《The Night Republic》
Chapter 1
Jason already has his lighter up and open before I realize I¡¯ve snuck a cigarette between my lips. I lean over to light it in the wavering orange flame, and then he flicks it shut and stows it back in his breast pocket.
¡°Very attentive, boy,¡± I say after a long draw.
Jason shrugs. ¡°You always light up before we arrive on a scene.¡±
¡°You sure you want to be a detective? You¡¯d make a great chauffeur.¡±
I only catch him rolling his eyes when we pass under a streetlight.
¡°I¡¯m sure. You can¡¯t scare me away now.¡±
¡°And you¡¯re sure you want this case as your first? To be honest, boy, this one even turns my stomach.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sure, Detective Carter.¡± There¡¯s a hard edge to his voice. Determination, at least, I can understand.
My first case had been a jewelry heist, before I was SCD. Typical urban werewolf crime, grand and impersonal. They always went for money crimes: banks, museums, jewelry stores. Vampires tended towards gang crimes: drive-bys, smuggling, extortion. Stereotypes, you know the drill. Occasional vampires jumping armored trucks or werewolves shooting up a nightclub. Nothing like this.
This case is all too gruesome for anyone¡¯s first, let alone Jason. Jason Sangredo, twenty-five years old and only two years out of the academy on Peligor, who should still be smacking petty thieves on the hand. Jason who cried the first time he read over the details of a homicide case. Jason, who reminds me of my¡well, who could have been my son. Not that anyone should have to be in this line of work.
Victim is a twenty-two year old shadow-scale dragon, identified as Vilat K. by name. The body was discovered, already dead, discarded behind one of the local gay bars by a bartender taking out the trash. Corpse shows signs of rape, gang mark crudely carved into chest, face and genitals mutilated. Not the first murder in the neighborhood this month, but it¡¯s the first mutilation in a long time.
A long time, really, since anything like this. Jason has been lucky up until now SCD got thrown cases at all. All routine follow-ups on crimes largely covered by whatever district precinct was closest. Nothing for us to really sink our claws into. Not that I want anything like that for Jason, but it¡¯s his life. Some of us choose SCD, some of us fall into it.
¡°We¡¯re here,¡± he says.
The car shudders itself to a glide in front of the bar. I sidle out of my seat and glare up at the gaudy neon sign of The Blue Belle, a neon pink body that flashes just so to look like the figure is grinding a pole, and make note of the boarded-up windows of the surrounding neighborhood. No other witnesses most likely. Two police officers stand between a crowd of press and the taped-off alleyway. Jason and I flash our badges. Local precinct really only threw us this one because of the mutilation.
My hand quickly finds the space between Jason¡¯s shoulder blades when he stumbles back at his first glimpse of the body. Beneath my hold, I can feel his muscle tense and his body start to morph, the same primal urge to shift and run as far as possible I feel in my bones. The stink of gore and blood makes the bile rise in my throat, but nonetheless I step around Jason and do my duty. The secret of experience is growing to hide it all, but still I can feel the urge to shift behind my skin like a bad case of sunburn. I¡¯m sickened everytime I catch the corpse out of the corner of my eye, as I¡¯m forced to consider who would do something like this. I¡¯ve seen a handful of cases like this. Jason will get used to this too, and that sickens me as much as the murder. No one should have to get used to this.
¡°Hey,¡± I say. His eyes are dead when he looks up at me, but his features have returned to normal. ¡°Don¡¯t forget to take photos.¡± I gesture as if I¡¯m clicking the shutter on the camera hanging from his neck. He nods but doesn¡¯t immediately grab it. He¡¯s shocked, I know. This could have easily been him.
Back at the station, Jason excuses himself to the bathroom. I don¡¯t blame him. I want to go home and cry about this over a strong drink too, but we have a job to do. I plug the camera into the computer to upload the photos. The body, front and side view, with and without flash. Blood splatter. The weapon supposedly used, tossed lazily just behind the dumpster, forensics pending. Square shot of the gang mark. I freeze there. It¡¯s familiar, a recent case probably. I search through some recent mugshots. Jackpot. Saren Liter, forty-two years old, member of local Black Laquer gang, arrested as a recent suspect in a rape just a couple blocks from the same nightclub. And he has that same gang mark tattooed on his arm. That¡¯s a lead then. Jason¡¯s first real interrogation. I crack the bathroom door.
¡°Hey, boy,¡± I call, ¡°Hurry up, you have a lead.¡±
I hear a loud sniff and a muffled reply.
¡°Huh?¡±
Another sniff. ¡°Go without me, Detective.¡±
¡°No can do. This is your case, remember?¡±
I hear one of the stalls open and shut, and the water starts to run. Hand dryer goes off. Jason opens the door the rest of the way, his eyes bloodshot and his face still wet. I turn to head towards the car.
¡°How do you deal with it, sir?¡±
I pause and turn back to look Jason in the eyes.
¡°We catch the son of a cur who did this. That¡¯s your solace.¡±
And then I¡¯m walking to the car again, Jason¡¯s meek footsteps following behind. It¡¯s a short drive to the county jail, or short enough at least I don¡¯t light a cigarette. The sun is just coming up as we pass through the gates. We¡¯re out of the car and through the first checkpoint within the blink of an eye. Never really carried a gun in my line of work. Detectives always have the grueling work, guessing motives and questioning suspects. Cops get to have all the fun, finding suspects and shooting criminals. Probably should remember to at least throw it in the glovebox instead of gathering dust in my office desk. We make it through the second checkpoint and into the interrogation room. While a corrections officer goes to fetch Liter, I debrief Jason again on procedures.
¡°We presume guilt before innocence with suspects like this. As far as we care, Liter is the perpetrator. Secondly, all we have is words. No matter how much this young punk of a vampire infuriates you, keep your cool or the gig is up.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll do my best, detective.¡±
¡°No. You¡¯ll keep your cool, boy. No doing your best, you¡¯ll do what you have to.¡±
¡°Yes, sir.¡±
Just then, the door opens, and Liter is led into the room in restraints and a mouthguard. He looks more scraggly than his mugshot, stubble on his chin and bags under his eyes. He sits down almost robotically. The guard points to the mouthguard and raises an eyebrow. I nod.
¡°I don¡¯t know what more¡¡± Liter spits, wiping the line of drool that follows the gag away off his chin. He looks up and his face contorts when he locks eyes with me. ¡°What do you want, mutt?¡± He looks at Jason and sniffs loudly a couple times. ¡°Yuck, and the big dog has a puppy.¡± LIter grins at Jason. ¡°You don¡¯t stink as much as your grown-up here, but all you dogs smell alike.¡± He rolls his eyes and sneers at me. ¡°What is he here for, to see what real men look like?¡±
I see Jason¡¯s hands curl into fists under the table.
¡°Actually, we¡¯re here about a new case¡ª¡±
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¡°Wasn¡¯t me. I¡¯ve been in here ever since, I don¡¯t know, you caught me.¡±
¡°Right, right,¡± I continue, ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean you couldn¡¯t have called a hit from here.¡± I pull out a print of the carved gang mark. ¡°Recognize this?¡±
Liter clicks his jaw shut, glancing once at the photo and not looking back. The loose clothes the prison has him in crinkle slightly as he shifts his weight back. Honestly, he reeks like rotten meat, and I can see Jason¡¯s nose start twitching out of the corner of my eye.
