Into the Shadows

by Jordan Weisman

  Neddy bristled. "We had an arrangement. Colonel Hampton, and ..."

  "Oh, don’t worry, friend, this won’t cost you a tenth-yen." The mercenary’s hand flipped up, and something sailed across the street, right at Thom. Reflex took over, and he caught it. A chip.

  "Not that kind of bill. This kind, money ain’t good for. There are twenty-three files on that chip. They tell you about twenty-three people who died to cover your skinny butt. Some light reading. Thorn. Enjoy it." The brawny figure turned, fading back into the night. Then paused. "And Thorn. Next time you need someone to help you be clever, don’t do me any favors."

  Hampton left. No one moved. No one spoke. Finally, Neddy drew a shaky breath. "Rather touchy for a professional, wouldn't you ..."

  Thorn whirled to face the magician. "Just shut up, Fortescue, O.K.? I played that poor bastard the way you played me, and if the way I feel now is any hint of what he feels, I’m surprised any of us are still fraggin’ alive! Now go have your goddam party. Just get out of my face!"

  Neddy started to speak, but a touch on the shoulder by Nameless, a shake of the head from Iris, stopped his words. Flanked by his two fighters, he turned and walked to the van. Iris stood there for a moment until Thorn turned his back on her. He was shivering in the mild night air.

  "Heronasta od daronasta, pechet imiriso ozidanastet. "

  He spat. "More dandelion-chewing poetry? Trying to make the fragging world look like anything except a stinking shark tank? Wasted effort, babe."

  "We exist and then are gone, except in the memories of those we leave behind."

  Only elven ears could hear her steps departing. The van door slammed, the engine revved, and it was gone.

  Thorn clenched his fist around the chip, raised it to hurl it into the gutter after the stinking tailchaser. Then, convulsively. he jammed fist and chip into his pocket. Expression blank, he turned and walked rapidly away.

  Shimmering lights played on the rain-slick street as the street-cleaning servo ground its way around the corner. It rolled slowly over the discarded chip. The crystalline matrix that held the ourobouros, one more pawn in someone’s big game, resisted the grinding pressure of the metal brushes and solvent jets for a moment, then cracked and crumbled. By the time the machine had moved on, even the dust was gone, and there was nothing, nothing at all, to show that it had ever existed.

  STRIPER

  by Nyx Smith

  Tikki wakes from her nap abruptly.

  Her ears are twitching.

  There are noises—soft, little noises—coming from close behind her back: the rustle of a bedsheet, a low creak of the floor, a faint whisper suggesting movement, the brushing of skin against skin. She waits a moment, then someone quietly exhales, as though relieved. Tikki knows who it is, for she recognizes his trace instantly. It is the unmistakable scent of the joyboy she sometimes buys for an evening’s entertainment. Now it is his bare feet brushing the carpet. Tikki follows his progress with her ears: down the length of her back, past her tail, out beyond the foot of the mattress that serves her as a bed. The joyboy’s smell is one of excitement, agitation, mingled with anxiety. This arouses her curiosity. Discreetly, she lifts her head and takes a look.

  To her eyes, the dark of the room is a mixture of cool grays and dusky grayish-blacks, the muted half-tones of night. Naked. the joyboy pauses by the door to the next room, then slips through. Tikki wonders where he is going, what he intends.

  The door to the lavatory is right here in this room, in the bedroom. Why else would the man be up if not to pee? It is too early for him to leave. Now her suspicions are aroused.

  She waits, listening intently.

  From that other room comes the faint clattering of hard plastic—a softly muttered oath—then a brief tapping, the clicking of telecom keys, followed by the joyboy’s urgent whisper. "Yeah, listen, this is Remo. I got her. you know, this chick everybody's talking about . . . you know, Striper . . ."

  Irritating.

  "She's right here with me, man."

  Tikki suppresses a growl. The man should know better than to try something like this. They are not exactly strangers. At times, she has felt free enough with him to be a little incautious, to play little games, merely for her own amusement. She has even hinted about certain things, perhaps unwisely, concerning her basic nature: what she is, what she has always been. Remo had seemed intelligent enough to know to keep his silence. Apparently, her assessment of him was wrong. The fool is behaving now as though she were some trivial female right off the street, no different than all the rest.

