Predator and Prey
By William C. Burns, Jr. ©1997
The moderator takes the dais, "Good afternoon everyone. Welcome to the first speculative fiction writer's workshop here at SpeCon 97. You all recognize our guest, three time Nebula and one time Hugo winner, Mr. Kane Ellwright."
Ricky, seated close as possible to the dais, wipes sweating palms on the legs of his jeans saying to himself, "I will be Kane Ellwright. I'll be published in every sci-fi and fantasy zine all over the net, maybe even one of the pulps. I'll be rich and have the nice car, the super model girl friend and best of all, I'll be up there, looking down here."
The moderator on the dais continues, "This is the general discussion panel where you guys ask the questions. Does anyone have a question for Kane? Can I call you Kane?" The elder writer nods and gives the moderator a muddled grin.
Ricky's hand rockets up first.
"Yes, young fellow over here on the right. First tell us your name and then you question for Mr. Ellwright?"
"My name's Ricky Crow and Mister Ellwright, how can I be up there on stage with you?"
"Well, first you'd have to get out of your chair . . ."
A sprinkle of laughter snakes through the room. Ricky continues, "I want to be a writer sir, a world class . . ."
"Well, now that's the question, isn't it? To be a writer, you write. You sit down in front of the keyboard or grab an old fashioned legal pad and you write, all there is to it." Again amused laughter.
"But sir, you are a pro. How go you keep cranking them out, one after another?"
"Well, it's easier than writing them all at . . . You're serious aren't ya kid?"
"Deadly serious sir."
"To be a writer you must first write. To become a world class writer . . . Well, for that you need some inspiration, you need a muse."
Later that night in the open courtyard of the convention center Ricky and Kane recline under flickering Victorian gas-lamps and fruit trees imported from the Mediterranean. A pitcher of cheap beer, all Ricky can afford, sits on the glass table. Kane, the only one drinking, is distracted by a spider bundling up a mosquito.
"Mister Ellwright?"
"Huh? Oh, listen kid you don't want to be a writer. The worst thing that can happen to a man is he gets a job making living at his hobby. Trust me, you start making money at writing and you'll hate it."
"Mister Ellwright, all right, mister Kane, OK, Kane. I want to be a writer, not just a hack, a real writer. I can, I know I can. All I need . . ."
Suddenly Kane jerks upright, galvanized. "Sorry kid, but I have to leave."
"Hold it . . ."
"Look, kid . . . Ricky, run, get out of here. Run fast, run far and forget you ever met me."
A sensual shadow detaches itself from one of the apricot trees. Ricky instantly recognizes Kane's super model companion, always beside him in the photos. In the flickering lamp light she is long, taut and dark despite her pale skin. Her ebon hair is pulled back severely. She moves fluidic through the shadows toward them.
"Damn it Ricky, run."
"Why, Kane, stop. You'll frighten the boy. Ricky Crow isn't it?" Her voice has a silky foreign accent as it cascades from her alabaster throat. "Kane has told me many things about you."
Speechless, Ricky gurgles some kind of greeting sound as he takes her hand, hunger gleaming form his eyes.
"Introduce me Kane."
"Nikki, leave the boy alone."
"Kane, you are getting on my nerves."
"Predator . . ."
"Be quiet old man!" There is a moment of electric tension between the two. Something darker than shadow, something no one notices, moves through the trees at a distance. Kane breaks eye contact first. Satisfied with her victory, the woman's face flows back into a vision of loveliness. "Look, Ricky, I'm sorry this old. . . Never mind, my name is Nikki and I'm very pleased to meet you. Let's just ignore him, he doesn't understand the way he used to. But you understand don't you?"
"Mr. Kane has been giving me tips on becoming a writer. He's even read some of my stuff."
"Why Kane, how nice. See, you can be useful."
"He said I need a muse, but now its like he changed his mind."
At this Nikki's eyes flash with a macabre delight. "You need a muse, huh?"
