Hunter's Run Read online

  “We’ll have to burn these,” he said.

  “Are you okay, mi hijo? What happened?”

  He hated it when she called him that. He was no one’s little boy. But it was better than fighting, so he smiled, pulling at the tongue of his belt.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “It was the other cabrón who took the worst of it.”

  “The police…will the police…?”

  “Probably not,” Ramón said, dropping his pants around his knees. He pulled his shirt up over his head. “Still, we should burn these.”

  She asked no more questions, only took his clothes out to the incinerator that the apartments on the block all shared, while Ramón took a shower. The time readout in the mirror told him that dawn was still three or four hours away. He stood under the flow of warm water, considering his scars—the wide white band on his belly where Martín Casaus had slashed him with a sheet-metal hook, the disfiguring lump below his elbow where some drunken bastard had almost sheared through his bones with a machete. Old scars. Some older than others. They didn’t bother him; in fact, he liked them. They made him look strong.

  When he came out, Elena was standing at her back window, arms crossed below her breasts. When she turned to him, he was ready for the blast furnace of her rage. But instead, her mouth was a tiny rosebud, her eyes wide and round. When she spoke, she sounded like a child; worse, like a woman trying to be a child.

  “I was scared for you,” she said.

  “You never have to be,” he said. “I’m tough as leather.”

  “But you’re just one man,” she said. “When Tomás Martinez got killed, there were eight men. They came right up to him when he came out of his girlfriend’s house, and…”

  “Tomás was a little whore,” Ramón said and waved a hand dismissively, as if to say that any real man ought to be able to stand up against eight thugs sent to even a score. Elena’s lips relaxed into a smile, and she walked toward him, her hips shifting forward with each step, as if her pussy were coming to him, the rest of her trailing behind reluctantly. It could have gone the other way, he knew. They could as easily have passed the night as they had so many others, shouting at each other, throwing things, coming to blows. But even that might have ended in sex, and he was tired enough that he was genuinely grateful they could simply fuck and then sleep, and forget about the wasted, empty day that had just gone by. Elena lifted off her dress. Ramón took her familiar flesh in his arms. The scent of old blood rose from the butcher’s shop below like an ugly perfume of Earth and humanity that had followed them across the void.

  Afterward, Ramón lay spent in the bed. Another shuttle was lifting off. Usually there was hardly more than one a month. But the Enye were coming soon, earlier than expected, and the platform above Diegotown needed to be fitted out to receive the great ships with their alien cargoes.

  It was generations ago that mankind had raised itself up from the gravity wells of Earth and Mars and Europa and taken to the stars with dreams of conquest. Humanity had planned to spread its seed through the universe like a high councilor’s son at a port-town brothel, but it had been disappointed. The universe was already taken. Other star-faring races had been there before them.

  Dreams of empire faded into dreams of wealth. Dreams of wealth decayed into shamed wonder. More than the great and enigmatic technologies of the Silver Enye and Turu, it was the nature of space itself that defeated them, as it had defeated every other star-faring race. The vast dark was too great. Too big. Communication at the speed of light was so slow as to barely be communication at all. Governance was impossible. Law beyond what could be imposed locally was farcical. The outposts of the Commercial Alliance that humanity had been “persuaded” to join by the Silver Enye (much as Admiral Perry’s gunships had “persuaded” Japan to open itself up for trade in a much earlier generation) were wide-flung, some outposts falling out of contact for generations, some lost and forgotten or else put on a bureaucrat’s schedule of concerns to be addressed another generation hence by another bureaucrat as yet unborn.

  Establishing dominance—or even much continuity—across that gaping infinity of Night was something that seemed possible only from the provincially narrow viewpoint imposed by looking up from the bottom of a gravity well. Once you got out among the stars, you learned better.

