Project Olympus: Orion

By Jonathan Standing

Picture yourself in a future shared with real-life Olympians and engineered humans designed to order...

Project Olympus: Orion, is a story that happens late in a series based around the lives of these man-made Olympians.

...An epic battle has torn apart the fabric of civilization. Centuries have come and gone as the scattered remnants of mankind struggle to rebuild. Yet the work of the ancient genemasters remains– genetically altered humans physically superior to man. Orion is a specially trained hunter whose job it is to rid his world of these abominations. Little does he know that soon his own battle will wage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Standing
• Release date: Mar 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301433629

Jonathan Standing

"Read as though nothing else mattered, and write as though no one were reading you." -random thoughts

Book preview

PROJECT OLYMPUS: ORION

Jonathan Standing

Copyright 2012 by Jonathan Standing

Smashwords Edition

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DESCRIPTION:

Picture yourself in a future shared with real-life Olympians and engineered humans designed to order…

Project Olympus: Orion- a story that takes place late in a thrilling new series based around the lives of these man-made Olympians.

…An epic battle has torn apart the fabric of civilization. Centuries have come and gone. The scattered remnants of mankind struggle to rebuild. Yet the work of the ancient genemasters remains. As worlds once thought lost are re-discovered, they are found to be inhabited with the descendents of these superior creations. These genetically altered humans are seen as a threat to the new colonists. Orion is a specially trained hunter whose job it is to rid these worlds of the abominations. Little does he know that soon his own battle will wage.

PROJECT OLYMPUS: ORION

Prologue

Upon the cold gray world of Horus, a tall gray man strode with purpose through the high-vaulted corridors of an elegantly turreted palace that had long been sanctuary to the reclusive Lady Madura.

Though the corridors were empty and silent but for the sharp click of his echoing footsteps, it was not alone that this man went. For in his arms he bore a dull black sack which kicked and thrust uncooperatively. If despondent cries happened to issue forth from the occupant of the sack, these cries were not heard, for special sound-dampening materials had been incorporated into the sack’s construction. Thus the struggles went unheeded.

Shortly, the man stood before the great sealed doors of the palace’s royal chambers. Giant guards stood three deep at either side of this massive barrier, solemn sentinels whose smooth flawless skulls glistened coldly with the liquid sheen of polished copper beneath the insistent glare from a myriad of overhead lamps. Yet these stoic guards did not detain the tall gray man, but silently set to work on the great ancient doors and then ushered him forward into the tightly secured chambers they so scrupulously shielded from view.

The heavy doors clanged shut behind him. He regarded a woman who knelt beside a rich couch, her slight figure all but lost amidst a background of opulent royal splendor that was warmly perfumed and rich in willowy lace. Incense burned silently upon a night stool at her side, its bitter aroma one of mourning. A lit video screen encompassed the full width of one wall, left frozen upon a tragic scene that had been played over and over again until it seemed to have become part of the decor.

As she turned to face him, her eyes were red and swollen, her hair hung loose about her face in wild disarray, and her right cheek had been left creased by the pattern of the couch’s texture upon it.

"Enok, you’re back, she said softly, as she wiped a slim dark hand across her damp slanted eyes and quickly straightened to her feet. You’ve been gone such a very long time. You look sad. What’s wrong?"

"I am fine, Madura, my lady. You are still in mourning, Enok observed with distress, as he strode towards her bearing the living burden of the sack upon his arm. He looked disapprovingly at the paused screen. It is not healthy for you to dwell in the past."

She tried to smile. Sniffled instead. And then combed trembling fingers through a gray-streaked, otherwise raven mane that cascaded in tight disorderly ringlets about her narrow shoulders.

"Yes, I’m sorry. I suppose I’d grown fond of that last hunter we’d trained. She glanced across the room upon the frozen scene. Suddenly she laughed. But a strained laugh it was. Foolish, to think Arrow would beat the odds and reach the top. Curse them all! she suddenly spat out vehemently, Someday I’ll show them!"

With that she reached for the remote laid in the folds of the couch and made black the tragic scene which had come to haunt even her dreams.

Only then did she seem to notice his burden.

