(c)1994 Thomas Pluck
The July 4th Massacre was old hat, but the furries were still bitching about it, thought
Detective Victor Davis, as he sat in his patrol car. He sipped his dark, sweet coffee and rolled the
events through his mind. It was a simple demonstration for Recom Rights, a movement that
urged the repeal of the McLaren Amendments, which curtailed the rights of all engineered
organisms, even sentient ones.
It had been a hot day, a hazy sun beating down on the police in their black reactive fiber
riot gear, shock batons tapping the clear shields with restrained agitation. There looked to be
about thirty of them. Davis had been there, just watching, off duty. So had Inspector Rrillha, the
token Recom of the department, but he was demonstrating, holding a picket sign that read, "We
serve, we should be free." Rrillha, like all first-generation Recoms, was ex-military. The
uncharacteristically tall and muscular skunk Recom walked in the middle of the march, but stood
at least a head above his fellows, except for the wolves. The march was a rainbow of different
fur colors, from the simple black and white of Rrillha to the calico conglomerate of the
coon-cats.
It had all been so peaceful. Davis had stood by a post-box, drinking a coffee much like he
did now, with a wary nonchalance that gave him a 'not there' look. The combination of his
receding hairline and large chin gave him the look of an immovable automaton. Fellow police
said that even though he was short, if you drove a truck into him, he would just grunt and give
you a ticket. That image came from his weight more than anything else. The years off the beat
could be counted as rolls on his waist, or stretch-marks across his hips, like rings on a tree.
Sweat beaded across his broad forehead, and his breathing was quietly labored, as he watched all
the panting Recoms go by.
So peaceful, the rhythmic chanting of slogans, the constant flutter of footsteps. Then the
counter-demonstrators arrived. The Recoms remained surprisingly calm as the human crowd
shouted "Animals!" and other taunts. They were used to it. They knew a hostile reaction would
only hurt their cause. A few younger Recoms were quieted by their elders.
And then, right under his slowly blinking gaze, all hell broke loose.
Smack in the middle of the human agitators, there was a fireburst of white smoke and
glowing sparks. The explosion echoed off the labyrinth of buildings, rocking the flexi-plast
storefronts as it skirled up into the hazy grey sky. Suddenly police ran through both crowds, as
fear burst from its primal hideaway and overthrew the rational.
The riot police bolted through the crowds, jointed shock-batons
pole-axing everyone in their way. Davis stood in silent awe, his coffee spilling down the front of
the blue metal post-box. Black uniforms swarmed through the Recoms, the assault of a disturbed
hive. Davis saw it happen; a clubbed wolverine, who wore a purple heart on his vest, scrabbled
at a riot officer as his legs gave out from the electric shock. The shock had made him grit his
teeth and flare his claws, which raked through the riot suit and the officer's side like a tiller
through fresh soil.
At the sight of blood, hands went to holsters. Davis's jaw dropped as he heard the first
pop and zip of a service pistol, and the thump of the small fragmentary rocket as it knocked the
wolverine to the concrete. It was a quiet, almost comical sound, but unique and chilling enough
to make him shudder. It was the next half-dozen shots that made the day one of martyrdom.
Davis saw the big skunk Recom take the round as he was trying to pull his fellows to the
pavement. To Victor, it all seemed like a dream or a VR game... he was just along for the ride.
He ran through the human crowd as fast as he could, knocking members of the mob out of his
way as if he didn't even know they were there. Later on, he wondered why his chest was
bruised.
Even Rrillha dropped like a felled tree when he took the AP round. It had hit his shoulder
blade and fragmented, sending tiny pieces of shrapnel up through his neck and skull, leaving red
pinholes in his fur. Victor flashed his badge to the riot police who began to surround him, and
heaved the big skunk into his lap. Rrillha's head hung onto his chest, his tongue lolling out as he
shuddered silently.
Then it was over, as soon as it started, as the riot squad saw the badge on the Recom's
shorts. Davis wasn't even thinking, just hugging the quiet form to his chest protectively. He
hadn't even liked the furry... he just saw an officer go down... and that was what he told the
committee, when they asked him if he believed in the Recoms' cause.
People were screaming and whimpering around him, but all he could hear was his own
labored breathing, and Rrillha's mindless sputtering. The memory faded away, smoldering and
intense. Three Recoms still sat in holding cells on suspicion of throwing the concussion grenade,
which hadn't killed anybody, and one of the riot officers had been suspended pending a grand
jury
investigation. It was over now, but the incident had changed the Recoms' attitude; it had
sharpened their claws a little.
So Davis sat in his hovering patrol car, fans humming quietly as he sipped his coffee and
thought back on the recent past. The area had once been called Hell's Kitchen, then Clinton, and
now was part of The Jungle, because of the concentration of furries in the neighborhood. Only
after the Massacre did it get any more violent than the rest of Manhattan. In fact, up until the
Zoning, it was pretty gentrified.
Davis's presence was usually enough; the sleek white prowler had a simple intimidating
look. He glanced at the VR screens that served as windows, and kept the heat-scanner on,
monitoring a 50 foot radius. His thoughts wandered to Inspector Rrillha's brain-dead form at St.
Clare's Hospital. He had no family, so the vote was up to the Precinct to see if the plug was
pulled and his organs sold for the PBA fund. Davis chuckled cynically and shook his head. The
poor furry didn't have a chance. Victor thought for a moment what it would be like to have no
parents, to be made, and treated like a lab animal that was set free, with too many strings
attached. Then of how Rrillha was treated at the station.
The guys at the Precinct called him "Stinky" to his face, even though he was in perfect
control of his tail. Davis remembered calling him "Stripes" once, but Rrillha preferred that to the
other insulting nickname. Even though he could probably break the neck of any officer at the
station, he bore all their taunts. He knew his grip on the job was tenuous at best.
Davis had nothing against the guy. He was a good cop, andhad made several important
busts and investigations. He had been urging the upstairs brass to fund a Recom Task Force in
his precinct, hopefully as an example nationwide. His latest case involved what seemed to be the
first Recom serial killer; the species of the murderer was unknown, but his victims were all
furries, found knifed to death in abandoned buildings or even their own homes, totaling six in
all. So far. Surprisingly, Rrillha seemed to have no leads. The culprit had made no mistakes.
Davis unwrapped one of the greasy cheeseburgers he had picked up at the KwikBite
Shop when he was cruising downtown, before work. He was just about to take a lukewarm bite
when two small forms were picked up by the heat-scan, closing in from the left. He clicked on
the image enhancer and a small window appeared on the front screen, showing two small furred
forms huddled behind a pile of garbage.
"Kids," he grumbled. It was after 4 PM, and they were supposed to be at home or in a
designated play area, not in this mostly abandoned quadrant.
He flicked on the high-beams and muttered into the megaphone feed, "Go home kids.
You know there's nothing to do here." He began eating the burger, and grumbled because the
clueless cook had fried the onions instead of leaving them raw, how he liked them. Again.
He flicked on the sound telescope and heard them giggling as they scampered closer,
behind the rusted shell of a stripped automobile. Davis sighed and flicked on the neons. The
bubble on the roof of the car strobed and burst into a swirling red and blue whirlpool.
Just in case, he took the Hardballer, a beanbag pistol, from under his seat. It would knock
them to their furry little asses, if they gave him any trouble. They looked unarmed to him, and
he wasn't taking any chances, but he wasn't going to plug a kid for tossing rocks.
He had nabbed the Hardballer off a young smartass in Bensonhurst, who tried to mug
him when he was visiting a woman he stopped seeing years ago. As he checked the chamber for
a round, he heard something hit the car and splatter; when he looked up, the VR screen was
blank. The second paint balloon hit the passenger side, and slowly washed down, turning most of
that
window green.
The scanners showed them running past the car toward a crumbling pre-fab apartment
complex. From the tails he saw waving on the heat-scan, and the sound of their giggles, he
guessed they were felines.
He stepped out of the car in time to see the calico kits scampering into the building with
their quick, yet awkward-looking bipedal gait. Davis had grown up during the years the military
"declassified" the recombinant species, but he still wasn't used to the unnatural springiness of
their toe-stepping legs.
Shutting the door of the prowler behind him, he jogged off after them, quickly losing his
breath. He kept very alert for any sign of ambush; his cool grey eyes darted about warily. If they
didn't give him any trouble, he'd let them go with a scare or a warning. If they hadn't
interrupted his lunch, he might have just taken the car to be washed.
He jogged over to the door, and scanned the hall before stepping in. Two pairs of
glimmering yellow eyes, one on top of the other, blinked at him from the darkened stairwell
before dashing up with a giggle.
"Coon cats," he muttered, trotting after the kits. They looked very young, maybe not
even teens. Running up the stairs, Davis began to sweat; being built like a bull gave him very
little endurance.
When he reached the first landing, he checked all the doorways, and then the stairs.
There, two yellow eyes gleamed back from the shadows cast by the dim light that seeped
through the shattered windows. "Little shits," Victor panted, coming down the hallway.
He nearly fired, when the giggling shadow threw the object at him, before he realized
what it was. The stale donut bounced off his shoulder. Crumbs of dried glaze marked his coat
and dotted the rotten wood floor where the donut rolled to a stop at his feet.
"Why you little furball!" Davis growled, and rushed the laughing kits under a hail of
donuts. When he reached tackling range, they sped up the creaking stairs, and he followed in a
rage. Especially since chocolate glazed was his favorite.
He still had the sense to skip the broken stairs, watching his step as rage stole his breath
from him. As he reached the top flight, he saw the two young Recoms in the weak light that
filtered through the ragged holes in the roof. The two coon-kittens smiled and giggled down
mockingly, throwing the last of the donuts at him as he ran up the stairs. Their long and thick
calico fur seemed dappled with shimmering white spots...
He felt so light. There was a strangled gurgling coming from somewhere, and the
mocking smiles of the wildcats faded into a mixture of awe and horror. Davis's back arched like
an angry cat's, and a crushing pain burst across his chest, searing ripples across his nervous
system.
The Hardballer went off, knocking a shower of sheet rock down from the ceiling.
Victor's whole world shifted upward, tumbling and blurring, before it was blotted out by an inky
onrush of blackness.
* * *
"...him to see a comforting face," said the somewhat effeminate, but undoubtedly male
voice that swirled along the rim of his consciousness.
Another voice, softly growling, joined the whirlpool of sound. "Scan shows little signs of
shock." The voice had a guttural tang to it. "Looks like a nice smooth slip."
The maelstrom of sound soon made him feel like he was in orbit around a conversation;
when he reached the apogee, all the voices mixed into a slurring buzz.
He seemed farther away now. The voices were distant, but much clearer. "We can begin
therapy in the next few days," the effeminate voice said. "Too bad he didn't have any close
relatives."
"Doesn't have," a gravely male voice interrupted.
The whirlpool slowly calmed, like a spinning coin finally coming to rest. Victor heard a
lot of quiet breathing, but no one was speaking anymore.
