2. A Predatory Bird

“So, what happened?” Zann’s voice was strained over the phone, the signal fraying his words with faint static. When at his apartment, Niko’s phone was set to project through his Autonomous Assistant Bot, T1-N4. The round, orange bot hovered in the air with a tiny, softly purring engine as Zann’s demoralizing question sunk heavy into him.

I didn’t jump after him. That’s what happened, Niko thought. I hesitated. I should have jumped. He knew it was a poisonous thought, something borne of old habits he should have long learned from by now. But he also knew it was the truth—if he’d let himself be a little reckless, he would have caught the Kestrel. Niko knew it, plain as day.

“It’s been a while, Zann. Guess I’m rustier than I thought,” he said instead, rubbing a calloused hand across his face. Niko peered around his apartment from where he lay across the couch. The newsfeed played on his TV hologram, where a green and betentacled Gheroun reporter anxiously rambled about the Grand Sovereign’s death and the devastation it meant for the people of Yhanwe-ha. “I shouldn’t have hesitated.”

The same walls—pale dusty sage with no discernable decor except for old, framed family photos—bore down on him as they did every day, year after year. Niko had sunk into these walls, had become another piece of furniture decorating the small apartment. He’d barely left in three years. Going to the station and then on an actual bounty job had been the highlight of his year so far. Even if it had ended in tragedy. And failure.

Niko didn’t want to be having this conversation.

On the other end of the line, Zann sighed, the sound emerging from T1-N4 as a static hiss. “It’s not your fault, Niko.” He sounded disappointed and tired. “We’ve thrown everything at this guy we can, and he just keeps surviving it like a fucking cockroach.”

Niko’s chest ached as frustration spiked within him. He struggled to sit up on the couch more, as though somehow doing so would grant him more presence, more weight in this conversation. Earlier, Zann had said he was the best. Now he was lumping Niko in with every other failed attempt. “It won’t happen again, Zann. I’m learning the guy. He’s slippery. And he has some kind of energy shield I’ve never seen. But if I can get through that, he’ll be vulnerable. Next time, he’s mine.”

Niko’s gaze wandered from the newsfeed’s looping footage of the Grand Sovereign slumping to the ground amidst a shockwave of panicked crowds, instead resting on the nearest hanging portrait. It was his favorite, from back when his family had been whole. Niko was younger in the picture, about seventeen. Ryen, his younger half-brother, was there too, eleven maybe, with a soft and springy afro and a wide smile beaming on his face. Their mother’s countenance bore its familiar, generous smile, and the warmth in her crinkled eyes and radiant bronze skin made something eternally inconsolable ache inside Niko.

His stepfather stood beside Ryen, wearing a look of contentment on his dark features that Niko hadn’t seen on the man’s face in years. He could be an older copy of Zann, who despite the better times captured in the old photo, still wore an edgy, suspicious look. Zann never smiled in photos. He was too cool for that.

I should visit Dad, Niko thought. See how he’s doing. He knew the answer to that—it was the same as it had been for a long time. Not well.

“Niko,” Zann murmured, pulling him out of his reverie. Niko could imagine his face perfectly. They’d been inseparable for years, closest in age of all the family members, and left to pick up the pieces of tragedy. Where their father had shut down and turned inward, Niko and Zann had instead taken action. “I know. I’m only saying that this guy is a real son of a Toliai. I still believe you can get him. Just… He’s become a pain in my ass, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I can imagine,” Niko said.

“Now you see why I’m at my wits’ end with this bastard.”

The newsfeed caught his attention again as a Quwa-quay began talking, their pearlescent, wide eyes wet with heavy tears. “It was terrible,” they said, words thickly accented. “I can’t get it out of my head. One moment, the Grand Sovereign was praying, then the next, they were just gone. What did we do to deserve this?”

“Listen, Zann, I have to go,” Niko mumbled. They said their goodbyes and he hung up. The same moment of devastating failure played from different angles, before cutting to a live video of the newly anointed, auxiliary Grand Sovereign vowing to avenge the previous body’s death. Niko didn’t fully understand the Quwa-quay religion, but knew it had something to do with the Grand Sovereign being one ancient soul that inhabited each new vessel. They pledged personnel and resources to the investigation, and to monetarily contribute to spiking the bounty on the Kestrel’s head. Then they prayed for the wisdom of the previous vessel.

“TV off,” Niko mumbled. T1-N4 disabled the hologram and the living room fell quiet.

