Huntress

by Elizabeth Hartwell

  None of that helped me now, though, as half a dozen different brands of humanity gave me the stink-eye while I pondered what to tell the bartender. They see Hunters as the last defenders of the old system, while we see ourselves as just protecting the last pure strain of humanity against a lot of major downgrades.

  “Hey, Hunter?” the bartender asks again, pulling my attention back to him. “I asked what you want to drink.”

  “Tequila,” I reply, knowing that the higher the alcohol content, the less damage it tends to do to your body out here in the Scorched Earth, “and information. I’m supposed to meet two people.”

  “Hey, Hunter, if you’re looking for two men, me and my friend can certainly entertain you!” one of the pool players taunts from across the room. “Once you go mutie, you’ll be our cutie!”

  “No, thanks,” I growl, slipping a hand underneath my travel poncho. I’ve got three sets of weapons in my travel kit, but the only ones that are right for a situation like this are an old Hunter standby, the power gloves. Nothing so dramatic as what the name implies. Most of the time, you wear them like a set of fingerless gloves. They’ll even warm your hands on cool nights while giving you good grip and the ability to use your fingertips the rest of the time.

  But with the press of a button on my belt, the gloves become . . . the only word I can use is more impactful, although that comes with certain downsides. The gloves might let me bend the laws of kinesiology . . . but Newton’s Laws still apply. I could punch a charging mutie bull in the skull and crack his thick brain case open, but I’m still going to go flying through the air the same as any impact of a two-thousand-pound object moving at high speed against a hundred-and-thirty-pound object will create.

  The two guys who harassed me don’t seem to catch my movement, though, or perhaps they’ve gotten a couple more shots in them than is wise.

  “You know, you purebreds are all the same,” the one pool player says, coming over. The pool stick’s solid aluminum, a standard around here where good wood’s precious. Great if you’re a tavernkeeper who wants to keep pool bringing in money. Not so good if you want to avoid problems in bar fights.

  “How so?” I ask, tightening the straps on my traveling pack. No way am I letting that thing get taken, and with my poncho covering it, it’s not much of a target for getting yanked. “Let me guess. You want some but can’t have none?”

  “Because you think you’re better than us,” his buddy says, growling. “Just because my bloodline ain’t pure, you keep me in this fucking place, not ever letting me see real green grass.”

  “Trust me, it’s not that impressive,” I reply, thinking of the one park in Solace. Actually, it’s pretty fucking awesome, pure Kentucky bluegrass. A lot of graywater goes into keeping it nice in the hottest parts of summer.

  “Yeah, well, my grandpa was one of your kind. He says it was amazing . . . then he fell in love with my grandmother, and his life was fucked. And on down the line to me,” the first guy says angrily. Like I can control the DNA purity laws? His grandfather knew the consequences. He knew he wasn’t allowed to marry outside the shelter lines.

  “Dude, I don’t know your grandfather. I don’t care. I’m here to meet two friends. So let’s not get the Wall Guard involved?” I ask, removing my hands from my poncho. “It’ll just end with you in the infirmary.”

  Seems my words don’t get through. In fact, within ten seconds, my two harassers have backup. I count eight, each of them uglier than the rest, and all of them are slipping free some sort of weapon. I count a couple of sets of brass knuckles and three knives to go along with the pool cues that are getting handed out like candy.

  “You know,” I toss over my shoulder at the bartender, who’s probably trying to figure out a way to get us out of here or to get Wall Guards to bust this up before blood stains his nice, freshly-sanded wooden floor, “you really need to keep better control of your pool cues. I mean, six on one? That’s just not fair, and how do six guys play pool at once anyway?”

  “Hunter, you’re on your own,” the bartender says, holding his hands up. I get it, he’s trying to protect himself, and while he’s probably thinking I could file a complaint with the Wall Guards afterward . . . first, there has to be an afterward. The odds are clearly in his favor.

  Great job, Cerena. Hundreds of missions, dozens of successful Hunts, and the youngest to ever graduate the Youngling course . . . and I’m about to get my ass handed to me in a bar fight and possibly killed by a bunch of disgruntled Ringtowners and outsiders.

