Who Hunts the Hunter

by Nyx Smith

  Amy restrains a sudden rush of anger. She looks to the man, presumably from the audit staff, and says, tersely, “Thank you, that will be all.”

  The man frowns, abruptly bows."Excuse me—”

  “Get the hell out.”

  The man’s face goes flush and he stiffens, but then he bows again, turns and goes out. Amy plucks a tissue from the pastel box on the desk, gently draws Laurena’s hands down, and dabs carefully at her eyes. Her face is red and shiny and she’s breathing fitfully, struggling to look composed."He just ... just wanted the Materials Manual,” she says in a pinched voice."I don’t know, know why ... he got so nasty. I—I guess somebody borrowed it.”

  “It’s not your job,” Amy says softly."It’s my job. If the auditors want something, you send them to me.”

  “I’m ... I’m supposed to be your a-aide.”

  “You are my aide. You work for me. No one else.” Amy smoothes back Laurena’s golden hair and smiles a little."Take a walk to the lav and freshen up.”

  Laurena smiles, obviously embarrassed, and reaches for her handbag. Amy goes on into her inner office. Through the wall of windows at the rear of the office, the sun is a glowering dirty yellow ball rising above the horizon, casting the plaza below her, as well as the Harlem River, Manhattan isle, the Hudson, and the distant shores of New Jersey in morning shadow. One thing Amy is sure of. The day may have only just begun, but the shadows are growing longer. Her desktop bleeps. She taps the key to answer the call.

  Joey Chang, the Finance VP, appears on her desktop screen. His hair seems more gray than usual."We’re about to gut a trog.”

  Amy frowns."What?”

  “I just heard that the audit staff picked up on some problems with Vernon Janasova’s office budget. About half a million nuyen in personal business expenses seem to have gone into his Manhattan condo.”

  Amy groans and slumps into her chair. The only good thing about this news is that it doesn’t involve her specific area of responsibility. If it matters. And it doesn’t."How good are you with a mop and soapy water?”

  “Don’t even joke about it.”

  “I’m joking?”

  If Hurley-Cooper’s CEO has been skimming the corp, they’re all likely to be out of a job: guilt through association. Maybe that’s an exaggeration. And maybe not. In any event, the storm that’s been brewing since the auditors arrived is obviously closing in quickly, complete with deafening blasts of thunder, dazzling bolts of lightning, and a sky as black as tar."Does Mercedes Feliz know?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Amy.”

  “You better fill her in.”

  The exec VP is about all they’ve got going for them.

  Chang reluctantly agrees and signs off. The desktop bleeps again. This time it’s Kurushima, Mr. Audit, requesting an explanation of events in the outer office.

  Amy puts it simply."No one is going to address my personal staff, or any other member of this organization, in a manner that is discourteous and abusive. Hurley-Cooper is a KFK subsidiary. That does not make us slaves or serfs. That does not make my personal aide a dog your people can growl at! If there are any more such incidents, I will call security and have the offending person removed from the premises.”

  And as a vice president of Hurley-Cooper Corporation, which pays the rent on these premises, Amy has all the authority she needs to do it.

  Kurushima’s eyes turn wide and rounded; his face gets a little pale. Doubtless, he considers such blunt talk impolite, perhaps even astonishing. It’s probably suicidal, too, at least from a career-wise perspective.

  Amy adds, “I demand an immediate apology.”

  Kurushima stares. He stammers several apologies. Amy waits for him to finish, then closes the connection. She sits back, stares at the ceiling, then shuts her eyes.

  The desktop bleeps; it’s Dr. Phalen.

  “Whenever you’re ready, my dear.”

  She’s as ready as she’ll ever be.

  Once more, she tries to reach Harman, but no luck. Where the heck couid he have gone? She tried calling him twice last night and once this morning before leaving for work, but with no success. It’s not like him to be so long out of touch.

