New Decameron Seventy-Six: Reese Hogan (Patreon)

“Unfinished Tally”

By Reese Hogan

I might have come here to kill a man, but I’d still planned to enjoy my dinner. The Shadow, as usual, has other plans.

I know you’re here tonight, Krait.

The message pops up on my visual inlay, lingering for a few seconds before fading into oblivion. My hand clenches around the handle of my spoon. I’d stayed one step ahead for three contracts now. This was inevitable. Irritating, but inevitable.

I take another bite of my spiced potato soup. A moment ago, the perfect blend of paprika and nutmeg had been a pleasant sting on my tongue. Now, it’s spiced with nothing but tense expectation. Totally ruined. I keep my head down as I scan the huge underground room. Four long tables are arranged in an enormous square, with twenty-some people on each table. I’m elbow to elbow with some of the scummiest outlaws in the galaxy. A group of raiders argues to my left, going on about some high-stakes racing game, while a pair of punkers on my right laugh behind their beer mugs. My gaze alights on the chain-clad bruisers at the back table, then the augmented holo-troopers across the room, and lands last on the Hells Raider himself – the crime boss I’d been hired to kill. He’s enjoying his dinner as much as I’d hoped to enjoy mine. Which meant all had been going according to plan.

‘Had been’ being the operable phrase here.

Bug off, I type back with a quick blink of my eyelids.

Nervous to hear from me, huh? the Shadow answers.

No, I don’t want you taking credit for my kill again. Your weapon of choice is not allowed to be another assassin. So bug. Off.

The Shadow doesn’t answer right away, so I take another mouthful of soup. The Hells Raider is dipping a biscuit dusted with sugar into his soup as he talks with some beautiful silver-haired arms dealer at the head table. His eyes are the flickering colors of someone busy within a visual inlay, the metal arrays that hook his invisible screen up scattered constellation-like across his temples. The same inlay that everyone here has, including myself.

Including the Shadow, wherever he, she, or they may be.

I didn’t do that, comes the Shadow’s message. Take credit for your kill, I mean.

It’s hard not to roll my eyes, but the Shadow could be watching for that sort of thing. Despite not hearing from my rival for the last few missions, I haven’t stopped using the inlay’s algorithms to alter my appearance. I glance at the Hells Raider again as I compose my answer. He’s supposed to make some announcement soon, presumably about which intergalactic credit union he’s targeting next. Or maybe he’ll go after one of the agencies, which I’d be less thrilled about; half the time, they’re the ones I get payroll from.

All the more reason to want this job to go off without a hitch.

When I transmitted my tally last week, I say, Westpaw had already been claimed. Which was strange, since I distinctly remember blowing him out an airlock myself. Your digital fingerprints are all over that.

That’s a load of crap, answers the Shadow. I’m hurt that you think I’d need to do that.

Oh, please. This isn’t how we play this game. I snag a bottle of blueberry wine and pour a generous helping into the crystal tumbler before me. The raider sitting next to me – a punker wearing the telltale dark shades and goldfoil layers of someone not used to living near a sun – beckons cheerfully for me to pass the bottle when I’m done. When I do, she tips her own beer stein in my direction, one eyebrow raised over the shades. I tweak my digitally-enhanced appearance’s mouth into a half-smile. I can see the glint of the barbell through my lip in the reflection of her shades.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” I say.

“Can you believe his announcement’s taking so long?” she says.

“I can’t believe dessert’s taking so long,” I mutter.

She laughs. “Yeah, that too.”

I raise the tumbler to my mouth, barbell clinking against its rim, and grin over it at her. The tension of hearing from the Shadow is dissipating already, leaving behind an almost giddy enjoyment. Why? Is it the anticipation of whether that dessert will be the spectacular kill I’m hoping for? The mundane jobs get so old after a while – poisons and sniping and the like – who can blame me for wanting to dress things up a bit?

Answer me, Krait.

No, wait. This is what I’m enjoying; the fact that I’ve somehow put the other assassin on the defensive and inadvertently given myself the upper hand.

