Who Hunts the Hunter

by Nyx Smith

  “Who are those slags?” Monk asks.

  “Killers!” Minx blurts."Keeping running, booty!”

  No drek.

  59

  Harman doesn’t answer any of his phones. Amy supposes that he’s in a meeting or some other place where he can’t talk, and it’s probably just as well. She sits back in her desk chair and exhales deeply. She needed a break, a moment that had nothing to do with Tokyo auditors and fears about fraud and ruined lives, such as her own, but she shouldn’t be wasting time like that. She should be on the phone to Dr. Phalen, requesting an immediate interview, insisting on it, so she can present her discoveries and ask his opinion.

  She swings around in her chair to look through the wall of windows spanning the rear of her office: the subtle grays of early evening, the golden wash of light filling New Bronx Plaza, the riverfront, the fountains, the condoplexes, the unfinished arcology. She must call Phalen now, like she told Mercedes Feliz she would. She’ll need the Executive VP on her side if the wind doesn’t blow her way.

  “Stop vacillating,” she tells herself.

  Amy straightens up in her chair, but before she can turn back to her desk, something catches her eye.

  For a moment, she isn’t sure what she’s seeing—a bird, a missile, a meteorite—a dark patch coming through her Windows, coming straight for her nose. Involuntarily, she jerks back, feet thrusting at the floor. The back of her chair bangs against the back of her desk. She stiffens, gasping for air, then gapes.

  The dark patch resolves into a hole, like a hole in the ground, in bare earth, but hanging in the air perhaps a meter in front of her face.

  For possibly the first time in her career, Amy remembers the PanicButton under her desk. She’s hit it half a dozen times with her knee, completely by accident, only to look up in surprise when a squad of armed guards came bursting into her office. Now she wishes she could reach it, reach it without being obvious about it. She has no doubt that she’s witnessing some sort of arcane phenomenon.

  Her heart hammers.

  A figure appears, head rising from the hole. It looks like an animal, dark and furry, kind of like a raccoon. It crosses its forelegs on the edge of the hole, and says in an oddly pitched voice, “Stay away from Phalen. He’s dangerous.”

  Amy gapes."W-what?” she stammers.

  Her voice lilts upward about a thousand octaves. The figure gazes at her, scratches its head, then says, “Stay away from Phalen—”

  “Who are you?” Amy blurts.

  “Me?” The figure cocks its head to one side and scratches its brow, seeming puzzled."I’m just another creature of quicksilver and shadow.”

  And then it’s gone, vanished.

  Quicksilver? Amy stares.

  She’s a good five minutes catching her breath and collecting her wits. She remembers Scottie’s lifelong obsession with raccoons, and wonders. Is that just a coincidence? Does this apparition warning about Dr. Phalen have something to do with Scottie?

  She remembers a trideo show called The Shattergraves from a few-seasons past. It enjoyed a brief but intense popularity on account of its hero-magician, who might have stepped out of a Vashon Island catalogue. Even her aide Laurena was talking about him. Aragon, he was called. In the show, he had a helper, a kind of spirit. The spirit’s name was Quicksilver. It wasn’t very bright. Aragon would sometimes send Quicksilver to deliver messages. The spirit seemed able to find almost anyone, no matter where they might be, in just the wink of an eye.

  If that bears any resemblance to the way magic really works, and the abilities of spirits, then Scottie might have sent this creature resembling a raccoon to warn her about Dr. Phalen.

  But, why?

  It doesn’t make any sense. Dangerous? Dr. Phalen? Even if he’s personally responsible for defrauding Hurley-Cooper, Amy can’t believe that the man would make any attempt to harm her personally. This is not some violence-prone street-person with a long criminal history. This is a man who’s devoted his life to science. A man who’s always spoken to her, to everyone, in her experience, with the manners of an Old World gentleman: polite to a fault, kind and considerate, and rather charming. Dangerous? That’s just not possible.

  Amy remembers there were several Shattergraves episodes where Quicksilver got Aragon’s messages confused. Maybe that’s what’s happened here. Scottie couldn’t have meant that Dr. Phalen poses any real danger to her. He must have meant something else.

