The Old One proved to be a master of the predator waltz. In his first attacks he directed me as he would have directed a wolf, having me fight as a wolf would. Now he shifted things, using my advantages to account for my shortcomings. While his inventory of my shortcomings would max countless chips, the one thing he does like about me is that I have a weapon he does not: a hand. Moreover, that hand comes equipped with a thumb and can be made into a fist.
The Old One launched me at the razorboy in what I would have classed as a bull-rush, but he howled away the notion that we were employing the tactics used by food to defend itself. I caught part of a kick on my left arm, then was inside on my foe. The Old One slammed my right fist into the gillette's groin. The man wore a cup, but the sheer ferocity of the blow compressed tender bits and surprised him. My head came up, crunching into his jaw, then the Old One stabbed my left hand into the man's throat.
The gillette gurgled and lurched into the shadows. I leaped for him, catching him on the right flank. He clutched his throat with both hands, so I levered his elbow up with my right hand and knifed my left hand into his armpit. My right knee came up, smashing into his stomach, then my left fist hammered down on the back of his neck. He grunted and rolled into the shadowed corner of the room.
I heard his partner get up and begin to stumble off, running, but the Old One did not turn in pursuit. He already had his prey and wanted a kill. His resolution to finish the gillette came powered with the outrage he felt over being trapped in the Dome, in this building that was, like the gillette, entirely against nature. This was a place where men sought to denature Nature, holding it captive to their whims, for their amusement. And this, too, was a hubristic aberration that demanded correction.
I pounced on the man and pummeled him, then felt the Old One make a final bid for power. He used the scent of blood, the whimpers of the man I sat astride, and my memories of Thumper as a bludgeon to shatter my control over my body. I tried to fight him, but a quick, backhanded blow by my foe caught me in the face. It surprised me more than hurt me, but it loosened my grip and the Old One ran wild.
I heard my bones snap with gunshot reports as the Old One remade me in his form. He was, in his mind, not denaturing me, butrenaturing me, making me over into what I should have been. Arm bones became truncated and muscle protoplasm flowed to new points of insertion. My hands tightened and knotted; my nails thickened and narrowed. Pain spiked up and down my jaw as my teeth grew, and my face crunched as a muzzle began to protrude from my face.
The Old One made me lunge at the gillette's throat, but I snapped my teeth shut well shy of the intended target.He is not prey you would kill and eat.
He must die for he is unnatural!
That, you mutt, is human thinking, not your way! You don't kill for sport.
Men do. Kill him.
Men may,Ido not! I reexerted control, stopping the transformation shy of where the Old One wanted to take it. With a quick backhanded slap, I stopped the gillette's strugglings, then rolled off his chest and sat with my back to the wall. I had control for the moment, but I could feel the Old One gathering his strength to contest me, and the stink of blood helped him. Thumperwas dead, and part of me cried out for revenge, but that was too simple for the situation that killed him.
Somewhere in the dark passageway back into the stadium I heard athwok, then the razorgirl came tumbling back into the small enclosure. A half-second later Jimmy entered the enclosure, a bat in his hands. 'Wolf? Thumper?'
I tried to answer him, but the Old One growled.
Jimmy turned toward the shadows, raising the bat.
The Old One took that as a threat and tried to make me lunge at him.
I gritted my teeth, locking my jaw shut, and refused. 'Go. Away. Jimmy.' My voice came in a harsh croak, with lots of growl worked in and around it. 'Go.'
He, too, is unnatural, Longtooth. He is as bad as this place.
But he is my friend.I shaped my will into a stick and poked it at the Old One.You tried to play at man's games, and you lost.
It will not always be so, Longtooth.
One game at a time.
Jimmy lowered his head slightly, trying to pierce the darkness that shrouded me. 'Wolf, is that you? Are you okay?'
'It's me, Jimmy. I need you to go away.' I had to force the words out through my throat. 'Call security. Thumper is hurt bad. Dead, I think. These two did it. Go. Now. Please.'
'Are you hurt?' Jimmy took a half-step toward me. 'You look… different.'
His eyes have been done, he can probably see me.I didn't know if his optical mods included low-light vision, but the shadows would only hide me if he stayed back. 'I'm going to be fine.Please, just go. I'll catch up and explain. Get Thumper help.'
He nodded. ' 'Kay, if that's what you want.'
'Thanks.'
Jimmy turned and ran away down the passage, and the Old One relinquished his grip on me. I felt all the agonies of my body returning to normal, but I refused to cry out. Torturing me that way was beneath him, but the Old One had been thwarted so he didn't care. Grumbling like some guttercur, he retreated inside me and lurked like a hangover.
I shivered, then stood unsteadily. I might have been deep in the bowels of a building that mocked nature, covered in the blood of people who had denied their own nature, but at least I was myself again.
And, for the moment, that was a win.
III
As wins went, though, it was rather costly. Thumper's death nearly gut-shot the team. His enthusiasm had kept everyone loose, his gentle words had dispelled the negativism that could prolong a slump, and his sense of humor reminded everyone that since baseball was really a game, they should have fun out there. To have him killed stunned everyone, and at such a crucial point in the year, that could easily have spelled doom for the team.
Oddly enough, Ken Wilson helped turn that sentiment around. Against doctor's orders he left the hospital and came to the team meeting after Thumper's death. He looked around at those gathered and delivered a succinct and powerful eulogy. 'Each of us,' he said, 'knows who we are inside. I'm not Babe Ruth, you're not Matt Williams or Pee Wee Reese. When we step away from the game, when we retire our statsofts, we will be someone outside the game. Thumper devoted his whole life to baseball and became a person who literally lived for it. And now he's died for it. He died making sure everything would be perfect for us, for our game against the Jaguars tomorrow. Our duty, our debt to him demands that we make that game as perfect as he made this place for that game. You know, you all know, he's still here, watching us. Well, I'm not gonna let him down.'
As Ken spoke I felt an upswelling of emotion and could see the same shining from the eyes of the other players. I knew they bought into it wholly and completely, but that's because they didn't have a full understanding of how Thumper had died. Palmer Clark had taken immediate charge of the investigation and had clamped a lid on things very quickly. All the media learned was that Thumper had been engaged in some routine maintenance duties when he'd had an accident, struck his head, and died.
The truth was not nearly so neat. There was no denying that the two gillettes had killed him, but there was nothing to connect them with the team's sub-par statistical performance. I was not a party to any interrogations, but from what Clark told me, the two of them were being fairly tight-lipped. They had a history of catting- burgling-various and sundry corporate apartments or places where VIPs installed their extramarital lovers. They hit spots where they figured folks would not want much attention paid and would have valuable items hidden. Clark figured they had been hiding out preparatory to breaking into the Dome's luxury boxes, Thumper surprised them, and died in the ensuing struggle.
I couldn't dispute that idea, and cautioned myself against trying to make a pattern where none existed. It
