Star Travels Tales of Science Fiction (5 page)

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Shadow Hunter

Light sliced through
the
forward quarter arc window like a geometric plane,
cutting shadow into right angle. The space station was old. The
duty free shop's floor and back quarter arc were slick black, as if
they were permanently wet, giving the shop a retro, twentieth
century feel. Old Kayden steadied himself every time he entered;
afraid he'd slip on the shine and glare. The quiet rubber tip on
his steel cane left foggy kisses on the glossy surface. Someone
noticed them because the marks were never there the next
day.

The shop, located in the upper arc of
the round, tubular station, looked out into the hole. A choice
spot. They didn't give shops best locations anymore the rent was
too expensive. The light-glare colliding with the floor came from
the station’s hole, the center of the doughnut. These docking
lights had industrial-mean intensity. Kayden wondered how anyone
looking into the hole, with its migraine illumination, thought it
was scenery worth paying for.

Shadow Hunter had docked swift and neat
into the hole. From inside the old ship that brought Kayden to the
station, and through the ship’s stingy portal, ‘the window seat,’
he couldn't have missed the duty free shop, flagged top and bottom
with light bulb signs, flashing on and off, alluding to movement.
He and his baggage were only a few station days old. Every one of
those days included a visit to Habitat's duty free.

Crystal mobiles dangled over head,
occasionally tinkled and zapped out shards of vibrant red and
green, yellow and blue, signals from tiny galaxies. He was careful
not to bump them.

The clerk sat pale and still at a
monolith desk; the desk top was the same wet black synthetic stone
as the floor, and looked as if it had risen from the ground to
become an arcane altar with its female devotee. The surface of the
desk-counter was carefully laid out with golden offerings;
ashtrays, pens, calculators, earrings.

She sat in the center of the shop. He
was at the entrance to her left. To get where he needed to go
forced him to cross her path; he didn't dare go behind her, and
didn't want to draw any more attention than an old recluse with a
cane and outdated clothing already drew. Hairs at the back of his
head stood out like beaks. He knew it, licked his hand and tried to
flatten them.

He started steadily, planting his cane,
glancing casually at the conscious positioning of the items hanging
on the black arc behind her. Rocks. Not just rocks. He knew a thing
or two about those nondescript stones, each the size and shape of a
man's lung. Each spotted and displayed for its particular
irregularity and selected for its contents. Alien oysters and alien
pearls, their inner ores worth far more than any slimy protein's
calcified irritant.

He passed her; she, nearly catatonic,
bound in silent calculation. Tapered fingers danced across the
velvet keypad as effortlessly as any blind man's. The other hand
manipulated flat white sheets, paper, for authenticity. The paper
rustled softly between fingers. Black hair, subtle blue highlights.
And dark, shaded eyes framed in retro lenses gave her an
intelligent look. She didn't need the eye cover. The light burning
through the clear multiplex quarter arc didn't reach her. It fell
onto the black floor a meter from the bottom of the glossy coffin
she used for a desk.

He passed through the channel of light.
No heat, but his hazel eyes, partially lost under an awning of
flesh and eyebrows, streamed. They tortured their customers this
way. She could punch up filters. Kayden wiped his eyes on his
sleeve.

He nearly stumbled over a spidery wine
rack.

On the far back arc, displayed on
crystal shelving, gold brackets, was a straight line of six
Koalakins, like snowballs, whiter than the paper on her
desk.

He glanced at her, up to the camera at
the other end, across from the entrance, glaring like the eye of
God, ready to blast him at the slightest indiscretion. Old
security. He wondered if it really worked.

He picked up a Koalakin. It was tiny,
fitted easily into the palm of his dry hand. There wasn't much to
the creature, lots of wispy fur that hid its shape. Round head, no
ears, slight protuberance for a nose, two, black, pinhead dots at
the front of its head for eyes. Four legs, black claws, a round,
ball body. If he blew on it, the bear like toy might float
away.

His thumb worked through the fur on its
belly and exposed a pimply button that he pushed. The Koalakin
trembled slightly then came to life, black claws scrambling, unable
to grip his tough flesh. The creature waddled to the tip of his
finger, chewed on an even tougher nail.

Kayden smiled.

With his thumb he tried nudging the
creature back into his palm. It flipped backward, righted itself on
his wrist and slipped up his sleeve. He put his hand in his pocket
and shook his arm, felt the Koalakin tumble down into the lining.
He fumbled, feeling for the button, hoping to turn it off. He found
the nodule, touched it and a tiny, muffled mewing began. He touched
the button again and everything stopped.

He sweated. Pulled out a hanky from the
inner breast pocket of the rumpled beige overcoat and dabbed his
face and eyes. He ran his hand by the side pocket; felt the tiny
lump in there then cast a tense glance at the black haired
caryatid. Still calculating.

He turned away from the shelf, was
halfway past the woman when she spoke: "Is there anything I can
show you, sir?"

A drawer opened, slid out from the desk
front like black ice. "Please take one of our catalogs." A slender,
silver brochure lay there. "You will find the price list on one
side."

Had she seen him take the Koalakin? Was
she stalling? He took the brochure, slipped it into his inner
pocket and left.

The next day was the same, except for
the lighting. The arc was shaded, tolerable. The young woman, busy
demagnetizing locks on a few small shipping trunks, gave him a
porcelain smile. Her hair was different more brown. No eye shades,
warm amber, honey colored eyes. It was for him. She was changing
effects. Who had her last customer been?