He slowly became aware of his body, as if every muscle had been asleep, but without the
pins and needles, only numbness. A soft unrecognizable hum teased at his memory.
"Victor?" asked the gravelly voice. It sounded a little familiar. He couldn't place it. He
stirred slightly, and someone held his arm. The feeling felt muffled by bandages, and he groaned
with a sigh.
As he breathed deeply for the first time, his nose was flooded with distinctive scents. The
thick scent of a fox, which always tickled the back of his throat; some human had doused
himself with a pheromonal cologne. An underlying tinge of skunk scent wrinkled his nose,
which was beginning to feel cold.
He was trying to avoid opening his eyes. He didn't want to see a roomful of cold
physicians tending a network of tubes leading from him to a stack of bleak, sterile machines. His
dry eyes split open and he saw exactly that.
At the end of the bed, hands on the metal footboard, stood a grave-looking man of about
forty years, skin weathered and tanned. Like Victor, he looked as if gravity worked overtime on
him; his jaw hung open just a little, and he slouched like a weary Atlas. His brown and silver
hair was slicked back in the current style, and his long face had the texture of sandstone. He
reminded Victor of an Easter Island monolith.
One on each side of him, there stood a thin hawk-nosed man in a lab coat, and a slim fox
Recom in a skirt with a long white jacket thrown over. She wore the coat as a matter of
profession, it seemed- most Recoms preferred to wear as little as possible, especially in hot
weather. Fur was enough, even in the cool hospital room.
Victor blinked. "Yes?" The word was drawn out, and it felt like parts of his mouth didn't
work. One word pulsed through his mind, a wash of cold. Stroke.
The big man at the foot of the bed owned the gravelly voice, and smiled. "You made it."
He walked up to Victor's side.
The hawkish man inserted a syringe into one of the tubes in the mass of plastic spaghetti
that trailed from a humming machine to IV's on his wrists, neck, and elbows. Victor saw his
black arm and winced, thinking he'd been bruised from head to toe.
"Victor. You had a heart attack. By the time the paramedics found you, you were nearly
gone. Now you couldn't afford a transplant, you know how the hospitals are, they checked your
BankCard right after they had you stabilized on the machines." The big man, who Victor
remembered seeing once in Captain Thompson's office, put a hand on his shoulder.
He began looking down at himself and blinking. He seemed much bigger, he figured he
would have wasted away or at least lost some weight in the hospital... his skin was black along
his sides, pale in the middle...
"We paid to keep you out of the freezer in stasis, but a Kennedy bought the last heart at
the hospital's organ bank that was your blood type... OA negative, pretty rare. Now there's still
hope if you're patient..."
Victor pulled the sheets off of himself, careful not to tug any IV's. "I- I'm a skunk," he
squeaked. His throat felt like he was wearing a tie three inches too tight. Trembling, he began to
pant.
The hook-nosed doctor emptied the syringe into the IV while the vixen watched Victor
curiously. Soon his shaking stopped, as the sedative began to settle him.
The rough-voiced human put on his best comforting face, which wasn't much. "Victor,
it's temporary. Mindslip. You've heard how it's used to wipe the minds of serial killers and
such, to study their minds and brains separately. You remember how Nelson Walker bought a
brain-dead teen, and got slipped into the body to beat bone cancer. It made all the papers, and
right after it, organ donation got regulated into a meat market."
He placed a hand on Victor's shoulder. Even his meaty paw was dwarfed by the form
Victor now inhabited. He looked like a bodybuilder, and the lush fur made him seem even
bigger.
"I want my body back!" He covered his eyes with black-furred hands, and sobbed softly.
* * *
Victor strained to lift the bar that hung over him. His chest felt like a furnace about to
burst, and his huge tail twitched and fluttered between his legs on the bench.
"Come on," Demetroulakos urged him, squatting beside the weight machine. His grey
suit bulged at the inseam, and his voice was as rough as ever.
Victor growled and forced the last rep of the set. He had locked his elbows, and rubbed
them, panting as he sat up. Rrillha's body was still trim, but all his tone was lost as he lay in a
capsule wasting away. The therapy was supposed to put him back in shape as it let him get used
to his new body.
"You're trying to kill me, Gavin," Victor panted. He looked over at the display, which
read 325 pounds in red LCD.
Svarla, the lab-coated vixen, walked over and looked at Victor's diagnostic wristband
and tsked. "You're just not used to it. According to records this is Rrillha's average workout,
and we've worked you up to it." She sat lazily on a curl-machine's padded seat, and her tail
wafted to the thinly carpeted floor.
Victor smirked and wanted to tell her to try lifting those bars. He looked at his arms and
poked the muscles. The workouts did show a difference, and he was oddly satisfied to finally be
in shape, even if he had to die to do it.
Gavin stood, slicked back his grey hair with a hand, and threw the skunk a towel. "Go
shower and cool off."
"It's time for your first briefing," Svarla interrupted, with her deeply trilling voice. That
seemed odd to Victor; he didn't remember Rrillha ever feeling free enough to do that. She curled
her tail around a bar of the machine.
Gavin nodded, and the two left him there to catch his breath. The shower was
invigorating, even if wet fur weighted him down, and looked awful when towel-dried... and he
was too lazy to brush it all.
He made do by brushing his topknot of head-fur that was always getting in his eyes, and
most of his facial fur. His tail looked frizzy, but it was too much trouble to pull around and
brush properly.
He was expecting the briefing to be held in a cavernous dark room, with men in dark
suits seated at a huge oak table, but it was just Gavin and Svarla in a small sun-lit office near the
top of the building. It had been a week or so (he'd lost count) since they woke him, and he had
been outside to jog a couple times. The building was inhumanly sterile, and outside, the
compound was smack in the middle of a large city, but the circle of trees and the tall iron fence
beyond kept him from guessing where he was. The grass and trees, and even the occasional bird
were a treat for the city cop, but gave him a runny nose. Rrillha had not been used to pollen in
the air.
Victor sat in a leather chair out of the sunbeam that cut through the room. Dust motes
danced in the soft gold ray. Gavin sat behind a marble-topped desk that looked pretty bare for a
government official's. There was only a small lamp, a stylish fountain pen, and a jar of midnight
blue ink.
Svarla was sprawled out on the other chair, in a strange position so she didn't sit on her
tail. She looked comfortable, though. Just then Victor realized how uncomfortable he felt, and
the two watched him with a cruel pleasure as he shifted in his seat and finally sat sideways in the
armless chair like the vixen did.
Her muzzle parted in a pleasant gesture. "You look like you were in a washing machine,"
she said, and laughed politely as Gavin smiled. "Don't you ever brush yourself?"
Victor felt the strangest thing. His ears burned, as he blushed. Now why was he
embarrassed? If he had gotten the same remark as a human, he would have given her the finger
at least. He must have broadcast his feelings, because she softened her attack.
"I'll show you how to take care of yourself, you are like a newborn of sorts, no?"
Something in her glance hinted of apology, but that was all.
"You two can go play house later," Gavin grinned. "This is more important." He flicked
a switch under the desk and the ventilation kicked up. He took a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and
an ashtray from a drawer and put them on his desk before lighting up. Even the building's
purifiers couldn't cut the chemical tang off the city air, so a little smoke would hardly be
noticed. His pupils shrank to pinpoints as he sucked pure nicotine.
"You might've figured out we didn't pay to have you mindslipped out of the goodness of
our hearts." Gavin inhaled, and held his breath a surprisingly long time. Victor waited silently
for him to continue, wondering what their purpose was. He began to realize how little reason
people had for keeping him alive. Without any close friends or relatives, he wouldn't be
missed...
Gavin exhaled finally, but didn't say anything.
"Who do you mean by 'we?'" Victor asked, and shifted in his chair.
Gavin looked at his cigarette. "The FBI. Recombinant Crimes Taskforce. We need you."
Victor frowned. "You've got to be kidding me. I don't even wanna know how much it
cost to bring me back, but you could get a live cop a lot easier. What's the catch?"
"Victor, there are very few people in law professions who agree with the Recom cause.
It's a bias we don't care for. They see Recoms as engineered killing machines, time bombs
walking their streets."
"What makes you think I'm any different?" He was still being wary. He knew he was
nothing special, or if he had outstanding qualities, they weren't good ones.
"Your psychological evaluations, over the years on the force, show it. As does your
record. Which is another thing. Your attitude toward the high brass is what kept you a detective.
They like a kiss-ass, and you're anything but. In fact, you should've filled Rrillha's shoes, which
you're doing now, come to think of it." He smiled, with big teeth like white tombstones.
Svarla hrmphed, but was otherwise silent.
Victor thought back. Yes, he was a good detective. Never really made the papers except
for working in the X Killer case. This killer was so named for the multitude of X-slashed bodies
that kept turning up in parks around the city, mostly joggers and street people.
He remembered it vividly, seeing the thin, unobtrusive man among the crowd, gawking
over the yellow police lines, trying to get a peek at the body bag. He had seen him before. His
whole mind had zoomed in on him, and the small piece of silver poking from the man's pants
pocket, until he realized it was part of a straight razor, the thumb rest. It was almost funny how
they caught the bastard, who liked to be there when police bagged his victims. That guy's
ballsiness was talked about in the precinct for months.
"So what do you want me for?"
Gavin smirked. "You could at least try to sound grateful," he puffed the last of his
cigarette away. "We need you to continue an investigation. You start where Rrillha left off. You
can get at his files... past the retina-scan. He had a high access level thanks to his position with
us, but only the computers know that. Don't try to pull rank with anyone. You're still a Recom,
no matter what badge we give you."
Victor scratched at his chin. "Oh boy, I'm a secret agent man. So you want me to catch
the Furry Killer?"
Svarla winced. "You're still a fat bald cop under that fur, you know that? I'm going to
teach you to fit in among Recoms. 'Furries' are what the press calls us. As far as anyone knows,
you're Rrillha, recovered from coma."
Victor cringed mockingly. "Hey, I didn't know it was offensive. It's what we called him
at the station." Actually, some cops called the killer "Trapper Bob."
"I know. That's why I'm training you. So you don't get your face clawed off." She
cleaned a claw.
Victor had never felt any attraction toward Recoms. His eyes traced over Svarla's flat,
lush-furred chest, and he was sure she knew. He knew that Recoms didn't have the
preoccupation with breasts that he and other humans did. The complete lack of them mildly
interested him.
He nodded. "I'll give it my best shot. It's my only chance to get back into my body, isn't
it?"
Gavin grinned coldly and nodded, lighting another cigarette.
Svarla stood up wordlessly and gestured for Victor to follow. He stood, and realized that
his legs were closer to a human's than hers. While she had firm thighs like a human's, her shins
and feet were digitigrade, and furred a deep chocolate brown, unlike her sandy-orange arms,
legs, and back, and her white throat and belly. Her face was flecked with silver guard hairs that
offset the ruddier fur there.
Gavin stayed at his desk. "Don't get your tail caught in the door, Rrillha," he grinned.
Victor remembered that painful gaff and winced, closing the door behind him especially
carefully.
