Chapter 1: Search
“Tracker, report to the Briefing Room,” the voice of the Comm officer ordered. Tracker’s vulpine ears swiveled towards the wall speaker.
”Received,” Tracker replied. He leaned back in front of his computer terminal, stretched the kinks out of his neck and rubbed his eyes. He checked the time, and noted with surprise that he’d been reading for over two hours. He marked his place in the psychology book, then logged out of the Base library and stood up.
He swung a cape around his furred shoulders and twitched his kilt into place, buckled on his sword belt and left the suite. The Valani valtan, looking much like the Japanese katana, bumped reassuringly against his hip as he walked. It was what he’d been trained on, and there was nothing better for close-in fighting in his opinion.
A construct built from fox and human genetic material for Castile, he looked like a fox, covered with red fur shading to white on his belly and to black on his forearms and hands and also down his digitigrade hindfoot and paws. He stood just under six feet tall to the tips of his ears as he strode down the hall, walking with an easy, stalking grace. His narrow vulpine face was alive, nose and ears twitching as he automatically identified and cataloged the scents and sounds around him. He prided himself on being constantly alert, the best at what he did.
As he made his way to the elevator leading down to the garage level, he thought about the book he’d been reading. The current chapter was entitled ‘Religion in America During the Bloody Years’, referring to the aftermath of a battle between the two groups of aliens who fought in Earth’s skies and irradiated humans with the fallout of their mutual destruction. Many of the radical Christian sects had branded the resultant mutants as creatures of Satan. Two years later, more responsible elements of the churches banded together. This solidified into the United Christian Church. Working with the remanent of the nation’s government, hey came out actively against mutant-hunts and hid both mutants and non-mutants from the mobs. When the Federal Office for Research and Control of the Enhanced, FORCE, was established, the U.C.C. was among the first to support them. They emerged from the Bloody Years as the only significant Christian church.
During his last session with Doctor Carter, one of the Base psychologists as well as an ordained U.C.C. Minister, he’d asked, “What makes a human a person?” He knew he’d been created as a tool – primarily as a scout — by Castile. The paramilitary group had added bionics to what his father had bred. Despite this, they forcefully reminded him of his subhuman status and that his sole purpose was to obey orders?to the death if necessary. He knew he could never be a person, but if he could mimic them, and gain respect through proving himself as he was slowly doing here, maybe he could defuse some of the human antipathy.
Instead of answering his question, the doctor had surprised him by replying, ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you try to figure it out and we’ll discuss it at our meeting next month?’ Tracker turned to the Base library for the information. He focussed on Psychology and history as his main reading and searched in vain for answers.
He rounded the corner and espied Scott Nolan, another charter member of the Defenders, in the open door of the elevator. ”Heading for the Briefing Room, too, Tracker,” Scott asked as he stepped aside to let Tracker enter.
”Yes, sir,” Tracker replied, padding into the elevator. He moved back against the rear wall, alert and ready, but out of the way.
Scott punched for the garage level, then yawned and ran his fingers through his tousled blond hair. Tracker flared his nostrils, sniffing. Human sweat; pheromones; a woman’s musk and the complex scent of her perfume. Scott had been rutting again, this time with JoAnn, a woman in the clerical pool. Tracker had smelled Becky’s scent on Scott yesterday. And just last week, Scott had come back to Base with an unknown woman’s scent on him.
Tracker grinned slightly. Scott enjoyed the thrill of the chase. In fact, it seemed to Tracker that Scott enjoyed everything, and met challenges and dangers head-on on all fronts. In combat, he reeked more of adrenaline and excitement than fear, and met the Press afterwards with the same battle-light in his eyes. Scott was an Enhanced Person, or EP. Although he could have passed for a Normal, Scott emphasized his abnormally high reflexes instead of playing them down, and the Press loved him. The thrill of the fight and a deep commitment to mutant equality were the reasons he was in the Defenders. After the time he stopped the terrorist hijacking of the cruise ship Sea Star, he had gone on tour for two weeks with interviews and talk shows, constantly pushing one message — mutants were human, too.
Tracker both respected Scott and envied him. If there was one thing that Tracker wanted, it was to pass as a Normal. He glanced at the red fur covering his body, flicked his ears, and thought, some things could never be.
Scott yawned again and fastened the belt of his metallic-weave ballistic suit, the high-tech version of chain mail. His ballistic suit was of the Defenders forest-green. Over it, he wore the forest-green duty uniform shirt with the blue D on the shoulder. “Any idea what they want, Tracker?”
Tracker shook his head. “No, sir.” The elevator sighed to a stop.
They entered the Briefing Room, Tracker again deferring to Scott. Colonel Carfield, Director of Field Operations, seated behind the conference table, looked up. Scott spun one of the chairs around and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the back. Tracker slid his bushy tail through the opening in the back of his chair, ears erect as he waited for instructions.
Tracker had defected from Castile, going to FORCE and turning his old masters in as subversives. After debriefing him and studying him for half a year, FORCE had sent him to the Defenders. Frequently, FORCE sent EPs and others to the Defenders that wouldn’t fit well in the more strictly regimented FORCE brigades but who could be useful and effective in supporting FORCE’s cause. Here he had found security and a measure of acceptance. He was still using his skills at someone else’s orders, but here he was respected, if not liked, whereas at Castile he had simply been used, with little thanks.
”Good morning, gentlemen,” Carfield said. “The Chattanooga Police have reports of a large tiger loose in the low-income area of the Yards. They have seen evidence of the tiger, but have not been able to locate it. They want our help before a panic erupts. This is primarily your mission, Tracker. Scott, I want you to interface with the police and coordinate things there. Any questions?”
Scott frowned. “Why us, sir? I don’t mind being sent on an easy mission, but I would think that the police could handle a simple animal-retrieval mission without us.”
Before the Colonel could answer, Tracker said, “Could the tiger have some sort of enhanced ability to conceal itself, sir?”
”I don’t know,” the colonel admitted. “And neither did the police when I asked them. But the police can’t find it. It may be enhanced, so that’s why I’m sending you two.
”Captain Jones will drive the hovervan for you.” The colonel leaned back. “Collect what you’ll need and get on it, gentlemen.”
Scott stood up. “Can do, sir.” He glanced at Tracker, who looked expectantly at him. “At the hangar in ten minutes, Tracker?”
The fox rose and nodded. “I’ll be there, sir.”
