My name is Tambor Venson, and I am a Gypsy Hunter.

Way back in the twenty-first century, a great fire blazed across the sky near Chelyabinsk, Russia, injuring over a thousand people in its violent embrace of our planet. At the time, it was called a meteor, and although the story made the news across the world, no one thought any more of it. What the authorities of yore failed to tell the unsuspecting populace was that it was not actually a meteor that was recovered from Lake Chebarkul, but a space craft, containing twenty-six individuals that we would eventually come to know as Gypsies.

Russian authorities at the time had thought it prudent to keep our first encounter with life from outside our planet a secret, while they investigated and dissected what is undoubtedly the greatest discover in Human history.

You see, those twenty-six individuals that had arrived that cold Russian morning had survived. Twenty-six humanoid creatures from another planet… I can only imagine the excitement and horror that those original Russian discoverers felt when they recovered them from the depths of that lake. How they must have felt finding beings that looked as close to Humans as it counted, with their pale skin, wide set eyes unhindered by eyebrows and brightly coloured hair, that ranged in colour from the brightest pink, through red and into the richest purple. Did they think it was some prank, or did they know straight away the significance of their discovery? Was it met with the wonder of a brand new world, or did they have some sense of the apocalypse that their arrival would eventually bring upon us?

I guess I’ll never know. I guess it doesn’t even matter. We all know those twenty-six explorers from a land beyond our own were not the last to visit our planet. And with each successive arrival of new settlers, it became harder and harder for authorities to keep their existence a secret. It wasn’t until 2078 that the official announcement was made that we were no longer alone on this planet, by which point there were roughly seven hundred and fifty thousand Pseudohomo Galactica gracing our Earth, waiting to be relocated into our communities and be welcomed as one of our own.

Seven hundred and fifty thousand Gypsies… That number seems to pale in comparison with the 1.1 billion that were here at their peak a hundred years ago. 1.1 billion people trying to find space on a planet that was already too crowded – it was never going to be a sustainable situation. And of course, that’s where I come in.

We were all taught in history class that relations between Gypsies and humans weren’t always so dire. In fact, we originally welcomed our new colonists. At the time, they promised to be our salvation. Although unable to speak, they seemed to understand us very well, and more importantly, had no interest in domination. In a failing industrial age, they were willing to work in all those jobs long since held below the status most of us humans were willing to take. Even better, they had no interest in money. They were more than willing to accept food and accommodation as payment for whatever work we felt worthy. Our ancestors thought that to be a more than acceptable agreement, and at their peak, I understand that there were very few houses in the first world that didn’t have at least one Gypsy as a servant.

But like all things that seemed too good to be true, this arrangement proved to be as well. A world where people were willing to work for no money was never going to be sustainable. The lower classes found themselves gripped by unemployment, and the price of food inevitably climbed as the employers sought to buy food for their ever growing workforce. Soon the hunger riots began among the human classes, leading to the deaths of hundreds of thousands of humans across our planet. Governments stumbled to address the crises gripping their nations, and united against a common enemy. The Gypsies had to go.

I can only imagine the horror when the Cull began nearly seventy years ago now. In the defence of our grandparents, it was not an easy decision to make. They had tried other means of reducing the rapid growth of the Gypsy population. Further immigration was ceased immediately, with the deployment of deterrent missiles to prevent further arrivals. The existing population of Gypsies were banned from breeding, but that was always going to be an unenforceable law. Our governments were already in the grips of debt, there was no money available for forced sterilisations and our lack of ability to clearly communicate with the Gypsies meant that their birth rate did not slow down one bit. Eventually the Separation began, where male and female Gypsies were moved to different locations to physically prevent their interaction. It was at this time that the employment of Gypsies was banned. Suddenly homeless and foodless, they started to die in their masses. With no charity available for our own population, let alone these invaders from a land beyond our own, the Cull began to seem like the only humane idea. In fact, when it started nearly seventy years ago, there were volunteers to be first led into the gas chambers.

