Now Available: Blood Samples

I've just released a new mini-book called Blood Samples. This is a collection of six short stories, all of which take place before the events of Bloodhunters v1: Bad Blood. 

You can get it from Amazon and several other e-book sites.

It's free on most platforms, so give it a read. You can also download it here: 

EPUB or PDF

If you like it, and want to know what happens next, check out the other books in the Bloodhunters series, which you can buy here:

Books by Xine Fury

Short Story: Blood Guardian (Blood Samples 6)

 

This short story takes place before Bloodhunters v1: Bad Blood. If you enjoy it, please consider purchasing my other books here.

ED02499.08.31

IGP Officer Zhari Ze-Rastt was sick of EarthStation 1. For every four hours she spent on the streets, she spent another four filing paperwork at the station. It was also where she slept, ran her training exercises, and ate most of her meals. And while the station was beautiful, a true testament to the power of engineering, she wished she could spend more time in the sun, breathing non-manufactured oxygen. She was getting married in a few months, and was greatly anticipating her honeymoon. She wasn’t sure where they were going yet, as it was supposed to be a surprise. The important thing was, she’d be spending a couple of weeks planetside.

But which planet? Earth was nice, but she was hoping she’d get to visit her homeworld of Galea. She hadn’t been there in years, and she looked forward to showing Vik her favorite landmarks. She’d been dropping hints for a while; had Vik picked up on them? She wasn’t sure. He was keeping it close to the vest, but she could tell he had something big planned. Even if it wasn’t Galea, it was going to be a spectacular trip.

She glanced at the picture of Vik on her desk. They couldn’t be more different. He was human, square-jawed and duty-driven. Zhari, meanwhile, had cat-like facial features and a more relaxed attitude. Not that she didn’t take her job seriously, but it seemed like Vik stayed in officer mode even when he was off the clock. Nevertheless, she loved him. She wanted to talk to him, right now. She didn’t have anything to say, really, she just had to hear his voice. She grabbed her comm, and her thumb was hovering over the call button when a message flashed.

Duty assignment. But not just any work detail. This one would keep her off the station for a couple of days, at least. She grabbed her things and headed for the landing bay, practically skipping with glee.

“You’ve all read the briefing,” Officer Tannish lectured. “And you know why they picked us for this assignment. Each of us has dealt with this fugitive before, and our unique insights give us the edge in recapturing him. Time is of the essence here. We believe he’s headed to Cytrine Delta to get black-market facial reconstruction. If he succeeds, we might never get our hands on him again. It is vitally important we get to him before he goes under the knife.”

Zhari looked around the cockpit. In addition to Zhari and Tannish, there were two other officers on board. Officer Blake had close-cropped red hair, and always looked like she was bored. She’d been the one to process the crime scene after the murder. Agent Renn was bald, with olive-brown skin. He was a profiler, and he’d interviewed Hezler in prison. Zhari was the only non-human. She’d been the one to recapture Hezler after his first escape two months earlier.

“But there’s something else you should know,” Tannish said. “Something that wasn’t in the briefing. Against my recommendation, they’ve posted a bounty on Hezler.” Blake and Renn sighed with disgust. “I know, I know,” Tannish continued. “As if Hezler wasn’t enough, we also have to deal with bounty hunters getting in the way. But with such a tight time limit, they didn’t want to take any chances.”

Zhari understood the reasoning. As long as Hezler was a danger to society, it didn’t matter who brought him in. But she also understood the reactions of her fellow officers. If the bounty hunters got to Hezler first, it would make the IGP look bad. And there was always the chance the bounty would attract carrion hunters – unscrupulous mercenaries who would have no compunctions about killing an officer if it meant they got the reward.

“I know what you’re all thinking,” Tannish said. “But don’t worry. We know more about Hezler than any bounty hunter, and I’m confident that we can bring him in without incident. We land in two hours, be ready.”

The IGP shuttle sped toward the warp gate that would take it to Cytrine Delta. No one in the galaxy stood a better chance of apprehending Hezler than the ship’s five passengers. The real question was whether Hezler would be caught by one of the four officers, or the stowaway.

The sun was sinking on the horizon when the ship landed in Silicon Bay. Most of Cytrine Delta’s major cities had science-themed names, because the planet was known for its high-tech research centers. The local scientists were annoyed by this sort of pandering, but the tourists ate it up. Unfortunately, there were fewer tourists every year, as more and more cities became slums. The tech-themed names of the world’s cities and streets seemed increasingly incongruous as the years went on.

With an entire planet to pick from, choosing a landing site could have been a major decision. Fortunately, someone matching Hezler’s description had been spotted in Silicon Bay. Their informant swore that they’d only notified the IGP and no one else, so hopefully they’d be in and out before any bounty hunters got wind of Hezler’s presence.

The officers disembarked from their shuttle and headed for the local police headquarters. A few minutes after they left, the shuttle’s door opened again. A shadowy figure slipped out the door and vanished into the dusk.

Reylund Hezler paced in his tiny motel room, wishing time would pass faster. He was supposed to meet his contact in three hours. He couldn’t be early, or his contact wouldn’t be there. He couldn’t kill time in town, or he might be recognized. His best bet was to stay put until time to go.

But this room… it was smaller than his cell had been. He could barely breathe in here. He’d only been here an hour, and he already felt like screaming. Three more hours seemed insurmountable. What was he going to do?

He sat down on the bed. It was old, and the mattress sagged in the middle, but it was much softer than the beds in prison had been. He briefly considered taking a nap, but he didn’t think he’d be able to get any sleep. And if he did, he might sleep through his alarm and miss the rendezvous. He stood up again, and thought about ordering some food.

But he was too nervous to eat. What if the surgery went badly? What if the doctor put him under, then turned him in to the IGP? What if the police found him mid-surgery, leaving the procedure half-finished? Scenario after scenario whirled through his mind, and he began to feel nauseous.

He wasn’t cut out for this lifestyle. Hezler was no criminal. He’d taken the rap for his boyfriend, Vinz Kacy. It was a complicated set of circumstances, almost a comedy of errors, that had led to Hezler’s conviction. At least… that’s what he’d thought at the time.

A year earlier, on a Friday morning, Vinz gave Hezler a stuffed platypus as a surprise. Hezler took it to work to show his coworkers, and left it on his desk. But it turned out that inside the platypus was a second surprise, tickets to a play on Saturday night. The office was closed on weekends, but Hezler had keys, and offered to go get the platypus. But Vinz still wanted to keep the title of the play a surprise, and was afraid Hezler would peek, so he offered to go to Hezler’s office instead. It was against the office’s security rules, but Vinz convinced Hezler it would be fine.

While Vinz was in Hezler’s office, he found the body of Hezler’s boss, Virra Spinner. While trying to revive her, Vinz got Virra’s blood all over his clothing. Rather than call the police, Vinz panicked and returned home. When Hezler heard the story, he called the police. But he didn’t want to get in trouble at work, so he told the police that he’d been the one to go to the office, and that Vinz’s bloody clothes were his.

Things spiraled out of control from there. The killer had taken the office’s data drives, including the ones that held security camera footage. Hezler wasn’t fond of his boss, and his coworkers knew it, so there was motive. Even if he’d wanted to tell the police the truth, that Vinz had been the one to find the body, they wouldn’t have believed him at that point. There was simply too much evidence against Hezler.

At first, Hezler was content to bide his time in prison, sure that more evidence would come out, and the real killer would be revealed. After a few months, he realized no one was still looking for the truth. Vinz never came to see him in prison. When Hezler escaped the first time, he tried to pay Vinz a visit. But Vinz had moved on, and was dating someone else. He’d sold off all of Hezler’s possessions, and had somehow made it rich by buying stocks. Vinz had never shown any interest in finance before; how had he gotten so lucky?

Once Hezler was back in prison, he started putting the pieces together. And now he had a theory. It was Vinz who had suggested that he go to the office instead of Hezler. Once there, Vinz found data that gave him insider information on stock tips. But he was discovered by Virra, and he killed her. Finally, he convinced Hezler to take the blame for breaking into the office, assuring him that it looked less suspicious.

And I fell for it, Hezler thought angrily. That was the worst part about it. If he’d known he was being set up, he would have fought harder in court. He would have thrown Vinz under the bus, instead of protecting him with lies. But it was too late to do anything about that. If he were to bring it up now, he’d just be a twice-escaped convict desperate to stay free. No one was going to believe him without hard evidence.

But how was that going to happen? Hezler was having a hard enough keeping the cops off his trail. He didn’t have the time or resources to play detective, too.

He checked the time again. Damn. For all his brooding, only ten more minutes had gone by. He sat down on the bed again, pulled his knees up to his chest, and tried to calm his breathing.

Whisper was practically invisible from her vantage point. Her species had the ability to manipulate shadow, allowing her to blend into the dark recess of the building. She crouched on a ledge on the second floor, in one of the building’s many exterior alcoves. From a bystander’s point of view, the alcove might have looked a bit darker than it should have, but they probably wouldn’t question it.