  Remo recites the address, where they are now.

  "You'll send somebody over, right?"

  Tikki waits a few moments more, then moves from the bed to the doorway, out across the other room and up behind her pretty man, no more than a stride away. Remo snaps off the phone, then stops dead in mid-turn, uttering a single word at the sight of her, "Drek!"

  The man jerks back a step, then another. His exclamation lilts up high. His scent swells toward something like panic only barely held in check. Remo did not perceive her approach. Even now, with the luminous face of the telecom shedding a glow through the whole room, he stands there peering at her as though he cannot quite make her out.

  A low, throaty grumble resonates through her chest.

  "Baby?" the man says. "That you?"

  Silence.

  Remo reaches to the side and flips on the light. The flare of the ceiling panel is distracting, but only for an instant. Tikki blinks, and the discomforting twinge in her eyes immediately fades to nothing. The joyboy stands before her, clear again in her sight, but now Remo is wide-eyed. His expression speaks of uncertainty. His pose is awkward, one hand still extended toward the light switch. His scent vacillates between simple nervousness and something more profound. His eyes dart rapidly over her face, back past her shoulders, down the long line of her back, and out beyond.

  She watches him, motionless as stone.

  Remo murmurs, "You're even bigger than I thought ..." He sounds awed.

  Even one who was half-blind, and deaf, and dead of nose could see clearly now what she has kept hidden from him in the dark, on this and so many other nights. She stands facing him directly, gazing at him steadily, but on four legs instead of just two. Her head is on a level with his chest. She is as long from head to butt as he is tall, several times more massive, and swathed in a heavy coat of fur as red as blood and striped in the black of midnight.

  She is Were, and in this, her natural form, Tikki is large even for that breed she so perfectly resembles, panthera tigris altaica, the largest tigers on earth.

  Remo gestures nervously. "I ... I was just calling my fixer."

  Tikki advances a step. The soft grumbling in her throat rises abruptly into a growl of menace. Remo pales and shifts back a step. The signature scents pouring off his body proclaim his fear. Tikki nudges him with her snout, then again, till the man is stumbling backward, off-balance.

  Remo shouts, "Baby! What’s wrong?"

  Ah, but he must know the answer to that.

  Here, in the city, she lives in her human guise, her alter ego known as "Striper." A reward of five thousand nuyen has recently been offered to any who would help snare this person. Whether the intent is to kill her or merely catch her is unclear. She does not yet know the identity of the party offering the reward or the reasons for it, but word is all over the street. Somebody wants "Striper" very badly. Remo is obviously trying to collect. There is only one just response to such a betrayal.

  She reaches out with one paw, too swiftly for him to react, her muscles like spring-loaded steel. What to her is merely a tap doubles the man over, grunting as he bangs back against the wall. She swings her other paw. This flings him off his feet, sends him crashing into some furniture and tumbling down onto the floor. If she had struck with all her strength, she might have put him right through the wall.

  Remo rolls onto his back, clenching at his wounded side and crying out in pa
in.

  Tikki steps around to straddle his body.

  "Baby, please!" the man exclaims. "Don’t—! Don’t—!"

  She lowers her hind end onto his hips, instantly pinning the man to the floor, easy as that. As she settles her weight.

  Remo’s shouts rise into screams, and his bones begin to crack beneath her.

  Remo thrashes.

  She bats the side of his head. Go ahead, little man. . . . Try to escape. He could no more throw her off than he could lift an automobile. Tikki draws her right paw back along the side of his neck. Sharper than razors, her claws glint in the light. Blood is pouring from everywhere: from Remo's nose and mouth, his neck, the side of his head. He does not have long to live. She can smell approaching death.

  Growling ferociously, Tikki opens her jaws to show him her teeth, her fangs like massive knives, so he will experience the true measure of her power, and fill the air with his fear.

  Remo shrieks. "I NEEDED THE MONEY!"