  With a sigh, Amy grabs her briefcase and her Zo6 trench and heads for her car. Traffic around the plaza is a nightmare, the streets jammed with cars and swarming with crowds of people crossing from corner to corner. She’s a quarter of an hour or more just getting onto the Major Deegan Expressway, and most of the rest of that hour crawling along the highway as far north as the Van Cortlandt Industrial park.

  Remembering Scottie’s many warnings, she checks her rearviews several times, but spots no one who seems to be following her. Maybe Scottie’s years in the shadows have made him overly suspicious, or cautious, or whatever. It probably doesn’t matter.

  If what Joey Chang said is true, then the auditors are going far beyond a simple examination of Hurley-Cooper records. In that event, they probably already know everything there is to know about the irregularities she’s been tracking. The question then is why let her go through all she’s been going through? If anyone’s watching, she hopes they’re enjoying the show, these the closing moments of her career.

  It’s well past nine when she gets to the Metascience facility. The parking lot is full of cars. Some members of the science staff never seem to go home. Amy’s always admired their level of dedication, but today the recognition is tinged with pain. She’s dedicated, too. Only it doesn’t seem to be helping.

  If this is her final curtain call, she’ll play it out as well as she can. She owes herself that much. Anyone else would probably take a hint and just walk away. Too bad that’s not her style.

  She takes the lift to the second floor and finds Dr. Phalen in his dark little office, lined with books, an antique wooden desk, and an old synthleather sofa. Dr. Phalen, tall and quaintly elegant in a suit ten years out of fashion, comes out from behind his desk to greet her, shake her hand, pat it, and lead her to a chair. His manner is sweet and endearing. The thought that this man, or even his department, might be involved in fraud brings Amy feelings of acute dismay.

  “Would you care for some tea, my dear?”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Dr. Phalen says, smiling. The tea is already prepared. There’s an antique service on a small sideboard. Dr. Phalen begins pouring."Let me just say, my dear, that I’m quite sure that whatever problem may have arisen can be cleared up to everyone’s satisfaction, even our friends from Tokyo.”

  “I hope so,” Amy replies."But I have to tell you that what I’ve found doesn’t look good. There are indications of activity that I can only describe as possibly being of a fraudulent nature.”

  Dr. Phalen brings her a cup of tea."Well, I must say that I would be shocked if that suspicion turned out to be true. I wonder, though, if perhaps there might be information that has not yet been uncovered. I can tell you from personal experience that the smallest of datum can sometimes make a world of difference in how one views a particular circumstance.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Amy says. She pauses to sip her tea, which seems oddly flavored, and suddenly feels herself going limp, slumping in her seat, her chin dropping to her breast, the tea cup spilling across her lap. The tea soaks through her pantlegs and it’s nearly hot enough to burn, but she can’t do a thing about it. Her elbows slip from the arms of the chair; her hands fall limply to her sides. Her eyelids droop, nearly closing. Her head lolls.

  “Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” Dr. Phalen dabs at her pantlegs with a cloth napkin."How clumsy. I should have realized. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Amy doesn’t care about the tea or stained pantlegs. She feels so weak, so completely enervated, so distant from everything-— including her own body—it’s scary. Why can’t she move? Is she having a stroke? some sort of cerebral seizure? She needs help. She needs help and she struggles to get a plea, a cry, anything out through her mouth, but noth
ing comes, nothing but a vague moan, formed by unresponsive lips and lungs that seem all but empty of air.

  From the corners of her eyes, she catches sight of a reddish glimmer, like the reflected light of a gemstone, but magnified, growing stronger, piercing, overwhelming her vision, then, everything.

  What’s happening? What is this?

  A voice murmurs into her right ear. It drones on for what seems like hours before she gains a sense of what it’s saying. The things it tells her to do are wrong, outrageous, even immoral. No, she won’t do it. She won’t! she won’t! She won’t do what the voice wants. But the words the voice speaks are a tangible force—she can feel it—pressing her down, weighing down against mind and body, squeezing, crushing her down into the chair. It’s like the weight of a planet, trying to mash her flat. She fights it, puts everything she has into an effort to hurl herself up, get out, get away, but she only manages to gulp a deep breath. Her heart thuds. Her resistance crumbles. She hasn’t the strength to fight. She’s too tired, too weak, barely able to cling to consciousness.

