Authors: Nyx Smith
Fat André watches her briefly, just long enough to make Tikki wonder if she got her English wrong. Though many say she handles the language well—she’s had plenty of practice—it’s not her native tongue and she can never be absolutely sure she’s using exactly the right words. That is just one of the reasons she often relies on nods and shakes of the head when dealing with English-speakers.
Her concern over language diminishes when she hears a rustle to her rear, accompanied by the shuffle of a footstep. The smell in the air changes subtly as those sounds arise. Someone, maybe the two razorguys, are feeling a little bit stirred, a little tense. Tikki isn’t sure why but she’s getting the impression that a pair of assault rifles are now pointing at her back.
“I ain’t laughing no more,” Fat André says slowly.
Tikki puzzles over this for a moment. “What?”
“You ain’t got no money here, Striper.”
“What?”
That comes out a little sharply, perhaps more so than is wise. Puzzlement turns to anger and swells up too swiftly for her to completely control. That one word slips out, then she knuckles down, seizes her temper and holds it rigidly in check. As she does that, the steel muzzle of an assault rifle presses lightly against the left side of her back, just beneath the shoulder blade.
Tikki holds herself motionless, gazing intently at Fat André.
“We been through this before,” he says. “You ain’t got no money here. You ain’t never had any money here. I’d give you a loan, but I’m sick of this drek. You scan?”
Drek is the operant word as far as Tikki’s concerned. That’s what’s coming out of Fat André’s mouth, and it doesn’t make any sense to her. He and his bank came highly recommended, both as a safe drop for money and as a potential employer. She did a few jobs for him after first arriving in town. They didn’t pay much, but they kept her skills sharp and gave her first-hand experience at how things worked in Philly. Till this very moment, she thought she had a valuable and trustworthy contact in Fat André. Now she isn’t sure what to think.
“You hear what I’m saying?” Fat André says in a demanding tone.
Tikki says quietly, “I left more than a hundred kay with you.”
“More drek. I can’t slot this.”
“Don’t frag with me.”
A second steel muzzle presses into her back, the back of her head. That’s enough to get her worked up regardless of the cause. It’s becoming harder for her to stand stock-still. Instinct is telling her to do something about the guns pressing against her. Tikki is trying, trying very hard, to stay calm, to keep darker thoughts out of her mind.
“I want… my money. All of it. Now.”
Fat André looks toward the ceiling, then leans forward, extending a hand to the terminal on the table. His chair creaks with the shift in weight. The terminal screen changes displays. Tikki lowers her eyes enough to look. “This is what I got on you,” Fat André says. “That’s it.”
One line on the screen reads Striper.
The next line reads File Not Found.
Tikki closes her eyes. That’s both stupid and smart. She can’t fight with her eyes closed, but if she doesn’t close them for just a moment she’ll do something she’ll regret. She clenches her teeth as well, fighting back the anger.
“I came here three times,” she growls softly. “Three times with money. Forty kay each time. A hundred and twenty kay. That’s what you owe me.”
“You wanna see the tape? Fine. I’ll show you the tape.”
Fat André keys another change in the display, which now shows the view through the security camera on the wall behind Fat André’s back. Tikki watches what seems like a veritable replay of the last few minutes, except that on the screen the two razorguys standing guard to her rear are both male.
“You’ve got eighty kay of my money,” her screen image growls.
“You never left me any money!” Fat André’s screen image exclaims.
What the hell is this?
Tikki doesn’t believe the vid. She looks at the real Fat André and says, “This is skag. Doctored.”
“Yeah? When did you make your last deposit?”
She thinks about that. “A week ago.”
“You ain’t been here for a month.”
The point isn’t important. Or is it? She can’t be sure when she came here last. She’s been busy. Not that busy, or was she? Working for Adama has kept her occupied. Handling that amateur Hammer and his drekheaded chums took up some of her time. Has she been so busy that she’s gotten confused about dates? Is that possible? Why does she feel so confused? Like this is just one more thing that’s gone completely out of control?