"Well, yes . . ." "Maybe I can do a few things that might inspire you. Would you like that?"
Ricky turns, confused to Kane. The older man is in the throws of some kind of attack, his eyes bulging and shaking all over. "What about Mister Kane?"
Nikki places a finger under Ricky's chin and gently pulls his head around, smiles, filling Ricky's mind. He can see nothing else. "Kane and I have reached a level of maturity in our relationship where we can share. Can't we Kane?"
The dark woman and Ricky spend several hours walking through the convention center together, discussing history, philosophy and the role of literature in human evolution. Ricky sucks it all in, an eager sponge.
At length they arrive at Ricky's door. His hands shaking, he attempts unlocking the door. With grace and a smile she takes the pass card and opens the door. She gently shoves him into the room and casts about to assure herself no one has seen them enter. Neither notice the thing, darker than shadow, moving into the bathroom.
The room is dark, except for the light from the parking lot slicing in around the drapes. She sways gently toward him.
"Would you like to kiss me, Ricky? I want you to. Kiss me Ricky."
"And you would be . . . Nikki?" A unfamiliar man's voice fills the room. Nikki drops Ricky's nerveless body, her eyes suddenly large.
Faster than humanly possible Nikki leaps for the door. Somehow the mysterious stranger covers the distance between them and restrains her before she can flee. There follows several minutes of ultra-human life and death struggle.
"All right," she screams at last. "You can have him, he's yours."
"Have what?"
"You can have the boy."
"To what end?" Holding her close, her face inches from his, the stranger feigns confusion.
"Stop mocking me! Who are you?"
"My name is Maxwell Silverwyrn."
"What are you, one of the elder vampires?"
"Oh, hardly that."
She flails at his head and shoulders to no effect. "What are you?"
"Nikki, after you had drained the life from your first victim, after that banquet they always have for the initiated, didn't they tell you the stories, Nikki? I would hate to think you were not versed in the laws of predation?" His breath is frigid on her cheek. "Perhaps this concept is foreign to you. Very well, I will try to tutor you. The spider eats its prey, the mosquito." He indicates the prostrate body of the boy. She half-heartedly tries to flee, but can not. He continues, "And the spider . . . well the spider is prey of the wasp, it is the law of predation, to eat and be eaten." She doesn't get a chance to scream.
Much later the next day, Ricky wakes with a relentless headache and feels like he is coming down with a severe case of the flu. Daylight streams in through the open curtains and he blinks in the light. The room's a mess and the phone is ringing, that's what woke him.
"Hello?"
"Oh Ricky, so glad you're up. How are you feeling?"
"I feel pretty rotten mister . . . Who are you?"
"I'm Maxwell Silverwyrn, Ricky. We met briefly last night, but I'm certain you do not remember."
"No sir, most of it is still a blur."
"Not to worry, listen Ricky, what I called you about, I am a publisher with Castor Marshuch Press and I have seen some of your work. Ricky are you there?"
"Uh, yes, yes sir."
"In fact our mutual friend, Nikki, recommended you to me. I really think you have potential Ricky. In fact, if you inquire at the front desk when you check out, you will find that I have left a lap-top computer for your use. My engineering and editing folks assure me that it has all the accessories an aspiring writer might require."
"Wait a second, what's the catch?"
The man laughs. "There is no catch. I only ask that you give us first dibs on your work. No strings attached, and you get to keep the computer."
"This is too good . . ."
"Not at all son. We can only prosper if we encourage talent. There is one thing though."
"I knew it. What do you want?"
"This is kind of
personal Ricky. If you could just send me a bit of e-mail
whenever you go to one of the speculative fiction
conventions. I might like to tag along because I've a
feeling you're going to attract all the right
people."
_______________________
Contact William C. Burns, Jr.at: sunhawk@greenville.infi.net
View his Web site at: http://home.infi.net/~sunhawk/index.html