Who Hunts the Hunter (35 page)

Time marches on and good men spiral downward, enticed by luxury, till they become parodies of themselves.

O’Keefe would rather take a bullet to the brain.

A metallic rattling arises. Germaine Olsson comes in from the prep room, pushing a commissary wagon. Whistle hops up to survey the food. Shaver glares, then returns to cleaning her Ingram 20t SMG. Olsson parks the wagon, then steps nearer O’Keefe, and says, “Dr. Hill feels we’ve got things under control, so if you’ll just stay till the next procedure is finished we’ll consider the contract complete.”

O’Keefe hesitates, then nods. It won’t be his funeral. ‘That will be fine.”

“How should I contact you when the doctors have another contract?”

“You can use the same means as before.”

“Oh, okay. Just checking.”

O’Keefe smiles. Olsson turns and walks out. O’Keefe returns his attention to the telecom screen and ponders.

He’ll be glad to be done with this contract. It’s troubled him since the beginning. The doctors’ interest in Weres seemed logical enough, but the insistence that he snatch a beast as powerful as a Weretiger had seemed unwise. All Weres change shape. They all have certain Awakened abilities, such as the ability to regenerate lost limbs, to heal injuries with remarkable speed. They are not, however, equally dangerous. Why pick one of the most menacing varieties?

Worse, in first discussing the contract, Olsson had insisted on a particular individual, rumored in certain quarters to be just such an Awakened beast, and, worse yet, a known assassin. O’Keefe would not have thought that someone like Olsson, or the doctors she represented, or any corporate for that matter, would have had occasion to hear a name like “Striper,” much less have some concept of to whom the name referred.

O’Keefe supposes that one of the doctors must have some special interest in Striper. Likely, it’s something personal.

What other explanation could there be?

65

The voice from the ceiling drones on endlessly about pain and killing and death, about the son killed in an alley in Philadelphia, and the millions of things all this is supposed to mean.

“I’ve lain awake in bed till dawn imagining what I’d do if you were ever caught,” the voice says."Thinking things I’d never tell anybody, they’re so horrible. That’s how I got around to wondering what would be the worst? the worst that could happen to you? You’re an animal. You act like one. Being caged, that’d be bad. Real bad. Being used for research, now that’d be worse. Being caged and used for research. Like the animal you are. Now that’d be even worse than seeing you killed.

“I never thought you’d have a kid, too. I got lucky with that. I want you to think about it. What’s going to happen to your kid. What would you do to get it back? What if you could never get it back? What’s happening to it right now, and you can’t do a thing about it.”

Tikki lies beside the panel concealing the only door into the room, her flank pressed to the wall. Her hours confined in this room have taught her the futility of wasting energy on anger. But when the door opens again, she’ll be ready. If she can just stay awake.

She’s thought a great deal about her cub and decided it’s probably already dead. The idea disturbs her, but it’s not real. It won’t be real until she can see it for herself, till she can smell it, rub her nose in it. If she ever gets out of this room, she’ll exact a ruthless vengeance for that death. Lately, though, she’s begun wondering if she’ll ever get out of this room. She’s also done some wondering about other things. One thought keeps returning.

The voice from the ceiling said, “You took everything from me that meant anything.”

That’s incredible. What is it supposed to mean? That some two-leg actually cares about its offspring? That by killing some ork in a Philadelphia alley Tikki took everything of value from some two-leg’s life? Tikki finds that hard to believe, harder still to comprehend. She’s known two-leg females who left their cubs in garbage compactors rather than bother feeding them. She’s seen human sibs fight each other to the death, the victor walk away laughing. Two-legs are the great betrayers. They care about nothing but their own survival.

“You took everything from me that meant anything.”

Money, power, sexual gratification—that’s what the metahuman realm revolves around. The idea that some ork could be damaged by the loss of a cub is obviously just stupid.

She remembers one of her earliest experiences with two-legs. Humans came up the Nun Kiang River from Tsitsihar and killed her sire. Why did they do this? Her mother explained that humans kill for the same reasons that all animals kill—to eat, to dominate, to survive. Killing is part of the way of things, but two-legs make it personal. Sometimes they kill for the fun of it, which is like saying for no reason at all.

Her mother explained that by the end of the twentieth century the semi-sentient creatures that are their ancestors were hunted to the brink of extinction. If not for the Awakening and the rise of ones like her and her mother—ones who could really think, who could elude the two-leg hunters, even destroy them—there would be no tigers, no Weretigers. No Tikki. Their kind would be gone. Dead. Eliminated.

That scared Tikki and filled her with anger. It made a lasting impression. It convinced her that two-legs should be seen as prey. Rival predators. As enemies to her and her kind. As just waiting for the chance to kill her. That’s probably why she’s never had any problem with killing them.

Ruthless murderers. Every one of them.

Now she wonders if that’s right.

If an ork could be hurt by the loss of its son, like she was hurt by the death of her sire ... Like she’s been missing her cub ...

It seems almost impossible.

66

The clock on the wall shows just past eight a.m. as Amy strides into her outer office, and she immediately realizes she’s just in time to get into a situation. A black-suited man wearing KFK ID is growling something about not having all day. Amy’s personal aide Laurena is looking back and forth across her desk, brushing at her eyes first with one hand, then the other, then leaning forward, both hands abruptly covering her face.

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 Zo
6
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.”