* * *
Svarla liked being outside, so they sat in the shade of a young leafy gnarled oak as she
told him how to fit in. She had taken off her coat, and the soft wind ruffled her fur. The warm
hazy sun was a bruised spot of yellow on a dead copper sky.
First they tackled connotations of words and slang. A Recom who wasn't very enamored
of humans called them 'skins.' A lot of military slang was used by the older once-soldier types,
but Recoms did not have their own language. A Recom might become enraged at the sight of a
fur coat, no matter how rare they were, so they stayed away from Sutton Compound, the small
quad on the East side with its own private police force.
It was nearly dusk by the time she finished body language. He had to be careful how he
moved his tail, and he couldn't even control the damn thing yet. Even though his gaze was
likened to staring down a double-barreled shotgun, he shouldn't stare or bare his teeth; and
above all don't stare at someone who's eating. There were a lot of instincts that weren't erased
by genetic recombination-- racial memories, she called them.
He had known about wolverines ever since he was a cop, but she told him anyway. Never
provoke them. No matter how much bigger you are, they will never submit, and they won't back
down. If the Recom stereotype of the 'walking time-bomb' had any basis in fact, it was the
bad-tempered mustelids. Their claws were not vestigial and adrenaline was like PCP to them.
They were a pain in the ass to put down, Victor remembered. He recalled hosing down a drunk
one back when he was a patrolman. His department, smack in the middle of the Jungle, finally
resorted to stun-guns that were practically hyped-up cattle prods. Even though he felt strong
enough to throw a wolverine across a room, he reminded himself not to get too cocky.
"What do Recoms do to show ... desire?" He wanted to make her feel as uncomfortable
as he did, squirming in that chair upstairs.
She chuckled, a throaty sound. "There are plenty of women along the Hudson that'll
show you. No, you'll have money. Might want to try uptown between 5th and 7th..." She gave
him a toothy grin. It was meant to anger him, he remembered. Recoms didn't smile. Only
humans bared their fangs in merriment.
"Thanks," he glared.
"If you need to know for this investigation, I'll tell you." She stood up, brushed the grass
off her legs. "Come on. Time to go inside."
He wasn't done training yet. Therapy moved from strength to agility, balance beams and
reflex exercises to make sure he wasn't clumsy using muscles he never had before.
One day, when Svarla was checking how well his eyes focused, he asked her. "How do I
spray?"
She merely moved the lenses from his eyes and said, "I don't know. I'm not a skunk."
At last the day had come. He was getting stir crazy. It was time for his recovery to be
announced to the press and for him to return to the department. He was back in Gavin's office,
the fans running on high as the stone-faced man chain-smoked.
"How are you going to go about helping us, Victor? Have you really thought about it?
There's been another murder while you were being slipped." He puffed away as Svarla idly
groomed her forearm with her claws.
Victor thought a moment. "Pick up Rrillha's leads from his accounts and files. Search his
apartment. Try to find his informants, his street people. Try to fit in back at the station."
"Good. Try to keep quiet. Remember, you're practically a martyred hero for the Recom
movement, and that'll screw up your work at the station. Fake amnesia, that'll help with any
friends you might bump into. I'm sure there'll be sympathy overflowing for you, but don't push
it."
"I don't plan to." He cracked his knuckles. Odd, he'd never had that habit. He flexed the
small muscles that extended and retracted his claws. "Do you want me to report on progress?
Back here?"
Gavin nodded. "We'll be in touch. Svarla will get you your things and drop you off at the
apartment. Tomorrow you're back on the force." He ground out a cigarette under his thumb in
the tacky chrome ashtray on his desk.
His belongings amounted to a belt-clip badge, a bandolier with a Distinguished Service
Cross and a Purple Heart pinned to it, a thin wallet with some debit and credit cards in it, and an
open roll of violet candies. The candies were sweet and their scent tickled his nose.
Svarla led him to an underground parking lot, stopping at a simple dark sedan with tinted
windows. When they neared, the engine hummed to life. It was a common model of automobile,
and mist drifted out of the exhaust.
He opened the back door after he found out the passenger door was locked. As he was
getting in, the vixen put a hand on his shoulder, and her claws pricked his skin. He turned to her.
"You have any questions, my phone number is in Rrillha's files." She let go.
"Thanks." He got in the car, sitting in the middle of the back seat. His tail curled up like
a begging squirrel's, the end pressed up against the rear window.
"Take care, Rrillha." She bared her fangs, taunting him playfully.
"You too." He tried to mimic her expression, but felt silly, so he shut the door.
He only saw the back of the driver's head for the trip back to the City. The man had a
government-issue short haircut, strong features, and a pair of aviator sunglasses on. He didn't
talk and it looked like you could get papercuts from the ironed creases in his suit. He also had
ears that made him look like a taxi with the doors open, but Victor decided not to tell him.
The skunk looked out the windows boredly, and realized that the FBI building he had
been cooped up in was the new one, built a few years ago in the Free City of Staten Island,
which was happily no longer affiliated with the four remaining boroughs of New York City.
After he left the island, he didn't see any trees.
The driver stopped at a tall grey apartment building that was surrounded by others
exactly like it. It was at the top of SoHo, on Prince between Greene and Mercer. He got out, and
the sedan pulled hastily between two shuttle buses, turned right on a side street, and was gone.
The sidewalks weren't too crowded, and he only saw one other Recom, a young wolf
who cut across the street. The rest of the people slouched toward home under the ugly
grey-green sky. He was received without a word, except for a grunt from a gang of teens who all
had blue stripes dyed down the middle of their crewcuts and bar code badges stolen from execs
pinned to their
flak jackets. The badges were collected like baseball cards, and one kid had all the big ones:
DuPont, J&J, IBM, GE, ITT. They stood by the front of his building and parted when he walked
up the steps. He felt them giving him the finger to his back, but didn't turn.
His apartment was on the sixth floor and he tore yellow police tape off the doorjamb
before entering. It had a thumbprint reader for a lock and the door popped inward like the secret
panel of a crypt.
Despite the dust, it was a nice spacious apartment that probably cost a fortune. The
furniture and decor were minimal-- a long couch, some nature prints on the walls. The wall-
mounted TV was mute, but spat forth a flicker of commercials into the silent room. A counter
divided the parlor from the kitchen, which had a faux brick floor and utilitarian fixtures. He was
afraid to open the refrigerator; after all this time some kind of sentient mold was likely to attack
him with a pseudopod.
Through a door in the kitchen were a bedroom and bath. The bed was large and had a
nighttable at each side, one with a video reader and a stack of book disks, the other with a lamp
and an alarm clock. Double door closets flanked the bed.
He used the bathroom before giving the place a half-decent cleaning. He opened the
windows and turned up the volume on the TV. The apartment was quiet and the place had the air
of death. The PC was oddly a portable, and fit in a briefcase with its common police accessories:
a scanner/printer, cellular phone, and a remote digitizer, which looked like a small camera.
He was tired from making the place livable, so he laid on the couch and watched a Public
TV channel show about the Grand Canyon till he fell asleep.
Sleep was a dark swirling void, a whirlpool abyss behind his eyes, the center of it
hypnotizing him as he contemplated it for what seemed an eternity.
The next morning he woke early, his muzzle and palms moist with sweat. The sun was
just coming up, barely affecting the ashen sky. He sat the PC on his lap and turned it on, and put
on the opaque visor with the built-in headphones.
A thin red line buzzed across his vision as the visor laserscanned his retina for login.
Colors burst, a million blooming fluorescent pinpricks, each with a tiny bud of darkness in the
center, which then bloomed until a blind abyss enveloped him.
Then, windows of text flipped up against the blackness, like cards dealt on an ebony
table. Some were doorways toward catalogs, travel agents, banks, and the like; another window
flashed entertainment, from ersatz vacations and vicarious adventures to a virtual reality brothel.
He scanned the bank account balances, checked the news, and learned that he was to appear at
press conference held at the Jungle Precinct in a couple hours. He figured he should look good,
so he decided to scan the files later.
He tried to remember how Rrillha combed his head-fur, which looked messy no matter
what he did with it. Being a skunk, he had a tousled mess of black and white fur between his
ears. Slicked back, he looked too shifty; parted, it looked ridiculous. He loosely combed it back,
and left a lock of bangs hanging neatly over his left eye. He thought he looked dashing, for a
fur-- Recom.
In the same drawer as the fur brush there was a keychain. It held a car key and a small
squat key that looked like it fit a locker or a safety deposit box. Rrillha must have had a
department issue vehicle, and he hoped he'd be getting it back.
The only clothes Rrillha owned were shorts, and Victor found a navy blue pair to put on,
along with his badge and belt. He hit the street, looking for a shuttle. He brought the briefcase
computer with him.
If there was any sun that day, it was hiding behind the colossal ziggurats of the housing
complexes. Shuttle buses and the occasional sleek automobile jockeyed down the rutted,
pockmarked pavement. Crowds shuffled down the sidewalks, some disappearing down littered
stairwells into the subways below.
Victor picked up a shuttle with a drop-off a few blocks from the station, and strap-
hanged it for the trip. He was the only Recom on the bus, and began to feel glances grazing
him... eyes not making contact, but pointing his way now and then.
The ride was spine-jarring at best, and gut wrenching at its worse. The downtown side
streets were neglected beyond repair, and the bus bottomed out regularly as the driver raced
down them. Victor was used to the ride, never owning a car. He grunted as the bus hurtled
around a food cart that sat at the curb, and watched the peds scatter back onto the sidewalks
where they belonged.
The 54th New Precinct was a squat geometric rhomb jammed between a dull weathered
warehouse and a tall, sterile apartment complex. After he stepped off the still rolling bus, he
closed his eyes a moment; he fought with himself, to relax, to force the queasiness away, to be
empty, as he imagined Rrillha would be with partial amnesia. The entrance was cut into the
building with sharp, odd angles, and he walked down the oblong tunnel to the lobby.
A couple were trying to argue with the desk sergeant.
"But I was mugged, you're telling me you won't even take a report?" The man held a
corner of his jacket to his eye, where a swollen cut still bled. The woman beside him pinched her
bloody nose and leaned her head back.
The desk sergeant sat behind a thick plastic screen, and looked up from his coffee. He
followed the skunk with his eyes as Victor walked to the back door with the Police Only sign
above it. "Just be lucky you're alive. There's not much we can do. Do you know how many
muggings there are every day?"
The back room was a sea of desks, uniforms, and noise. Telephones, beepers, and shouts
all fought for ears. He scanned the room, trying hard to keep from talking to old friends... he was
back in his world, but in a disguise that was torturously perfect.
He nearly waved to Kassie Obrycki, who was still chewing on her computer stylus,
possibly wanting to be electrocuted, or Joe Bagaducci, who everyone called Joey Bags, but who
he called Joey Bag O'Donuts. Joey was staring at his newsreader over a cup of coffee, having
finished his donuts already.
"Hey, Stinky's back!" A rookie, a skinny spider of a man with a buzzed haircut, taunted
him from across the room.