¡°What are they feeding you in here, Soren? You stink like you haven¡¯t had a drink in months.¡±
The vampire grimaces. ¡°I haven¡¯t had a drink in months. You think they¡¯d feed me, what, other prisoners? Dumbass.¡±
¡°Animal blood?¡±
¡°Vegetable strain, actually. Not that you actually care. Almost a crime itself if you ask me. State has got it down to a science now, how long they can keep us off the good stuff before we just shrivel up.¡±
I slide the picture forwards again.
¡°That¡¯s your mark, isn¡¯t it, Liter?¡±
He just grimaces and nods his head.
¡°Then what¡¯s it mean?¡± Jason pipes up.
Liter flicks his gaze to Jason and scoffs. ¡°You¡¯re all bark and no bite, pup. You¡¯d get chewed alive out there if it weren¡¯t for the mutt here.¡±
Jason slams his hands on the table and pounces to his feet. His hands slowly begin to shift to paws as his nails dig into the wood, and I can see the canines in his scowl start to lengthen. Liter just laughs.
¡°Nice try, pup, but you can¡¯t hurt me in here, else I¡¯ll be seeing you behind the bars with me.¡±
I go to put a hand on Jason¡¯s arm, but he takes a sharp exhale and plops back into his seat before I can.
¡°Let¡¯s put it this way then, leech.¡± There¡¯s venom on the last word. ¡°You¡¯re the only one we know with that mark. That means you¡¯re the primary suspect until we find the real killer. I¡¯m sure the judge would love to add thirty years to your sentence for conspiring to homicide.¡±
Liter sighs and then chuckles. ¡°Oh yeah,¡± he says and looks at me, ¡°You¡¯re teaching this pup something at least, detective.¡±
¡°Something. The mark?¡±
Liter leans forwards in his chair.
¡°I want a favor. And I want to stay anonymous.¡±
¡°No one will know about it from our lips,¡± I say.
He looks to Jason who nods and grunts. Liter sighs again.
¡°I don¡¯t know that I can give you much.¡±
¡°Give us whatever you can. The favor?¡±
¡°Blood. Even just one measly rat. Please. I¡¯m going crazy here. Something.¡±
¡°No promises. We¡¯ll see what we can arrange. The mark?¡±
Jason takes notes as Liter talks. Eden River Syndicate. Anonymous members, all wear masks. Mix of species, even some humans. Only the leader knew member identities. Meeting place was never the same, spread all over the country.
¡°You¡¯re not wrong, Liter,¡± I say, ¡°You¡¯re giving me nothing to go on.¡±
¡°All I know is we have the mark, part of the initiation.¡±
¡°And you¡¯ve done crimes like this before?¡± Jason asks.
¡°No, not quite like this. Murder, sure, what good crime syndicate doesn¡¯t? But nothing like this.¡±
Jason taps the pen against his notepad, clicking the point a couple of times to fill the silence.
¡°That¡¯s all I¡¯ve got, mutt, sorry.¡± Liter shrugs.
¡°Then we¡¯ll keep in touch.¡± I motion to the guard by the door that we¡¯re done.
Liter is hauled back up and moved to the door.
¡°Don¡¯t forget,¡± he says, turning his head to avoid the gag being replaced, ¡°Blood.¡±
The guard leads the vampire out, and I turn to Jason. I raise an eyebrow at him when he meets my gaze and nods in return. He thanks the guards for their time on the way out, and we return to the car. The drive back to the station is just as quiet as the drive to the prison. I make a quick note on my phone to call the warden the next morning. No use making false promises right now. We¡¯re already back in the office, and I¡¯m reviewing the vague notes we got off Liter, when Jason finally speaks.
¡°So what now, sir?¡±
¡°Your case,¡± I say without looking up, ¡°What do you think we should do?¡±
He doesn¡¯t answer at first, choosing instead to get up and pace in front of the window. It¡¯s midnight by now, and the lights of the city outside seem dim compared to our lamps reflecting off the glass. Jason stops finally and crosses his arms to look out. The notes prove more annoying than useful, and I join him at the window. The lights balance as I get closer, and I stare out at the city¡¯s nightlife.
I''m not old enough to remember when this city was still all vampires. Before my grandfather, before the Night Republic, before all of this. When we were all separate races on separate planets trying desperately to forget the others existed until another skirmish in an endless war would bring everything sharply to focus again. Lights flash on the street below, a police quad chasing some manual driver weaving between the cars minding their own business as they meander to their destinations.
A pity, I think, that a couple miles west I could be on a ship that¡¯d take me halfway across the galaxy before the next day is up, and still the vampires insist on these slow things inside city limits. Something about not being used to the high speeds of modern convenience. A small price, I suppose, for peace. Or as damn close to it as we can get.
¡°I guess,¡± Jason finally says, ¡°We should start by seeing if the system has anyone else with that mark. We can send out bulletins to each precinct to check their databases and screen incoming criminals.¡±
¡°As good a place to start as any, but I have to ask: where does that leave you?¡±
Jason chuckles. ¡°That¡¯s where I¡¯m stuck right now. What am I meant to do?¡±
¡°Your case,¡± I repeat.
¡°What¡¯s that thing you always say, sir? ¡®Waiting is the worst crime, but the most necessary step¡¯?¡±
¡°Something like that.¡±
¡°Then I guess we¡¯ll just have to wait, as much as it kills me to sit down while the killer is still out there.¡±
¡°Might as well ride home with me then. I think you need, and deserve, a strong drink right about now, and maybe some hardy food. Case isn¡¯t going anywhere.¡±
¡°That¡¯s the best idea I¡¯ve heard all night.¡±
Chapter 2
Of all those individuals situated on the eastern continent who bare the same tattooed mark as Vilas, we¡¯ve found exactly none by the end of the second week out. Bulletins to neighboring departments outside the city have ended in two ways: ignored entirely, or a quick shrug of the proverbial shoulders and a wish of good luck in our case. Jason takes it, again, the worst. I don¡¯t know that I¡¯m faring better. Every case that came across SCD¡¯s desk was a puzzle that needed solving, but two weeks of no progress was excruciating even for an experienced detective.
What had begun that first night as a simple gesture to take Jason¡¯s mind off of the sight of the mangled corpse became routine. First one glass of bourbon. Then three. By the turn of the third week, Jason has almost moved into the small living room of my apartment. Some nights we just sit silently, faces shadowed by the dim light that hung over the kitchen island, as we sip at our drinks. When it¡¯s clear by his drooping eyelids and vacant stare that he¡¯s had enough, I guide him to the couch where he throws one leg over the arm and sets to snoring before I can even walk away.
It was nights like this where I perch in the adjacent recliner and just watch the slow rise and fall of Jason¡¯s breaths. It¡¯s been a long time since I had felt the way I knew we were both suffering. A powerlessness in the face of an unspeakable deed. And in watching the life fade from a young soul in front of my eyes. As I drift off myself, I startle awake again suddenly sure that Jason has stopped breathing, only to be met a second later by another snore.
In the morning, still filled with yawns, Jason waddles off to the bathroom to shower and throw up. Sometimes I sit behind him on the rim of the tub, unable to provide any comfort beyond softly rubbing his back as he expels all of his mistakes from the night before. Sometimes I already have breakfast ready by the time he emerges with eyes bloodshot and the same pair of wrinkled slacks cinched tightly around his waist. There¡¯s nothing to say.
I drive him back to his own place to get some fresh clothes. The first couple of days I wait idling in the car to see if he¡¯ll even come back down. Then I start following him up. He excuses himself in a hoarse whisper to go change, and comes back eventually in some variation of his normal slacks and a button-down. In watching him shuffle without energy back over and out of the building, I feel that same bile rise in my throat as examining a corpse. It¡¯s like watching a man die second by second, but for some reason I can¡¯t do anything to stop it.