Within twenty years, the Gypsy population had reduced to nearly a third of its peak – a mere 380 million individuals. By this point, they had adapted to their new status and had begun to rebel against their forced extinction. They built their own homes and began to steal food from us humans. Although rare, there were violent clashes between our two races, with many deaths on either side. But to prevent these episodes becoming more frequent, the Hunt was announced. Those Gypsies that did resist their state-ordered demise would be collected by force, either to die at the hands of their Hunters, or by the gas chamber waiting for them at their destination.

My Grandfather was one of the first Hunters, to be followed by my Father and myself. I know a lot of people still struggle with our chosen profession, but we hold a very important role in our society. We are the only people holding back the Gypsy population. It continues to sit in the tens of millions thanks to us, which is the only thing that is allowing the human race to recover. Without us, we would once more be overrun by Gypsies, and we would all perish as a result.

Don’t get me wrong, I do struggle with the idea that I make my living by ending the lives of others. But as they say in training, although they may look human, Gypsies aren’t. We do not share the same DNA; we do not share the same biology. In the six hundred years they have been infesting our planet, not once has there been any crossbreeding between us. They have never learnt to communicate with us, and there are doubts that they are even able to communicate with each other. In the grand scheme of things, they’re little more than cattle. No – less than that. They’re little more than rats. It is easier to think of them that way.

So I do what I can for my race. Every day, I put on my uniform and load my gun with the lethal injections that take down the Gypsies I find that don’t come willingly. And every evening I come home knowing that I have done my bit to protect my species, that I have fought the good fight.

Which is why I always wonder why the nightmares never stop…

The light from an early summer haze begins to seep through the gaps in my blinds, casting fuzzy stripes against the wall in front of my face. I sigh as I roll onto my back, not so much woken by the incursion of light, but more resigned to the fact that any considerations I had of getting a few minutes more sleep had just gone out the window.

I got up and headed to the shower, ready to wash yet another night of sweat from my skin. Even though I liked to blame the suffocating summer heat for my nightly attempts at soaking the bed, I knew they were not to blame.  I did the exact same things in winter, when frost would regularly coat my windows, so how could it be? No, the reason why I could never wake up without a new coat of sweat was wholly and solely due to the nightmares, where I would always replay my day’s activities with grim clarity. Last night was no exception. I rubbed myself ferociously with a sponge as I attempted to discard the sight of a Gypsy mother silently screaming after I euthanised her son yesterday. I never knew why they always had to scream so. It wasn’t like they didn’t know it was coming.

After getting dressed, I headed downstairs to my kitchen, where I pulled some Ration Bread from my fridge. Even the privileged position I held as a Hunter did not protect me from the food shortages, and I felt myself grimace as I cut a slice of bread just slightly thinner than the day before, hoping to stretch it out until the next Supply Day, which was still another three days from now. It’s things like this that remind me of why I do what I do. As a Hunter, I got a loaf of Ration Bread every week, along with whatever food I manage to purchase myself. The general populace is not so lucky, with just one loaf given per family per week. Other foodstuffs still remained such an expensive commodity that many families could not afford any extras at all. And with all the Gypsy poaching, it would remain that way.

After breakfast I walk to my hall cupboard and pull out Lucy. I lay my shotgun on the table, and begin to clean its carbon fibre surface. I then collect the box and open it. Twelve empty syringe-shots wait to be filled. I pull out the vial of Green Meanie, and begin to fill my shots. I am careful to replace each needle on the shots. The last thing I want is a blunt tip if I need to fire them. It is never my intention to cause a Gypsy pain when I euthanize them. I may be an executioner, but I’m not a monster.