He waved back silently as he walked up the aisle to the Captain's office, amid hoots and
shouts of sarcastic applause. It began pecking at him, even though it wasn't really him they were
jeering. The sounds were like prodding fingers, making him cringe and tremble with anger... he
stared into space, knowing that if he met the gaze of one of the taunters, he would explode. He
could feel their eyes gouging him along.
He nearly jumped when a hand reached out in front of him as he walked by.
"Welcome back, Inspector." It was Bagaducci. His voice sounded like a croak
sometimes. He didn't talk often. Dark, deep-set eyes looked up from under a mop of black hair.
He wore a dingy grey sweater with a strand of yarn hanging from a ragged cuff, and some old
slacks. He wore black sneakers instead of department issue shoes.
Rrillha's voice was higher than was expected for his size. "Thank you, Lieu," he said
dryly, and walked back to Captain Thompson's office.
It was a stale cubicle, cramped with a plastic mock-lacquer desk and piles of computer
cartridges stacked around the room, labeled in a steady hand. Thompson sat at his desk, round
like a coiled boa constrictor in his chair, and about the same color Victor liked his coffee. He
was squat and bald on top, as if life had ground him down into the pavement. He had a pager
hooked on his ear, and he hummed into it boredly, on hold.
"Rrillha." Thompson was not easily surprised. His eyes were hard enough to take on a
jaguar's stare.
Victor had been finding it hard to act out Rrillha's often submissive attitude. With
Thompson it was easy. Every conversation was like a game of mercy you started out losing.
"Good morning, Captain." He nodded and stood before the desk.
The Captain raised his index finger, gesturing for him to wait a minute as he started
talking on the phone.
Victor pivoted on his heel, looking around the room while Thompson tried to wheedle
some information from another precinct. The white floor was scuffed by the Captain's black-
soled shoes, and was smooth against his feet. His claws made quiet clicking noises as he tapped
his foot.
The desk had a rotating photo cube that cycled through a slideshow of smiling grandkids.
The walls were mostly bare except for a display case that held a 52-state set of State Trooper
shoulder patches, and a pistol range target with the bullseye raggedly removed. In magic
marker, "25 yards, 10mm long" was written on the target.
"No, I'm not trying to pull rank with you, Cy. But if you fax those over, not only will I
let you see the evidence from the Jenkins case, but I'll give you two of my tickets to the Jets-
Steelers game on the 25th. No, I'm not shitting you, I need those records. Thanks. I'll give you
the tickets over lunch at Perry's in Maspeth. Seats are low, around the 45 yard line. You buy
lunch." He hung up.
"Stubborn S.O.B., that Cy. Rrillha, good to have you back." He played with a pen.
"Good to be back, sir." He sat on the edge of one of the two chairs in front of the
Captain's desk, his tail curling over the back of it. The Captain's nose wrinkled.
"Now listen. I know the feds took care of you, checked you out, but you're doing desk
jobs until I'm sure you're okay. They said you had light amnesia?"
"Yes, sir."
He grinned. "What's your name and badge number. No peeking."
He parted his muzzle and churred softly, the best light laugh a skunk could muster.
"Rrillha Hoffman, Inspector #474." He trilled his R's involuntarily, which annoyed him, before
he remembered how Rrillha sounded.
"What's a signal-13?"
"Officer in distress."
"Good. How many sugars do I take in my coffee?"
"Uh. I don't know, sir."
"I take it black. Get me a cup, then I have some reports you can review." He grinned
again.
Victor closed his eyes a moment with a "heh" before heading for the coffee urn.
Thompson was a ballbuster, but he was a good guy and a good cop, in Victor's mind.
He brought the Captain his coffee and zipped through the reports. He was a little anal-
retentive about spelling, grammar and correct procedure, and left many notes for the patrol
officers and the end of their reports. This kind of work bored him, so he got it over with
quickly.
Sitting at his desk, he noticed that the "New Mail" light was flashing slowly on the
handle of the briefcase, so he logged in to check it.
Svarla had sent him a dossier on himself.
Name: Rrillha Creche: Hoffman #28
DOB: release date 8/1/87; ID #: SKU-626-70
Physical description: Mephitis sapiens, Generation 1.
Height: 5'11" Weight: 315 lbs.
Employment History: Marine Corps, Hoffman Project. Served in
Skunk Anti-Terrorist Squads, 20 yrs., retired with pension. Final
ranking- Sergeant 1st Class. Service: Operation Innocent Rescue,
2102; Operation Dune Hammer 2102-2103; Operation Oasis 2110-
2111. Drill Sergeant 2111-2117. Security Guard, Macy's, 2117-
2119. Police Officer, NYPD, 54th N. Precinct 2119-2122;
promoted to Detective, 2122, promoted to Inspector, 2125.
That was all. It was helpful, but nowhere near as in detail as he'd hoped... He was about
to scan through Rrillha's personal files when Lieutenant Bagaducci walked up to him.
"Hey Rrillha." He put his hand on the skunk's shoulder unexpectedly, making the fur
bristle.
"Hello, Lieu."
"You hear about Vic Davis?"
"No, what happened? Transfer?"
"You could call it that. Heart attack, chasing two coon-cats. Kids, third generation
Recoms. Never thought about his health, that guy."
Victor nodded the head he inhabited, feeling suddenly cold. "He should have watched
his diet. Too bad, I liked him. When did it happen?"
"Three or four months ago. Yeah, he was a good cop. Hard-headed, but good. Anyhow,
we got the two kids in holding. Parents can't afford counsel, and the Public defenders are so
backed up they could use MetaMucil. No bail, D.A.'s prosecuting this like they pulled the
trigger on him." He sat on the edge of Rrillha's desk.
"Jesus." Shit, Victor thought. Rrillha would never had said that. Recoms weren't
accepted in any of the traditional religions. He wondered if Joey caught that. "Well, they
shouldn't have run. What were they doing?"
"They tossed some paint balloons at his squad car. He should have known better, and
called for an assist. They could have ambushed him in that complex. But I believe these kids.
They called us on his pager after he passed out."
"I'll have to look at all the reports and talk to them. The Cap doesn't want me doing
much for a while, but this is definitely my end." He looked at the clock. "I'd better go, I have
that press conference in a half hour."
Bagaducci walked back to his desk, and Victor sat alone and thought for a few long
minutes before he left for the conference.
He had two escorts who walked to either side of him down the halls, keeping the press at
bay. Both were dwarfed by him, wiry young guys with crewcuts and fresh shaves. Their tones
were snappy and forcibly gruff as they pushed back a crowd of reporters, some with microcams,
some with pen-mikes thrust at Rrillha's face as he pushed through them to get to the door.
The podium was directly in front of the door, and flanked by two familiar faces. Jayesh
Vierheilig, the Vice President of the Manhattan Division of Police, and "Dick-nose." That was
Victor's nickname for the Chief of Internal Affairs, Richard Place, a tall bony man with a
prominent bulb of a nose. It looked like it had been broken more than once without the benefit of
reconstructive surgery. With the thinning hair slicked back, and a set of ice blue eyes, it gave
him a hawk-like appearance that was tempered by his attitude.
He stepped up to the tree of thin black mikes, Vierheilig stepping beside him. The crowd
of journalists wasn't especially large, but the buzz of their chatter set him on edge. There was
something about Vierheilig that Victor never liked. There was something in his movements, in
the his beady eyes that made him look like a giant tan weasel with a moustache. He leaned over
the mikes with a sinuous motion.
"If you'll all quiet down, we'll allow you to ask a few questions." He had picked up his
German accent in his father's homeland, where he went to University; his mother he left in New
Karachi, Pakistan where she remained, only miles from the radioactive ruins of the old city. He
began his career with Ronin WorldWide Security in Berlin against the Greens, and did so well
that when he asked for a transfer to New York, he got it without a demotion.
The noise died down as microcams were aimed, and reporters jockeyed for a good
position in the small, crammed auditorium. Victor scanned over the crowd, spotting a group of
five Recoms in the middle. Two wolves stood tall, with a distinct arrogance in the twitching of
their tails and whiskers; a smaller, rust-colored fox and a pair of coon-cats holding hands flanked
them.
He sighed as he realized who the feline couple were, then swallowed a bitter taste in his
mouth as he caught their scent over the normal sea of colognes and perfumes. His expression
was one of sudden weariness as he looked out over the eager roomful of reporters.
He answered the questions as Vierheilig pointed out reporters, who then were allowed to
speak. "You," he would say, his finger thin and brown as a stick-insect.
"You realize that you've been a martyr of the 'Recom Rights Movement' while you were
in coma, how is that going to affect your political activity?"
Victor wasn't sure who asked, so he just talked into the microphones.
"Martyrs are dead. And I'm alive, aren't I?" Chuckles rippled across the room.
"Will you be returning to your old job? Can you function? How much did it cost the
taxpayers to keep you plugged in all that time? I mean-"
'Dick-nose' Place interrupted. "He was kept alive like any beat cop would've been, by
draining off the F.O.P.'s health fund."
The Veep from Ronin WorldWide cut in: "I can assure the taxpayers of New York and
our stockholders that not one penny was spent beyond the ambulance and emergency room
service, which is clearly in the Public Contract."
Victor thought it over; the first was an outright lie, covered by Vierheilig's confusing
true statement. The department knew that the Feds had taken care of him, once Ronin moved to
have him unplugged.
Rrillha simply nodded.
The weasel in the silvery grey suit pointed to a woman with feathery blonde hair, who
asked, "The Voice would like to know how you feel about the City's population being 9% furry,
while we only have 412 furry police officers, less than a quarter-percent. And you're the only
one off the beat."
"And I'm sure they all do a very good job. I don't think statistics hold a lot of weight,"
he floundered. Vierheilig again passed over the group of Recoms, who Victor realized were
becoming increasing agitated, from their body language.
"Inspector Rrillha," one wolf growled, "Surely you've heard of the lamentable Davis
case? We're here to speak on the boys' behalf, on how they're being prosecuted as if they
attacked your fellow police officer, may he rest in peace. What are you going to do about this?
It's your precinct-"
The room was suddenly awash with muttered chatter. Vierheilig was wrenched up with
anger, shouting, "This conference will be held in an orderly manner. I didn't call on you--"
"I'll answer." Be calm. Try to act like Rrillha. Play both sides of this, don't start a riot.
"Mister..." he stared across the room, sharp eyes centering on the wolf's name tag.
"Sturgas? I'm an inspector. I investigate. I'm not with the D.A., the prosecutors, nobody. I can
do my best, off-duty, to help you find the best counsel, but when I have this badge on-" he
fingered the hologram clipped to his bandolier- "I have a duty to perform."
His superiors seemed satisfied, but he saw the Recoms' hackles rise noticeably, from
across the room. The female coon-cat shrieked, "Don't tell me about duty! What about your duty
to your people!"
The father held her back, snarling, "You cops reconditioned him! You turned him into a
fragging puppet!"
