Who Hunts the Hunter Read online

  “Hoi.”

  The male jerks as if startled, and grunts, and turns to look at her. She is in her human guise now, and she is nude. She steps nearer. A faint sheen of melted ice gleams from her skin. The male stares at her, then smiles. He says something in some unknown tongue, then switches to English, oddly accented."Where you come from?”

  “Looking for friends.”

  “Here I am.”

  Tikki shakes her head."Elves.”

  “Don’t need no fragging elves.”

  The ploy is not working, Tikki realizes, and that is very aggravating. It’s what she gets for trying to get subtle. She’s seen this kind of thing work in practically every actionvid she’s ever watched: the female offers her body, the male gives the female whatever she wants. Yet this stupid fragging two-leg male sees her nude and thinks only of sex—right here, right now. She smells it in his scent. And she’s too short of time to try and take the tease any further.

  She hurls herself at him, using her hands like bludgeons, slamming into his face and head, only her hands are massive paws and her arms are covered with fur, and she’s driving him down, down, into the snow.

  The male’s struggles grow frantic. Words of fear burst from his mouth. Tikki straddles his chest and pins his arms and leans down till her face is just a breath away from his. As she speaks, fangs gleam from among her teeth. She feels a sudden urge to seize his neck in her jaws and squeeze the life out of him, but she resists."The elves are where?”

  The male stammers, straining to squirm away. His eyes are huge with terror."Don’t know! Headed south ..

  That is no news. Two-legs on the Road to Nowhere head in only two directions and she already knows the elves did not go north."Their names.”

  “T-Tang ... called one Tang!”

  Streetname. Assumed name. Runner? corporate? criminal? what? “There were three.”

  “Don’t know the slitches’ names!”

  Then Tang is the name of the male."They paid you how?”

  “Cred. Credstick.”

  “Give it.”

  “My pocket!”

  Tikki tugs and tears. A credstick falls into the snow. She snatches it up, then lowers her face to the male’s face, breath rumbling in her throat. She can feel the fur coming out on her face, her fangs lengthening, her arms and shoulders swelling with power."The elves used your truck,” she growls in a voice inhumanly deep."What did they tell you?"

  "Hunting ... going hunting!”

  “Hunting what?”

  “Moose! I don’t know!”

  That is a lie, but it does not smell like a lie. The male is too scared to lie, so the elves must have told him lies. No animal would wait while a hunter stalked near in a noisy ACV. Except a cub too young and too weak to run. Or a cub who thought to hide.

  Tikki drives one paw across the male’s face, hitting hard enough to hurt. That is the payment the male deserves for helping the elves. He slumps, unconscious. Lucky to be alive. Tikki stands.

  The credstick in her hand gleams softly. It looks like a certified credstick. Such sticks may be used by anyone. Unlike normal credsticks, they carry no electronic codes to identify the bearer. They do, however, carry codes that identify the bank or corp that issued them, and that may lead her to the elf called Tang and the two females.

  Tikki considers the male at her feet, and the Mostrans ACV, dismisses both and walks to the door of the tavern. A cloud smelling of two-leg sweat, stale beer, and cigarettes meets her nose long before she puts out a hand and pushes inside.

  The main room is small and rustic and, like the outside, seems made of wood. The music keening quietly from the neon-stroked box in the corner is nearly a decade behind the mode. The two-legged humans seated on stools at the bar and at tables scattered around are dressed in ragged natural fibers and cheap plastiwear. One or two wear feathers and other ornaments suggestive of Amerinds.

  Beside the door is a payfone. Tikki turns to that, slots the credstick from her friend outside, and keys a telecom code. The other end rings once. The voice that answers is like two voices, one male, one female, speaking in synch.

  “Your number?”

  Tikki keys in a number. This is a previously established code that ID’s her as the owner of an account possessing much nuyen. As the next several moments pass, Tikki watches the payfone’s small viewscreen. The normal calling screen is gradually replaced by a stylized face, a sort of cartoon animation, far too large to fit on the screen. Only the eyes are visible. They seem to glare.

  “This is Oracle,” the voice says.

