All Beasts Together (The Commander)

by Farmer, Randall

  Zielinski felt fear sweat start dewing on his back and the hair on his arms stood up on their own. He licked his lips and took a deep breath to steady himself. Focus Schrum was Lori’s boss. As with any Focus caught in dire political games, Lori should know her boss like she knew her own name. This was far too big to get so wrong.

  “So, what does this mean, this directed withdrawal scarring stuff?” Lori said, ignoring his shock as if she couldn’t sense it.

  Crap. Crappity crappity crap!

  “In a Transform, directed withdrawal scarring, done by taking the Transform to the edge of withdrawal and back, serves as an inhibitor. It keeps them from thinking about certain things and behaving in certain ways.” He suspected the withdrawal scarring tricks had other uses, but he and Tonya hadn’t been able to figure out anything more. “On a Chimera? My guess is it keeps him functional by inhibiting his animal nature, damping his adrenaline and controlling his behavior. What functionally weakens a Transform will, for a Chimera, make him functionally stronger. If done right. The Chimera weakness is too much power, because of too much Monster juice inside.” It would, if used the opposite way, force the Chimera into full animal. That hadn’t been done to this one.

  “That’s the trick behind these new functional Chimeras, then,” Lori said. “Does Occum do this as well?”

  “Not if what he showed me is real,” Zielinski said. “He’s using psychological conditioning.”

  “Then there’s a Major Transform, probably a Focus, behind these new Chimeras,” Lori said. “This hidden backer is also likely to be the ‘Officer Canon’ creep who accosted Carol. It can’t be Julius, she’s essentially under house arrest by the Focus Council. I wonder who else might have done this?”

  He had the urge to run, run fast, far far away. He would bet the remainder of his offshore bank accounts that Focus Schrum had used this or a similar technique on Lori to keep her in line, and who knows what else.

  Useful tools like this don’t just gather dust in the garage. They get used, hard. The Focus who supposedly protected him from the first Focuses was likely under the mental control of one of those same first Focuses.

  He had a bad feeling the first Focuses had indeed corralled him.

  Chapter 10

  A Focus feels naked without her bodyguards. Her fear is not unwarranted.

  “Inventing Our Future”

  Tonya Biggioni: February 5, 1968

  Tonya blinked. She hadn’t been particularly stressed today, despite the emergency Council meeting to be held over the phone in two hours. Still, here she sat, the phone in her hands, with no idea if she had called anyone, or who.

  She shook her head and stood. “Johnny, I need a snack,” she said, after sticking her head out the door. She turned on her office light, to add some illumination to the gray February day and went over to her office file cabinet and leafed through it, her mind clicking on something when she saw Henry Zielinski’s file. She pulled it then took a few seconds to massage her temples. Another headache started, a bad juice headache. The pain from these headaches was almost impossible to ignore. She would have to move her office again. Ever since Keaton’s escapade five months ago, when she had visited Tonya’s residence and slopped bad juice in the entryway and kitchen, the household had been drowning in bad juice, even in places Keaton never visited. Unexplainable, and even Tonya’s well ‘paid’ captive researchers thought the problem was all in her head. As usual. Luckily, her household would be moving to a new place in the not too distant future.

  Bad juice in the house meant low juice for her all the time, which meant occasional memory problems, one of the reasons she kept these files to begin with. Zielinski’s file was huge, going all the way back to before Tonya became active in Focus politics.

  She sat at her desk and spread the file in front of her. The recent entries weren’t good. He had been blackballed by an unknown first Focus for reasons Tonya couldn’t discover. The third sheet from the top was a complaint from Focus Rizzari regarding a death threat to Zielinski, supposedly originating from Focuses Adkins, Fingleman, and Morris. A note, in Tonya’s handwriting, stated the claim was unsubstantiated and typical Rizzari nonsense.

  Another note, in her handwriting, stated: “The letter writer thinks the death threat derived from a trip Zielinski made to Europe to interview an Arm in West Germany.” A likely fatal trip, as he had never returned, as far as Tonya knew.

