The Moreau Quartet: Volume One

Book 0: Moreau Quartet

by S. Andrew Swann

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Cyberpunk; Hard Science Fiction

Synopsis

Combining the first and fourth novels of S. Andrew Swann’s genre-spanning series, The Moreau Quartet: Volume One centers on moreau private detective Nohar Rajasthan, and includes a new afterword by the author.

 It’s 2053, and the U.S. has long since genetically engineered life successfully. “Moreaus,” humanoid and animal hybrids, and “frankensteins,” genetically manipulated humans, live as second-class citizens.

Nohar Rajasthan is a moreau, a humanoid of tiger stock. Raised by a human after his parents’ death, Nohar ekes out a career as a private eye. Mixing science fiction with detective thrillers, Nohar’s story leaps off the page with all the nonstop excitement and danger of an action blockbuster.

In Forests of the Night: When Nohar accepts a commission from a frankenstein to investigate the death of the campaign manager of a local politico, all hell breaks loose. Nohar finds himself targeted by everyone from local cops to federal agents to a drug-running gang to an assassin with a 100% kill rate.

In Fearful Symmetries: Nohar retired from the private eye business ten years ago, and just wants to spend his remaining time in the peace and quiet of his wilderness homestead. So when a human lawyer asks him to take on a missing moreau case, he refuses—and soon after is attacked by a paramilitary team. Now Nohar must find the missing moreau and discover why some- one wants him dead.

Release date: August 4, 2015

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 448

Sample

FORESTS OF THE NIGHT

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.

Nohar looked up from the corpse, and at Hassan. “Me now?”

The dog shook his head and raised his gun. “Not today. This was a lesson. Lessons need witnesses.”

Hassan began backing away, keeping his eyes on Nohar.

When Hassan reached the door, he gave the carnage a brief inspection. Then he looked back up at Nohar, who was still standing by the rear wall. “Advice, tiger. Next time be more careful who you work for.”

No shit.

 • • • 

It took all of fifteen minutes for the first police to descend on the party side of the flats. In twenty minutes the east side of the Cuyahoga River was illuminated by a wash of dozens of flashing blue and red lights. Even though Nohar was the one who called in the shooting, he had to sit on his tail in the back of a very cramped Chevy Caldera sedan. At least the pink uniforms didn’t cuff him—not that they hadn’t tried, but this far out of Moreytown they didn’t have cuffs that would fit him. They simply deposited him in the back seat and kept their distance.

Nohar squirmed to get his tail in a comfortable position and looked out the windows facing the river. Not much to see, water for a few hundred meters reflecting the police flashers. The water terminated at the concrete base of the West Side office complex. The office buildings were so dark at this time of night that they seemed to be trapezoidal holes cut in the night sky, revealing something blacker behind it.

There wasn’t much else to watch out the other window. The forensics people were all in Zero’s. He’d end up talking to Manny later anyway. Not that there was anything to discuss. It wasn’t like he was on a case any more.

Twenty-five hundred dollars. Gone. The first of the month was at the end of the week, and he only had about two hundred in the bank. Served him right for working for a pimp.

Nohar had his pride. He didn’t want to have to ask Manny about his old room—

He shook his head. Things would work out. They usually did.

A soft rain began to fall. It broke up the reflections on the river.

Nohar heard the scream of abused brakes. He turned around to face the entrance of the parking lot. A puke-green Dodge Havier that was missing one front fender jumped the curb and skidded to a halt in a handicapped parking spot.

It had to be Harsk.

Indeed, Irwin Harsk’s bald head emerged from the driver’s side door of the unmarked sedan. Harsk stormed out like an avalanche. Many standards of pink beauty escaped Nohar, but some forms of ugly transcended species. Harsk’s black face resembled a cinder block.

It had been only a matter of time before Harsk got involved. He was the detective in charge of Moreytown. He had jurisdiction over anything involving moreaus, and, by extension, any product of genetic engineering. In the case of the shoot-out at Zero’s that covered the victims, the suspect, and the witness.

This obviously didn’t please the detective.