Chapter 3: Fox
Tennessee 2085
Tiger Hunt
“Tracker, report to the Briefing Room for immediate deployment,” the voice ordered over the wall comm. “Repeat, Tracker, report to the Briefing Room for immediate deployment.” Tracker’s vulpine ears swiveled towards the speaker.
”Received,” Tracker replied, reaching up to touch the ‘acknowledge’ button on the comm display. He leaned back in his chair, stretching the kinks out of his neck and rubbing his eyes. He checked the time in the corner of his computer display and noted with surprise that he’d been reading for over two hours. He marked his place in the psychology text on screen, then logged out of the Base library and stood up.
Reaching for the bright yellow half-cape hanging beside the desk, he swung it over his shoulders and fastened the collar around his neck to secure it. He then reached over to the rack on the wall and picked up his sword and belt, fastening the wide belt over the waistband of his Defenders-green kilt and slipping the sheath of the valtan through the loop at his hip, adjusting the fit so everything fell neatly into place. The sword was a Valani design that looked much like a cross between the Japanese katana and the shorter, straighter Ninja sword. He’d worn it ever since he started his training as a youth with Castile. It was what he’d been trained on and, in his opinion, there was no better weapon for close-in fighting. Long enough to give him reach against a knife-wielding foe yet agile enough to be effective against common brawlers, it almost perfectly complemented his own quickness and dexterity in a hand-to-hand battle.
He strode down the hall, walking with an easy, stalking grace that covered ground quickly. 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. Even so, he knew it wasn’t enough.
During his last session with Doctor Carter, a base psychologist and an ordained Minister of the United Christian Churches, he’d asked, “What makes a human a person?” Castile had constantly reminded him of his subhuman status; that his sole purpose was to obey orders even if such obedience meant his life. He knew he could never be a true person, but if he could mimic them — gain enough respect by proving himself, as he was slowly accomplishing here — maybe he could defuse some of that human antipathy against himself and against EPs.
Instead of answering his question, the doctor responded with, “I don’t know. Why don’t you try to figure it out and you tell me at our next session?” Tracker tried. He first turned to the Base library, focussing on Psychology and history for his main reading. The societal and racial prejudice he discovered so historically prevalent even against their own species gave him little hope for an answer. Unless that was the answer. He hoped not.
He rounded the corner and espied Scott Nolan, another charter member of the Defenders, standing in the open door of the elevator up to the hangar level.
”Heading for the Briefing Room, too, Tracker?” Scott asked, stepping aside and holding the doors open.
”Yes, sir,” Tracker replied, padding into the elevator. He moved back into the rear corner, alert and ready, but out of the way in the event anyone chose to join them on the way up. Scott punched for the hangar level, then yawned and ran his fingers through his tousled blond hair.
Tracker flared his nostrils, scenting the air as they rode upwards. Human sweat; pheromones; a woman’s musk and the complex scent of perfume; Scott’s been rutting again, Tracker thought. JoAnn, this time, from the clerical pool. He snorted softly, clearing his nose. Yesterday, Becky. Just last week, some other woman from off base. Tracker grinned slightly to himself. If only Scott knew how much his scent carries after one of his bouts. He certainly enjoys the thrill of the chase, though.
In fact, Scott enjoys everything. He meets challenges and dangers head-on on all fronts. In combat, he reeks so much of adrenaline and excitement that it smothers whatever fear he might be feeling. And he meets the Press afterwards with the same battle-light in his eyes as though he were still in combat.
He thought back on what he knew of Scott. He could pass for a Normal, but he chose to take advantage of his enhancements. Instead of hiding them, Scott emphasized his abnormally high reflexes. His outgoing personality made him the darling of the press and the fact that he went out of his way to help anyone in trouble, no matter who, made him a popular subject of their reports, though not always in the best of lights.
The thrill of the fight and his deep commitment to mutant equality were the reasons he joined the Defenders at their founding. After the time he stopped a terrorist hijacking on the cruise ship Sea Star, he had gone on tour for two weeks with media 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 his black-furred hands, flicked his ears and thought, some things can never be.
Scott yawned again and fastened the belt of his metallic-weave ballistic suit, a 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.