  She leafed back to nearly the beginning and found an ancient report by Focus Morris from before the beginning of Tonya’s political career. “We must do something to stop this! Dr. Henry Zielinski has actually been nominated for the Nobel Prize in medicine. We can’t allow any of our people to be so exposed to the public limelight.” Tonya had forgotten the episode. The Firsts had been screwing Zielinski for years.

  Tonya leafed forward until one particular note caught her eye, one of many from the Julius Rebellion, a Sunday session Council edict. “Under no circumstances are any outsiders to learn about Focus Julius’s use of directed withdrawal scarring. If this information is leaked to any who do not already know (that being the current members of the Council and the discoverer, Dr. Henry Zielinski) the leaker or leakers are to be terminated, no exceptions.”

  Tonya had forgotten about that particular Council order, as well. She put Zielinski’s file away, shaking her head, unclear why she had taken it out. Those were the bad old days. Not only did that sort of thing not occur any more, but as far as Tonya knew, only Focus Schrum still knew how to use that foul set of techniques.

  ---

  “Tonya?” Connie Webb asked.

  “Here,” Tonya said. She sat at her desk and stared at the file cabinet, attempting to ignore her headache. The static from the telephone didn’t help.

  She wasn’t familiar with this phone technology, what Connie called a ‘conference call’. Connie’s household was successful enough to need and support their own telephone switchboard. The household switchboard wasn’t unique; Polly had one to support her catering service, Flo had one to support her political operations and house businesses and Lori’s household had cobbled one together, technically illegal, from spare parts. The conference call set up was unique, something Connie had paid good money to arrange. The setup was good enough for an emergency Council meeting, though, saving all of them a large amount of travel expenses and time.

  “Focus Adkins?”

  “I’m ready,” Wini said. The former Council president wasn’t a current Council member, and Tonya was surprised to hear her voice through the static. “I’m the one who called this emergency meeting. I’m going to speak now.” So much for protocols and niceties. Wini went on to describe the February 2 kidnapping of Jenny Hood, one of Wini’s favorites. Tonya had already commiserated with Wini over the phone about the kidnapping. At the time the kidnapping was a mystery, unsolved.

  “Jenny’s mutilated body was found yesterday and the usual tests run. Her juice count showed she had been drained of her juice.” Dammit! That was Arm work. “This is the ninth household Transform kidnapping in the last six months, but only the second found drained of their juice. I formally demand the Council take action against the household Transform poacher.” Tonya knew of ten other Transform kidnappings, most from low-status Focuses with no political pull or acumen. Part of Tonya’s job for Polly involved documentation of these losses.

  “Thank you, Focus Adkins,” Polly said. “Comments, anyone?” Nobody spoke, a deathly silence rare in a Council session. Wini’s comments had all of them spooked. “We know the identity of the slayer in one of these: the Arm Carol Hancock, currently on probation because of that event. Is there any reason why she shouldn’t be considered the prime suspect in the others?”

  “…about lack of evidence,” Focus Bentlow said, the start of her sentence cut off by whatever tricks this conference call technology used. “The first killing occurred while Hancock was still a student of Arm Keaton and under her watchful eye. Are you accusing Arm Keaton, as well? That’s
a serious charge for a long time Council and Network operative.”

  “…certainly am. Excuse me,” Wini said. “Both of the Arms are prime suspects and need to be questioned. My suggestion to the Council is that we lean on our FBI friends hard. I want them both in custody yesterday. Or it’s going to be your Transforms who get kidnapped and slain next.”

  Tonya winced at Wini’s lack of decorum. She wasn’t on the Council and couldn’t officially dictate to it. Or threaten it.

  “Wini, please,” Focus Bentlow said. “We don’t want the government involved in our affairs.”

  “The government is involved,” Tonya said. “However, we don’t want to set the precedent of siccing the government on other Major Transforms. Would you want the Feds going after you?”

  The other Council members murmured agreement. The government was the enemy.

  “If the Council won’t do it, I will,” Wini said. “We don’t have any other choice.”

