The Moreau Quartet: Volume One: 1 Read online

  Raves for Forests of the Night and Fearful Symmetries:

  “The private eye tiger hero is a tough, serious minded, but often sentimental character who really makes this story of secret plots, assassins, drug dealers, and political intrigue work. One of the more interesting blends of mystery and SF.”

  —Science Fiction Chronicle

  “An entertaining hard-boiled detective novel set in a gritty, relatively near future . . . . If any book was meant to be made into an action-adventure movie, this is it.”

  —Locus

  “An enjoyable mix of a hard-boiled detective novel with near-future science fiction.”

  —SF Site

  “Here is the printed page equivalent of an action movie: a novel as vivid as a cinema blockbuster . . . . Swann has superb technical skills . . . the particular details and variations that he comes up with are inventive and neat. More importantly, he has a style that makes the action leap off the page. Many SF writers who have more famous names could learn a great deal from Swann.”

  —The New York Review of Science Fiction

  “A plot packed with action and suspense . . . written with warmth, humor, and intelligence.”

  —Kliatt

  “As the story unfolded, I couldn’t put it down. I look forward to more adventures of Nohar Rajasthan, private investigator.”

  —VOYA

  DAW Novels from S. ANDREW SWANN

  Fantasy:

  DRAGONS & DWARVES

  (The Dragons of the Cuyahoga | The Dwarves of Whiskey Island)

  *

  BROKEN CRESCENT

  *

  GOD’S DICE

  *

  DRAGON • PRINCESS

  DRAGON • THIEF

  Fiction:

  ZIMMERMAN’S ALGORITHM

  Science Fiction:

  THE HOSTILE TAKEOVER TRILOGY

  (Profiteer | Partisan | Revolutionary)

  THE MOREAU QUARTET: VOLUME ONE

  (Forests of the Night | Fearful Symmetries)

  THE MOREAU QUARTET: VOLUME TWO

  (Emperors of the Twilight | Specters of the Dawn)

  FORESTS OF THE NIGHT copyright © 1993 by S. Andrew Swann.

  FEARFUL SYMMETRIES copyright © 1999 by S. Andrew Swann.

  Afterword copyright © 2015 by by S. Andrew Swann.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Jim Burns.

  Additional cover elements courtesy of Shutterstock.

  Cover design by G-Force Design.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1703.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  ISBN 978-0-698-40759-6

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise for S. Andrew Swann

  Also by S. Andrew Swann

  Title Page

  Copyright

  FORESTS OF THE NIGHT

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  FEARFUL SYMMETRIES

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Afterword

  FORESTS OF THE NIGHT

  Dedication

  This is for John, Heather, and their kid(s?)

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to a number of people who left their mark on this manuscript. To Dan Eloff, who knows he got me writing again, and to R. M. Meluch, who doesn’t. To the members of the Cleveland SF Writer’s Workshop, who helped me get the burrs and toolmarks off this novel. To Stacy Newman, who offered to proof this. To Anastacia H. Brightfox, for naming one of the characters. And thanks to Amy, who, if nothing else, helped to give me something to write about.

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  In the forests of the night,

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

  In what distant deeps or skies

  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

  On what wings dare he aspire?

  What the hand, dare seize the fire?

  And what shoulder, and what art,

  Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

  And when thy heart began to beat,

  What dread hand? And what dread feet?

  What the hammer? What the chain?

  In what furnace was thy brain?

  What the anvil? what dread grasp

  Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

  When the stars threw down their spears,

  And water’d heaven with their tears,

  Did he smile his work to see?

  Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

  Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

  In the forests of the night,

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

  —WILLIAM BLAKE

  Chapter 1

  “One day, Nugoya, you’re going to screw the wrong person.” Nohar Rajasthan raked his claws across the seat of his booth, wishing it was Nugoya’s face. Like the rest of Zero’s, the vinyl on the seat
was flashy, shiny, and cheap. The seat shredded.

  Nugoya grabbed the collar of the black jacket that was draped over his left shoulder, shaking his head. He looked human, but only at first glance. A close examination of the graying Japanese would reveal joints large beyond normal human proportions and muscles that snaked like steel cable. The light above the booth glinted off the chrome irises of Nugoya’s artificial Japanese eyes. “I hire you to find my girl. You find me a corpse. A corpse is worthless. I owe you nothing.”

  Nohar shouldn’t have had the bad sense to let Nugoya hire him. It was becoming hard to contain his anger. “Expenses, and four days of legwork.”

