by Lisa Smedman
The handful of passengers who had gathered behind her nodded and grumbled their agreement. One of them, a young elf with straw-blonde hair and a diamond stud in his nose, muttered darkly that he expected his money back. He kept trying to brush the mud from his cream-colored tuxedo. His breath stank of alcohol.
"Where is the cat now?" I asked the ork.
"Little bugger jumped off da ship when we went agroun'," she answered. Then she shrugged. "Good riddance."
"Thanks."
I strode over to the beached bow of the yacht and bent down for a closer look. Light coming through a porthole illuminated the wet mud. The beach was a mass of footprints; deep indentations where passengers and crew had jumped down from the boat were overlaid with confused prints where they'd milled about. A multitude of fresh scents—human and meta—filled my nostrils. But there was one paw print, clearly defined in the mud. I bent down and sniffed, then growled at the familiar spoor. It was the unmistakable stink of blackberry cat. Wet fur, dander, and an arrogant whiff from the scent glands in the paws. The damn thing had stopped to scratch the yacht's hull before heading inland.
My sense of smell is keener in wolf form, but I needed my human hands to manipulate the equipment I'd brought along to contain the cat. I walked back to the hover and pulled out a tranq pistol and three of the grenades the DPI's Department of Magical Research had developed since my last encounter with a blackberry cat. I lifted the bright blue, eggsized plastic ovoids from their packing case and smiled at their pungent herbal scent. This time, the little furball wasn't going to escape. I gave each grenade a vicious twist, priming it.
I chose a Size 2 containment cage, a collapsible cube of fine metal mesh. The cage was yet another product of the DPI's research labs, and was impregnated with a magical ward. Any living creature placed within the cage would be unable to pass through this magical barrier, once the door was shut.
"You got a lock on the para?" Hunt shouted over the roar of the hover's engines. His chromed eyes reflected the flickering lights of the hover's instrument panel.
When I nodded, he tossed me a commlink. "Keep in radio contact."
I fastened the holster for the tranq pistol under my arm and popped the grenades into a pocket. Then I snugged the commlink over my head. I didn't normally use one, for the same reason I didn't wear jewelry or a watch: it would fall off if I changed into wolf form.
"Good luck!" Hunt shouted. "I'll be standing by in the hover. Just radio if you need me."
I headed inland, following the faint spoor of the blackberry cat into the darkness between the ruined buildings. Every now and then I had to bend down and sniff the earth to pinpoint the scent, but generally it was fresh enough for me to follow at a walking pace, with my human-blunted sense of smell. I tracked it across the island to a dilapidated pier where a ferry used to dock, back when Georges Island was a public park.
Two silhouettes were walking along the pier. One was my target: the cat. The other was a woman— human by the size and shape of her. Probably one of the passengers from the yacht who the cat had forced to walk beside it. Was the cat going to walk her off the end of the pier, just for a laugh?
No, that didn't scan. I hadn't smelled a human scent while following the cat's trail. The cat must have just hooked up with the woman. So who was she?
As I was pondering these questions, I crept closer, whispering into my commlink that I'd spotted the target. I can move fairly quietly in human form, but I guess my excitement at spotting the cat made me clumsy. Or maybe the cat had some sort of power that cursed its enemies. In any case, the next thing I knew I'd tripped over a rusted piece of fence wire and was taking a header. I dropped the containment cage as I fell, and it hit the ground with a loud rattle.
Instantly, the cat whirled around, its reflective eyes pinpointing me as the source of the noise. As I scrambled to my feet, the cat shimmered and blurred. It was using its adaptive coloration to blend with the night, to match the black of the pier and the oily glisten of the water behind it.
Cursing, I grabbed a grenade from my pocket. I pulled the pin from it and hurled it in the direction of the pier. But my aim was off. The grenade glanced off a piling and ricocheted into the water, exploding under the surface with a dull pop. Bubbles carried the pungent herbal scent to the surface, but I knew that nowhere near enough of the drug had been released.
