Predators and Prey: A Short Story

by Holliday, Christopher

  Rizzo's looking mean tonight. He's razor sharp, edged out on something expensive and illegal. He wants to do a deal and doesn't realize I'm out of the business. It's not going to make him happy.

  "Back off," I say, but he's having none of it. He grins as he stalks towards me, chromium incisors reflecting the glare from neon signs over dark alley doors. Black, wet hair is pasted to his skull from the warm drizzle, looking as dark and sticky as the aftermath of a nasty scalp wound.

  "I know, Jimbo. I know." He's grinning wide, wafflestomper boots going stomp-splash, stomp-splash, as he draws ever closer. "I know you're holding. Let's have some."

  "Listen, Rizzo," I say, raising a hand and backing a few steps away, "I left home to get away from this shit. Give me some space . . . it's not that kind of town."

  He stops, shallow black ripples spreading from his firmly planted feet. "Not that kind of town?" He cocks his head back, raises an eyebrow. "Look around, Jimbo. It's exactly that kind of town."

  He snaps his fingers, and two bully-boys separate from the darkness behind him, stalking to his side. "Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum are going to help you find what I'm looking for." They start toward me, two genetic freaks who obviously couldn't memorize plays or they'd be making bank in the Trinary Football League. I'm still in decent shape; street-muling sniffware kept me quick and lean. But each of these guys out-masses me by half again and more.

  "Wait," I say, holding up one finger. Like that's going to stop them. They ignore me, grab me one to an arm, lift me off the ground. With their free hands they each give me a rough and thorough pat-down, none too careful in the sensitive areas, either.

  They pull my wallet, pull my comcard. I haven't a thing else on me.

  "Clean, Rizzo," Dum says.

  Rizzo folds his arms across his chest. "Jimbo, you're not carrying the old fashioned way, are you?" He gestures with one hand and the Tweedles drop me. "It's really not worth the cavity search, is it?"

  The thought gives me the willies. "Rizzo, I told you, I'm out of the business. I—"

  "No one's ever out of the business, Jimbo. You've been here two months. I know you must have connections." He pulls up a wet sleeve, checks his watch. "Two hours. Two hours and you call me on the card and I'll tell you where to bring it." He crosses the distance between us in three quick steps, reaches up to pinch my cheek. I'm not foolish enough to raise a hand to stop him. Not with the Tweedles here.

  "Because if I don't get any," he pinches harder, twisting, "the only thing that's going to keep me happy will be dicing you into little, tiny pieces. After the cavity search, of course." The Tweedles laugh. Rizzo saw my flinch. Not one to miss an opportunity like that; not Rizzo.

  "Let's go, girls," he says, and they start to walk away. Rizzo tosses one last dig over his shoulder, "Maybe you should have run a little farther, Jimmy. . . dug your hidey-hole a little deeper."

  It's the first thing he's been right about all night.

  "Kye," says Duncan when I enter his lab and hang my wet jacket on a hook. A few of the indiginies hiss, chirp, or make completely improbable noises at me from their wall cages.

  "Kye," I reply, hiding my contempt for the Xeno standard greeting.

  He's got a Parron on the bench in front of him, chest cavity open and flaps pinned back, probing it's innards under the lamp. It's a nasty critter with a wingspread no larger than my hand, four taloned claws, leathery wings, a beak like a snapping turtle, and one hellacious appetite.

  "What's eating you?" he says, flipping up the magnifying goggles against his shaved head, giving me a glance when he notices I'm pacing the lab.

  "The past just caught up with me. A Gothic scumbag, just a minor acquaintance from back in York. By coincidence or bad karma, he's relocated here. Transit and Colonization must be taking just about anyone these days."

  "They took you, didn't they?" He laughs at his own wit, showing perfect white teeth that must have cost his family a fortune. He knows I paid a premium for University citizenship and an apprenticeship, he just doesn't care to remember. "Speaking of apprenticeship, how about cleaning up under those cages and tossing the Grats some chow before you start some studying?"