  But what?

  Phalen’s in danger, so stay away? She’s some minutes trying to work it out. The only thing she can think of is the possibility that she’s being watched. Scottie seemed to think so. But if she’s under surveillance by KFK operatives, then she should continue doing what she’s doing. That’s the only hope she has of saving her career. If the surveillance comes from other quarters ... she isn’t sure what that could mean.

  Her desktop bleeps.

  “Dr. Phalen on One,” Laurena says.

  “Thank you.”

  Amy hesitates, shakes her head and taps the Connect key. Dr. Phalen’s pale features appear on her display. He smiles and says, “Good afternoon, my dear. I hope I’m not interrupting some high-level executive function.”

  Amy can’t help smiling, despite her worries."No. In fact I was just getting ready to call you.”

  “Why, that’s splendid,” Dr. Phalen says, but then his smile turns sober."Would I be correct in presuming that you wish to discuss the matter you brought before Ben this morning?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Amy replies."I’m sorry, but I can’t help thinking that Dr. Hill was not being entirely candid with me. At least that was my impression. He seemed, well ... you know how the meeting ended. And he seemed somewhat upset almost from the start.”

  “I’m certain it must have seemed that way,” Dr. Phalen says in a quiet, almost intimate tone."Ben’s under a great deal of pressure, my dear. Stress. All stress related. I’m sure you noticed the coughing and sneezing. Entirely psychosomatic. He has such great hopes for our current track of research. I’m afraid of how he might react if things don’t work out.”

  This is something Amy hadn’t known about. If Dr. Hill really is ill ..."Is he receiving medical attention?”

  “My dear, try to persuade a doctor to see a doctor. It’s quite impossible. However, I’m keeping a close eye on our friend. You can be sure that I’ll intervene before Ben approaches anything resembling a crisis situation.”

  Amy supposes she should feel reassured. Dr. Phalen does of course hold a medical diploma in addition to his many other credentials. But how does that affect her problem? “Well ... I’m sorry if I’ve made things worse for Dr. Hill. That wasn’t my intention. I hope he’ll be all right.”

  “Ben’s stronger than he seems, my dear. He’ll come around.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  Dr. Phalen smiles sympathetically.

  “I’d like to come by and speak to you in your office."

  "You’re always welcome, dear. Unfortunately, I’m at home. My wife has taken a turn, a small one, but I feel I should stay at hand until this incident is resolved.”

  “Oh ... oh, of course.”

  It’s well known that Dr. Phalen’s wife is gravely ill, terminal. She’s been lingering for years. Some slow, wasting illness. That’s what made Dr. Hill’s tale about his wife being ill and therefore incapable of managing her money—the three million in the hidden account—seem so incredible.

  If you’re going to lie at least be creative.

  “However, if this is important, and I’m sure it must be, given what you’ve said already, you’re certainly welcome to come by the house.”

  Amy hesitates. Visit Phalen at his private residence? Not a good idea. A meeting held that far beyond the normal bounds of the corporate milieu could be seen as conspiratorial, and therefore incriminating. There’s also the fact that she would be intruding in the man’s home, when, for all she knows, his wife could be in the process of dying.


  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly intrude like that,” Amy says."When do you expect you might be returning to your office?”

  “Possibly later in the evening,” Dr. Phalen says."Why don’t I call you, my dear, when I’m sure my wife has stabilized.”

  Amy supposes she has no choice. Insisting on a meeting this instant would be outrageous, cruel and inhumane. She’ll just have to wait. For what it’s worth, her desktop will automatically save the voice-record of this phone call into her permanent database, which should at least justify the delay.

  “That will be fine,” she says, struggling to sound content."And if there’s anything I can do in regard to your wife, please don’t hesitate to say so. I know she’s very ill. I do hope that things work out for the best.”

  “You’re too kind, my dear,” Phalen replies.

  "Thank you.” They close the connection. Amy sits back and sighs. Always another worry.