  No race had been able to overcome such vast distance, and so they had striven to overcome time. And it was in this that humanity at last found some small niche in the crowded, chaotic darkness of the universe. Enye and Turu saw the damage done by humanity to its own environment, the deeply human propensity for change and control and the profoundly limited ability to see ahead to consequences, and they had found it more virtue than vice. The vast institutional minds, human and alien both, entered into a glacially slow generational agreement. Where empty planets were, intractable and inconvenient and dangerous, with wild flora and unknown fauna, there humans would be put. For the slow decades or centuries that it required to tame, to break, to pave over whatever marvels and threats evolution had put there, the Silver Enye and Cian and Turu and whatever other great races happened by would act as trade ships once had in the ancient days when mankind had displaced itself from the small islands and insignificant hills of Earth.

  The São Paulo colony was barely in its second generation. There were women still alive who could recall the initial descent onto an untouched world. Diegotown, Nuevo Janeiro, San Esteban. Amadora. Little Dog. Fiddler’s Jump. All the cities of the south had bloomed since then, like mold on a Petri dish. Men had died from the subtle toxins of the native foods. Men had discovered the great cat-lizards—soon nicknamed chupacabras, after the mythical goat-suckers of Old Earth—that had stood proud and dumb at the peak of the planet’s food chain, and men had died for their discovery. The oyster-eyed Silver Enye had not. The insect-and-glass Turu had not. The enigmatic Cian with their penchant for weightlessness had not.

  And now the great ships were coming ahead of schedule; each half-living ship heavy, they all assumed, with new equipment and people from other colonies hoping to make a place for themselves here on São Paulo. And also rich with the chance of escape for those to whom the colony had become a prison. More than one person had asked Ramón if he’d thought of going up, out, into the darkness, but they had misunderstood him. He had been in space; he had come here. The only attraction that leaving could hold was the chance to be someplace with even fewer people, which was unlikely. However ill he fit in São Paulo, he could imagine no situation less odious.

  He didn’t recall falling asleep, but woke when the late morning sun streaming through Elena’s window shone in his face. He could hear her humming in the next room, going about the business of her morning. Shut up, you evil bitch, he thought, wincing at the flash of a lingering hangover. She had no talent for song—every note she made was flat and grating. Ramón lay silent, willing himself back to sleep, away from this city, this irritating noise, this woman, this moment in time. Then the humming was drowned by an angry sizzling sound, and, a moment later, the scent of garlic and chili sausage and frying onions wafted into the room. Ramón was suddenly aware of the emptiness in his belly. With a sigh, he raised himself to his elbow, swung his sleep-sodden legs around, and, stumbling awkwardly, made his way to the doorway.

  “You look like shit,” Elena said. “I don’t know why I even let you in my house. Don’t touch that! That’s my breakfast. You can go earn your own!”

  Ramón tossed the sausage from hand to hand, grinning, until it cooled enough to take a bite.

  “I work fifty hours a week to make the credit. And what do you do?” Elena demanded. “Loaf around in the terreno cimarrón, come into town to drink whatever you earn. You don’t even have a bed of your own!”

  “Is there coffee?” Ramón asked. Elena gestured with her chin toward the worn plastic-and-chitin thermos on the kitchen counter. Ramón rinsed a tin cup and filled it with yesterday’s coffee. “I’ll make my big find,” he said. “Uranium or tant
alum. I’ll make enough money that I won’t have to work again for the rest of my life.”

  “And then you’ll throw me out and get some young puta from the docks to follow you around. I know what men are like.”

  Ramón filched another sausage from her plate. She slapped the back of his hand hard enough to sting.

  “There’s a parade today,” Elena said. “After the Blessing of the Fleet. The governor’s making a big show to beam out to the Enye. Make them think we’re all so happy that they came early. There’s going to be dancing and free rum.”

  “The Enye think we’re trained dogs,” Ramón said around a mouthful of sausage.

  Hard lines appeared at the corners of Elena’s mouth, her eyes went cold.

  “I think it would be fun,” she said, thin venom in her tone. Ramón shrugged. It was her bed he was sleeping in. He’d always known there was a price for its use.

  “I’ll get dressed,” he said and swilled down the last of the coffee. “I’ve got a little money. It can be my treat.”