  Duncan's five years my junior, but had the luck to be born into a family that could afford to put him through school. He's really not a bad guy, and most of the time, we get along fine. As my resident mentor, when I'm not sleeping, in class, or cleaning the lab, he's teaching me the ins and outs of this semi-terrestrial biosphere.

  It's not his fault that when I signed up for the outbound quickship I had this vivid picture in my mind of raising animals—cows, pigs, chickens and stuff—on a sunny agro-world, apprenticed as a veterinarian or something similar. I should have researched the specific meaning of Xenobiology, and the Indigenous Adaptation Department, just a little more thoroughly. And I should have verified that the University province here on Symphonie housed something more than a colony of penal-program refugees.

  Four of the wall cages hold Grats, dumpy little fungus eaters squatting like fat Chihuahuas. They make a 'squirp, squirp' appeal when I pick up the mushroom bucket and fill their trough. Three of them are keepers; Duncan's doing a pheremonal study on them to see how they attract each other when they mate, without attracting the Parrons. Natural selection has left them one of the few indigenous surface dwelling animals larger than a lab mouse.

  The fourth Grat will find its way into the Parron cage sometime this week, where it will be picked to the bone in a matter of moments. Having seen it once, it's something I have no need to see again.

  "You know," Duncan says, gesturing at the Parron pinned and splayed upon the table, "almost half of the brain nodes in these things are dedicated to smell. That mass just back of the lung is basically the nose. Cut it out and they starve."

  "Amazing," I say without enthusiasm. I have more pressing interests and concerns.

  The lower cages are mini-habitats, with clever dust-gray rodents that pop their heads from their holes when I tap the sides. They sniff, turn over, and use long tails to curl and scoop the mix of seeds and nuts down behind them. I envy them the safety of their homes.

  So much for my fresh start.

  I finish the feeding, sweep and dispose of the crap and tell Duncan I need to head out again for a little while.

  "This is really bugging you, isn't it?"

  I nod. "You have no idea."

  "Well, let me know if I can help." He pulls down his goggles and gets back to his work.

  Outside, the drizzle has tapered off, and the night sky looks like it might even start to clear. I've never understood why the city isn't domed instead of netted. It would make more sense during the rainy season. I pull out my comcard and access my directory. Of the twenty names I have listed for this world, none are worth a damn.

  I'd purposely severed all connections with the old business. Necessity can sometimes make for odd first careers; unfortunately I hadn't had the good fortune to be gifted with a lack of a conscience. Seeing living corpses curled in piles of filthy rags, strung out on the chemical of the month . . . well, it hadn't set well with me. Even when the money was good, and chemical splice-houses were seeing to my every worldly whim, I couldn't sleep. "Drugs don't kill people, people kill people," they used to joke when they saw my discomfort and concern.

  I avoided the puddles as I started up the block toward the food district. Up ahead, I thought I saw a bulky form separate from the lamppost on the corner and slip into the shadows beyond. I didn't look too closely. That Rizzo would have at least one of the boys watching me was no real surprise.

  I'd known someone was on to me for at least a week. The tiny flat the Xeno department provides me was
ransacked top to bottom during an afternoon class. No one guts an apprenticed student's mattress looking for money; even a Grat would know better. Someone was searching for drugs, someone who knew I'd vanished back in York, sometime between making a large pickup and never showing at the delivery. I'd never taken the University's guarantee about their records system being confidential and unbreachable very seriously. Where do they think the best hackers-for-hire come from, anyway?

  Choochi's is down a few steps, stuck between a bakery (closed) and an adult media store (always open). The door swings heavily when I push it, a slate-gray hunk of plastic that Choochi swears is a relic from the original colony lander. If one of the Tweedles is tailing me, he's going to be a bit disappointed with my destination.

  Inside, the place isn't much wider than a coffin, with a white food counter running the five-meter length of the place. The only stool is behind the counter and occupied by Choochi.

  "Hey, Jimmy. Late night hungries?" Choochi is Asian, and must be at least ninety years old. He looks back to the HTV he keeps behind the counter, watches a few more seconds of his serio-sitcom, chuckles and turns it off.

  "Crappy TV," he says, "but good crap, if you know what I mean. All set?"