T1-N4 chimed in her perennially pleasant, digital tone, “Niko, you seem to be lethargic and depressed today. Would you like to view the top-rated video of ‘kittens misjudging how far they can jump?’ It is considered by viewers across the galaxy as ‘heartwarming’ and ‘funny’—”

“No.” He groaned, struggling to push his legs off the edge of the couch. He gave them both a hearty shove and both feet settled onto the floor.

“Perhaps you would prefer ‘puppies greeting their owners after a long absence?’”

“Knock it off, Tina,” he grunted.

“Okay, Niko. I won’t show you any animal videos.”

Niko rubbed at his face, a sour sensation verging on nausea creeping through his gut. His mood was slipping lower, and a string of resilient anger still sat heavy, stubborn, and searing in his chest. He didn’t know if he was angrier at the Kestrel or himself. Failing a job never sat well with him. Niko had always taken his bounty work very, very seriously. When he’d been regularly hunting, Niko had been one of the galaxy’s best. He’d been relentless in bringing down his marks—at any cost. He didn’t know how to rest, how to let something go. Especially something like this.

His thoughts wandered again to the Kestrel. The man had made it all seem so effortless. He was hardly even concerned by Niko’s presence. He had seemed more irritated, frustrated than anything. Like Niko was just one of many who’d tried inadequately and failed stunningly. The Kestrel was dancing circles around everyone—Galapol, planetary authorities, bounty hunters. They were mere nuisances to him.

Not again.

The words rang like a bell through Niko, reverberating. They made him sound like common trash who had merely gotten in the Kestrel’s way. And it was true; that was all Niko had really been the night before. Something merely in his way. Thinking about it only fed the tight and bitter resentment in his chest. He’d never used to be so sloppy, so timid in his work. He wasn’t used to failing.

Niko’s pulse hammered against his neck and in his stomach. He hated everything about this guy, from his haughty, cool arrogance to his taking lives into his hands and snuffing them out dispassionately. He even hated the man’s next-gen tech. Not to mention that vapid, catchy music. And that fucking bird mask.

Kestrel. A predatory bird.

The conceit of it, of having a theme as though the whole thing were a game made Niko hate him even more.

This was getting him nowhere, he could see now, other than sending his pulse into a frenzy and his mood sinking further into the mired depths of spiraling shame and contempt. With a sigh, he scooted towards the edge of the couch and took hold of the wheelchair sitting beside it. He swung himself into it, a move that seemed effortless now, but relied on strong arms and three years’ worth of practice. Once he was settled in, Niko reached down and adjusted his legs into place.

Two years ago, Zann had gifted Niko the glossy, black tech armor as an astoundingly invaluable gesture. It was uniquely customized, equipped with cutting edge neurotech sensors built into the legs and spine of the suit that allowed him to ambulate and move the legs that had gone three years without feeling or control.

It was the only way Niko could walk again for the rest of his life. He still had no sensation while in the suit, but several months of stubborn training and grit had allowed him to relearn how to balance, walk, and even run again.

Even so, retired from hunting, Niko hadn’t had any real use for the suit. He’d trained in it regardless, unable to give up the hope that one day he might be able to return to the hunt. It had all remained little more than a fantasy. Something had always kept him back from actually trying again.

Until now.

He wheeled out into the kitchen, blearily looking around at its contents. White cabinets and a faux-marble countertop stared back at him. His mother’s holiday cactus sat drooping in the corner window by the sink. He needed to water it again.

The familiar purr of T1-N4’s engine whizzed by. “Do you require help with items on the top shelf?” she sang at him.

“No.”

“Would you like me to order from your number one ranked restaurant? I can replicate your last order of one party tray of chicken nachos, large soft drink, and family-sized pan of brownies from Ch’ua’s Chicken.”

Niko winced through T1-N4 regurgitating his last depression binge order. Party in his case often consisted of one attendee and an action flick rerun.

The owner of Ch’ua’s Chicken was a Dvaab, a little leathery and time-worn, olive-toned alien whose species honored its members by bestowing them horrifically long names. The more esteemed a person was, the longer their name. Ch’ua was—to Niko’s chagrin—merely a nickname for Ch’uachial’nenauani’nii’eenanvi’coenan’ssche’dewerr. He could never remember it past the first few syllables though, and probably couldn’t if the fate of the galaxy depended on it.

Ch’ua’s Chicken was cheap, though, and it was tasty in the way food drowned in salt, sugar, and partially-legal alien spices often was. Zann was convinced the “chicken” was actually Yeuronean desert-frog meat, but Niko didn’t care to think too hard on it, and didn’t ask. He and his brother were both shamelessly constant patrons of the little food joint.