  None of the Council members responded, though the conference call picked up mutters and grumbles, choppy and static laden. Even over the phone she could feel the Council consensus responding to Wini’s threat and edging toward Wini’s position. Tonya didn’t comment again, tongue tied and unwilling to go against the flow, as always fearing for her household. She too suspected Hancock. Young Arms often behaved in stupid ways. She didn’t believe Keaton would have killed in such a fashion. If she had done this, she would have advertised.

  “What if we get the Focuses tasked to deal with Arms to pin them down and put them to the question?” Focus Bentlow said.

  “You have six weeks,” Wini said, leaving the ‘or else’ unstated.

  After Polly did the parliamentary things necessary, the Council voted unanimously to follow Bentlow’s suggestion. The compromise did nothing to assuage Tonya’s feeling they were leaping off a cliff, into the unknown.

  Carol Hancock: February 6, 1968

  “Look at this,” Bobby said. He sat at my newly cleaned dining room table, where we had eaten a fine dinner I had cooked two hours ago (roast chicken with an herb rub with roasted vegetables on skewers, homemade cole slaw with caraway and pineapple, scalloped potatoes, baked apples with cinnamon, and fresh bread from the best nearby bakery, plus mince pie with ice cream for dessert). He stayed at the table, going through newspapers and cutting out articles of potential interest. I heard him from the second bedroom, as I put away the last couple of dumbbells from a brief workout. We didn’t keep weights in the living room any more. I joined him in the dining room and read the article.

  According to the AP report, the FBI Arm Task Force announced two days ago they were on the track of the ‘new psycho-killer Arm’, listing several suspicious deaths in the St. Louis, Memphis, Little Rock and Dallas areas. They wanted everyone to be on the lookout for women driving big rigs. The Task Force thought I was living in a converted eighteen wheeler, cruising from town to town in mid-America, killing and robbing. If the idea wasn’t so laughable I would be scared stiff.

  “Why big rigs?” I said, handing the article back to Bobby. In response he handed me a Tribune article from two days ago, one I hadn’t considered relevant. The authorities had spotted a hefty well-muscled woman driving a stolen eighteen-wheeler between Little Rock and Dallas.

  Did we have another Arm? Keaton’s style didn’t generally include the big rig trick. The sighting might be of a Chimera and his harem, but they didn’t usually show such civilized behavior.

  Bobby took a sip of coffee and rubbed his temples. “While you were out last night, I happened to catch something on the TV. I took notes.”

  I sat across from him at the table and read his notes. I shook my head. ABC had broadcast an hour-long documentary on ‘male Monsters’. ‘The next generation of Transform terror is the male Monster, worse than the female Monsters and potentially as dangerous as Arms,’ they reported.

  Thanks, guys. Bobby’s notes also described a grainy picture from the documentary, of an oversized bear with a bony lump on the end of its lizard tail attacking a Transform Clinic just outside Minneapolis in the first week of January. The Clinic had two triads in residence, waiting for a Focus to pick them up. The club-tailed bear tore the place to the ground and killed at least seven. The reporters were concerned because the authorities weren’t able to match any of the remains with two women Transforms.

  “That’s Odin, one of the Chimera’s I’ve run into,” I said. I sifted through more of the newspapers and reports scattered over the table.

  “Damn,” Bobby said. “They sure do get around, don’t they?” He paused and thought. “What was he doing? Do they need that much juice?”

  “My guess is he was out hunting for more women Transforms to stick in his harem.” Bobby nodded and went back to his articles. I strongly suspected Chimeras cheated, able to take juice repeatedly from their harem women, and giving them a huge advantage over me.

  Buried in the back of the Wall Street Journal (the indispensable paper for the discerning Arm) I found another useful tidbit, which I cut out for Bobby to put in our files. Some doctor in California had received a present late last year of a Chimera corpse. He didn’t realize the corpse was a Major Transform and hadn’t acted quickly enough. The corpse did some sort of fast decay a week later, before the doctor had finished the autopsy and preservation. That fit with what I knew on the subject. Chimeras, like Monsters and presumably Crows, were so full of bad juice that once their body parts finished dying, they fell apart into mush very quickly…after the parts attempted to slither away on their own, of course. The researcher had also estimated the Chimera’s live weight, strength and speed in the article, all well hyped by the reporter.