  An image appears before her. It’s the impassive features of the Tokyo auditor, Kurushima Jussai. She tells him what she must."Dr. Phalen ... can explain. Explain what’s happened. He’s available now. He has the data on his computer. He’d like to ... like to meet with you in his office ... here ... at the Metascience facility.”

  Kurushima says, “This is very difficult, Ms. Berman ... for an auditor. What you’re asking ... it is very irregular."

  "It is ... essential,” Amy replies.

  Kurushima says, “Very well.”

  And then everything slips away into blackness.

  67

  Incense curls and rises. Bandit fingers the smooth polished wood of his flute and moves his astral eyes around the confines of his medicine lodge, looking over the hides, the bones, the rattles, the drums, other arcana. He has searched his mind for some means of avoiding what must come, but the search has been fruitless.

  The spell he has prepared is one of the few he knows that has no purpose but to take a life. It is designed deliberately, specifically, meticulously to kill. He does not want to use it, but he knows that in all likelihood he will have no choice.

  It is in the nature of evil to afflict that which is good. It is in the nature of good to oppose this. Though it may be wrong to ever take a life, it seems likely that, in some cases, special cases, that which is good must be defended and that which is evil must be vanquished, no matter what the cost.

  Bandit reminds himself that even Raccoon will fight, and fight to the death, when left with no choice.

  It is in the nature of things.

  And there is one other thing he must not forget. Tonight, when he does what must be done, if he takes a life, he may also give it, give life, or at least return it to its natural state. That is, of course, if he has correctly grasped what he experienced at Old Man’s medicine lodge. Let it be so, he hopes.

  His watcher returns, materializing beside his left shoulder."He is there, Master. Just like you said."

  “Good.”

  He must confront the mage called Phalen, but he does not want that confrontation to occur at the mage’s home, where the mage keeps his tomes and circles and that one item above all, the Roggoth’shoth, guarded over by the familiar Vorteria and other spirits. Rather, he wants the confrontation to occur where the mage is likely to be at his most vulnerable. The only other place Phalen has gone is to the Metascience labs of Hurley-Cooper, so, by default, that’s the place. The watcher spirit’s report means that Phalen is there.

  So it’s time to get going.

  He stands up. The pockets of his long coat are filled with things he might need, everything he can think of. He steps through the door of his lodge and finds Shell waiting for him in the stairwell, sitting on the floor, huddled into a corner. As she looks at him, he sees something in her eyes, maybe an accusation. Her features are otherwise calm, but her aura is in turmoil. He goes down on one knee beside her. She slips her arms around him and hugs herself close.

  “I must go now.”

  “Are you gonna come back?”

  “Yes.” One way or another, he’ll be back. Maybe not in a physical body, maybe not for very long, but he’ll be back. In death, the spirit is freed and spirits move very quickly. He could go almost anywhere as a dying heart beat its last."Don’t worry.”

  “How can I help it?” Shell draws back, looks at him. Emotion twists at her face. Tears stream from her eyes."You won’t tell me what’s going on, what kind of run this is gonna be. What am I supposed to think?”

  “Raccoon has clever paws and knows many tricks.”

  Shell grunts and then sobs, clinging to him."I don’t care about Raccoon! I care about you!”

  “I am Raccoon.”

  Indeed, he must be, more now than ever.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Hold me.”

  For a few moments, he holds her tightly, but then he gently disengages her arms and gets to his feet. Shell avoids looking at him then. She rubs and brushes at her eyes. She follows him up the stairs to the back-alley door, hugs him one last time, then lets go. Bandit steps into the morning shade. The door thunks closed behind him.

  Bandit looks to his left.