  "Number two," I say, picking from the photo menu on the wall. Fish-salad sandwich and a bowl of veggies and noodles.

  "Good choice. Lots of protein and carbos." He fiddles under the counter, removes some wrap from a bowl, puts it in the nuker. While he's at it, he says, "You in some kind of trouble, Jimmy?"

  What tipped him off to that? "Nothing I can't handle," I lie.

  "Ah," he says, placing a plate with my sandwich and a flowered carrot garnish in front of me. "Then that explains the very large eye that just peeked in my door."

  So Rizzo is keeping a close watch on me.

  The nuker beeps, he pulls out my noodles and hands the bowl to me with disposable chopsticks.

  "It's no big deal, Choochi." I unwrap the sticks, snap them apart and start in on the food.

  "I see," he says, "sounds like you forgot to make your bed before you left your home."

  "Huh?"

  "It doesn't translate well. How about, 'Misfortune often comes through the door you left open'."

  "What's that, ancient Chinese wisdom?

  Choochi smiles. "No, axioms of the Mafia manager. They're a bit more useful than the ancient Chinese."

  I smirk, eat some more noodles, and think about the time. Even if I had two days, I doubted I could come up with anything that would satisfy Rizzo, but I always think better on a full stomach.

  An unhappy Rizzo is a dangerous thing. Back in York, he was into a lot of dirty shit. But he was a user, and rumor had it that he blew most of what he made on any variety of sniff. A smart-ass street kid once sold him a batch of Wipeout cut with chili powder. The operative word is once. We all witnessed that example: Rizzo put him up to his neck in a concrete block; hung him upside down in his warehouse. Every day he told him he was going to drop him, up until the day he finally starved. The kid was all of thirteen.

  That was the day I dumped my last load through a sewer grate, cashed out my savings, and went on my way.

  I finish up the food. "Add it to my tab, Chooch."

  "Sure, sure," he says, genial as always. "Maybe I should have you pay it off now, if you're in some kind of trouble."

  "Nothing I can't handle. I'll pay you Friday, just like always."

  "Okay, but remember, the best defense is a strong offense."

  "Another bit of Mafia wisdom?"

  He chuckles, "No, I learned that growing up in the district 'hoods of Hong Kong. Just basic street smarts."

  Something tells me he's right.

  There's no sign of the Tweedles when I step out the door. I look at my watch; just over an hour left. An hour or a year, it doesn't matter. I walk back toward the lab, the cold moist wind tickling like eyes on the back of my neck. Guys like Rizzo don't just go away. They move in, make things bad for everyone involved. And I'm not ready to scrap everything I've accomplished just to run away again.

  Duncan is gone, and his workbench sits empty and clean. A few of the animals chitter in their cages. The sign just above them seems to accuse me with the xeno department motto, "Know Your Environment".

  "Kye," I mutter.

  One of the Grats has an ear-tag; Duncan chose the victim. The Grat and I have a lot in common at this point in time. I stare at the little beast as it shuffles around its cage . . . I stare for a long time. Finally, I decide at least one of us should survive.

  I pull on the heavy gloves, reach into the cage and remove the squirming beast. It scratches its stubby legs against my fingers, and tries to bite me with thick flat teeth.

  Everything I need should be in the lab. Well, almost: chemicals, centrifuge, neutral base. It goes against my principles, but necessity is very compelling whisper that convinces my conscience it's the only way. I give the Parron what they're waiting for before I leave. They set to it with vigor, and a staccato popping starts when they start their dessert, cracking the bones for the marrow.

  Leaving the lab, I decide education is an excellent investment.

  I have one stop to make, and only ten minutes to make it. The Tweedles are tailing me, and they're not bothering to be inconspicuous. Side by side they follow me, about twenty meters back, through the streets to my flat. They hang back as I go in. Looking back before I push through the door I can see one is talking into his hand. To Rizzo, no doubt.

  My flat's a sty. I dig furiously through a few drawers, finally find the inoculant inhaler that's been lying there since my arrival. I'd finished the doses, having no desire to contract any local diseases. The transparent cylinder is no larger than my finger, inhale hole and vaporizer at one end, tiny thumb-pump to build pressure at the other. I untwist it, fill it with the result of my labor, then tuck it away.