  “Jesus Christ!” Bobby said, after I passed the article over and he had read it. I smelled his fear. “I thought you said you could handle these Chimeras?”

  I guess I had been somewhat cavalier about their threat. “They are strong and dangerous, but I’m faster and quicker. I’m also better trained, from what I’ve seen. They’re not to be taken lightly, though.” I dug through my own stack of articles on the sideboard and passed over to him Focus Rizzari’s report on Bug Boy’s autopsy, delivered to me by Focus Warren.

  Rizzari’s report was the only bit of information I had gotten from my supposed boon companions, Keaton and Zielinski, in the past month. Both Keaton and Zielinski had gone quiet on me; I had no idea what Keaton was up to, but reading between the lines it was obvious Focus Rizzari had sat on Hank. She did the letter writing now. At least she and Zielinski now supported my hypothesis that Officer Canon was a Focus.

  “We’re in trouble, aren’t we, Carol,” Bobby said, after he put down the report on Bug-boy’s autopsy. The odor of his fear had gone from faint to overwhelming. “They’re too powerful, like something out of Greco-Roman myth. What’re we going to do?”

  “We?” I laughed. “I’m going to be staying as close to Chicago as possible. I’m also coming up with a plan to take down the next Chimera who threatens me.” He asked the obvious question, but I didn’t answer.

  Nobody but me got to know my plans.

  The vultures were circling above me.

  Gilgamesh: February 7, 1968 – February 8, 1968

  Dear Gilgamesh,

  I know by the time you get this letter, you probably already found a way to communicate with Tiamat. Still, I need to tell you: what you are doing is dangerous. Be careful! Please! However, I agree with you that we Crows do need this information. You’ve gone farther and pushed yourself harder than any Crow your age I know. Please attempt not to destroy yourself. If you encounter any situations where you seem to become giddy from the panic, or you feel as though you are detached from your body, back off. We term this climax stress, and it is a very dangerous condition. I’m surprised this didn’t happen to you when you met your Arm in person – though you might be too embarrassed to tell me. Don’t be embarrassed. Climax stress has afflicted many Crows over the years.

  I thank you for your speculations on
the identity of Crow Killer. As I’ve said before, many Crows are under the opinion the Arm you follow is Crow Killer. Your experiences watching her seem to have dispelled that notion for some Crows, at least. I think, however, many Crows will resist the idea that Crow Killer is a mixed group of Major Transforms. If you could procure some hard evidence of this, it would be greatly appreciated.

  Sincerely,

  Shadow

  ---

  They left the message in the aptly named Crow Island Woods, one of the standard Crow drop points in Chicago, just outside of Gilgamesh’s range. Chrysler and Phobos, followers of Guru Chevalier. The next night, Gilgamesh spent time in the Woods, waiting. Clouds covered the sky, hiding the moon, and the darkness was deep even to a Crow’s eyes. Sporadic wind gusts whipped through the trees, threatening an incoming storm. Around 10 p.m., the Crows appeared to his metasense, coming in from the north. Gilgamesh waited, letting them approach him. They stopped a quarter mile away, on the far edge of the Woods, easily within Crow whispering range.

  “Did you hear the news?” Chrysler said, after the ritual naming of names. “Crow Killer took Oberon last week, in Memphis.” The wind rustled the trees, nearly overwhelming the faint sound of the Crow’s voice.

  Damn. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “Would you mind telling us what your Arm was doing, last week? How close a watch do you keep on her, anyway?”

  Gilgamesh considered Chrysler’s words. “Tiamat was in town all last week. She left town yesterday, though. I’d expect her back, today.”

  “Yes. We wouldn’t be talking to you if she was in town,” Phobos said. His voice was even fainter than Chrysler’s, but the wind had temporarily died and Gilgamesh heard. “Filthy predator. Animal.”