She can’t believe that Fat André would deliberately steal her money—he comes too highly recommended—but what other explanation is there?
Has she lost her mind?
Tikki shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”
“And you ain’t gettin’ anything, either,” Fat André says. “Not from me. Now I think it’s time for you to leave. And do me a favor. Don’t come back.”
With two assault rifles pressing into her hide, Tikki has little choice. Leave or fight. She could fight, but she’d probably end up battling the troll, which could mean getting in deeper than she’d like. She might be forced to change into her four-legged form. Tikki prefers to reveal that truth only in the most special circumstances, such as when everyone but her is going to die.
Fighting is not really an option. Killing Fat André is not the way to get her money back. Killing will explain nothing.
She turns and leaves.
Carefully.
36
The bar is near city hall. The alley behind it is rank and dark. Raman waits in a shadowed niche formed by the rear walls of surrounding buildings. Hearing the scuffing of a shoe against the gritty concrete, he draws a stiletto from the sheath concealed inside the left arm of his jacket. The stiletto is balanced for throwing and he is well-practiced in that skill.
Footsteps come slowly up the alley. Raman leans forward slightly to look around the corner. The heavily built man approaching has dark, mottled skin and the fangs of an ork. He wears a black duster, and beneath it the dark blue uniform of Omni Police Services, the Camden police department. The man calls himself Gunter. He is an O.P.S. sergeant, works at O.P.S. headquarters.
Once assured that Gunter is alone, Raman steps fully into the alley, hands empty and held at his sides. Gunter hesitates, then comes forward. “The price is five hundred,” he says in a low, gravelly voice.
Raman extends one hand.
“The money first,” Gunter says.
Even as the words are being spoken Raman makes his move. He seizes the ork by the throat. Razor-sharp blades snap out of the mount on his right forearm. He lays the tips against Gunter’s face. Eyes bulging with fear, the ork staggers back against the alley wall.
“You know how we do biz,” Raman says quietly, his tone as sharp as the tips of his claws. One of the claws presses slightly into the ork’s skin, drawing a trickle of blood. Gunter quivers visibly and turns his head flat to the alley wall, baring his throat. “Show me the merchandise,” Raman growls. “I pay what it’s worth.”
Gunter smiles, once, then again. His voice wavers with anxious fear. “Sure… Okay! I was just… just kiddin’ around.” Gunter shudders, inhaling. “It’s in my pocket.”
“Take it out.”
Gunter draws a clear plastic bag from his right duster pocket. Raman lifts it to examine it. On the bag is an orange sticker marked “O.P.S.” and “EVIDENCE”. Inside is what looks like a broad strip of black cloth. The ends are tapered, narrower than at the middle of the strip. “What is this?”
“Crime… crime-scene evidence. It came from the Gingko Club. Behind the club. It’s supposed to be a mask, a face mask.”
“You aren’t
sure
?”
Raman’s tone grows threatening. Gunter smiles nervously. “Nobody’s
sure.
O.P.S. don’t know what’s going on. The Philly cops think Striper did the job at the Gingko Club. That’s what I heard. If it’s true. Striper wore this mask.”
“If you lie, you’re meat.”
“I ain’t lying.”
Raman decides that’s probably true, as far as it goes. He thrusts the bag into his jacket pocket. He stuffs a certified credstick for two hundred nuyen into the breast pocket of Gunter’s uniform shirt, pressing the stick in firmly enough for the ork to feel him thrusting, thrusting down, slightly disarranging Gunter’s shirt.
“Next time, no jokes. I don’t like stupid jokes. They make me angry.”
“Sorry…” Gunter smiles fearfully. “I’ll play it straight from now on.”
Raman draws the snapblades back into his forearm mount with a soft snick, then releases the ork’s neck and nods up the alley. Gunter smiles nervously one last lime and turns to go.