  I really should have kept my swords closer, but I’d packed for comfort and convenience, figuring I didn’t need something so lethal until much later. That’ll make one hell of an epitaph for my entry on the Wall of Memories.

  Either way, I’ll make things difficult for these idiots.

  I’m just trying to figure out my best chance of escape when suddenly a man’s standing next to me, a smirk on his face and nothing else. He leans his back against the bar, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he observes the scene in front of us.

  “Looks like you could use some help,” he quips, looking around. “Sorry for the delay. I’m terrible with clocks.”

  “Where’s your partner?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the group arrayed around me. I assume, because if this guy isn’t my contact, I’m out of luck.

  A loud crashing sound comes from the door, and my new friend grins. “There he is. Now, who wants to party?”

  Chapter 4

  Lance

  The sun rises cool on the horizon, which I like. It’s just part of my nature, literally. My ancestry supposedly prefers the cold. But unlike the poor bastard Jotunn, I can get along in the heat well enough.

  Stretching, I make my way through the marketplace in Ringtown, picking up my breakfast. I don’t pay for it, of course. That’s not my style. But I do at least limit myself. Still, by the time I leave, I’ve got three skewers of meat, some fruit, and a container of what they claim is filtered coffee. I don’t believe it, but my body can handle pretty much anything short of nuke plant water, so anything that’s been missed is just spice to me.

  I’m chewing on my last bite of beef when I hear a voice behind me, and I turn, rolling my eyes. “You?”

  “Lance,” Tymond says, nodding once in greeting. “I would have preferred another partner as well, but apparently, the Elder feels we’re best equipped to help this Hunter on her mission.”

  Tym and I have worked together before, and it’s always been a matter of oil and water. I can recognize that he has some very useful skills, but at the same time, we don’t get along very well. It’s just too much fun trying to get under his skin.

  “Actually, word I’ve got is that it’s not a Hunter,” I reply, balling up my napkin and tossing it in the recycle bin. “You’re looking hungry. All those massive muscles needing more protein?”

  Tym growls and reaches into the pouch at his belt, removing a ration pellet. “Unlike some people, Lance, I don’t steal my way through breakfast.”

  “I only take from those who can afford it,” I lie, grinning. “Come on, Tym, you know that pellet tastes like shit compared to a juicy roast rabbit. There’s a guy just down the street offering cage-raised ones.”

  “No,” Tym says, downing his ration pellet and following it with a swig of water. “Besides, you know anything cage-raised is done so for a reason.”

  That’s Tym, honest to a fault and smarter than his massive muscles would let him appear. His long brown hair hangs down his back in twisted natural dreadlocks, giving him a definite warrior’s appearance, but I’ve learned that those golden-hazel eyes of his hide an intelligent mind.

  Besides, he’s right. In a world where the law of the jungle just got spread over the entire planet, anything caged up is on the upper end of dangerous. And those rabbits did drip venom from their front teeth.

  I brush my hands off on my pants leg and turn to face him. “So, what do you know?”

  “That we’re su
pposed to escort a Hunter, and yes, I know the rumor, to Bane,” Tym replies as the two of us start walking through the markets. It’s not that I really need to buy anything. I can travel at any time, but even in Ringtown, the best way to not get overheard is to keep moving. Unless you have a bank vault handy. Those’ll work for a private conversation too, provided you’re sure you can open the door when you’re done.

  “Word is there’s a special item that Elizabeth wants brought back to Solace,” I murmur, keeping my voice low. Tym’s like me, even if his lineage is quite different, so we can hear each other pretty well. “But whatever it is, nobody’s telling me.”

  “Me neither,” Tym says. “But whatever it is, it probably means taking from the big players in town.”

  I shake my head, not liking what he’s saying. Bane’s got five main big groups, and none of them are ones I want to fuck with. One in particular . . . that shaggy motherfucker’s not even worth the laughs to prank. Risk’s too high.

