"Hey buddy, gotta light?" by Nathan ´Daetrin´ Fierro

    "Hey buddy, gotta light?"

    The voice, flat and uninflected, came from a centaur, of the female persuasion, dressed in ragged street clothes, with a pink- and blue-dyed mane and tail. I felt my companion stiffen with an indrawn breath at the sight. Centaurs weren’t as common south of the New Delhi Waste, but it was no excuse for Sentau’s reaction. He was a xenophobe, and as odious a man as it had been my displeasure to encounter in my line of work. But, as they say, you can only pick your friends.

    "Of course," I said, and withdrew my lighter from an inside pocket. It was one of those heavy silver affairs, with a rose pattern inlay. I palmed a hundred from my jacket and slipped it into her cuff as I lit her cigarette. Although the chances that a centaur I met on the street was related to anyone I knew back in the Big Apple, I still felt the weight of obligation. And, right now, I could spare that hundred.

    Here in Pasadena I had made over three hundred grand in the space of a month. Pasadena was an old city, with its inside rotting from the weight of thousands of misguided fools who had come to make their fortune, and now lived and begged and fought and died on the dangerous streets of the inner city. Neon lights and black buildings, skyscrapers and tenements, the old, the infirm and the insane, the young, the strong, and the bold, the dregs of society and the cream of the elite, and murder and politics, and art and graffiti, and hope and despair, and that was Pasadena.

    And right now it was my home.

    As we strode away from the centaur, Sentau hissed into my ear, "what are you doing? That was a centaur, not some harmless old bum!"

    I nodded to him. "Indeed it was. Marvelous powers of perception there, old boy. Was there a point you wanted to make?" There was nothing to gain by baiting him, except my own satisfaction. He was merely a messenger for those who were interested in hiring me, and he obviously was not happy with the designation.

    His face reddened and instead of replying he walked down the street all the faster. I shook my head and followed.

----

    "So, you want me to find the leaders of the Nonhuman Rights Coalition for you? It’s a cell organization, you know how hard that is to crack!"

    "We have complete confidence in your abilities, Mr. McCabry." There were five of them, all in shadow so I couldn’t see their faces. I wanted to laugh at the childish setup; it seemed they had taken something out of James Bond. Of course, I already knew who they were, but if I were them I would have used a scrambled video call.

    "Yes, yes, I’m sure you do." I pretended to think for a moment, then leaned back in my chair-real leather, I noticed-and said, "so what do you want me to do with them when I find them? Should they disappear, or do you want their corpses found a few days later, or what?" I hoped this lead question would show me what they were committed to before I actually accepted the job.

    "That won’t be necessary, Mr. McCabry." The one on the far right spoke, and he sounded uneasy. It was Duncan Freyley, a "Pure City" politician. None of the others would have flinched at cutting throats. "We just want you to identify and capture them for us."

    "I see," I said, "and what do you propose to pay me?"

    This time, the one second from the left, Orley Davis, head of a major manufacturing corporation, spoke. "The initial pay will be two million, with a one-hundred-thousand dollar for each day before the deadline."

    I almost whistled. That type of money meant these people wanted NRC out of the way quickly. Instead I looked grim, and said, "acceptable. I’ll need a half-mil in advance though, for expenses, you understand. I don’t suppose you have any information on meetings of the NRC?"

    "I’m afraid not, Mr. McCabrey." Freyley shook his head. "We haven’t been able to get anyone inside their organization."

    "Oh, well," I sighed, getting up out of my chair. "I had to ask. You have the money?" In response to some invisible signal, the door opened and a security guard handed me a small briefcase. I flipped it open, and with practiced fingers counted the contents. Fifty packets of one hundred C-notes, not that anyone would cheat me. I offered the supposedly faceless figures on the raised dais above me a bow, then walked out the door.

    I changed cabs three times on the way back to my apartment, once after a subway ride across the city. I left the briefcase and the tracking device within it on the train, and kept the money, removing those bands and three notes who also had trackers on them. The bands went into a garbage truck, and the bills into the hands of three drunks in the park.

    After I got back to my apartment I reclined in an armchair and lit a cigarette with my fingers, not bothering with the lighter. People with magical abilities are even rarer then centaurs in Pasadena, and it wasn’t prudent to be known as one. Even innocent street charlatans had been found hanging flayed in empty warehouses.