"That's enough!" Place shouted into the mikes, making everyone in the room wince.
"Men!" Four officers in black kevlar body suits pushed their way into the room, a crescent
closing in on the Recoms.
No. Don't kill them. Please. Fear shot up his back and down his tail, and he felt his ears
flattening against his skull.
The fox quickly raised his hand and muttered, "We're not resisting..." as they were led
out of the room, the reporters recoiling from the wolves' low snarls as they stalked out the door.
Rrillha's eyes locked with the feline mother's glaring yellow ones, her pupils like poised
obsidian daggers. She hissed and spat as a black arm pulled her through the double doors.
* * *
He sat contemplating the silent flood of images on the flat screen TV that was mounted
flush into the living room wall. He had the volume all the way down. He didn't feel like risking
a lease violation by digging through the wall to install a power switch.
He had spent the rest of the day editing reports and getting coffee for the top brass. He
hated being at someone's beck and call. He tried to drown the sour feeling in his stomach, but
the single sipper of beer he found in the fridge only teased him.
He dug through the closets and storage panels. It was an odd feeling, like he was
snooping in his own home. There were boxes of old uniforms, a gas mask sleek as a black wasp;
a security guard's cap with two ragged holes for his ears.
He found grey and sand camo suits, ventilated with crosses and x's cut into the fabric,
with an enormous bag for the tail. It smelled ancient with stale dust. There was a black vest with
gold patches- one was emblazoned with SATS and a striped tail, flames in the place of white.
The other had an eagle's profile, and read "Stripes From Hell." He chuckled. Flanking the collar
were a jump-wings patch and the black, arrow-crossed shield of the Green Berets, reading "De
Oppresso Liber" in cold silver. A Special Forces patch was stitched in below, a dagger pointing
skyward, slashed with three lightning bolts.
He hit gold at the bottom of the closet. He found an Urban Combat Visor and a
disassembled military shotgun, a flat black bullpup and several large, empty ammo drums. It had
been taken down and oiled who knows when, and he had no idea how to reassemble it.
That aggravated him, and he looked in the obvious places; the nighttable drawer, under
the bed, and on the shelves near the hallway door. Rrillha must not have had a backup piece after
all.
He wasn't going to waste the night sitting in front of the cathode ray nipple. He plopped
the PC down on the coffee table and logged in, zipping through the catchy boot-up screens.
Windows of text flipped by like shattered gates of light until he finally got to the personal file
cabinet.
There was a diary, a checkbook, and a badge suspended in the twinkling starlight of the
background. When he zoomed in close, each star was the logo of Microsoft-Intel, monolithic
letters in shimmering chrome. He pulled back and passed through the badge like a ghost. The
briefcase clicked as it dialed the Precinct mainframe.
Lexus Archon was there as always, that iron face that appeared out of nowhere, filling
the starfield with its chiseled visage.
"Welcome, Inspector Rrillha. You last logged in one month ago for thirteen minutes.
You have no mail waiting." The voice was a crisp bass, with the kind of programmed
enthusiasm that inspired bleak thoughts. L-A faded to black and was replaced with Rrillha's file
folder.
Victor put a forked search through Rrillha's reports for snitches and informants, and
came up with nothing. He gave them a quick scan and found no notes on the Furry Killer. He
moved to the joint Homicide folder next, L-A reappearing to assure him of his security
clearance.
There were no witnesses, that he knew. The few informants were labeled dubious, but he
set them into a print queue with the crime scene reports. He next tried to slip into Forensics' file
library, but Lexus rumbled into view like a storm cloud. "I'm sorry, Inspector Rrillha. Cross-
department access requires permission from the department in question."
He sighed, that would have to wait.
"Fuck you too, Inspector Rrillha. Have a nice day."
He had a habit of broadcasting his thoughts like that, which was why he never got into
VR dating.
He read over the reports. All the murders were committed with the same weapon, a knife
with a blade at least four inches long and just under two wide. Forensics had pinned it to one of
two models, the SOG Covert or the Beretta Tek4. Both were widely available on the black
market and of course illegal to own in the City of New York. All murders occurred in the
victim's home, consisted of a single victim, and times of death varied. There tended to be two or
three wounds all in the vital areas- the carotid artery and jugular vein, a stab above the clavicle
or under the breastbone; or from the rear, at the base of the skull or a lung puncture. The rest of
the wounds came afterward, and were brutal and messy. No fur samples were found, no hair or
skin flakes. No sign of a struggle, no items stolen. No signs of forcible entry. No clues. No
evidence.
He thought. The use of a common murder weapon means the killer has balls. He's not
afraid, he's perhaps keeping the weapon as a memoir of the previous murders. He can get in
their homes. He's slick, unnoticeable. Perhaps he started as a burglar, before the Recoms moved
in and set something off in his brain. He knows how to kill. Possibly ex-military, possibly a
martial artist... what schools teach knives? Escrima, kali. He's smart enough not to take
mementos. Maybe he takes pictures or replays the event to his diary at home. No skin flakes or
hairs. Maybe a gang kid, with a crewcut and a taste for latex outfits. They were in style a year
ago. No, a gang kid would need an ego boost, and take a souvenir or leave a card, his gang's
mark. The frenzy comes afterward. He stabs out their eyes and drives his knife into their
abdomens and crotches... he hates them. The killing's not enough. He has to defile them.
This was Rrillha's pet case, so he didn't expect to find any official documents on it in his
folder. He would check his diary tomorrow. His big problem was that he had lost his street
people. Rrillha had deftly managed to keep his informants' names out of official documents, and
Victor knew he couldn't approach his own... as a skunk. If he couldn't find Rrillha's snitches,
they might come to him, eager for some cash or to see an old pal. He logged out and packed a
belt pouch with his BankCard, his badge and his department pager.
He felt naked without a gun, as he hit the streets, and especially as he waited for the
ATM to verify that his thumbprint came from a living thumb, and not a dismembered one. The
streets were crowded even for a summer weeknight, teens sitting on steps drinking bags of beer,
shirtless with their subcutaneous hologram-tattoos glowing under the fluorescent lamps. The
streets didn't feel crowded to him... they seemed to part about three feet in front of him. On a
night like this, you'd normally have to fight through a gaggle of bodies, he thought,
remembering the feel of skin slick against his, sweat soiling his clothes. He would have traded
the icy stares and shivers of nervous fear for a little sweat any day. A short kid squeaked
"Sorry!" as he grabbed his rollerboard and leapt up onto the front steps of his tenement.
He stopped a moment, and the crowd began to get quieter. He noticed a young
longhaired woman squatting on the steps with a lit nic-stick between two fingers, holding her
nose. He looked side to side, not making eye contact, and walked on with a snort, claws clicking
on the sidewalk.
He walked south, toward Tribeca... Party Central. The prowlers cruised up and down the
streets, sharks of white and neon, their hoverfans sending breezes through the legs of the peds. It
felt refreshing as it ruffled his fur, and the lines of people that trailed from the club entrances
sighed in gratitude. Flashes of strobelights and the steady thump of drum machines escaped the
open doorways, followed by spasms of sampled babble and bursts of rhythm massacre. The
bouncer who stood at the door was from Ronin, and smiled at him while opening his blazer to
reveal a holstered pistol. The crowd chuckled, but not to his face as he walked past, ignoring
them.
On the end of Mulberry he found what he was looking for, Hachi's. Otherwise known as
the Dai Hachi Bar & Grill, otherwise known as Animal House by every surrounding police
station. It was a square of open bar on the corner, surrounded by barstools sunk in the cement
and yellow banners hanging from the roof proclaiming its name in cheesy red oriental-style
letters. The seats were full of Recoms of all species- wolves, coon-cats, foxes, otters, skunks,
and three clannish wolverines sitting in a row. They leaned against the surrounding storefronts
with bowls of steaming noodles in their hands, walked across the street to the cheap bars and
returning with cartons of beer, and pulled marinated chunks of shisk-tartare off plastic skewers.
He managed to grab a seat just as a young cat was leaving, his long tail uncoiling from
the barstool's chrome stem. Yellow neons along the perimeter of the roof's edge beamed down
onto the counters, which had the menus slipped under the claw-scratched flexi-plast. The cooks
chopped and clanged and sliced away, black latex gloves over their hands, tails belted to one leg
by the knee. The grills spat back the grease and food sizzled and writhed across their surfaces.
His waiter was a lithe fox with a blue raccoon's mask dyed around his eyes, whiskers painted
blue also.
They didn't serve burgers. "Uhh... gimme what that wolverine over there's got," he said,
and pointed. He sighed as he realized his faux pas, when the wolverine noticed and stopped
eating from his skewer momentarily. The fox waiter raised an eyebrow and nodded. "5 dollars,
Sergeant Rrillha." He gave the kid a crisp bill and tried to remember to keep his tail off the
floor.
A shorter, stockier skunk than he walked up with an open carton of beer. "Hey, Sarge...
we knew you'd pull through. Just like when that skin cracked you in the head with a pipe, you
got up and broke both his arms. They do a good job, everything alright?"
"Well, uh, everything's good except for the amnesia... it's like someone cut out whole
chunks of my past. Now, I know I know you, but I honestly can't remember your name." The
fox walked past and dropped a square plate with two skewers festooned with dark red meat.
"Why Sarge, it's me, Chirrul. We served together in Dune Hammer, getting those Shell
execs out." He looked puzzled.
"Rrillha!" A big wolf came over and hugged him tight. "Good to have you back! How
are you?" She was a little taller than him, her fur varying from peppered grey on her thick mane
and face to a cinnamony brown on her throat and down her front. She wore a black skirt and a
flak vest.
"I'm good, except for the amnesia..."
Soon a small crowd of eight Recoms surrounded him, tails wagging, greeting him on his
return. A wiry otter sat beside him with a tray of sushi, the hot wasabe wafting to his nostrils.
The otter had a green stripe dyed from the tip of his round black nose all the way down to his
tailtip, and wore a pair of black wraparound shades. He pointed with his chopsticks as he talked.
"The hunter got another one of us while you were down, old man." He popped a piece of
shrimp into his mouth.
The she-wolf growled as her neckruff bristled, "You treat this skunk with respect, Lirip.
He's too polite to trounce your ass, but I'm not."
The otter huffed back at her. "Anytime, Jira. This isn't a pack, I ain't kowtowing to
you."
She growled and leaned closer, before Rrillha stood and held them apart. "Hey, easy
now."
It was a moment before Jira and Lirip broke their locked stares and apologized quietly to
him. "I'm trying to eat, here." He picked up his skewer.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant Rrillha," she paused to shoot a glare at the otter, "I hope everything
is well."
"Besides the memory loss, everything's fine." He nibbled tentatively at the meat. It tasted
good, a little overseasoned.
"I think the bastards mind-wiped you, the frags... wouldn't put it past them," a young fox
interjected, and adjusted the black bandanna tied around his forehead.
"Yeah, what were you saying about those two kits? That's total bullshit, what the
prosecutor's doing." Lirip said, between bites of ebi.
