The Scrag

Kennesaw sensed his assailants’ approach as he was opening the door to his apartment. Like all of the Select, his hearing was incredibly acute, as was the quickness with which his mind processed sensory data. Before the attack even began, therefore, he had already started his pre-emptive counterassault.

Given the areas of Chicago that Kennesaw frequented, he was quite familiar with muggers. It was one of the things he liked about the city, in fact. The high level of street crime kept his fighting reflexes well-tuned. He had killed three muggers over the past several years, and crippled as many more.

The fact that there were two of them did not faze him in the least. Especially once he saw, as he spun around launching his first disabling kick, that both of the men were much shorter than he was.

It took a few seconds for his assumptions to be dispelled. How many, exactly, he never knew. Everything was much too confusing. And painful.

His target was the older and more slightly built of the two men. Kennesaw almost laughed when he saw how elderly the man was. One blow would be enough to disable him, allowing Kennesaw to concentrate on destroying the thick-set subhuman.

But the kick never landed. Somehow, Kennesaw’s ankle was seized, twisted—off balance now—

—his vision blurred—an elbow strike to the temple, he thought, but he was too dazed to be certain—

—agonizing pain lanced through his other leg—

—his knees buckled—

And then a monster had him, immobilizing him from behind with a maneuver Kennesaw barely recognized because it was so antique—even preposterous. But his chin was crushed to his chest, his arms dangling and paralyzed, and then he was heaved back onto his feet and propelled through the half-open door of his apartment.

On their way through, the monster smashed his face against the door jamb. The creature’s sheer power was astonishing. Kennesaw’s nose and jaw were both broken. He dribbled blood and teeth across the floor as he was manhandled into the center of his living room.

By now, he was only half-conscious. Anyone not of the Select would probably have been completely witless. But Kennesaw took no comfort in the fact. He could sense the raging animal fury that held him immobile and had so casually shattered his face along the way.

His legs were again kicked out from under him. A skilled and experienced hand-to-hand fighter, Kennesaw had expected that. What he hadn’t expected was that the monster, instead of hurling him to the floor and pouncing on him, would do the exact opposite. Kennesaw was dragged down on top of the creature, who still held him from behind in that suffocating clasp.

He landed on a body that felt as unyielding as stone. An instant later, two legs curled over his thighs and clamped his own legs in a scissor lock. The legs were much shorter than his own, but thick and muscular. Kennesaw was vaguely surprised to see that they apparently belonged to a human being. He wouldn’t have been shocked to see them clad in animal fur. Like a grizzly bear.

Some time passed. How much, Kennesaw never knew. But eventually he was able to focus on the face which was staring down at him. The genes which had created that face clearly had most of their origins in eastern Asia. The face belonged to the old man, the one he had tried to disable with a kick.

The man spoke. His voice was soft and low. “I used to be a biologist, Kennesaw, before I decided to concentrate on my art. What you’re seeing here is an illustration of the fallacy of Platonic thinking applied to evolutionary principles.”

The words were pure gibberish. Something of Kennesaw’s confusion must have shown, because the face emitted a slight chuckle.

“It’s sometimes called ‘population thinking,’ Kennesaw. A pity you never learned to apply those methods. Instead, you made the classic mistake of categorizing people into abstract types instead of recognizing their concrete variations.”

Gibberish. Another chuckle.

“You’re only a ‘superman,’ Kennesaw, if you compare the average of the Sacred Band to the average of the rest of humanity. Unfortunately, you’re now in the hands of two men who, in different ways, vary quite widely from the norm. Partly because of our own genetic background, and partly due to training and habit.”

The almond-shaped eyes moved slightly, looking past Kennesaw’s own head. “I’m not sure how well this is going to work. I’m sure he’s got an absolutely phenomenal pain threshold.”

Finally, Kennesaw heard the monster speak. “Don’t care,” came a hoarse grunt. “I’m sure he was one of the men who took her, which means there’ll be traces of where they went somewhere in the apartment.”

The Oriental face frowned. “Then why—”

Even as dazed as he was, the brief exchange made clear to Kennesaw the identity of his assailants. He managed some grunting words of his own. “You crazy, Z’wicki? Anyt’in’ happen t’me, ’ey’ll kill ’er.”

The clasp tightened, and Kennesaw couldn’t prevent a low groan.

“I don’t think so. As sloppy as you people are, they’ll just assume you’re goofing off somewhere. How would I know you were involved?”

Despite the crushing pain, some part of Kennesaw’s brain was still functioning objectively. So he understood the incredible strength which lay behind those words. Precious few, if any, of the Select themselves would have been able to so completely immobilize Kennesaw. Much less, at the same time, manage to speak in what was almost a normal tone of voice!

“And you’ve already told me the only thing I really needed to know from you,” continued the hoarse voice from behind. “I’m not cold-blooded enough to kill a man I’m not sure is guilty.”

It took a moment for the meaning to register on Kennesaw. He tried to grunt another warning, but the hoarse voice overrode his words.

“This is called a full nelson, Scrag. It’s an illegal maneuver in tournament wrestling. Here’s why.”

In the brief time that followed, Kennesaw understood some of what the little Oriental had been trying to explain to him. Variation. He never would have believed that any subhuman would have been strong enough to—

But the thought was fleeting. The pressure on his neck, crushing his broken chin into his chestbone, drove everything but pain and terror away. And then his vertebra ruptured and Kennesaw thought no more at all.

Victor

Victor spent the evening in the company of Usher’s wife, being given a guided tour of the upper levels of the Loop. He had intended, burning with desire to undo Durkheim—somehow—to return to work immediately. But Kevin had driven that notion down with his usual sarcasm.

“And just what do you intend to do, youngster?” he demanded. “Stay out of trouble, dammit! I’ll get the ball rolling at my end. You don’t do anything—nothing, you understand—until you either hear from me or Durkheim approaches you, whichever comes first.”

Victor frowned. Kevin chuckled. “He will, he will—I’ll bet on it. Didn’t I tell you this scheme of his is going to start unraveling? And that, when it does, he’s going to have to slap together a jury-rigged back-up team to clean up the mess?”

Usher didn’t wait for a response. Clearly enough, he had once again left Victor behind in a cloud of mental dust. “So who do you think he’s going to approach? Not one of his experienced field agents, I’ll tell you that. No, he’ll go to the same wet-behind-the-ears, naive, trusting, dumb-as-a-brick, do-as-he-says young zealot that he used to pass messages to the Mesans in the first place. You.”

“Me?” Victor scratched his cheek. “Why? He never told me what those messages were, or who I was passing them to. I figured it out on my own. As far as he knows, I don’t know anything about the situation.”