2.
 He kept going. The shadowy blocks on either side of the street were an endless series of townhouses made of ornate but time-worn stone. Some suggested brownish sandstone, others colder gray granite. Most were two or three stories high, topped by inky slate roofs that gleamed with gently misting drizzle. Beyond, loomed the pyramids of the business and religious districts.
A boxy vehicle of many edges and odd surfaces rode by, its skirts painted with a thick line of yellow slashes. On its sides was stenciled in several alphabets the legend "POLIZ," with other warnings. A loudspeaker echoed among the buildings: "Curfew time. Go to your homes and lock the doors. Anyone found on the streets will be detained at Hammerkill." The vehicle rolled on, turning a corner. Its blaring message grew fainter and fainter. Hammerkill was the Authority's fortress high up in the Pyramids. Kanon knew of its charms from his month of captivity there as a 17-year-old boy for stealing a creditfer so he could eat. Later, back in the hole again after being convicted of attacking Magistrate Vodak, he'd left bits of his flesh and blood up there in an interrogation cell. The cigarette burns on his buttocks had taken weeks to heal, and then he'd escaped that hell, run off to the planets. And he had a plan. He'd returned with a purpose.
Kanon stopped at a wall-crack just as the fortified window was coming down. The swarthy old woman inside, who had a gray tumor on one eye, took his money and slid a paniss of bread and a small bottle of beer out to him. Then she slammed the steel-framed glass shut. The light inside winked out.
He ate the baked lump, which contained chemical tasting flecks of potato and several different types of gristle. He swilled the beer and slammed the empty bottle against a wall where it shattered.
Several blocks ahead, something moved. It would not be a poliz car. The Authority had withdrawn from the streets. Time to change. Kanon put the bag down and opened it. He took out a dark green jumpsuit and stepped into it, zipping it up. Only his boots protruded from the unevenly fastened ankle straps. He strapped a mini-carbine to his right thigh, and a hooked gutting knife with serrated edges to his left. Last, he strapped on the dirty canvas chest-pack he'd bought on the black market offworld. Inside was a transmitter whose constant emission wavelengths drove off most forms of unmen, though not all. He had one night, he knew, before the Authority would become aware of him. He must be on the train out of town in the morning, or he would never get out of Hammerkill again. They would immure him and slide moldy paniss through a grate. He'd lick rain seepage to stay alive, as he had offworld.
About half the street lights were out, their ornate gothic hoods dark and empty. A block away, Kanon saw a figure move through the mist—an unmen female, naked except for her belts and weapons. Kanon could see her pearly, oversized, elongated skull, her small dark hungry face with greedy eyes. She did not appear to have seen him. He didn't want to waste time shooting the likes of her. Probably hunting, he thought. He could see a foam of hunger at the corners of her mouth. Her torso was small, with tiny loose teats, but her hips were huge and muscular, her buttocks a grotesque pair of round come-ons, her calves and feet like those of a human woman except for the single ripping-claw along the outer sides of each foot. She paused an instant between each long, gliding stride. She disappeared into the shadows as quickly as she'd appeared.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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