She was familiar with police procedures. The four IGP officers would be scattered across the city right now, first questioning known informants, then every local surgeon, starting with the ones who specialized in facial reconstruction. But Whisper knew better. Hezler wasn’t dumb enough to hire a surgeon listed online. No, he’d go for someone experienced, but no longer practicing. So while the cops and other bounty hunters were on a wild goose chase, Whisper had an actual lead to follow.

The guy’s name was Ryfush Weglan. He was a Vhelran, with dark orange scales, and a scar across his left cheek. He’d once been an expert in the field of body modification, but he’d abandoned the career after some malpractice suits. But he still had connections, and now made a living illegally procuring painkillers for people who didn’t qualify for a prescription.

He’d also gone to the same high school as Reylund Hezler. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but Whisper’s intuition told her that this was the guy she needed to watch. She’d headed to his place immediately after leaving the IGP shuttle, staked it out until he left, and followed him to this alley. Just a few minutes later, another man showed up. This newcomer wore a hood, but he was about the right build to be Hezler.

The two spoke for a few minutes, and Whisper strained to hear their conversation. Some bounty hunters could afford fancy tech that would have allowed them to hear them from a distance, but Whisper didn’t have that kind of money. But then, she wasn’t in it for the profit, she just wanted to keep violent criminals off the streets.

Whisper considered leaping down from the ledge and grabbing Hezler, but she couldn’t be sure it was him. If she was wrong, and Weglan was planning to meet Hezler at a later time, acting now would blow her whole plan. Weglan would cancel his meeting with Hezler, and Whisper would be back to square one.

After a few minutes, Weglan gestured farther down the alley, and the duo walked away. Whisper followed, keeping her distance, blending back into the shadows whenever one of them started looking around for witnesses. They ended up at a nearly abandoned office building, its doors closed for the night. Weglan unlocked the door and led Hezler inside.

“So, what do you want to look like?” Weglan asked. The office had originally been used by a talent agency, and some of their posters still hung on the wall. The room was poorly lit, illuminated by a single hanging lamp in the center of the room. The partially-open doorway also let in a strip of light from the hall, but it was still unusually dark for a doctor’s office.

“I don’t care,” Hezler answered softly. They were the only ones in the building, but Hezler still kept his voice low. “I’m only doing this so I don’t get caught.”

“Sure, but you’re going to have to live with this face,” Weglan said. “Might as well get one you like.”

“Can’t you just change it back once I prove I’m innocent?” Hezler asked.

Weglan laughed. “You make it sound like I’m going to store your old face in a freezer somewhere. Doesn’t work that way. Look, some time down the road, if you want to look like your old self again, I can recommend a surgeon who might be able to get you there. It’ll be expensive, though, and it won’t be perfect. And that’s only if you actually manage to catch the real killer, which is a big if. My advice is to accept reality, and pick a face you can live with.”

Hezler’s mind reeled. Before, facial reconstruction had seemed like a nebulous idea, something he’d seen fugitives do in the movies. It was just one of those things people do when they’re on the run. But now that he was sitting in Weglan’s eerily dark office, surrounded by medical equipment, the full weight of what he was about to do hit him. He was going to change his face, permanently. He was going to look in the mirror, and see a stranger staring back.

He liked his face. He’d never really thought about it before, but it was a decent face. Not super handsome, but clean, average, the kind of face you might see in commercials. He’d never looked in the mirror and thought, “I wish my nose was narrower” or “I wish I had fuller lips.” There were no celebrities he envied, nobody he wanted to emulate. 

“Do you have a book or something I can look through?” he asked.

Weglan grunted in annoyance and handed Hezler a tablet. It contained thousands of pictures of noses, eyes, chins, and other facial features. As Hezler scrolled through the images, Weglan asked him a few questions, trying to narrow down what face would make him happiest. Weglan knew Hezler wasn’t getting this done out of vanity; he just needed to keep from being recognized, and to fool facial scanners. But they were friends, even if they hadn’t spoken much since high school, and Weglan wanted to do the best job he could.

Whisper watched them from a dark corner near the doorway. She could absorb sound as well as light, so sneaking in when their heads were turned had been easy enough. Fortunately there were plenty of shadows to hide in, the office’s hanging light leaving the edges of the room in darkness.

This was it. Whisper could easily subdue Hezler from here. With her skills, she’d have him tied up in seconds. Even if they fought back, she’d be able to take them without a scratch. She’d handled crowds of armed criminals before, so two average joes would be a cakewalk.

And yet, she still hesitated.

As Hezler thumbed through the tablet, their conversation drifted away from the surgery, and back to Hezler’s conviction, incarceration, and escapes. Weglan explained how he unjustly lost his medical license, due to false claims of incompetence. Whisper listened intently, studying Hezler’s posture. Aurorans were raised to read body language in addition to spoken words, a skill they used to predict their opponents’ moves during hand-to-hand combat.

Hezler was telling the truth. Whisper could tell by his shoulders, his breathing, his eyes, and even his speech patterns. Either he was innocent of his crimes, or at least he believed he was. Weglan, meanwhile, was embellishing his own story. The former surgeon believed some of what he was saying, but he was definitely keeping some significant details to himself. The contrast between the two was undeniable.

Most bounty hunters wouldn’t have cared. Money was money. Whisper was paid to bring them in, and the courts could work out the rest. But that just wasn’t how Whisper saw the universe. If this man was innocent, she wanted to help him, even if it meant giving up a reward. 

But what if she walked away, only for Hezler to get caught by another bounty hunter? There was no way he could stay on the run forever, even with a new face.

Whisper was still debating when there was a loud crash from down the hall.

“This is the police! Come out with your hands above your head!” Zhari didn’t have a warrant, but police procedure was pretty lax on Cytrine Delta. Her team’s leads had been dead ends so far, until an informant gave her a hot tip that led her here.

Having just kicked open the outer door, she now stood in a long hallway, lined with numbered doors that led to long-abandoned offices. She jogged down the hall, gun drawn, looking for any indication of which office to investigate first. She reached a side hallway and peeked around the corner, wary of any potential danger. Halfway down the hall, she saw an open door. As soon as she spotted it, it slammed shut.

“What exactly is your plan, here?” Weglan asked bluntly, as Hezler pushed the operating table in front of the door.

“Shut up and help me,” Hezler said, in a panic. He turned around and grabbed a chair, and started pulling it towards the door as well.

“There are no other exits from this room,” Weglan said. “You don’t have any weapons, and I don’t think you’d use them if you did. You think that cop’s going to go away just because she couldn’t push the door open on her first try? No. She’s going to call for backup, they’re going to bring in the drones, and you’re just going to make things worse for yourself.”

“I can’t go back to prison,” Hezler said, wedging the chair under the operating table.

Weglan sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Hide behind this chair, and let me do the talking.”

There was a pounding on the office door. They heard a muffled voice shout, “Open up, this is the police!”

Hezler dragged the chair back to the far corner, and hid behind it. “One minute,” Weglan shouted, pulling the operating table back from the door.

The officer kicked the door open. She was Galean, with a catlike face. She had light gray fur, and her face was framed by a blue mane. She wore a navy blue IGP uniform with lightweight armor plating. She quickly looked around the room, then turned to Weglan. “Where’s Hezler?”

“Behind that chair,” Weglan said, pointing.

“Jerk!” Hezler shouted, emerging from his hiding spot.

“Realist,” Weglan countered.

The officer stepped forward, her right hand pointing the gun a Hezler, her left hand reaching for her bracers. She paused when she saw Hezler’s shocked expression. He wasn’t looking at the cop, but past her.

From the corner closest to the door, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was as if the darkness itself coalesced into a feminine, humanoid shape. Then the shadows dissipated, revealing a woman dressed in black and gray. She wore a tight-fitting jumpsuit, with a black vest and boots. Her helmet featured a mirrored faceplate.

The officer was about to turn around when this shadowy newcomer grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. “Run,” the shadow woman said. Hezler didn’t have to be told twice. He ran past the two women, past Weglan, out the door, and down the hallway. He didn’t stop running until he was back in his motel room.

What is this thing? Zhari wondered, trying to break free of the creature’s grasp. She couldn’t turn to get a good look, but it felt humanoid. Zhari had scanned the room upon entering, as per her training. Where had it been hiding? Zhari couldn’t move her arms enough to aim her pistol, no matter how hard she struggled. Instead, she lifted her right leg and stomped hard on her captor’s boot. The woman gasped, momentarily loosening her grip, enough for Zhari to break free.

Zhari turned, but only got a glimpse of her attacker before the lights went out. The dark woman had thrown something into the air, smashing the room’s only light. While the light from the hallway still illuminated the room enough to see Weglan and the furniture, the dark woman seemed to completely vanish in the dimness. 

The officer raised her weapon, only for it be kicked out of her grasp. Then Zhari lunged forward at where she’d last seen the woman. Grabbing her foe around the waist, Zhari wrestled her to the ground. She still couldn’t see the woman, which was confusing. Galeans had excellent night vision, but all Zhari could see was blackness where she felt her opponent to be.

Weglan carefully stepped backward, away from the women, and out the door. He pulled the door shut as he left, leaving the two in total darkness.