Still, it was tempting and he knew the easy serotonin hit would marginally improve his shit mood. Loaded chicken nachos were the fuel to his days more and more often lately. Any sort of rich, saucy meat piled on chips reminded Niko that life was still worth living.

Sometimes it was the small things. And he didn’t have the wherewithal to prepare an actual meal right now.

“Sure. No drink or brownies this time, though.” Niko tried to maintain some semblance of self-respect.

“Okay, I’ll—” T1-N4 started.

“No, I want the brownies. Family-sized.” Fuck self-respect. Niko was angry and miserable and wanted carbs.

“Okay. I’ll add brownies to your order.”

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and waited for the food to arrive.

Niko had to stop moping. The more he told himself that, the more he could believe it. He needed to take action. He had to make sure this didn’t happen again. Next time, he would be more prepared. He would knock the Kestrel down from his high tower and make him pay for everything he’d done. Every death, every senseless tragedy.

Once the food came, he wheeled back out into the living room, this time to the small desk in the corner, and cracked open the beer. After a few swallows, he glanced at T1-N4, who had drifted into the room after him, tentatively hanging back.

“Play Royce RG.”

The silence of his apartment was instantly replaced with melodic, heavy rap from Niko’s favorite artist, the bass so intense it made T1-N4 vibrate with each beat. It was all he could do to push out the catchy, sparkling pop song the Kestrel had been listening to; its chorus had wormed into his brain and begun looping like a parasite. Maybe now he had a chance at getting some actual work done.

“Pull up the files from Zann. Display them.”

T1-N4 did. Myriad text, video and photo files from Galapol’s tireless research on the Kestrel began appearing one by one in the air before him, suspended in the telltale blue light of T1-N4’s holographic projection. Niko knew these files were something he probably shouldn’t have in his possession, and by probably, he knew that he definitely shouldn’t. But he and Zann had done plentiful favors for and relied on one another to get things done and bring in criminals throughout Niko’s bounty hunting career, and in the end, who the hell was Niko going to share this sort of intel with, anyway? It only served to make his job easier, and Niko would take every advantage he could get to save the life the Kestrel deigned to be next in his crosshairs.

The files appeared to be updated, with footage and documents on last night’s death of the Grand Sovereign.

Niko sifted through them, opening and making his way through greasy nachos and chocolate crumble brownies as he did. Alongside the crime scene photos, autopsies, and images of the hasty and near illegibly scrawled Tell them the Kestrel is coming, grainy and unclear shots of the Kestrel—with his stupid, stupid bird mask and sniper rifle—were littered throughout the files. It seemed he’d managed to occasionally be glimpsed on security cam feeds before disappearing under stealth. Many had various observations handwritten directly on them by Galapol investigators.

Young, male presenting. Human or Heenvan biology. Likely aged 18-35 was scrawled under an enhanced close up of the Kestrel, which amounted to little more than a humanoid-shaped set of pixels.

Another said, Observed to have advanced tech.

“No shit,” Niko murmured, taking another swig of beer before moving on.

Tech = wealthy corporate sponsor? Big company behind murders, backing Kestrel???

Niko sighed. Somehow, that didn’t seem right. He had no proof, nothing to go off of other than instinct. This guy was working on his own. He knew he could always be wrong, but his gut said the Kestrel was a loner. Besides, when it came to big, wealthy and corrupted companies, there were far subtler ways to wreck and ruin lives than indulgent assassinations carried out in the bare public eye.

The newer files from Zann revealed that there had been two false leads taken in and questioned recently, both human men—an Ezrah Carragher, aged twenty-four, and a Loren Faulks, aged twenty-eight, who stared blankly at Niko from dead-eyed portraits. Both men had past criminal histories that implied a specific hatred towards authority and celebrity figures, as well as a penchant for violence. In the end, both had solid alibis to prove they’d been engaged elsewhere when the murders had happened. They’d been subsequently released.

The data continued, stating the Kestrel had been assassinating galactic leaders and public figures for roughly over four months now, every kill carried out with the same type of bullet, fired from a sniper rifle. Niko knew that already. The Kestrel had taken eight lives publicly, before the eyes of billions. Niko knew that too. Before Zann had called him in on the hunt, Niko had found himself just as glued to the newsfeed as—if the internet was any indication—most people had become. Something in him had itched at seeing each development, each new death. Something that had been put long to sleep but had resurfaced again now, restless and insatiable. The need to make this right. The need to be the one to take him down. Despite all his reservations, despite swearing off hunting, some part of Niko had silently begged for Zann to call him in.

