Unnatural Selection td-131

by Warren Murphy

  "I suppose," Candi conceded. She held up her soda can. "But this is diet."

  And because she was in a malicious mood, Elizabeth shook her head. "That stuff's poison in a can," she insisted. "This-" she held up her mug "-is one hundred percent natural."

  A young man was waiting behind her at the cooler. She sidestepped him, joining Candi at their usual table.

  "Is it really that bad?" Candi asked, concerned. "It's practically all I drink."

  "Mmm," Elizabeth said, sipping from her mug. The water was just what the ads claimed. Cold and clean.

  She almost wouldn't have cared if the soda was poisoned. Elizabeth cared about as much about Candi, her choice of soft drink and her biker boyfriend as she did about her own job. At thirty-five, Elizabeth Tiflis was suffering a major bout of career stagnation.

  Depressed, Elizabeth took another sip of water. It was good. Powerfully so. It seemed to quench some primordial thirst she never knew was there.

  "Phosphoric acid," Candi said. She hadn't drunk her soda yet. She was studying the label. "Acid? Isn't that, like, the stuff from chemistry class?"

  She looked up worriedly.

  Elizabeth had finished her water. She had slurped the rest down as if her throat was on fire. The empty mug was lying on its side on the table. Elizabeth gripped the table's edge. She stared at the wall, eyes blank.

  Candi looked back at the label.

  "'Phen-yl-ket-on-nur-ics,'" she read with deepening concern. "Ooo, that sounds even worse." When she looked up this time, she found Elizabeth was no longer looking off into space.

  Elizabeth was staring directly at Candi. A strange expression had come over her face. Her eyes were wide. It seemed as if the irises were bigger. And they were now brown. Candi always thought they were pale blue.

  "Elizabeth?" Candi asked cautiously.

  Elizabeth continued to stare. She was looking at Candi in the same way as her strip club's patrons. Candi shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don't think they'd sell it if it was bad for you," she said, picking up her soda can. She tipped it to sip, exposing her long neck.

  When Candi looked over again, she thought there was a bit of drool at the corner of Elizabeth's mouth. She wasn't quite sure, distracted as she was by the low, inhuman growl that suddenly rumbled up from deep in the pit of Elizabeth's stomach.

  Candi frowned. "Rude much?" she complained. She lifted her soda can. Elizabeth slapped it from her hand. It splattered against the break-room wall. "Hey-" Candi began. It was the last word she would ever speak.

  Before Candi knew what was happening, Elizabeth had leaped up on the table. Without a word, she lunged.

  As Candi screamed, Elizabeth buried sharp fangs deep into her soft neck. The scream became a wet gurgle.

  Candi tried to struggle. Elizabeth swatted her to the floor with a single paw swipe. She threw herself on the young woman, pinning her to the floor.

  By now more screams filled the break room. Others had followed Elizabeth. Animal roars filled the room as bodies fell. A woman managed to run screaming into the hall for help. Elizabeth didn't care. For the first time in a long time, she didn't have a care in the world.

  She tore a mouthful of stringy flesh from Candi's throat. The young woman had long since stopped fighting. Her legs twitched feebly as death overtook her.

  Lifting her head once, Elizabeth sniffed the breakroom air. She was more aware of everything than ever before. Nostrils twitched experimentally as she absorbed all the new scents floating around her.

  Around the room, those like her were gnawing at bodies. One of the males raised his head. Instinct told him he was being watched. Elizabeth smiled at him, face slick with blood.

  "I've been wondering for a year how to shut her up."

  Jaws wide, she stuffed her face back into Candi's throat, tearing off a huge chunk of flesh.

  And in the corner of the room, the Lubec Springs watercooler burped quiet approval.

  Chapter 4

  With the eye of memory he watched the heavens begin to burn. The fire started there, to the left. In the ink-black sky a white star flashed yellow. Another followed, then, quickly, another and another.

  The blaze raced through the sky, connecting the dots of the flaring night stars.

  The ring formed as star after star ignited. When it was complete it began to descend, trailing fiery streams.

