At last, after an eternity of walking, Feld realized where he was. As the darkness surrendered to grayish light, the details hidden from view were revealed. He was in an old cargo spaceport, one of the large, automated, industrial ones. This one was decommissioned; it had been stripped of all worthwhile equipment and closed up. Except that, for some unknown reason, the primary bay doors had been opened a few meters.
Feld jogged as best he could the last few hundred meters to the bay doors but forced himself to stop just short of them. Off to his right in the shadows, he could still hear the drip-drops, but they weren’t echoing anymore. Something wasn’t right, though. With his nerves crying out to escape this over-sized tomb, he stopped walking toward the holy light and forced himself to think the situation through.
Why was he here? Clearly, he had sensed the … failed? … attempt on his life, but why bring him here of all places? For what possible reason? And why the initial attempt? Revenge? Granted, there were more than a few beings who wanted him dead. But again, why not just kill him outright? A counter-insurgency op? Perhaps his meeting with C’then had been discovered? Far too many questions and running pell-mell through an open door in one’s underwear without knowing what lay beyond was mere suicide.
Feld decided to find out what was causing the drip-drop sounds. Cautiously walking into the shadows along the spaceport wall to his right, he found a large pipe and valve. Beneath the spout there was a large grate covering the floor. Clear liquid drops were forming on the mouth of the spout and falling through the grate into the void below. Examining the spout, Feld could see that it was threaded; the various hoses and fittings were probably long since gone. He put a finger and thumb up against a forming droplet and confirmed his suspicion that this was a water pipe of some sort. But, why was there water coming out? Sure, the valve could be corroding, but wouldn’t the water have been shut off further up the pipeline? Regardless, Feld took advantage of the meager water supply and washed the dried blood off his face and beard as best he could.
Mildly refreshed and with an improving state of mind, Feld retraced his steps back to the bay doors. Carefully, he approached the opening and peered outside into shining daylight.
Beyond the doors, the concrete floor extended straight out for nearly a kilometer or so and formed a launching/landing pad. To the left and right, the concrete ended in a set of metal railings designed to keep people from falling off the edge. Beyond the concrete edge and into the distance around the pad, treetops could be seen as well as forested hills and mountains; this spaceport had been built into the side of a mountain. Off to his left, a late afternoon sun was settling down beyond the hills.
The mound of clothing in the center of the launch pad some 20 meters away caught his eye. From what he could see, it looked like the street clothes he was wearing when he got waylaid. Obvious bait, but for what purpose?
Considering his next move, Feld leaned against one of the bay doors to catch his breath a bit. He was startled to feel it slide further open without hearing any of the squeaks and moans that unused, corroded metal would make. The doors had been freshly oiled. Curious.
The afternoon sun was beginning to duck behind the mountains and the world outside began to slowly surrender to the shadows. Mulling over his options and finding damned few, Feld decided that it was time to make things happen. It was time to seize the initiative. He started by calmly walking to the pile of clothing.
He sensed the corrupted pheromones on his fourth footstep. Without breaking stride and reining in his reactionary impulses, he continued to walk towards the pile, casually looking around as he did so and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Reaching it, Feld saw that they were, indeed, his street clothes and, surprisingly, his walking stick. Reaching down to pick them up, he heard her voice.
“I know you can sense me, Chasseur!”
Frell, Feld thought to himself. He paused, just for a bit, then commenced dressing himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t insult me,” came the reply, the disdain dripping from her voice. “By what name would you prefer to be called? Was ‘Chasseur’ too informal for you? Perhaps I should call you by your full honorific ‘Le Grand Chasseur des Femmes Grises’? Or would you like me to use your family name, Mathieu kin’Fontaine of the Kin Mark? I know who and what you are, Chasseur. Your reputation gives you away, among other things.”
Feld absently reached behind his neck to the spot where the two-tone sandstone and granite fleur-de-lis tattoo had been inked when he came of age, like all Kin-marked. Its mere existence violated one of the vital unwritten rules of the trade, namely, do not have any distinguishing marks on your person. It tended make your opponent’s work easier and complicate things. That said, discarding one’s familial and cultural traditions is never easy, especially in light of a diminishing family and a culture constantly under siege. Still, it was a vulnerability that had bit him in the eema too many times to count.
“Fair enough, but I know who you are too, or what you are. Or, should I say, what you were.” Feld pointed to the clotted wound behind his left ear. “Your training seems to have lagged a bit since the War.” He then finished dressing, faded blue Earth denim pants, dark green and brown mottled Nova Terran linen pullover shirt, black Askaran armored wool traveling robe, black socks and worn brown traveling boots. Finally, he picked up his walking stick, wondering if the surprise held within had been discovered. Meanwhile, the pheromone signature had dimmed, whether due to distance or mood, he couldn’t tell.
“That? That was merely to get your attention. If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” A pause, then two thin cylindrical objects appeared out of the air from the direction of the hangar door from which he’d only just emerged. They bounced on the concrete platform and landed near Feld’s feet. He recognized them as the power packs that were usually kept in his walking stick. His heart sank.