It’s barely an hour later when I walk through the doors of the Den.  The Hunters of the Night Shift sit in the lounge, watching the clock on the wall count down the minutes until they’re allowed to leave for another day. I don’t envy them. Night shifts are always busier than the day shift, as it’s when most Gypsies feel the safest to come out and forage for food. It seems like last night was no different, with six Gypsies being claimed. Our Morgue, along with the two Gypsies I claimed yesterday, would be almost full. It is only equipped to take ten bodies at a time, and it is another few hours yet until the Cleaners come to collect the remains. I could only hope that today would be a quieter day.

“Tambor!” a loud voice chimes over the din of the Den.

I lift my head, and see my father walking over to where I leant against the wall. My father was always a mountain of a man – six foot five with matching broad shoulders, he was your prototypical hunter. His chestnut brown hair speckled with grey remained cropped close to his scalp, in sharp contrast with the bushy beard he kept. His rifle, Bambi, was slung over his shoulder like always, almost as though it was an extension of his being. And with the way my father handled it, it might as well be.

“Father,” I replied, pulling myself from the wall to greet my father as was expected.

My father was a master Hunter, having claimed more Gypsies than any other Hunter in the history of our Den. It was a heady thing to be his son. People seemed to treat you differently, being the son of Dragnor Venson. It was almost ridiculous the way my Teachers deferred to me during Training, almost as though just the mere proximity to my father had bestowed on me some awesome skill they were unable to attain themselves. Since becoming a fully-fledged Hunter, it hadn’t gotten any better. Somehow I didn’t think my Den would treat me with as much respect if they knew about the nightmares. Then again, for all I knew they had them too.

“So I hear you bagged yourself a pair yesterday,” he said once he had reached where I stood.

Like always, my father only ever wanted to talk about work. To him, this was his life. I still remember being a child, when he would regale me and my friends with stories of his hunts. Looking back on it, they probably weren’t appropriate stories for six year olds. And remembering the mother Gypsy rocking the corpse of her son yesterday as I levelled Lucy on her, I’d have to say they still weren’t.

I just nod dumbly at my father, and he claps me on the shoulder.

“Come on, Tambor! Don’t be so modest!” Father insisted. “It’s not every day you get to bag a pair on your own. And a dam and kit to boot!”

“I only found them because I was tipped off,” I insisted, hoping to end this conversation as soon as possible. “Anyone could have taken that call, and it would have been them.”

“Yes, but it was you,” he said, poking me in the chest to emphasise his point. “And who knows? Someone else’s approach to the Hunt could have tipped them off and they could have escaped. Be proud, my boy!”

“I am,” I insisted. “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep all that well last night.”

I watched as my father’s face darkened. He furtively looked around the Den to make sure no one was listening before he leaned in close to my ear.

“Don’t tell me it was more of those silly nightmares, Tambor,” he whispered.

“No,” I lied, shaking my head. “It was just hot. Hard to sleep when it’s so stuffy.”

“Good.” I watched as my father’s posture relaxed, as he pulled himself straight. “You know you wouldn’t be so hot if you still lived with your mum and I. We at least have airconditioning.”

“I like my house,” I replied. “Besides, you know why I had to leave…”

Father waved his hand at me.

“You didn’t want to be standing under my shadow. Honestly, for a boy of twenty-one, you can be so stubborn.”

“Evidently a family trait,” I replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost time for the Briefing.”

“That it is,” Father said, turning to look at the clock on the wall. “Which means it’s time I go and return home to your mother. I’ll tell her you said hello.”

“I will come and visit on my day off,” I promised.

“You see that you do,” he warned, grasping my shoulder tightly for a moment before leaving.

The Bell rings then, calling us to the Briefing. Like everyone else, I make my way to the centre of the Den, where our Den Master waits for us. Colivol sits there at his desk, silver hair glinting under the halogen light from above, shuffling his papers as he appraises us from under his bushy brows. There are ten of us on the Hunt today, and it is Colivol’s job to pair us off in Hunting Teams. Given that our Den averages catching one Gypsy a day during the day shift, it’s fairly good odds that today might be a quiet day for me. I can only hope for that to be the case.