Raman does the same, picking up his chopper nearby. Taking I-676, he travels through the expanse of yakuza-controlled territory known as Camden, the entertainment mecca of the entire region: casinos, brothels, simsense parlors, and the like. Beyond the interchange with the Whitman Bridge, the road’s name becomes I-76. The land changes names as well, becoming known as Gloucester City, a mostly industrial district with only scattered residential neighborhoods. Raman takes the next exit and rides onto Crescent Boulevard.
On the other side of the divided roadway passes a phalanx of gangers, riding their choppers two-abreast. Raman recognizes the colors as those of the Paradise Slayers, who claim the east side of the Delaware as their own. Their most dangerous fighters are tuskers. Raman has been forced to kill or maim one or more members of the Slayers at various times in the past. Now, he notes several of the riders turning their heads as if looking at him as they pass. Rather than give the Slayers any chance to interfere in his biz tonight, Raman turns at the next traffic light, then guns the chopper’s engine.
If the Slayers want to challenge him, there will be other nights. Tonight another matter preoccupies him.
Somewhere, he has heard of this Striper before. Possibly it was in Hong Kong, involving a run on some Chinese warlord, though he is not sure. He has heard, too, that Striper uses magic, but the form the magic takes is unknown. He has also heard that Striper has never been defeated in one-on-one combat.
All this intrigues him. First-rate artists are rare, and ones who are also female are rarer still. He wonders what sort of female might succeed in so dangerous a trade as his. She must be very strong and clever. Perhaps exceedingly clever, to compensate for a female’s lesser strength. It almost goes without saying that she must be cybernetically enhanced, and yet this would seem unlikely if the rumors about her magic, her edge, are true.
Such a female could be very challenging, in many ways. Too bad he and Striper have never met. Now he will never know if she would have surrendered to him, willingly, as have so many other females. Now he must find her and kill her. That must remain in the forefront of his mind. The key to accomplishing this will be taking Striper unaware, nullifying any edge she may possess. That is how he will bring about her death.
The kill will doubtless do less to enhance his rep than simply remind various persons that he is still around and in the full possession of his powers.
The money… that should provide him with some amusement.
Just short of Broadway, he turns down a narrow street flanked by three-story brick row houses. Various small and mid-size autos line the curbs. Streetlights take the form of antique lanterns set on poles. Most of the houses contain ground-level shops. Some also have shops one story down, with stairs descending from the sidewalk. A small crowd of people stands around on the walk in front of one place, a cafe or coffee shop. Raman catches a few notes of what sounds like a flute. Just past mid-block, he slows the chopper almost to a halt, then rolls it between a pair of parked cars, and lowers the Harley’s stand.
A male ork passes by. He is carrying a guitar case, and merely glances at Raman with a nod as if in greeting.
Not unusual for this neighborhood.
His pace casual, unhurried, Raman steps over the curb and across the brick-paved sidewalk. A small sign hanging from a curling metal bracket on the house there reads R. Liddy—Herbs & Artifices. The small arrow painted on the sign points down. Raman steps around the metal railing guarding the stairs and looks down. A single flight of stairs leads to the white paneled door of the shop.
Sitting around on the narrow steps is a small group Raman has seen here before. Some kind of gang, he supposes. Tonight, there are seven. Five females and two males, all young. Adolescents. Some dress like kick-artists, others like fans, wannabes. All have had their features remade to resemble cats, alley cats, house cats. Their heads are covered with a thick, downy hair like fur. Their eyes are golden. Their ears protrude from near the tops of their heads and flick back and forth. Their bodies are slim enough to seem almost elven. The females have little more than the mere suggestion of breasts. The downy hair that covers their heads runs down their arms and over the backs of their hands. All have long fingernails resembling claws.
As Raman starts down the stairs, one of the females whips her head around to look up at him, the others immediately following suit. Raman steps around them. There is no problem. As usual, the group merely watches, saying nothing. If they consider the stairs their private territory, they give no sign. Their presence here is significant, but Raman can only guess at their purpose.