“Whoever you are,” Zhari grunted, trying to get a better grip on her invisible opponent, “You’re under arrest for aiding and abetting a known fugitive…”

The dark woman didn’t answer, she just kept trying to hold Zhari still. Although Zhari couldn’t see her opponent, she could tell that it was a woman, probably human, stronger than average, with formal martial arts training. The woman seemed to sense every move Zhari planned to make before she made it. But as they wrestled and fought, another realization dawned on Zhari – this woman wasn’t trying to hurt her, only delay her. She had passed up several opportunities to deliver crippling blows, going for grabs and holds instead.

Zhari wrestled herself free again, and slowly stood up. Instead of attacking, this time she backed up until she felt the wall at her back. “You’re protecting a murderer, you know,” Zhari said, breathing heavily.

There was no response, but Zhari thought she heard a drawer open.

“He’ll kill again,” Zhari said. Her firearm was lost in the darkness, but she had a few other tools at her disposal. But what did she have that would affect this woman? She’d felt a helmet while they’d grappled, so that ruled out mace. She had gas grenades, but the woman’s helmet might have its own oxygen reserves. She had a stun baton, but her opponent might be wearing a shock-resistant flightsuit.

Finally she reached for her AON knife. She didn’t want to use lethal force, but it was the only weapon guaranteed to breach her attacker’s defenses. Plus it gave off light, which was what Zhari needed most right now. She held up the weapon and clicked the switch on the hilt. The blade immediately started to warm up, giving off a blue glow.

Zhari jumped, seeing her own blue-tinted face reflected in the woman’s visor. The shadowy woman was leaning towards her, mere centimeters away. Before Zhari could even register what the woman was doing, she felt a prick in her shoulder. She thrust her knife forward, but the woman jumped back and disappeared into the shadows once again. Zhari touched her shoulder, already starting to feel dizzy. What had she…

Of course. It was a doctor’s office. It had to be some sort of fast-acting sedative, taken from the drawer. Zhari knew she only had seconds of consciousness left. She sheathed her knife and pulled out her comm unit. “Tannish,” she said. “I need… need… baffllezerrrrm…”

As Zhari fell forward, the dark woman caught her and gently set her on the floor.

Someone spotted Hezler leaving the planet, but after that the trail went cold. The four officers returned to EarthStation 1 and filed their reports. They were given a stern lecture, but ultimately it was determined that they’d done all they could. A few days later, a surprise piece of evidence arrived at the station. It was the stolen data drives from Hezler’s office. An accompanying note apologized for the interference on Cytrine Delta, and claimed that the drive had been found in the possession of Vinz Kacy. While the drive had since been wiped, a data recovery team managed to restore most of the deleted files, including security logs.

It was all there, in full color, high definition, pixel-perfect video. Indisputable evidence that Kacy had entered the office, accessed restricted files, and killed Virra Spinner. Kacy was quickly arrested, and Hezler turned himself in. Hezler was still sentenced to probation for the minor crimes he’d committed while on the run, but he would soon be able to resume a normal life.

In Zhari’s report, she described her attacker as a “woman seemingly made of shadows.” For a couple of weeks, she took a fair amount of ribbing over it. Her fellow officers joked that she’d been attacked by the boogeyman, and one of them even gave her a night light as a gag gift. But then Agent Renn fell into a vat of relish while chasing a suspect, and Zhari’s story was immediately forgotten. “Agent Pickles” became a sensation, the most joked-about officer on the force, for the rest of the year.

Right up until the disaster. After that, nothing seemed funny anymore.

Short Story: Blood Frenzy (Blood Samples 5)

 

This short story takes place before Bloodhunters v1: Bad Blood. If you enjoy it, please consider purchasing my other books here.

 ED02499.08.22

Personal Journal of Sierra Kearns, Lab Assistant

Employee ID# 74263-145-02

Tachyon Labs, Vertex City, Cytrine Delta

One of the first rules of lab work is, “Don’t get attached to the test subjects.” I honestly thought I was smarter than that, but that was before I met P-224B.

I’ll never forget when they first brought him in. He was just a kitten, one of ten delivered to the lab that day. They were all leopards, but P-224B was the only one with solid black fur. I wanted to give him a name, but of course that would have been silly. They were lab animals, destined to receive experimental treatments, and naming them could make objectivity more difficult. And yet, in my mind, I kept calling him “Shadow.”

I secretly hoped he would end up in the control group, but no such luck. Shadow, along with four of his siblings, was given artificial growth hormones. The formula had already been tested in smaller mammals, so we weren’t expecting any complications with the leopards. As expected, they grew much faster and much larger than ordinary examples of their species. The experiment was deemed a success, and we were in the process of arranging a larger living environment for the animals, when we had a sudden change in management.

The new manager’s name was Allin K’garr-Ott, but everyone called him “Doctor Shagg.” I’m not sure how he got that nickname, and I never got up the nerve to ask. I don’t know what species he was, but he had pale yellow skin and bushy red hair. The top of his head was bald, but he had a full beard that almost reached his waistline. He made a great first impression – always smiling, his deep laugh booming at even the mildest of jokes. He was like a palette-swapped Santa Claus.

But those early impressions proved to be deceptive. This man was no Saint Nick, he was no Saint anything. Krampus would have been a more apt comparison. It started slowly. He gradually replaced members of our staff, having them reassigned to other experiments. That wasn’t too unusual, labs like ours often went through reorganizations, as people were placed where their expertise would do the most good. I was the only member of the original team who didn’t get reassigned, probably because I got along so well with the animals.

Doctor Shagg (ugh) didn’t want to retire the leopards. He wanted to use them to test other drugs, to see how the growth hormones interacted with other experimental enhancements. He tended to cut a lot of corners, and often ordered us to do things that contradicted procedure. On several occasions, I warned him that his refusal to follow scientific methods would invalidate the results of our experiments, but he just laughed. Only it was no longer the jovial belly laugh I’d heard so much in his first week. It was now a bark of mocking derision, a laugh that said, “Your opinion is worthless to me.”

I also didn’t like the way he kept looking at me. I could swear I felt him undressing me with his eyes whenever I walked away from him, but I told myself I was imagining things. Did his species even find humans attractive? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to look like an idiot by making outlandish accusations.

It became more blatant as time went on. He’d make a double entendre, and if I called him on it, he’d claim he meant it some other way. And yet, he never seemed to use such phrases around the other staff. I made it clear that I was in a relationship, and he backed off for a couple of days.

But apparently he spent those days asking around about me, and found out I was in a polyamorous relationship. From then on, he ran hot and cold on me, and both temperatures made me uncomfortable. Some days he’d be overly nice to me, inviting me out to dinner, giving me a guilt trip if I refused, claiming he was just being friendly. I guess he figured that if I was open to multiple partners, that must mean I had room for one more. Other days he’d give me playful nicknames, which I won’t repeat here, but they rhymed with “glut” and “bore.”

I should have filed a report with HR. I seriously considered it, but I was afraid it might lead to me being reassigned. And I didn’t want to risk being separated from Shadow. He was now as big as a lion, and his growth seemed to have stopped. Doctor Shagg had given us a slew of new formulas to try on the cats. No more control groups, just “try one of these on each leopard.” Some of them seemed riskier than others, so I picked the one I deemed most benign to give to Shadow. I know I shouldn’t play favorites, but if Shagg wasn’t going to follow procedure, why should I?

One of Shadow’s sisters was given an experimental steroid, which greatly increased her muscle mass. Unfortunately, her heart couldn’t handle the demands of her new size, and she passed away. Another sister was given a serum that made her fur as hard as chitin, basically giving her natural armor. But then she developed breathing problems, and she, too, died. I didn’t even know what some of the other formulas were supposed to do.

Shadow received a treatment for increased cognitive reasoning. I thoroughly researched the serum before administering it. The experimental concoction was designed to combat dementia. In earlier studies, it had been successfully used on animals, including felines. There were no reported side effects so far. It wouldn’t go so far as to turn Shadow sapient, but it would improve his memory, and potentially boost his problem-solving skills.

Despite the two deaths, Shagg was extremely pleased with our progress. He even demanded we start experimenting on the original control group, the previously-untouched leopards in Habitat Two. Once again, I seriously considered filing a complaint against Shagg. If nothing else, for animal cruelty. He treated the poor cats terribly, often using shock prods on them so they’d learn to fear him. But he claimed to be under orders from the highest authorities on the Science Council, and for some reason I believed him.

Yes, I know. Looking the other way when animals are being mistreated… it’s not something I’m proud of. All I can say is that well-paying jobs are hard to come by on Cytrine Delta. I had every reason to believe that Shagg would have me blacklisted if I confronted him. And if I got the shaft, Shagg would just hire another lab assistant, someone who would obey his orders without question. For the animals’ sake, I needed to stick it out for as long as I could.

Another week went by, and a tech crew was assigned to upgrade our equipment. We had to consolidate some of our computer systems, as the techs kept dismantling our old hardware and carrying it away. The upgrades weren’t scheduled to come in until the following day, so we would be stuck with minimal systems for the rest of the day. That was fine, it wasn’t a particularly busy week. For the most part, we were just observing the leopards through their window, and noting any unusual activity.

