Forests of the Night

  Nohar had his right hand up, claws fully extended, before he knew what he was doing. Harsk's face cracked into an ugly grin. "Do it, you fucking alley cat. I would love to put you away and get you out of my hair."

  Nohar took a few deep breaths and lowered his arm.

  "What hair?"

  A lithe nonhuman form left Zero's. The moreau wore a lab coat and carried a notebook-sized computer, the display of which he was reading.

  Nohar called out, "Manny."

  Manny—his full name was Mandvi Gujerat—looked up from the display, twitched his nose, and started across the parking lot toward Nohar and Harsk. Manny was a small guy with a thin, whiplike body. He had short brown fur, a lean, aerodynamic head, and small black eyes. People who saw Manny usually guessed he was designed from a rat, or a ferret. Both were wrong. Manny was a mongoose.

  Manny reached them and Harsk interrupted before Nohar could say anything. "Gujerat, what have you got on the bodies?"

  Manny gave Nohar an undulating shrug and looked down at his notebook. "I have a tentative species on six of seven. The three bodies outside were all a Peruvian Lepus strain. From the white fur and the characteristic skull profile I'd say Pajonal '35 or '36. They all have unit tattoos, and some heavy scarring. Infantry, and they saw combat."

  Manny tapped the screen and the page changed. ' 'The bartender was definitely vulpine. Brit fox, Ulster antiterrorist. I think second generation, but I can't be sure. The British ID their forces under the tongue and most of the fox's head is gone.

  "The tiger—" Manny looked at Nohar briefly. "Second-generation Rajasthan. Indian Special Forces. The bear, I would guess Turkmen, Russia, or Kazaknstahn. That's only on my previous experience in ursoid strains. Her species—"

  "Her?" asked Harsk.

  "Yes. I think she was a parthenogenetic adaption. But as I was saying, her species isn't cataloged. She's either a unique experiment, or one of the few dozen species that fell through the cracks during the war. From the corpse, for all I know, she could be Canadian."

  Nohar snorted.

  Manny shrugged again. "I suppose you already have a file on the one engineered human. But his strain checks out against what we have on Sony's late human-enhancement projects. The one we have here underwent a massive reconstruction after some major trauma. The hardware in his body was worth a few million when there were people who could make and install the stuff."

  Harsk nodded. "Any leads on the suspect?"

  "Some hairs from the mirror check out as canine. From that and a description, purebred Afghani, Qandahar '24. Attack strain, one the Kabul government 'discontinued' after the war."

  "Enough. Rajasthan, I'll get your statement from the uniforms. Get out of here before you attract more trouble. Gujerat, dump the rest into the precinct mainframe.” Harsk started to go toward Zero's and paused. "The Moreytown precinct."

  Manny nodded. "Where else?"

  Harsk left.

  Manny folded up the computer and twitched his nose. "So, stranger, what the hell are you doing at this blood bath?"

  "Bad sense to let Nugoya hire me—"

  "Let me guess. Female Vietnamese canine who shot herself so full of flush that she thought she was avian? The one you asked me to ID for you?"

  Nohar nodded.

  "I know you don't like my advice—"

  "Then don't give me any."

  "—but something dangerous is going on. I don't think you want to be involved, even tangentially, with anything that has to do with the flush industry."

  Nohar leaned against the Caldera. His fur was beginning to itch. "Sounds like you know something you think I don't."

  "Something's in the air. The DEA is crawling all over downtown, and the gangs in Moreytown are acting up. Most of the bodies I'm looking at the past few weeks are young, second-generation street kids."

  "I can handle myself."

  "So I worry. You were once one of those second-generation street kids."

  "I can handle myself," Nohar said a little more forcefully.

  Manny backed off. "Anyway, we do have to stop meeting like this. When are you going to come back and let me cook you some dinner?"

  You've been trying to get me back there for fifteen years, Nohar thought. "I'll make it over one of these days."

  "The door's always open."

  "I know."

  Manny turned and started back to Zero's, where a gaggle of pink EMTs were trying to manhandle the ursine's corpse out the door.