I take a drink, relishing the sweet yet astringent taste of the fruity alcohol on my tongue. I’ve got this job squared and you know it, I send back as I take another sip. You try to steal this one from me, and I’ll hunt you down myself.

It takes a minute for the reply to come back. Ha. I’d like to see you try.

Carefully, I scan the other raiders, tumbler over my mouth like a mask. It’s a valid point. The Shadow could be anyone. The tattoo-covered bodybuilder in the facemask. The old woman in white dreadlocks. The kid in the space coat. The sun-dweller with zinc-infused body paint. Anyone at all. There’s just no way to tell.

Anyway, you can relax, says the Shadow. I’m not here to kill Hells Raider.

Oh, really? I answer. You expect me to believe you’re just here for the food?

Got a different target tonight. I like the barbell in your lip, by the way. Suits you better than that buzzed cut from last time.

I almost spit out my wine. The punker beside me looks over, startled, and gives me a good whack on the back. I put the glass down quickly, waving her away, furious that she’s drawn attention to me. If there was any chance – any chance at all – that the Shadow was mistaking me for some other attendee with a piercing, my neighbor here has gone and erased all doubt.

My gaze roams from my wine to my soup to the remains of the honey-drizzled watermelon I had before that. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.

Who’s your target? I say.

The response comes back quickly – already typed out and ready to send, no doubt.

Yeah, crime lords and the like are sick of being bumped off, you know? Been happening so much lately. So I was hired to take care of whoever was doing it.

My lips thin as I look at the other attendees, square on this time. No one meets my gaze. It pisses me off. I suppose you neglected to mention that YOU were responsible for half those kills, I send back.

Was I? says the Shadow. Or were they all you, and I just took credit for a few?

Can you sense bitterness through a typogram? My lip curls.

You took credit for my last one, I counter. I never said anything about the other jobs.

Well, it never happened, says the Shadow. I take pride in my kills. So you can screw right off.

Our conversation is interrupted by the banging of metal on glass. I look up to see the Hells Raider on his feet, calling for attention. My eyes narrow. Where’s that dessert? I don’t care if it comes before or after this announcement, but if the Shadow’s gonna off me, I want to see this assassination first. I spent a lot of time on it, from the finding of the proper weapon to getting a sample of the Hells Raider’s blood.

The crime boss smooths his long blond beard and runs a hand over his face, making sure all the chrome antennae and transmitters are flush against his skin. He clears his throat, pitching his voice to carry over the large underground chamber.

“The Six Worlds Corporation won’t be an easy hit,” he says. “Which is why I need the very best, the very brightest, and the very quickest to comprise this team. Not to mention the most trustworthy, which is, of course, highest in demand these days. I have faith that I can trust every one of you here – with my life, if need be.”

That’s what he’s going after? I’m almost impressed. If anyone needs to be taken down a notch, it’s definitely SWC. As for his assertion that he can trust all of us here… well, he’s clearly not thinking about his kitchen staff. There’s a mole there who was happy to help for a cut of the profit.

And then I blink, because if I know about that mole…

In case you’re wondering, you’ve already ingested the poison, the Shadow writes, right on cue.

That’s impossible, I say. I know my poisons.

This one’s new. Don’t believe me if you want. Same difference to me, right?

The Shadow could be lying just to watch me squirm. Then again, my rival knew exactly who I was, so I can’t assume this is some petty off-the-cuff ploy.

I grab my tumbler and take another hearty slug, just to show I’m not afraid. I’m sure the slight sourness this time is purely psychosomatic.

More words show up. I have an antidote. If you find me before you die, it’s yours.

I frown, then slowly lower the mug. Are you serious?

Don’t ever say I don’t play fair.

I blink dumbly at the message before it fades from sight. The Shadow is trying to say something here – trying to prove they didn’t take credit for my kill. That says something. But how in the galaxy am I supposed to figure out who my mysterious rival is in a room full of the solar system’s lowest scum, while Hells Raider is up there giving a glory speech? The Shadow will know it’s impossible.