  60

  Tikki scratches the back of her neck, flicks her ears irritably, and abruptly comes to her feet. She’s restless, she can’t sleep. She can’t stand being trapped in this dull gray room anymore! It’s been hours and hours—at least a day. Thoughts of her cub keep coming to mind, and the voice from the ceiling is a plague, always returning, always droning. It speaks of killing and death and what a monster she is and what she deserves, and what she’s going to get in payment for her crimes. The message is very clear. She’s going to be held here and tortured with this noise, with her own unanswered questions, her doubts and uncertainties, until she’s driven insane.

  She sniffs at the floor. Nothing. Nothing she hasn’t smelled before.

  Things were simple in her youth. She was strong, gifted with nature’s weapons, and everything that was not tiger or Weretiger was prey. Some prey was dangerous, some not, but she knew her place in the world, both in the wild and in the realm of two-legs. Who could possibly doubt it? Is she not obviously a predator? born to hunt? to kill? What difference could it make if the prey has two legs or four? Her mother taught her how to hunt on two legs as well as on four, and how to use guns, and how to beat locks and alarms, and other things—skills she would need to survive.

  It came as a shock when she realized that two-legs would pay her money to hunt other two-legs, and it only went to prove what her mother had often told her. Two-legs prey on each other. They are betrayers, deceitful and vile, traitors to their own kind. They will do anything to save themselves, to advance themselves, or to earn themselves profit. They value little but their own lives, power, sex, and nuyen.

  Tikki came to ask herself why should she suffer the deprivations of life in the wild when she could hunt two-legs in the city and enjoy an easy lifestyle?

  The voice from the ceiling speaks."He was in Philadelphia to visit some friends. In the evening, he went to a bar called Numero Uno. You were waiting there in the alley. You shot him once in the foot, then you shot him twice in the head and twice in the chest. Then you took his motorcycle.”

  The word “Philadelphia” snares Tikki’s attention. Her visit to that city two years ago was not a pleasant one. She went there in search of a man, intending to repay him for trying to kill her. She ended up in the thrall of a powerful mage. She still isn’t clear about how that happened, but she knows for a fact that the mage manipulated her perceptions, her thoughts, and many things she did. The experience persuaded her that she’d had enough of two-legs, maybe forever, and sent her north with Raman, her cub’s sire, into the wilds of Maine.

  Did she kill some slag in a Philadelphia alley, then take his chopper? She remembered something about a slag and an alley, possibly involving an ork, but she isn’t sure what happened. She’s certainly done things like what the voice is talking about. Many two-legs have paid her to do things like that.

  And so what? Is there any difference between killing a deer for food to eat and killing a two-leg for a motorcycle to ride? One is obviously survival. The other?

  “That was my son in that alley,” the voice says."When you killed him, you took everything from me that meant anything.”

  Tikki wonders what that’s supposed to mean.

  It almost sounds like grief.

  61

  “My point, Liron, is that this shapeshifter is a step up the intellectual scale from most other paranormal species. It isn’t just that she looks human when she shifts. Her mind may be entirely alien to us, but I think she has an intelligence equivalent to any metahuman. And I think she should be regarded as having the same rights as metahumans.”

  As he finishes speaking, Ben forces himself to look back to the screen of his desktop. His stomach is churning and his nasal passages are nagging, and he already knows what Liron Phalen’s going to say. They’ve had this discussion before, always with the same result. Liron gazes at him from the screen for a few moments, then says, quietly, “Our research requires that we make certain sacrifices, Ben.”

  Ben nods."Yes, of course. I know.”

  “You shouldn’t let yourself be troubled by questions like this. We have no definitive evidence that shapeshifters are intelligent. As of this moment, we have only our preliminary test results to indicate that our matrix—Striper?—may be more than an unusually large, oddly colored, but otherwise mundane tiger. You’re upsetting yourself to no good purpose.”

  There’s no arguing with the facts. The dark queen has kept her secrets well. Striper has said nothing intelligible, and has demonstrated nothing of the shapeshifter’s abilities since arriving here at the labs. Ben struggles to develop a new thesis on the subject of Striper’s intelligence, but with Liron facing him from the display screen his mind comes up a blank, as surely it must. He’s in an untenable position. Why doesn’t he just get out?