After a while, several things started to strike me as odd.  First off, the only female tech – I think they called her “Eena” – was treated as if she were a slave. She never spoke unless spoken to, she followed the others around at a respectful distance, and she just had this shrinking violet quality about her, like she was afraid to do anything that might offend the other techs. I tried talking to her a couple of times, but she just stared at me with a frightened look in her eyes. Her specialty seemed to be welding, as that was all they had her do, when she wasn’t helping carry things. Oddly, I never actually saw her welding device. I could have sworn I saw her using her finger to burn through one metal panel, but that’s just crazy, right?

I also noticed that the tech crew was doing a really sloppy job. They’d rip panels off the wall instead of unscrewing them, roughly unplug equipment in a way that could damage the cables, and generally seemed to care more about getting the job done quickly than carefully. I suppose it’s not too strange; this equipment was being replaced, after all. If the old equipment was destined for recycling, then it didn’t matter if it still worked when it got there. 

But then, some of the equipment they took didn’t need to be upgraded. I saw one tech walk by with our emergency backup generator. That generator was only two months old, and a newer model wasn’t even on the market yet. I stopped the tech and asked him about it. 

That’s when I noticed the tattoo on his wrist. He’d tried to cover it up with his sleeve, but I could see enough of it to recognize it immediately. It wasn’t the kind of thing most people would notice, but one of my partners is a true crime buff. It was the symbol of the Loothawks, a team of space pirates.

That’s modern piracy for you. They hadn’t come in with guns blazing, oh no. They’d come with fake credentials and stolen uniforms. 

I like to think I’m an intelligent person. I may be a lowly lab assistant at the moment, but I’m doing well in my studies, top of my class in fact. I’m not arrogant about it - I hope - but I am proud of my mind. My social skills, on the other hand…

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Pirate?”

The pirate didn’t hesitate. He pulled out a gun and shot me in the chest. I looked down at my smoking torso, my mouth open in terror. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, my vision blurred, and I couldn’t breathe. I fell to the floor and watched as he barked orders to the other phony techs. They gathered as much equipment as they could haul, and headed out into the hallway, leaving me for dead. As the world faded away, my last thoughts were, Who’s going to feed Shadow when I’m gone?

I’ve had a cybernetic heart pump since I was thirteen. In fact, that’s what jump-started my interest in science in the first place. My heart isn’t one of the more advanced models. My parents were poor, but not quite poor enough to qualify for government medical assistance. We were in that one specific income bracket where you can’t get aid, but also can’t afford anything after you pay the bills each month.

It was the kind of life that seemed to invite judgment from every direction. People looked down on me for wearing patched-up, second-hand clothes. One time my cousin got a new comm unit, and she gave me her old one. Whenever I used it in public, I heard whispers of, “Her parents won’t buy her new clothes, but she has her own comm.” My parents made sacrifice after sacrifice, doing everything they could to scrape by, but in everyone else’s eyes, they were lazy and irresponsible.

And then I developed heart problems. My dad would have gladly sold himself into slavery if it meant saving my life. But he couldn’t even get a loan. With his poor credit, the insurance company wouldn’t approve the procedure.

But if there’s one thing that Cytrine Delta has plenty of, it’s opportunities for test subjects. A nearby lab actually paid us money for the opportunity to replace my heart. My heart pump isn’t pretty. Instead of a normal surgery scar, there’s a fist-sized metal plate in the middle of my chest, with an access hatch leading to the pump. Since it’s experimental, they wanted to keep it easy to access in case there was a problem. Every couple of years they give me a free upgrade, as they come up with ways to improve the device. I hope they add a coffee maker someday.

It’s not the implant I would have chosen if I’d had unlimited money. But so far it’s saved my life twice – first by replacing my defective heart, and later by protecting me from the pirate’s gun. The energy blast hit me right in the access plate, but didn’t go any deeper. The skin around it got singed, and the jolt was enough to knock me out for a couple of minutes, but I survived. While I don’t believe in miracles, I have to admit it was an improbable stroke of luck.

As I regained consciousness, the door reopened. Two pirates came back into the lab, dragging Doctor Shagg behind them. I played dead, keeping my eyes nearly shut and trying not to breathe. They opened the door to Habitat One, shoved Shagg into the enclosure, and locked him in. Then they left again.

As soon as they were gone, I climbed to my feet and ran to the window. Shagg stood, his back to the wall, as three giant leopards slowly approached him. The doctor was in a blind panic, shrieking and holding his hands in front of his face. The leopards seemed confused. He’d come into the habitat before, but he’d never shown fear.

Shagg turned and banged on the transparent door, staring at me with wild eyes. I pulled on the door, but it was locked. There used to be an emergency lever inside the habitat, which could unlock the door if someone got locked in. But a few days earlier, Shadow figured out how to activate the lever, so Shagg had us disable it. A more complicated lever was on back order.

I tried to remember the keypad combination, but my mind had gone blank. I used this code almost every day, but I swear, I just couldn’t bring it to my mind. Shagg started yelling numbers at me, but I couldn’t hear him through the window. I did my best to read his lips, but I’ve never been good at that. I typed in a number, but the screen flashed red.

The leopards stalked closer. Shagg cringed away from Shadow and his litter mates, P224-C and P224-E. This was the longest he had ever been in the habitat without using his shock prod on one of them. Shagg turned back to me, frantically making numbers with his fingers, trying to show me the correct combination. But he was so nervous, and his hands were shaking so hard, it was hard to get what he was saying. I noticed that he’d wet himself.

I typed another number, but again the code was rejected. I only had one more try before it would lock me out. I took a deep breath, cleared my mind, and tried to remember the code. It just wouldn’t come. I’m usually good under pressure, but between getting shot and knowing the pirates could come back at any moment, I just couldn’t get past the mental block.

And then I remembered it. Five nine three seven eight two. I had typed the first two digits when P224-E’s eyes started to glow. They’d never done that before. I hesitated, unable to believe what I was seeing. The leopard fired a pair of energy beams out of her eyes, hitting Shagg in the stomach. He fell down, holding his scorched stomach, and crawled away from the door.

Then P224-C approached him. The leopard opened his jaw, and some sort of mist sprayed out, hitting Shagg in the face. Whatever it was, it must have burned, because his face turned red and started peeling. He howled so loud I could almost hear it through the soundproof window.

I finished typing the last digits, and the door slid open. I was about to rush in and help Shagg, but C and E were already tearing into him, ripping him apart for meat. Only Shadow seemed uninterested in taking part in the feast. He gingerly stepped out of the habitat and nuzzled my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I told Shadow, bending over and hugging him around the neck. Then I turned and ran out of the lab, taking the hall opposite from the direction I’d seen the pirates head. I didn’t stop until I reached the police station.

The project was scrapped, and the Science Council declared Doctor Shagg’s data to be useless. An investigation eventually discovered that he’d been trying to develop biological weapons, in the hopes of selling them to the militaristic Grunthians.

The remaining animals were taken to a wildlife habitat where they could be studied for long-term effects. After I submitted my final report, I was transferred to another lab, where I worked with a much friendlier staff.

Shadow was not among the animals recovered. Since the pirates had taken the data drives, there was no security footage to show where the cat had gone. Nor were there any sightings by Vertex City’s citizens.

About a week later, I remembered that I had my own private feed. Because sometimes I’d needed to check up on the leopards from home, I’d set up the cameras to transmit their data to my personal cloud as well as save it to the lab’s drives. I examined the footage.

I had just fled the lab. Shagg’s killers were still feasting on his corpse, while Shadow walked around the outer lab, sniffing things. Further down the hall, another camera showed the last three remaining pirates carrying away large pieces of equipment. The woman, “Eena,” was having trouble dragging a large metal device down the hallway. She kept stopping to rest.

There wasn’t any sound, but one of the other pirates was clearly angry with her. He appeared to yell at her, and finally he punched her in the face. And then Shadow pounced on him. The third pirate pulled his weapon on the cat, but Eena stepped between them. He looked like he was about to shoot through her anyway.

But then the other pirate, the one on the floor, yelled something. He didn’t appear to be hurt, just restrained under Shadow’s massive paw. Eena said something to the cat, and he appeared to be soothed by her words. She petted him, he nuzzled her, and he finally released the pirate.

There seemed to be an immediate bond between Eena and the cat, similar to the bond I had with him. Maybe we smell alike, or it could be our demeanor, or maybe he just only likes women. I don’t know. But the other pirates seemed to recognize it too, and they allowed Eena to lead the leopard away. 

And that’s the last I ever saw of Shadow. As far as I know, he left with the pirates, and is now living on a spaceship somewhere. I don’t know what they’re planning to do with him, but I hope he doesn’t get hurt. He was truly one of a kind, and I miss him every day.

Shadow, I hope you live a long, happy life, wherever you are.

Short Story: Blood Ties (Blood Samples 4)

 

This short story takes place before Bloodhunters v1: Bad Blood. If you enjoy it, please consider purchasing my other books here.

ED02499.08.18

Zak stumbled through the alley, trying to find a dry spot in the downpour. He’d just been thrown out of a coffee shop for loitering. There weren’t a lot of places in town where he could just sit without buying anything. Sure, there was probably a homeless shelter somewhere, but he didn’t trust that idea. If his mom had the police looking for him, they’d probably start there.