  “You know, I really shoulda retired,” I mutter as we turn away from the food stalls and walk down the various stall aisles. They’re lumped together by type, clothes stalls nearly piled one on top of each other, then the household goods, the soaps and perfumes—not too many of those—and then the weapons.

  It’s sort of a fact of life in the Scorched Earth that even in a relatively safe town like Ringtown, you carry something. An electro-shiv, a bang stick, a rocket launcher . . . whatever you can get your hands on and know how to use. It’ll save your life more than once.

  “Looking for a new blade?” one of the stall owners calls out, holding up a knife. “Real Damascus steel here.”

  “Don’t,” Tym rumbles, but I can’t help it and saunter over. Tym’s sigh is clearly audible, but he doesn’t say anything else as I take interest in the knife.

  “I knew you were a knife man by the look,” the merchant says, his eyes greedily taking in my interest. “And a smart one too. This little baby’ll stay sharp enough to shave with for six months.”

  “Hmm,” I murmur, holding out my hand. The proprietor hands me the blade, a dumb move, considering my abilities, but he doesn’t know that. Still, I’ve got a very fine eye for bladed weaponry, and right away, I can see that this guy’s full of shit. “Looks to me like you got the banding from acid washing, not the forging itself.”

  “What are you talking about?” the merchant says, reaching for the knife, but I pull it back, raising an eyebrow. “You’re trying to scam me!”

  “Tym?” I ask, handing him the knife. “What do you think of this thing?”

  Tym looks the blade up and down, then pinches it between his thumb and forefinger on each hand. With little effort, he bends the blade until it looks like a boomerang before bending it back and snapping the cheap metal in half. Wordlessly, he hands the pieces back to the merchant, whose face is the color of wet cheese. “I think we need to look other places for accessories.”

  I shrug, and we keep going. “You know, Tym, that’s why I sometimes like working with you. You make bargaining easy.”

  “So, where’s the rest of your equipment?” Tym asks. “You can’t be ready to go with just that.”

  I shake my head, smirking. “Stashed where I can get to it. And you? Where’s the big bashers?”

  “Secured,” Tym replies tersely. Actually, very few people are big talkers like I am, but even in the modern world, Tym’s a man of few words. “I didn’t think they’d help in Ringtown.”

  “Oh, come on, Tym, a six-foot-four badass with twin sledgehammers crossed over his back?” I joke. “You gotta admit, it helps on the whole peaceful society front.”

  Tym stops, looking directly at me. “Why are you doing this?”

  “What?” I ask, tilting my head to the side. “This job?”

  “Yes.”

  I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that question. Usually because most people can’t tell when I’m telling the truth and when I’m bullshitting, but Tym’s got a very good bullshit detector. “Honestly? The pay’s good, and anything to tweak the noses of whoever the fuck it is we’re stealing from is worth it to me. I’ve got a lot of debts in Bane. You?”

  Tym looks over at the walls, and I read his expression even before he opens his mouth. “No way, man. Don’t even think you’re going to get that.”

  “That’s what they promised.”

  “Yeah, and what happens the first time some shit goes down in there and they run a DNA scan on you?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow. “Face it, Tym, they’re never going to accept you. They’ve got their heads so far up their asses they don’t even realize what they’ve got available to them. To them, you and I are just . . . aberrations.”

  “In any case, even if it’s just for a few years, I’d like to live the fantasy,” Tym says simply. “Come on, let’s get our packs together before we meet the Huntress. She’s supposed to be at Defcon Whoops an hour after moonrise.”

  “Defcon Whoops . . . what a dump,” I mutter and follow Tym. His stash point for his pack actually isn’t that far from where mine is, and we find a good mutual hiding point close to Defcon Whoops, an old abandoned shack that might have housed someone before they left for parts unknown. Adjusting my pack on the ground, I stretch out in the dim space, groaning. “Time for a catnap.”

  “You have to be kidding.”

  I shake my head, closing my eyes and trying to imagine that the dirt on the floor is just warm sand. It’d probably be cleaner than whatever’s brushing up against my coat right now. “Nope. You said Huntress. You know who they’re hooking us up with, right?”