    I leaned back and thought about the situation in Pasadena. The centaurs had no legal existence, thus the need for an organization like the NRC. Many of the rich in Pasadena had no desire to see the status quo disturbed, when the exploitation of hundreds or thousands was what kept their backsides firmly in silk cushions. Others, like Sentau and Freyley, were xenophobic and wanted to keep centaurs as far away from humans, in status and distance, as they could.

    However, there were enough forward-thinkers in the government that the Nonhuman Citizenship Bill or some variation thereof, had a real chance of passing. That is why Freyley, Davis, and the rest wanted the organization dissolved, so there would be nothing to put pressure on the government.

    Deciding to leave the heavy thinking for tomorrow, I hauled myself off to bed and sleep.

    At 03:04 I woke up with a jolt. For a second I wondered what had caused me to jerk awake like that, but then I heard a noise I recognized: the clicking of the lock in my apartment door. I got up quickly; I hadn’t bothered to undress for this precise reason. I checked my .38 pistol, then I vanished into the shadows by the door. A quick glance out the window showed that someone was waiting outside, a centaur. As the two men moved into the room, I moved silently in behind them, and knocked them out with quick blows to the neck. A cursory inspection showed that I didn’t know either. Good. I dragged each to a chair and tied them in with a strong blackened rope I had in my belongings.

    I opened my window without a sound, then moved out into the wall of the building. Calculating distances, I dropped to the ground by the centaur and jabbed her on the spine, in two places, and her horse half collapsed to the ground. I put my hand across her mouth and whispered into her ear, "don’t say a word." She moved her head slightly, and I could see her face.

    "You!" I said. It was the pink-haired centaur woman from that morning. Some part of me was not surprised, and I wondered if my intermittent prescience had been working that day.

    I took my hand off her mouth and motioned that she could speak quietly.

    "What did you do with my…men?" She asked. She sounded angry and a little afraid, not that I blamed her, especially since she was nearly helpless with only her human torso working.

    I motioned over my shoulder. "They’re tied up in my apartment, they won’t be up for a few hours yet." I put my hand on her back, allowing small spurt of power to speed up the recovery of her bruised nerves. "Let me help you up." I partially levitated her horse half up into a standing position, and she staggered a few times before she recovered herself.

    "Why are you helping me?" She said. "You were sent to kill us!" I reflected that either the NRC had better informants than I had thought, or I was getting old and slow. I hoped it wasn’t the latter. "And how’d you do that?" She finished, looking at me with some degree of trepidation.

    "Trade secret," I said, and winked at her. "And believe me, dear lady, I won’t harm a single pink hair on your head." I took her by the arm, and she started to pull away, but thought better of it. "And now, I believe I shall escort you home. Ladies shouldn’t be out on the streets by themselves, it’s dangerous." She reluctantly started walking down the road, and I noticed her hooves were muffled so they wouldn’t clatter against the pavement.

    With physical contact, I was in and out of her mind quickly enough she didn’t notice anything. Her name was Larissa D’Amonte, and she was in one of the highest echelons of the NRC organization. I snatched the time and place of the next meeting out of her head, but I wondered at my luck. How likely was it that I would meet just the person I needed so soon?

    After we arrived at her residence, I murmured in her ear, "I’ll drop the men off near here in a few hours. Have a nice night." Before she could protest I melted back into the shadows. I was back in my apartment in less than five minutes.

    Although it was awkward to carry the two men, I dumped them off a block away from Larissa’s residence, avoiding the occasional patrol that was no doubt meant to find me.

    Back in my apartment I made a quick repair on the lock, then went to bed to resume my much-needed rest.

    The next several days were spent avoiding centaurs and tags alike, while scouting out the supposed meeting site for the NRC. I also took pictures and wrote reports on the horrible living and working conditions that the centaurs were forced to endure. Although a few centaurs made enough money to keep a private place, they had no means to keep it, since they couldn’t own land.

    I wasn’t entirely sure that the Nonhuman Rights Coalition would meet after my meeting with Larissa, but I was ready just in case.

