Choose Your Enemies Carefully

by Robert N. Charrette

  "I assure you nothing like the little mix-up that occurred here will happen there. Having taken your measure, I can also assure you that I can convince my principals that you are worth greater compensation." Sam started to repeat his rejection of the offer, but Dodger elbowed him in the ribs and said, "We’ll give your offer some thought. Goodman Johnson. Mayhap you can provide us with a way to contact you?"

  "Certainly, my good elf. But I will need an answer soon. I have schedules to keep and must leave the metroplex by tomorrow evening."

  Dodger took the card Glover offered. "We shall take counsel with our associates anon and you shall have our decision by tomorrow afternoon."

  As soon as the ATT man and his bodyguard had left the club, Sam rounded on Dodger. "What did you think you were doing?"

  "Looking out for our future, Sir Twist."

  "I don’t want that guy in our future. Communications slipups like we had are trouble, deadly trouble, waiting to happen. Especially if there is any chance he’s connected to Lofwyr."

  "I hesitate to suggest that you speak in haste, but I fear that I must. There was something I thought you should see before Friend Glover arrived, but he was so prompt that opportunity fled."

  "And what is that?"

  "A mere tidbit that fell into my hands during my research. It may mean nothing, but it may have some significance. I had thought that you would be the best judge. ’Tis a file I found among the datastores Goodman Glover had transferred to Seattle ATT."

  Dodger tapped at the minicomp, bringing up a list of seven names. He highlighted item number three: "Raoul Sanchez, Seattle." The line was marked "In progress." Two of the other names were marked "acquired."

  "So, Glover is collecting people. Nobody we know is on the list."

  "So sure. Sir Twist?" Dodger highlighted item seven: "Janice Walters, Yomi."

  "Is it not a custom of the Japanese to change the names of the changed?" Sam nodded, his mouth dry. Most Japanese considered having metahumans in their family a disgrace. The unfortunates were shipped to Yomi and their names changed, thereby removing the shame from their family. Could Janice Walters be Janice Verner, his sister?

  Sam didn’t know if the Yomi officials would have allowed Janice to select her own new name. If so, she might have chosen Walters; it was their maternal grandmother’s name. Janice hadn’t been born when she had died, but their mother had regaled them constantly with tales of Grandma Walters’ world travels. She had been the star of many a bedtime story. Janice had grown up idolizing the woman. When faced with the bureaucratic demand that she cease using Verner as her surname, she might have chosen Walters.

  It seemed a slim chance that the woman Glover sought was his sister. But could he afford to take the chance that Janice Walters wasn’t Janice Verner?

  What did Glover want with all these people, anyway? If one of them was his sister, Sam needed to know. What better way to find out than by becoming part of Glover’s organization? It was always easier to snoop around from the inside. But what if he was working for Lofwyr? All the more reason to keep his sister out of the dragon’s grasp.

  He didn’t like it, but it looked as though he would be working for Glover a while longer.

  6

  Janice thought she understood comfort and easy living. Before her exile to Yomi, she had lived the life of a corporate dependent. It was a comfortable, cozy life complete with all the easy conveniences of civilized society. Renraku took care of its dependents. She had felt safe and secure. Yomi had taught her just how fortunate they had been.

  Her corporate comfort had been due to her brother. She had often wondered what would have happened to them after their parents were killed if Sam hadn’t caught the eye of old Inazo Aneki. the master of Renraku Corporation. Sam was five years older than she was, and he was only eighteen at the time. There had been no money and few prospects, but Aneki had taken an interest in Sam and seen to it that her brother finished his education. Under the distant but benevolent patronage of Aneki, Sam had gotten started on the fast track at Renraku. Aneki’s charity had been like a gift from God, an offering of a long, comfortable life. They certainly wouldn’t have been able to make it on their own. Her brother’s position was exalted, for a gaijin, and she had been proud of him. His salary and position should have ensured congenial accommodations for both of them for life.