He’d been on the streets for two days, and he hadn’t eaten or slept yet. He hadn’t been thrown out. Heck, he could go back any time he wanted to. But he’d have to follow his mom’s rules. Wear dresses, grow his hair back out… betray his entire identity. And he wasn’t willing to do that. Better to live on the streets than to live as someone else.

Of course, it had been easier to say that on a full stomach. He stopped at a trash can and pulled off the lid. Someone had thrown out some chili, but there were already maggots crawling in it. Zak quickly replaced the lid. He was hungry, but not that hungry. At least not yet. He’d been raised on foie gras and filet mignon, but he’d always preferred more common foods. Right now he’d kill for a bean burrito, or even an orange.

He found a set of stairs, leading up to the back door of a restaurant. It was beneath a slight overhang, so he sat on the steps, his back against the door. He was still getting wet, but it wasn’t quite as bad as being out in the open. He clutched his purse, which held the only possessions he still owned in this world. He must have looked pretty strange carrying a woman’s purse, but right now that was the least of his worries.

He closed his eyes, thinking about his nice bed at home. It was soft, maybe a bit too soft, with a thick pink comforter and tons of pillows with those ridiculous lacy frills around the sides. Dolls and stuffed animals were lined up on his dresser and bookshelves, staring at him, judging him, asking him why he didn’t appreciate the cushy life he’d been born into. Nothing in that room had been Zak’s style, and he hadn’t been allowed to redecorate. But at least he’d never had to sleep in the rain.

He was starting to snore when the door behind him opened, and he nearly fell backward through it. A man in a cook’s hat held a gun on him, a double-barreled energy rifle that probably wasn’t even legal in this city. “Get outta here,” the chef said. Zak immediately stood up and backed down the steps, then ran out of the alley without looking back.

A few hours later he sat on a park bench. Lisbon Pointe was one of the nicer cities on Cytrine Delta, which was a bit like saying that weight loss was one of the nicer symptoms of molecular disintegration. The city still had well-maintained parks, a few nice restaurants, and a slightly lower crime rate than the rest of the planet. A few billionaires lived on the edge of town, in secure, gated communities.

These wealthy citizens kept the factories open, which was great because it meant there were still jobs in town. But they also exploited every possible legal loophole, bribed government officials to keep the minimum wage low, and made it so people lived in poverty regardless of how many hours they worked per week. Zak had first-hand knowledge of this, as his mother owned a robotics company, and he’d witnessed some of her underhanded dealings first-hand.

But at least the park was nice. The rain had finally let up, and while the bench was still wet, Zak barely noticed. His clothing was soaked through anyway. Once again he tried to take a nap. He couldn’t lie sideways across the bench, because it had a couple of metal armrests dividing the bench into three sections. It looked pretty, but Zak knew the extra armrests were intentionally designed to prevent homeless people from sleeping in public. Nevertheless, Zak leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He heard a scream in the distance. What now? he thought, visions of dancing citrus fruit dissipating as he opened his eyes. A man ran down the sidewalk, clutching a briefcase under one arm. A woman ran after him, but couldn’t keep up in her heels. “Stop him!” she shouted. “That’s my valise!” She slowed down, rooting through the pockets of her oversized trench coat.

Leaving his purse behind, Zak leaped up and chased the thief. The man was bigger than Zak – most men were – but Zak was faster. He caught up to him and jumped on him from behind. The thief stumbled and dropped the briefcase, using both hands to pull Zak off of him. He turned and punched Zak in the face, then reached down to pick up the briefcase again. Now on the ground, Zak got to the briefcase first and grabbed the handle.

“Let go,” the thief said, trying to pull the briefcase out of Zak’s grasp. He was much stronger, but Zak was determined to hold on. The thief pulled so hard, he lifted Zak off the ground along with the briefcase. He was about to punch Zak again when the briefcase’s owner caught up to them. She now held a small energy pistol, and aimed it at the robber.

The thief let go of the briefcase and ran. Zak handed the briefcase back to the woman. “Thank you, young man,” she said. “Oh, your poor face. Here, let me give you something.” She once again searched her massive pockets, until she came up with a twenty-credit note, which she handed to Zak.

Zak smiled and started to thank her, but he felt sort of stunned, and the woman walked away before he could get any words out. The money was nice, it meant he could finally eat something. But what had really tied his tongue was being called “young man.” It was the first time a stranger had referred to him that way, and it felt amazing. For just a moment, all his problems went away. It no longer mattered that he was wet, hungry, and bruised. She could have given him a hundred credits, and the validation would have felt like the greater reward.

Still in a daze, Zak wandered back to the park bench. His purse was now gone. He looked around and saw a blue-haired teenage girl running away, Zak’s purse under her arm.

Vex couldn’t believe her luck. The purse had just been sitting there, out in the open, no owner in sight. It wasn’t even stealing, it was just a case of finders keepers. If somebody stopped her, she’d just act like it was hers. If somebody accused her of taking it, she’d just claim she was looking for the actual owner. Either way, she was free and clear.

So why was she running? Well, for one thing, she didn’t want a confrontation, regardless of how it turned out. The sooner she was out of the park, the sooner she could look through the purse for loose credits, without having to look over her shoulder the whole time. She felt like she could talk her way out of any situation, but she wasn’t about to push it.

But the main reason she was running? Because she was being chased. She could hear their footfalls behind her, too loud to be a jogger. And then she got a flash – a mild psychic premonition – showing her pursuer. Her flashes weren’t very common, and weren’t actually precognizant. She just saw the surface thoughts of nearby people, other park-goers who happened to be watching the chase.

It didn’t look like it was the purse’s owner. It was some guy, about Vex’s age, maybe fifteen or sixteen. He had a bloody nose and a really bad haircut. But he definitely wasn’t jogging; there was no doubt that he was after Vex. And he looked very angry. While Vex was pretty sure she could come up with a believable lie, this guy didn’t look like he was in the mood to listen.

Vex briefly considered just dropping the purse, in the hopes he would break off the chase. But what if that wasn’t why he was after her? She could be out the money and still have to deal with this guy. No, she wasn’t going to give up so easily. She had more mouths to feed than just her own. She had high hopes for the contents of this purse. She imagined finally getting a less threadbare outfit, not to mention a couple of hot meals for the gang.

She was out of the park now. She crossed the street without looking, causing a hovercar to swerve around her. The driver shouted some angry invectives at her before driving away. Vex ran into an alley, but she could still hear her pursuer behind her. She was starting to run out of breath, but the guy didn’t seem to be slowing down. She reached out with her free arm, and pointed at a trash can a few meters away. The lid flew off and into her hand. Then she turned around and threw the lid at the guy. He blocked it with one arm, shouting, “Hey!”

They were now face to face, about four meters apart. Vex reached into her pocket and pulled out a switchblade. “I will cut you, man,” she said, making a couple of threatening slashes in the air.

Zak wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “There’s not… any… money in there,” he said, pointing weakly at the purse.

“I’ll see about that,” Vex said, rooting through the purse. Damn, she thought. He was right. Still, it was an expensive-looking purse, and while it wasn’t in the best condition, it could probably fetch a few credits at a secondhand store. She looked up at the guy, who just stood with his shoulders slumped.

“Please?” Zak asked, looking like he was on the verge of tears.

Vex rolled her eyes. He really did look pathetic, with his banged-up face and puppy dog eyes. But how did she know he hadn’t stolen the purse himself? “Look,” she said. “If you can name me three things in the purse, you can have it. Not the lipstick or the tampons. Stuff that’s not in every purse.”

“A black book with a lock on it, a small rubber panda, and an ID card,” Zak said.

“Lots of purses have ID cards,” Vex said, looking through the purse. “What’s the name on the card?”

Zak exhaled in resignation. “Charlotte Lisbon,” he said.

“Lisbon? Like in ‘Lisbon Pointe?’ Is that who you stole the purse from?” Vex asked.

“Are you a cop?” Zak countered.

“No, but…” Vex began, but she got distracted. She looked at the ID card again, then back at Zak. Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said finally. She took a couple of steps forward and tossed the purse to Zak. “Sorry,” she said.

“Thanks,” Zak mumbled, and started to turn away.

Vex watched him take a couple of steps, then called after him. “Wait… do you have someplace to go?”

Zak turned back around. He was quiet for a few seconds, and finally said, “I… have no idea.”

Vex hesitated, going back and forth in her mind. Another mouth to feed. Would the others even accept him? Zak was just about to turn back around when she said, “Come with me.”

She led him to an old pizza restaurant, long since closed and abandoned. She knocked on the back door, and after a few seconds they heard a lock unlatch and the door opened. “Who’s this?” asked a teenage boy. He had tan-colored skin, black hair, and looked about fourteen years old.

“He’s one of us,” Vex said, leading Zak down the stairs, into the restaurant’s basement. The room was poorly lit, with two ripped-up couches, and some wire shelves full of bottled water, old blankets, and random supplies. In addition to Zak and Vex, there were three other teens in the basement.

“Who are you guys?” Zak asked.

“We’re the East Side Daggers,” said the boy who’d let them in. “We’re a gang!”