"I know, I know, but there's not a lot I can do about it. Right now I'm working on
finding the serial killer. It's like starting all over."
"Well, we've been passing out stun-guns, and teaching defense to the civvies at the
neighborhood meetings," Jira said, leaning against the bar. "We're thinking of a demonstration
in front of the DA's office, for the kits, and their lack of effort in the "Furry Killer" case. The
media's eating that up, there've been shows on serial murder seven nights a week. All the way
back to Jack the Ripper."
"Yeah-yeah-yeah. I need leads. I'm gonna have to get off my ass and knock on doors
tomorrow, talk to the neighbors." He pulled a chunk off his skewer. Tender, marbled.
"I think we're gonna have to break those kids out, Rrillha." Lirip clicked his plastic
chopsticks together. "When they're transferred from juvenile to the courthouse pen."
Rrillha nearly choked on his beef cube. "Do you remember what they did at the last
demonstration I was at? How do you think they'll react to violence?"
"Come on, Rrillha, we've got better guns than they do if it comes to that. We've got the
whole damn military. That's the problem, we need you back in the Corps, and me back in the
Navy telling the boys the real shit before they get brainwashed and dumped out here as
reservists!"
"Lirip, let's be serious! All you ever suggest is violence. Sometimes I think that
testerophetamine they shot you up with never wore off!"
"Jira, Lirip, both of you calm down, now. Have you had any demonstrations while I
was... under?"
"No," the group said simultaneously.
"Well then have one for the kits. Get the parents there. Call the press. Don't get a permit
this time. Better to keep the cops away as long as you're peaceful. I'll handle the Furry Killer.
That's my business." He tore another chunk off the skewer.
"Okay. We'll hold it at five. Rush hour."
A thin kid with short-cropped hair and a ratty t-shirt walked up to the counter nearby,
prompting silence from the group of Recoms surrounding Rrillha's barstool. He made an order
as a shaggy wolverine walked up and pushed him aside. "Fuck off, monkeyboy."
"Hey skunk. That bullet make you soft in the head? You sounded like you changed sides
on TV this morning." He rapped his black claws on the countertop, his short massive form
muscling between the she-wolf and otter as if they weren't there.
"Whose side are you on, civvie?" He stared him right in the eyes. He couldn't afford to
submit in front of people who were obviously comrades.
"Well, I ain't on your side!" His breath stank of beer. It took a lot to get a Recom drunk,
with their engineered metabolisms.
"Go home and sober up before you wake up in a holding tank."
The wolverine growled and pushed his shoulder, knocking him into the counter.
Suddenly Rrillha had the drunk's wrist twisted, locking the radius and ulna. He saw something
flare in the wolverine's eyes, and paused with surprise at his own move. Quickly he grabbed the
green lump of hot mustard off the otter's plate and squashed it against the wolverine's nose with
his palm.
There was a roar and a lot of whining, and plenty of laughter followed as the big
mustelid squirmed on the ground in pain. His two friends walked over, pointing and laughing,
pouring a beer carton full of water onto his face, before dragging him away as he wheezed.
"What a night," Rrillha rolled his eyes.
Jira seemed to smile as she panted, laughing. "Same as always, in Party Central."
By the time he walked back to SoHo the streets were nearly empty but for the prowler-
cars. The night wasn't a total loss. He learned a little more about his old friends. Jira was Alpha
Leader of her Pack, and served in some of the same operations that he did, as urban ground
forces. Lirip had started as a frogman, setting limpet mines in Manila before he made gunner and
served in Dune Hammer. The waiter was a "third generation" Recom, his parents were
reservists. The third generation were born, the first were sterile, and the second were engineered
fertile. It was cheaper for the government to let them mate than to keep building them. He
wasn't eighteen yet, but looked forward to serving his country like his parents.
Victor looked down the alleys, as if waiting for some nut with a paramilitary knife to run
out and gut him. He felt safe upstairs as he got into bed, frowning as he noticed the parted fur
and deep scratches on his shoulder. He didn't think the wolverine had touched him.
* * *
Her nape was firmly caught between his teeth as her firm muscled form writhed against him, her
tail flat between his chest and her back. He clutched her tightly as fire rippled along his spine to
the knot of his penis that held them locked, entwined. [shatter] The sand skittered across his
visor, the wind cutting through his fatigues as he picked up a heat source by the window. He
gave the sign to the silent skunks behind him and held the grip tightly, raising the stock to his
shoulder, the sights to his eye. [shatter] His voice hoarse, he shouted in the dark. "Get up you
maggots! Drop your cocks and grab your socks!" He pressed on the light-pad and watched two
dozen groggy black and white forms clamber out of bed. [shatter] A muted crack and the world
turned to lightning. Then a flood of rage filling him up, warm blood over his face. The unnatural
wet crunch that echoed in his skull, the scream of horror, the rictus on the man's face as he fell
unconscious, arms bent up like a praying mantis. [shatter] The rap of a swagger stick across his
muzzle, the ebbing pain. The stubble on his drill sergeant's face as he screamed at him. "The
Corps owns you! And it wants your ass over that barbwire fence! We own you!" The tan of his
hat, as the wind carried it off his egg-shaped skull and into the mud. [shatter] What the fuck was
that? Get down! Got to cover the kits! I'm hit. Take it easy. calm down. breathe.
He came up gasping, throwing the sheets off as he lurched over the side of the bed and
vomited, wheezing through the dry heaves. He washed off his face and decided to call Svarla.
She said she'd meet him at her apartment in Hoboken, so he took a bus to the Towers and the
monorail over the Hudson.
The city had its charm, never fully modernizing. The brownstones were mashed together
and huge girders of scaffolding let the newer buildings spiral up like helixes or maze upward
like cubist tentacles into the grey sky. She lived in a low-key building, stunted and squat
underneath the branches of a snaky hotel that reached for the heavens. He rapped the cold green
metal of her door and listened to her multitude of locks click after she asked him to look into the
lens set above the doorbell.
She looked a little happy, a lightness to her movements. "You're going to cause quite a
stir, two Recoms in the building!"
He chuckled warily and sat on the chair she led him to.
"So, what do you want? This is my day off, and I'd rather not waste it."
"I had some dreams last night."
"Well, there are probably some people who interpret them in the Village." She sat across
from him in the cramped parlor, elbows on her legs.
"Funny. I think they were memories. Rrillha's memories."
She blinked. "You've got to be kidding. That's impossible."
"Well they weren't mine! I'm going to go through his diary and try to match them. They
were too uncanny to be my own mind playing tricks on me. I want to see the doctor back at the
FBI Building." He sighed, cracking his knuckles again. "Can I use your computer, if you've got
one?"
Her brow wrinkled. "Of course I have a computer. It's over here." She led him into the
bedroom, where a briefcase model much like his own sat on a desk. She logged in with the visor
and gave it the code that would allow him temporary use. Her background screen had a fox
sprawled out, dancing weightlessly, dabbled watercolor on infinite white. He took the gate to
Lexus Archon.
That familiar lifeless face greeted him. "Welcome Inspector Rrillha. You last logged on
one day ago for forty-four minutes. You have no mail waiting."
He panned over to the remote dialer and was met by another gleaming face, this one
curved and chrome. "Thank you for using the WT&T AirLink service," it chimed. "You last
used our service one month ago on May 15th for ten minutes. You have a zero account balance."
"Wait a minute. Did you ever use my account, Svarla? Or Gavin?" He felt her move
close to him, the air ruffling his guard hairs.
"No, that's one reason we needed you. We couldn't get in." Her hand on his shoulder,
the feeling muted by embrace of Virtual Reality.
"Someone's been in this account, and even dialed to my PC while I was supposed to be
dead."
He concentrated on VR again. "Lexus? C'mere."
"What?" He appeared with a pop.
"Why are you so annoyed? Were you on a date with a justice computer?"
"Oh, shut up. What do you want now?"
"Who logged into my account May 15th?"
"Why, you of course. Unless you lent out your eyes."
"You smartass. It wasn't me. You were hacked."
"Like hell I was. I'm checking now. There are no leaks and no missing- wait a minute.
You downloaded a batch of reports that day, and erased them."
"Why would I erase them? Especially if I was in a coma?"
The grey face wrenched up. "Going down- Bye!"
He was left with blackness, before the fox painting appeared when he was sucked back to
the PC. He took the visor off and shivered.
"I just crashed Lexus Archon."
She peered down at him. "What?"
"Do I have laryngitis? I crashed him. Someone hacked my account, I proved it to him,
and he had a shitfit." He stood up. "He said some files were erased. Probably personal reports on
the 'Furry Killer.'"
"You're still using that word. I-"
"I met with some old friends last night. Jira, a she-wolf, among them. She called him
that, so I figure I could too. I'm going back to Gavin and that skinny-ass doctor of yours. Have a
nice day."
"Wait a minute. How could someone hack your account. I'm thinking."
"Don't hurt yourself."
She growled low. "Even Internal Affairs couldn't get into your account without the
cooperation of the Justice Department. And why would they if you weren't under investigation,
which you aren't?"
"How the hell should I-"
"Shut up! This is over our heads unless it's some netrunner screwing around. You'd need
a retina forger. They exist, but they're for top class only. I've never seen one."
"Could Gavin get one?" He put his hands on his hips.
She nibbled her claws. "No, I said I haven't seen one."
"Well, we obviously have to find out who has."
His pager beeped shrilly, and he answered it. "Yeah?"
It was Lieutenant Bagaducci. "Rrillha, you'd better come down to 75-112A Grand Street.
We found another one. Get here quick, Forensics is on the way."
"Well, you heard him. Whoever our hacker is just put another notch on his knife." He
headed for the door.
"Good luck. I'll see what I can dig up on retina forgers. Buzz me here when you get
home!" She called after him.
* * *
It was a first floor apartment in a public housing complex. Three cops stood around the
room, surveying the slaughter. He spotted Bagaducci's messy curls and walked over to where he
stood, in front of the body.
Lirip was sprawled out on the linoleum, his mouth gaping. Little flecks of blood dotted
his black nose and white whiskers. Blood pooled around his neck and belly, smeared on the floor
by his thick tail. Eyeless, like Samson. And I'm the Delilah who betrayed you, Lirip. My files.
My diary.
"Hey, Rrillha. Son of a bitch never quits. Well, this one struggled. We're going to check
under the claws for skin samples." He looked to the two beat cops who were frowning morbidly
at the otter's corpse. "Boys, go talk to the neighbors, get me some answers. Anything out of the
ordinary."
They nodded and left, one of them turning pale.
"Who found him?" He scanned the room, not expecting to find anything.
"Lady next door. She said this guy baby-sat her cubs on Tuesdays, when she worked the
morning shift."
"Where is she? You left her alone?"
"She told us to leave. She's in 113A."
She was shivering, buttoning up her uniform, her stubby brown tail sticking out the back.
She turned when he knocked on the doorjamb, and he saw her nametag that read "Trella."
"Ms. Trella?"