She left him alone. He went directly to
the Koalakins, took the tiny creature from his pocket, and quickly
exchanged it for a different one.

"Their fur is genuine."

His cane crashed to the floor, bounced
twice, vibrated. Then she had his cane, placed it back under his
hand. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding genuine. He groped for his
hanky. "I owe you a discount for that." She selected a Koalakin
from the shelf. "Twenty percent. Would you like one?" She stroked
it lovingly. "Something else?"

"How--how are they made?" He didn't
look at her.

"They're not made. Each Koalakin is
selected specifically for its miniature size and quality. Taken
from its nest while in its hibernation like state. Most collectors
don't realize that this state lasts as long as ten years, and that
the closer to the beginning of that time period an animal is
selected, the better it takes to the preservation treatment. The
viscera are removed and replaced with a bio-mechanical plexus -- an
engine of sorts. Its ability to cry is an added feature. It doesn't
do this in its natural state. The brain is also preserved. The eyes
are removed, replaced with obsidian replicas. A few standard
control threads woven into connection with the brain and the
synthetic plexus permit the collector to turn the Koalakin
on."

"Excuse me, please. I'm not well." He
moved away, as quickly as he dared, brushed his side pocket and
felt the tiny swell of the stolen creature.

He waited a day before he returned it
and took another.

His temporary home located on the outer
rim, lower arc, top section of a half quarter, was dubbed
Eight-ball. It had one redeeming feature; its speck of a window, no
bigger than the bottom of a glass, didn't look into the hole. If
he'd been able to get a bottom quarter he would have had the luxury
of a floor window, too. Still he could stand up, and there was a
separate sleeping area.

The soupy green walls were freshly
painted. The interior well lit. He struggled with the rubber tip at
the end of the cane, removed it. Tapped the floor with the metal
end, watched the entrance to the sleeping section.

A shadow stirred, peered at him, grew
paler as it moved from the back room. Its fluid hulk avalanched
toward him. The Ming-thraw skittered around their tiny enclosure,
like a happy dog, nearly knocking him off balance. She stopped in
front of him, quiet, patient.

Large, moist eyes, intelligent, budding
delicately from her slender head, two dark beautiful worlds this
gentle countenance betrayed her internal battering. But there were
other signs. A crusty rim formed around her eyes. Her milky fur,
soured with dark yellow stains. This station, and the others like
it, were too small, too warm, her kind was meant for frost and
chillier settings; he'd known the travel would be hard on her. But
only she could single out her infant.

He extracted the tiny Ming-thraw from
his pocket, pushed its button, placed it in her hair, near the
single swell that was her breast.

The creature clawed blindly through her
fur, then fell, thumped to the floor. She fled back to the shadows.
He retrieved the Koalakin, turned it off and brought it in to
her.

She'd squeezed under his sleeping
bench, forearms over her head, covering her eyes. Sorrow and
despair. He knew. He slid down the wall, sat close and stroked her
head. With the cane, he tapped the wall above the sleeper,
explained in taps, and bangs and scratches that removed the paint,
why he couldn't obtain all the infant Ming-thraws. That she'd seen
them all, there were no more for him to bring to her, that he
didn't know where else to look.

He didn't tell her what the search had
cost him. That he had just enough cash to get her home.

He left to return the stolen Koalakin
and arrange for her departure.

At the duty free things had changed. A
security officer, dressed in blue, strapped with vest and holster,
played with the adjustment on her helmet. She stood just outside
the entrance, nodded to him as he went in. The crystal shelf now
seemed impossibly far, the clerk a moat he couldn't cross. He
left.

And took the long way home.

When he got back, his place was empty,
still damp with the Ming-thraw's cinnamon odor. He knew where she’d
gone.

Several people mostly station personnel
in brown coveralls and tan canvas shoes, crowded outside the duty
free.

Inside, the Ming-thraw was down,
sprawled against the shiny ebony; snow on jet. The blue guards let
him through. He got down beside her. The Koalakins lay scattered
like pieces of herself. She still clutched one of the dead infants.
He pulled it away, examined it.

"You its owner?" the woman security
officer asked. "We had a report that one of these was wanderin'
around here. Someone's phoned transportation for a
stall."

The Ming-thraw looked at him. Black
skin rimmed her slack, quivering mouth. She shuddered, was still.
"She's died," he said, slumping over her, resting his head on the
warm fur. "She's died." The Koalakin slipped from his
fingers.

"It's not dead," the guard said,
placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. She helped him up. The
stall had arrived.

The two guards helped lift the
Ming-thraw into the shipping crate.

"Where're you taking her?" he asked,
bewildered.

"Shipping her Earthside," said one of
the men, maneuvering the large red, styroacrylic box. One end had
bars on the door.

The stall barely fit through the duty
free's entrance.

Earth
. He
repeated the name silently.

"It's been done before," the man
continued. “A male, big bastard, walked into the meteor warning
station on Alpha Mil. We caught it. Sent it Earthside. They'll be
excited 'bout her. No offense, ol'man, but she'll be safer there.
They'll release her into the Arctic. The whole planet's a bloody
wildlife preserve. Out here she's fair game. Might be killed or
captured for a pet. She's gonna live another hundred years or more.
You're not so young."