  Nohar shouldn’t have trusted a frank. Japan had been one of the few countries to ever defy the U.N. ban on the manipulation of human genetic material. The INS had tight restrictions on letting human frankensteins into the country and those that made it here found that they had few, if any rights. That kind of bitterness tended to turn people into assholes—and Nugoya didn’t need any help on that score.

  Even moreaus like Nohar had a constitutional amendment in their favor.

  “I owe you nothing. I should ask back the thousand I paid you. You are an arrogant cat. Were we elsewhere, you would have to show some respect, and pay for your failure.” Nugoya held up his mutilated right hand. It was missing two fingers.

  Nohar was already scanning the rest of the bar. He picked out Nugoya’s people easily. They were all moreaus—a human would not be caught dead working for a frank.

  “Twenty-five hundred, Nugoya. Pay me.”

  It was Tuesday, two in the morning. There were only a half-dozen other people. The civilians—all human since they were downtown—were giving Nugoya’s booth a wide berth. No surprise, since two of Nugoya’s soldiers were hovering near the table. One was a tiger, like Nohar. The other was a dark brown, nearly black ursine that couldn’t quite stand upright even with the relatively high ceiling. Nugoya had a vulpine manning the bar, and a trio of white rabbits sat near the entrance. Nohar knew there was a canine somewhere out of sight, probably in the kitchen. Nohar could catch a hint of the dog’s scent.

  “You failed. No money.”

  Nohar told himself that he should just walk out of there. Shut up, leave, and cut his losses. He didn’t.

  “I found the bitch, peddling her ass on the side for the flush you hooked her on. I don’t know if it was cut with angel dust or drain cleaner, but her last trip splatted her all over Morey Hill. It’s your fault she’s dead.”

  Nugoya’s jaw clenched, and Nohar could smell his anger. Nugoya stood up. His jacket slid off his shoulder, revealing his artificial left arm and some scarring on his neck. “How dare you, an animal, presume—”

  That was enough. “And what are you, Nugoya, but a half-pint, half pink sleazeball?”

  Nugoya sputtered something incomprehensible. Probably Japanese.

  Nohar was glad he was the one facing the rest of the bar. He could feel all hell was about to break loose. Why couldn’t he keep his damn mouth shut? One more try at being reasonable. “I just want my money, Nugoya. You aren’t going to shake me down like one of your girls.”

  Nugoya’s problem was he couldn’t ever be anything but a small-time pimp. He wasn’t human and he wasn’t a moreau, so neither world would let him have more than a few scraps of the power he thought he deserved.

  “I will not take any more insolence. Leave or I will have you removed.”

  Nugoya motioned with his left arm at the other tiger and the bear. The tiger started moving forward. The bear reached under a table and took a hold of something large and presumably deadly. He kept it out of sight of the patrons.

  “It’s insolence to think the world owes you respect because some defunct Jap corporation built you like a disposable radio.”

  That did it. Nugoya had a killer ego, and could only take a little needling before he jumped. In his prime, a Japanese corporate samurai could take Nohar in a fair fight. Nugoya’s ego would never let him admit that he was well past his prime. Tokyo was nuked by China a long time ago, and Nugoya had been sitting on his butt for longer than that.

  The frank ripped the table from the wall and threw it to the side. The advancing tiger almost tripped over it. Nohar stayed seated and Nugoya went for his neck. Nugoya was fast, faster than any normal human, faster than most moreaus.

  Nohar was faster.

  As the other tiger manhandled the remains of the table out of his way and the bear pulled out a Russian-make assault rifle, Nohar’s right hand shot up and clamped on Nugoya’s mechanical wrist. At the same time, Nohar wrapped his left arm around Nugoya’s right arm. The frank’s three-fingered hand ended up clamped under Nohar’s armpit. Nohar had his forearm levered under Nugoya’s upper arm, his hand resting on the shoulder.

  Nohar pushed down and heard the bone crack.

  Nugoya yelled, washing Nohar’s face with his sour breath, and tried to escape. But Nohar had lifted the frank off the ground by the mechanical arm. Nugoya didn’t have the leverage.

  Predictably, one of the civilians screamed.

  “That will heal. If I did that to your other arm, who’s around to fix it? Call off the muscle.”

  Nugoya showed some reluctance, so Nohar bore down on the broken arm. Nohar could hear the bones grate together. Nugoya shook his head violently and screamed something back at his people in Japanese. The tiger stopped moving, and the bear set the rifle down on the ground.

  The tiger slowly drew his gun from a shoulder holster and dropped it.

