It may be odd, but I really like the staff morgue. It is a peaceful place, cool and quiet with no hurry, no stress and no fear. There is only one other person present at this time of night, Dr. Maphane. Demon Central's chief forensic coroner. She has apartments one level up, with a private elevator connecting her to morgue level. I think she has never heard of the concept of work life balance.
“Felix.” her calm voice, as always, relaxes me. “All the arrangements have been made. Once we have finished here they will be laid out in the Hall of Remembrance for two days, then their ashes interred in the garden.” A tear glistens in the corner of her eye. Unusual for one so far along the path as she, but they were her friends too.
“Mary, I'll be rounding up some of the guys to drink Yuli to his reward. Try to see if you and Tom can make it.” She won't drink of course, but she will come. “Show me Yuli first please. And give me your prelim findings.”
As we move to the coolers, I see her slip into her dirga pranayama exercise. The three part breath, for calming and grounding the mind. This is never a good sign. The drawer she is reaching for is one of the deep ones, an even worse sign. I close my eyes. First impressions are usually the most accurate in my line of work. Hear the drawer open with a gentle rumble and a blast of intense cold. And a sloshing sound?
I open my eyes. The inside of the drawer looks like a Jackson Pollock painting waiting to dry. Nameless, formless chunks of meat and bone, awash in a pink flood of liquid. Actually, it looks more like someone the drawer was used for an entire party to throw up in. And the stench is foul. My gut does a lazy flip flop and threatens to add it's contents over what is left of poor Yuli. Thank Him I didn't eat first.
“He was in better condition when he arrived. Then he was just torn into pieces. He started melting 3 hours after arrival, 4 hours 27 minutes after death. The cold is slowing down but not stopping the melting process. It seems to half the speed for every 5 degrees below body temperature.” Maphane's face is serene, but pale. “All pieces were, as per standard practice, holographed, gene typed and weighed. Comparing the piece weight to Yuli's medical records, and allowing for exsanguination, we recovered no more than 80% of his remains.”
“Shut the drawer.” I do not need to keep looking at this. At all.
She shuts the drawer softly, almost reverently. I lean past her and turn the control to maximum, then hit the quickfreeze button. A gentle hiss as liquid nitrogen floods in, freezing the remains instantly. She glances at me, with something akin to nervousness.
“We need to save something to be cremated. But his coffin in the Hall will be an an empty one.” I am not at all pleased about this, and it must be showing. Maphane nods slowly.
“How many attackers?” I ask. She calls up the holos. If anything, seeing recognisable chunks of a colleague is worse, especially when they look like they are floating in the air.
“Look here, and here. Two distinct bite patterns. Three different claw types here, sucker marks here, a proboscis hole here. I estimate between 12 and 20 different demons attacked in total.” She looks more relaxed now we are back to business. “Claw, tooth and sucker models will be ready for you in an hour or so. You will probably be able to identify most of them yourself, but the bestiary will be getting copies as well. Their report should be with you in 3 hours.”
“Good. Now, Francis please.” I do not want to do this, especially not after what I have just seen.
Sergio Francis. Age 62. Mentor. Man of peace and Him. Friend.
She reaches to the next drawer up and casually pulls it open. Claw punctures on each cheek are the only signs of injury. He looks as though he is sleeping. I look at him for a few moments, then sign a cross over him. Maphane shuts the drawer.
“Definitely a Soul Reaver. You got the claw analysis yet for this?”
“That will be a little longer, there is so little to go on.” She looks slightly apologetic.
“Prioritise it. I really need to know if that hell-spawn needed two hands to hold Sergio's head still enough to take his soul, or just the one.” Maphane looks startled at the idea. I look at her sadly. “Reavers can be big. Really, really big.”
* * *
The Old Men, or more formally the Council of Elders of the Society of Faiths, never meet in the same chamber twice in succession. A simple enough precaution, but it makes finding them for your audience with them an absolute nightmare of travelling. Without a guide, you will never find them.
My guide is one I have never seen before. Not unusual in a city of 12 million people, you might think, but there are only 10 Old Men and 20 guides in the entire city. Two guides and two bodyguards per councillor, that is the tradition. He sees my look.
“I am Pytor, guide for Councillor Jada.” Like all guides he is soft spoken. But there is something about his eyes …
“What happened to Max? He is Jada's normal guide when I request audience.” I ask idly, my hand sliding into the lower side pocket of my jacket. I use a few, very non-standard tools that a friend builds for me, one of which is sewn into the lining there.
