The Hunt (18 page)

Ah, yes, that yours was a
stupendous
and
prodigious
inteligence not fuly tapped. That’s the intel on you, anyway.” He pauses.

“Could that be what garners al this attention, favoritism? Your so-caled inteligence?” he says, staring condescendingly at me with the naked disdain of someone feeling threatened. “Tel me: What do naked disdain of someone feeling threatened. “Tel me: What do you think this Hunt is about?”

He’s testing me. Sizing me up. “Hunting hep—”

“And don’t say ‘hunting hepers.’ Because it’s never been about hunting or hepers or hunting hepers. So don’t use any of those words separately or in combination.”

“It’s al about the Ruler,” I answer, strangely emboldened.

His eyes snap to mine, but there is no menace in them. “Ah, the lad might have a mind, after al. Expound, then, if you wil.”

I pause. “I’d rather not, I think.”

His head snaps back. “You’d rather so, I should think.”

After a pause, I speak, in as even- keeled a voice as I can muster.

“The Ruler knows that his popularity rating has been sagging recently. This is unfair because he is a truly dynamic leader, the best this land has ever known in al its storied and glorious past.

But our Ruler is not so much interested in his popularity numbers as he is in the happiness of his people. And nothing else brings as much 130 ANDREW FUKUDA

communal bliss and sense of societal camaraderie as a Heper Hunt. It is to that end that he plans and executes the Heper Hunt with such adroit skil. Of course, it is merely incidental that— as with such adroit skil. Of course, it is merely incidental that— as history bears out— nothing wil help his numbers as much as a Heper Hunt.”

“Bingo,” the Director whispers, his eyes closing in ecstasy. “My, my, my. The boy wonder surprises after al.” He scratches his wrist.

“But that was an easy question. The warm- up.”

A slight shake of the head and then he sets his eyes on mine, a hardness fl itting across his face. “Explain to me . . . al of this,” he says, his arms fl oating above him momentarily like a balerina.

“Explain the reason for this training orientation. After al, who needs training to hunt down hepers? Why the idiotic lectures, workshops, training sessions? And explain the festivities, the fanfare of the Gala, explain the reason for the media, reporters, and photographers fl ooding into this Institute as we speak. And explain why on earth we are arming the hepers with FLUNs.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

“Don’t say sorry,” he says. And he waits.

“I don’t know.”

“Not so smart after al. Are you?” His upper lip snarls up re-proachfuly, exposing the lower half of his fangs. “Fact is, you’re proachfuly, exposing the lower half of his fangs. “Fact is, you’re just like everyone else around here, al the incompetent staff who need to be hand- fed inteligence, my inteligence. Clueless.

Brainless. Empty-headed.” His eyes stare out at me, fl aring down his nose and upturned chin. “Empty as this Institute,” he says, bitterness souring his words. “Empty as this Institute,” he says again, quieter.

He turns his back to me, stares out the window. When he speaks, the cratered emptiness of his voice surprises me. “It wasn’t always this way. The halways used to hum with foot traffi c; classrooms THE HUNT 131

spiled over with the very brightest fi rst- rate minds; laboratories were hives of activity, brimming with experiments conducted by top- notch scientists. And the heper pens! They were fi led, from top to bottom, with dozens of hepers, young to old. Our breeding program—
my
breeding program— was about to realy take off.

There was energy about this place, a spark running along the wals.

We had purpose, recognition, admiration, respect, even envy. We had everything.” He stops speaking, stops moving, his chest so stil, it is as if he has stopped breathing. “Everything but self- control.”

And then his eyes turn to the sentries and staff standing stiffl y around us, his icy stare pinning each of them like moths to the board.

“Until one day, we had virtualy no hepers left,” he continues, turning to face me. “This wil be the very last Heper Hunt. The Ruler knows this. But he is most unwiling to have what’s been a popularity cow for him come to an end. So he has devised a way to keep feeding off this Hunt for years to come, in perpetuity, even.”

Ashley June, off to my right, hasn’t moved. Not a sound out of her.