  “I want a trace.”

  “Identify.”

  “The credstick in this telecom. Who bought it? Where are they now? Everything.”

  “Scanning.”

  A few seconds pass.

  “Report in five hours.”

  The call ends. Tikki hangs up and turns from the wall. The neon-stroked box in the corner has fallen silent. Every two-leg in the room is gazing at her. Several are showing their teeth, smiling. She realizes why as a female steps toward her, pointing at her front."Wuss,” the female says, “you look like you’re missing something.”

  Tikki nods understanding."Give me your clothes.”

  The female frowns and stares, then throws back her head and laughs. This is not to show amusement. It is to show ridicule, disdain, dominance. Tikki seizes the female’s throat, jerks her around in a half-circle, and flings her against the wall.

  “Give me your clothes.”

  Everything changes. The female blubbers incoherently, cowering, slumping to the floor. A large male rises from a nearby table and comes toward Tikki from the left. He smells like anger and makes a fist and that is a mistake. Before he can strike, Tikki drives the heel of her foot into his chest, then lunges, smashing her head into his jaw.

  The male topples, but others arise. Two males come at her together and then it’s too late to stop. The smells of violence speak to instinct. Black-striped fur the color of blood sweeps up from her waist and over her face and down both her arms. Her hands grow claws and her upper body swells with muscle. She hurls one male through a window and smashes another to the floor. Others scream and shout and the stink of fear draws back her lips to bare her lengthening fangs. A shotgun roars and something impacts her left hip. The gore streaming from the wound slows to a trickle and then stops. A female screams loud and shrill with terror. The male behind the bar hastens to reload. Tikki charges, flings herself over the bar and hits the male dead on, and drives him down to the floor, pounding his head and chest.

  When she gets up, the two-leg female who started it all is frantically wrenching off clothes; she runs naked for the door, shrieking. Tikki dresses, then turns to face the few who remain.

  Now she needs a vehicle.

  8

  “You’re making too much of this.”

  “I’m standing up for what I believe.”

  The office is plush and paneled. Artificial trees stand in the corners. A ninety-year-old bonsai sits on a special table off to one side. Vernon Janasova sits behind his gleaming onyx desk. Amy sits facing the desk. She looks to the ceiling when Janasova smiles. It’s not quite a condescending smile, but it’s close enough to be mildly infuriating.

  “Amy,” he says, folding his hands on his desktop, “we’re a wholly owned corporation. These people are our bosses. We can’t tell them no, you can’t do an audit. It’s unreasonable to even consider a tack like that.”

  “So you think I’m being unreasonable.”

  Janasova’s expression turns warm and earnest."I think you’re a very dedicated executive. You’ve worked very hard to streamline your part of the operation. Personally, I think you’ve done a fabulous job. The science staff loves your modifications to the purchasing system. All I’m saying is that realistically we have to cooperate with the auditors. If the research people get a little wroth about it ... well, we’ll do what can to smooth things over.”

  Amy finds it difficult to argue with s
omeone so obviously determined to be so reasonable. Clearly, Janasova is not going to fight the auditors about anything. All the more reason for Amy to be adamant now. Insistent and demanding. Even a self-righteous bitch. She declares, “I will not lie down and let Kurushima and his crowd walk all over me and this organization.”

  “Amy, please . . .” The infuriating smile returns."No one’s asking you to do that. You know that.”

  “I don’t want Kurushima thinking he can walk in anywhere he wants and start scrolling through people’s records.”

  “He has every right to do—”

  Before Janasova can finish, Amy raises her voice, exclaiming, “If I have to cooperate, I will! But I want to know exactly what’s going on every step of the way, what Kurushima’s looking at and what he wants.”

  Janasova stares at his desktop. His face has reddened a little. He does not handle confrontations very well. Angry people disturb him."I really don’t understand why this has you so upset,” he says quietly."The audit staff seems to be very organized. I’m sure any disruptions will be very minimal.”

  “Vernon, what’s minimal to you or me is not necessarily minimal to someone conducting research.”

  “But, Amy, you have no authority over the research groups.”