  Now, her thoughts of Sam’s success were less kind. He had abandoned her to keep his sinecure, unwilling to be tainted by her goblinization. Kawaru the Japanese called it, a pretty euphemism for an ugly thing. The English word, with its harsh syllables and awkwardness, was so much more fitting.

  Sam would call it kawaru. He had always been so enamored of things Japanese, aping their attitudes and manners. The Japanese corporate society liked to pretend that metahumans didn’t exist, casting them away to rot on the edges of society and to dwell in the polluted shadows of those gleaming corporate towers. The pure stayed home, safe from taint. Secure in their bastions. they ate their regular, balanced meals, slept in their soft, warm beds in their precisely controlled climates, watched their approved entertainments, and ignored what they wished did not exist. Those hypocritical overlords spoke of financial aid, readjustment programs, and subsidized communities, while shipping what they considered refuse to the hell they called Yomi. They had seduced Sam from her. Yes, he would refer to her as a kawaruhito, if he referred to her at all.

  In just one month Yomi had taught her more about the world and how it worked than her eighteen years in corporate society. The lessons were harsh, but she had learned. She’d had to. Failure meant death. Despite the pain, the rejection, and the horrible realization that she was no longer normal, she had not been ready to die.

  She’d learned just how luxurious her former corporate life had been. Renraku menials had a better life than even the self-styled overlords of Yomi. The depths to which the weak and ordinary inmates sank was beyond rational thought. It was just as well that most of those confined to the island didn’t remain rational long.

  She had learned how to survive.

  Over a year ago her body had changed, and twisted her life into a new pattern. Now, for whatever reason, her body had changed again. Was she condemned to keep changing? God forbid that she was infected with some nasty new type of goblinization that never stopped. She had survived one change and was stronger for it. Thus far, she had coped with the new change, but she didn’t know how much she could take. What if she changed yet again?

  The face she now saw in the mirror was alien. After her first time, she avoided looking in mirrors, having found the asymmetry of her ork physiognomy repulsive. But her new visage was more regular, though hardly more human. She was finding her new body shape more congenial as well. She had expected to find the fur unbearably warm, but it hadn’t been so. Her long limbs were still uncoordinated, making her every movement awkward. She felt ungainly and frustrated at her lack of control. If Shiroi hadn’t found her in the Walled City, she would have been prey for the jackals who scoured that garbage heap.

  But he had found her and offered help. She had been scared when she had accepted his offer. Scared of her surroundings. Scared of what had happened to her. Scared of trusting him. So she had taken a chance. After all, what did she have to lose?

  Now, her life was taking another crazy twist. This time it was a dream instead of a nightmare. Her memories of her "luxurious" corporate life were being tattered to shabbiness. With Renraku, one had to be at least a vice-president of a regional branch to rate a private aircraft such as the one in which she travelled.

  The flight was over now. The craft had taxied to a halt and the vibration from the engines had stopped. The pilot emerged from the cockpit, nodding and motioning her forward. His smiled was forced. The rest of the crew was nowhere in sight. She’d be seeing Shiroi soon. Who was he, to command such extravagance?

  She rose from her seat. With three long, wobbly strides, she reached the pilot’s side. Undogging the toggles, he lifted the l
atch and swung the cabin door wide. Brilliant sunshine flooded through the opening, forcing her to squint painfully. The cabin’s climate control coughed and shuddered into high gear to fight the invasion of hot, humid air. For a moment, she was back on Yomi and she shuddered. Remembering to breathe, she sucked in air. It was thin, and she felt light-headed. Even her new, larger lungs didn’t seem to have enough capacity.

  The pilot stepped through the hatchway and pressed himself against the railing of the stairway. He seemed to want to give her as much room as possible. Up close, she could smell his fear. What did he think she was going to do? Eat him? Ignoring him, she looked out. A short, dark man in a white suit waited at the foot of the stairway. As her eyes settled on him, he smiled.

  "Welcome to Atzlan," he said in accented English. "I am Jaime Garcia. I offer Mr. Shiroi’s apologies. He was unavoidably detained by business and has asked me to entertain you until he is available. I hope you had a good flight. You have no complaints of your treatment?"