  “You’re dead, Rajasthan.”

  “Hundred years we’ll all be dead. I just want my money.”

  It was a standoff. Nohar had Nugoya as a shield, but there were six of Nugoya’s people between him and the door. The rabbits weren’t an immediate problem; the press of exiting civilians was pinning them by the door. The bartending fox had pulled out a shotgun, but he had the sense not to point it at his boss. Even so, Nohar couldn’t move away from the wall without exposing himself.

  He might be 260 centimeters tall and weigh 300 kilos. He might be able to whip anything but that bear and a few franks in a fair fight. But guns were guns.

  Nohar stood up, lifting Nugoya by his mechanical arm. The little pimp barely gave his torso cover. Nohar would have preferred kevlar—he would have preferred not being there in the first place.

  Nohar could smell the canine, stronger now. The other tiger’s nose twitched. The bear started turning toward the bar. The civilians were gone.

  So were the rabbits.

  What?

  Nugoya was still yelling. “Dead!”

  The tiger turned toward the entrance. Nohar was smelling it now, too. The copper odor of blood. Rabbit blood. It had drifted in from the open door to the empty bar with the algae smell from the river. Nugoya stopped yelling.

  The fox started turning around to face the long mirror behind the bar. The canine’s smell was rank in the bar now. Nohar began to realize the dog might not be one of Nugoya’s people. The fox must have heard something because he was raising the shotgun toward the mirror.

  “Let me down!” There was the hint of panic in Nugoya’s voice and more than a hint of it in his smell.

  Someone turned on a glass jackhammer and the mirror for the length of the bar exploded outward in a wave, from left to right. It was some sort of silenced submachine gun. The vulpine got in the way of at least three shots, and large chunks of fox flew out over the bar. The shotgun went off, blowing away a case of Guinness that was sitting behind the bar. The fox fell half over the bar and bled.

  The smell of cordite, beer, and melted teflon wafted over. Whoever was shooting was using glazer rounds. If the internal injuries didn’t get you, the blood poisoning would.

  The other tiger was ducking for cover in a booth across from Nohar and Nugoya. There wasn’t cover for the bear. All the ursine could do
was reach back for the rifle and hope the guy with the machine gun missed.

  As the bear was bending over Nohar had an unobstructed view of the assassin jumping out of the broken mirror and on to the bar. Canine. A dog with a shaggy gray coat that tagged him as an Afghani. The dog wore a long black coat over a black jumpsuit that bulged with the kevlar vest he wore under it. The gun was small, the silencer was twice as long as the weapon itself. The clip was the length of the dog’s forearm.

  The bear was intimidating, but size was the bear’s downfall. What was terrifying on the battlefields of Asia was a deadly handicap in the small confines of the rear of Zero’s. The ursine couldn’t turn around fast enough to shoot the canine.

  The canine emptied a burst into the bear’s back and Nohar got a good look and a good smell of the inside of the bear’s chest as the ursine splatted on to the ground.

  The tiger had a problem. His gun was on the ground, by the rifle. Nohar could smell the bloodlust rising from the other cat. No, Nohar thought, you don’t jump a guy with an automatic weapon. But the cat was already hyped on adrenaline and Nohar could see the muscles in the tiger’s haunches tense, even under the human clothing.

  The dog was waiting for the tiger to pounce. Three bullets hit the cat before it got halfway. Blood sprayed the wall and the tiger slammed into a booth, smashing a table and scattering glassware.

  Then the dog turned his attention to Nohar and Nugoya.

  Nugoya was thrashing like a fish out of water. “Get me out of this, you have your money, you have three times your money—”

  The dog licked his nose. The smell of his musk made Nohar want to sneeze. “Drop the pimp.”

  Nohar didn’t argue.

  Nugoya hit the ground and collapsed, cradling his arm. He turned toward the dog. “Hassan . . .”

  The canine shook his head. “Too late. You were warned last time.”

  “Can’t we deal—”

  “No. You knew the rules. Do not tread on our business. Flush is our business. We say who sells, and who to.”

  Nugoya staggered to his feet. “I needed the money to keep my girls supplied. You’re charging too much—”

  “Others will be quite glad not to get off as cheaply as you.” The canine fired one shot that hit Nugoya in the face. The pimp’s head jerked back hard enough that Nohar heard the neck crack. Nugoya fell backward at Nohar’s feet, looking upward with only half a face. Only one chrome iris looked up. The other eye had become electronic shrapnel buried deep in what was left of Nugoya’s brain.