  They skipped the Blessing of the Fleet—Ramón had no interest in hearing priests droning mumbo-jumbo bullshit while pouring dippers of holy water on beaten-up fishing boats—but they’d arrived in time for the parade that followed. The main street that ran past the Palace of the Governors was wide enough for five hauling trucks to drive abreast, if they stopped traffic coming the other way. Great floats moved slowly, often stopping for minutes at a time, with secular subjects—a “Turu spacecraft” studded with lights, being pulled by a team of horses; a plastic chupacabra with red-glowing eyes and a jaw that opened and closed to show the great teeth made from old pipes—mixing with oversized displays of Jesus, Bob Marley, and the Virgin of Despegando Station. Here came a twice-life-sized satirical (recognizable but very unflattering) caricature of the governor, huge lips pursed as if ready to kiss the Silver Enyes’ asses, and a ripple of laughter went down the street. The first wave of colonists, the ones who had named the planet São Paulo, had been from Brazil, and although few if any of them had ever been to Portugal, they were universally referred to as “the Portuguese” by the Spanish-speaking colonists, mostly Mexicans, who had arrived with the second and third waves. “The Portuguese” still dominated the upper-level positions in local government and administration, and the highest-paying jobs, and were widely resented and disliked by the Spanish-speaking majority, who felt they’d been made into second-class citizens in their own new home. A chorus of boos and jeers followed the huge float of the governor down the street.

  Musicians followed the great lumbering floats: steel bands, string bands, mariachi bands, tuk bands, marching units of Zouaves, strolling guitarists playing fado music. Stilt-walkers and tumbling acrobats. Young women in half-finished carnival costumes danced along like birds. With Elena at his side, Ramón was careful not to look at their half-exposed breasts (or to get caught doing so).

  The maze of side streets was packed full. Coffee stands and rum sellers; bakers offering frosted pastry redjackets and chupacabras; food carts selling fried fish and tacos, satay and jug-jug; sideshow buskers; street artists; fire-eaters; three-card monte dealers—all were making the most of the improvised festival. For the first hour, it was almost enjoyable. After that, the constant noise and press and scent of humanity all around him made Ramón edgy. Elena was her infant-girl self, squealing in delight like a child and dragging him from one place to another, spending his money on candy rope and sugar skulls. He managed to slow her slightly by buying real food—a waxed paper cone of saffron rice, hot peppers, and strips of roasted butterfin flesh, and a tall, thin glass of flavored rum—and by picking a hill in the park nearest the palace where they could sit on the grass and watch the great, slow river of people slide past them.

  Elena was sucking the last of the spice from her fingertips and leaning against him, her arm around him like a chain, when Patricio Gallegos caught sight of them and came walking slowly up the rise. His gait had a hitch in it from when he’d broken his hip in a rockslide; prospecting wasn’t a safe job. Ramón watched him approach.

  “Hey,” Patricio said. “How’s it going, eh?”

  Ramón shrugged as best he could with Elena clinging to him like ivy on brick.

  “You?” Ramón asked.

  Patricio wagged a hand—not good, not bad. “I’ve been surveying mineral salts on the south coast for one of the corporations. It’s a pain in the ass, but they pay regular. Not like being an independent.”

  “You do what you got to do,” Ramón said, and Patricio nodded as if he’d said something particularly wise. On the street, the chupacabra float was turning slowly, the great idiot mouth champing at the air. Patricio didn’t leave. Ramón shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at him.

  “What?” Ramón said.

  “You hear about the ambassador from Europa?” Patricio said. “He got in a fight last night at the El Rey. Some crazy pendejo stabbed him with a bottle neck or something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He died before they could get him to the hospital. The governor’s real pissed off about it.”

  “So what are you telling me for?” Ramón asked. “I’m not the governor.”

  Elena was still as stone beside him, her eyes narrow in an expression of low cunning. Ramón quietly willed Patricio to go away, or at least to shut up. But the man didn’t pick up on it.

