Prelude

One time, the old Zen Master, D. T. Suzuki, gave a talk on Zen in Tokyo. He spoke of the silence, the emptiness, the nothingness, and all the rest, together with the deep wisdom that comes from satori. When he had finished, one of his audience rose to his feet and, not without a touch of irritation exclaimed, "But Dr. Suzuki, what about society? What about other people? What about the other?" Suzuki looked at the man with a smile and remarked, "But there is no other.” - the Teachings of Osho.

Floating peacefully, gazing at the stars. Just relaxing after one hell of a case. Well earned, the Brinkmeyer job cost me two years, a good friend and a little bit more of my soul. Time to recharge. Everything heals, given time.

Float. Gaze at the stars.

The eye plays tricks on you here. Trying to make sense of a totally random distribution, it draws shapes and patterns. People have always been that way. Drawing patterns in the sky, seeing faces in random markings, desperately trying to make sense of the nonsensical. Push the thoughts away.

Float. Blank your mind. Forget everything and just be. Achieve satori, without hope, thought or fear.

Heal. Be at peace. No hunger, no thirst, no thought. Just be.

A gentle chirping noise. Getting louder.

“Himdammit, I thought I turned the damned phone off!” Sigh, “Answer phone, audio only.”

“Koniwa, Signor Stevens. I trust you have had a good vacation?” Smarmy, oily voice, it always bothered me.

“I am still on vacation, Jones. And will be for the next 4 weeks. Call back later. Phone off.”

The phone does not switch off. Jones must be using an over-ride. Despite myself, a flicker of interest, along with the hope that he is abusing Society property. If he is doing that, I can get him bounced so fast his feet won't touch the ground between Rome and the furthest, coldest, nastiest penal colony there is.

“Sorry, Stevens. Got something that needs a Category 0 operative. That is you.” Oddly enough, despite us cordially hating each other, he does sound sorry. Guy should get an acting award.

“What's the problem? You have Francis, Tanekawa and Yuli – all available, last I heard. If I don't recover, I'll be going in at, at best, half capacity.” I know. I can hear the implied acceptance in my voice too. But I am going to make him sweat for it.

“They are dead.” Words flat and emotionless as a zombie.

Damn. Sergio Francis taught me the tricks of the game. Yuli, well we weren't close, but we have covered each others backs before. Riku Tanekawa – if she hadn't been called away at the last minute, she would be here with me right now. An on again, off again affair, whenever cases permit.

That hurts. A lot.

“Khorosho, Jones, save the spiel. Send me as much as you can over open beam, scrambler setting 4. I'll need to see the old men as soon as I arrive. ETA in ...” a quick mental calculation, “72 hours. Clear a private pad, no interuptions or gawkers. I am still a bit fragile in spots. Probably at about 90% capacity. Phone off.”

This time it flicks off. I do detest Jones, but he knows the difference between me being obstinate and me giving orders.

Float. Gaze at the stars. Find your center. Focus. Forget Francis. Forget Yuli. Forget Tanekawa. Put the memories of them in their shrines, untarnished and safe from harm. Remember the joy. Joy cannot be used as a weapon.

Francis was a great one for naming things. He named every tool he used. It was sweet, though a little confusing at times when he'd shout for me to throw him Tammy, instead of “throw me that blasted kriss!” I never saw the sense in it, myself. But a friend's memory is to be honored. I rise and go to the weapons locker. No operative is ever without their weapons, they are literally part of us. Lift my sword from the padded brackets – 70 centimeters of Damascus steel with a monomolecular diamond edge. Draw it. Run my finger along the blade, gently. The cut is instantaneous, and blood dulls the gleaming surface.

“I christen thee – Pain.” I let Pain drink of the blood for a few minutes before tenderly, reverently, cleaning and resheathing her. “You will drink again soon, Pain. Very soon.”

Yuli. A big bear of a man. We used to tease him about it, the guy was so hairy he literally looked like a bear / man hybrid. Hell, maybe he was, we Zeros have seen stranger shit. He'd drink Schnapps by the litre and never get more than tipsy. I'll drink to his memory until I am blind drunk once I get to Rome. Round up a couple of other operatives – we'll give him a sendoff.

Tanekawa. Little Riku. 154 centimetres of fun, passion and fury, all in a shapely package. Despite her name, blonde, blue eyed. Deadly, with the most wicked sense of humour and joy in life. To her memory, I dedicate the next kill. And the deaths of her killers, if they are different.

Sigh. Turn to the console.

“Ship, we need to be in Rome in 70 hours. Make it so.”

“Affirmative. Course laid in. Negadrive in T minus 5 minutes. Please be seated.”

One last look at the stars and twisting luminous streamers of gas. The Pleiades always were my favourite meditation area.

Sit. Strap in. Connect the info feeds, I'll need whatever information Jones sends. Check the sensor relays. All green.

The needles stab into my veins. As my body starts to shake in time with the throb of the negadrive field, I feel the old familiar trickle of excitement that I always get at the start of a hunt.

Felix “the Cat” Stevens, Resident of Free Rome, Earth. Member of the Society of Faiths. Operative Class 0. A Demon Hunter.

According to Jones, the last Demon Hunter.

Whatever you are, I am coming for you, Hellspawn. You will pay. I will feed.