And yet, the chance has been given. I’d be a fool to ignore it.

The Hells Raider is leaning forward now, gaze sweeping over the gathering of outlaws and criminals. “That is,” he says softly, “I can trust every one of you… except one.”

There’s a rising murmur of voices as folks turn their suspicious gazes to their neighbors. I tighten my grip around my tumbler, glaring daggers with the best of ‘em.

“As some of you may know,” the Raider says, “an assassin’s been picking off the highest earners in our business, and I have reason to believe that assassin is among us tonight. It is my hope that we can root this person out and make them pay dearly for our enjoyment, before we launch this next important step in our enterprise.”

Something twists in my stomach. I wonder if it’s the Shadow’s poison, starting to take effect. What would I do if I were the only assassin here tonight, as I’d originally planned? Well, I’d keep my head down, obviously, and hope that damn dessert made an appearance sooner rather than later. But as things stand – knowing there’s another assassin besides myself in this room – I can’t assume I won’t be outed. I’m sure the Shadow would love to give one last twist of the knife to an already dying enemy.

But if the Shadow exposes me, their identity will be blown as well. This, I’m sure, is not something my rival will do. That would make it too easy for me to find that antidote.

But I can’t exactly stand up and point a finger, either. Even if I knew who to point it at, I’d be damning myself in the process. Not to mention I can almost see the smugness on the Shadow’s face even now. I take pride in my kills…

Stars alive. I know what to do.

The scrape of my chair on the stone floor quiets the room as I shove it back. Seventy-something pairs of eyes turn in my direction. I bring that blueberry wine, tumbler in one hand and bottle in the other, as I step first on the chair, then onto the table. My stomach is twisting again, more painfully now, and I’m pretty sure it’s not nerves. But who knows? We’re in uncharted territory now. And it’s strangely exhilarating to be doing something different for a change.

WATCH THIS, SHADOW, I send off. Then I twist my lips into a sardonic smirk and spread my arms wide.

“No need to root anyone out, Raider,” I call. “That’s the boring bit before the entertainment anyway, am I right?”

The Hells Raider frowns. His massive arms slowly fold across his chest as he stares at me. “Are you claiming to be the assassin, woman?”

“Neither woman nor man, Raider,” I correct with a lazy smile. “Just a seasoned assassin, at your service.” I should bow, but my stomach’s cramping again, so I give it a pass.

Instead, I step toward him along the length of the table, setting my booted feet between the goblets and biscuits and grapes of the feast. The table he’s at is perpendicular to the one I’m walking, and I have a pretty good view of the entire room. Every face is riveted on mine, most of them edging toward either anger or fascination. But it’s the carefully blank ones I watch for; the ones trying a little too hard to look unaffected.

“Thirty-eight deaths, right?” I say. “Thirty-eight kills. All by my hand. That’s certainly nothing to scoff at, especially in so short a time frame.”

“You would just announce this openly, would you?” says the Hells Raider, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, I would,” I say. “They’re mine, after all. And I want the world to know it.”

Words flash across my inlay. Seventeen of them are yours, you piece of dung. What are you doing?

I grin, and my barbell clinks audibly against my teeth. Go ahead, I say. Set the record straight.

You’ll be stone dead in five minutes, you know, says the Shadow.

Yeah, I say, and then everyone will walk out of here talking about the badass assassin who went out with thirty-eight kills under their belt in under a month. And nothing you can do will stop that story from spreading.

“Bring me the killer!” the Hells Raider shouts. “I’ll let thirty-eight of you drive your fists through ‘em before I kill ‘em, how’s that for entertainment?”

The cheer for my blood echoes off the walls. A handful of thugs leaps up on the table and drags me down into the center of the room, in the middle of the square of tables. The tumbler and bottle I was holding smash on the floor.

A typogram from the Shadow pops up again. And only seventeen of those punches will you actually deserve.

There’s still time to earn your share, I send back.

My stomach is a hard knot of either poison or anxiety or both. If the Shadow doesn’t crack soon, this depressing chamber of outlaws will be the last thing I ever see. Even if I get the antidote, things are looking worse by the second.