  On the ground he watched with upturned face. The bleak landscape around him glowed with eerily flickering light.

  As fast as it appeared, it was on him. Enveloping him.

  The fire touched skin, but it did not burn. And then the fire became the skin, as well as bone and heart and brain. Then it was thought. A coursing consciousness that flowed through his veins and into his soul. And he was one with the fire and the fire was him.

  And then came the knowledge. It came to him in a flash, but it was too much to understand, even for him. As the fire flared bright, he strained to grasp fully the truth.

  But he wasn't ready. Not yet.

  The fire flashed and burned away. And he was left with the memory and a hint of what would be. Chiun, former Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju-until recently main guardian and benefactor of the small fishing village that bore the same name as his discipline, and custodian of the five-thousand-year tradition that was the glory of Sinanju-was alone once more.

  The hotel room was sliced by deep shadow. The morning light that rose over Little Rock slipped through the open blinds. Though dust danced in eddies of air around the room, not a single speck alighted on the solitary figure.

  Feeling the memory of the warmth of fire on his skin, the elderly Asian puckered his lips in mild irritation.

  In the gloom of the unlit room, Chiun gave the appearance of a frustrated mummy.

  If not for the fact that he breathed, it would have been easy enough to mistake the old Korean for a mummified corpse. His dry skin was like wrinkled parchment. Twin tufts of yellowing-white hair sprouted above shell-like ears. A thread of beard found root at his sharp chin. Hands like knots of bone rested atop folded knees. He didn't move.

  The old Korean wore a simple robe of black. He sat on a woven tatami mat, his rigid spine at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the floor. Before him a bowl of incense glowed dull orange. Arranged around it were five fat white candles.

  He had sat this way through day and night in a vain attempt to force answers. Dawn had broken beyond the dirty blinds, and still he sat.

  It was a foolish thing to do, he knew. The universe unfolded on its own time, not man's. Yet he had been granted a gift, and he wanted so much to understand it.

  It had happened months ago back in his native Korea, in the wasteland far outside the desolate village of Sinanju.

  The ring of fire had come to Chiun from the heavens. Though shocking, it wasn't unprecedented.

  The same event had transpired one time before in the history of Sinanju, the original martial art. The first time had been to the greatest Sinanju master of all, the Great Wang himself. The fire had bestowed the essence of Sinanju on Wang, but-as legend had it-understanding of what Wang had been given had taken a lifetime to fully grasp.

  Chiun was more than one hundred years of age. He had turned over his awesome responsibilities to a suitable heir.

  Remo was now officially Reigning Master of Sinanju. But these were unprecedented times.

  Since Chiun was still actively plying the trade of assassin, he had assumed the seldom-used honorary title of Reigning Master of Sinanju Emeritus. As such, he retained in all but the most formal circumstances the title of Master of Sinanju.

  "Won't that get confusing?" Remo had asked months earlier. "Two Reigning Masters of Sinanju at one time?"

  "You will actually be Master of Sinanju," Chiun had explained. "I will merely hold the title of Master of Sinanju. Or do you wish to deny a dying old man the respect he has earned? Especially given all he has had to endure training a certain title-grubbing white lump who shall remain nameless."


  "You don't look like you're dying."

  "Says nameless you."

  "I don't know, Chiun. I thought the passing of title was part of the job. Can we do this?"

  "Ah, I see the truth. You wish to keep the title all to yourself. I understand. I have heard on the television broadcasts, Remo, how some very small men need big titles to prove to themselves that they are worthy." Thus spoke Chiun, wise former Master of Sinanju.

  "Stop watching Oprah," suggested Remo, peeved current Master of Sinanju.

  "We can call me something else. Something easy for inadequate you to remember. How about 'Old Nuisance Who Has Given Me Everything, But Who I Continue To Not Appreciate And Treat Like Something The Cat Buries In The Sandbox'?"

  "Nah. For one thing it'd spill off the mailbox."

  "Then I will simplify it for you. Henceforth I shall be known as 'Hey You.'"

  "Okay, I give. You're Master of Sinanju. That's fine. You happy? Now get off my case."

  "Good."

  "Good."