Until, that is, my phone buzzes in that third week. I¡¯m halfway through my plate of eggs, still listening to the quiet patter of the shower from the other room, when it lights up with the office number. It¡¯s in my hand before I even register the ringing.
¡°Carter, go ahead.¡±
¡°Detective, we have a lead finally out of Trusset Prefecture. Another person matching your mark.¡±
¡°Put it all in a folder, we¡¯ll be there in fifteen.¡±
Modesty aside, I barge into the bathroom. I take in the crumpled clothes, the heavy steam that fogs the mirror and chokes the air, the stink of sweat and sick. Jason¡¯s small form curls in the corner of the tub, tears nearly indistinguishable from the water running along his skin. Whatever small words that have propelled me through the door fizzle against my lips, and I sit on the edge of the tub.
I watch the gentle swirl as the shower pools around the drain and disappears. Indecision grips my heart like an icy fist; to help, or to once again let a moment pass in the hope he can sort himself out. Finally, I reach over to turn the water off. Jason doesn¡¯t register that anything has changed. It isn¡¯t until I¡¯ve pulled him to his feet and begun to pat him dry that his glazed eyes turn to me.
¡°What are you doing?¡± His voice comes out quiet and raspy.
¡°They found a lead,¡± I say.
¡°Oh.¡±
He stands still as I work my way from top to bottom and toss the dirty towel into the hamper. There¡¯s some light reinvigorated behind his gaze, but even as I step away he doesn''t move.
¡°Do I have to dress you too? Come on.¡±
For the first time, I think, in those three weeks Jason chuckles. I nod and back into the hallway.
¡°What if I say yes?¡±
I just roll my eyes.
¡°Thank you,¡± his hoarse voice says after me.
¡°Three minutes. I¡¯ll be in the car.¡±
¡°Yes, sir.¡±
Dressed and more lively, we stride into the station and make straight for our small cozy corner office. The folder is laid out on the desk, no secretary in sight, and the shades are fluttering in the breeze. This is wrong. I smell it before I see it in the corner. Jason flicks on the light, still oblivious, bringing the figure into full light. There¡¯s only a flash of black fur before it lunges, diving for the small closet on the other side of the room, rattling the whole while.
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¡°Was that¡ª¡±Jason starts.
I nod and motion him to silence. I sidle towards the desk, careful to stay on the balls of my feet. I¡¯m sure it can hear me, still. Carefully, I pull open the top-most drawer and pull out the black pistol case. As silently as I can manage, I slide the mechanism to the right code and open it. Still here. Pistol in hand, I creep back over to Jason.
¡°They teach you how to shoot at your academy, boy?¡± I growl low.
¡°The basics, but¡ª¡±
¡°Two rules: don¡¯t hit me, and don¡¯t shoot until you have to.¡±
I push the gun into his hands and walk over to the switch. The room plunges back into semi-darkness, the only light the filtered sun through the blinds. The closet is three paces away. I can still smell the thing, stinking of fear and confusion and wolf, and there¡¯s only the barest sound of breathing over the beat of my own heart in my ears. My fingers wrap around the handle, and ever so slowly I inch the door open.
This is the hardest part. The spike of fear in my own chest chiseling away at my confidence, but I persist. The figure is still obscured by the darkness, but I can see the rise and fall of its chest as it pushes back further into the corner. The small tremor as it cowers in terror. I try to hold its gaze, but its eyes dart back and forth, seeking an escape. I can¡¯t get a good look at the shackles around its wrists, but I can tell they¡¯re infected.
¡°Relax. We¡¯re here to help. Come on out now.¡±
The figure whines softly, but it stops shaking and relaxes just a little.
¡°My name is Parga Carter, I¡¯m a detective here. This is Jason. We¡¯re not going to hurt you. We¡¯re the same as you.¡±
I nod again to Jason, who half-shifts, fur bunching up just under his collar and creeping up over his elongating face until his head is more like a wolf than a man. He waves awkwardly with what is now a paw. Show-off. I shift as well, though with less finesse than Jason, and I can feel my clothes starting to tear at the seams as my abdomen bulks up. I shake it back off as quickly as I can, not wanting to ruin a perfectly good shirt for no reason.
The figure calms more, breathing becoming more regular, and it moves to exit the closet. I step out of the way as it emerges back into the office. Jason flicks the safety on the gun and tucks it into his pocket before pulling over a chair. The wolf cocks its head and points.
¡°¡sit?¡± it growls, working the word over in its maw.
¡°Go ahead, we¡¯re going to get you a nice cup of tea.¡±
Jason and I share a look, and he knows what I mean. The wolf slowly lowers itself into the chair, like it¡¯s unsure how to even sit correctly, and ends up perching awkwardly half-on the cushion. Low-tech planet, but the water starts boiling immediately as Jason punches in what he needs from the machine. Soon enough, he carries over a mug of tea, already cooled enough to drink, and hands it off to the wolf. It tries to configure its paws to hold the mug, but grunts in dissatisfaction when it can¡¯t quite get a grip.
Jason smiles softly, holding one hand under the wolf¡¯s chin and the other brings the mug to its lips. In one long swallow, it downs the tepid liquid and shudders. Instantly, it begins to shrink, fur and nails receding, and after a moment in the wolf¡¯s place is a scarred and broken¡ªand very much not clothed¡ªwoman.
¡°What¡what did you¡¡± she whispers, looking herself over.
¡°Chamomile tea. Never actually had it myself, but I hear it¡¯s actually quite pleasant. An old grandma¡¯s quick fix for pups getting through their first shifts. Though, now, it¡¯s pretty common knowledge as a suppressant for our kind.¡±
¡°I¡¯m¡.human again. I didn¡¯t know I¡.that I could even¡¡±
¡°How long?¡± Jason says.
¡°I don¡¯t know. Since before I can remember. Since I was a kid.¡±
¡°We¡¯ll get around to that later. For now, welcome to the Night Republic, or one of its many worlds anyway. You are free now, but I would suggest you let us get you some medical help.¡±
Jason flicks the light back on, and the full damage is revealed. The shackles are definitely infected, the skin around them various shades of black and grey, but more so they¡¯ve ground their way underneath the surrounding flesh.
¡°Free.¡± The word sounds so foreign to her voice. She grins. ¡°I¡¯m free.¡±
I leave Jason alone with her as I step outside to call emergency services. They¡¯re there in three minutes, siren startling the neighborhood awake around them, faces coming to windows groggy but interested. Nosy people everywhere. As the two EMTs grab the stretcher out of the back, I fill them in. It¡¯s not the first stray I¡¯ve called an ambulance for, but certainly the first this close to the city itself. A cop quad pulls up as well, and I incline my head over to the side, holding the door open for the stretcher to be wheeled through.
¡°Officer Ferrou. You got reassigned?¡±
¡°About two weeks ago, yeah. One of the local guys is out on leave after a nasty raid. I drew the short straw.¡±
¡°Well. Good to see a friendly face, at least. This is a rough one, I think.¡±
¡°Heard the call over the dispatch, and when they said six hundred block figured it must be you. How bad?¡±
¡°Restraints have receded under her skin. They¡¯re all feral, but this one could barely even talk. No other details yet, I want to make sure she lives before we go hunting.¡±
¡°Aren¡¯t you on another case? You have time to hunt some radical?¡±
¡°Normally, I wouldn¡¯t. But this is a little different. Believe me or not, this is connected to our investigation.¡±
The stretcher comes back out of the doors, the woman gripping onto the side with one hand while the other has white-knuckles wrapped around Jason¡¯s forearm. He pats her gently, removing her hold, whispering something to calm her down again. The paramedics load her into the ambulance, and it¡¯s away again before we can say anything.