At that moment, I catch sight of a servant, balancing a large three-tier cake in his hands. I hardly breathe as I watch him approach the Hells Raider. There’s still a chance. A chance that this will all break and I’ll get out of here alive.

The Hells Raider’s bearded mouth curves up in a smile as my captors pull me in front of his table. He settles back in his seat as the cake is set beside him, along with a large butcher knife.

“Must have irked something fierce not to get credit for your last job,” he says. “Huh, killer?”

I stop struggling for a second, caught off-guard. “What are you talking about?”

“I knew missing out on the prestige would draw you to the next, even bigger, prize,” he says with a sneer. “So I hacked into your pathetic assassins’ listing forum and took credit for the hit on Westpaw before you had the chance.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I glance over the mass of jeering outlaws, trying to find the Shadow’s gaze. There’s still no indication of who it is, but a message pops up in my inlay a second later.

I told you it wasn’t me, didn’t I?

No. It was a trap, set by someone completely different. I almost feel like I owe the Shadow an apology. But screw that. It’s the Shadow’s fault I’m standing here. I’m not feeling particularly apologetic.

The Raider waves a finger in a loose circle. “Take your turns, friends. I’ll wait ‘til the end.” He caresses that butcher knife as he watches me.

Someone behind me wraps an arm around my neck to hold me still while the first person steps out of the roaring crowd to approach me. It’s the tattooed fellow with the facemask. His eyes glitter as he pulls back his fist. I brace myself. This is really going to hurt.

But before the punch falls, a voice rings out from somewhere in the back. “You honestly think Krait up there could kill almost forty people, one by one, in twenty-five days’ time? You must be as dumb as the victims were.”

I can’t tell anything from the Shadow’s voice – it’s just digitally-modulated enough to sound as generic as possible – but that’s hardly the point. My play worked. A smile cracks my face. Now I just have to free myself and find whoever’s talking before this crowd rips ‘em apart. And even then, I should still be able to pull the antidote off the Shadow’s body.

I try to turn my head, but the arm around my neck is holding me immobile, despite the fact that the crowd’s attention has shifted. Someone laughs loudly, while other voices rise in annoyance. If weapons were allowed in the Hells Raider’s dining chambers, I’m sure there would have been gunfire by now.

The Shadow’s voice continues, as if unaware of the danger. “Now a real assassin, on the other hand, can take out twice that many with one well-timed strike. Which is exactly what makes your intentions here so laughable.”

The words are eerily timed, because at that moment, the man who’d been ready to hit me grabs his stomach. There’s a collective gasp as everyone turns toward him. His face is pale and slick with sweat. He claws at the bottom of his throat, and his tongue comes out in a desperate ploy for air. Then he collapses at my feet, spasming wordlessly in agony.

I stare, horrified. Poison. It has to be. The Shadow’s poison. I turn my head as much as possible, and see others clutching their stomachs, too. Some are fleeing the room. Others are scrambling over tables in a mad rush to get to their killer. And many are gesturing at me, as if I somehow recorded that speech before being captured.

Of course. People start dying, blame an assassin, any assassin. Even if it wasn’t me who decided to kill an entire roomful of people just to make sure one rival was dead by the end of it. For the first time, I wonder just who in the universe I’m dealing with.

The grip around my neck loosens slightly, and I yank myself free. I glance back to see the room in total chaos. With a sinking feeling, I realize there’s virtually no hope of finding my murderer before the Shadow’s poison tears through my body and takes me down, too. So instead, I lurch forward and grab that butcher knife off the table, then plunge it into the cake.

My blood hornets are set free. A week before, I’d given them samples of the Hells Raider’s blood, priming them for this very moment when he’d cut the cake open and they’d swarm out, drawn to the scent of him in droves. The Hells Raider scrambles back in a panic as a cloud of yellow and black hornets rises from the cake, with a horrendous buzzing audible even over the screams of seventy people. I lean over the table, hand to my cramping stomach, and feel something close to satisfaction as I watch weeks of preparation pay off. Even if the Shadow’s poison would have killed the Hells Raider, I managed to get there first.