  Shivering in the sunshine, the pilot tensed. He relaxed only a little when she said, "Everything was fine."

  "Most excellent," Garcia said. His dazzling smile vanished as he turned away to speak rapidly in what she assumed was Spanish. The people to whom he spoke were short and dark like him. Their eyes never left her.

  Most of the crowd wore loose-fitting blouses and pants, but a few wore tailored coveralls or suits like Garcia’s. He finished with an obvious command, scattering the blouses and coveralls. Minions, jumping at his word. She had seen such feverish obedience once when some important Aztechnology officials had visited the Renraku compound. Was it a universal trait of the underlings in Atzlan-based corporations? She didn’t like it.

  After a few softer exchanges with the suits, he turned his attention to her again. The brilliant smile returned as if it had never been gone. "Please, señorita. Come down and join us."

  She wasn't sure it was a good idea, but she stepped through the hatchway. There was something about this Garcia that she didn’t like. She ran her tongue across her lower lip, wishing she knew what he hid behind his smile. Her eyes were still hurting as she walked carefully down the stairs. She squinted down at Garcia and realized that he looked different. He was no longer a small man in a suit but a long-limbed, furred metahuman like herself.

  In her surprise, she nearly stumbled. He was up the stairs to meet her before she could recover her balance on her own. His grip was strong, steadying her. He was a suit again, armored behind his smile. Solicitously, he helped her down the remaining steps.

  She didn’t like his cologne.

  He seemed unaware of her dislike. "You appear to be taxed by your journey. Perhaps some refreshment would restore your spirit?"

  "No, thanks. I’ll be fine. Besides, they served a meal on the plane only a couple of hours ago."

  "And you found it to your taste?"

  He really did seem to be concerned that she be pleased. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. She gave him a friendly smile, but she remembered her fangs and closed it down. "The meal was quite tasty. My compliments to your corporate chef. I don’t believe that I’ve ever had meat with quite so delicate a flavor." Garcia’s smile grew wider. "Yes, it is a specialty. I will be sure to communicate your compliments." Garcia escorted her across the landing field to a waiting helicopter. They climbed aboard and made a short flight over Mexico City. Their destination was a compound on the north side of the plex. The GWN monogram that she had seen on the uniforms of Garcia’s minions at the airport gleamed on the side of the eighty-story skyscraper at the center of the enclosed blocks.

  Oozing charm, Garcia took her on a whirlwind tour of the facilities. GWN was an obviously successful corporation. Most of the plants were devoted to food processing and nutrient farming; labels on containerized cargo lots told her that GWN shipped worldwide. She wondered briefly what brands belonged to the firm. Comestibles weren’t the corporation’s only product. Several impressive structures were dedicated to information technologies and small, high-tech manufacturing plants. The combination wasn’t surprising; no megacorporation could survive without at least dabbling in the Matrix and data technology. If all of this belonged to Mr. Shiroi, as Garcia implied, her benefactor was a powerful man.

  They had just left a building where cheap simsense players were being assembled, and were walking through a section of employee tenements, when a telecom box on a street corner called Garcia’s name. He excused himself, leaving her to stand in the heat. Off-shift employees, who had been gathered on the front stoops to take in the afternoon sun, suddenly found business elsewhere, but not before she had seen their fearful glances in her direction. Garcia returned.

  "Ah, Mr. Shiroi will see you now, if you wish. But there is no hurry. Plenty of time for you to freshen up or partake of some refreshment, if you wish."

  She shook her head. Freshening up was something for norms. Make-up on her face would be a travesty, and she didn’t have a curry comb for the fur. Let Mr. Shiroi see her as she was, because that’s what he got. "You are not hungry yet?"

  "No. I’m not hungry at all."

  "That is understandable. After the change one’s appetites are often erratic. It is best to trust your feelings. Your body will know when you need sustenance. One should not overdo."

  Garcia took her to an elevator, holding the door open as he tapped a code into the keypad. He wished her well and stepped back, letting the doors slide shut. The car rose silently, with very little sensation of motion. After a few moments, the doors opened on a lavish office. Chill air swept into the car, cooling her comfortably.