¡°They taking her to General on 5th and Hospital?¡± I ask.
Ferrou nods. ¡°Yeah. Meet you there this afternoon?¡±
¡°I imagine so.¡±
Ferrou claps me on the back before sliding back onto his quad and launching off in the opposite direction of the EMTs. Jason comes over to stand with me.
¡°Her shackles. You saw them up close?¡±
¡°How long do you think I¡¯ve been in this field, boy? I saw as soon as you turned the light back on.¡±
¡°Well,¡± he sighs, ¡°This one¡¯s alive at least.¡±
Chapter 3
Back in the office, Jason cleans up what little mess the female wolf left. I start to pour over the file on the desk, really nothing. I close it in frustration a moment later, moving over to the machine in the corner to make myself a coffee. Jason takes my place. The sound of him flipping pages mixes with the sound of the water boiling and squealing as it pours over the half-burnt grounds in the canister. Damn cheap department. As soon as the mug is full, I pull it away and pour in way more sugar than is healthy for someone my age. I dislike coffee, but it¡¯s better than being groggy the whole morning, and trying to import any tea but chamomile costs a fortune on this planet. Damn vampires.
Eventually, Jason puts the file down as well and takes a seat by the window. I gulp the rest of my cup. One is enough for now. I sit across from him, crossing my legs and sighing. He stares into oblivion a while longer before turning to regard me.
¡°Not much to go on there.¡±
¡°Nope,¡± I grunt, ¡°What do you want to do now?¡±
¡°Well, how far did we send the bulletin again?¡±
¡°Local precincts only, under the assumption the syndicate hasn¡¯t moved offworld.¡±
¡°And that was my idea?¡±
¡°Not entirely. I¡¯m hoping this isn¡¯t a case that¡¯ll cause planet-hopping. That can get messy, and I don¡¯t want your first case to be that rough.¡±
¡°Still. It can¡¯t hurt for us to send it further, at least to Wolven and Peligor.¡±
¡°Still rough.¡±
Jason chuckles. ¡°Too late to worry about that. What are the chances we walk in on a feral, still chained, bearing the same mark as our victim?¡±
I just shake my head. What are the chances we even found a feral? I¡¯d seen one in my career once before, same planet but a long shot from the center of a busy city. It¡¯d been an old farm miles from civilization, and the tip had been shoddy. But I was younger, stupider, and I had more to prove. That was before SCD, when I was still thinking I could be a small detective for a police department.
¡°What are you thinking about, detective?¡±
I shake my head again. ¡°Nothing important. You can be a real show-off, I ever tell you that?¡±
Jason blushes. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you mean.¡±
¡°A perfect partial shift with no warning, and you didn¡¯t even pause. I¡¯m probably gonna have to buy a new shirt. Show-off.¡±
Jason looks around innocently and then grins widely. ¡°Or¡.you¡¯re just rusty. We don¡¯t really get to go wild a lot as officers of the law.¡±
¡°Are you calling me old?¡± I growl. ¡°I could still run laps around you, pup.¡±
¡°We have some time to kill, waiting for them to finish evaluating the feral. Prove it.¡±
I grin back. ¡°Fine. I will.¡±
We¡¯re back in the car and on our way across the city before either of us can change our minds. Even without the competition, I think, I do need some exercise. Sitting around and drinking isn¡¯t doing wonders for my physique. Then we¡¯re in front of the Lycandrome. The vampires could work to make it socially taboo to shift in public, but even they knew we had to have some outlet. The great expanse of grass stretched out before us as we paid our fee and pushed through the gate into the center of the complex.
Both of us stepped into the changing rooms, stowing our few belongings and clothes in lockers, before stepping back onto the turf now bare to the skin. Jason shivered but smiled.
¡°Ready?¡±
¡°What are the rules?¡±
¡°Last to finish three laps buys the other lunch wherever they want.¡±
¡°Deal.¡±
We pose, down on all fours, and shift fully into our wolf forms. Jason is the model of a Sangredo wolf, pure-black fur long and flat against his body. He takes a long stretch, licks his lips, and looks over to me. Me, who feels overweight even in wolfskin, my fur already turning gray around my muzzle.
Come one, old man. Don¡¯t give up on me before we even start. Jason teases.
Just ¡®rusty¡¯ as you say. Prepare to be out of a paycheck, boy.
Doubt it.
We stand shoulder to shoulder on the grass, both leaning low and ready to spring forwards.
Ready? Go!
Jason takes the lead at first, young limbs more suited to the initial sprint. My joints, meanwhile, protest at the sudden exertion, but I push past the discomfort. I can see him just ahead of me, nearing midway to the first curve, and I feel the caffeine in my blood. No way I¡¯m losing to this young upstart. I force myself to go faster, pushing against the ground harder than I have in a long time. Soon, I¡¯m gaining on him, close enough to nip his tail.
Hey, no fair.
I laugh as I push past him.
You never said it was against the rules.
I race forwards, trying to leave him behind, but I can feel his presence close on my heels. We round the far side of the field and start to come back. I keep pushing, but I can feel my energy starting to dip. Not now. Come on. I force my way through the dip, mustering whatever reserves I have in my aging bones. Jason, meanwhile, is inching closer and closer to overtaking me, and he takes the lead again as we reach the start. Lap 1 done.
We¡¯re near neck and neck through the second lap, but as we near the finish line again I feel myself start to truly tire, and Jason takes the opportunity to get farther ahead. He seems to get a little more in front every lope until I¡¯m once again staring right at the back of him. We round the opposite curve again, and I know I can¡¯t beat him. I slow to a pace, no longer trying to keep up, and pant until Jason finishes his last lap and comes to walk beside me.
Well? What do you say to that?
I say you win. What more did you want?
To admit you¡¯re rusty.
Fine. I¡¯m rusty. Happy?
Jason doesn¡¯t say anything, but I can practically feel the grin leeching off of him. I stop, and he takes a second to turn. As soon as he¡¯s facing me, I take the last ounce of energy in my body and leap on top of him, pinning him on his back. He growls, but I know I can win a contest of strength at least.
Aww. What¡¯s wrong, pup?
No fair! Let me up.
Admit it. You¡¯re just a show-off because you''re some distant relation to the mainline Sangredo family.
Come on Jason tries to shake me off, but I hold firm. Seriously, let me up.
Not until you admit it.
This isn¡¯t funny.
Admit it.
Jason doesn¡¯t say anything, he just huffs and stares at me with hatred in his eyes. I sigh, and get off of him.
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You¡¯re no fun. What would your dad¡
What would your dad think, I start to say. But no, this is Jason, no matter how much he looks like¡it hits me all at once. The fur, the small turn of his lip when he scowls, the way his voice breaks when he whines. Suddenly, I¡¯m in motion again, grass flying beneath me as I burn through every ounce of energy in my system. I¡¯m running from the past, I think, literally. As if I can outrun the thoughts themselves. I do one lap, two, three, starting a fourth when Jason steps out in front of me. I try to cut around him, but he lunges to stop me.
Move, I growl.
Jason shakes his head.
Detective¡Parga. Calm down. What¡¯s got into you?
Have to¡have to run.
Sure. He says. Sure, but you¡¯re starting to bleed, sir.