Worth it.

I start to push myself up, but at that moment, someone grabs the back of my neck and forces me face-first onto the table. A voice speaks in my ear. “Well played, Krait, if a bit self-sacrificial.”

I wheeze out a laugh. “I’ve learned to be flexible.”

“I told you I don’t need credit for your kills. I’m miles ahead of where you’ll ever be.”

My gaze goes to the blood hornets swarming around the Hells Raider’s twitching body. They’re already starting to leave him and buzz across the rest of the room. “We might be more even than you think,” I say.

“If that makes you feel better. Sure.”

My stomach cramps again, with a pain that leaves me gasping into the tabletop. A second later, an amber bottle is slammed down next to me.

“Here. You earned this.”

I grab it, twisting the cap and upending the vial into my mouth. It’s a black and gritty mixture that almost makes me gag, but I gulp it down with painful efficiency. By the time I lower it, spitting the taste from my mouth, the assassin beside me has vanished. I compose a quick message and send it off.

You knew exactly who I was. You didn’t need to poison everyone in the room.

The answer, unexpectedly, comes out loud. “But I did. Because I didn’t know who you were until the moment you choked on your wine and I had to save your ass.”

I spin, grabbing the butcher knife from the table as I turn. A figure in gold stands not ten feet away, watching me. It’s the punker in shades I was sitting next to at the table. But the shades are gone now, revealing huge black augmented eyes in a brown-skinned face studded with metal enhancements. Both her clothes and face are spattered with blood.

We size each other up, the Shadow in her gold-tipped undercut and me with my knife, face to face for the first time.

“But you mentioned the barbell–” I began.

“Yeah. I was looking at the wrong person.” She studies me critically. “So who gets credit for the Hells Raider kill?”

“I do,” I say. “Obviously.”

Her lip curls. “And the body count?”

I scan the room. The body count is… high. Some of it is poison, some the blood hornets, and some is evidenced by the blood splashed across the Shadow. And it’s all because this long-time feud has moved into the public arena. I can’t fight the feeling that if we don’t end this now, we’ll just end up here again someday – two assassins surrounded by dead bodies and an unfinished tally strong enough we can taste it. There has to be a better way.

“Fine,” the Shadow is saying, “this one time, let’s split the count down the middle–”

“No,” I break in. “Let’s share it.”

She blinks. A single word ghosts across my inlay. WHAT.

“A pair of assassins together inspires far more fear than a single one. And our tally will always be higher than it would be alone. You have to admit, it gets hard keeping track after a while.”

A smile slowly creeps across her face. “Are you suggesting a partnership with someone who’s tried to kill you three times now?”

“And I’ve tried killing you twice. But who’s keeping score?”

She raises an eyebrow, and my lip quirks in acknowledgment. I send a message through the inlay. Fine. I owe you one.

And after that, she answers, then we’ll talk. With a wink, she walks out of the room, stepping over the bodies without glancing back.

I start to send another message, but I stop myself. Because this isn’t how we play the game. It’s a new board, a new test, a new set of challenges, but the end goal – at least for me – has always remained the same. I would kill to have the Shadow on my side.

I have an assassination to plan.

*****************************************************

"Fun," Maya says. She's smiling. "You don't often get a fun story about assassins."

"You don't often get spiced sweet potato soup for lunch, either," he says, handing her a bowl. "This is great."

"You didn't get the cake?" Maya asks, taking the soup bowl. 

"No, too hard to avoid the blood hornets," he says.

"The spicing in the soup is the best," Maya says. "I really liked them making friends. I like stories where people make friends."

They finish eating, go to the bathroom to wash their hands, come back and tidy up a little around their seating area, then sit back down again. The cat is still asleep on the librarian's desk.

"What's next?" Maya asks.

"Alexandra Rowland, The King is Dead," he says, handing her a book. "Complete short story."

She takes it, and they read.