  Outside, the Tweedles haven't moved, but they come rigidly alert when I leave. They follow me back to toward the lab.

  In my pocket, my comcard vibrates for attention. I pull it out, and when I flip it open it's Rizzo's voice I hear, and I'm not really surprised.

  "You've got five minutes, Jimbo. You're not screwing with me, are you?"

  "Fuck you, Rizzo." I shut the comcard, take a last quick look over my shoulder, and break into a run.

  I hook a few turns and head straight for the perimeter of the city. I don't hear any feet behind me, but it doesn't take a genius to follow someone in a city this size. The perimeter wall is gray cinderblock stacked six feet high, topped with towering poles that support the netting. Beside the environment lock is a large yellow sign, the Xeno motto posted yet again, this time as a warning in bold black letters: "KNOW YOUR ENVIRONMENT". Below is a list of hazards to avoid. It's not very long at all.

  I linger just long enough to see three figures rushing toward me from the far end of the street. Dee and Dum are lumbering shadows flanking Rizzo, whose long coat flaps behind him like dark wings.

  I open the lock, wait for the door behind me to shut and the outer door to open. Beyond is cold, wet, alien night.

  The soil and native grass squish beneath my feet, and I head for the concrete tables of the picnic area. It's surrounded by tall tapering trees and low bushes cut back decoratively beneath them. Outside is a popular spot during the temperate seasons. When I near the area, motion sensors trigger and soft white lights surround me. Moisture is a gray sheet in their beams.

  Standing in the center of the lights, three shadows point off from me in different directions. Behind me, the past. Beside me, the here and now. And ahead of me, pointing like a long black finger at the approach of Rizzo and his goons, is tomorrow.

  "Hey, Jimbo." Rizzo smiles and stops when he's three meters away, his Gothic bridgework brilliant in the lights. "Looks like we have a problem." He holds up his comcard, thumbs the volume and the playback. "Fuck you, Rizzo. . .Fuck you, Rizzo. . .". For effect, he lets me hear my voice a few more times.

  "Is
that any way to talk to an old friend?" He nods and the goons start forward.

  "Wait," I say, for the second time tonight. I toss the inhaler at Rizzo; he and the Tweedles watch it flip end over end in its high trajectory. While they watch I make the quick move inside my jacket and pull out the surprise.

  Dum and Dee are instantly alert, dark humming blades in their hands before my own is even free.

  Rizzo makes the catch, looks at it, looks at me. "Too little, too late, Jimbo." He notices what's in my hand, laughs loud and hard. He knows as well as I do the thoroughness of customs security on every University world. Projectile weapons are illegal, virtually impossible to slip one through. And getting caught lands you mindwiped on a service world. He recognizes what I hold for what it really is, and not what I wish it were. "What are you going to do, Jimbo, squirt us to death?"

  "Something like that. Last chance, Rizzo. Just forget you ever saw me and get out of here."

  "No can do. Business is business." He discharges a tiny bit from the inhaler into his hand, sniffs, smells the added hint of cinnamon. "QuickSpice? Good going, Jimbo. I'm impressed." He puts the inhaler to his nose and discharges it. "I'm going to hate cutting you up if you have access to Spice, but like I said—"

  "Business is business." I finish for him.

  He gets a funny look on his face, sticks out his tongue, thick with a taste I don't know if he'll recognize.

  "Garlic?" He says. "What kind of shit is this?"

  "DMSO," I say. "It leaves a garlic taste in the mouth once it penetrates the skin or membranes. One of the most effective carriers around."

  He's not pleased. "Okay, take him out. Watch the squirter—it might be acid."

  Behind me, in the trees, I think I hear a sound.

  I point the squirt bottle at the onrushing pair, squeeze the trigger in quick bursts. I'm aiming low, just below the chest. They don't stop to cover their eyes, but they do look down to see if there's damage to their clothes.

  There isn't.

  "See you later, geek," says the one I've come to think of as Dum. It's the first thing either of the Tweedles have said to me.