Excerpts: Editorial

The following is an excerpt from Bloodhunters v3: New Blood, Chapter 02.08. Some details might make more sense in context, and a couple of sentences have been altered to avoid spoilers.

ED.02508.06.13

Echo Sun Times – Online Edition

June 13, 2508

Editorials

Editor’s Note: We are pleased today to post a submission from our former head columnist Evan N’Paqua. Though he’s been retired for five years, he still finds the time to write the occasional piece. We consider ourselves very fortunate to be his favored outlet for posting his work.

Fourteen years ago, I sent a man to jail. His name was Enoch Tevarios Kline, and he was evil. Now understand that I was a journalist for forty-six years, and I always tried to keep my opinions neutral. I chose my words carefully, and I rarely let my personal feelings interfere with my columns. So when I tell you that Kline was evil, I don’t use the word lightly.

Kline was a local businessman and philanthropist. He was well respected by the community, and the last person anyone would have suspected of being a killer. When I was sent to interview him, it wasn’t to bring him down. It was a filler piece, part of a “community heroes” feature we were running at the time. I was there to ask him about his humanitarian programs, such as the scholarships he was awarding to disadvantaged high school students.

We held the interview in his home, in a book-filled study I envy to this day. It went well until I asked about his family. He told me the heartbreaking story of how his wife and children had been killed in an accident. But if I have one talent, it’s that I know a lie when I see one. Something about his story didn’t add up. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to wake my inner investigator.

I won’t go into the details of my investigative process, but you can read my original column from 2494 in the archives. This wasn’t your typical case of “businessman has wife murdered.” No, what I uncovered, and what was further discovered after his incarceration, showed a level of immorality I’ve never encountered before or since. His wife wasn’t just murdered. She was forced to fight a chetal, nude and unarmed, in an underground arena. His children suffered an even worse fate, victims of depraved acts that I’d prefer not to revisit in this article.

And it wasn’t just Kline’s own family. He bought and sold women and children like they were livestock, using his connections with the Inner Eye to manage a large network of disturbed clients. And he wasn’t just a trader. He often participated in arena events himself, performing absolutely monstrous acts of sexual violence against much weaker opponents, driven by the applause of his fans. And even that was only the tip of the iceberg, but I’ll stop retreading old ground.

The evidence I gathered during my investigation led to him receiving thirty-seven life sentences. I joked at the time that with good behavior, he would probably only serve half of that. I rested well for years, knowing that I’d helped to make the galaxy a slightly safer place.

On March 15th of this year, (SPOILERS for Bloodhunters v3: New Blood). Under threats of further destruction, the president of the United States of North America ordered the release of Kline, along with several other deeply disturbed criminals.

Did the president make the right call? Based on the information they had at the time, I’m not sure they had a choice. But it was later found out that (SPOILERS for Bloodhunters v3: New Blood). Some of the released criminals have already been recaptured, but some have disappeared into the winds.

The moment I heard that Kline had been released, I knew I was in danger. Fourteen years is a long time to hold a grudge, but Kline was just the sort of man to keep that level of hate alive. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one on his list, but I knew I had to be near the top. I took precautions. I hired two personal security agents to guard my house at night, and I started sleeping with a weapon at my side.

But I also knew my enemy. There was no precaution I could take that he wouldn’t anticipate. The only way I would ever be safe was to completely upend my life, changing my name and moving to another planet. I wasn’t going to do that. How much compromise is too much? Where is the line between living and surviving? Is life worth it if your life is no longer your own?

At my age, the choice was easy. I took precautions, and I would fight back if necessary. But I would be damned if I was going to spend my remaining years on the run from a sadistic psychopath.

I slept with one eye open for the first few weeks. But the mind can only stay in panic mode for so long, and eventually I settled back into my usual sleep routine. When Kline finally showed himself last night, I was sound asleep. He could have just ended it right there, not even bothering to wake me first. One pull of a trigger, or thrust of a blade, and the Echo Sun Times might have posted an entirely different article about me today.

But remember, we’re discussing a sadist. Kline received no joy from something as simple as murder. No, he had much bigger plans for me. I woke up choking, a metal cord wrapped around my neck. Before I knew what was happening, I was dragged out of my bed and down the hallway. He pulled me down the stairs, where my head thumped painfully on every step. Our final stop was my living room, where our audience consisted of two dead security guards, propped up on my couch, staring at us with glazed eyes.