I taste it as soon as he says it. My tongue probes and finds a fresh trickle leaking down out of my nostrils. Damn. I sit down hard, feeling my hip drive into the ground as I shift back. That¡¯ll leave a bruise. Jason saunters up beside me, nuzzling at my hand.
Come on, I¡¯ll help you back to the changing room.
I hold onto the fur at the back of his neck as he walks beside me back across the field. Outside the changing room, he shifts back, placing a hand on my back. We get our stuff, toweling off as much of the sweat as we can before we slip back into our clothes. Back in the car, Jason is silent as he opens the glovebox and pulls out a wad of tissues.
¡°For your nose.¡±
¡°Thanks.¡±
He¡¯s silent again, staring out of the windshield as we idle outside the Lycandrome. I can see his mouth working, chewing over what he should say, to help with this situation.
¡°You won. What do you want for lunch?¡± I ask.
¡°Graystone on 4th?¡±
I punch the address into the car, and it starts off into the midday traffic towards the restaurant. We¡¯re moving, but the air around us feels so stagnant. I can¡¯t guess what Jason is thinking, but I know even running to the point of injuring myself hasn¡¯t erased the thoughts. I dab at my nose with a clean corner of the tissue, and it comes away without blood this time. That¡¯s good, at least. Outside the window, the innumerable peoples of the city mingle. Bored office workers lean back in their carseats, waiting impatiently as their cars start and stop, over and over. We pass a group of school-age children meandering outside a tech-shop, eyeing a particularly spiky looking hoverboard. As we near Graystone, the buildings start to change shape. The tall office spaces, all steel and windows magnifying the sunlight a thousandfold, shrink to small brown-brick apartments and wooden townhomes. There¡¯s families huddled together pushing strollers and throwing balls. A few ballsy teens whizz through the traffic on boards, bags still hanging from their shoulders. Soon, the car glides to a stop in between two others on the side of the road, and we step out to stand in front of the restaurant.
A host meets us at the door, a Ktonian by the green-blue tint to their skin, and ushers us to a table near the front by the windows. They introduce themselves as Hearse-on-cloudy-water, and leave us to grab a seasonal cocktail menu at my request, though they do so with a wink at Jason. The inside of the restaurant is upscale, the molding around the wall trims resembling small waves crashing over themselves to infinity, and rustic in the way the tables are each clothed in gray waxed cotton and set with a small floral arrangement. Hearse returns with the menu, but by then Jason is staring at me again, and I can¡¯t concentrate to read. It¡¯s that look that convinced me to take him on in the first place. He¡¯d come looking for SCD, too young and too na?ve, but that look that was like being placed on a slide under a microscanner, and it made even my skin crawl.
I end up taking whatever Hearse recommends for starters, and try to meet Jason¡¯s fierce gaze. There¡¯s nothing malicious behind it, but the raw scrutiny is almost callous. A rough hand shaking me for all I don¡¯t want to say.
¡°Stop staring at me.¡±
¡°Not until you tell me.¡±
¡°What¡¯s to tell? I got an urge to run, so I ran.¡±
Jason sighs audibly through his nose, flashing the Ktonian a quick smile as they set the drinks down and a basket of some fried vegetable or another. They leave us for a while to consider the main course. Jason takes a tentative sip of the cocktail, shrugs, and picks up a long piece from the dish. Between chewing, he still watches me. It makes my skin itch.
¡°What would your dad, that¡¯s what you said before you cut yourself off.¡±
¡°I did. Can¡¯t we drop it?¡±
¡°Probably not,¡± Jason sighs. ¡°Not if you¡¯re going to bolt on me again.¡±
I sigh in turn. I¡¯ve done a lot to avoid this conversation. This¡memory.
¡°Can I at least eat first?¡±
¡°Mm, no can do, detective. We eat, you start talking about something else, I might forget. You can order first, but then you¡¯re going to tell me.¡±
I pinch my nose. He¡¯s persistent, I give him that. He¡¯d make a good detective yet. We eat the fried pickle spears in silence, sipping at our drinks, until Hearse returns. Jason orders himself a hefty steak, rare, and a side of grilled asparagus. I opt for a seared tuna, not sure if my stomach can handle meat between the vigorous exercise and the sheer tension emanating between the two of us. Hearse nods along, waves to a guest walking in, and goes to greet them once they¡¯re sure we¡¯re done ordering.
¡°So. Talk.¡± God, he sounds so serious. If I could only get him to be like this during a real interrogation, but¡
¡°It¡¯s a long story.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t stall.¡±
I sigh. ¡°I went to the same academy on Peligor, you know. Graduated about middle of my class, standard training, and got a job on the other side of the city, near the outskirts. I never wanted to make a name for myself.¡±
¡°But you did.¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t have a choice. I got dragged into this line of work, teeth bared and claws digging in. I never wanted to be SCD, like you. I never wanted¡this. Still wanted to prove myself though.
¡°Precinct got a tip that there was a feral farm about two miles out west. We went out, three officers and I, to investigate. Rolled up like we were heroes. It seemed normal from the outside, couple of hands going row to row checking the hydro-units while the farmer sat on the porch smoking. I could smell the turnips in the ground, almost ready, but there was something off. Some scent slinking beneath I couldn¡¯t put my finger on.
¡°Soon as we stepped out of the cruiser, the hands stood up and watched us, not moving. The farmer tried to play it cool, but I could see him tensing up, ready to jump at a moment¡¯s notice. Officers did their due diligence, read him his rights, told him why we were out there. Bastard had a thermoknife in his waistband none of us saw. He took the first officer down before we could even reach for our own weapons. Lucky, honestly, we were far enough away for them to draw a bead and put a charge right between his eyes as he lunged off the porch.
¡°The hands scattered of course. Never found them. One of the officers took care of the bodies while the other went with me into the house. Standard living. Kitchen, den, bedrooms. Then we saw the basement locked. Officer blasted the bolt right off, and we descended further. It was¡I can still smell them, even now. Six near-corpses, all nailed to the floor, except the youngest who hadn¡¯t even learned to shift yet. Their wounds were deep, too deep to survive the trip back to the city and medical help. Pus-rotted bones poked out at odd angles where they¡¯d snapped their own legs to try and get free. The officer looked at them, looked at me, and put each of them down in turn.
¡°I see him in my dreams sometimes. The youngest of the bunch, long scars crossing his face where they¡¯d cut him until they could get to his tongue. Those soulless eyes watching me as he was put out of his misery, like a fucking animal. I¡I can¡¯t¡¡±
Jason reaches across the table to place a hand over mine. It means something. I want to stop. I want to stop having to think about this all again, but I can¡¯t stop.
¡°I had a partner then, another werewolf who went by Leori. He had a son by an ex-wife, another Sangredo like you. I met Leori when his son was three, just young enough to be able to forget his mother had abandoned him. The farm case had to have been¡he was twelve by then, I think. We rode back from that farm in silence, knowing none of us could erase the gore from our minds. It takes a sick mind to do that kind of shit.
¡°We tried to track down the hands, but of course there was no record of them or the farmer. The case went cold, and the precinct had to drink its sorrows over not being able to do anything for those six souls in the basement. It could have been over, right there. Another racial case with no evidence, filed away, but oh no. We¡¯d stirred the nest of wasps by then.¡±
I feel tears wetting my cheeks. Hearse had brought the food at some point and left again, but both dishes sit untouched while I talk. It¡¯s out of my hands now, all of it.
¡°The street was silent when I came home one night, eerily so. Where there were usually kids playing, people talking on the corners, there was no one. The house was quiet too, no Leori at the door followed by the smells of whatever he¡¯d decided to cook. No son in the living room, fiddling with the holovision. I¡I found them in the bedroom.¡±
I gag at the memory suddenly, the pungent scent of gore filling my nostrils. It¡¯s too fresh, too real still. Jason just rubs the back of my hand gently, coaxing me through it.