And then he had.

Niko sighed. “Close the files.”

The dim glow of the dozens of holographic images and documents blinked instantly from view. Niko rubbed at his eyes; sometimes staring at holograms for too long gave him a headache. He could already feel one beginning to form, a hazy pain pulsing in his temples. Or maybe it was just from the pile of salt, sugar, and carbs he’d just ingested.

“Tina, compile and display a list of upcoming public events of politicians and celebrities for the next quarter.”

“Here you go!” T1-N4 chimed, and the single most despairing list of data Niko had ever seen appeared, hovering before him in illuminated text.

“Shit, this has to be a hundred pages long. At least.”

“Excellent guess! The list is ninety-two pages long with 2,344 unique events. I’ve covered the next three months for you in detail.”

Three months. Over two thousand high-impact public events across the galaxy in just three months. Niko’s head swam. He glanced over at an old portrait of his mother, sitting atop the desk, and silently begged her for strength. Niko was beginning to see why Zann always looked and sounded so tired working with the Kestrel case.

“Alright. Tina, reduce the list to only the members with extremely wide appeal and recognition across the entire galaxy. Anyone who would have a sixty-percent recognition rate or higher.”

“Okay, I’ve updated your list.”

The hologram blinked and refreshed itself, revealing a much more manageable and precise list of potential targets for the Kestrel’s next kill—no. Next attempted kill, Niko corrected himself. There wasn’t going to be another death.

He sifted through the data from most recent to furthest out, marking and highlighting certain ones. The truth was, the Kestrel could be at any of these events. But Niko was going for the biggest, most high-profile ones. The Kestrel wanted to be seen. Niko couldn’t shake the feeling. The assassin wanted people to know and witness when he took lives. He wanted to either frighten people or gloat, Niko wasn’t yet sure which. Maybe a bit of both. Either way, if it were merely about getting rid of someone, the man would kill them anywhere and any way.

The spectacle of it all was more than part of it, he knew. It was the point. The Kestrel’s work was steeped in vanity.

Niko began researching a particular event—it was one of the soonest approaching, and easily had the highest potential attendance. Starlight Burning, it was called. A concert set to become the single biggest entertainment event in the galaxy to date, held at the Vhesa Station Arena that orbited the giant, rocky world of Yeuronea. Niko was shocked at the projected number of attendees: well over two million people from all across the galaxy. The event was sold out, and had been for several months since the moment it was announced.

Two vogue, alien music starlets who’d had years of legendary public feuding were now holding a concert together. They were set to perform not only new and previously unheard material, but were debuting an album they’d collaborated on. Starlight Burning was all the rage, enough that as much as he’d wanted to ignore the world of celebrity pop idols, Niko remembered seeing the ads several times over the past few months, had seen it mentioned again and again in internet forums, and had even heard some of the staff at the Galapol station discussing it in excited, breathless tones.

Even now, as Niko researched, Kuliedi Taan and her former rival, Hayura, peered out at him from dozens of glamorous promotional photos together. In each, the antennaed Heenva vocalist and green, betentacled Gheroun pop star looked like they loved nothing more than each other’s company, despite apparently having disdained one another for years before this. Such was the power of carefully-curated public imagery.

Niko opened the website for the official event and goosebumps pricked along his skin, the air growing chillier. Holograms of both performers singing their hearts out filled the air before him and an eerily catchy, familiar chorus replaced the rhythm of Royce RG through T1-N4’s speaker.

“I’m your star.

Your star, your starlight burning.

When you’re lost, my love will guide you home.

I’ve got you, baby,

I’ll be your star, your star, your starlight burning,

When you’re lost, my love will guide you home.”

He was going to be there. Niko knew. The song, bright and melodious, continued playing, though it only made his skin crawl, cold and clammy. This was all a game to the Kestrel. He’d been having fun, listening to their music, planning to silence them permanently after he’d taken down the Grand Sovereign.

Niko had his next destination.

“I have a feeling about this concert,” Niko said. He was back on the ship again, in his wheelchair as his armor charged. He wanted it to be in prime condition for the concert. His favorite rifle—the one he’d taken with him on Yhanwe-ha and the one that had seen the most use throughout his hunting years—lay disassembled, each piece spread out carefully on the table as he cleaned them.

Zann’s voice cut through the ship’s comm speakers. “Look, I don’t disagree with you that it’s a high possibility. It’s on our list. But I have to go with Deura-11. There’s a political parade there that several big Toliai politicians are going to be in.”

