All Beasts Together (The Commander)

by Farmer, Randall

  Three hours or so later, I left Luke on the bed, groggy and smiling a stupid little grin, so exhausted he couldn’t even move.

  Me, I was energized, not satisfied, but sated enough I could think about other things. In specific, body disposal issues. Luke had brought my kit with him, as per my orders. I took the body out to an isolated piece of property south of town I owned under a pseudonym. I bled out the body and cut it up, bundled it up small in a burlap sack and buried it deep. My coverall was well bloodied, but my body was clean, so I stowed the coverall with the tarp for later washing, and dumped the blood into the sewer over by the stockyards.

  The rest was harder. I spent most of the rest of the night sneaking into forklift boy’s apartment and carefully planting all the signs of a voluntary, if hasty, departure. I packed a suitcase for him, and left some money with a note for the landlord, in his handwriting, saying he had gotten a call from an old girlfriend and needed to go out to California. It took time to find out exactly how much he paid in rent, and the little details of history and character that made the charade seem real. I didn’t finish until almost dawn.

  I felt better for the hunt, the kill, the juice and the sex. Yet another confrontation with a Chimera, another talker, made me edgy. I defended my turf, yes, but at what price? This whole thing bothered me as much as it had bothered Keaton back in Philadelphia. Someone named Wandering Shade, who I half suspected had also been Officer Canon, poked at me, probing my defenses. More would come. I just smelled it.

  Finally, I dumped the now murderously used car at Moose’s place and gave it to him at a discount to ensure this part of the world would never see the car again. I grabbed a quick breakfast at Lucie’s Coffee Shoppe then spent another hour in the garage of my house cleaning out my kit.

  Bobby, my man, still slept.

  “Jesus, Bobby, this place is a pit!” I said as I came through the back door from the garage. My bellow sent Bobby’s naked ass out of bed like a rocket, to stand at attention in more ways than one. I had told him to clean the mess up before I left. He hadn’t made more than a half-assed attempt. Fuck. “What do you expect, lover boy, for an Arm to go and clean up after you! Get a move on. Now!” Anger overflowed, the Arm anger that looked at disobedience as a challenge to my dominance.

  Bobby picked up a couple of newspapers from a pile in the dining room, but instead of putting them away went down on his knees on the un-vacuumed carpet in front of me. “Carol. I’m yours.”

  Oh, hell. His words melted my heart, as they always did.

  “Bobby, you’re mine,” I said. Dammit, he wasn’t an Arm and didn’t need me treating him as if he was.

  “I’m yours,” he said, a conscious repetition. He put my hand on his head.

  “You’re mine.” As I had done the last few times he used this ‘calm down the Arm’ ritual of his, I extended my metasense. Yes, as with the last two times, I caught the tiniest flicker of juice movement. Three times made it real. Something going on here was a juice effect.

  Far out, as the young kids would say. Far freaking out. Embarrassing, too. No way would I mention something this screwy and embarrassing to anyone, at least yet. A juice effect involving a normal, triggered by a normal? No one would believe this. Zielinski might, though. I promised myself to talk to him about it if the dangers surrounding us ever receded and I could talk to him in person again, but nobody else. I would have to pledge him to secrecy as well.

  Whatever the juice effect was, it worked. Instead of cleaning he soon ended up in my bed.

  ---

  “This had better be an actual emergency, Hancock, or I’m going to be sorely tempted to make a visit to Chicago,” Keaton said. I couldn’t call her directly, but after I reported my fight with Enkidu, she had relented and given me the phone number of the woman who ran her answering service. Emergencies only, she said. Our relationship was in her hands, if you catch my drift. Me? I was just glad Keaton was somewhere else. I had no idea where else, but I didn’t care, so long as she stayed the hell out of Chicago.

  I took the call from the bedroom, a barren room containing little more than a king-sized mattress laid on the floor and the phone. I didn’t lie on the bed as I talked, not fool enough to relax while dealing with Keaton. Instead, I paced as I told her about my run-in with Odin, not leaving out a single detail. With the Chimeras I needed all the help I could get, or at least all the help that didn’t open me up to enslavement by Keaton again.