  “Don’t tell me about authority! I’m a vice president of this corporation. I give a damn about what goes on here."

  "Amy, please ...”

  She stares at the ceiling again.

  “Mr. Enoshi strikes me as a very reasonable person. And I’m sure Mr. Kurushima will be glad to keep you informed of everything regarding your groups.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Let’s not argue about this. Really, I consider you one of my top people. We’ve always had such a good relationship. But you must understand ... We have to get along with the audit staff. Think of how it might seem if word gets back to Tokyo that we’re not cooperating.”

  “I’m sure it would look very bad.”

  “Then you see my point.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  Amy rises and takes her leave of Vernon Janasova. Her stomach’s in knots and her blood pressure’s rising, and there’s no point in talking further with the man. She’s just wasting her time.

  In reception, she pauses, looking across the room to the office suite of the executive VR Talking to that woman might or might not accomplish something; unfortunately,

  Amy’s already been to the top. Janasova would certainly object if he got the idea that Amy had tried to undercut his authority. He might even accuse the two women of the senior staff of ganging up on him. Janasova is sensitive about things like that.

  A little too fragging sensitive in some ways.

  What she would give right now to have a CEO with an iron hand, rather than lily-wristed, spineless Vernon Janasova. In the ordinary course of business, he handles Hurley-Cooper so well, always striving for consensus. Against their parent corp he’s a nothing, spineless.

  One of the receptionists looks up from behind the circular reception counter, meets Amy’s eyes, smiles, then stands. His name is Bryce and he speaks English with a distinctive British accent. He’s also quite attractive, if you like the wiry type. He was the executive VP’s answer to Janasova’s selection of a pretty female receptionist who just happens to be of Japanese extraction, a point that is probably irrelevant, except in considering Vernon Janasova’s attitude toward Tokyo.

  “Mr. Kurushima just asked me to ring you,” Bryce says, smiling sweetly."If you have a minute ...”

  Amy points to the executive conference room doors."In there?”

  Bryce nods, and says, “Yes, that’s audit HQ.”

  9

  The truckstop is a hundred kilometers north of Bangor. Rain and sleet cut through the gloomy day like small daggers. A rocky layer of hard-packed snow and ice covers the ground. Tikki steps from her stolen pickup truck and slots the credstick into a public phone.

  Oracle reports.

  “Credstick purchased Bayerische Vereinsbank, Boston, by officer of Union Affiliates Corporation. Acting as agent for Swiss registry Solothum Trading. Front for Brussels registry Anderlecht Travel Associates. Dummy subsidiary for Free-Cal registry Vonnegut Athletics. Dummy subsidiary for New York registry NewMan Management Systems, principal officer Elgin O’Keefe, alias Ogin, alias Pointman, alias Tang. Former Ares Fire Force NCO. Experience in Desert Wars. Expertise in weapons, demolitions, interrogation, mantracking, air-cushion vehicles. Freelance specialist in fugitive recovery.”

  Yes. This is the kind of information Tikki had hoped for. Paydata. The elf who stole her cub is called Tang. His real name is O’Keefe and he is a bounty hunter. That is the essential data in Oracle’s report. The rest are the lies and half-truths that O’Keefe uses to keep his identity hidden.

  “Recent credstick disbursements in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine. Queries?”

  “Largest payment made by credstick.”

  “Boston. Two hundred-kay nuyen. Paid to Boston registry Dynamic Enterprises, principal officer Charles Kant, alias Spinner, alias Clutch.”

  Tikki’s upper lip curls back into a sneer. She knows this two-leg called Clutch through personal experience."O’Keefe associates.”

  “No current listings.”

  “Address.”

  The address Oracle gives is old, somewhere north of New York City. Tikki feels instinct urging her to go straight to that address, smash through any obstacles and drag O’Keefe to the ground, but she knows that would be stupid. That is the wild in her talking. O’Keefe is no amateur from a gutterpunk sleazehole. First, she must learn more. She must prepare. She must visit Boston and question the lowlife piece of scag who told O’Keefe where to find her.