“But this has a bigger impact, Zann,” Niko said, examining the barrel. Satisfied he’d de-gunked it, he reached for his oiling cloth. “He’s going for who has the biggest turnout. If we’re talking ego, he wants to show off. Not to mention the music. It was the same song.”

“Could just be the guy has shit taste in music.”

Since he’d called his brother to announce he’d found his next target, Niko had been met with surprising opposition. Zann’s research team had firmly argued the Kestrel was most likely headed to the Deura-11 parade and hadn’t budged since. Both events were happening on the same day, and roughly at the same time, but in vastly different corners of the galaxy, and therein lay the crux of the entire argument.

“So, there’s been talk at the station lately,” Zann continued, “and they think there’s a distinctly political motivation to his killings. We’re putting a lot of brains together to try and predict him. The common conclusion is the parade.”

“But he’s killed celebrities. An actor and a movie director. The human philanthropist lady. What was her name? Nadeen Narradi? It’s not all political.”

“Nadeen Navarri. And sure, but when you really delve into the actor’s and director’s pasts, they both had strong political affiliations. Even the philanthropist did. Every one of them were tied to politics somehow. They all donated to campaigns, too. There’s some kind of connection going on here, a web we’re not quite yet seeing.”

Niko paused, shaking his head, though Zann couldn’t see it. Frustration crested in him at knowing his brother had begged him to join in this hunt, only to now brush aside his judgment. “No. I don’t buy it. I don’t think this is political. If it was, he’d just be getting rid of them by any means. But he wants everyone to see. There’s ego in this.”

“I’d say a political parade is pretty fucking public, Niko. Look, I trust your instinct. You’ve always been good. My guys are going to be focusing on the parade and I know you’ll have the concert. It’s better to split up anyway, so we can take both. I’ll get a few undercovers posted with you too. They’ll keep an eye on anything weird. In the end, we’ll see who’s right. Maybe it’s neither of us and we end up with another death.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Once he was off the phone, Niko’s thoughts strayed again to the Kestrel. It was hard not to think about him at this point. What had previously been a curiosity that Niko had kept up with in the news was now taking up all his headspace. Hunting did that to him. He became solely focused, driven, until nothing else mattered but bringing in—or taking down—his mark.

It had been a long time since Niko had started the tumultuous slip into this particular kind of all-consuming obsession, and it was happening fast and hard to him now. When he wasn’t researching the Kestrel, he was watching newsfeeds discussing him. When he wasn’t doing any of that, and was trying to separate himself from it all and get some quiet time napping, his mind went back again and again to the assassin. The easy grace of him, the tone of his voice when he’d dismissed Niko. Not again.

Whatever the man’s reasons, he was a peerless assassin. The best Niko had ever encountered in his life. He was obviously young, and agile, and to say he was good at what he did would be a gross understatement. It had been years since Niko had encountered this kind of challenge—and this kind of thrill. It had been even longer since he’d had someone who could keep up with, even outmaneuver him.

There was something darkly intriguing, even fascinating about the Kestrel. Something about the audacity of him. The shroud of mystery surrounding him. Niko wanted to know more, wanted to understand. Wanted to know how a single individual in this vast collection of gravity-bound stars could devastate entire worlds and shake off the best officers and hunters in the galaxy like a dog casually shaking water from its fur. He played a clever and skilled game, whatever it was.

Niko wanted to be the one to match him, to meet him, to take him down and end his dark brilliance. Some selfish part of him hoped he was right, that the Kestrel would go for the concert instead of Zann’s parade. That he would be the one to eradicate the arrogance the man espoused. Skill for skill. Niko had once been among the best hunters out there, and the Kestrel was quickly proving to be the galaxy’s most formidable, evasive enemy. He hadn’t felt so alive—so awake—in a long time.

There was something heady about that. Something, maybe, sensual.

Niko pushed the thought away quickly, burying it, refusing to give it a single second more of consideration. The Kestrel was a bastard, and nothing but. He was a murderer who thought he was better than everyone else in the galaxy. The man clearly had no reservations whatsoever about terrorizing and killing innocent people.

Two million sets of eyes from every alien species would soon be watching the stage at Starlight Burning, and probably a hundred times more from their homes or places of work. Hayura and Kuliedi Taan were just living their lives, creating music, making others happy. Both artists were so young. They didn’t deserve to die.

Niko wasn’t going to make the same mistakes he had on Yhanwe-ha. The next time he met the Kestrel, there would be no hesitation.

At any cost.