"Another one? I don’t know, Enok. I really don’t know. Maybe it’s not worth it. Someday there will come a hunt that will spell the end of that hunter, too. That’s the inevitability of the game. Eventually they all have to die. All that time invested…all that effort…all a total loss. No, I don’t think I can stand any more disappointment."

"This one is different, Madura, my lady, he assured her, as he worked the catch on the struggling sack. I have scoured more worlds than you can imagine and traveled to places that no one in the federation has ever laid eyes on, and I am confident that I have finally found the one who will bring you the recognition you deserve."

He reached inside the sack and drew forth a resisting child by the leg. The child blinked at the light– spat with indignation. Snapped at Enok’s hand with the fierceness of a wild animal. Enok silenced the feral child with a harsh blow to the skull.

"What is the species? Madura asked curiously, as she cautiously extended an investigatory finger towards the stunned child, momentarily setting aside the dark despair which had laid so thickly about her. And what can we expect from it?"

"He is male. And he is healthy," Enok would only provide.

"Then it is an illegal illicit," she stated with regret, as she drew back her finger as though burned by the touch.

"I did not say that, my lady. As he sits here in my hand before you, he will pass any test they may put him through. There is not a single genetic marker to be found anywhere in this child that would categorize him as being an illegal."

"So, you did some things to obscure its physiology. I know of your capabilities, Enok. But that still doesn’t make it of acceptable heritage, Madura insisted. That thing is still an illegal illicit, no matter how you look at it. She drew further back, and settled herself petulantly upon a corner of the couch, as far from the subject in question as she could get. We know nothing about this creature; someday it may turn on us and kill us all in our sleep, such as what happened to that family on Jada last year. I don’t trust it."

"Please, Madura, my lady, Enok pleaded earnestly. He dropped to one knee before her. He is not like other illicits. This one is special. I believe that he may be your best chance to regain the fame both your father and his father before that once held. Your name will once again be the name thirty worlds associate with the hunt. Remember, you are not getting any younger. The treatments you down like water will soon start to lose their effectiveness. This may be your last chance."

"I know, Enok. I know I’m not young anymore. She dabbed at a tear which had begun to form at the corner of her eye. You don’t have to remind me. But that, that THING, she pointed accusingly at the child, is not the answer. Get a true one. I will try again. I promise."

"Trust me on this, my lady. Please." He tried to place the motionless child into her resisting arms.

"No, Enok!"

"I am sorry, Madura, he finally said. He straightened and shifted the child onto one arm. With his free hand he reached down and took firm hold of her fragile wrist. I am insisting this time. Come with me. We will bring the child to the pens and put him in with the others. You will name him, you will make sure he is well taken care of, and I will train him to be the greatest hunter this universe has ever come to know."

She struggled weakly in his iron grasp.

"No, Enok! she cried, I’ll tell!"

"And do you think the other sponsors will choose to believe that you are actually without involvement? he challenged, as he dragged her after him. It is already too late. You’re in too deep. If anybody ever discovers the truth, it is you who will go down. After all, I am but a simple trainer."

To this she did not reply, but bit her lip and submitted.

The child whimpered and began to move, but he was not comforted.

Part One

* * *

He’s in there. I know it. My trackers also know it. Having done their job they remain frozen in place, waiting with anticipation for their next command. Frenzied mosquitoes, prolific in this tropical climate, swarm about my face. Their high-pitched motors whir in overdrive. For a moment it is not at all sure who is the hunted and who is the hunter. I resist the urge to swat at the flying insects and risk giving away my cover. Meanwhile one of the little irritants alights on the bridge of my nose. I deliberately blink. An irritated blink. The motion sends the pesky mosquito whirring off to look for a more private spot to hone in on. In relief I allow myself a deep inhalation. The deep breath also helps to prepare me for what is coming. An acrid scent of forest litter and dense growing plant life fills my nostrils with a clean bite of the outdoors. I find this to be a comforting fragrance even on this alien world. The sense of sameness it gives me is what keeps me grounded, and this is true no matter where they send me.