“A book. A nonfi ction account of this Hunt. The public has always been insanely curious about the Hunt. The good citizens, who salivate over every detail of the Heper Hunt, wil keep this book on the best- seler list for de cades. And this book wil not be a dry journalistic work. No; rather— and here is the stroke of genius—

it wil be a memoir penned by the winner. The winner of
this
Hunt.”

He strokes his cheek with the backs of his fi ngers, up and down, up and down. “Do you see how everything fi ts together now? Do you see why we have a training period? the Gala? the media fl ooding the Institute?”

And I see it. It al makes sense now. “It’s al for the book,” I 132

ANDREW FUKUDA

whisper. “To draw out the Hunt, stretch it out to a week- long event, to provide material for the book. To make it al the more event, to provide material for the book. To make it al the more exciting.

To make the stakes that much higher. The experience of the Hunt al the more enhanced, the victory al the more rapturous.”

The Director nods me on.

“I mean, the training period alone wil take up fi ve chapters. And it’l be a chance to fl esh out the hunters. The competitiveness between us, the confl icts within, al that wil only be grist for the mil.

It’l build up anticipation, leading up to the Gala, then, to the climax, the Hunt itself. The book wil practicaly write itself.”

The Director’s eyes shine with reluctant approval. “And the FLUNs? Why arm the hepers with FLUNs? Go on, go on, you’re doing wel so far.”

“For excitement. No, more than that.” I pause, thinking. “To slow the Hunt down. Because these are the very last hepers in existence.

What a waste to devour them into extinction in mere seconds.

Chomp, chomp, gone, scarfed down in a frantic feeding frenzy. It’l be almost anticlimactic. No, better to draw out the experience, to kil off the hepers slowly, one at a time. One chapter stretched into three.”

I fi ght the urge to furrow my brow. “But that’s possible only if the Hunt is slowed down—
by arming the hepers
. It’l increase the drama, the excitement, the payoff for the eventual winner. And then the last chapter wil be amazing. Drama to the hilt as the winning hunter drinks down the very last drops of heper blood. Down, down his throat . . . into oblivion.” I look at Ashley June, then at the Director, understanding at last. “Everything is for the book. For the Ruler.”

The Director is staring with a look of genuine surprise, his eyes wide, his jaw drooped and slack. Then his head snaps forward, then back again, a sharp staccato movement that cracks his neck.

“Wel done,” he says. “You realy are quite the surprise.” His neck cracks THE HUNT 133

loudly one more time, a bone- snapping
clap
that ricochets down the library.

Then he pauses: his eyes suddenly narrow into a dark and intense disdain. “And so that brings us back to you. The one thing I cannot fi gure out. How do you fi t into al of this? And why the directive I received just a few minutes ago, again concerning you?”

“What directive, sir?”

“Why is the Palace so interested in you?” he asks, ignoring my question. “Everything else, I’ve fi gured out.” And every last vestige of brightness in his eyes is fl ung away. Only razors of vestige of brightness in his eyes is fl ung away. Only razors of darkness stand in his eyes now, so keen on mine, I feel them slicing into my eyebals.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying,” he says, caressing his forearm with the backs of his fi ngers as if stroking a hairless kitten. “Tel me. Now. Tel me what’s going on. The Palace thinks it’s so smart with these random directives, thinks it can keep me in the dark. Every other day comes some new directive wily- nily, some new twist on this Hunt. They want to keep me on my toes, they want to keep me in the dark. But I have my ways of fi nding out.” His words drop out of his mouth, sharp icicles faling into a dark canyon. “And of coercing it out, if necessary.”

My fi ngers, hung by my side, begin to tremble. I press them against the side of my leg. “I don’t—”

“Tel me!” His voice booms off the wals. Even as his words echo down the length of the fl oor, I see the anger rising in his eyes.

He begins to move toward me—

“I know why,” Ashley June suddenly whispers.

The Director stops. Everyone turns to look at her.

She looks at me briefl y, as if about to commit an unforgivable 134

She looks at me briefl y, as if about to commit an unforgivable 134

ANDREW FUKUDA

betrayal, then says: “It’s because”— her voice lowers even more

—

“he’s different.”

“What do you mean?” the Director asks.

She is standing in the shadows; now she steps forward, into a splash of moonlight. “He’s exactly what the Palace is looking for.”