Colivol grunts as he shifts his immense girth in his chair slightly.

“So, to allocations for the day…”

Colivol squints at his papers, too vain to wear his glasses, before continuing.

“Aspect and Franklin, you’re assigned to Zone One for today. Lispin and Raynor, you have Zone Two. Orvil and Townsend, you get Zone Three…”

He stops for a moment to check his papers.

“Tambor… I see you were on the Desks yesterday… I guess that means you can be paired with Maverick today in Zone Four, leaving Hutchins and Dayna with Desk Duty.”

“With all due respect, Master Colivol,” I hedged, “I did receive a Call Out while on the Desk yesterday, and by doing so cleared two Gypsy. Perhaps it might be fairer to let Dayna or Hutchins have my turn in Zone Four today…”

“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Colivol insisted. “It is always such a waste to have the son of Dragnor Venson on a Desk. And don’t you feel guilty about taking the place of another Hunter. I always see to it that you all get your turn.”

“Thank you, Master Colivol.”

I put my best smile on, before leaving the Briefing. Maverick comes over to join me with his Stella, beaming.

I’m lead to understand that Maverick is an old American word meaning a non-conformist, and I can only say Maverick more than matches is namesake. Unlike the rest of us here in the Den, Maverick does not keep his hair closely cropped. Instead, he’s allowed it to grow shoulder-length and dyed it a vivid shade of red. He says he does this because he believes it will attract Gypsies to him, tricked by the hair colour to believe that he is one of their own. Personally, I believe he is just mad. I always hate to be paired up with Maverick. He’s unpredictable and has way too much enthusiasm for my liking. The only benefit to working with him is that he is always willing to take the Shot, which saves me from having to. Although I do sometimes wonder how many Gypsies would have come back to the Den to be euthanised by the gas had Maverick not been so trigger-happy.

“So I’m lucky enough to be paired up with the fruit of Venson’s loins once again,” he announced. “And in Zone Four to boot. What is it? My birthday?”

“Luck of the draw,” I replied. “So are we going to get a move on, or not?”

It’s not long before Maverick and I are delivered to Zone Four, known to those outside of the Den as the Boardwalk. As a Hunting Ground, it’s not a bad spot. We get to spend the day at the beach with the general populace, walking up and down the coastline as we try to keep our eye out for Gypsies. Unfortunately, we can never blend in with the crowd for long, as Gypsies are never out in the open. Instead we get to scramble amongst the piles of rubbish stacked beneath the jetty, trying to avoid getting cut on the jagged pieces of glass that tended to wash up there, or scouting the rubbish bins behind the many shops that line the Boardwalk in case a Gypsy has come out looking for scraps.

“Hey look, Venson,” Maverick called from behind a dumpster. “Lunch.”

Maverick stands and throws something to me. I am astonished by what I held – an apple core.

“Where on earth did this come from?” I asked, looking at in awe.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a piece of fruit, even a remnant of one. It might have been when I had graduated from the Academy at sixteen, when my father had invested a week’s income in buying a whole orange just for me. I’d hate to think of the money that had been wasted on this apple, only for its core to be discarded like trash.

Maverick looked at the back of the building we stood behind.

“Looks like this came from Artemis Poole’s joint,” he said. “That old man has always been loaded. Anyway, don’t be a hog and share the apple, Tambor.”

I take out my water bottle and gently rinse most of the muck from the apple core, before snapping it in half along its core. I throw Maverick his half before biting into mine, tasting the acrid sweetness of an apple for the first time in years. There’s not a lot of fruit left around the core, and what is left has browned and lost the crispness it once held, but I don’t care. It’s heaven. I take my time to savour my apple, whereas like with everything else, Maverick feels the need to race through his half.

“Come on, Tambor. We don’t have all day,” he chides, while he waits for me to finish my half. “We still have to get to the circus yet.”

“I’m getting there,” I snapped, consuming the last of my core. “There. Happy?”