With a slight movement of my knees I gently nudge the plastisteel sides of my giant mechanical walker. This life-like apparition, loosely patterned after a fabled riding beast, lurches forward ever so slightly. Despite its bulk it manages to advance closer to my prey without disturbing a single leaf. I’m impressed. Though I shouldn’t be. I witness this stealth capability in my walker every time we team up for a hunt.

I peer through the dense brush toward the overgrown rock outcroppings my trackers have led me to. Was that a movement? It’s hard to tell. The dark shadows huddled within the deep fissures carved in stone make for the perfect hiding place in this final stand by a desperate illicit of this new world.

A sudden movement startles me. But it was caused by birds. They flap up into flight, startled by something unseen. This is why I like birds. They tell on you. Of course if you are the hunter this is not always a good thing, because they warn of your approach. A hunter may be doing all he can to remain hidden and then have all that effort wasted as his approach sets the forest on alert by the inadvertent startling of even a single bird. But if you are the hunted, birds can quickly give away your location. Therefore, when you learn to make proper use of all of the available resources and tools at hand– even as something as simple as the presence of birds in a forest, the advantage always goes to the hunter, no matter the world on which you’re hunting.

The two startled birds flutter overhead, flapping, sputtering; they paint a yellow stroke of color to the brilliant blue tapestry of Pujunan’s sky high above the canopy. One chirps sharply to the other and darts quickly into the abundant foliage. Its companion playfully follows. They pay no attention to the alien globe hovering restlessly nearby. It matters not to them that a huge audience with a voracious appetite for blood-sport lives vicariously through the camera lens borne by these ever-present globes that follow the hunters. These colorful birds are blissfully unaware of the horrible blight that we have brought to their world and the impending violence promised by my silent presence in this thicket.

These thoughts cause me to cast an impatient glare at my distant viewers before turning my attention back to the close presence of my prey. That unseen audience on the other side of the camera lens means nothing to me either. I have never worn well the trappings of fame. The billion greedy eyes chaff this solitary soul who only craves solitude and freedom; an improbable dream I’ll likely never see. So I just do my job. A job I do very well. My job is straightforward. I make new worlds safe for colonists. If they want to film it, what can I do to stop them? The sad truth of the matter is that I can do absolutely nothing about my role in this bleak picture that I’m drawing. In this regard I am helpless. More so than even my own prey. So I content myself with the fact that at least this job allows me to stay alive...literally, that is.

As I prepare to make my attack the adrenaline running through my veins slowly starts to ramp up. The beating in my chest is like a comfortable companion. It tells me that all my senses have been heightened to a level off the charts that exceeds any readings ever taken in efforts to define the limits of human potential. I am the ultimate hunter. There exists no equal. I am not being vain; I merely state the truth. This is an accepted truth that is well established across the entire reach of the federation. The fame alone is ample proof.

Not that I care. Well… a little. There is certainly a level of pride that I begrudgingly do take in my accomplishments. Pride, at least, in the skill I’ve achieved. But I’ve come to a point in my life where I would give it all away if I can only make the killing stop.

I no longer believe that this is righteous.

I unsheathe my tournament blade to inspect it one last time. For most hunts this is our one allowed weapon. Keeping it in tip-top shape can often mean our very life. I’ve been carrying this particular blade ever since my first official hunt more than a dozen years ago. My blade has helped me through more than one perilous incident. I know every nuance of this blade, from the finely crafted pearl handle to the precision honed business end that you don’t ever want to meet up with. Never has this blade been out of arm’s reach. It has come to be my closest companion.

Yet I have never given a name to my blade. I don’t know why. Other hunters choose special names for their primary weapon. At least up to now my neglect hasn’t cost me anything. I shrug at the thought and blow aside some fine dust particles which have collected in the few minutes since the last time I inspected my blade. I am ready.

I slide down from my mount and enjoy the firmness of the earth beneath my feet. Terra firma. Or, at least this planet’s reasonable facsimile of that mythical source of instinctual security. I know it’s just dirt. But we all seem to have a need to feel it under our feet from time to time. Yet most hunters wouldn’t do this if at all possible– dismount, that is. At least under these circumstances. Being on foot can tend to make one feel vulnerable to the exceedingly dangerous prey that we hunt. It puts a hunter at ground level with his prey, with only his superior training to look to for an advantage.