  In the shadows there waits Zetana. She is slim and small but has a look more menacing than any woman Bandit’s ever seen. Her hair is a shaggy black mass that spills about her face and shoulders; her eyes are rimmed in koal, and her pupils are like ebony stones gleaming from the amid the hard, dark lines of her face. She is all in black: studded black synthleather vest and pants, boots, and a voluminous cloak that reaches nearly to her ankles. Necklaces and beads hang from her neck; a confusion of bangles and rings surround her wrists and fingers. Her voice is husky, soft and low, like a snarl.

  “I’ll watch the woman,” she says.

  “And the kids?”

  Zetana nods.

  That is reassuring, for Zetana follows Wolf. Once Wolf extends her protection to another, nothing will make her betray that responsibility. And there is one other thing, one special quality. It is said that Wolf wins every fight but her last, and in that fight she dies. Bandit does not doubt that when he returns, if he returns, he will find that either all is well, or that Zetana, Shell, and the kids are all dead.

  It is in the nature of this day that things will either go very well, or very badly.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “Guard yourself, shaman,” Zetana warns. Bandit nods, and turns down the alleyway.

  68

  Brian swallows the last of the wintergreen-flavored nutrisoy crackers from his rations and washes it down with a quick gulp of water. All he’s got left now are a couple of Nerps and the few ounces of Soyade swishing around in his canteen. He leans back against the tunnel wall, wishing he could sleep."How long we been down here, anyway?” he says."Seems like weeks.”

  “You hear something, kid?”

  Brian opens his eyes to find Art already on his feet, bristling with weapons, looking back and forth along the old subway tunnel.

  “Coming our way,” Art whispers."Mount up.”

  Art lowers his helmet visor. Brian pulls on his own helmet and lugs himself up. He’s at the point where fear of the unknown isn’t enough to overpower fatigue and recharge his batteries. It’ll take a clear and imminent threat to do that. He’s not looking forward to it.

  They move up the tunnel, weapons at ready. Art pulls open a metal grille in the tunnel wall. They move into a maze of smaller passages. As they round a corner, two figures come into sight. In the grayish half-light of Brian’s Nightfighter visor, they look like women, ork women, big and solid and clad in dark synthleather. Brian sees them suddenly halt, their eyes flaring wide with surprise, and the sight strikes him like a bullet to the bridge of the nose.

  Against the twilight dark of the tunnel, the orks’ eyes burn an infernal red.

  “BLAST'EM, KID!" Art roars.

  And then
they’re both blazing away on full auto. These aren’t orks, not anymore. Brian isn’t sure what the frag they are, but something about Art’s cryptic warnings has helped persuade him that, whatever these beasties be, they’re better dead than with eyes of burning red.

  The tunnel vibrates with the thunderous stammering of weapons. The orks stagger around and collapse. Streaks of dazzling white like headless comets blast outward in every direction. A greenish haze, sparking and glinting like some arcane energy shield, swells out of nothing to fill the tunnel ahead. Then, from the fallen orks rise a half dozen semitransparent orbs, orangey, like bubbles, but about the size of melons. The orbs float up like they’re bobbing on currents of air and start drifting all around. A dozen more follow, then more and more. They float into the tunnel walls and ceiling and vanish.

  “Okay, kid.”

  The bodies are half-melted into the floor of the tunnel. Hollowed out, like melted plastic, fused and congealed and scorched black. They smell like death.

  “We’re getting close now, kid,” Art says."Real close.”

  Brian looks at him, and says, “Close to what?”

  Art puts up his visor, meets Brian’s eyes, holds them for several moments, then scowls, turns and heads up the tunnel."I’m getting low on ammo, Art.”

  Art stops, and says, “Tell me about it.”

  69

  Kurushima Jussai collects his briefcase, his aide, and a single KFK security operative and takes the lift to the parking garage beneath New Bronx Plaza. The car that awaits him there is a rather customary Toyota Elite. The driver is also a KFK International employee.

  Once inside the rear compartment, Kurushima uses the intercom to inform the driver as to his destination. Kurushima’s aide remarks, “It should be interesting, Kurushima-san, to hear how Dr. Liron Phalen will explain the inconsistencies in the Materials Records.”