“Thought you might want those back. That was an unpleasant surprise, by the way. I’d never seen an Askaran Stinger in person before. I almost killed myself frelling around with it before I realized what it was. You must’ve paid quite a few credits to get one of those. The Askarans don’t give those up lightly.”
Feld walked over to the power packs and put them in one of the inner pockets of his traveling robe. He checked his other pockets and found that his leather-clad whiskey flask was still there. A quick shake confirmed it was empty. Things were going from bad to worse. Weaponless, spiritless, it was just his wits and his fists and that was never good.
Displaying a calm he did not feel, walking stick in both hands, Feld walked to the center of the concrete platform, faced the hangar and assumed a relaxed stance. He scanned the hangar wall and the surrounding area, but could find no visual sign of anything out of the ordinary. A distant memory whispered to him to stall for time.
“No. They don’t. But I didn’t get it from the Askarans. I won it in an illegal dice game on…, well, where I won it isn’t important right now. What is important, to me anyway, was how you got so close. I didn’t pick up your scent until it was too late.”
“Dice game? Sure, why not. As for how I got close, well, you’re not the only one with skin in the game. Every advantage has a disadvantage. I figured that particular neighborhood of Dinara City might overload your senses a bit. Worked like a charm, I must say.”
“It did indeed, though it shouldn’t have, truth be told. If I was still in the Hunt, I would’ve filtered those scents better. You wouldn’t have had a chance.”
“Aww, someone’s pride is hurt.”
“Wow. Someone’s cocksure of themselves. Ironically. I’ll give you that my pride is a bit wounded. You don’t get to be my age without a reversal here and there, even in my line of work. But it’s still true. I’ve been to Dinara City before. I simply wasn’t ‘on the clock’ when you waylaid me.”
“Really?” she asked, surprised. “That’s a pretty fatal flaw, if you ask me. Shouldn’t Le Grand Chasseur be ‘on the clock’ at all times?”
“Depends on the clock. I’ve been off the Hunt for more than a few cycles now and the assassination attempts have dropped off considerably, at least the ones aimed specifically for me. It wasn’t a threat high on my list. Besides,” he paused, “you yourself confirmed it.”
“Confirmed what?”
“Confirmed that assassination is not the point of this little adventure. ‘If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.’ So tell me then, little kitten, what’s the game here?”
His question was met by silence. As he’d suspected from her tone, she was not as experienced as other Grays he’d hunted. She was second generation.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? I was just beginning to enjoy our little conversation.”
A few seconds more passed. Finally, she responded, “Fine, let’s talk. You’re a smart guy; at least that’s what the rumor mill fed me. Why don’t you try to figure it out and I’ll let you know if you’re close?”
“Sure. As I said and you confirmed, assassination is off the table. It also can’t be a contract kill for the same reasons and, goodness knows, the Gray Women have their own reasons to take me out, correct?”
“That much is obvious. Go on.”
“Robbery is out. The Grays generally aren’t into thievery, unless the Guild is branching out for financial or other reasons. Regardless, you would have left me there, unless you really wanted to hide the evidence, but again, I’m still vertical. You also revealed yourself to me, more or less, so robbery isn’t it.”
“Obvious again. Keep going.”
“That leaves kidnapping. I’m the target, but not targeted for death. Unless it’s really personal and this is where it’ll happen after you hand me over. Regardless of the why or what happens next, this is where the drop takes place. Am I getting warm?”
“Warm enough. Continue.”
“Let’s see. Decommissioned cargo port. Enough space around the complex, probably reconnoitered by you, that accidental witnesses won’t be a problem. You were either hired by smugglers, given the drop location, or someone else with deep pockets who could own an old secluded cargo port. Maybe very deep pockets. It would certainly have to be enough money to hire a Gray Woman for a job they don’t typically do and for a target they would rather see dead. Unless, of course, my real identity wasn’t known at the time of the contract and now the little fly is caught in a bigger web than she thought and should’ve asked for more money. How am I doing so far?”
“Wow. I really must have cracked your head a little too hard. Watching you suffer through this is like watching a toddler tie his shoe for the first time. How ‘Le Grand Chasseur’ racked up the body count you did is beyond me.”
Feld seethed at the comment, but held his emotions in check, knowing he’d struck a nerve. “I had a pretty big incentive.”
“I know.” After a pause, the Gray Woman continued. “All of us know your story. If it’s any consolation, we blame Xyla as much as you. If she’d done her frelling job, things could have been much different.” She paused again, considering whether to reveal more information. “Why didn’t you kill her when you had the chance?”
Oh? “What do you mean?”
“Come now. There’s no need to feign ignorance. You had a chance to take out Xyla on Mentath-IV and you didn’t. Why?”
How could she know about that? Is this the reason why he was here? “Well, since we’re showing our cards right now… I didn’t have as strong a chance as you think. When I arrived at the flop house, the only thing waiting for me was a scented note on a pillow. If anything, she probably had a chance to take me out and didn’t.”
“What did the note say?”