But I am not like most hunters. I don’t know what the word ‘vulnerable’ means.

I grip my blade firmly in my heavily gloved fist as I march into the shadows to find my demon in the dark. Despite the fact that this unspoiled world features an unusually large assortment of fearsome beast that could potentially frighten away the prospective colonist, these creatures I hunt are considered to be the greatest threat to the recent arrival of man here upon Pujunan.

Yet despite how they are feared, to me these creatures are simply prey. Illicits, we call them– abhorrent sub-humans. Because these creatures are physically superior to and often show aggression to man, they are considered to be extremely dangerous. As such they are thus deemed unfit to coexist with the unmodified human species that has been spreading abroad into newly discovered worlds. Only those with an untainted genome can be allowed to live. True humans, they call themselves. Those who fall short of this purity; i.e.– illicits, need to be eliminated whenever and wherever they are found.

Most of these new worlds are found to be already inhabited with various forms of humankind. While some of these natives cannot genetically be classified as true humans, the vast majority of such indigenous pseudo-human species do happen to fall within safe guidelines as determined nearly a century ago by unanimous council vote and can be useful to employ as cheap labor to the incoming colonists. Yet– quite inexplicably it seems, there often proves to be an illicit presence on every new world explored, terrorizing and dominating over the less enhanced human species they live among. That is where hunters such as I come in. We do the dirty work. But with an audience.

My eyes adjust swiftly to the darkness, and in an instant I discern not one, but five sets of eyes staring back at me. Hmm... Surprise! A bonus I decide. A counter clicks five times on the academic side of my brain. The other side cringes as it simply sees a frightened family just trying to stay alive. I look into their eyes as I move in upon them, and I see the unfamiliar feeling of fear that illicits only come to know when they fall into my spell. Because of their illicit traits and characteristics they are usually the dominant species in any given habitat. But that is not the case when they find themselves within my presence. They grasp with trembling fingers for the crude stone weapons they carry at their sides, but no such flimsy defenses can save them.

For I am Orion. I am the great hunter of universal fame. These illicits will add to my already unbeatable collection of skins on this closing day of the hunt, and Pujunan will be a safer place to live.

But lately it somehow feels hollow.

* * *

The nighttime sky is an angry shade of red. Thick smoke gushes skyward as from a manic kiln, stings my eyes, fills my lungs, and puts a sour burn at the back of my mouth. I huddle fearfully in the high grass, feeling both the cool dampness of the dew soaking at my knees and the hot breath of flames stinging at my cheeks.

I watch in terror as demons float astride flaming tongues of fire. They point rods at people I’ve known all my short life and engulf them with flames, making them disappear as though they never were. While ever beneath me the ground jumps steadily with the heavy impact from the long steps of the demon’s servants; great enormous creatures, whose hides of stone glint coldly with the cruel light born from the flame-licked clearing.

A woman runs towards me from out of the darkness of the woods. I recognize my mother.

"No, mother!" I cry, as a floating demon sees her and glides her way.

The demon casts a bolt of flames towards her, but she dodges, faster than the flames themselves and escapes back into the trees. The demon turns in the direction of my shout.

Paralyzed upon the ground from fright, I can only watch and await my fate now that I’ve revealed my hiding place.

The demon floats closer, searching, as I sink deeper into the high grass and try to disappear. Flames roar above, louder even than the great falls at the head of the valley. Deafening. Raging. The nape of my neck crawls like it has caught on fire.

Just then the demon screeches.

I squint past the searing flames. A dark shadow clings to the demon’s body. Frantic, the demon struggles violently against its attacker. Lets out a piercing scream. Then it careens suddenly towards the earth, where it crashes heavily and spills fire throughout the high grass and sets it ablaze. Mother detaches herself from the burning corpse. Rushes back towards the trees. Gestures frantically for me to follow.

But blinding flames suddenly explode. The accompanying deep boom hurts my gut and waters my eyes. Mother staggers to her knees, her body engulfed in flames.

She twists her neck and looks at me. For a moment she manages to block out her torment and is able to gasp out a last word in a language which is hauntingly familiar.

The word she cries out is my name, but it is too jumbled to hear clearly.

