Her name is Anemone. Sometimes Nemi, sometimes Moni. She one time decided to start calling herself Noni, but she ditched that one quickly. Flighty, fickle and irrational. Energetic, creative and charming. I've only ever met two kinds of people in the galaxy during my travels. People who love Anemone, and people who can't stand her.
I used to be one of those, but now I am the other.
Three weeks ago, I learned that she was here in the Lathe sector, eastern spiral arm of our galaxy at about four o'clock. She took a shuttle that set her down on the fourth planet out from the sun, on a long and spindly archipelago of islands off the coast of a grand, volcanic continent. There were only so many cities I had to search. I set a programmed watch for her on the planetary civic defence network. And thirty minutes ago, I caught her.
I could not afford to be reckless with my precious time. I packed only what I needed, and I made landfall at once.
Now, I step up towards a nightclub called The Counting House. A quick scan of the club's logs in the government database tells me that the building used to be a public-owned accounting institution before the planet's paradigm lurch towards private, independent services. Now, the building's basement is a labyrinth of cathedralesque arches framing score upon score of sealed subterranean vaults. The precious belongings are gone, so they filled them with music and people. According to reviews, the acoustics are priceless.
The Counting House secures its entertainment from the rabble by way of a computerised bio-recorder set into a panel beside the double doors of the entrance. Guests line up along the front wall of the building and place their hands on the panel, one at a time, when they want to enter. The AI keeps track of how many people are inside and holds that number at a safe level, only admitting the next in line when space is freed up for them. And the line is kept in relative order by the trundling, lumpy white shapes of protective, robotic servitors, armed first with demanding voices and then, when diplomacy breaks down, with charged lightning. It's decent security for a planet of this technology level. Unfortunately for them, it is still behind the curve on the galactic stage.
I arrive at the building from the road leading up the hill from the city centre and ignore the queue to head straight for the door. There are angry protests from some of the visitors when they catch sight of what I am doing, but I can ignore them. And the servitors can't even see me. Where natural eyes witness a tall human male, pale of skin and dressed in a sleeveless jacket and cargo trousers suitable for a temperature much colder than this tropic balm, the machines see only an imperceptible blur.
There's a small gaggle of partiers holding the fort at the head of the line, and a dusky-skinned woman with the tall, feline ears and swooshing tail of the planet's native populace has her hand pressed ready on the entry panel. It has already determined she is old enough to enter and has no criminal record, so she just waits for space. She casts me a caustic yellow glare as I come to stand in front of her, and then begins shouting angrily when I put my own hand next to hers on the panel. The programme I let slip into the digital infrastructure through implants in my palm is a familiar one, and it does its work swiftly. The door clicks open.
I move to the entrance and open it up. Then, feeling bold, I turn in the entryway and nod for the feline girl to come along too. Her demeanour immediately changes to delighted mischief as she and her fellows, and then the entire line, march forward to enter the club unimpeded. I'm not yet sure what I will be required to do tonight, but a little chaos in the halls of my hunt will only help, I reckon.
In the entry hall, music roars skyward from a set of stone stairs leading deeper into the vaults of the club, and I move down confidently. My ears are assailed by heavy bass, a thrumming that my primate brain confuses for my own unhealthy heartrate, but I push that aside. I don't recognise the song that is playing. I assume it's a bespoke piece made for clubs, judging by how well the bass-heavy rhythm matches the music system that The Counting House is using.
In the basement vault complex, the dance floor is crowded. It is a night for parties on the archipelago, apparently, and the people have heard the siren song of celebration. There's a long, wooden bar for drinks on the eastern wall in front of one of the more prominent vault hatches. A second bar's digital signature, its cash register and employee communication system, can be
felt
through my implants. It's on the far southern wall beyond the brimming dance floor, likely an overflow service for the guests at the back of the hall. The music is provided by a semi-automated audio system that I also feel with my senses. I use my digital scan to imagine the brilliant data-lights of the tangled wires in the round, stone pillars winding up into one of The Counting House's disused offices where the music system is being controlled. Each pillar has a square interface for guests of the club to make their own requests to the overseer.
Bright colours. Flashing lights. Incomprehensible sounds. Heat and scent. How long has it been since I was witness to so many lives at once, all crammed together and burning with the desire to represent themselves to their fellows? I take a moment to lean back against the wall to the right of the entrance to acclimatise myself to my chaotic surroundings. I let the lights and music saturate my skin and then deeper, my very spirit. The music calls me to move, and I acknowledge the urge even as I push it aside. I need this to be my space before I get to work. I can't let myself get distracted. Not when my target is Anemone, who is so very, very distracting.
The feline girl from the entrance steps into the vault now with her little group of friends. Her dress is indecently short, and her tail is an assailing whip of excited activity at her back. She turns and spies me, then waves. She gestures for me to follow. It's a nice offer, but I wave my own hand in dismissal. She shrugs and moves off into the crowd with her friends. They have to force their way through the mess of dancers in order to reach the bar. And that is where she is...