  She flicks an ear, and rips out his throat.

  He is just prey.

  * * *

  Downtown is nowhere.

  The noise and the life are up in the Reds, Seattle North, or "Everett." This is where the boulevards teem, where the party-girls line the corners, where the skagmen do their biz in full view of the other citizens, where the wireheads and the pervos and the gutterpunks in black mingle with the suits and the execs, the chippies in gleaming day-glo plastic, the freaks in their wet-weave body stockings, the metas, the Amerinds, the skinheads, the screw and razor crowd, the polis and the skats. There are hawkers pushing everything from tempting young boys to designer dorphs to fully functional biosynthetic limbs and organs, all at the most reasonable of prices, guaranteed. It is a glinting-glistening-flashing-studded-neon-chrome-mirror-rhinestone-circo conglomeration of humanity—sweating, shoving, swearing, shouting, and laughing down every side street and along every alley. The clubs, the meat racks, the body shops and porno parlors, the punk food dives, the roach hotels, the cabarets and cafes and simsense theaters, all blazing with neon and clawing the sidewalks in search of extra dinero.

  Tikki walks these streets with a feral ease all her own. The action up in the Reds is one of her major reasons for living in the city. The Reds is savage and beautiful, more vibrantly alive than any other part of the human domain. She comes here often to play or merely enjoy a few hours’ idleness, rubbing shoulders with the breeds and the breeders.

  There are many who recognize the look of her human guise, for she styles it to stand out rather than to blend. She is tall and lean and covers her eyes with gold Porsche mirrorshades. Her face is a meticulously painted mask of crimson red, striped with black. Her close-cropped hair, with the wispy tuft floating over her brow, is tinted to match her facepoint mask. She is dressed tonight, as always, in gleaming red leather—jacket, mesh blouse, slacks, and fingerless gloves— "striped" by black studded bands around her neck, wrists, and waist, and by supple black boots that rise just over her ankles.

  The studs, of course, are gold, never silver. Silver blows.

  Her lay-over by the ferry terminal is useless to her now, but Tikki really doesn’t care. She has such places throughout the city: lairs, dens, boltholes, and other special little crannies for special purposes. One less makes little difference. She has more important things to consider, such as her objective in this evening’s casual little stroll.

  Keeping a watchful eye on the boulevard, she takes her pleasures as she ambles along: a cup of cha, some spicy clams, a bowl of noodles, one of the Steel Rat’s infamous sausages.

  People along the streets mostly keep their distance, quick to step out of her way. Those who know her from the biz offer cautious smiles and curt nods, perhaps a word or two of greeting. Even the lowest of gutterpunks have heard about the numbers on her head, but none seem inclined to put that knowledge to use. Her look is fierce and her reputation for sudden violence precedes her. There have also been rumors about the recent death of a boy named Remo Williams. That only adds to her rep.

  The big double doors at the front of The Rubber Suit are wide open tonight, and guarded by both a chain and a phalanx of muscleboys wearing the club’s red spandex tees. Bruiser metal roars out onto the sidewalk, tempting streetlife to linger. The band playing the Suit is especially hot this week: Nuclear Decimation. Tikki pauses to light a slim Jamaican cigar. Standing a bit away from the crowd at the main entrance, she leans against the red rubberized facade. Listening to the maniacal pace of the music, she lightly rocks her head in rhythm to it.

  The big blue Mitsubishi four-door she has spied now and again all evening, cruising the boulevards and rolling over the side streets, comes gliding up the block. It seems about to go right on by her. but then with a squeal of tires, the vehicle veers toward the curb, coming to a sudden halt.

  Car doors leap open, three men hustle out.

  At last, they have spotted her.

  Tikki is not absolutely sure, but guesses that these are the same three men who came in answer to Remo's call just the other night. They have the look of executive-class, urban-style mercenaries: close-trimmed hair, aviator shades, neatly tailored suits. They move like commandos, fashionable soldiers charging into combat. One lifts a portacom and exclaims. "Alert! Alert!" Another tugs a heavy automatic out from under his jacket. The third hurriedly cocks a submachine gun and loops the strap over his shoulder. If they are concerned about all the streetlife standing around, they do not show it. They are coming straight toward her. shoving people out of their way and shouting. That's fine with Tikki. She's been waiting half the night already for someone to make a move.