And then flames again explode and she is extinguished in a raging ball of fire.

Gone.

Just like that.

A silent scream racks my body, all the more painful for its blistering silence.

But then heavy footsteps jounce the ground as a stone servant strides forward. Smoke rises from the spent tip of its arm.

With a desperate cry I scramble into the trees as flames explode hotly at my back. Crawling on my hands and knees, I search for a place to hide and find a dark growth of bramble to huddle beneath.

Footsteps approach.

I gasp and hold my breath.

The footsteps pause.

My body shakes so badly it makes the leaves rattle over my cover and threatens to give me away. I fearfully peek through a gap in the bramble and can see the towering figure of the creature as its huge head swings from side to side while it searches.

But just then brightness suddenly fills the woods, making shadows dance among the treetops as a flesh and blood demon descends swiftly from the sky. The flames are extinguished as the demon lands and then I hear the crunch of its footsteps on the forest floor as he approaches. Speaking in a demon tongue, he says something sharply to the creature of stone. The huge creature backs ponderously away from where I am hiding and turns upon the new demon with its weapons recalibrating. But the flesh and blood demon fires twice; deep booming explosions that shake the ground beneath me and hurt my head. The stone demon lurches sideways and then falls to the ground heavily, causing the ground to shake once more. It remains motionless. The new arrival approaches. He wields a small fire in his gloved hand, using it to see by. I know he will soon find me out, so I gather my feet beneath me, getting ready to flee.

But when I start to run, something pierces me through between my shoulder blades, and then the ground leaps up and slams me on my nose.

* * *

Scales… Layer upon slippery layer they continue to shed more and more each day. These slough off like failing armor plates from the serpentine coils that have long imprisoned a battered soul. As they shed they expose memories. Dark, hurtful, numbing memories which sear with a brander’s touch upon a private place I once could go to hide. But to where I can escape no more with peace.

And it’s my own fault. I could have left these memories alone. But I didn’t. I began to scratch at scabs that were never intended to be picked at. The truth I find buried inside myself is ugly. It is an awful secret that I’ve come across. One that I now wish I’d never found.

For I’ve found that I am damaged.

I tilt back my twelfth flask.

Or is it my thirteenth?

I don’t know. The music, the lights, and the crowd noises from the party aboard Lady Madura’s ship are so loud I can’t even remember anymore. I don’t want to remember.

Memories stink.

I reach for another flask.

Do you have a moment, Orion?

I squint at the intense narrow face of someone sliding onto the stool next to me. I know this face. The guilty face, I call it. I don’t feel like feeling guilty right now. I’ve got other things to feel. Like oblivion.

Go away, I say to it irritably.

It’s Heidi. Remember me?

I glare. But it keeps talking.

It’s your favorite anthropologist. You know– the one who’s been hounding you for months to return my calls. I sent you my latest book. Did you read it?

I answer her with silence. She looks at the drink in my hand. Watches as it goes down. She tries again.

I wrote about illicits. Just like I said I would. Most people aren’t familiar with the ancient clone wars. Neither do they know anything about the bygone era of the fabled genemasters and their ill-fated experiments. So I thought I’d shed some light on how mankind’s hatred for illicits got started. Do you remember my theory?

I remain silent.

Well, I’ve scientifically proven it to be true. Complete with genetic documentation. I’ve compiled all of my research and put it out there for the whole world to see. Today’s illicits are actually the descendents of individuals crafted from these genemaster’s experiments using human dna. Back in those days the genemaster would skillfully engineer a specific individual with the aid of special tanks and individually tailor their attributes and characteristics through some specialized form of gene manipulation. Today we also see the results from some of their experimentations, with exotic skin tones and extreme physical modifications; although those with the more extreme changes have probably been culled from society over the years due to the fear and ignorance of the populace.

She barely checks to see if I am listening and babbles on undeterred.