"Yes, come in Mr. Rrillha. Inspector." She fixed the top button on the grey baggy
bodysuit and clipped on her workbelt.
"Rrillha's fine, ma'am. Did you see anyone go into or out of Lirip's apartment?" The
place was oddly quiet.
"No, no, they already asked me that." She sniffed, and looked at a mirror. Preened her
muzzle a little with her long black claws.
"Where are the cubs, ma'am?"
"They're at Benny's, down the hall. He takes them to the Rec Center sometimes. Keeps
them off the street. Nice man. I really have to get to the docks, now."
"Wait, please. Nothing out of the ordinary? I know you're scared. But you can help me."
Her voice was as gruff as any wolverine's. Their teeth meshed perfectly, which made
speech awkward at times. "Nothing. I didn't hear anyone go in, with the two cubs running
around."
"What about last night? Late. Anything wake you up?"
"I'm thinking... people come in and out of here at all hours, you get used to hearing
doors. One thing I do remember. A cop chased the bums away outside, and tried to put out their
cooking fire."
"How'd you catch that?"
"Well, I heard his engine running outside. That's the advantage of having a room in the
corner of the building. At least the kids weren't on the porch."
"They give 'em flack over that?"
"They make them go inside. You ever try to sleep with a bunch of teens caged in your
hallway?"
"This wasn't a prowler, then? No lights?"
"No, it was a dark sedan, a detective's car or something."
"About what time did he wake you up?"
"I don't remember. Late. But I'm a light sleeper. Now I have to get to work, if you
please." She led him to the door, and locked all four deadbolts. "You get this killer, Mr. Rrillha.
Maybe if your partners weren't chasing bums all night he'd be fried by now."
"Trust me Ms. Trella. I will." He watched her lumber out the front doors. She didn't look
back.
The two cops were back and shrugged, they'd found nothing. "Well, we wait for
Forensics. Anything, Rrillha?" Bagaducci scratched at his belly through the same ragged
sweater.
"Nah, nothing. Dammit. Thanks, Lieu. I think Thompson wants to see me when I get in
at four today. I'll catch him early."
Joe nodded. "I'll keep you informed on this, pal."
Outside, he looked in the charred metal barrel. At the bottom in the ashes there was a
frizzled mass, which he pulled out. It was some sort of synthetic fiber that must have claimed to
be fire retardant, since the blaze didn't devour it.
"Lieu, I found this in that barrel outside. It might have been a jacket." He held up the
charred and shriveled mass, that vaguely had arms.
"Tampering with evidence, Rrillha? You're not on this case. What the hell are you doing
here?" It was Dick-nose. He walked over, glaring, and grabbed it out of his hands. "This is
precisely the shit I'm talking about Bagaducci. Detectives not concentrating on their work,
sticking their noses in other cases, that's why nothing gets done around here."
He tried to smile, but ended up curling his lip in a snarl. "Hello Chief. This a routine
inspection?"
He frowned, brow creasing above his cold little eyes. "What happened to you, Rrillha?
You used to be a good cop. Now you're nosing around in other guys' cases, and talking smart
like Vic Davis. Remember how often he got promoted?"
"Yeah, I remember. Well, you guys have a nice day. Captain wants to see me." He
waved and walked out the door.
"You better use that stinking tail to cover your ass if you keep this up, Rrillha!" Place
bellowed out the door. Victor loved pissing him off.
Most buses weren't stopping now, full with office workers wanting to get home. The
sidewalks were peppered with people rollerblading as he jogged up to midtown, to the DA's
office. He saw prowlers fighting the bus traffic as he neared his destination, and cut crosstown
down an alleyway or two.
"Damn it!" They were having the demonstration right in the street, blocking traffic. Their
picket signs shook angrily in the air as they chanted.
"The kits aren't killers! We serve, we should be free! One nation, one law!" Jira was at
the head of them, on the steps of the concrete building, framed by its two massive pillars. She
shouted along with a megaphone.
Things were getting rowdy. People were getting out of their buses and pushing at the
crowd. He got shoved hard into a bus by a burly dockworker, and pulled out his badge. "Police!
Get back in your bus, now!"
He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing...
The Corps owns you! And it wants your ass over that barbwire fence! We own you! We
own you...
"Oh, shit..." He clutched his head. It wouldn't go away.
Lirip's apartment. Watching him suck a nic-stick in the dark, the ember at the tip almost as
bright as his eyes. "We can't let them engineer more of us, Rrillha. We're a slave race. They get
the new ones addicted to testerophetamines, like I was. I still get the tremors at night." [shatter]
"I can't believe they gave you a badge, you stinking animal." A smile of white under ice blue
eyes. "Watch your ass. I'm everywhere." [shatter] Her rusty-furred little arms were so strong as
she squirmed out of his embrace. "That's where you and I disagree, Rrillha. If we don't go by
their rules, they'll never accept us." [shatter] His labcoat, white like his surname. Like his hair.
"The difference between you and me is that I'm one of God's creatures, and you're one of
man's, one of mine. Doctor Hoffman treated you like pets. I treat you like what you are. A
creation."
By the time he could see again the police were there, herding the Recoms with their
shock batons. He stumbled for the steps, clutching his queasy stomach.
"Rrillha!" the crowd shouted, and began pushing back the police officers. They weren't
prepared this time, and had no one to order them, so they tried to surround the crowd and clear a
lane of the street.
Jira beckoned him, her tail lashing behind her. "Come on, we need you right now. We've
got an audience." She pointed up at the press copter, its twin mounted cameras scanning over the
crowd, one centering on him. The wind off the coaxial rotors began buffeting the picket signs as
it neared, a steady husk of air.
He shook his head vigorously. "Stop pushing the police! Come on. I have something to
say." Now if I only knew what it was. Think. "I know you people are afraid of us. I know, we're
strange, we're different. But on the inside we're the same. We're just as afraid as you are. We're
only asking for things you take for granted. Freedom to live where we choose. Freedom to send
our children to non-military schools. We serve you, we've died, and asked nothing in return..."
Down below, among the mass of Recoms, he spotted the coon-cat pair. Their yellow eyes
glared up at him, with cold stolid judgement.
He was running out of ideas as the wagons arrived. His bullhorn was drowned out by one
mounted on a police van. "You are under arrest for assembly without permit, ordinance 312.57
under New York City Penal Code. Do not resist."
Victor pushed Jira toward the alley between the DA's office and a bail bondsman's. "Go
on, let's get the hell out of here!" he shouted into the megaphone before dropping it. The clubs
started coming down and the crowd scattered, leaving their signs to be trampled by black boots.
"Well that was a great idea!" she said to him, panting, as they jogged side by side.
"At least they couldn't force the press to stay away," They cut downtown. "Come on,
we're going to my apartment."
He locked the door behind him. "You'll want to sit down," he panted.
Jira looked at him quizzically, but sat on the couch.
"Lirip's dead. A neighbor found him in his apartment this morning. It's our killer's
work."
"No!" She was shaking, her mane bristling. "No!" she screamed again, slamming both
fists down on the coffee table, cracking the thick black flexi-plast. She stood up and crushed him
with a hug, burying her muzzle under his chin and whimpering.
He winced and held her as she crouched slightly, arms locked around her bulky form,
stroking the back of her flak jacket. "You have to stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.
Whoever the killer is, he got into my files, even my diary."
She growled and shuddered with anger against him, claws scrabbling at his back. "You
think he's coming for me next? I'll rip him apart!"
"Jira. I want you to listen to me. You have to stay here. I'm already guilty for Lirip's
death. I'm not letting him get you too." She warmed something inside him. He shivered lightly
in return.
She looked up at him, sniffling, rubbing her nose. "If you're not going to let me do it,
Sarge, you damn well better not get yourself killed. 'Cause I'll dig you up and kill you again."
His pager started beeping shrilly, and he answered it. It was Captain Thompson. "Rrillha,
I suggest you get your ass in my office pronto. As in five minutes ago!"
"Yes, sir." The pager clicked off before he answered. "Where do you live? Do you have
a gun?"
She threw him the keys and sat down on the couch with a sigh. "It's 375 Walker,
apartment 76-C. You told me to stash it when we started demonstrating, in case they searched
the house."
"Okay. Just stay here? Please?"
She nodded. "Said I would, Sarge." She gave him another bone-crushing hug and sat
down, her muzzle wrenched in rage. "Get him."
* * *
At the station doors he ignored the reporters and walked straight to Thompson's office.
"What the hell did you think you were doing, Rrillha? Sit down." The Captain stood smoldering
behind his desk.
"I'll take it standing, thank you."
"Well? Internal Affairs just jumped down my throat. Place said he caught you at a Furry
Killer crime scene, when you know you're off duty and not even assigned to it, and then he tells
me to turn on channel 5. And I see you starting a riot. Did that bullet make you stupid?"
"It wasn't a riot, sir."
Captain Thompson started hammering the desk with his index finger. "Assembly without
permit. Resisting arrest. That spells riot to me and any judge. You're suspended. Gimme the
badge."
His eyes widened, but he unzipped the belt pouch and dropped the copper hologram on
the desk. "Dismissed until further notice?"
"Get out of my office, smartass. I don't know what happened to you, but you had better
clean up your act."
He looked for Bagaducci as he left, but he must have still been at the scene. With Dick-
nose hovering over him and the Forensics team, throwing his weight around.
He was alone at the front of the bus when his pager buzzed again. It was the raspy voice
of Gavin. "What the hell are you doing, Rrillha? Low-key, remember that? You're screwing this
investigation! I want you down here now!"
He grumbled back into it. "Gavin, I've got a hunch. Did you talk to Svarla?"
"Yes, she said you managed to crash your department's AI. Now get down here."
"I'll be there when I can. I've got this hunch to check up on." He broke the connection
before Gavin could retort. He turned the beeper to silent mode and jumped off the bus when it
slowed at Broadway and Walker.
Her building was right across the street from the WT&T parking garage, with its armed
guards flanking the entryway. Her elevator was stuck on the twentieth floor, so he walked seven
flights of stairs up the narrow building. She had illiterate squiggles spraypainted on her door,
and three Master deadbolts with a large lockplate.
Inside, the apartment was dark and roomy for lack of furniture. He reached for the light
switch and pain sliced between his shoulders, warmth spreading on his back. He stumbled
around and the knife came down again as he pulled backward. He pulled out a kitchen drawer
and spilled its contents, retreating into the rear of the studio as the figure stepped from the
shadows.
"Rrillha. Well isn't this a surprise." He glanced into the hallway and shut the door. "I
was going to save you for last, since I already had the pleasure of killing you once."
In the dusk, his vision went to greyscale and sharpened. "Put down the knife or I'm
going to kill you, Dick-nose." He smelled his own scent rising and tingles shot up his hackles as
he clenched his fists.
Place walked light on his feet, his empty hand put forward, the knife held almost casually
in the other. "That's what the otter said before I drove this through his throat."
The knife swept out, a silver arc, and left a hot line across his forearm. Rrillha cursed as
his eyes darted around the room for a weapon.