  As if oblivious to the mercs’ approach, she turns and steps into the alley alongside Dirty Rikki’s. Taking one last deep drag on her cigar, she leaves the slender stub burning at the edge of the sidewaik. If it matters, the aromatic vapors from the cigar will help to mask her scent in the next few moments. The alley is dark, providing excellent cover.

  Now, she will either find out who is so interested in snaring her, or she will make a statement about that—possibly both.

  The mercs are moving fast when they come around the corner and into the end of the alley, as though expecting her to be some distance away. Her little ruse has led them into error. The one in the lead has only enough time to grunt and look surprised when she steps out from wall and rams the muzzle of a Kang IImm automag into the pit of his stomach. One. two, three, she pulls the trigger three times in rapid succession. The Kang roars and roars. The first man crumbles alongside her, his bowels blown out through his back.

  At practically the same instant, the other two stagger and fall: one shot through the chest, the other through the face. One hit is usually enough.

  Tikki hears shouts, exclamations, and shrill screams from the street, but she has time to wipe off the Kang as well as the spatter of blood on her hand and forearm. She crouches beside the bodies to check identification. The dead men are former employees of something called "Global Security Limited." She is rather pleasantly surprised, having encountered the name before. A man she recently exterminated had a bodyguard from this very organization.

  Perhaps this Global Security is seeking revenge for that. If so, how could they know to come after her?

  It is somewhat unsettling to realize that someone is actively trying to hunt her down. Tikki is not used to being treated as prey. Confrontations and conflict are a natural part of the life in the city, but this biz involving mercs and numbers on her head is unnatural.

  Tikki is the predator here.

  The humans don’t seem to understand that.

  * * *

  The club known as Fenris Nacht is a gathering place for predators, it sits at the end of a narrow court in a moderately quiet section of Tacoma. There are no external lights. The facade is grim and dark, with two carven doors bearing the visage of an enormous wolf. The doormen carry pistols to enforce their decisions about who may or may not enter. The hostess, too, is usually armed with
a stun baton and is adept at martial arts. There is also an extensive electronic security system.

  The club’s interior resembles a forest sunk in the gloom of night. The smell of pine and pollen mixes with the aroma of tobacco and musky animal scents. The only light in the large front room comes from the red lanterns flickering like fires on the tables and from the walls. Images of the hunter at his work—tracking, stalking, pouncing, feasting on prey—also line the walls. The floor is dark and spongy and made to look like years-old layers of fallen leaves and trailing creepers.

  Tikki pauses at the bar to pick up a flagon of cider. None of the usual aperitifs so common in the uptown clubs are available at Fenris Nacht. Wire and the like are also forbidden.

  She moves to where a big man guards a door in the rear of the club. The back room is for biz and she is a regular. The guard lets her pass with a nod. The man she is to meet is a major fixer for freelance hits and high-profile assassinations within the boundaries of Seattle. Shoulders hunched, head lowered, a brooding presence as dark as the room, he is sitting at a screened-in booth. He wears a black suit, dark gray shirt, and crimson necktie. His face is heavily pocked. His brows run together above the bridge of his nose in dark counterpoint to the thick growth of mustache all but obscuring his upper lip. His hands are slim and long and dusted with wiry black hairs.

  When Tikki sits down opposite him, Castiliano merely glances at her from under the prominent brows, then directs his gaze back to his hands, folded together on the tabletop. His voice is a low rasp of a murmur. "You wanted to see me?

  Tikki nods. "I'm still waiting for final payment on my last run."

  "There've been problems."

  "Too bad. Where’s my money?"

  Castiliano glances up at her only briefly, his expression revealing nothing. His scent, too, is as close to anonymous as that of any Wolven Were. "Check the drop tomorrow night," Castiliano murmurs finally. "What else?"