FORESTS OF THE MGHT
37
consequence. Binder doesn't know who runs MLI. Anything else?"
"What's your name?"
Nohar heard the engine start up again. As the door closed with its pneumatic hiss, Nohar heard the frank say, "You can call me John Smith."
The ugly green van drove away, leaving a pair of divots in the grass. The ghost of the frank's smell remained, emanating from the money Nohar still held in his hand.
Once he took the money, he did the job. No matter what.
No matter what, damn it.
Nohar put the money in one of the cavernous pockets of his trenchcoat. Now that he was on the job, he pulled out his camera, slipped in a ramcard, and started recording the funeral.
CHAPTER 3
The ATM was half a block from Nohar's place. To his relief, it appeared to be working. At least the lights were on. He stopped in front of the armored door, and, under the blank stare of the disabled external camera, he pulled his card and slipped it into the slot. The mechanism gave an arthritic wheeze and he feared it was going to eat his card again. Fortunately, the keypad flashed green at him. He punched in his ID number while the servos on the lensless camera followed his every move.
The door slid aside with a grinding noise and he ducked into the too-small room. When the door shut behind him, he finally felt comfortable with all that money on him.
The chair the bank provided was too small to sit on. The best he could do was to lean against it and hunch over, hanging his tail over the back of the seat. Besides, somebody had pissed all over the damn thing.
There was a short burst of static, and a voice came through one of the intact speakers. "Welcome to Society Bank's Green Machine—bzt—Mr. Noharajasthan. Please state clearly what transaction you wish—"
The voice was supposed to be female human, but it was tinny and muffled. Nohar interrupted. "Deposit, Card Account. Ten-Thousand-Dollars."
"Please repeat clearly."
"Deposit. Card Account. Ten-Thousand-Dollars."
"Please type in request."
FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
39
Great, the damn thing couldn't hear him. He typed in the transaction on the terminal.
"Is this a cash transaction?"
It didn't believe him. "Yes," he said and typed at the same time.
A drawer opened under the terminal. Unlike most of the ATM, it seemed to be in perfect working order, "—bzt—please place paper currency in the drawer. There will be a slight pause while the bills are screened."
Nohar placed the two packets of bills in the drawer. Nohar knew that the note of surprise he heard in the ATM's voice was in his own head more than anywhere else. "Your currency checks as valid. Thank you for banking with Society, Mr. Noharajasthan. The current balance on your card account
is—bzt—ten-thousand-one-hundred-ninety-three-dollars and sixty-five cents. You may pick up your card and receipt at the door. Have a nice day."
Nohar left the ATM and turned up the collar of his coat against a sudden burst of more intense rain. He typed in his ID again at the keypad, blinking twice as water got in his eyes. The ATM released his card and the receipt. As he pocketed the items, he noticed a couple of ratboys hanging around across the street.
An ATM in use attracted vermin.
The two ratboys were crossing the street. Nohar had hoped that his appearance would have put them off. Apparently, they were too zoned or too stupid, perhaps both. As they closed he could smell that they were probably on something. Itching for a fight, both of them.
"Kitty."
"Pretty kitty."
Nohar decided to ignore them. All he wanted was to get home and shuck his wet coat. He walked down the road, past them.
The damn rodents didn't seem to know any better. They cut around in front of him, blocking his path.
40
S. ANDREW SWANN
"No, no, wrong, kitty." This rat was a dirty brown, shiny black in the rain. His nose seemed to twitch in time to his spastic tail. He wore an abbreviated leather vest and denim cutoffs. He was taking the lead in this idiotic display. "Doncha know who we are?"
This was more than enough for Nohar. "You're two rodent wetbacks too stoned for your own good. You're future road kill if you keep this up."
The big one—well, the relatively big one, maybe 70 kilos, mostly fat—didn't like that. "We the Ziphead, man, and you better up some bucks for that. We rule
here . . ."
This was nuts. These guys were Latin American cannon fodder. Honduras, Nicaragua, Cuba, Panama, all the Central American countries went for quantity and quick reproduction. Huge standing armies from zero—most of the rats were never even trained to use their weapons.
Two of those, those jokes, were trying to face down someone whose genes had gone through a multibillion dollar evolution simulation to produce the elite troops of the Indian Special Forces. Nohar had no special training, but it was still ludicrous.
He smiled, teeth and all. He couldn't take this seriously. "Ever occur to you I just made a deposit?"
Fearless Leader was put out. "You don't ruck with us—stray—we'll shave you." "We vanish what don't give us respect—"
' 'Stigmata de nada.''
Stupid and stoned. That last line only made sense to them, and they found it uproariously funny. Nohar stepped to the side and left mem to their inside joke.
"Fucking stray," Snick. Bigboy had pulled a weapon, sounded like a knife.
Nohar slowly turned around. Bigboy had a switchblade out and was showing the world that he couldn't use it. It was long, pointed, and had no edge to speak of. Bigboy was swishing the thing like a baton. Wide slicing arcs that, had they connected with anything solid, might raise a FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
41
welt and would probably sprain Bigboy's wrist all to hell. "Teach you some respect. I'll have your tail for a belt."
Nohar stowed the comments. He spread his legs apart and bent down, lowering his center of gravity. He thrust his left arm, claws forward, in a defensive posture, while his right arm hung back behind him, hand cupped to slice at any opening Bigboy gave him. He growled, deep in his diaphragm. The sound didn't make it out of his throat.
Bigboy was oblivious in his advance. Fearless Leader had a little more brains and hung back. Bigboy was reeking of excitement and adrenaline. Fearless was almost as jacked, but he was beginning to realize he might have bitten off more than he could chew.
Bigboy swung one of his wide, predictable arcs. Nohar caught Bigboy's wrist with his left hand, remembering Nugoya, and smiled at the rat. Nohar's right hand swung forward in a well aimed sweep that left four light trails of blood on Bigboy's overlarge gut.
"Listen, ratboy, I could have pulled you into that sweep. We'd have a nice view of your intestines— Drop the knife."
The knife clattered to the ground. Nohar stepped on it and let Bigboy go. Fearless was still backpedaling. Fearless didn't seem to get the point, he was still on his line of bullshit. ' 'Your pussy bastard ass is mine.''
Fearless was reaching behind, into the waistband of his cutoffs. Nohar knew instinctively that the rat was going for a gun. Nohar was about to jump Fearless-he could clear the distance easily before the rat got his hand untangled from his pants—but the action was broken by a burst of high-pitched rapid-fire Spanish from down the street, by the old bus.
They all turned that way to face a snow-white female rodent. She wore the same abbreviated leather vest and denim cutoffs. Her naked tail was writhing, and she sounded pissed. Nohar immediately pegged
42
S. ANDREW SWANN
her as a superior. Bigboy and Fearless seemed to forget about him and began talking back to her in Spanish as well. All babble to him, he just hoped she was cussing the fools out.