“Nothing you need to know. It’s personal.”
The corrupted sense bloomed suddenly into decay and death. “Humor me,” came the crisp response. “What did it say?”
“‘À destinées se croisent encore…’ I’m sure it means nothing to you.”
“So she knew you were heading there? How’d you frell that up?”
“That’s quite the leap. Why are you assuming it was me?”
“Because based on what I’ve seen so far, your reputation seems undeserved. We served Xyla up on a platter for you and you frelled it up. And, frankly, you’re here now because of a concocted clandestine meeting scam. Easy bait, easy prey. Frell me, but you must be the luckiest eema this side of the Pearls.”
“Frell you, I tracked Xyla to Mentath myself.”
“The frell you did. We provided the initial tip.”
“Who’s this ‘we’ you keep mentioning?”
“The Guild, you simpleton! We set Xyla up for you. We sent her to Mentath-IV for a side job and let it be known through various channels, channels we knew you were hooked into, that she would be there. We all figured if you finally got the revenge out of your system, we could breathe easy for a bit. Frell me you’re as soft as budong dren!”
“Careful, youngling. I’ve heard worse, usually from a Gray who wound up on the wrong side of the dance.”
“Oh? Were we dancing? I hadn’t noticed, since you’re supposed to be the one who leads.”
Minutes passed in silence and the corruption in the air began to fade. The sun was now fully behind the mountains and the light was fading fast. That distant memory now told Feld that something important was soon to happen and to be alert for it. He needed to keep the conversation going.
“She had The Touch, you know?”
“What?”
“Xyla. That’s how she knew. She already knew how and when our paths would cross. Knows how and when, I should say. Your little game was never going to work.” After a short pause, Feld chuckled softly. “It’s one of the reasons why I gave up trying to hunt her down. She kept leaving me scented notes whenever I got close.”
“And you think that’s funny?”
“Oh, it’s mildly funny now. Believe me, for many years it wasn’t.”
As dusk began its turn to twilight and Feld’s words hung in the air, a portion of the hangar wall began to lose its shape. It began to melt, then solidify, then collapse, invert, twist and finally shatter-morph into the figure of a mottled gray, shimmering nude female humanoid with flowing white hair and ice blue eyes. The moment had come.
To say the Gray Women did their work in the shadows was prosaic license. The Gray Women did most of their work in broad daylight. The Chameleon Skin mutation added photonic transmitter/receptor characteristics to their epidermal skin cells. Through concentration, the transmitters could broadcast any hue needed. With enough training, the Gray Women could mimic any background from any point of view by ‘feeling’ reflected light on their skin receptors and transmitting whatever image they wanted in any direction. As the environmental light gets dimmer, however, the camouflage ability becomes more difficult to maintain and the skin of the Gray Women breaks down to a kaleidoscopic display of silvers, charcoals and grays. In essence, they lose the signal. As trained assassins, however, they were still dangerous. A lack of light has advantages of its own, of course, but they lose invisibility. The flip side, however, was that while their mutation allowed them to gain the camouflage ability to match their surroundings, they lost their own self-identity, their internal sense of self of what they looked like before the mutation took hold. While human in form, that electrostatic mottling could catch the eye of their prey, or any of their guards. That is, if the sight of it didn’t shock you. It was their only vulnerability before the Pheromone Signature was developed, if you could catch them at the right time, that is.
And now seemed to be the right time. That’s when Feld charged, walking stick held like a quarterstaff. Even with the fatigue from his exodus from the hangar, he figured he had perhaps 5 or so seconds to reach her before she reacted. It seemed like it should be enough time. It wasn’t.
In response to the charge, she pushed her arms forward, hands straight out, aimed directly at her erstwhile assailant. Two small metal tubes stuck to the insides of her upper arms, previously unseen in the camouflage, ejected small bolts of bluish light which passed into his chest.
There was no pain, just a complete loss of sensation. When his vision returned, he was lying on his back completely numb and unable to move. She approached him, all ecstatic white noise, and sat astride his stomach, feet placed on each side of his head, playfully cradling it side to side.
She was indeed younger than the others he’d hunted throughout the years, and strikingly beautiful even with the shifting hues of her skin. The flowing white hair was new; Xyla and the Gray Women he had previously hunted had been hairless. Perhaps the mutation was evolving? Or upgraded? The Pheromone Signature registered briefly as burnt roses and broken thorns before fading, more disappointment than anger. She looked down at him with a smug expression on her mottling face.
“That was probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean you couldn’t think of anything better to try?” She shook her head. “I expected more from ‘Le Grand Chausseur’. Frell, I would have expected more from a simple child. Easiest score ever. How you wound up becoming an Askaran Field Marshal is beyond…” Her voice cut off as she turned her head toward the low hum of a Protean air car approaching the landing pad.
And with that last slip, it all made sense now, but it was too late. Only one person knew him as an Askaran Field Marshal and that person was no friend. Laying there powerless, Feld briefly wished that his destiny had been untimely assassination in among the fleshpots and tralkshops of Denara City.