I ran forward, hauling the tranq pistol out of its holster. Every fiber of my body ached to change, to give chase. But I maintained human form. As I closed the distance between myself and the cat, it reappeared. For just an instant, as I thudded onto the pier, I caught a glimpse of an animal with a black back and white chest, chin, and legs. Its markings were perfectly symmetrical. It had a wide face and large golden eyes, giving it an innocent, kittenish expression. But I recognized it for the foul little creature it was. And I was only about twenty meters away now. I hauled the second grenade from my pocket, pulled the pin and ...
The cat meowed. The sound was long and drawn out, more a howl than a meow. It echoed through the night, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine and causing the hair on the tips of my ears to quiver. Too late, I realized dimly that I should have been ready for this, should have brought ear plugs along. I felt my will drain from me, and looked at the grenade I held with slack fingers. It would be so easy to let go of it, to let it fall into the ocean. And then just chase my tail, round and round and...
Drek. I hate cats. Especially magically active ones.
Gritting my teeth, I wrestled against the compulsion that had settled over my mind like a thick fog. I jerked my arm forward, bowling the grenade at the cat. The blue egg bounced and rattled its way down the uneven boards of the pier, toward the patch of shimmering darkness that the cat had once again become. By some miracle the grenade came to a stop less than a meter from the creature's paws, then exploded with a muffled crack.
A spray of catnip flakes flew into the air like confetti. The stuff was super concentrated, grown hydroponically and flash-dried for maximum potency. Even as the cloud of it enveloped the cat, I felt the claw of control the creature had inserted into my mind slip away. The cat dropped its protective camouflage, took one giddy look around, and immediately fell squirming onto its back on the pier. It waved its paws in the air in a frenzy of delight, twisting its head this way and that as it drank in the heady scent of the drug.
I took careful aim with my tranq gun and popped it one. The dart needled into the cat's flank, and in another moment it lay still. I walked along the pier toward it, pistol still at the ready. When I was satisfied that the thing was out cold and would stay that way for the next hour or two, I went back for the containment cage, unfolded it, and stuffed the cat inside. Despite my distaste for the creature, I was careful not to hurt it. I didn't want to face charges for willfully harming an endangered species—even though I suspected that this was a hybrid, perhaps a cross with a common domestic cat. Blackberry cats are usually jet black.
Only when the animal was contained in the cage did I take a closer look at the woman on the pier. She was slender, human—and very, very attractive.
Normally I don't go for humans. Their females are too complicated, and insist upon a series of complex courtship behaviors before they let you mount them. And they mask their tantalizing female scents behind pungent flowery smells strong enough to make you sneeze. But there was something about this one that made me take a second look. And a second sniff— although I was polite and maintained my distance.
She had dark, shoulder-length hair that was just starting to streak with gray and eyes so brown they looked as if they were all pupil. Except when they caught the light. Then I could see the flecks of gold within the deeper brown.
I don't normally pay too much attention to what humans call race—most humans look pretty much alike to me—but I guessed that this woman had been sired by someone from the Middle East. Her face had a fluid grace to it, wide cheekbones tapering down to a narrow chin and full lips. Her eyebrow
s were perfectly arched. Faint creases marked the corners of her eyes, and a delicate frown line creased her forehead. I guessed her age as late thirties. Maybe early forties, tops.
Her hair and clothes were damp, and she smelled of salt water and diesel fuel. She wore frayed jeans and a beaded leather vest, and was barefoot. Tan lines from sandal straps marked her feet. A silver necklace with a heart-shaped pendant hung around her neck. I winced at the sight of it, imagining the blisters that would erupt on my fingers if I were to mistakenly touch it.
