[Shadowrun 05] - Changeling

by Chris Kubasic - (ebook by Undead)

  “That’s the Profezzur.”

  “I was just… When a sperm and an egg meet-that’s just two cells. Two little cells. But they’ve got all the information for a lifetime packed into them.

  “The sperm’s got twenty-three chromosomes. The egg has twenty-three. Each set of chromosomes was randomly picked for each egg and each sperm.

  “And then, when the egg and the sperm meet, their meeting is also random. The egg the woman is carrying—each month a new egg is available for fertilization. What will the chromosome set be for the moment of conception? And the sperm that propel themselves to the egg—there are countless possibilities contained in all the sperm a man produces. Which set will reach the egg?”

  Eddy waited a moment, then asked, “And?”

  “It’s just so random. There’s no control.”

  “And?”

  “It bothers me. That’s all.”

  Eddy chewed his food slowly. Peter traced a figure on the table with his finger.

  “And killing somebody,” Peter said suddenly, softly. “That’s control. I walk in with a gun and suddenly I’m master of that man’s life. I stop his life. I do that. I choose to do that. It’s like clockwork. You’re in the car. We kill one man after another, and it’s all so planned, precise.”

  “That’s why we’re still alive.”

  “But that’s what bothers me. Why is the taking of life more comprehensible than the making of it? We go to kill a man… or two corps send in strike teams against each other. They sit around with maps and diagrams and figure out who will do what. They make a plan, then they implement the plan, and they go.”

  “But things can still go wrong. Things do go wrong. The hide job at O’Hare…”

  “But…” began Peter, and then he stopped. “No. You’re right. It is all so… But killing feels more in control.”

  “More in control than what?”

  “Than… I don’t know… Just living…”

  Peter hired people to gather research from corps and universities. Dozens of sources followed the trail of the metahuman genes, and Peter had illegal feelers out to all of them. He took the research and rolled it around in his mind.

  His own notes grew more and more extensive. He had boxes stuffed with optical chips, generating enough material to keep a team of grad slaves busy for years.

  He tried not to learn anything about his father.

  It wasn’t hard to avoid William Clarris. As the years passed, corporations had become more and more like armed camps, often hidden away, often as secretive as lone, mad, hermetic mages.

  It was Wednesday and Eddy arrived.

  “Good.” Peter rushed to the table and cleared away some space. “I just got some work in from Cal Tech. Spectacular.” He cracked open one of the carry-out cartons. “There are some genes called operator genes. They make the structural genes attached to them go ‘on.’

  “These genes can be blocked by repressor proteins. These repressors are always in the cell, and if they attach to the operator gene, the operator is turned off. Then the structural genes are turned off. The DNA can’t transcribe to the RNA anymore, and it’s as if the DNA sequence wasn’t there.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Eddy. “If the stuff, the repressor, is always in the cell, how can the gene be ‘on’?”

  “Wonderful question. Like this: the repressor gene can be bound by other chemicals. If the repressor is bound, it can’t bind the operator.

  “About eighty years ago some French biologists did some work with Escherichia coli, a bacteria. Lactose is what controlled the genes, and the gene operator worked the production of digestive enzymes.

  “When the cell digested lactose, it reduced the amount of lactose in the cell. When the amount of lactose was too small to inactivate the repressor, the repressor bound to the operator and switched it off. The transcription of the genes stopped, and the cell stopped making digestive enzymes, which was good, since the enzymes weren’t needed. If you were to dump one of these Escherichia things into a vat of lactose…”

  “All of the genes would go on…”

  “And stay on…”

  “As if the environment had changed.”

  “Like the magic.”

  “Exactly. But that was a bacterial cell. A eucaryotic cell, like the ones we have, with nuclei and many chromosomes, is much more complicated. Researchers have been working for decades to get a better understanding of the controllers.

  “But I hear that Simpson at Cal Tech has come up with a model of muscle growth based on operator and regulator genes. How muscle growth changes according to the foods given to it.”

