.
But we’re not facing a single, well-armed thrope. We’re facing a pack.
Thropes don’t have to study the tactics of attacking in a group because it’s already in their genes. Their instincts tell them the right way to encircle their prey, test its defenses, send in the best pack members to hamstring or cripple it before the others pile on for the kill. Those instincts may have been dulled a little by living in cities—but these thropes don’t live in a city. They live in a savage little patch of urban jungle, and are well versed in fighting for their corner of it.
Arrows hit first. I’m between Charlie and the ninja, so they take the brunt of the attack. I hear the dull thunk of multiple strikes. I drop to the ground, stick my gun between Charlie’s knees, and aim for the yellow eyes in the shadows.
I take out three of them before they figure out they can’t just sit back and pick off my cover—plus, they actually want me alive and not with an arrow in my eye. So they charge.
Charlie stops the first one dead with a ball bearing through his windpipe, but that’s all he has time for. Then they’re on us.
The fight is fast and vicious. The ninja—who has as many arrows sticking out of him as Charlie—is very, very good with that katana. Charlie’s Roman-style sword doesn’t have the same reach, but Charlie is—well, Charlie. Fighting him is like sticking your head in a wood chipper: ill advised, messy, and over real soon.
Besides being sandwiched between two killing machines, I have the advantage that my gun, unlike a javelin or bow, works just fine in close quarters. I stay on the ground and blast away at anything with fur.
It’s over as quickly as it started. I count at least a dozen bodies strewn around us, which I doubt is the whole pack—just a tally of the losses they were willing to take before they reconsidered and withdrew.
I scramble to my feet and reload as quickly as I can.
“I think that’s it,” Charlie says. He’s got at least twenty arrows jutting from his chest, arms, and legs. He starts to snap the shafts off with one hand, leaving the heads buried. “For this group, anyway.”
I’ve got the Ruger reloaded now, and the ninja has sheathed his sword. He’s also bristling with arrows—though not as many as Charlie—and now he begins to pull them out, one by one. They’re simple wooden shafts sharpened to a point, no doubt used because they thought the swordsman was a pire. Apparently he isn’t.
“That was a helluva risk to take, fighting in human form,” I say. “Why didn’t you go were?”
The ninja yanks the last arrow out and tosses it on the ground. He unwraps the black cloth from around his face as he answers.
“Silver is expensive. I knew that if they thought I were a pire, they would not risk losing stray shots in the forest. Besides—you do very well, fighting as a human. I thought I could do no less.”
In the dim light of the guttering candle is a face I recognize.
It’s Tanaka.
* * *
Kamakura Tanaka of the Nipponese Shinto Investigative Branch and I have history. Not all of it’s good.
We met when I first arrived on Thropirelem. He was my liaison with the Japanese authorities while I was there hunting Stoker, and after an ill-advised night of drinking we wound up spending the night together. He’s my first official ex in this reality, though one night hardly counts as a relationship. No, that was more embarrassing than anything else—where our shared history gets interesting is in the professional realm. And by interesting, I mean the part where he betrayed me, committed treason against the United States, and almost stranded me on a deserted atoll with an evil creature from another dimension.
“Tanaka,” I say. “Huh. Never thought I’d see you again.”
He looks ashamed, and a little sad. “Nor I you. You want an explanation—and I will give it to you. But not now. We should go, before we are attacked again.”
“You okay?” I ask Charlie. “You took a lot of hits.”
“I’m fine. This jacket has an internal layer with the same kind of self-sealing goo they use on tires. The whole damn thing is glued to me now, but it’ll hold until I can do a proper repair job.”
I consider our options. “Truce,” I say to Tanaka. “Until we’re out of the park.”
“Then we’ll
see,” Charlie growls. Charlie does not like Tanaka; I’m going to have about five seconds after we leave the forest to prevent him from performing a lethal lycanectomy.
“What he said,” I say. “We’re going that way. You can take point.”
He bows his head in acquiescence, then covers the lower part of his face again and darts into the woods. We follow.
He obviously has a very similar route in mind; I only have to correct his course once. I hiss at him to stop, then creep nearer to tell him he needs to head more to his right.
“As you say.” He starts to move, but I slow him with a hand on his arm and then fall into step beside him.
“You’re stealthed too, right?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“Then we can talk without worrying about being overheard.”
“I thought you wanted to wait.”
“No, that was you. It occurs to me that you might just vanish once we leave the trees. I’ve heard ninjas do that, you know?”
“You have seen too many movies.”
“Probably. Have you seen the one where the giant monster rises from the bottom of the ocean and scares the hell out of the Japanese? Fortunately, the day is saved when one of their intelligence agents double-crosses the slutty American investigator and escapes with information vital to stopping its rampage—wait, no, that’s not right. He winds up under arrest and has his ass deported back to Japan. I must be thinking of a different movie.”
“I … am sorry, Jace. Deeply sorry.”
His voice is sad yet composed, and he doesn’t attempt to deny or justify what he did. I shouldn’t be surprised—Tanaka always struck me as honorable in the extreme. I never doubted that he felt badly about his actions, any more than I blamed him for following the orders of his government. That was why I convinced Cassius to let him return to his country, rather than prosecuting him.