  Tym nods, pursing his lips. “She’ll want to move at night when she can. Fine . . . I will try and find some food.”

  “Bring me back a rat burger!” I joke, closing my eyes as he leaves. Like Tym, my sleep cycle isn’t like most people’s, but that’s something that’s just normal in the post-Apocalyptic world. Hi, what’s your name, what do you eat, and what sort of sleep cycle are you on?

  Better than What’s your name, what’s your size?

  I quickly drift off, my hand wrapped around the haft of a knife and my brain sort of floating, always keeping that one percent of my brain ready to react to any threat. So when there’s a knock on the wall of the shack, I’m already coming out of my slumber, unsurprised when Tym enters, his own long duster freshly floured with sand. “Have fun out there?”

  “Plenty,” Tym replies. “Come on, moon’s already started to rise. I was delayed coming back.”

  I don’t ask Tym what delayed him—there wouldn’t be any point—and grab my pack. Slipping it over one shoulder, the two of us make our way down the street to Defcon Whoops, but even before I can reach the door, I stop. “Looks like trouble.”

  Tym glances through the raggedy curtain of a doorway and nods, growling. “I’ll go—”

  “Stash these across the street. We’ll need them on the run,” I interrupt him, using my power to stop time. It’s sort of weird, my ability, but very useful. Everything slows down for at most ten seconds, although that usually leaves me as weak as a kitten. So I use the precious few seconds I’ve got to assess the situation, and yup . . . it’s her.

  I’ve only known her by reputation, but Cerena Lightmoon’s not the sort of person that goes unnoticed, even among the Hunters. Full lips, long dark hair that flows around her in a sleek veil, sexy green eyes . . . and under that traveling poncho, she’s wearing black leather. Fuck me, she’s even better than her reputation led me to believe.

  I weave my way through the quickly tightening net of bar flies who are looking at her with murderous intent and restart time with a laugh. “Looks like you could use some help. Sorry for the delay. I’m terrible with clocks.”

  She’s not shocked, which I have to admit makes me feel good. A lot of people, when they see me just pop out of seemingly nowhere, freak out. Then again, it might just be that she’s about to get jumped and she doesn’t have time to worry about my unexpected offer of assistance. “Where’s your par
tner?”

  Tym makes perhaps the most appropriate entrance he could, a double sledgehammer through the nearest table to the door, and while the bar flies start to wonder just what the hell’s going on, I grab my knives. “There he is. Now . . . who wants to party?”

  “They’re paras!” a mutie in a leather jacket yells, brandishing a shiv as he comes at me. Cerena goes to block him, but I’m faster and better armed.

  “Aren’t you supposed to carry some weapons?” I snipe as I block the shiv and slash back, cutting the guy’s sweet jacket into ribbons. “What the hell, lady?”

  “You mean these?” she asks as her gloves catch one of the poolstick-wielding idiots in a punch that lifts him off his feet and sends him flying through the air like he’s just been hit by truck. He crashes through a table, and I whistle in appreciation. “How’s that?”

  “Good,” I shoot back, grinning. This girl’s got some sass to her. Bitchy a little, but with looks like hers and an attitude? Yeah, she’d be fun to play a few rounds with.

  Not that I’m going to get a chance. Huntresses are the vestal fucking virgins of the Scorched Earth. You aren’t going to get a chance to even sniff their morning panty farts unless you’ve got 100% pure old-school human DNA.

  And I don’t.

  Cerena jumps, flipping rover a rangy-looking Outsider and flinging him toward the pool table, and as she does, I’m distracted by the sight of her sweet bubble ass flexing and tightening in a very sexy little display that’s just unfair. I mean, seriously, how’s a guy like me supposed to keep his mind on fighting when the juiciest-looking ass I’ve ever seen goes and does that while wearing tight black leather pants?

  “Say, Hun—” I start to quip, but I’m too distracted and an aluminum poolstick crashes down on my left arm. I can feel my one forearm bones snap from the impact, but the pain refocuses me and I lash out with a kick, catching the guy in the kneecap and putting him down. “Asshole!”