  “Motherfucking shit dammit cuntlicking fiends!” Keaton said. Yes! She aimed her anger at the Chimeras, not me. “Another Hunter. There’s something you need to know, Hancock: my espionage mission in Kansas City succeeded. Only the Chimeras in that nest called themselves Patriarchs. These cocksuckers are spreading like motherfucking cockroaches!” Was Keaton a little more foul mouthed than usual today? I couldn’t decide.

  “Any fighting?”

  “Of course not, dipshit. I don’t want any of these dickheads to know I exist, remember?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t know more than the basics of whatever scheme she was working and wished I did. She, myself and Zielinski were part of an experiment to see which of us had chosen the best way to prosper in the face of enemy opposition. Keaton had gone underground, no organization, living off her investments. After his return from Europe, Zielinski hid under Focus Rizzari while he continued his research. Me? I didn’t have investments to live off of and if I lived in close partnership with Rizzari, I risked taking too many tagged Transform snacks or becoming her pet Arm, or both. I got to do Arm the old fashioned way: organized thug. Presumably, if any of us got taken down the others would learn from our experiences. I had given in to Keaton’s blandishments and now shipped written reports of my actions to both her and Zielinski; Keaton and Zielinski did the same. All our reports contained major editing and fibbing; Keaton’s were the tersest by a long shot. Zielinski’s read like a cross between bad science fiction and a pompous academic journal article; I swear he had more adventures than I did. A tight organization we were not.

  “A hint, if you’re willing to listen to experience,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I would take all the hints she tossed my way. I would even act on them. Well, most of them.

  “You should put some work into recruiting police and other government employees. Get as many of them as you can keep track of, and do so under multiple disposable identities.”

  I already had one suborned cop. Keaton thought I needed more. “You did this in Philadelphia, ma’am?”

  Keaton just laughed. “Philadelphia, Baltimore, Newark and New York City,” she said.

  I bit my lip and drew blood. She had these in the so-called territories she gave me when I suffered through my apprenticeship. I repressed my anger. Otherwise I would have to replace the phone. Again.

  “Don’t rush it, but don’t ignore it either.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get right on it.”

  Aargh. Never-ending second-guessing. Wishy-washy ahem hints ahem. Keaton still drove me crazy, even over the phone.

  ---

  “What are we doing tonight, ma’am?” Bobby asked. He rode beside me in my car, a gold Mercury Cougar I had purchased used and legally. I didn’t trust him to drive. Scared the crap out of me, he did, driving like a normal.

  “Pete’s Gym.”

  “You working on Greg, again?”

  Greg was a long-term project, like Mr. Oldman. Greg was pleasant, bright, not afraid to defend himself in a fight, and alienated from society. He lived under a fake name, a result of dodging the draft a couple of years ago, and hated war passionately. Nominally I held him because I knew he was a draft dodger, but in truth I held him because he liked me. He was a kindred spirit, as much an enemy of society as I. I also slept with him, but only to cement the deal. I wasn’t his type. He liked women he could completely dominate. Or so he said. I didn’t think he would mind being led around by his cock by a woman who let him physically protect her.

  I had big
dreams for Greg. I had already got him into business, representing a particular athletic company best known for their shoes but selling everything else athletic as well. I wanted him to build me a gym, as soon as I made all the arrangements with Mr. Oldman and the Tiens, the latter a restaurant-owning family I had also recruited. As an Arm, access to gyms was important. I either kept my muscles well exercised and under my control, or I died.

  I had met Greg at Pete’s Gym.

  “Not Greg. Pete. I’m tired of Pete giving me grief.” I steered the car past a fender bender in front of the A&P. A small crowd had gathered around it, arguing passionately and waving arms.

  Pete and I needed to come to a better agreement about my after-hours use of his gym. I appeared male this evening because Pete knew me as Mr. McIngle. Mr. McIngle was a mobster with a nasty reputation.