  Nohar sighed.

  "I know," he whispered to himself.

  Nohar uselessly turned the collar up on the irritating pink-designed jacket and headed for his car. There wasn't anything left for him to do here.

  Chapter 2

  Nohar's apartment had holes in the wall, a leaky roof, a sagging floor in the kitchen, and wiring that hadn't been up to code when it was put in forty years ago. However, the place had one redeeming feature. Someone had installed a huge stainless-steel shower that Nohar could fit into. Four in the morning was a godawful time to take a shower, but Nohar wanted to get the city off of him—as well as pieces of bear and Nu-goya.

  Nohar stood under a blast of warm water, feeling the grit melt off his fur. Through the open door of the bathroom, he listened to the news coming off his comm and tried to forget the fiasco he had left downtown.

  "... major demonstrations through the Economic Community. However, despite public pressure and threats of violence, the European parliament followed through on its vote to eliminate most internal restrictions on nonhuman movement. The French and German states are braced for a massive influx of unemployed nonhumans from the rest of the economically troubled European nation."

  *'The French and German interior ministers issued a joint statement condemning the parliament's decision to outlaw screening across internal borders."

  Nohar sighed. The pinks in Paris and Berlin were worried about a few thousand moreaus—relatively benign moreaus for the most part. The EEC had a few combat designs in reaction to the war, but it never produced many moreaus. Most of their nonhumans were designed for police and hazardous industrial work.

  The European parliament probably would still have considered their moreaus as no better than slaves or machines if the Vatican hadn't screwed everything up with the pope's decision that moreys had souls. The EEC was still dealing with the repercussions of that, even fifteen years after the production lines stopped.

  "In a related story, a car bomb exploded in Bern, Switzerland, today outside of the Bensheim Genetic Repository Building. No injuries were reported, and no one has claimed responsibility. Damage to the Bensheim building was estimated at a quarter of a million dollars. The Bensheim Foundation issued a statement to reassure their clients that no damage was done to their inventory of genetic material which is kept in an undisclosed location. The building that was bombed housed only administrative offices. The Foundation says that this will in no way affect its worldwide collection and distribution of semen.

  "Dr. Bensheim himself issued a statement from Stockholm deploring the attack, and saying, 'The right to reproduce is fundamental and should not be denied on the basis of species.' "In local news . . ."

  Nohar turned off the water and leaned his back against the cool metal wall of the shower. He couldn't get that two and a half grand out of his mind. How the hell was he going to pay the rent—how the hell was he going to eat? He knew too many moreaus who lived out on the street, and he had already done time there himself.

  Nohar slid the shower door aside and Cat looked up quizzically. The yellow tomcat was curled up on top of the John and was looking annoyingly serene. Sometimes Nohar thought there was something to the idea that you shouldn't have pets too close to your own species. Nohar turned on the dryer and Cat made a satisfying leap out the bathroom door. Served the little fuzzball right for not having the sense to worry about where his next meal was coming from. After a few minutes, Cat peeked around the doorjamb and gave Nohar a peeved expression.

&nbs
p; Nohar allowed himself the luxury of standing in front of the dryer until his entire body had aired out. Who gave a shit what this month's utility bill cost. Moot if he couldn't pay it. He needed the time to relax. He was too tense to think rationally.

  "... buried tomorrow. Graveside services to be held at Lakeview Cemetery. The police have no suspects as of yet, and the Binder campaign has yet to issue an official statement other than appointing Congressman Binder's legal counsel, Edwin Harris on, as acting campaign manager.

  "Former Cleveland mayor, Russell Gardner, expressed sympathy for his opponent and said that he did not to intend to make rumors of alleged financial irregularities in Binder's fund-raising a campaign issue.

  "Binder finance chairman, Philip Young, could not be reached for comment."

  Nohar turned off the dryer and walked out of the bathroom. He collapsed on the nearly-dead couch in the living room. There was the sound of protesting wood and permanently compressed springs. He shifted on his back, and Cat ran up and pounced on his chest. Nohar winced as four cold little feet kneaded his fur. Cat curled up to take a nap.