  "Good."

  "Chiun?"

  "Master Chiun to you."

  "What am I going to be called?"

  "Whatever it is you want to be called," Chiun had said. "Numskull works for me."

  The retention of title had been necessary for the old man who had been chosen to break with tradition. This should have been Chiun's time of retirement and ritual isolation.

  Fate had chosen a different, new course for the last Master of the pure Korean bloodline. Chiun understood some, but the rest was still a mystery to be discovered.

  In his mind's eye, Chiun had brought himself back to that moment in the wilderness many times. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of something unseen until now. But it was no use. He would have to wait for full understanding to come. He had journeyed to the memory of that day for the last time.

  Eyes closed, Chiun had just come to his reluctant decision when he heard the elevator bell down the hall. His hypersensitive ears detected the familiar, confident glide approaching down the long hotel hallway.

  When the door opened and the room lights came on a moment later, the Master of Sinanju was still motionless. Ancient eyelids were pressed tightly shut when the ill-mannered braying began.

  "Pee-yew. What are you, burning cats again? And why is it so dark in here?"

  Chiun's vellum lids fluttered open over youthful hazel eyes. Remo was kicking the door shut with his heel.

  The ring of fire was forgotten. It would be understood in its own time and not before. The Master of Sinanju set it aside.

  "Finally he returns," Chiun said, his voice a squeaky singsong. "I am starving. Or is that your plan? Did you want me to starve? Is that why you abandoned me all night?"

  The Master of Sinanju leaned forward, drawing a sharp hand over the tops of the burning candles. The vacuum of his sweeping hand doused the five flames.

  "I didn't abandon you. You were the one who said you didn't want to come with me this time. In fact, your exact words were-and I quote-'I have killed enough Arabs for that madman Smith in recent months to populate a New Baluchistan. I'm staying here. You do it.' End quote."

  "That does not sound like me," Chiun said.

  "You also said your robes reeked of camel's milk cheese and bread flaps and that you were sending Smith and Saudi Prince ibn bin al-Gaspot McSomething the cleaning bill."

  "Perhaps it sounds a little like me," Chiun conceded.

  "And you could've eaten without me," Remo said. With a frown, he noted the old man's clothes. "What's with the celebration outfit?"

  "None of your business, O breaker of tradition."

  "Fair enough. I've got to report back to Smith." Remo headed for the phone. "I'm going to be ordering trout for breakfast. Trout okay for you?"

  "Of course, when I say it is none of your business, I am only being polite. It is entirely your business. Which is to say your fault."

  "Well ring-a-ding-ding, it's my fault you're celebrating," Remo said. "Hey, when I'm done checking in with Upstairs, you want me to order brown rice or white? Won't matter. Kitchen will screw up both."

  Chiun's face became a displeased pucker. He had put up with many things from his pupil over the years. Disrespect, clumsiness, stubbornness and that abusive tongue--oh, how Chiun had withstood that. But worse than anything was lack of interest. It was for the Master to not care what the pupil had to say, not the other way around. But, of course, Remo did care. How could he not care what Chiun had to say? This was just a trick, this feigned indifference.

  "Stop pretending you don't care," Chiun accused Remo's back.

  "I do care," Remo called over his shoulder. "Just not enough to do some verbal dance to beg you to tell me what you want to tell me and probably will tell me anyway."

  "Stop talking about this," Chiun insisted.

  "I've already stopped." Remo picked up the phone.

  "Fine," the old man said, quickly throwing up his hands before his pupil could dial. "I was not going to tell you, but since you refuse to drop the subject..."

  With a sigh, Remo replaced the phone in the cradle. "Okay, what's the story?" he asked, turning. Across the room, Chiun rose from the floor in a single, fluid motion. His hands were spread out to either side, extending ten daggerlike talons, the better to display his outfit.

  The black robes were shorter than normal, hanging down to just above the ankle. A pair of black trousers-tight at the ankle-peeked out from below. The cloth was far more plain than the Master of Sinanju's usual brocade kimonos. Gone were the shimmering colors of embroidered peacocks and fire-breathing dragons. This was simple black cotton.