“We’re not a gang,” Vex said, turning to Zak. “We’re just like you. We have nowhere to go, so we watch out for each other. Safety in numbers, or whatever. I’m Vex. And you are?”

“I’m Zak,” he answered. “It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand.

Vex ignored it. “I’m guessing your parents threw you out for not looking enough like your ID card?”

“I snuck out, but yeah,” Zak said. “I couldn’t be who mom wanted me to be. She was about to send me to some sort of ‘finishing school,’ but I think that was code for ‘conversion camp.’ I’d rather starve.”

“Well, you probably will, living with us,” Vex said. “This is Hugo, Calix, and Keygan.” They all gave Zak a quick wave. “Hugo ran away because his dad kept touching him. Calix is non-binary, which was a dealbreaker with their parents for some reason. And Keygan’s dad used to beat him with a shock-stick every night.”

“Wow,” Zak said, then turned to Vex. “And you?”

Vex held out her hand, pointing it toward one of the shelves. “My parents freaked out ‘cause I could do this,” she said. A bottle of water flew off the shelf and into her open hand. She took a swig of water and offered the bottle to Zak.

“Weird reason to throw you out,” Zak said, taking a drink. Telekinesis was uncommon in humans, but it wasn’t unheard of.

“There’s more to it than that,” Vex said. “Some other time. You hungry?”

Zak opened his mouth to reply, but his stomach answered for him, groaning loud enough for the entire room to hear.

Vex laughed. “Well, we can’t offer you much but…”

“Oh wait,” Zak said, remembering something. He fished around in his pocket, pulling out the twenty credit note. “What can we get with this?”

The others stared at him like he’d just walked on water. “Welcome to the East Side Daggers,” Hugo said.

The gang had been living on the streets for a while, and knew how to stretch their money. Rather than blowing all the credits on fast food, they sent Calix to the grocery store, where they picked up enough ingredients to feed the five of them for a week. The meals wouldn’t exactly be nutritious, but at least they wouldn’t starve.

Zak took a nap on one of the couches. When Calix got back from shopping, Vex boiled up some noodles using an old hotplate. They woke Zak up when dinner was ready.

“So, Zak,” Vex asked, scooping the noodles onto five plates, “You cut your own hair?”

“I was… angry,” Zak said, touching his hair. He hadn’t looked in a mirror since he’d run out. Vex handed him a plate, and he started scarfing down food like it was the best meal he’d ever eaten.

“Dude, don’t make yourself sick,” Keygan said.

“Yeah, it’s just a waste of food if it comes right back up,” Calix added.

Zak paused, and forced himself to chew more slowly. “So, what do you do here?” he asked through a mouthful of noodles.

“We survive,” Hugo said.

“What else is there?” Keygan added.

“We work together,” Vex said. “We teach each other what we know. Calix here is good with tools. They managed to patch into the city’s power grid, which is why we’re not eating in the dark.” As if on cue, the lights flickered for a few seconds. “For now,” Vex added.

“My dad’s an electrician,” Calix said. “I guess he was hoping I would be too. He was always teaching me stuff. Then I came out to him, and he stopped talking to me at all.”

“And that’s when you ran away?” Zak asked.

“No, mom threw me out,” Calix said. “Told me not to come back until I was normal.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s so normal to throw your kids out onto the street,” Vex said. “Just ‘cause they want a different name or whatever.”

“At least you could go back if you really wanted,” Keygan said. “I had to get out of there. My dad hit me harder every time. He couldn’t control himself. Sooner or later he was going to kill me.”

“Did you ever call the police?” Zak asked, taking another bite of noodles.

“Dad is a cop,” Keygan said. “They stick up for each other in this town. Now I’m worried about my little brother. Without me there, Koy’s going to get hurt.”

“Well, we need to go get him,” Zak said. He looked around at his new friends, all of whom looked like he’d just suggested they go bungee jumping in a volcano. “…Don’t we?” Zak asked, embarrassed.

Vex smiled sadly, shaking her head softly. “It’s not that easy,” she said. “We can barely take care of us. We can’t fit more kids in this room. And Keygan’s dad is tough. He has guns and crap.”

“Yeah, but there’s five of us,” Zak said. “Surely we can—”

“Zak,” Vex interrupted. “It’s hard enough to get food every day. We can’t just—”

“You always say that!” Keygan wailed, his face filling with tears. “Koy’s going to die because of you!” Keygan stood up and ran out of the room.

Vex stood up. “See what you did?” she huffed, glaring at Zak. She turned and followed Keygan up the stairs.

“Sorry,” Zak said, though he wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong.

A few minutes later, Vex and Keygan came back down the stairs together. “I have an announcement,” Vex said, as she came into view. Everyone gathered around so they could hear better. “We’re going on a supply raid,” she said. “For food, first aid stuff, maybe some weapons…”

“Great,” Hugo said. “What are we going to hit?”

Vex paused, biting her lower lip. “Keygan’s dad’s house,” she finally said.

From the outside, the house looked like a monument to paranoia. It was surrounded by a two-meter-high chain link fence, and featured barred windows, security cameras, and guard dogs. One might have thought it was a military base rather than a suburban home. But this was how Keygan had grown up, and he knew how to bypass the security.

First, they had Calix shut off the power to the street. Of course the house had an emergency backup generator, but it always took a couple of minutes to come online. Keygan no longer had his keys, so Vex picked the lock on the outer fence. As they crossed the yard, two Rottweilers ran up to Keygan and started licking his face. They’d always preferred Keygan to his father, and with good reason. And in the dogs’ eyes, Keygan’s friends were innocent by association.

The gang ran around to the back door, where Vex once again picked the lock. The kitchen light started to flicker on as the generator finally kicked in. Now came the hard part. There was no way they could grab Koy and the supplies without waking up Keygan’s father. Some of them would have to distract him, or subdue him, while the rest of the gang went to work.

Vex looked at her party. Everyone but Keygan wore makeshift masks made out of potato sacks they’d found in the pizzeria. Vex had suggested Keygan wear one as well, but he figured he had every right to be in his own home, and he didn’t want the mask to scare his brother.

Vex was the only one armed, and her pitiful switchblade surely paled in comparison to whatever gun Keygan’s dad kept on his nightstand. We’re here to save a life, she reminded herself. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

Turk woke up when the power went out. He slept with a fan on, and the sudden silence put him on high alert. It could be nothing, but it could be the first signs of war. His father had always told him, “Assume the worst, and you’ll automatically be prepared for everything else.” Turk had tried his damndest to teach his own sons the same lesson. He demanded nothing less than perfection from them.

One of his children had already bailed on him. Keygan just hadn’t been strong enough to keep up with Turk’s daily regimen. But that was fine. He still had Koy. He’d been too soft on Keygan, he could see that now. Turk resolved to be extra tough on his remaining son, so that he wouldn’t wimp out on him like his brother had.

Turk climbed out of bed, grabbing his modified energy rifle off the nightstand. First he peeked out from between his window blinds, and saw nothing. Even the street lights were out, which was a good sign. It meant that The Enemy wasn’t targeting his house specifically. But that didn’t mean he was out of trouble. It might just be a random power outage, but it could still be an invasion, whether city-wide or even planet-wide. If it was a war, Turk didn’t intend to be a casualty.

He quickly pulled on a shirt and pants. As he slipped into his boots, he heard the thump of the backup generator coming on. From outside the bedroom door, he saw the kitchen light turn back on. He always kept that light on at night, so he wouldn’t be caught in the dark if there was an emergency. But then he heard a familiar sequence of beeps. Someone was turning off the alarm. Someone who knew the code.

The hallway was still dark, so Turk crouched down and poked his head out the bedroom doorway. It was a home invasion. It looked like four, maybe five intruders. But Turk had the element of surprise. Still hidden in the darkness, he raised the barrel of his gun, aimed for the closest intruder, and fired.

“Augh!” Calix went down, writhing in pain on the kitchen floor.

“Calix!” Vex shouted, but before she could reach them, a man came running down the hall, shouting something about victory. The man was about to fire again, but he stopped when he saw Keygan.

“My own son?” Turk asked, his face contorting with rage. “You’d betray your own family?”

“Dad,” Keygan said, holding up his hands. “Please put the gun down.”

“My own son?” Turk repeated, louder this time. He held up the gun again, this time aiming at Keegan’s head.

Vex threw her switchblade, and used her telekinesis to guide it through the air. It hit Turk in the upper torso, and he shrieked like a toddler.

Vex went back to checking on Calix, and the rest of the gang pressed their advantage. While Turk pulled the knife out of his chest, Hugo, Keygan, and Zak rushed him. Turk used his rifle like a club, swinging it at the approaching trio. The first swing hit Hugo in the head, knocking him down. Then Keygan tackled his father, or at least he tried to, but Turk was much heavier and shrugged off his son’s attack. Zak tried to help, but Turk hit him in the face with the butt of the rifle.

Keygan punched his father in the stomach, but once again Turk was more annoyed than injured. Turk grabbed Keygan by the neck, picked him up off the ground, and slammed him against the wall. Keygan’s face started to turn purple. He reached out, trying to grab his father’s throat, but his grip was too weak to hurt him.