"I want this to last. Not everyday you get to kill someone twice."
Don't show quarter. He has to humiliate you first, that's his nature.
He simply looked at Place and shook his head ruefully. "Some cop you turned out to be."
"Fuck you, animal." He stared into Rrillha's eyes and peeled up his shirtsleeve, revealing
a tattoo of an eagle holding an anchor and a flintlock pistol. "You see that? I'm a Navy SEAL.
Before they built you freaks for the job."
Rrillha slapped his forearm down as he jabbed with the knife. "You tossed the grenade,
eh? I came back from Hell to get you!"
Place left forward, sweeping the blade upward, whispering it across the thick fur of his
belly. They tumbled backward to the floor and Rrillha sank his fist into his side, winding him as
they rolled.
The knife was everywhere, nicking over his sides and burning over his arms as he
shielded himself. He grabbed for Place's throat, making his piercing eyes bulge further. He made
a ragged, wild sound and pushed away, driving his knee into the skunk's shorts.
Victor gasped with surprise as Place scrambled off him, crouching with the knife,
gleaming black and crimson in his hand. He got to his feet and shuddered as rage took a cold
grip of his stomach and spread its icy fire through him. He looked down at himself, bleeding,
feeling no pain, only anger. He advanced, snarling, the bladepoint aimed at his heart as Place
twitched...
The door burst open, blinding him with light. "Rrillha!"
He leapt forward and shouldered blindly, feeling the blade whisk a slash through his side,
sending Place into Jira's arms. As his eyes adjusted, he saw her claws open up his shirt in a gash
of red, and the knife sink to the hilt in her flank and whip back for another strike. His vision
tunneled ahead of him and he bent over, ready to pounce... then he felt a tremendous release. He
had sprayed, filling the room with an acrid, stinging mist.
He panted, watching them collapse in coughing fits, rubbing their eyes... he kicked the
knife aside. Then he kicked Place aside, sending him into the cabinets wheezing. He crouched
over Jira, still shuddering with adrenaline. "You alright?"
She groaned and coughed, clutching her side. "Yeah, I've been hurt worse than this on
the playground, Sarge. Help me up."
He helped pull her to her feet, and she kicked Place in the ass, rebounding him off the
cabinets again. She hugged the skunk tight, growling and licking him sloppily across the face.
"Bleah, let me call in before you drown me in slobber!" He fished out his pager and
slipped out of her arms. "Keep him on all fours."
He heard Place grunt as her hindpaw pressed him to the floor, the longer claws there
puckering into his shirt. He buzzed Bagaducci's badge number. "Lieu. I need you and Forensics
down at 375-76C Walker. Bring someone we can trust."
"What's happening, Rrillha? I just heard you were suspended for that demonstration. I
buzzed you and got no answer. I even tried leaving you mail, but L-A's paranoid and won't let
anyone log on." The pager spat back at him after a pause. It sounded like Joey was driving with
the windows down.
"I got the Furry Killer. He's Dick-nose."
A spurt of laughter. "What?"
"Richard Place, Internal Affairs. I'm not shitting you."
"Holy Jesus. I'll be right down there. You got a lawyer? You'd better call him unless you
have dead-eye proof."
"He's got the murder weapon. And I've got several stab wounds. Bring a medic."
"Well, shit. You got it. Hold till I get there."
His pager buzzed immediately as he disconnected. "Yes?"
"Where the hell are you? I said now, Victor! Svarla told me about the retina forger,
you're in over your head, get back here now!"
"I got him, Gavin. I'm going to need all the power your little office has. He's Richard
Place, Internal Affairs Ronin Security Agency."
"What?"
"Who else could get a retina forger and get to my diary? That's how he picked them, at
least that otter. Friend of mine. I'm at 375-76C Walker, a cop I trust is on his way, but back me
up."
"I'll do what I can. Richard Place. I always thought he was an asshole."
He clicked off and immediately was bear-hugged from behind by Jira again. She nipped
his ear. "We did it, Sarge!"
"Ow, damn it!" he swiveled around and glared.
Jira lowered her eyes and then turned, offering her neck to him. He was puzzled a
moment, before remembering what Svarla taught him. He nipped her lightly as Bagaducci came
to the door, flanked by the two officers he'd met before.
The Lieutenant and his men wrinkled their noses and wheezed. "Christ, Rrillha, you
soaked half the hallway."
"Cuff him, boys."
They looked quizzically at the skunk. "I said, cuff him, Officers Stone and Vazir. This is
an Inspector speaking."
They shrugged, nearly flinching as they pulled Place off the floor, Jira gingerly removing
her foot. "Chief Place?" they asked.
"This is bullshit," he coughed. "I order you to let me go."
A short blonde woman peeked in. "Can you all step outside? You're walking on
evidence."
"Hello, Obrycki."
"Hi Rrillha. Where's the knife?" Her voice was flat and straightforward as always. She
worked the wagon before filling an opening in Forensics. There wasn't much she hadn't seen
when it came to bloodshed.
Jira pointed in the room. "It's over by the breakfast nook."
Kassie returned with it in a clear vinyl bag. "That's an SOG Covert alright. Ceramic
combat model. Good taste, Dick-nose."
"You are all going to be meat in the grinder if you don't uncuff me now! I'm being
framed!" He snorted, blood still trickling from his nose.
"Those latex gloves on your hands don't help, Place." Kassie plucked at them teasingly.
"You can't see them normally, unless blood happens to bead on them like so."
Bagaducci smiled from ear to ear. "Would you like to do the honors, Rrillha?"
Rrillha's ears perked up. "I'm suspended. Do it by the book, Lieu."
"You are under arrest. As of this moment your rights are dictated by the Ronin Security
agency as written in NYC Penal Code 473.31a. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot
afford one, one will be delegated to you by the District Attorney's office. Anything you say will
be held against you in a court of law. A plea of guilty at this moment will reduce your sentence
if you are later convicted of this crime..."
* * *
Gavin's nicoret smoke gave the air a loftiness in Rrillha's nostrils. The fans weren't
working today. Svarla sat in her usual chair, a sheaf of printouts on polyester paper in her hands.
"I have a theft report from the Navy base at Chesapeake City. All they have to do is find
the forger Place was using. As Head of Internal Affairs, he had access to department dossiers,
including retinaprints. I think the judge'll accept that." She huffed happily and stacked her
papers on the desk.
"And the skin under Lirip's claws made a genetic match."
"It's up to us, now, Rrillha." Gavin smiled.
Victor kept fingering the bandage on his forearm. It itched more than the stitches on his
side. He sighed. "Well, that was quick, wasn't it? I guess you mindslipped the right guy.
"That reminds me, I'd like to get back in my own body a.s.a.p. I've been having bad
dreams, even hallucinations I think."
It was too quiet.
Gavin looked down at the desk.
"You son of a bitch!" Victor leapt from his seat and yanked Gavin off his chair by the
collar, the stone face ballooning as he throttled him. "I'm trapped in this body aren't I? I'm
stuck as Rrillha forever!" His legs kicked at the desk and he pounded at Rrillha's nose, but the
skunk felt nothing now.
"Rrillha! Victor! Put him down!" Her small fists bounced off his bandage, but he still
raved and shook the statue of a man in the air.
Rage was shattered by a deafening blast and the echo of ringing in his ears. He dropped
Gavin onto his chair and clutched his head.
"Are you finished?" Svarla snarled at him, the stubby pistol still smoking and stinking of
cordite.
"You bastards." he growled, sniffling with his bloodied nose. He looked at each of them,
Svarla shivering and holding the pistol at ease, and Gavin coughing in his chair, face still red.
Gavin wheezed and loosened his collar. "Even if we kept your body, a second mindslip
would leave you crazier than you are now, you schmuck."
His fur bristled as gooseflesh spread underneath it. "Kept my body? You sold me? I was
meat on the butcher block?!" He stormed through the door and slammed it behind him.
"Where do you think you're going, Rrillha?!" Svarla barked down the hallway after him.
"You don't own me! Nobody owns me!" He shouted without turning, saying it to himself
as much as the vixen.
* * *
He stared at the wall after reading the diary. He and Lirip had planned so much.
Destroying Hoffman and White's labs, perhaps executing the scientists, bullets to the head to
erase the terrible forbidden knowledge. Hoping that they could burn the Wilmington Bioworks
mainframe before it fled to another site through the web of the InterNet. The gun stashes that
Jira was in charge of, enough artillery to cripple the Ronin NYPD if there was retaliation. The
vanguard dying off one by one as Place did his dirty work, hoping the riot cops would get as
many as they could when he rolled that concussion grenade into the crowd of Humanists.
Was Place so wrong? So he invaded Rrillha's privacy, maybe he had a hunch? In his
eyes he was sidetracking a terrorist plot.
The diary was pretty clean when he was done. He wrote over the conspiracy with dreams
of peace, acceptance and freedom. They weren't hard to imagine. He made sure to memorize
what he had erased.
* * *
Jira was at his side, with her Ranger's beret cocked smartly between her ears. The crowd
was mixed with press and Recoms, and a few men and women without press badges. That
encouraged him a little.
"Ladies and gentlemen. New Yorkers. I've called this conference for many reasons, and I
hope you'll listen to all of them." He swallowed nervously.
"First of all, I'm handing in my resignation to Ronin Security New York Division. This
is partly because of their speciesist attitudes and regulations. Secondly I'd like to say that I am
appalled at the break-out of the two kits accused of the manslaughter of Detective Victor Davis.
While I disagreed with the methods of the Prosecutor's Office, I cannot condone flouting the law
as their parents did when they hijacked that jailwagon. All I can think is that we must keep guns
like that off the street, and be thankful that the guards weren't shot.
"Last of all, before the questioning period, I'd like to recite some thoughts I had when I
found out Richard Place, the suspected 'Furry Killer,' was transferred to a post back in Solingen.
"One thing I can't shake from my head, when I was in basic training, was that my drill
sergeant always used to say, 'We own you.' And to a point that's true. To the point that you
made us. And if you want to reap the benefits of ownership, you must also take the responsibility
of our existence. We serve as your army. It is we who leave our families to kill and be killed, so
that you don't have to. We're not asking for the rights of a Warrior Class, as Ronin Security is
often termed by a dissenting news-disc, but only for the same rights as you take for granted.
"I know you're afraid. The television shows you what we're capable of every night,
looping tapes of our battles and doctoring them into docudramas. You watch us fight on the
Gladiator Channel. But just as you have free will, so do we. War is our unloved duty. It is not
our spirit.
"You've listened to Senators tell you we're waiting to exact revenge for all the violence
humanity visited upon our genetic cousins. But you know, and I know, that's crock of shit. We
have more to offer than a way to wage war without seeing your sons and daughters come home
in body bags. We're a new species of humanity, your genes mixed with others. We should
explore the infinite, fresh spirits we offer. In our short time on earth we've shaped a culture
surrounded by your own. We don't ask to be treated the same. We're not the same. But we are
equal."