  “Continue with the testing program as we discussed.”

  “Yes, of course.” Ben nods.

  The screen goes blank.

  Ben takes a hypoinjector from his top left desk drawer, puts the unit’s head to the side of his neck and fires. The solution that gushes into his bloodstream is part decongestant, part antacid, part tranq. It’s all that keeps him going.

  He taps the keys on his desktop to dial up the group’s senior administrative aide."Is the team assembled yet?"

  "They’re getting ready right now, Dr. Hill,” Germaine replies.

  “I’m on my way.”

  The walk to Lab 6E takes only moments. The prep room seems crowded with people, all looking to him, waiting for him to get started. In addition to colleagues and techs, there’s the bountyman Tang and now, not one, but two associates, also elves, both of them women.

  Tang gestures toward the inner room, once part of a sleep research lab."Keep that room flooded with your gas, Doctor. And keep that door closed.”

  Ben nods."Yes, that’s the procedure.”

  “It was the procedure last time. Two of your people almost didn’t make it out. If you don’t keep the atmosphere saturated, the tigress is going to tear you apart.”

  Ben nods, stomach lurching."We’re all clear on that now.”

  “I do hope so.”

  Ben turns and steps into the central monitoring room. Germaine is there at the main console, facing the display screens. The dark queen displayed on the main screen looks not only awake, but keenly alert. She sits erect on her haunches, facing the room’s only door from just beside that door. Her vital signs are strong."Administer the gas,” Ben says.

  “What? Do what?”

  Germaine gazes at him with an expression like astonishment. Ben realizes his error. He feels half asleep, like he’s in a bad dream."I’m sorry, Germaine,” he says. He struggles to present a smile."I guess I’m too used to you pushing all the buttons around here.”

  “Who, me?” Germaine slowly smiles."I’m just a comp aide and a clerk.”

  “Dr. Phalen considers you indispensable.”

  “Well, he’s the boss.”

  “Yes.”

  Ben taps the keys to flood the inner room with gas. When he looks again to the scr
een, the dark queen is gazing straight up at the ceiling as if she knows the gas is coming. She must smell it, of course. The tiger’s olfactory sense is several magnitudes greater than that of any metahuman, greater than any metahuman could truly comprehend. Ben wonders what it must be like to be able to track prey through half a million acres of forest by sense of smell alone. He wonders how the world of metahumans would look to one with senses so keen? Could one ever lie to a creature with such insight?

  Striper slumps to the floor.

  “Want me to call Dr. Phalen?” Germaine asks.

  “No,” Ben replies."Liron’s attending to other matters."

  "Oh, that’s right,” Germaine says."He went home.”

  Ben nods."Yes.”

  He steps into the prep room to suit up.

  62

  The stairs leading into the basement are dark and dusty, but Liron Phalen does not bother switching on the lights. His eyes have come to accommodate low levels of light. A benefit of his condition.

  The basement is filled with boxes and crates, artifacts of expeditions made in his younger days, when he ranged far and wide in search of universal truths. How ironic that his search for truth should have led him, not to the essential nature of life or existence, but into a lifelong battle with the degenerative effects of metamycobacterium leprosis, a new and more virulent Sixth World form of leprosy. How sad that so much of his time should be spent, not seeking the greater truths of the arcane, but attempting to cure the small, dark truth eating away at his flesh.

  He pauses near one end of the basement. From certain of the cases and crates around him come sibilant whispers and scratchings. They are like the words of the ancients, often so vague and faint as to be beyond comprehension, and yet taunting with the promise of secret knowledge. In this case, of course, the whispers only remind him of his early failures. He suppresses a sigh of sorrow and regret.

  But now Vorteria draws near, rising through the basement floor, the faint shimmering of her physical presence resolving into the radiant splendor of her full physical manifestation."Two of the hunters approach, Master, ” she says."They are the ones called Erin and Paige."