  “Going to get the chips?”

  Peter grinned with embarrassment. “Yeah.”

  At The Crew, Billy told Peter, “I’ve got another job,” and his smile said he knew Peter would do the job and do it wonderfully.

  At Billy’s office, he never thought of people as full-blown expressions of amazingly long strings of deoxyribonucleic acid. They were packages of self-contained meat; things to be taken care of.

  “Who?” Peter asked, as always with Billy, happy for the approval and a chance to belong.

  And one day, never thinking it would happen so quickly, Peter was twenty-eight years old.

  12

  Peter peered at his face in the mirror over his bureau. His troll flesh was like a well-loved sweater now. Comfortable, but somewhat ragged.

  He seemed, more and more often, to be himself.

  He shook his head, and saw the image shake sadly as well. No, he was not himself. Somewhere, buried inside him, was a boy who’d been tricked by the universe, forced to become a brute, a murderer.

  How had it all happened?

  More than anything else, he was lonely. Some days the loneliness was boundless. Every day, he cast his loneliness out into the world, waiting for someone, something, anything, to fill the emptiness within him, but nothing ever came back.

  I must become human again, he thought.

  And then the face in the mirror smiled a big, toothy grin, for he’d accomplished the work he’d set out to do all those years ago.

  His portable sat atop the table where he labored over the research, the theories, the clues. A stack of three chips rested beside it, each chip called My Cure, all back-ups of the work he’d finished the night before.

  Finally, mercifully, his work was done.

  Or he believed he was. He needed someone to read his work and confirm it.

  He showered, then slipped into his best suit. Over that he put on a long, tan duster—a gift from Eddy. Armor lined the inside, which made it heavy, but for Peter it was no problem. He called Eddy to ask for a ride.

  Downstairs, the cold air chilled the gun resting against his chest. His breath curled up out of his mouth and swirled for a moment before his face, the warmth bleeding out of it in seconds.

  Up the street he heard the squeal of wheels, and turned to see Eddy’s Westwind zip around the corner from Broadway. He was doing the speed limit as he cut around two other cars, then drove up onto the sidewalk across the street to get out of the way of oncoming traffic. Then he leaped the Westwind off the curb and cut back over to the right side of the road.

  For a moment Peter pondered the wisdom of getting into a car with Fast Eddy. In the past several years his friend’s nervous system had taken a sharp dive for the worse, if worse were possible. The only time he seemed content was when moving around like a bat out of hell. But somehow Eddy never had an accident. He just kept on moving.

  The Westwind came to a screeching halt as Eddy stopped the car just in front of Peter. The window rolled down. “Ready? Ready? Ready?”

  Peter opened the door and settled into the back seat. He folded himself up to fit, his knees jammed into his chin.

  “Where to? Where to? Where to?”

  “The Crew.”

  “Meeting? Meeting with Itami? Meeting with Itami?” Eddy kicked the Westwind into gear. As it peeled out and made a sweeping U-turn, Peter was
thrown first to the right and then to the left. The maneuver also brought the car within centimeters of clipping a metro cop car.

  Out the back window Peter saw the cop’s mercury lamps go on for a moment, then immediately go dark again.

  My connections are powerful and numerous, Peter thought.

  The Westwind continued on, careening through the streets that were still snow-free even though Chicago’s weather could change from one moment to the next. People bundled up tightly in overcoats made their way to Rail and bus stops. Peter and Eddy made it to the Westside in just under an hour—the Westside, where the houses were large and the simsense dollars flowed thick.

  Eddy brought the car to a screeching halt in front of The Crew. “Thanks, chummer.” Peter said, unfolding himself and working his way out of the car.

  “No problem, no problem, no problem,” answered Eddy, snaking his head vigorously. “I like to drive. I like it a lot. I love it.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed.” They both laughed. Over the past few years Peter and Eddy had become somewhat distant, probably because Eddy’s role in the gang had diminished as Peter’s position of trust had increased. Peter couldn’t ignore the sadness in Eddy’s eyes. He’d been the one to get Peter started, and Peter would never leave him.