¡°They¡¯d found out they were connected to me. Connected to the detective trying to bring their operation to justice. Leori they¡¯d let half-shift before pinning him to the wall through his neck. The son, my little boy¡¡± The tears are flowing now, and a sob wracks my body. ¡°Cory. His name was Cory. All they¡¯d left was his head, black fur bristled around his maw, filled to the brim with clothes. His eyes, what was left of them, were stained with tears. I¡¯m sure they made him watch.¡± I sniff loudly, and now I¡¯m angry again. I feel the fur start to appear as my hand turn to paws.
¡°I swore then and there, I would find them. I would find every last feral farmer and make them suffer. I quit the precinct the next day and went straight to SCD. They¡¯d been knocking on my door for a while anyway, wanting my skills on their side.¡±
I place a paw on Jason¡¯s cheek, now tear-stained as well.
¡°You just look¡so much like him, sometimes. The last time I had a race like that was¡before. Before it all. Before I couldn¡¯t turn back.¡±
We don¡¯t even eat the food. Jason takes me to my apartment, and we sit on the couch together. His hand finds the space between my shoulder blades, softly stroking like I would when he was hunched over the toilet. We don¡¯t drink. Eventually, we¡¯re both calm enough to at least reheat some food out of the fridge and eat before we have to be at the hospital. I change my shirt, now ripped at the seams.
¡°We¡¯ll find them,¡± Jason says from the doorway.
¡°I know.¡±
¡°I mean it.¡±
¡°You should be more worried about your case right now.¡±
¡°I have a feeling in my gut, call it stupid, that the two aren¡¯t entirely separate.¡±
¡°Now that,¡± I say, and step past him to head to the car, ¡°Would be nice, for once.¡±
Chapter 4
The female werewolf¡ªwho, by the time we arrive at the hospital, has begun to call herself Zarcha¡ªlays stable in the hospital bed. City officials permit enough technology at least that removing the embedded shackles is an easy but careful process. The flesh is smooth and misshapen but nevertheless intact, a different shade of pink than the rest of Zarcha¡¯s legs. She tries to leap out of the bed as soon as Jason sidles in behind me, and it¡¯s only my quick reflexes that catch her before she smashes her face into the railing of the hospital bed as exhausted muscles strain against her attempts to use them.
Jason obliges her instead, sitting on the edge of the nanofiber mattress and clasping her hand in his own. Zarcha positively beams, an immense odor of satisfaction wafting off of her. It hurts a little to be here for the express purpose of uncovering whichever ring she belongs to. I clear my throat, but Jason waves me away. His case, after all.
¡°Zarcha. What a pretty name. I suppose even your mother told you that old story.¡±
¡°Maybe. I don¡¯t remember, really. It was just a name that came to mind when they asked me for my own. I¡¯ve never¡had a name before. Not a real one.¡±
¡°Well,¡± Jason sighs. ¡°I hate to be a man of business¡but, what do you remember?¡±
¡°So much, and so little.¡±
¡°Do you know where you escaped from before coming to the station? Any landmarks?¡±
¡°I remember a statue of some kind. I think. A statue of a werewolf perched up on something. I remember¡thinking it was real for a second, only a second though. I just wanted to get away.¡±
¡°How far from the statue were you when you made it outside?¡± I interject. ¡°Did you break any windows or anything on the way out?¡±
¡°A window. Yes. I jumped from an upper floor somewhere nearby. I could see the statue before I jumped.¡±
I nod, keying the exact detail into a message for dispatch. Doubt the news of a feral this close to the city center hasn¡¯t hit every news station by now, the culprits already packed and fled. The window, though, they can¡¯t hide in time.
¡°You were very brave to run away.¡±
¡°No. Not brave.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°Smart. They trusted me to see the window. They shouldn¡¯t have done that.¡±
¡°Do you remember anything about your captors? Any markings or anything to identify them?¡±
Zarcha reaches down and scratches the flesh where her shackles had been.
¡°The mark. They all had the mark.¡±
¡°All? How many were there?¡±
¡°Four. Three vampires and one¡.well one other person. I¡¯m sorry. I can¡¯t be more specific.¡±
Something stinks to me immediately. ¡°This other person. Can I make a wild guess?¡±
¡°They were always¡different, but I could tell they were the same. Does that make any sense?¡±
¡°Like the face?¡± Jason asks. ¡°The face changed but the smell didn¡¯t?¡±
Zarcha lights up. ¡°Yes! That¡¯s it. They never looked the same twice, but their smell was always the same. It makes me uncomfortable, even now. Like that thing is trying to crawl into my skin.¡±
I growl under my breath. ¡°Fuck.¡±
Jason scratches his head and closes his eyes. ¡°Yeah, fuck, that¡¯s about as good a word as any.¡±
I stand up and stretch, cracking my neck one way and then the other. We¡¯re silent for a while, Zarcha absentmindedly squeezing Jason¡¯s arm as he works his mouth around, mulling over this new information. Really, I ache for a cigarette, some quick burn to focus my mind around. It¡¯s a dated habit, lots of safer drugs on the market for cheaper, but something about the process dragged me in at some point. Growing the tobacco, shredding it, rolling it. The sheer magnitude of labor compared with a synthesizer simply powering on and zapping chemicals into a shape puts weight to the taste.
¡°Do you know this creature? This¡shape changer?¡±
Jason nods and explains. Of the many races in the known galaxies, there are only a handful that don¡¯t belong to the Night Republic by proxy at least, or swear fealty to the High King and his order. And of that handful, they keep to themselves, preferring pure isolation rather than risk exposing themselves to the wider universe. Except the Nelotha. Every rule has an exception, and the Nelotha have proved themselves time and again to be that exception. They swear no allegiance, no home world even, and choose to meddle everywhere their shifting claws sink into. A species of indeterminate form, artificially birthed on moons just a little too close to their gas giants, spun from strange configurations of particles. They need no ship, having the ability to travel space in leaps and bounds by their evolutionary nature. They need no sustenance as far as research has seen. Beings of pure chaos abetted, as Zarcha has beautifully put, by the ability to freely alter their forms at will.
Jason grabs my arm as I start a note in my phone, and he pulls me into the hallway just out of direct earshot. The look in his eyes tells me he has a theory already.
¡°The smell, detective. What does it mean? I think I understand.¡±
¡°Go on.¡±
¡°Nelotha can change their scent as easily as they change faces. So why? Why keep the same one? Does it want to be caught? To leave a trail?¡±
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¡°You¡¯re thinking of the symbol.¡± It isn¡¯t a question.
¡°Zarcha says she was trusted to be near the window. Why now, when any crime ring would have intercepted the bulletin with that symbol attached?¡±
I just raise an eyebrow. ¡°Why?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know. I want to say this ring and Vilat¡¯s murder are closely connected, but I don¡¯t even dare put the idea in my head without proof. It¡¯s just¡.too much coincidence.¡±
¡°Agreed. Don¡¯t place a pin until you¡¯re sure. So how do you intend to find out?¡±
¡°That¡¯s the central question. How do we track a Nelotha, even one who wants to be found, if all they¡¯re giving us is scent.¡±
That we ponder, but one thing is clear. We need Zarcha. Jason pulls aside a nurse to hash out the details of the woman¡¯s condition and disappears back into the room. I pace for a while, turning over what few details we have. Then I make good on that cigarette. The street outside has thinned considerably since we arrived. Bustling traffic has turned into scattered cars breaking the twilight with their headlights as they return home, or leave for a late shift. Or whatever normal people do. My lighter sparks once, twice, but doesn¡¯t catch. I curse under my breath. Try again, but still nothing.