  Bobby didn’t know Pete well, but Bobby needed to learn in order to succeed at the new job I had given him of backup organization bookkeeper. A crumb to give him purpose. He needed it. “That nothing?”

  “Pete’s suspicious of Mr. McIngle. He doesn’t like dealing with mobsters and thugs. I can see by the look in his eyes he’s toying with the idea of going to the cops. I learned, from my suborned cop, that the police have warned all the gym owners and managers to be on the lookout for Arms. I can’t afford for Pete to think I’m an Arm. I’ve got to talk him out of it.”

  “Suborned policeman?” Bobby said. He was just full of it, today.

  “You didn’t hear that,” I said. So far, I only owned one cop, Sgt. Ron O’Mally, who was mine, all mine. I wanted someone on the inside to warn me if someone tried to investigate my identities or if anyone came by looking for Arms. I had gone trolling in all the wrong places and found O’Mally. Nice Sgt. O’Mally, everybody’s friend, had turned out to be a pederast, what people in his little subculture called a chicken hawk. He liked his boys young, just after they had their first wet dream. He thought he did nothing wrong, but lived in terror that someday the world would find out. Well, the world hadn’t, yet, but this Arm had. I had explained how a certain folder of incriminating pictures, with detailed explanations, would end up in the hands of the media if I ever disappeared. I expected dear Sgt. O’Mally would eat his gun if I ever got taken or killed.

  Bobby and I pulled up at Pete’s Gym and I parked in the small lot behind it. The place was a boxers’ gym, ripe with the stench of male sweat, a rough place for rough people. I needed to control Pete and make him mine. Bobby wouldn’t like what I was about to do. He wanted me to be civilized, or at least civilized from his perspective, which included roughing people up and direct intimidation. Me? I was far worse.

  I strode in and waited in the shadows while the last of Pete’s janitors cleaned up. Pete worked his books, always the last to leave. He was a short man, with broad shoulders, a crooked nose, and a hairline slowly receding into his crew cut. He had seen much of the dark side of life, and he didn’t scare easily.

  His courage would cost him. After the janitor finished I stepped into Pete’s office and tossed on his stained wooden desk the uncashed check he had sent back to me.

  “What the fuck is this, Sanchek?” I said.

  He looked up and his eyes narrowed. “Mr. McIngle. Please, have a seat.”

  I did not sit.

  “I’m doing you a favor, Sanchek. I don’t like it when people refuse my favors.”

  “You want to use the gym, use it during normal hours like normal people,” Pete said. He glanced behind me and noticed Bobby, loitering outside the office. His face darkened. I made a mistake bringing Bobby here, I realized. Sanchek immediately assumed the ever so studly Bobby was the butt buddy of the unquestionably male Mr. McIngle.

  I reached across the desk, grabbed Pete and tossed him against a wall. He tried to draw his piece, which he wore in the back of his pants and I slapped it away. “It’s time for you to learn what happens to people who refuse my favors,” I said.

  I smiled. The dark beast inside me laughed in anticipation.

  Chapter 5

  A mean and nasty Focus is just a mean and nasty Focus, but a Focus with a cause is a terror to behold.

  “Inventing Our Future”

  Gilgamesh: November 20, 1967 – December 4, 1967

  Dear Shadow,

  I want to apologize for being so slow to write. It’s been far too long, and I’ve done a terrible job of keeping you informed. I promise I will do better in the future.

  Since I left your home (and let me extend my sincere gratitude for taking care of me when I was in such poor condition), I spent some time traveling. I settled in Chicago when I found Tiamat in residence, and now I live here in relative Crow comfort. I still had a little of my money remaining, and my tools and truck, so I took up my old trade of piecework appliance repair. The money my work brings isn’t much, but is sufficient to let me afford a small apartment and life’s other necessities. I still suffer from occasional nightmares due to the massacre in Philadelphia, but they are much less common and I hope they will decrease further as time goes on.