"The scientific community probably never thought the production of these modified homo-sapiens would get so out of control. It appears that back in the beginning each creation brought forth from these interventions was believed to always result in a sterile individual. I don’t know if this was a result of intentional cause, or due to the nature of extensive gene distortion, but they thought the scope of their work was easily constrained. In any case, some of the specimens from the genemaster’s creations actually did begin to reproduce in time, and occasionally so did their descendents after them. Adding to the rising crisis was the fact that some prototypes were being cloned by ill-intentioned profiteers who envisioned a black market need for cheap labor on the new worlds that were opening up back in those early days of space exploration, and these too began to reproduce and to multiply out of control. Before the true strain of humankind finally turned upon these engineered products of science in an all-out warfare that very nearly caused the extinction of mankind, these genetically superior forms of man were practically everywhere, threatening to outnumber the original stock of mankind. But you should read my new book. You will be fascinated by the history and proofs I bring to light.

Nevertheless, do you want to know what this would mean? She glances around as though she were the sole keeper of some fabulous secret and then leans towards me. The long loose strands of her straight black hair reach forth and tickle my face in an annoying fashion. Her perfume fills my lungs; a tangy scent of bitter orchids.

Do you want to know what the point of all this is?

Still getting no response, she whispers her words against my unshaven cheek.

"Illicits are human."

She sits back and laughs suddenly at the look on my face. Her laugh is a jarring cackle. "Just as I’ve been telling you all along! That shocking revelation should trigger the same reaction from everybody else, too. My research data is all right there in the book for anyone to verify. Yes, the illicits you’re preparing to hunt down there on Munda are genetically human. As human as I am. They’re not monsters or some form of demonic sub-species as everyone seems to think or at least want to believe. They’re human! You’re human! You’re a murderer, Orion, and you know it."

Illicits aren’t human, I manage, and then regret the conditioned response which springs unbidden from my lips. Angry at both her words and my own response, I shove aside the flask clinking glass against glass against glass and heave myself to my feet as she glares accusingly up at me, her eyes both fire and wet.

If your conscience is bothering you, then you should listen to it. You may die by the choice of others, but you will only live when you learn to dance on your own. After all, in the end no one but you alone will answer for your sins.

I’ve done nothing wrong.

Murderer, she hisses into my back as I brush her aside with a harsh backward wave of my hand and stagger from the bar.

The numbing effects of drink fade even as push my way through the heated bodies that choke the floor with their unwanted presence. I can’t even stay drunk. This cursed body won’t allow even that small comfort.

For, like the prey I hunt, I too am an illicit.

That is my dark curse. …A curse that forever haunts me. An illicit! Me! I should die, like I’ve caused so many others to die. But some illicits such as I have been spared, all for the sole purpose that we visit desolation on others of our own kind. We do so in the guise of skillfully trained hunters. We’re told that it is a righteous work we do. We receive acclaim for all of our accomplishments. Many of us are even famous. Some of us obscenely so. It is for this desperate groping for at least some pathetic form of existence that I continue to do what I do. I kill. …Or rather, ‘I purge.’

It’s an illicit’s curse, that stolen memories have begun to awaken, memories which I was never meant to know. For, besides being unable to get drunk, this particular illicit body I wear about me has now begun to heal memory erasures. Such erasures were evidently carefully orchestrated interventions by my handlers to remove potentially damaging memories from my awareness, starting from the time I was first taken from my people. All such efforts were done with the purpose of shaping me into the ultimate weapon. A weapon focused on one thing only and devoid of the remorse that inconvenient memories might start to nurture. But those memories are starting to awaken. It started a few months back. These broken fragments from the past began to replay in vivid detail at unexpected moments. I am forced to relive scenes that were intentionally deleted. Those memories hurt like hell.

Hands reach out and seek to touch me as I wade through the sea of the privileged who are here for the widely hyped tournament. Worshipful hands. These hands I detest. I recognize most of these faces these hands belong to. The same crowd seems to tag along for every tournament. Groupies. But I’ve refused to learn names to attach to the faces. I suppose this is my way of distancing myself from the society whose attention upon me is insincere. To them the celebrated hunter they call Orion is simply a two-dimensional icon. A hero who owns no soul of his own. He is not a man with thoughts and feelings to consider. For such people to acknowledge otherwise regarding the heroes they cling to would be to condemn the very society they seek to perpetuate.