Someone clears their throat beside me. Framed by the streetlight between us, the man is a looming shadow. My own five and something feet are dwarfed by his almost eight, and I feel like a child standing as tall as his chest. The man reaches out silently and produces a flame for me. Not from a lighter, mind you, a flame simply appears on his outstretched finger. I light my cigarette like the very presence of magic doesn¡¯t make my skin crawl. Like I don¡¯t know this figure could kill me with a glance.
¡°Parga Carter. Is your partner inside? And the female werewolf?¡± The man¡¯s voice is the sound of the earth tremoring, and I feel my bones rattle with every syllable.
¡°Could be,¡± I say, mustering my courage, ¡°Who¡¯s asking?¡±
The man steps fully into the light, and I see the mess of burn scars that crisscross his dark skin. He reaches under his lapel and pulls out a pendant the same shape that¡¯s plastered on every facet of government paperwork.
¡°Harkon, Cardinal-Nuncio of Tvenry. Your presence, and that of your companions, has been requested by the High King himself on King¡¯s Isle.¡±
And right then every drop of anxiety in my body stabs me in the chest. ¡°The¡the high king wants to meet¡us?¡±
Harkon only nods. ¡°As soon as possible. Gather what you need and I¡¯ll meet you three at the main terminal.¡±
The man doesn¡¯t walk out of sight so much as the shadows seem to encompass him suddenly and his presence is gone, leaving only a faint smell of alabaster. The cigarette in my hand has burned down to a nub by the time I remember to take another drag. The High King. My feet carry me almost unbidden back into the hospital and to Zarcha¡¯s bedside. The nurses offer vague glances, eyes wide as if some monster is tailing me. Jason is still perched on the edge of the bed. Zarcha is gone.
¡°Where is she?¡±
Jason nods across the room. ¡°Bathroom. You figure anything out?¡±
I shake my head. ¡°No, the opposite in fact. Seems like questions want to find us faster than we can answer them.¡±
He just furrows his brow at me, but I shake my head again. As soon as Zarcha is back, I wrangle the both of them outside. The nurses don¡¯t stop us as we walk by or out of the hospital. It¡¯s only in the car, speeding down the road, that I let myself breathe a little. The wind rushing by outside the open window is cold, only just countering the sweat on my brow. Jason sits in the back with Zarcha, keeping her calm after our sudden flight. It¡¯s only back in my apartment, as I run straight for the liquor cabinet, that Jason finally pipes up.
¡°Detective, what¡¯s going on? What happened?¡±
¡°We¡¯ve been summoned.¡± I gulp the bourbon straight from the bottle.
¡°Summoned?¡± he asks in a whisper. ¡°Summoned where?¡±
¡°King¡¯s Isle. I don¡¯t understand it either, but you don¡¯t get a message from the high king and ignore it. We¡¯ll swing by your apartment next so you can grab your essentials and then we¡¯re off.¡±
Jason plops down hard on the couch, spending the energy only to wave me over with the bottle. He takes a long drink as well and pats the seat beside him for Zarcha. I hear him begin to explain what this means to her as I rush around grabbing anything I can think of to bring. Clothes, case notes, phone. I almost call out that I¡¯m done before I remember the box in the closet. The last remnant of my life before SCD. It¡¯s dusty, but the smell of old smoke and cedar is still strong as I crack the lid. Waiting for me is a picture burned into my memory: Leori, Cory, and I on a rare outing together off-world, posing against the backdrop of the mountains on Wolven. Had I not already gutted myself at lunch, I would cry. Instead, I just smile hollowly and take the rest of the items out to pack away in my bag. A couple important documents I ought to upload already, my wedding ring, my old police badge, and a laser pistol. Never have used it, hope I never will, but chasing a Nelotha across the galaxy is no doubt enough to at least dust it off.
At Jason¡¯s apartment, I wait in the car with Zarcha. It doesn¡¯t take him long to grab what few clothes he has and his personal effects. I almost feel bad for Zarcha that she has nothing to bring, but then again I don¡¯t think there¡¯s anything she¡¯d want to remember of her captivity. I make a note to myself to hopefully grab her a couple things whenever we next land in civilization. Jason is back, and I start off towards the terminal. As expected, as soon as we¡¯re parked, Harkon is there waiting. A valet comes to file the car away.
Harkon leads the way to a warp pad, another modern wonder the vampires allow within the city, and suddenly the four of us are in orbit. Zarcha stumbles over to a window and looks out on the green world now visible a hundred miles below us. In her eyes I see the same wonder I remember seeing in Cory¡¯s the first time he realized his world was small compared to the universe. Harkon clears his throat before I can get sentimental.
¡°I have a suite prepared for you three for our voyage. This is one of the High King¡¯s personal fleet though, so it won¡¯t be more than an hour or so to King¡¯s Isle.¡±
Zarcha turns with that same spark. ¡°How far is it?¡±
Harkon smiles. ¡°Farther than you can imagine, young one. I¡¯ll leave it to your companions to explain that.¡±
He gestures with a hand, and we follow him across the ship to our room. We¡¯re high up near the command deck, one of the noble suites no doubt. It¡¯s bigger than my apartment anyway. One wall is entirely plasma-glass that looks out onto the front of the ship and our flight path. Jason and I take seats at the dining table and break out glasses immediately.
¡°We only have synthesized drinks on board, unfortunately,¡± Harkon rumbles. ¡°Not a long voyage you understand. I hope that suffices.¡±
¡°It¡¯s no trouble. Very little liquor nowadays is fresh, they just stick that label on the bottle to jack the price up.¡±
Harkon just nods and smiles. ¡°We¡¯ll be there soon. I¡¯ll come back when we come to port.¡±
With that, the large man leaves, and the atmosphere in the room relaxes a little. Zarcha wanders over to the window and watches as the ship jumps to FTL. The stars turn from pin pricks to a spinning kaleidoscope, and space pales to an eigengrau as the light bends around us. Jason taps into the computer so it can begin the minute process of remaking booze from essentially nothing. When it¡¯s finished, we toast.
¡°Nuncio of Tvenry, you said?¡± Jason asks.
I nod. ¡°It¡¯s easy to believe. I¡¯d hope the god of fear took me in if I was that big.¡±
Zarcha peels herself away from the window to sit with us. She takes a tentative sniff at Jason¡¯s cup before jerking back and covering her mouth.
¡°Tvenry? The name sounds familiar but¡well, there¡¯s a lot that I don¡¯t know,¡± she admits.
Jason shrugs and takes a long drink. ¡°I guess we have nothing better to do than fill you in on this ride.¡±
To which I just sigh. ¡°That¡¯s a lot of exposition.¡±
Jason shrugs again and turns to Zarcha. ¡°Well, let¡¯s start at the beginning.¡±
Interlude
¡°In the very beginning, or thereabouts,¡± Jason starts, ¡°There were six gods who arose in pairs: Pauria, god of life, and their sibling Marethyu, god of death; Skyta, god of willpower, and Tvenry, god of fear; Klarya, god of fate, and Moran, god of knowledge. Unlike the legends of chosen ones, every mortal ever born was chosen by one of the gods. This god is their patron. The gods are a bit fickle, so keeping one¡¯s patron in mind is never a bad idea when someone wants luck on their side.