    Sure enough, during the day, centaurs and a very few humans began filtering into the designated tenement. From the outside, it would look like normal traffic. However, these people did not leave it, instead spreading into various rooms and conversing with others. At 15:08 Larissa arrived, her characteristic pink mane and tail making her easy to spot. At 16:59 three centaurs came through a back door most people would swear didn’t exist. Larissa went over and talked to them, and although I couldn’t hear what she said the expression on her face told me enough. I moved from my observation post to just behind Larissa as one centaur, obviously the leader, stepped forward to speak. The entire gathering went silent as she cleared her throat.

    "My fellow NRC members, humans and centaurs alike, we now face an obstacle that I hoped we never would have to. Our mole has reported that certain members of the government and industry have hired an assassin to deal with the Nonhuman Rights Coalition. He goes by the name of McCabry, and Larissa here has already had an encounter with him." She nodded to Larissa. "Go ahead, dear."

    Larissa stepped forward and began relating the misadventures of the other night. As she spoke, I could tell that although she was afraid of me, she didn’t actively dislike me. When she finished the leader again stepped forward. "What we have to contend with is someone who can take out both of our best operatives, has some degree of magical ability, and can move quickly and silently enough to avoid us. The only way we found him in the first place was that someone got lucky and saw him enter the apartment."

    I judged this was as good a time as any, and I stepped forward and said, "surely, madam, I am not as bad as all that?" Larissa blanched, her face turning white, and the leaders, whose name I didn’t know yet, took a step backward. Several weapons were leveled at me. "Now, now," I said, grinning, "is that any way to treat a guest?" Assuming a more serious mien, I continued, "besides, if I wanted to do anything I already could have." The lead centaur looked at me, then gestured for her men to lower their weapons. One of them protested, "but Dalith…!"

    "He’s right," she said, "he didn’t have to reveal himself, and he’s obviously been here for awhile. Nothing we do now will make a difference."

    "Quite right," said I, "but the situation isn’t as bad as you think. First order of business…" I said, and reached into my coat. Several people tensed, bur relaxed as I drew out one of the ten thousand dollar packets I had gotten from Davis, Freyley, and co. I gave it to Larissa, who took it with a stunned look, and then pulled out nineteen more from various pockets. "That’s my first contribution." I said, gesturing at Larissa’s armful of money.

    Dalith looked at me doubtfully. "Why are you helping us if you’ve been hired to kill us?"

    I said to her, "have you ever heard of a centaur called Gabryl Tse?"

    As I told her, Gabryl had saved my life several times over, and I was about as deep in debt to him as it was possible to be. In honor, not money. Therefore, when Gabryl found he needed my services, I was only too happy to oblige. When he dispatched me southward with only vague instructions on aiding a specific centaur, he did not realize how badly off centaurs were down here. I had taken it on myself to improve their lot, and the best way to do that was to find out why their lot was bad in the first place. This lead to finding out about the nonhuman citizenship laws, and the people who kept them in place. Since the first rule is to know thy enemy, I took steps to let myself get hired by them.

    "But why should we trust you?" Dalith asked.

    "You haven’t a choice, my lady. I just want you to be alert when the time comes."

    "Alert? What time? What are you talking about?"

    "You’ll know, trust me."

    I bowed and vanished, leaving the lot of them wondering what had happened. As I flew over the city I smiled to myself. A lot was going to happen in Pasadena soon.

    The next day Orley Davis died in a car crash. In the following week, Duncan Freyley was shot by his wife, who then killed herself. Justin Pike, CEO of a textiles conglomerate, commited suicide by jumping off an eighty-story building. Zachary and Timothy Robertson, Pure City aristocrats, died in a house fire of epic proportions. Hundreds of minor officials caught a mysterious disease, and were quarentined in a hospital before they died. Many wills left possessions in a trustee fund that funneled money to the NRC.

    The Nonhuman Citizenship Act, devoid of any opponents, passed the next month.

    Neon lights and black buildings, skyscrapers and tenements, the old, the infirm and the insane, the young, the strong, and the bold, the dregs of society and the cream of the elite, and murder and politics, and art and graffiti, and hope and despair, and that was Pasadena. And now, so were the centaurs.

    I never got to collect the other 1.5 million from my would-be hirers, but such are the fortunes of war.