  I’m in the process of writing a book summarizing the research of the Crows in Philadelphia and the information you added to my notes when I visited you in New York. I’m not sure what to do with the book, so I’ll be sending the chapters to you as I finish them. Distribute them as you see fit.

  I want to thank you again for taking me in after the massacre. I was in such terrible shape, from the stress of the weeks of captivity, the brutal murders of Wire and Tolstoy and the confrontation with the Skinner. I do not think I would have been able to manage without your help.

  Tiamat resides four miles from where I rented my apartment, and the living is good. With five nearby Focus households, and of course the often spicy dross from Tiamat herself, there is enough dross to support several Crows, but of course none but I will live in a town with an Arm.

  I can understand the fears of these Crows, but I think they are wrong. Arms are dangerous and murderous, but they are the only creatures who can oppose a Beast Man. The Beast Men kill the Crows, not the Arms, and I’m safer living in Tiamat’s shadow.

  Unfortunately, the problem of Chicago’s Beast Men may turn out to be worse than in Philadelphia. Many Beast Men haunt the area, and one even held a short conversation with Tiamat! For some reason, when I settled into Chicago and moved near Tiamat, the Beasts with territories in Chicago upped and left. I suspect they worried that I was one of the older Crows, because I was willing to live close to an Arm.

  I have heard about the Crows who perished unexplainably. These losses worry and sadden me, of course, but I can definitively say Tiamat is not behind them.

  Don’t worry, though. I haven’t gone crazy! I don’t come close to Tiamat and I don’t plan on letting her know I exist. A crow can pick at a lioness’ kill, but it knows better than to walk across her jaws. I will admit, though, I’m drawn to her by my curiosity. Tiamat recently took up the hobby of painting. Although her technique is quite advanced and capable, her sense of artistry is lacking. Her masterpiece, at least to this date, is a painting of Enkidu, from the perspective of a rape victim. She also painted another drawing I highly suspect is of a severed hand of Enkidu, and for some strange reason she often stares at this painting for hours. I’m intensely curious to find out where Tiamat encountered Enkidu, and I fear at some time I might let my curiosity get the best of me and ask her in some fashion about her encounter. However, her other dealings with people leave much to be desired: she is nearly as sadistic and horrible as her former mentor. I would have a difficult time contacting her in any manner until she mends her ways in some fashion. If this is at all possible.

  Best wishes, and my hopes that your life has been less interesting than mine. I’ll write again soon.

  Sincerely,

  Gilgamesh

  Dear Gilgamesh,

  I’m glad you found a place to settle down. It doesn’t surprise me you chose to stay with Tiamat. I hope your choice works out well for you.


  Thank you very much for the book chapters. They are a useful compendium of the basic knowledge of the Crows, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on your willingness for me to distribute them. I can think of several people who would much appreciate this concise compendium.

  I’m not surprised the Beast Men moved out of Chicago when you moved in. That’s normal Beast Man behavior, as many older Crows don’t have the same problems with Beast Men as do the younger Crows. I’m more concerned with any Beasts who stayed in the vicinity. Such behavior is abnormal, and I suggest you be wary. Beast Men aren’t often found in cities – instincts, I suspect. I also agree with your wariness regarding Tiamat, and indeed urge you to be even more wary. As I told you before, some person or creature is hunting Crows. We’ve lost too many Crows over the last several months and I don’t want to lose you, too. This unknown Crow Killer is still unidentified and I would not be surprised to find him among the many predators who seem to haunt Chicago. Take extreme care, please.

  I’ll write again soon. I’m also sending you my phone number. You have chosen a dangerous home, and if some emergency comes up and you need to call, please do so.

  Take care.

  Sincerely,

  Shadow

  Dear Shadow,

  Yes, by all means, distribute my writings wherever and however you desire. I’m delighted to hear you know of people who might appreciate my efforts. Crows, I assume?

  I have been doing some watching and thinking recently, and uncovered several new puzzles. Would you mind if I told you of them, and asked for your advice and help?