“There was an attempt on the Councillor's life three weeks ago. Max and one of the bodyguards were killed during the attempt.” He might as well be talking about the weather, for all the emotion he shows. We stop in front of an ordinary apartment door – F72 – 37776 in fact. As Pytor knocks and gives the password, my hand, still in my pocket, brushes a pair of contacts sticking out of the lining. A warning sting, like burning lava races up my arm. My hand whips from the pocket and, as the door opens I pull both guns. The flame gun digs into the back of Pytor's head, the .460 Magnum points unwaveringly at the unfamiliar bodyguard at the door.
“IN” I snarl. “You, three steps back and stop moving, or you'll need a new head.” Confusion in the room as bodyguards step in front of the councillors and draw. I look past Pytor and catch the eye of Councillor Gordon.
“Sir. One or both of these men is possessed.” The bodyguards react instantly, one from each pair moving their weapons to point at the bodyguard by the door. Moving as unthreateningly as I can while simultaneously grinding a flame gun into the back of someone's head, I holster the Magnum.
Another minuscule relaxation by the bodyguards still aiming at me. I gesture one, one I know well, over with a quick head movement. “Jack – grab my detector off my belt and give this guy the once over before I burn his head off on general principles. You,” - to the suspected bodyguard - “don't move a muscle.” Jack comes over, gun rock steadily aimed at my heart, lifts and thumbs on my belt detector.
“He is possessed, Cat.” Jack now has his gun pointing at Pytor too. A huge relief, he is a crack shot.
Dybbuk's have one huge problem as spies. They can possess any unprepared mind, but they cannot leave the host until an exorcism is performed. Or the host is dead.
I reach for a pouch on my belt and pull out a small silver container. “Councillor, would you kindly expel Pytor's unwanted guest? Please do not banish it though.” As the councillor repeats the exorcism, I flick open the container, exposing 2 grains of dull purplish metal at the bottom. A slight rush of air, a vibration in the container, and I flick the lid shut and press the seal. Pytor collapses in a heap. One down.
The bodyguard by the door let out a scream and went for his gun. As 15 people shot him, almost simultaneously, I dropped my flame gun, grabbed Pain, and flicked my eyes into hunting mode. The room lighting, normal to others, flared into furnace intensity for me as my pupils expanded to maximum. Where is it?
There!
As the dead man falls. almost blown apart, I leap forward and bring Pain down in a sweep that misses Jack by two millimetres. All see the slight hesitation in the swing as the sword catches on, then cuts through, what looks like nothingness. With a shriek that virtually deafens us all, the Dybbuk dissipates. Dead.
I keep Pain in hand as everyone in the room is checked. No other possessions. I can relax and drop back out of hunter mode. I bow to the council as two bodyguards start cleaning up the mess of blood, hair and flesh that was once a man.
“Forgive me, Sirs. The taking of life is not done lightly, even the life of a thing such as that. But I could not let him return to inform the Enemy of your plans and movements.”
“It was done well, Stevens. Take not that sin on your head, your intent was to capture, not kill.” The ritual words from Nyasi, my usual confessor, bring less peace than usual. For my intent was to kill. That is what Hunter mode is. “Now before we take council – how did you capture the exorcised demon?” He looks genuinely interested. The council don't get to see the sharp end much.
“Two grains of a depleted uranium/lithium alloy in the bottom of a silver container – dybbuks can't resist that, it is like a magnet coated in heroin to them. A powered Faraday cage activates when the lid is closed and the seal button pressed. It'll hold the thing captive for a year on the internal battery alone, and can be connected to an external power supply if we need longer.” I love the tools of my trade – especially ones I helped design. “According to the lab, it will be coming up for permission for general release to Operatives in about another month.”
Councillor Stevens, no relation of mine, speaks up. “We will be placing larger versions, with magnetically polarised one way entrances, next to every wormhole transit point. Try to catch and contain most of these things before they manage to possess innocent citizens.”
“Good,” Nyasi beams through his wrinkles. “Now, Cat. What can the Council do for you?”
“Sir. As you know I am the last grade Zero operative available. And we have a Soul Reaver on the loose. I request permission to examine and trial any volunteers in the next 20 hours, to ensure there is at least one Zero, should I fail in dealing with the Reaver.”
“Do we have candidates?” The question to another councillor, Shakihwa, not to me.
“Yes. There are 27 current candidates who have shown the potential to be hunters.” Shakiwa looks grave. “But their initial training is not yet complete.”
Nyasi glances at each councillor. In various ways, they signal assent or rejection. He sighs. “Operative Stevens, the Council hereby gives permission for the trial to commence. May the One have mercy on us all.”
The Council, being mainly pacifists, worry about the souls of those they need as Demon Killers. Me, I am more pragmatic. Less than 1 in 20 of the pre-screened candidates can actually kill a demon, even a small one. If you try and fail, the demon will kill you. I have, by my request, just sentenced at least twenty people to death.
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