“I’ll be happy once we’re at the circus and I can try to sneak a peek at some of those acrobats. I tell you what, those girls are fine.”

“I thought we were meant to be Hunting,” I said as I followed him back onto the Boardwalk.

“We are,” he replied, winking. “We just never specified what.”

Maverick and I make our way down the coastline towards the circus. The vivid yellow and red circus tent is stark against the greyness of the waves and sky, a bright beacon in an otherwise dull day. Small flags wave from atop the multiple peaks, dancing in a breeze I can’t feel. The crowds from the afternoon matinee performance are beginning to disperse by the time we reach the marquee. A clown on stilts stands by the exit, waving to the small children as they are led away by their parents. This close, I can see that his makeup is beginning to smear under the heat of the early summer sun. As Maverick and I approach, the crowd seems to part around us, allowing us to walk without impedance up to the stilt-man.

That’s one thing about being a Hunter – it wasn’t only Gypsies that gave you a wide berth. No one ever questioned the need for our employment, but at the same time humans tended to naturally eschew the implication of death that surrounded us. It’s one of the main reasons that being a Hunter tended to be a multigenerational thing. There aren’t a lot of humans who like to be that closely linked to death. That’s another reason why I kind of think that Maverick is mad. Unlike me, he doesn’t come from a family of Hunters. In fact, I believe that his mother is a pharmacist.

“Hey!” Maverick calls out to the stilt-man. “Official Hunt business.”

I watch as the clown’s face morphs from one of forced cheer to one of nervous disgust.

“Is this really necessary?” he asks, making his way over to us with more grace than I could muster four foot from the ground. “I swear our last check was only last week.”

“You know it’s nothing personal.” Maverick chuckles slightly as he taps the man’s stilts, forcing him to regain his balance. “We’re just trying to do our job – just like you.”

The clown looks furtively back towards the tent, before back down at where we stood.

“It’s just a bad time at the moment…”

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand. Something has pricked that sixth sense of mine, and my muscles begin to tighten as I accept that underlying unease. I notice Maverick watching me as I pull Lucy from my shoulder, and he follows suit with Stella. We ignore the clown’s protests as we make our way into the Big Top, only to stop in our tracks when we encounter five Gypsies cleaning after the last show.

It takes me a moment to register what I’m seeing. Five grown Gypsies, illegally employed cleaning a circus tent. I have never seen so many in one location before, and it’s baffling to me that the owners of this circus would risk life-long imprisonment from hiring them to clean their tent. I only allow myself a moment for this reflection, before I raise Lucy to point at the group and begin to recite my legal obligation.

“I hereby place you under arrest by the power granted to me by section five article seven of the Pseudohomo Galactica Control Bill of…”

I’m interrupted by the sound of gun shot. I watch as the Gypsies scatter, and I know the time for offering the chance to surrender has passed. I lift Lucy to point at the largest purple-haired Gypsy, and pull the trigger. I don’t even wait to watch him drop before setting my sight on the next one. From the corner of my vision, I can see Maverick throwing himself into the fray. The sounds of gun shots ring out for a moment before it all goes silent. By now I’m panting, a gentle tremor running through me in response to the adrenaline. Four Gypsies litter the tent, their eyes already glazed over from the quick death that the Green Meanie brings. But I can’t see Maverick. I walk to the centre of the tent and turn in a circle, looking for my absent Hunting partner when I spot something.

There is a path of dark splashes leading to another exist from a tent. I squat next to one, dipping my fingers in it and lift them. My fingers are stained with the dark purple blood of a Gypsy, and I feel my stomach twist as I pull myself to my feet. Our syringe-shot shouldn’t cause a wound bad enough to bleed this much. It was part of our Charter – we were meant to bring a painless death. I follow the trail of Gypsy blood out of the tent to a collection of crates in the corner of the circus grounds. There, I find Maverick. He’s tugging on something, and I watch as he stumbles back to land on his rear, pulling a Gypsy from the crates.