  “The governor’s all busy with the Enye ships coming in. Now he has to track down the guy that killed the ambassador, and show how the colony is able to keep the law and all. I’ve got a cousin who works for the chief constable. It’s ugly over there.”

  “Okay,” Ramón said.

  “I was just thinking, you know. You hang out at the El Rey sometimes.”

  “Not last night,” Ramón said, glowering. “You can ask Mikel if you want. I wasn’t there all night.”

  Patricio smiled and took an awkward step back. The chupacabra made a weak, synthesized roar and the crowd around it shrilled with laughter and applause.

  “Yeah, okay,” Patricio said. “I was just thinking. You know…”

  And with the conversation trailing away, Patricio smiled, nodded, and limped back down the hill.

  “It wasn’t you, was it?” Elena half whispered, half hissed. “You didn’t kill the fucking ambassador?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone, and sure as hell not a European. I’m not stupid,” Ramón said. “Why don’t you watch your fucking parade, eh?”

  Night came on as the parade wound down. At the bottom of the hill, in a field near the palace, they were putting a torch to the pile of wood surrounding Old Man Gloom—Mr. Harding, some of the colonists from Barbados called him—a hastily cobbled-together effigy, almost twenty feet tall, with a face like a grotesque caricature of a European or a norteamericano, green-painted cheeks, and an enormous Pinocchio nose. The bonfire blazed, and, wreathed in flames, the giant effigy began to swing its arms and groan in seeming agony, a somehow eerie sight that sent a chill up Ramón’s spine, as if he had been given the dubious privilege of watching a soul being tormented in the fires of Hell.

  All the bad luck that dogged people throughout the year was supposed to be burning up with Old Man Gloom, but watching the giant twist and writhe in slow motion in the flames, its deep, electronically amplified moans echoing off the walls of the Palace of the Governors, Ramón had a glum presentiment that it was his good luck that was burning instead, that from here on in he was headed for nothing but misery and misfortune.

  And one glance at Elena—who had been sitting silently with her jaw set tight and white lines of anger etched around her mouth ever since he had snapped at her—was enough to tell him that it wasn’t going to be very long before that prophecy started to come true.

  Chapter 2

  He hadn’t intended to go back out for another month. Even though they’d fucked passionately the night before, after one of their most vicious arguments ever, tearing at each other’s bodies like crazed things, he’d de
cided to leave before she could wake up. If he’d waited, they’d only have had another fight, and she probably would have kicked him out anyway; he’d taken a swing at her with a bottle the night before, and she would be outraged at that once she’d sobered up. Still, if it wasn’t for the killing at the El Rey, he might have tried staying in town. Elena’d probably calm down in a day or two, at least enough that they could speak to each other without shouting, but the news of the European’s death and the governor’s wrath made Diegotown feel close and claustrophobic. When he went to the outfitter’s station to buy rations and water filters, he felt like he was being watched. How many people had been in that crowd? How many of those would know him by sight—or name? The outfitter didn’t have everything on Ramón’s list, but he had bought what was immediately available, and then had flown his van to Manuel Griego’s salvage yard in Nuevo Janeiro. The van needed some work before it could head out into the world, and Ramón wanted it done now.

  Griego’s yard squatted at the edge of the city. The hulking frames of old vans and canopy fliers and personal shuttles littered the wide acres. In the hangar, it was equal parts junk shop and clean room. Power cells hung from the rafters, glowing with the eerie light that all Turu technology seemed to carry with it. A nuclear generator the size of a small apartment ran along one wall, humming to itself. Storage units were stacked floor to ceiling; tanks of rare gas and undifferentiated nanoslurry mixed in with half-bald tires and oily drive trains. Half the things in the shop would cost more than a year’s wages just to make use of; half were hardly worth the effort to throw out. Old Griego himself was hammering away on a lift tube as Ramón set his van down on the pad.

  “Hey, ese,” Griego called out when Ramón popped the doors and came down to the working floor. “Long time. Where you been keeping yourself?”