Attracted by all the shouting, the two Rottweilers burst in through the open kitchen door. They saw their two masters, literally at each other’s throats. Two masters fighting. One master who always played with them, and pet them, and treated them with nothing but kindness. Another master who always beat them, and went out of his way to be intentionally cruel.

The dogs rushed forward, attacking Turk in a frenzy.

Calix woke up in a hospital bed. Their left arm was bandaged, from the shoulder all the way to the wrist. There was a huge patch of gauze taped to their ribs. It hurt to move anything on the left side of their body. They were still looking at the bandages when a nurse walked in.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” he said. “Your parents are out in the hallway, shall I send them in?”

Great, Calix thought. “I don’t…” they started to say, then they paused. What was Calix going to do, climb out the window? With one working arm? Might as well get it over with. “Sure,” they finally said. “Send them in.”

Keygan and Koy sat in a social services office. They were starting to get bored when their case worker finally arrived. A blond woman in her mid-thirties sat down at her desk, and read over their case file. “I’m Joyce,” she said, and got straight to the point. “I just got word from the hospital. You’re not going to see your father for a long time. He’ll recover, but his injuries were pretty severe.” She watched their faces, gauging their reaction.

The boys looked at each other. Koy smiled, a wide toothy grin that looked out of place on a face that currently sported a large, fist-shaped bruise. Keygan looked relieved, but also worried. The longer Turk took to heal, the angrier he’d be when he finally got out of the hospital.

Joyce leaned forward. “We have evidence that your father was abusive,” she said. “A lot of it, actually. He had cameras all over your house, and he never deleted any footage. Talk to me, tell me everything you can. I promise you, I’m on your side. I don’t care if he’s a cop, I’ll make sure he’s never in the same room with you again.”

“But what’s going to happen to us?” Keygan asked. He didn’t want his little brother begging on the streets for food like he’d had to.

“We’ll try and find some relatives to take care of you. In the meantime, you’ll be placed in a foster home. There’s a couple waiting outside right now who will take you to your temporary home.”

Keygan nodded. The thought of living with strangers made him nervous, but it was better than the streets. Another thought occurred to him. “What about the dogs?”

“We’ll find good homes for them, I promise,” Joyce said.

After getting their statements, she led them out of her office and introduced them to their temporary caregivers. It was two women, each in their mid-forties, with genuine smiles and a tendency to hug a lot. They seemed like nice people, the kind who wouldn’t use shock-sticks to dole out punishment, though it was impossible to know for sure.

Outside the glass doors of the social services office, Keygan saw Zak, Vex, and Hugo standing around, just talking and waiting. Zak kept holding his hands in front of his face, wary of the building’s security cameras. The caregivers were busy filling out paperwork, so Keygan asked if he could go talk to his friends for a minute. They told him it was fine as long as he stayed where they could see him. Keygan walked out the front door and approached his friends.

“How’s Calix?” Keygan asked, after hugging each of his friends.

“They’re doing much better,” Vex said. “They’re back with their family. We said goodbye to them this morning.”

“But I thought—” Keygan began.

“Calix’s mom was so happy to see them alive, she came around,” Vex said. “She said she’d respect their name and pronouns. ‘Anything to keep her child happy and healthy.’ That’s a direct quote.”

“And their dad?” Keygan asked.

“He didn’t seem as enthusiastic about it, but I think he’ll get used to it,” Vex said.

“I’m gonna miss you guys,” Keygan said.

“We’ll miss you too,” Zak replied. “But I’m also happy to see you go. Frankly, I’m a little jealous. Your new moms look nice.”

“They could probably find a home for you too,” Keygan said.

“Maybe later,” Zak said. “Right now, I can’t risk being in the system, my mom would find me.”

“But if your new moms don’t work out,” Hugo added, “you’re welcome back any time.”

  Everyone hugged, and Keygan went back inside.

A few weeks later, Zak was walking through an alley – the same one he’d once sought refuge in, before being threatened by an angry chef – when he saw a teenage girl sitting against the wall. She had auburn hair, a fair complexion, and was wearing a dirty school uniform. Her face was buried in her hands, and Zak could hear her sobbing.

Zak crouched down next to her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded for a second, then stopped and shook her head no.

“What’s wrong?” Zak asked. “Maybe I can help.”

The girl looked up at Zak, her eyes red from crying. “I ran away from home,” she said.

Zak nodded, his face full of concern. “What happened? Did they hit you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Through her sobs, she said, “They just don’t listen. Look at this.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a brand new, state-of-the-art comm unit.

Zak practically salivated at the sight of it. He’d seen signs for this model in store windows; it cost enough to feed the East Side Daggers for an entire year. “Wow, that’s a beauty,” he said.

“But it’s the wrong color!” the girl wailed. “I wanted the purple one. I never wear black. It won’t match my ensemble!”

Zak was stunned. After a few seconds, he said, “So you ran away.”

“And I’m never going back,” the girl said, pouting.

Zak nodded slowly, an odd smirk forming on his face. “Good for you,” he finally said. “Stand your ground. You’re doing the right thing.”

“You really think so?” she asked.

“Sure,” Zak said. “You’ll love the freedom of being on your own. Sleep when you want, stay out all night…”

“Damn right,” the girl said, her face taking on a look of conviction.

“Never changing clothes, always bathing in the river, using old newspapers as toilet paper…”

The girl stared at him, her mouth open.

“Just this morning I had the best breakfast,” Zak said. “I found a half-eaten hot dog in a garbage can. I had to shake the bugs off of it, but it was still the best meal I’ve had all week. What did you have?”

“Eg… eggs Benedict,” she said.

“I’m sure that was good too,” Zak said. “And you’re going to love sleeping in the rain. It’s refreshing. And efficient. You get to sleep and shower at the same time. And with your looks, you’re going to love all the attention you get. Guys won’t be able to keep their hands off you, if you know what I mean. And these guys won’t take no for an answer.”

The girl had turned pale. She started to say something, but Zak was on a roll.

“And I hope you’re used to getting judged. Everyone who looks at you is going to assume that you’re an alcoholic. If you ask for money, they’ll accuse you of wanting to buy drugs with it. If they see you sleeping, they’ll ‘accidentally’ kick you on the way by. And it’s a good thing you don’t like that comm, since you’ll have to sell it anyway. It’s not like you can afford the monthly service charges. Say goodbye to texting your friends all night. But hey, it’s not like you’ll have time for friends, you’ll be too busy looking for food all day.”

“What… what do you think I should do?” the girl said.

Zak reached over and took the comm unit out of her hand. “Is this thing insured for theft?” he asked.

“I think so,” the girl said.

“Go home,” Zak said, tucking the comm into his pocket. “Tell your mother you were mugged. Apologize for how you reacted to her very thoughtful gift. Thank her for the privileged life she’s given you. Appreciate your warm bed, and the roof over your head. Tell your mother you love her every day. Remember that listening is a two-way street. Pay more attention to what she says, and she’ll probably listen to you more too. And if you have a problem, talk to her about it, don’t just run out the door.”

The girl nodded, and climbed to her feet.

“And just one more thing,” Zak said, standing up.

“What?” she asked.

“The next time she won’t let you go to a party, or buys you the wrong present, or yells at you for not making your bed or whatever, please try to remember that other people have it worse. Running away won’t solve any of your problems, but it will give you a whole bunch of new ones.”

“If that’s true, then why don’t you go back to your home?” the girl asked.

Zak smiled, shaking his head. “It was never my home, not really. It belonged to some girl.” He turned around and walked away, headed back to the abandoned pizzeria.

It wasn’t the life he would have chosen. Not for himself, and not for his gang. But it was what it was. Family wasn’t blood, it was love, and he loved his friends more than anything.

Short Story: Blood Contract (Blood Samples 3)

This short story takes place before Bloodhunters v1: Bad Blood. If you enjoy it, please consider purchasing my other books here.

 ED02499.08.13

“She’s not going to make it,” the male voice said.

“I’ll call it,” the woman’s voice answered. “Time of death at… wait…”

Yeela gradually became aware of the heart monitor, beeping by her left ear. First it was slow, but it gradually picked up the pace.

“Looks like she’d going to live after all,” the man said. “Good work, doctor.”

“You know this means you owe me five credits,” the woman answered, and both voices laughed. “Let’s stitch ‘er up.”

Yeela shouldn’t have been hearing any of this. The anesthesia should have kept her out for at least another two hours. But part of her condition prevented her body from processing drugs consistently. Fortunately the anesthetic was still working against the pain – this time – but she could still feel the pressure of the tools moving around in her chest, and it seriously creeped her out. She wanted to scream, or at least politely ask for a stronger dose of anesthesia, but she was paralyzed.

This wasn’t the first time she’d come back from the brink of death. Yeela had been dying for more than three years now. This was her third operation this month, and she’d woken up during every one of them. When she’d told the doctors of her experience, they’d laughed it off, and told her she’d dreamed it. The last time, after the operation was complete, the staff had used her seemingly-unconscious body as a teaching aid for some gynecology students. The memory still had her fuming, but she had no legal recourse. She was getting these operations for free, and part of the agreement involved signing away most of her rights. She could either be a prop, or she could die. There were no other options.