Hesitation. Then: “Explain.”

“You said the winner wil pen this book. So they need someone who can write. And with the media here, there’re going to be magazine interviews, TV talk show appearances, radio interviews after the Hunt. So they need someone wel- spoken. But Heper Hunt winners have typicaly been loutish brutes, masters of physicality but not exactly the most articulate or ce re bral of people. The Palace needs someone who is wel- spoken, thoughtful, restrained, detail-oriented.” She fl icks her chin in my direction. “And with him, you’ve got al that. I know: I’ve been his classmate for years. He’s always been an academic star, unwittingly. His inteligence is effortless.

He’l be terrifi c. In press interviews, in front of the camera, penning the memoir. And the Palace knows this; it sounds like penning the memoir. And the Palace knows this; it sounds like they’ve thor-oughly vetted him. Of al the hunters here, he’s by far the most media- ready.”

The Director turns his eyes on me, scrutinizing me as if from a newly discovered angle.

“He might be a bit on the shy, quiet side,” Ashley June continues,

“but even that’s a plus: it’s a quietness that’s compeling and attractive. Girls love it.” She pauses. “Trust me on that one.”

The Director shifts his stare away to look outside, a fl icker of annoyance fl itting across his face. “Who’s been giving you al this intel?”

“Nobody. It’s just guesswork, that’s al.” Alertness shines in her eyes. “Nothing you haven’t already thought of, I’m sure.”

“I see.” His left hand, glowing with a suffused paleness, strokes THE HUNT 135

one of the attaché cases. His bony fi ngers lilt on the handle, brushing it with fear and disdain. “So you’re just guessing— you could be way off base.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think so.” She pauses. “But what about me?

Why am I here?”

The Director raises his eyes to her and scratches his wrist in long, lethargic strokes. His plea sure is easily evident. “You are what we would cal Plan B.”

“I’m not sure I folow.”

“Pity that. And to think you’d been doing so wel.” The Director sniffs. “Evidently, you’re just like everyone else, always needing me to spel things out for them. An hour ago, I received yet another directive. Concerning both you and him. You are Plan B. In case Plan A— him—fails to pan out, in case he fails to execute, you’re the safety net. Something goes wrong during the Hunt, he fails to deliver or is taken out of the action, you’re there to win the Hunt.

You’re the insurance policy, the understudy winner.”

“I don’t think it’l work.”

“But of course it wil!” he says, mild irritation seeping into his voice.

“You’re every bit the package he is. Smart— though I’m beginning to have my doubts; verbose— though a little too much, I’m coming to think; and very knowledgeable about hepers. They’ve told me about you, little girl, about al the heper clubs and societies you’ve been involved in over the years. Your heper knowledge wil come in handy during post- Hunt interviews and whatnot. And besides, you’re quite the eye candy. You’d look good on camera, in photographs. Your pretty face would grace the covers of instant photographs. Your pretty face would grace the covers of instant best selers quite wel. Yes, I can see it now.”

“You need to think about the bigger picture of the Hunt,” Ashley June says, her voice steely.

“I need to think? . . .”

136 ANDREW FUKUDA

Ashley June is silent: the silence of regret.

“You think you know better than me?” The words pepper her like pelets out of a shotgun, rancid with scorn. “Don’t tel me what I need to think, little girl.”

The Director closes his eyelids, his long eyelashes delicately interlacing. And with that, the temperature in the library, already low, plummets. Beams of moonlight freeze into pilars of transparent gray ice. I shoot a look at her. She knows she’s crossed a line— her skin is even paler than before, and her eyelids are fl uttering.

The Director’s eyes draw down to the two attaché cases. He puls them closer. “One of you’l need to win the Heper Hunt for this plan to succeed. That’s what you wanted to tel me, isn’t it, little girl? Please. Don’t presume to share with me your pedestrian ideas. Because I already knew that. In order for you to grace the covers of magazines, to appear on talk shows, to be the talk of the covers of magazines, to appear on talk shows, to be the talk of the town, one of you must win. Because yes, I’m wel aware that there’re other hunters, many of whom are not only as desirous to win, but far more capable of doing so.”