t © 2015 by R. A. Meenan
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Cover art by K. M. Carroll
Cover typography, and interior art by Omni Jacala, A.K.A. Artsy Omni.
Copy Edited by Beth Cantwell
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Dedications
To Joe Meenan for your love of things red and black.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedications
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
About the Author
Glossary
The Zyearth Chronicles
White Assassin
From the Color Collection
By R. A. Meenan
Starcrest Fox Press
White Assassin
One
I like to think that no one chooses to be an assassin. It's a nice thought. It makes it easier to admit that I am one. Maybe it feels less like it's my fault.
Maybe then I can forgive myself.
My first hit was a bit of a fluke. I didn't really know what I was getting into and before I knew it, it was over with. I could file it away in the back part of my mind and never think about it again.
My second hit. . . Oh, if only they were all as easy as the first.
The day I got it started like any normal day. Like most summer days in my dinky, unairconditioned apartment, I slept nude. The huge window fan, what little good it did, droned on in my dreams, barely cooling my red fur and quills, and the one ragged quilt I owned had already found a new home on the splintery wooden floor, like usual. The rare sound of silence on my street forced me into consciousness.
I turned over on my stomach and pulled the pillow over my head, trying to catch just ten more minutes. But something grabbed at my senses and I fully woke up to the smell of eggs and the sizzle of bacon.
I lived alone. Which meant only two possibilities for who was using my kitchen. A drunk homeless man, or Neil Black. Which could be one and the same in the right circumstances.
Neil, a scraggly, mountain lion with oily fur and the common sense of a feral pig, was always turning to me for help. We'd lost contact after the war, but he found his way back into my life when he took up the "profession."
And now he was eating my bacon.
I dragged myself out of bed, put on a ragged pair of boxers and a shirt, then hauled my holster and gun off my beat up old dresser and strapped them on. I sighed, running one of my biomechanical hands over the gun's safety. There. Gun at my side. Safe. In my happy place.
Now to deal with Neil. I left the bedroom.
"Morning, Trachea," Neil said, grinning that infuriating sarcastic grin of his. "I was wondering if you'd ever wake up."
I growled. "Neil, I swear to Almighty Draso if you call me that one more time, I'm going to punch a tracheotomy right through your throat."
"Aw, come on, Trachea, I'm just teasing."
"My real name, Neil, or prepare for a throat-punching."
"Fine. Trecheon," Neil said. "Sheesh, you're a grouch in the morning."
Neil sat on my clean counters with his soiled boots and unwashed puma tail all over the tiles. His tattered old camos lacked the dignity they'd had during the war, and the bright, tie dye T-shirt he wore told me today was laundry day and he aimed to get through every clean shirt he ever owned before he bothered with soap. His ears perked up and he shoved another bite full of nasty scrambled eggs in his mouth. A plate of bacon sat precariously on the edge of the counter.
I crossed my biomech arms. "You're eating my bacon."
"Yeah, it's delicious." Neil lifted the plate toward me. "Want some?"
I nodded to the grubby pan on the greasy stove. "Did you wash that pan before you cooked it?"
"Like you ever wash your pans, Trech."
I snatched the bacon from him. "What the hell are you doing here, Neil?"
Neil bent an ear back and slowed his chewing. He took a big swallow. "I was just, you know, checking up on you. After last week." His tail drooped over the edge of the counter. "Sorry I had to ditch you like that. I never would have gotten you involved if I thought you'd have to do the whole thing yourself."
"You never did explain that," I said, biting into the bacon. "What happened?"
Neil waved a furry hand, covered in a fingerless glove. "Another contract called. False alarm. Sorry."
I sat down on the last dining room chair that didn't have a wobble. "It's been a week. Why check up on me now?"
Neil shrugged. "Some guys struggle with their first one."
I turned my gaze to my bacon and bent an ear. I took a deep breath before I responded. "I was in the war too, Neil. I've killed before. I can handle it."
"There's a big difference between the legal killing of dozens in war and the illegal murder of an individual."
I ripped a piece of bacon apart and chewed quietly. Legal killing. Right. Those words should never be paired together. I shrugged. "I'm fine. Really."
"Okay, good, because I've got another one for you."
I narrowed my eyes at Neil and frowned. "I thought I told you this was a one-time thing."
Neil rolled his eyes and slid off the counter. He dropped his plate in the dirty sink with the rest of the unwashed dishes. "Leave it if you want, but it's not like this place is booming."
I glanced over the dining table. Overdue rent notices rested on overdue bill notices, which rested on creditor notices. A clipboard held my few work orders for the motor repair shop I kept downstairs. Only three customers in two weeks, two of them with minor repairs.
I blamed the problem on my age. Or maybe my old job. People don't want a twenty-five-year-old former marine with mechanical arms and a sour attitude working on their cars.
Though it could also be my species. The War of Eons only ended a year ago and old prejudices don't break down overnight. Especially when you're a quilled zyfaunos in a primarily human occupation.
Neil poked the tip of the black-tipped quills on my head with a finger. "How the hell do you go all night long without stabbing yourself with these quills?"
I bent my catlike ears back and growled at him. "The same way you avoid biting off that flappy tongue with those incisors of yours."
"Touché." Neil leaned against the dining table. "So are you in or what?"
I ate the last of my bacon. ". . .Fine. What do you want?"
Neil grinned. "That's the ticket!" He slapped my back. It clanged and he pulled it back. "Ow! What the hell are you wearing?"
I smirked. "Natural body armor, my friend. The biomech goes all the way across my shoulder blades for extra support."
"Warn me next time."
"Don't get so buddy-buddy next time."
Neil eyed me. "Whatever.
Just come by my office tomorrow morning, okay? I'll introduce you to your client."
I gave him a half-assed salute. "Whatever you say, boss."
Neil waved then disappeared down the stairs to my garage. I heard him wrestle with his ancient Harley then ride off, spitting smog into my apartment.
I coughed and waved the smoke out of my face. That damn puma. I never should have let him get me involved with this. But he had a point. I wasn't getting anywhere with this mechanic job.
I dropped the bacon dish on top of Neil's egg plate and cleaned my biomech hands. Then I caught that familiar red gleam out of the corner of my eye and turned.
My grandfather's strange, fist-sized, diamond cut jewel sat on top of the microwave, catching the early morning light. Its dull, faded red color looked almost pink with the little light it let through.
I picked up the jewel, frowning. My grandfather had warned me to hold on to this jewel. "Don't ever let this go," he told me. "You'll want it someday."
I did. Six months later, he disappeared, leaving me all alone. Ryota, the little asshole that he was, had turned traitor, leaving me alone. I had nowhere to go. I needed money, so I tried selling the jewel.
Strange that no one would want a fist sized diamond. I guess they all thought it was fake. I was stuck with the damn thing.
I dropped the jewel back on the microwave. "Damn you, Grandpa." I went to the bedroom, snatched a pair of pants, threw them on, then walked downstairs to the garage and got to work on one of my contracts. Hopefully tomorrow's job with Neil would actually be fruitful.
Two
"Nice office."
Nothing was further from the truth. Papers leaned in a hazardous tower on Neil's back wall. The ancient desk looked like Neil had never washed it. His chair had cat scratches in it and you could never tell the true color of the carpet underneath the coffee stains, empty