The female Gypsy scrambles back towards her hiding place, but Maverick is having none of it. He grabs her leg once more, which I now see is dripping with her own blood. He shushes at her as he pulls her towards himself, but she’s having none of it. She swings her hands wildly at him, but is rapidly overpowered by Mavericks weight.

“Maverick – what are you doing?” I call, walking towards where he was wrestling with the Gypsy girl.

His head spins to face me.

“Tambor – give us a minute, will you?”

He grunts again as he pushes her once more to the ground.

“Just give her the Green Meanie already,” I insist. “If you want, I can help.”

He laughs.

“I’m not done with her yet. Just give me a few minutes, okay? I’ll get there.”

My stomach twists.

“What do you mean you’re not done with her yet?” I ask.

He lifts an eyebrow at me.

“Oh come on, Tambor. Are you really that naïve?” he asks. “It’s not like we’ve exactly got girls lining up to spend time with Hunters, now do we?” He grunts as he pushes her to the ground again. “Seems like such a waste, when she’s just going to die anyway. Might as well go out with a bang.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say, struck by sudden nausea as I realise just what Maverick has in mind. “Maverick, she’s not human.”

“I’m not asking her to marry me, Tambor…”

“Let her go,” I insist.

“I’m not asking for your permission…”

“Good, cause I’m not giving it,” I reply. “Let her go.”

“You think just cause you’re Dragnor Venson’s son you get to tell me what to do?” he spits. “Fuck off, Tambor.”

I lift Lucy and level her at Maverick.

“I said let her go.”

He laughs.

“You really gonna shoot me, Tambor?” he asks incredulously. “Over some Gypsy?”

“Let her go.”

“Do it! Shoot me, you fucking little coward!”

“Let her go!”

“Do it!”

A loud bang rings out.

I’m not entirely convinced that I did pull the trigger until I see Maverick limply fall forward. Even then, I’m unsure, as I watch his body continue to convulse on the ground before me. My heart is thudding so loudly in my ears I’m finding it hard to think, and it’s not until I spot the shock of bright pink hair that I realise that he’s only moving because he’s still on top of the Gypsy girl.

I walk over to Maverick’s corpse and level Lucy at the Gypsy girl, intending to end what Maverick should have in the tent. Terrified bright pink eyes look up at me, and I watch as they fill with the realisation of their eventual fate. She shuts her eyes and swallows hard, before nodding ever so slightly at me, almost as though to say it was okay.

I resettle my gun and brush the trigger, but I don’t squeeze it. I find myself copying her motion and swallow hard before trying again, but still I can’t do it. I can’t pull the trigger and end this Gypsy girl’s life.

“Fuck,” I swear to myself, throwing Lucy down on the ground next to me and I rub my hands through my closely cropped hair. “Fuck.”

I sigh as I kneel and push Maverick’s corpse from the Gypsy girl. She opens her eyes and looks up at me, surprised. I stand and offer her my hand, but she recoils from it. In spite of the fact that I haven’t killed her, she’s still terrified of me. I just shake my head at her and walk behind her, sliding my arms under hers to lift her and drag her to the packing crates where she had originally tried hiding. She only stops struggling when I release her safely inside one of the crates. Our eyes meet once more, and I can see the confusion in them. I’m sure that there’s an equal measure of confusion in mine.

“You’re going to have to stay quiet,” I tell her. “There are going to be a lot of people here in a few minutes, and if you make any noise, they will find you and I won’t protect you.”

She just looks dumbly up at me. Fuck – how am I meant to know if she understands what I’m saying or not? Does it even fucking matter?

I shake my head and close the crate’s lid over her, before retracing my path from Maverick’s corpse, using my foot to brush away the scuff marks leading to the Gypsy’s hideout. I pull my radio from my belt and lift it to my face.

“This is Hunter Venson, at the Big Top in Zone Four,” I say. “Hunter down. I repeat: we have a Hunter down…”