  As he walked into The Crew, Peter thought how different the place was since the day he and Eddy had first interviewed with Billy. Much fancier. More glitz. With the blossoming of the simsense industry in Chicago, the place where the tech had first been invented, the city experienced a period of relative boom. Sim-sense had since spread out into the world, of course, creating a kind of revolution in the way people lived. Now people everywhere could jack into pre-recorded sensory experiences—feel what it was like to fall out of an airplane, kiss a beautiful woman, be romanced by a dashingly handsome man, live through a scripted, outlandish adventure story. Itami had invested his cash wisely, dividing it among illegal operations and straight business deals. As Chicago grew stronger, so did he.

  The stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke hung in the air of The Crew. Some of it would be aired out by evening, the rest to be covered over by the sweet smells of perfume and other scents when members of the sim-sense industry mobbed the place to blow their salaries on ambience, bright lights, and watered-down drinks.

  “Hey! It’s the Profezzur!” shouted Max, the beer-bellied bag runner who delighted in taunting Peter. He was quite old and fat now, and behaved as though his only purpose in life was sitting around and waiting for people to come through the doors of The Crew.

  “Hi, Max,” Peter said with a foolish grin. He took grim amusement in making Max believe he considered him one of his best friends in the world.

  Max stood outside the closed doors of the dance area. With him was a pinched-looking gentleman who Peter had never seen before.

  “Mr. Garner,” Max said with a broad sweep of the arm, “I’d like you to meet the Profezzur here.”

  Mr. Garner smiled perfunctorily, obviously uncomfortable. First he’d been trapped waiting with the likes of Max and now he had to deal with a troll.

  “It’s a… it’s a… uh… pleasure… to meet you, Mr. Garner.”

  “Isn’t he great!” Max laughed.

  Mr. Garner smiled politely for Max’s benefit.

  The door swung open, and Billy poked his head out into the lobby. “Mr. Garner, would you step in, please?” Relief spread over Garner’s face, and he passed through the open door. “Prof, you too.”

  “So ka, Billy.”

  Billy smiled at the troll’s use of Japanese. He seemed to relish Peter’s clumsy attempts to get through life, but Peter didn’t mind because Billy’s amusement never showed the least trace of mockery. Billy, who Peter admired more than ever, had grown even more handsome with the passing years. Peter envied him the many women, beautiful women, who often shared his bed. On several occasions Billy had tried to set Peter up, but Peter had always refused. He didn’t say it aloud, but his thought was, “Not in this body. Not until I’m human.”

  Mr. Itami sat at a table positioned in the center of the dance floor. His sons, Arinori and Yoake, stood behind him, one on each side. Their faces were stone masks. Like Peter, they packed pistols under their jackets.

  Peter took up position about two meters from the table, close enough to hear what was said, but not so close as to impose himself on the proceedings.

  Billy offered a chair to Mr. Garner, who took it nervously and gratefully.

  Now that Peter’s scrutiny wasn’t as likely to be returned, he looked Garner over again. The man seemed an average spook, a high-level manager from some corp. He was new at this game, that was certain. A thin sheen of sweat on his forehead caught the colored spots that lit the area.

  Billy’s chosen meeting spot put Garner right in the center of an open dance floor, which had its desired effect. Peter could almost read the man’s thoughts: “There’s nowhere to hide.”

  Nervousness filled Peter, too. He’d never before been invited to attend a meeting presided over by the gangs venerable leader. He’d met Itami before, spoken to him twice, but had never participated in his court. Itami was born in Chicago, but he carried a few watered-down Japanese sensibilities. Peter often had trouble figuring out what the man was up to.

  Mr. Itami, his old hands folded on his lap, waited.

  The silence continued for a full minute before Mr. Garner said, “Well…”

  Mr. Itami’s broad, wrinkled face seemed to suggest an acknowledgement of the statement. Peter sometimes wondered how the Japanese got anything done. It seemed that their natural inclination was to spend all their time staring everyone else down.