¡°Patronage is almost entirely random¡ªor chosen at least by some system we could never possibly understand¡ªbut one¡¯s patron has some effect on their personality. Pauria¡¯s chosen skew to either complete disregard for others, or completely pacifistic towards all life no matter how small. Klarya¡¯s chosen are either always thrust to the forefront of situations, or completely forgettable slipping through society barely existing. The point being, though patrons are abstract, they¡¯re always present and important to remember. And they like to appear at the worst times.¡±
¡°What¡¯s my patron?¡± Zarcha interrupts.
Jason shrugs and looks at me. I shrug in return.
¡°It¡¯s not always possible to tell right away,¡± I say, ¡°That would be a question to ask the gods themselves.¡±
¡°So people don¡¯t actually know their patron?¡±
I shake my head. ¡°You might, or you might not. As Jason said, there¡¯s signs, but it¡¯s really up to the gods to let you know.¡±
¡°Then how can I appease mine if I don¡¯t even know which one I¡¯m appeasing?¡±
¡°That,¡± Jason says with a smile, ¡°Is the problem. You can¡¯t, or you can try appeasing them all. Or appease one at a time. Most people aren¡¯t overly religious, except for the occasional prayer or curse.¡±
¡°So¡wait, you said they like to appear?¡±
¡°Oh yes, I said people aren¡¯t overly religious. But it¡¯s not possible to not be religious at all. The gods make themselves known freely. Klarya is the worst for it, appearing quite a lot to her chosen to give them hints at their future. It¡¯s just something that happens.¡±
¡°Have either of you met your patron?¡± she asks with wide eyes.
Jason shakes his head, but I nod. Zarcha looks to me.
¡°Once, when I was much younger. It was in one of my first years as an SCD detective. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught a Leporided in the middle of their escape. Kicked my head nearly off my neck. I woke up with Marethyu standing above me, in a hall of endless souls that shuffled past. They were strange, there but not there. They helped me up and muttered something about, ¡®Too much bureaucracy with death¡¯ or something like that in a voice I can¡¯t forget. Like a scream but under your breath? I don¡¯t know. He healed me and shoved back into the world of the living, said to come back when it was actually my turn.¡±
¡°Now I really want to know mine. You sure you guys don¡¯t know mine?¡±
¡°Let¡¯s put it another way. You¡¯re probably chosen by Marethyu, Skyta, or Tvenri. I¡¯ve met only a handful of werewolves chosen by Pauria, and Klarya and Moran rarely make themselves patrons at all¡ªrare, of course, being still on the magnitude of billions, but compared to Pauria and Marethyu, it¡¯s rare. If I had to guess, having only known you a short time, I would say Skyta. You¡¯re strong, Zarcha, and you have a huge amount of bravery for escaping your capture and facing this strange new world with your head high.¡±
Zarcha laughs. ¡°It¡¯s a lot easier when you¡¯re here, Jason.¡± She lays her head on his shoulder, and I see him stiffen. I manage, only barely, to keep a smirk off my face. He doesn¡¯t move her though, and I mentally shrug. It¡¯s his battle. And maybe he¡¯s discovering new feelings in himself. I was never really interested in women myself, but each to their own.
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Jason clears his throat. ¡°Anyway, our history is a little longer, Zarcha.¡±
She just nods and sits back up in her chair, smiling all the while.
¡°The first people were the Chaosin, beings of pure chaos. This was before the gods, mind you, when everything was nothing and nothing was everything. Immortal beings with zero moral compass that warred endlessly between themselves, forming paper-thin alliances broken at the first sign of weakness. But they could not die as death did not exist. They wished that they could finally kill each other, and so they were mortal. Every single Chaosin died to a person, and so the universe was silent. But their wish had created the gods we know, and so they created everything we know, the stars and the planets and the people. In that time, there was again only one people. These people spread across the universe and settled in to carve out their own pockets.¡±
¡°What were they called, these new people?¡± Zarcha asks.
¡°No idea. If they had a name when they were one people, it was never recorded. That would be a question for the High King, if we¡¯re allowed to even speak. He would probably be the only one to know.¡±
¡°Who is the High King again?¡±
Jason shushes her with a finger to his lips. ¡°In a little bit. First, I have to tell you how the werewolves got where they are.¡±
Zarcha nods enthusiastically. I meanwhile pour myself another tall glass of replicated liquor and retreat to one of the couches to nurse it. Jason looks over his shoulder at me. ¡°You want to tell this part, Detective Carter?¡±
¡°Ugh, fine, make me do all the work.¡± I clear my throat. ¡°The people, the first people, they spread out. Two groups simultaneously land on a planet they¡¯ll call Ruinea. These become the vampires and the werewolves over time, receiving fragmented powers from what remained of the Chaosin in every fiber of space. Like every group ever, they decide they hate each other and start an all out fight for a thousand years called the First Shadow War. Both sides rapidly research everything they can to boost their own advantages and prey on their opponent¡¯s weaknesses. Anyway, they get so into it that they destroy the whole planet, blown straight through into chunks. The werewolves find a new planet they call Wolven, and the vampires take one they call Vampiria. Creative names, I know. They play it cold for a while, knowing another war so soon will destroy them both and their new planets, so they resort to spying. Then that spying moves through the ranks until most of the common people eventually forget they have an enemy waiting out there. Only the respective governments retain some amount of intel.
¡°Both peoples, now unshackled from the other, develop their own cultures and philosophies. The werewolves choose strength-in-numbers and nuclear armament, and a king. The vampires choose strongest-survive and nanotechnology, and a secret government that is rarely seen but often heard. Something, and it¡¯s a debate what, starts the Second Shadow War. They fight for another thousand years, never able to touch the other¡¯s homeworlds but taking other worlds in the process and making allies of the other species they find. On and on they fight, and of course resistance groups crop up everywhere opposed to the fighting. Eventually I guess the High King got annoyed listening to them, so he stepped in and made them sit down at the negotiation table.
Thus, we now live in the Night Republic, a system that controls most of the known universe, ruled by a council made of representatives from all member species that elect a leader amongst themselves, mainly for diplomatic and mediator purposes. It was awful at first, with mainly the werewolves and the vampires and their close allies being a part, and no one really trusted each other yet. It was a long road, but the Night Republic is still going strong almost a hundred years later.¡±
Zarcha taps her foot impatiently. ¡°So who is the High King?¡±
I blink a couple times, the alcohol starting to mess with my senses. ¡°Right, um. The High King. The High King is a position chosen by the Elder Council, a conglomerate of the highest ranking people from all over, including the Six Judges¡ªthe six leaders of each of the respective churches. When a High King is elected, they ascend to the pinnacle of King¡¯s Isle, so high as to be said they speak directly with the gods. They must do something up there because they live for a long time once they get there. The current High King has been in power for¡three hundred or so years? The only people that ever really see him are the elected leader of the Night Republic, his various friends, or people the have grievously fucked up. Not that we¡¯d know. The current High King is not only the Judge of Moran, and so basically omniscient as far we care, but a Nelotha. He could be anyone anywhere at any time.¡±
¡°And¡¡± Zarcha shudders suddenly and grasps Jason¡¯s hand hard enough to turn her knuckles white, ¡°He wants to meet¡us?¡±
I return the sentiment with a grimace and a long swallow of my drink. ¡°My thoughts exactly. It¡¯s not a good thing. People don¡¯t just¡meet the High King, at his place of residence, out of the blue. It doesn¡¯t happen.¡±
¡°In other words¡¡± Jason says, letting himself trail off.
¡°We¡¯re fucked,¡± Zarcha finishes.