  She must interrogate a dead man.

  10

  The room is outfitted like an armory. Brian spots a rack of Colt M22A2 assault rifles, an FN-MAG 5 medium machine gun, an Ares portable laser, a strap-on gyro mount for heavy weapons, grenade launchers, mortars, a Vindicator minigun, fragmentation grenades. Crates of high-velocity ammunition line an entire wall.

  “What is this drek?”

  “Tools of the trade,” Art replies."You oughta know that.”

  “Are we protecting the water supply, or staging for a war?”

  “Call it what you want.”

  Art passes him a full set of Kelmar Tech body armor, complete with helmet and face mask, then begins suiting up.

  Art straps holdout pistols to both his ankles and a third to his inside left arm. He holsters a Scorpion machine pistol at his right hip and the Israeli heavy auto beneath his left shoulder. He loads up with knives. After that comes a shoulder rig slung with shotgun shells, a couple of grenades, and a flare gun.

  “We’ll leave the heavy hardware for another run,” Art says.

  “Yeah?” Brian replies. That’s just what he needs to hear. Like maybe this’ll be a milk-run, with Art loading five handguns just for starters."You expecting some opposition?”

  “That’s always a possibility.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We’ll make a quick sweep.”

  “A sweep of what?”

  “We’ll start with the old Seventh Avenue main. The three-five conduit. After that, who knows? See where it leads us."

  "I thought all those old three-meter pipes were wiped out by the quake back in ’05.”

  Art stops, gazes at him with eyes like a viper, coiled and ready to strike."Kid,” he says, in a menacing undertone, “you got a lot to learn.”

  11

  The club near the heart of Boston is called Blind Puppies. Angst rocks roars and thunders through the cavernous main room, but the apartment upstairs is quiet, insulated. Cherry pauses to check her hair and sparkling neomonochrome dress in the mirrored panels of the entryway, then goes into the living room. She’s got a body like simsense star Taffy Lee, except for her light brown skin—full breasts, flaring hips, nails as long as you like—a body built for pleasure and
lots of it, but that doesn’t stop her from standing up for her man and saying what has to be said.

  “Slot and run, you halfer. You’re giving my stud a brainache.”

  The man and the dwarf sit on the blue marbleized sofa in the living room, hardcopy spread all over the low table before them. Clutch leans back and smiles, looking her over, obviously enjoying the view. The halfer sitting beside him looks at Cherry and glares, but that doesn’t scare her. Cherry takes guano from nobody. Especially nobody with a datajack in his skull and a handcomp on his belt.

  Fragging dirteater C.P.A.

  “Why don’t you go calc some digits somewhere.”

  Clutch grins and reaches for her. He pulls her close, kisses her hard on the mouth. A hand slips between her smooth round thighs. Chills of pleasure rush up her spine. She shivers. Clutch chuckles, and says, “You shouldn’t be talking drek to Mr. Numbers. He just found me some nuyen we didn’t even know I had.”

  Cherry smiles."Enough to buy me something real ice?”

  “As ice as you like,” Clutch croons."Two hundred cool ones.”

  “Two hundred-kay nuyen?”

  Clutch nods. Cherry marvels. Imagine him making so much money he can’t even keep track of it all. She always knew life with Clutch would either shine like gold or sparkle like diamonds.

  Cherry laughs, delighted.

  Clutch laughs, too.

  12

  In the few hours since the morning meeting, the executive conference room has been transformed into a local office for Kono-Furata-Ko International. The long table is now filled by Tokyo’s audit staff, all in black blazers, all wearing KFK identification. Many have palmtops and full-sized cyberdecks jacked into the conference table’s dataterms. Several carts filled with additional equipment, what Amy takes to be mass memory modules, stand along the walls.

  Up at the head of the room, there is now a trio of black desks. The center desk is nearly surrounded by a small crowd of people, more black blazers with KFK I.D. Amy walks as far as the desk on the left and sees Kurushima Jussai seated at the center desk, apparently giving orders to the troops. His Japanese is far too fast and fluent for her to catch more than a few scattered words, and nothing whatsoever of content.