  I’ll never know what his plans were for me, and to be honest, I’m thankful for that. The police later told me his bag was full of dental instruments, gardening tools, exotic weapons, and sex toys. But he never had a chance to use any of them on me. Because as I lay helpless on the floor, watching him reach into the bag, a mysterious woman stepped out of the shadows. Another late-night visitor had arrived.

Kline turned to confront this new arrival, and I strained to get a better view. It was a woman in black, dressed like a Hollywood ninja. She had crystal blue eyes and a red ponytail trailing from the base of her hood. She was armed with a shortsword, but there were more blades strapped to her belt.

Nothing I could write could do justice to the battle that followed. Kline pulled a curved blade out of his bag, and he attacked her without mercy. For several minutes the woman was on the defensive, blocking his attacks with no counterattacks of her own. At first I thought she was outmatched, if not by skill, then at least by ferocity. But I was wrong. She wasn’t threatened, she was gathering data.

When she finally decided to attack, she used what she had learned to deliver several quick wounds before disarming him. But the blade hadn’t been his only weapon. Panicked, he dove for his bag, and pulled out a serrated instrument that looked like it was designed to gut whales. He attacked again, only to lose his weapon once more a few seconds later.

No longer near his bag, he grabbed a poker from the fireplace. The woman could have stabbed him while his back was turned, but she held back. I’m almost positive I heard her stifle a laugh when she saw his weapon of choice. Nevertheless, their duel continued for quite a while, his iron poker against her shortsword.

By this time I had managed to loosen the cord around my neck, but I dared not move or interfere. I got the impression that the woman could have finished Kline at any time. She passed up several opportunities for an easy kill. Why was she holding back? Was she having fun with him?

But then it dawned on me. She was tiring him out, making sure he knew he was fighting for his life. She wanted him to feel as helpless as his victims had all those years ago. I don’t know where she got her seemingly endless supply of energy, but the longer they fought, the more I saw the despair creep into Kline’s face. He’d lost, he knew it, and every blow he blocked only prolonged the inevitable.

And yet the woman persisted, driving Kline into a corner, and then to the floor. She hammered on his fire poker until Kline no longer had the strength to hold onto it. “Please,” Kline begged, as he let the instrument clatter to the floor. He braced himself for the death blow, but it never came.

Instead, she pointed the sword at his chest, and spoke for the first time since her arrival. “Enoch Tevarios Kline. I am here to collect the reward for your capture. Will you come with me willingly, or would you like a rematch?” Without a word, Kline made a weak gesture of surrender.

There was fire in the woman’s eyes as she put the binders around his wrists. Her body shook with rage, and I realized that she was loathe to touch this disgusting man even to cuff him. Then I knew the truth. The reason she had treated the fight as a game, the reason she had allowed him to press the advantage for so long, the reason she had kept him blocking without going for the kill. It wasn’t just to tire him out, or to make him feel helpless.

She was being merciful.

She’d had to think of the fight as a game, because to do otherwise would have meant releasing her full anger. If she had allowed herself to fight with the fury in her soul, there wouldn’t have been enough pieces left of the man to return for a reward. There was a beast inside this woman, one that craved seeing Kline get the fate he deserved. Her detachment was for Kline’s protection, and to some extent, her own.

Once Kline was securely bound, she helped me off the floor. I looked at her face, at least the little bit of it not obscured by the mask. Her skin was flush, and there were tears in her eyes. It had taken every ounce of her strength to hold herself back, to stop herself from treating Kline the way he had treated his victims.

During my years on the staff of the Echo Sun Times, I found myself involved in many discussions about the ethics of bounty hunting. Do they break too many rules, or not enough? Are they more or less effective than law enforcement? I’ll admit that while I saw both sides of the issue at the time, I often came down in the camp that discouraged the practice. But last night my life was saved, not by the IGP or private security, but by a bounty hunter whose name I still don’t know. And she didn’t just save my life, but probably rescued me from a fate worse than death.

Fans of my columns know that I’m fond of the old expression, “The plural of anecdote isn’t data.” One or two positive experiences with bounty hunters doesn’t excuse the entire profession. I know better than to change my stance after a single event, especially so soon, when my emotions are still running high.

But I can tell you one thing. I will sleep well tonight.

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