The woman stood casually on the pier, her brown eyes looking at me quizzically. Despite the fact that the night was cool, she wasn't shivering. She stared at me for a long moment, with eyes that seemed to search my soul. They were eyes that contained a strange mixture of innocence and experience. They had a childlike quality about them, yet also a knowing calm that suggested they had seen a whole lot of living. When she spoke, her soft voice was overlaid with an accent I didn't recognize. It was as if several different accents had been rolled into one.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I'm with Lone Star's Magical Task Force."
The name drew a blank. She obviously hadn't heard of the task force, even though it had been making the tridcasts a lot lately, and had been mentioned in several of President Haeffner's speeches.
She looked around. "Where am I?"
She must be from out of town. Either that or she'd become disoriented during her swim to the island.
"Georges Island," I answered. "Were you aboard the Party Animal?"
"The what?"
"The yacht," I prompted. "The one the wedding party chartered for a late-night harbor tour."
The frown line on her forehead disappeared. "Harbor?" She looked across the water at the lights of downtown. "What city is this?"
"Halifax." I peered at her, wishing I had a flashlight. My night vision is pretty good, and I didn't think I saw any bruises or other signs of a head injury, but I couldn't be certain. Perhaps she was on drugs?
I sniffed. There was no detectable scent of illegal substances. Nor were there any visible chipjacks for slotting BTL.
"What's your name?" I asked.
Her smile lit up her face. "They call me Jane."
"Who does?"
"My friends. The ones who sell the cats."
My nose twitched. I lifted the cage. "Cats like this one?"
She nodded.
"More than one cat?"
"At least a dozen."
I could hardly contain my excitement. This wasn't an isolated appearance of a paranormal animal; it was part of what sounded like an organized smuggling operation.
"Do you mind coming back to the police station to answer a few questions?" I asked. I neglected to mention that I didn't really have any authority to question her—that I wasn't a police detective. But since I had access to the station—certain areas of it, anyway—I could probably grab one of the interview rooms.
I expected a protest, or at least a polite demurral, but the woman just shrugged. "I don't mind."
I radioed back to Hunt. "Romulus here. I'm on the west side of the island, and have the para contained and ready for transport. There will also be one civilian to transport back to the station: a witness who might be able to shed some light on where another of these creatures might be located. Over."
Hunt's voice crackled back over the commlink. "Roger that," he answered. "One contained cat, one wolf, and one civilian for transport. I'll be there in two shakes. Over."
I hefted the cage in my hand. The blackberry cat only weighed about five kilos, but each of those kilos was worth fifty nuyen. If I could locate the people who were importing these animals to the UCAS,
I stood to make a fortune. Not only that, but I'd be cracking a "case"—just like a regular police officer. Sergeant Raymond would have to commend me for that.
Jane stared at the limp body of the cat. "They're very beautiful," she said in a soft voice. "It isn't right to cage a creature so regal."
I sure as drek didn't share Jane's sentiments about blackberry cats. The only good cat is a caged cat, in my opinion. And that's just what I intended to do, to each and every one of the little fiends. At two hundred and fifty nuyen a pop.
3
Once I got Jane back to the station, she went uncooperative on me. She claimed to know nothing about blackberry cats being brought into the UCAS, nor was she willing to provide any information on the "friends" who were illegally selling them. She wouldn't even give me any personal data. When I asked for her full name, address, occupation, and date and place of birth, all I got was the same answer, over and over again: "I don't know."
Exasperated, I let her cool her heels in an interview room. I was about to tell her to head on home— wherever that might be—and call it a night. But when Dass happened down the hall, I decided to go with my hunch. There was something unusual about Jane; her body language didn't quite match the timbre of her voice, or her scent. I decided to ask Dass for one more favor. She agreed, and we stepped back into the interview room.
"This is Detective Mchawi," I said. "Do you mind if she sits in on our interview?"
Jane shrugged. "I don't mind." Her eyes were locked on Dass' shirt, following the drummers as they strobed through their patterns. As Dass sat down, Jane reached across the table and stroked the fabric with a fingertip. The gesture—and the expression of awe on her face—reminded me of a child discovering something new and wonderful. It made her look quite beautiful.