The words, "Orion, Orion," hiss at me from all sides. This is Lady Madura’s ship. She is my sponsor and is also one of the most powerful members of the hunt guild. But I am quite possibly the most famous person on this ship because of all my successes. How ironic is that? Me, an illicit. That just shows how mixed up this whole society is. Straining to shut out the voices that come at me from every direction, I try to make sense of my jumbled mind. Scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, that’s what these prodigal memories keep handing to me as they straggle home bit by bit to provide me with a new perception of my life. Each hurtful piece of the puzzle leaves me with a sickening feeling in the pit of my gut.

My life has been a lie.

So many memories have been taken from me. Stolen!

Memories that if left intact, would have ravaged even this seared conscience.

All carefully erased, done as a precaution to keep me in line. Be a good pet, says the inflexible voice of convention coming from inside my mind. Just do your job and don’t question why.

A reporter digs an elbow into his friend’s side. There’s Orion, he says in a hushed voice as he scrambles to his feet and begins to follow along with a notepad held at the ready.

Hey, Orion, someone shouts from behind me. How would you rate your competition in this tournament?

Other queries confront me from all sides:

You’ve stated for the record that you oppose these pre-tournament affairs. Can you tell us why, and what format you’d rather see implemented?

Do you agree that this may prove to be one of the greatest hunts of all time?

Have you heard that Nandi predicts a victory for himself in this highly proclaimed hunt for the ages?

It is reported that your paths have not crossed in years. Can you tell us why?

What accounts for your fierce rivalry?

Meanwhile, the voices and hands follow me even right up to the men’s room door. But I turn to them as they seek to follow me inside.

Stay out, I gruffly warn.

I cast upon them the predator’s stare my face has made so famous and watch fear collapse their faces. Paper faces. So easily crumpled by the force of a greater will. A primordial reaction between natural born killer and prey. The elixir of power is exhilarating, but I somehow feel guilty.

I go inside.

No one follows, for a few of Madura’s servants who know me and my moods slip out from the shadows to block the entrance for me.

One man stands and uses a urinal on the wall, his long black frock a stark contrast against the antiseptic white of the bathroom walls. He twists his neck to look at me. Recognition causes his eyebrows to cock. He nods a greeting.

I join him against the wall. Though drink can’t claim my senses, it has other ways to make me subject to it.

You’re Orion, my fellow contributor to the drain finally says.

Yes.

I am Father Baines.

I ignore the damp hand that he offers as he finishes his business. He looks chagrined, until he follows my gaze towards the sink.

Oh, I’m sorry, he gushes, flustered.

He finishes, flushes, and dips his hands beneath the sink’s running water.

I was chosen to bless the hunt, he announces above the gurgling of the faucet.

I grunt.

I know of your reputation, he continues, But my prayers may be what will keep you alive down there on Munda. He pauses. Looks at me with eyes suddenly grown narrow. And then he places his hands on his hips in a reproving manner. You really should respect us more, Orion. We do more than you probably realize to warm public sentiment to those of your kind. You need us. So at least respect what we represent.

I repeat my sentiments; another grunt.

Well, be seeing you, he lamely finishes.

Wait, I finally say before he leaves the room. I do have a question.

Yes?

There is one thing I would like to know.

Yes?

I pause, looking at the so-called holy man before me. I could crush the life out of this man with no effort, for he and others like him have seized claim to all that is good and pure about a man’s spirit, but I know I can’t wrest that for myself through violence even though that is the only thing I’ve ever known. He waits to the point of discomfort, and then I finally speak.

What is conscience?

He looks surprised, and then uncomfortable as he realizes the source of the question– an illicit; a non-human from his perspective. With a quick serpentine glance to the door, he runs his tongue over his lips and then attempts a slippery reply, something rather general and vague. Conscience is one of God’s gifts to man that elevate him above the beast. Even without God’s word to guide him, conscience gives man a law within, a moral framework within which to operate.

What about illicits, I press him. Do we have a conscience?

Still avoiding my eyes, he swallows thickly and pauses for as long as he dares. Finally he says, I’m sorry, but only true humans have been given a conscience. His voice suddenly turns almost gentle. Consider that a blessing, Orion. In any case, what you do is noble. It is God’s work.

Otherwise, I’d be forever cursed, isn’t that so, I harshly conclude.