  Nohar lifted his hand to push him off, but a loud purring made him stop and simply pet the creature.

  "... more violence on the East Side today. There was an apparent clash between nonhuman gang members on Murray Hill—"

  Only newscasters and politicians still called it Murray Hill. It was Morey Hill now, had been for nearly a decade. Nohar sighed. The guy on the news couldn't even bring himself to say the word morey—or even moreau. Nohar looked at the guy on the comm. Pink— what else—slick black hair, a nothing Midwestern accent, dead gray eyes, all the animation of a cheap computer graphic. The bodies on the screen behind him were more lively.

  "—fifteen dead, all of various species, making this the most bloody incidence of cross-species violence since the 'Dark August' riots of 2042. Local community leaders have expressed concern over the latest escalation of violence in the nonhuman community ..."

  To prove the point, the newscast started to show clips of interviews with said "community leaders." Nohar snorted, with the token morey exception-Father Sean Murphy, a Brit fox who defected to the Irish Catholics, one of two ordained morey priests in the United States—the "community leaders" were all human.

  The newscast then went into the obligatory human fear/responsibility versus moreau poverty/empowerment segment. Same shit, different day. Nohar closed his eyes and listened for something interesting to come on.

  Nohar woke to the sound of the comm buzzing for his attention. Grayish daylight streamed through the windows. The comm's display was still on the news channel. More gang violence, even worse this time. It barely registered on Nohar that it had gone down only three blocks from his apartment. Flashing text informed him he had slept through two other calls and nearly eight hours.

  The incoming call was from Robert Dittrich. Nohar called out to the comm. "Got it."

  The newscast winked out and was replaced by a red-bearded human face. "I wish you'd put on some clothes before you answer the phone."

  Nohar growled. "What the hell do you want, Bobby?"

  "Tough night?"

  Nohar closed his eyes and sighed. "What do you think?"

  "Heard about Nugoya. Tough break—"

  "Tough all over. What do you want?"

  Bobby coughed. "If you're going to be like that. I was going to give you the background I hacked on Nugoya—"

  "Great, real useful."

  "Did anyone ever tell you that you can be a real asshole at times, Nohar? As I was saying—" Bobby paused. Nohar didn't interrupt. "As I was saying, I was going to give you that data when the Fed landed on my doorstep."

  Nohar sat up, fully awake now. Cat tumbled off his chest and ran off into the kitchen. "Shit. You in trouble?"

  Bobby laughed and shook his head. "No, apparently I'm still clean. As we all know, everything I do on my computer is perfectly legal."

  Nohar shook his head at that.

  Bobby went on. "Wasn't me at all. They were asking about you. That's how I heard about Nugoya and last night."

  "Me?"

  "Yes, thought I'd call you. They wanted to know about your politics, of all things." Bobby put his hand to his forehead and chuckled. "They had this babe with them. Was she a hard case—"

  "Skip the commentary, what were they looking for?"

  "Some hired gun, I think. Named Hassan. I think they wanted to know if they could link the two of you."

  "An Afghan canine and an Indian tiger—do they know how silly that sounds?"

  "The war's been over for eighteen years. Things change. Just wanted you to know the Fed's interested in you. I got to go. Still want the data on Nugoya?"

  "Keep it."

  "Don't let the Fed screw you."

  "I try to avoid it."

  Bobby's face winked out and the news came back on. Wonderful stuff to wake up to. Not only was he broke and one day closer to eviction, but now the FBI was curious about him. The comm was talking about dead politicians. Nohar told it to shut up.

  There were still two messages on his comm, waiting for his attention. One had been forwarded from his office—

  Maybe it was a client.

  Yeah, real likely, and maybe a morey would get elected president. Nohar told the comm, "Classify. Phone messages."

  "Two messages. July twenty-ninth, message one, ten-oh-five a. m. unlisted number—"

  The voice of the computer was a flat, neutral monotone. Nohar never understood the urge people had to make computers sound like anything but. He told the comm, "Play."