  "If you must know, Nosy One, I wear the garments of celebration because a new day has dawned for the House of Sinanju. Thanks to your ascension to full Reigning Masterhood and my retention of title, we have entered a new, unprecedented age." He brushed imaginary wrinkles from the skirts of his simple black robes.

  "That doesn't sound so bad to me. Where does 'it's all my fault' come in?"

  "Since you stubbornly refuse to wear the proper attire of an assassin, I must do so for both of us during this ritual. Thanks to you, my time in these garments is doubled. I have been forced to pack away my robes for the duration of this time of celebration."

  Remo looked the old Korean up and down. "I am not wearing an outfit like that one, Little Father," he warned.

  "Of course you are not, Remo. Why would you? After all, I want you to. Why would you do anything I want? Why break a perfect thirty-year record now?"

  "Chiun, they look like Broom Hilda's pajamas."

  "And when I sleep in them, I will dream I have a son who treats me and the traditions of his village with respect."

  Remo felt his resolve weaken for just a moment.

  After all, he was the Master of Sinanju now. Maybe if it was just for a couple of days he could do it. Stay in the hotel. Order room service. Yeah, it was doable. And it would maybe be nice to give in to Chiun on the kimono thing this time. Maybe it would buy the old codger out of nagging him about his clothes for a few more years.

  "How long would I have to dress like that?" Remo sighed.

  Chiun's face brightened. "Six months."

  "So you want trout, or what?" Remo said, turning away. He dropped his hand back on the phone.

  No sooner had he touched the receiver than the phone rang. He quickly answered.

  "Perfect timing, Smitty," he said.

  "Remo?" the tart voice of Harold W. Smith asked. "Is everything all right? You were supposed to check in with Mark last night after your assignment."

  "I walked back to the hotel," Remo said. "I've got a lot on my mind these days."

  "Do not listen to his lies, Emperor Smith," the Master of Sinanju called. "His mind is as empty as his promises."

  "I never promised anything," Remo said.

  "See?" Chiun shouted triumphantly. "More lies." Robes swirling, he marched from the room. He slammed the door with such ferocity that balcony windows cracked four floors in e
ither direction.

  "Is something wrong?" asked Smith, who had heard the slamming door over the phone.

  "The usual," Remo replied, exhaling. "Everything is my fault, even the stuff that isn't. Anyway, last night went fine, Smitty. I left one cockroach alive to carry the message back to his pals and squashed the rest."

  "Good. The way they operate, it is difficult to track all these cells. Our best hope beyond simply eliminating the ones we find is to make the rest fear attack."

  "In that case, consider it mission accomplished."

  "Very well. You and Chiun may return home." Home for Remo these days was a town house in a new development in southern Connecticut. He had spent the past two weeks breaking up small al-Khobar cells. Remo was looking forward to getting back to his condominium.

  "Okey-doke. Talk to you soon."

  "One moment, Remo." There was the sound of fingers drumming as the CURE director accessed his computer. "Hmm. I know this is soon after last night's assignment, but when you land in New York there is something I'd like you to look into. There have been a few strange incidents in Manhattan this morning. They started about forty-five minutes ago."

  "Al-Khobar?" Remo asked.

  "No, not terrorists. At least I do not think so. The first was at some kind of publishing house. I might have ignored it if the computers hadn't found five more incidents since then. The people involved have been reduced to some sort of feral state, snarling and biting like animals."

  "Sounds like New Yorkers fighting over a cab."

  "This goes well beyond the norm, Remo. I suspect there might be some new form of drug at the center. People are being mauled. Some reports even suggest there is cannibalism involved, although that obviously seems ludicrous."

  "Cannibalism? Smitty, you've got to stop getting your intelligence reports from the Weekly World News."

  "As I've suggested, things are still sketchy at the moment. But- Oh my." Smith paused. "There is a report here of a senior credit analyst at a bank suddenly going berserk and tearing out his supervisor's throat. Please check this out, Remo. I'll arrange a flight. Call me for the information when you reach the airport."

  "Can do, Smitty."

  He hung up the phone.