This is why I had to take a moment to calm myself before getting underway. Seeing her again after all this time takes the breath out of my lungs. The surrounding people seem to slow and freeze mid-sway, and the frenetic lighting overhead seemingly bends out of alignment to touch her gently, illuminating her with a multicoloured halo. I stare. I glare.
Anemone is human, like me. That isn't her real name. But these days, what does 'real name' even matter? It isn't like Anemone herself even sticks with one nickname for longer than a year. I understand that she originally came from a backwater world in the Alpha Centauri galaxy, but she told me that she doesn't remember any of her time there. She was discovered as a baby on a primitive long-haul extragalactic shuttle leaving the galaxy, was raised by smugglers, and that was the start of her life. A life spent untethered from the concept of 'home'.
Anemone is pretty, even I can appreciate that. It's part of why we worked so well together. Me with my implants and resources, my ability to wheedle my way into computers and ingratiate myself with simple AI. Her with that attractive, stylish aura, her network of contacts across the galaxy and her winning smile. There's also her skill with a blaster and ability to wrangle any ship's helm into obedience. My careful attention to detail and seamless plans of action. Her impulsiveness, my consideration. My brains, her good looks. When I was wary, she was impulsive. And even when there was chaos in the aftermath, her smile made my anxiety shrink away.
She is wearing her hair short tonight in a tangle of colourful spikes like a particularly eccentric hedgehog. Crimson red at the crown turning to peach pink, then dusky orange and tipped with brilliant yellow that glows in the dark. Must have taken her some time. She has a woven strand of longer hair at her fringe on one side of her face which she has tied into a braid using a metallic charm in the shape of a butterfly. I'm not sure how she stops it bonking her on the nose whenever she shakes her head. Maybe she just doesn't say no to anything. Her eyes are a shining, shimmering, sunset orange, clearly visible in the dark of the club, which is also not her natural colour. She likes to be colourful, does Anemone.
And that is reflected in her outfit most of all. Anemone doesn't purchase clothes, which is the norm across civil parts of the galaxy. Anemone
acquires
clothes. They are either gifts from allies or loot from scavenged derelicts, sometimes even taken from the restrained forms of her more stylish enemies. If they fit, great. If not, she cuts them up and restitches them into new shapes and designs. Her wardrobe is a dizzying array of colour, a vast collection of fabric patchworks of art. Tonight, she is wearing a thin, cotton t-shirt that is white down to the swell of her bust, then pink around the tightness of her waist. She has topped this with a jacket of a thicker, woven material that I assume must be wool, and this is a minty green in colour. I don't see signs of customisation in the fabric's shape, but splotches of black on the cuffs and around the collar tell me that she has chosen this shade of green intentionally and dyed the jacket to her liking. It's short, coming down to just under her chest, but the sleeves are long and occlude the soft wrists of her slim, dextrous hands. Her skirt is frilled at the hem and reaches her mid-thigh. The pleats flow and bounce in time with her movements, and since Anemone is incapable of stillness, this means they are always flowing. Three quarters around her hips in a plaid material, but then one quarter on her left flank that is solid black and considerably shorter, clearly an addition to make the tighter plaid fit around her waist. The shortness on that one side is enough to be scandalous, but the creamy swell of her thigh is enough to hide her underwear, just barely. Thick socks, odd of course, are bunched up around her calves above a pair of sporty, white sneakers. When enough of the crowd moves to let me see, I can identify wear on the heels from all her walking, all her dancing, and even when not moving, the idle bouncing she uses to offset her vast reserves of energy.
She is smiling mischievously. That's her default. Anemone has painted one of her round cheeks with a purple sigil that looks like a stylised image of a roaring tiger, and her smile makes the beast yowl. I imagine it's an image from the local culture, given their feline heritage. Her eyes are framed in a dusting of purple that shines slightly with glitter, and her lips are her natural pink but shimmering with gloss. She has early wrinkles along the corners of her mouth, because she smiles a lot. She hasn't taken measures to hide those little folds framing her lips. She always smiles, and people love her.
I cannot stand her.
Before I realise what I am doing, I am pushing towards her through the crowd. I can feel the plastic lump of my needle accelerator concealed under my sleeveless jacket like a solid, deadly tumour. I hope I don't have to use it. But if I do, at least I know it doesn't kill. The needles are bespoke ammunition of my own design, and are filled with a firm, carbon solution that melts at body temperature when the needle impacts the skin. Inside the target's body, it expands to form a simple digital framework that I can then cast my programming into from a distance. It seizes the muscles and binds the bones. A perfect weapon for a bounty hunter. I can also feel the weight on the back of my belt from a small utility pack with some other means of keeping her from escaping, and I would rather use those if I can. Anemone knows all this. She knows the full arsenal I usually bring to an operation. But I don't see or sense a weapon of her own on her body tonight.
But she