  Nohar didn't like calls that didn't ID themselves. People who called from unlisted locations generally had something to hide.

  This caller definitely had something to hide, the screen came up a generic test pattern. This guy either didn't have a video pickup, or had turned his camera off.

  "I hope to reach you, Mr. Rajasthan." The voice that came over the comm sounded like it was at the bottom of a well. It sounded bubbly. The words oozed. "I have need of the service of a private investigator. Please meet me at Lakeview Cemetery today at one-thirty p.m. This is not something I can discuss on a phone. I look for you by the grave of Eliza Wilkins."

  That was the end of the message.

  "Damn. It was a client."

  "Instructions unclear." The comm thought Nohar was talking to it.

  Nohar told it, "Comm off," and the comm shut off obligingly.

  It was a client, and a damn secretive one at that. Nohar didn't trust the situation one bit. There was little he could do about it. Nohar was so low on cash that he would have to at least meet the guy—

  Nohar suddenly realized that it was already fifteen after one.

  It took him two minutes to dress and another five to call Lakeview and get a plot number for Wilkins. Nohar did it with the video off, because if they saw he was a moreau it would have taken five times as long.

  The first thing to greet him as he walked out into the misting rain was the acrid smell of burning plastic. The smoke made his nose itch. He realized the smell was coming from a burning car up by the traffic barriers.

  Across the street from his apartment was an abandoned bus. There was a fresh graffiti logo on it. "ZIPPERHEAD Off The Pink."

  Another gang with it in for humans.

  He walked up Mayfield, toward the cemetery, passing a knot of pink cops at the traffic barrier. Apparently this was the latest violence the news was going on about when he woke up. The fire was burning a prewar Japanese compact, an ancient Subaru. The car was wrapped around one of the concrete pylons. The way the thing had gone up—was still going; the cops were letting it burn itself out in the middle of the street—it had to have been wired with explosives. Inductors might explode, but they don't burn very well.

  The cops didn't stop him—any other part of town and they probably would have on general principles.

  The car wasn't all. It had been a busy morning. A block past the cops, things got ugly. Upw
ind of the burning plastic, Nohar could smell the scent of someone, multiple someones, who had bought it nasty. He smelled blood, fear, and cordite. The victims smelted canine.

  He rounded the old cemetery gate—sealed by a solid four meter concrete wall behind the flaking wrought iron—and headed down toward Coventry. When he turned the comer, he could see the medics loading body bags—three vans' worth of body bags. Canine had been a good guess. Nohar caught sight of one of the victims before the black plastic was zipped over the face. The body was a vulpine female with a small caliber gunshot wound to the right eye. One of the Hispanic medics saw him looking over. There was the fresh smell of fear from the pink.

  Another day, Nohar would have ignored it. Today, however, he had just had a case blow up in his face, the Fed was taking an unhealthy interest in him, the record July heat and the misting rain were making his fur itch under his trench coat, and—if his luck held— he was going to be late and miss his potential client. Today he was in a particularly bad mood. Nohar could not resist the urge to smile. Some moreaus don't have the facial equipment to produce a convincing smile, but Nohar's evolved feline cheeks could pull his mouth into a quite perceptible arc. The same gesture also bared an impressive set of teeth. Predominant among which were two glistening-white canines the size of a man's thumb.

  The poor guy didn't deserve it. Nohar could tell he was nervous enough just being in Moreytown. He didn't need to have a huge predatory morey looking at him like he was lunch.

  Nohar didn't hang around for the reaction. He was still running late. Two blocks further down, at the intersection of Mayfield and Coventry was the only open gate on this side of Lakeview Cemetery—seemed appropriate that it was into the Jewish section.

  When he reached the right monument, "Eliza Wilkins, 1966-2042, beloved wife of Harold," it was thirty two after. He was in time for the show. A funeral was progressing below him.

  He was out of sight of most of them, and it was probably a good thing. They were planting someone of consequence, and from his vantage, it was pinks only. He thought he saw a morey in the crowd, but— damn his bad day-vision—it turned out to be a black pink with a heavy beard.