  The walls were a pale, pale blue. She might have taken them for white if not for the pure alabaster of the deep pile carpet. The room was huge, but its furnishings were few, and they were dominated by the presence in one corner of a carved column. The stack of stylized faces on it stretched at least three meters; it didn't reach the ceiling yet seemed to fill the room. Two-thirds of the way across the chamber, a dark wood desk stood between her and the tinted window-wall. Behind the desk, in an oddly shaped chair, sat Mr. Shiroi.

  "Ah, Janice," he said as he noticed her. "It is good to see you again."

  He was smiling, with pleasure she thought. Why he should do that, she didn’t know. She wasn’t pleasant to see. She felt awkward and out of place.

  "Wish I thought so, Mr. Shiroi."

  His smile faded a bit and his eyes filled with concern. "You must learn to accept what you are, since there is no way to change it. Denial only prolongs the pain. I do not wish to see you in pain. And please, call me Dan."

  She slowly walked across the room, since that was expected. When he indicated the chair in front of the desk, she sat. She started as the soft grey upholstery shifted beneath her.

  "Just relax. It will settle down," he said. There was a hint of amusement on his face.

  She didn’t like being laughed at. Forcing herself to ignore the squirming chair, she waited. The cushions slowed their wriggling and finally stopped. She was surprised at how comfortable it was. She was almost as surprised that the chair seemed to fit her oversize body. Shiroi must have read her reaction on her face.

  "You have just had your first experience with a Tendai-Barca Glove Lounger. They are always a little unnerving the first time, but, if you will excuse the pun, one adjusts quickly. I doubt you will find better seating anywhere in the world."

  She calmed her breathing, relaxing. The chair shifted again to accommodate her. Perhaps her anger at his amusement was out of place. Anyone feeling a chair writhe under their butt would look comical. She still wasn't comfortable mentally, though. He had had her brought halfway around the world. Surely, it wasn’t all for the sake of this small joke?

  "What do you want, Mr. Shiroi?"

  "There is no more reason to be abrupt than there is to distrust my motives, Janice." He took her bad manners in stride. She even thought she detected a hint of sadness behind his soft voice. "I want to help you find yourself. I want you to accept a
place in my organization. If you choose to follow your own path, I will understand, but it is my hope that you will find us congenial. It is very lonely being on your own. It could also be dangerous."

  "Trying to scare me, Mr. Shiroi?"

  He laughed. "No. The outside world holds enough terrors for our kind. We need not prey upon ourselves. And I do wish that you would call me Dan."

  "Dan. You say ‘our kind.’ I know you and Garcia are like me, but your employees don’t know it because you hide behind illusions, or whatever it is you do so that they see you as norms. Why? Why do you hide what you are?"

  "Why?" he asked. All trace of his humor sank beneath an expression of seriousness. "You should not have to ask that. You have seen yourself in the mirror, Janice. You have seen how the norms react to you. That is the answer. Do you wish to deal with the unreasoning fear all day, every day?"

  Of course she didn’t. Who would? She had felt the fear and hate too often when she was just an ork. Orks were common. She didn’t like to think what was in store for her as a rare, more monstrous metahuman. Against that dread, her objection seemed petty.

  "I don’t like pretending to be something other than what I am!"

  He swiveled his chair ninety degrees, presenting her with a profile. She watched his chest rise and listened as he let the air out in a long sigh.

  "We all wear masks and pretend to be something other than ourselves, do we not? The norms do it. Even you did it before your change." He swiveled back to face her, cutting her off before she could object. "Were you not a different person with your peers than when you were with your family? How about when you dealt with your corporate superiors? Every set of people with whom we interact sees a different person, a different facet of ourselves. This magical disguise is like that, a mask of necessity. In our case, it hides the physical reality. Beneath the masks we are still ourselves. The illusion is simply necessary grease for the machine of social interaction. Nothing more. Having spent so much time in the Imperial Japanese Empire, surely you are familiar with the need to smooth relations between people."