  “I think that Amij should be killed,” continued Mr. Garner.

  Amij? Peter thought. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  Itami remained silent.

  “Katherine Amij,” said Mr. Garner.

  Ah, thought Peter, now he had it. CEO of Cell Works. The company that employed his father.

  “Your reason,” said Mr. Itami.

  Garner breathed a visible sigh of relief, so pleased to get a response. “She helped one of our key scientists escape to another corporation,” he said. “She helped him break his contract and leave. And I recently discovered that she is tracking down this man, Dr. William Clarris, while feeding false leads to our own security team.”

  His father gone?

  Peter’s heart plummeted. He’d hoped to send his research to his father. His father could confirm it. And also… Peter couldn’t find the right words. He glanced at Billy, who gave Peter a smile full of confidence.

  But what.

  He wanted his father to read the research and smile at him that way.

  “Mr. Garner,” Mr. Itami said, “Katherine Amij is the granddaughter of the Cell Works’ founder. She was five years old when the family moved the firm from Amsterdam to Chicago. She grew up working for Cell Works, but it was by her own choice. Her loyalty to the company is a matter of pride among your staff.”

  He let the words sink in, and then said, “You have, I take it, evidence to back up these charges?”

  “Of course, Mr. Itami. Our security has determined that Amij has made contact with a fixer named Zero-One-Zero. She would need a fixer to fence the information, because as far as we know, she is inexperienced in such matters.”

  “Exactly my point, Mr. Garner. She is inexperienced in such matters. I believe most of your executives have, at one time or another, had occasion to call on the services of a fixer to serve as go-between in some business matter or other.”

  “Yes, Mr. Itami. Which is why we have a fixer on retainer for Cell Works. He handles all our needs, personal and business. Zero-One-Zero is not a Cell Works man. Amij has gone to an outsider.”

  Peter glanced at Mr. Itami. The crime lord raised his right eyebrow. “Hmmm. What else?”

  “Two things,” Garner said with a touch of excitement, happy to have engaged Mr. Itami’s interest. “First, she has b
ehaved erratically ever since her fiancé’s death. Her reputation around the office, and her family ties, protect her, but in any other situation she’d have been fired.”

  “Fired?” asked Mr. Itami.

  “Fired. She performs her functions, but listlessly. At her salary…”

  “She is in mourning, perhaps?” suggested Mr. Itami, his tone hinting impatience.

  Garner moved on to his last point. “Finally, because of her position, she is nearly untouchable. If she is stealing files, as I believe she is, we will never be able to prove it from within the company, nor be able to act on it. She is simply too powerful and too well connected. This means that Cell Works, which is a major source of revenue for you, might quickly find itself out of the market.”

  “That is a reason to kill her, Mr. Garner. Not evidence of guilt. In fact, you have no evidence. You have only made allegations.

  “I believe that the prime motivation for these suggestions is that you would stand the best chance to become CEO if Katherine Amij were no longer alive. And, as you have just pointed out, because of the family situation, that is the only way the position would ever open up to anyone else. However, before you contacted Billy, we had already become intrigued with Miss Amij. We do, after all, always take a personal interest in our investments, and so we, too, had begun to notice her strange behavior. When we investigated the matter, we found conclusive proof of her misconduct.”

  Itami nodded at Garner. “The matter will be taken care of. And we will use our influence to ensure that you step into Amij’s job.” Peter felt his chest tighten. He suddenly knew why he was at the meeting. Everyone he’d killed while working for Billy had been part of the game, their game, the crime gang game. For all he knew, this Katherine Amij was completely innocent. But he was sure Itami was about to ask Peter to kill her.

  Garner let out a small gasp, then said, “Thank you. Thank you, Itami-san.”

  “There is one more thing,” said Mr. Itami, holding up one hand to indicate that Garner would hear him out. “You will sell us half your shares in Cell Works at a price of one-third their value,”