Karouc’s disease was so rare that Yeela was only the third identified case. The other two victims, including Karouc herself, were now dead, and Yeela didn’t expect to reach a ripe old age either. As her bodily functions took turns shutting down, her cyborg implants took over. The doctors were excited to have a living test subject, so they could try out their newly-designed implants. Having her around meant the hospital received tons of grant money. It was dehumanizing, being treated more like a lab rat than a patient, but at least the hospital had a vested interest in keeping her alive.

Until they didn’t.

“I’m afraid we’re terminating your contract,” Director Leem said, not an ounce of emotion in his voice.

“My contract?” Yeela asked, incredulous. “I’m not some blastball player having a bad season. Your treatments are the only thing keeping me alive.”

“Our investors are no longer interested in researching a disease that has so far only affected three people,” the Director said. “They’d rather funnel their money into more… marketable cures.”

Yeela wasn’t sure what to say. Her skin went cold, and she felt like she was no longer actually present, but rather watching this discussion on a medical drama. “What am I supposed to do?” she heard herself say, though it was more to herself than to the Director.

“There are other research centers on Cytrine Delta,” he said. “I’m sure if you send out enough requests, one of them will be happy to take on your case. And if not, they might be interested in buying your body for research purposes, once the disease runs its course. Do you have a next-of-kin who could use the credits?”

Once again, Yeela was speechless. The conversation felt so surreal. Director Leem spoke as if they were talking about a broken-down hovercar. Yeela couldn’t look at his impassive face anymore, or she’d break down in tears. She glanced around his lavishly-decorated office, as if hoping the answer to all her problems resided on a knick-knack on Leem’s bookshelves. He had a lot of baubles, and some of them looked more expensive than Yeela’s most recent operation.

She’d known she was dying for a while now, and she’d thought she’d come to terms with it. She’d gotten used to being on borrowed time, living operation to operation. She tried not to entertain too much optimism, but deep down, a little ball of hope lived in her heart. Logically speaking, if a cure was possible, it would eventually be found. Every day she lived, the doctors were one day closer to finding that cure. All she had to do was keep breathing until then.

But that was ten minutes ago. With the breaking of this contract, there would be no more research into Karouc’s disease. As of right now, Yeela had an expiration date.

Or did she? Yeela stood up, a look of determination forming on her face. “I want every bit of data you have on my disease,” she said. “Every test you’ve run, every bioscan.”

“That’s your right,” the Director said. “I’ll have my secretary get you a data drive. But Yeela… you really should just accept the inevitable.”

Yeela glared at him. Her eyes were wet, but there was fire behind them. “Not on your life,” she said.

Yeela spent an hour every day looking up research centers, and sending them requests for consideration. Within a month, she’d contacted every medical facility on the planet. When there were no more options on Cytrine Delta, she sent requests to labs on other planets. She only got a handful of replies, and most of them started with the words, “We regret to inform you…”

But that was only an hour a day. She spent the rest of her waking hours studying medical textbooks. Yeela had been a mechanical genius all her life. Once when she was six, she stripped her father’s hovercar for parts so she could build some anti-gravity skates. That hadn’t gone over so well with her parents, but they’d still spent her youth encouraging her to learn more about computers and engineering.

Her parents were gone now, as was the family home. Yeela lived in her father’s old business, an auto repair garage, sleeping on a cot. Though the building had once belonged to the family, she was basically squatting in it now. Fortunately, no one seemed interested in buying the property, or any other property on the street. Most of the buildings in the area had been claimed by squatters, and with the amount of time Yeela spent at the hospital, she’d had to rig up an elaborate security system to keep the garage from getting claimed by someone else.

She earned a meager living doing minor repairs on hovercars and small appliances, making just enough credits to buy food. With all her ailments, she just didn’t have the strength to operate a full-time business. She was going to have to tighten her belt even further now, because she intended to put all her energy into conquering Karouc’s disease.

She already had implants that manufactured the chemicals her body was no longer able to produce. Having studied the schematics of these implants, she could easily upgrade them. She wasn’t going to cut herself open to install them, but she was more than willing to attach new devices to her skin, where they would be easier to tinker with. She’d look like a cyborg, but she was long past vanity at this point.

When you got down to it, the human body was just a squishier kind of machine. She’d spent her youth learning how engines and circuits worked, now she’d have to apply that knowledge to biological systems. Sure, the sight of blood made her nauseous, even after all her operations, but she’d just have to start thinking of it as bright red coolant.

As time went on, she would have to add more devices to correct for her loss of motor skills, and to replace any other functions her body could no longer do. If she reached the point that she was too weak to walk, she’d graft an exoskeleton onto her body. If her hands began to tremble so much that she was unable to perform her own upgrades, she’d build helper drones. As long as she had a functioning brain, she’d survive.

She’d do whatever it took. It was her only choice. She was only seventeen, and realistically, she probably wouldn’t live to see twenty. But she wasn’t going to go down without a fight. All she needed was data and time.

Well, that and credits. She would need lots and lots of credits. But she had a plan for that as well.

Villip Leem, Director of Operations at Starpoint Medical Innovations Hospital and Research Center, prepared for bed in his luxurious home. He’d inherited most of his wealth, and he’d used those credits to become a controlling stockholder at SMIHRC. In his self-appointed position as Director, he’d managed to steer the company away from financially unsound decisions, and damn the bleeding hearts who accused him of being “cold-blooded.” His subordinates often praised him for his ability to make difficult decisions, but he didn’t find the decisions all that difficult. The hospital was a business, not a charity, and a business had to keep its eyes on the bottom line in order to keep its doors open. Especially on Cytrine Delta, where so many companies went belly-up every day.

Dressed in his Kalaran silk pajamas, Leem slipped between the imported sheets of his emperor-sized bed and turned off the lights. He would sleep well tonight, knowing he’d spent another full day maximizing company profits. Just as he was about to drift off, he heard a crash from downstairs. He jumped out of bed, grabbed the comm unit off of his nightstand, and ran down the stairs.

As he reached the first-floor foyer, he heard buzzing from every direction. Dark shapes flew past his head, the size of birds. He turned on the light, and shrieked at what he saw. His house was swarming these… things. They looked like flying spiders, but much larger. As one flew past his head, he panicked and ran back up the stairs. From the second floor landing, he watched the creatures, ready to run if any came upstairs.

It was hard to get a good look at them because they were so fast, but the more he watched, the more details he was able to discern. They weren’t bugs or birds, but many-legged drones. They looked like flying skeletal hands, with several jointed fingers hanging from a single Levatech ball.

As he watched, these intruders flew around the house, picking up expensive knick-knacks and carrying them away. They didn’t appear to be armed, and they hadn’t reacted to his presence earlier. Now feeling a bit safer, he called the police from his comm unit and carefully stepped back downstairs.

The drones swarmed past him, altering their flight paths to avoid his head, but none acted in a threatening manner. He followed their route into the dining room, where he saw a broken window. Why didn’t the alarm go off? he wondered. He’d have to worry about that later. Drones continued to fly in through the broken window, while others flew back out, carrying valuables.

“Clever,” Leem said out loud, standing up straighter. Whoever set this up had to have been a genius. Part of him wanted to hire this person for his innovations department, but he wasn’t that forgiving. They’d be lucky if he didn’t have them killed.

Stepping back into the foyer, he grabbed an umbrella from the stand beside the front door. Swinging the umbrella like a club, he tore through the foyer, trying to bring some of the intruders down. However, they were too fast for him, easily dodging his clumsy swings. Then he ran into the dining room and opened the umbrella, using it to block the hole in the window.

The drones paused for a moment, recalculating. Then Leem heard another crash from the other side of the foyer. The drones turned and headed for the living room, where another window had been broken. Now livid, Leem ran to the kitchen, where kept an energy pistol in the pantry. He returned to the foyer and started firing at the swarm.

He was a lousy shot, but he managed to bring a couple of them down. As soon as the first one hit the floor, new drones stopped coming in through the windows. The remaining drones fled the house, regardless of whether they currently carried any valuables.

Now out of breath, Leem sat down on the foyer steps and examined one of the downed drones. If its software was hackable, the police would be able to find its point of origin. And if they couldn’t do it, Leem’s own people could, guaranteed. Still breathing heavily, he set down the drone and waited for the police.

For all its flaws, Cytrine Delta had a decent prison system. Sure, the cells were cramped and the food was bland, but they had an excellent educational program, allowing inmates to learn new skills that would help them get decent jobs once they were released. If there were any jobs left by then, anyway.

But more importantly, at least to Yeela, was their medical program. Under planetary law, prisons were required to provide inmates with the highest level of medical care. They weren’t allowed to cut corners, even if the prisoner had special needs or rare diseases. Yeela was put back on an experimental research program, with around-the-clock care. This time, her caregivers wouldn’t be allowed to break the contract. As long as Yeela remained in prison, the treatments would continue.

Yeela sat in her cell, reading a book on rare diseases. She’d been given an eight-year sentence, and she wondered if she’d live long enough to see the end of it. Just in case, she was already considering ways to blow her parole hearings, and contemplating petty crimes that would put her back in prison. She didn’t love prison life, but at least it was life.

And really, when you got down to it, how much freedom had she actually had before?