"Do we have your permission to use magic?" I asked. "You have the right to refuse."
"Magic?" Something sparked behind her eyes as she glanced sharply in my direction. She seemed about to speak—and then the twinkle faded. She nodded. "You have my permission."
I nodded to Dass. She wove her fingers together in a complex pattern, spoke a few words of Swahili, and cast the spell. Then she peered intently at Jane.
I asked Jane the same questions I'd asked earlier. Once again, her answers were the same: "I don't know."
We ran through the preliminary questions—a process that took less than a minute—and I tried prompting her by recapping what she'd told me earlier. I was asking leading questions—something a good interviewer avoids—but by this time I was desperate. When I got the same non-answers, once again, I excused myself and motioned Dass out into the hallway.
"Well?" I asked.
"She's telling the truth. She has absolutely no idea who she is or where she's from." Dass stared in through the one-way glass at Jane, who waited patiently in the empty room, her hands neatly folded in her lap. No, not neatly folded. Her fingers were locked in a gesture identical to the one Dass had used to cast the detection spell that helped her differentiate truth from falsehood. Jane's gold-flecked eyes stared back into mine, as if she could see through the tinted glass and into my thoughts. I tore my eyes away.
"When I met her on Georges Island, she told me her name was Jane," I told Dass.
She laughed. "As in Jane Doe?"
"I suppose so," I said with a sigh. "Is she lying when she claims not to remember what she told me earlier, about her 'friends' who smuggle blackberry cats?"
"She's not lying. She's forgotten all about it, just like everything else."
"So she's got amnesia?" I frowned. "What would cause that?"
"Beats me," Dass said. "I'm no shrink."
She glanced at her wristwatch. I caught the hint.
"Thanks for your help, Dass," I said quickly. "But can I ask just one more favor? Would you authorize a retinal and DNA scan? Maybe that will tell us who Jane Doe is."
Dass hesitated and I could catch a whiff of irritation. Had I pushed our friendship too far? But then she nodded. "I'll clear it for you," she said.
I opened the door to the interview room and waved Jane out into the hallway. "Thanks for your cooperation," I told her. "There's just one last thing I'd like to ask for. A retinal and DNA scan. It will only take about five minutes, and won't hurt. Just a brief flash
of light in the eye, and a slight prick in the arm. We don't normally request scans of witnesses, but it may help me figure out who you are."
She agreed, and we headed down the hall to the scanning lab. I gave the records clerk the little data I had on Jane, gave her last name as Doe, just for the hell of it, then used the stylus to highlight the IDENT records check.
The retinal scan only took a minute. But we had to wait twenty minutes more for the lab techs to do a watch changeover. Jane seemed to be getting progressively more nervous the longer we sat in the waiting room. I could smell a faint whiff of fear coming from her, but it was overlaid by the disinfectant that left the lab smelling like a harsh chemical interpretation of a pine forest.
When her turn came, Jane passively followed the lab tech—a dwarf in medical whites—into the testing cubicle. I tagged along, and settled into a plastic chair in one corner of the crowded room. As the dwarf prepared the syringe, Jane stared curiously at his beard, which was styled in a "pharaoh shave." His face was clean-shaven except for his chin, where a wide growth of beard was braided and bound with leather thongs into a shape reminiscent of a handle.
Jane sat quietly while the tech tightened the rubber tubing around her arm. But as soon as he swabbed her inner elbow with metallic-smelling iodine, all hell broke loose.
"No!" Jane screamed. She smashed the syringe out of the dwarf's hand, drew her knees to her chest and kicked. The lab technician was caught completely by surprise as Jane's feet connected with his chest. Bowled over backward, he crashed into the cart behind him, tipping it over and sending plastic slides and syringes skittering out into the hallway.