He nods slowly and I dismiss him then, turning aside. The door swings and he is gone.

Hot water from the sink does not cleanse what I feel inside, but I let it scald me; my face, my hands, my wrists. The pain helps, but isn’t enough. For I truly stand condemned.

Why, Enok? Why Madura? I whisper bitterly into the torrid steam that seeks to salve my soul. Why did you shape me into this hideous beast?

But the blame is not so easily shifted, and for a moment I feel a lifetime’s worth of guilt falling upon my shoulders. A thousand voices cry out for justice from deep within my soul, but they are not appeased. I have been a destroyer who shows no mercy. Neither do I deserve the same.

Behind me the door suddenly swings open again, letting in the sounds of an angry commotion from outside.

Orion! I hear a female voice cry out amidst the turmoil.

Let her in, I say in resignation to those fighting at the door.

Heidi staggers in and the door closes behind her to shut out the crowd.

Lost? I ask wearily.

I wasn’t done talking to you.

I was with you.

I need you to help me with something.

I turn off the water, reach for a towel, and then through the steam I’ve created, glare at her as I dry off. She brushes aside the tousled hair from her narrow face as she impatiently waits for my response.

Why should I?

Because I know you’re still interested in finding out whom you are.

I am Orion.

No you’re not. That’s just a common hunter’s name they’ve given you and you know you’re more than that.

I sigh resignedly. What do you want Heidi?

Basically it’s this: What we have discovered here on Munda may help enormously in our study of ancient clone history and in tracing the origins of illicit evolution. Although you would never know it now, this world may be the site of some of the earliest experiments done of any extensive magnitude in the field of genetic experimentation. The illicits so far cataloged have been intriguing enough to warrant a full scale investigation. We are hoping that we may even find archaeological evidence of ancient laboratories.

What do you want with me?

Come on, think about it. Who better? I figure you have more to gain from our mutual cooperation than anyone else. You’re obsessed with learning about your origins. I know this to be a fact; you’ve devoured everything I’ve given you to read on the subject. Also, you’re a hunter. Presently no one is free to move about the surface except hunters and their guides. With our satellites we can look from a distance, but we can’t follow it up if we find something interesting.

Her voice rises in pitch as her excitement builds.

And actually we already have discovered some curiosities that we want looked into more closely. What we need for you to do is to catalogue and document each illicit species you encounter, and provide us with a detailed description of anything you come across that might add to our understanding of your people’s history. Keep in mind that any assistance you can provide will go a long way towards helping to reshape the currently held precepts on illicit definitions and origins.

Is that it? I ask dubiously. She has something up her sleeve. I know her too well.

Not exactly... She stares at me intently, her eyes brighter than they should be. Her breath is hitched in excitement as she continues. "We also do have something more specific in mind. We need to get our hands on a prime. As you know, this is what we have dubbed a theoretical illicit of a very special design. And as you no doubt have read about in one of my books, we believe that some illicits were engineered to be virtual superbeings. I know hunters themselves are selected from the more robust of illicits species found– although they still need to have characteristics deemed to fall acceptably within the limits of some clearly defined industry standards– but what we are talking about here is something even far beyond that, even beyond you– no offense, mind you– I know you’ve set the bar in those areas. We feel that these beings were extremely rare– that they were engineered for a specific cause. What exactly that was, we have no idea. But we have strong reason to believe that descendents of such superbeings may still exist here on Munda. Archaeological evidence proves that in times past some of these were in fact worshipped here as gods– an understandable result considering their genetic superiority to the prototypical human. The blood of such a being would certainly provide us with a genetic broth of unimaginable promise."

Why do you care? By unlocking their genetic code do you hope to turn a true human into a cursed illicit? Do you really want to do that?

"I know it sounds ironic, but there will always be some who can’t resist the desire to harness the entire human potential, no matter how volatile such a venture might be, as we have well seen with the resultant illicits that seem to abound, whom mankind is now struggling so hard to eliminate. Some think they can steal a trait here and there– maybe enhance their own quality of life just a little, and they don’t even see their actions as being contradictory. Because of this vanity of human nature, in addition to being educational and historic, the discovery of such a superbeing would also be