His nostrils went wide, as they always did when she brought up his not-so-secret shame. Marushige had an implanted monitor-dispenser system to keep him supplied with special psychoactive drugs, chemicals to control the imbalance in his brain that fostered violent rages. Before the implant, he had been a slave to his impulses and had almost been dismissed from the corporation. The drugs corrected the problem, but the occasional inaccuracies in the chip’s calculation of dosages let Mr. Hyde crawl out. Marushige, desperate to hold his position with Renraku, did his best to cover up those lapses. His shame gave her a powerful hold over him.
“Just remember who has the monitor tape showing you abusing the late, lamented Claybourne. That kid would never have been crippled if you hadn’t kicked him that way.”
“He should never have gotten himself shot,” Marushige said through gritted teeth.
Crenshaw chuckled and took out another cigarette. “Doesn’t matter what he should have done. You shouldn’t have kicked him. There’re lots of ways to be a damned fool. You’re the one who damaged his spinal cord.”
“He was incompetent.”
“That’s what your superiors will say about you if they learn that you were responsible for crippling a company asset.”
“Tapes can be doctored. It would be your word against mine.”
“You must be getting a little hot, Marushige. We’ve been over this before. That tape will show up pure in any test you care to name.”
“If you produce it, you will implicate yourself in the break-in. You could have stopped those shadowrunners out in the streets.”
“Wasn’t in my contract.”
“The Kansayaku may not see it that way,” Marushige said. “It is said that he places a premium on personal initiative.”
“That’s what got me where I am today. Got me back to the arcology security center. Got me a very useful trideo tape. See, I’ve got initiative,” she said with a cold smile, “but I believe in keeping its use personal.”
Marushige leaned back into his chair, making a fist with his right hand and laying his other hand over it. “You were rewarded for your silence concerning Claybourne. Despite your repulsive method of achieving the office, you have been an efficient deputy. I will only be pushed so far in this matter, Crenshaw. Be careful that you do not overstep the line.”
“I’m not pushing, Marushige. You can keep the top slot as long as you want. I really don’t want it. But if you try to force me out, just remember that if I go down, I take you with me.”
Marushige ran his thumb along the ragged scar on his left cheek. After a few moments, he said, “It would be wise for you to bury your obsession about Verner while Sato’s around. The Kansayaku is tightly connected to Director Aneki, and Verner used to be some kind of pet of the old man. Surely neither of us needs to borrow trouble.”
“Your concern is touching,” Crenshaw drawled. Marushige was less concerned with her embarrassment than the possibility of Sato looking into things and discovering the security director’s manipulation of the records. He would, most likely, be relieved if she managed to screw up and get canned. That way, he’d be rid of her. “I don’t think you have much to worry about. Sato doesn’t like Verner any more than I do.”
“That is a bold assertion, and interesting, if true,” Marushige commented. “How would you know such a thing?”
“Hey, I still got a few connections in the biz,” Crenshaw laughed.
Marushige smiled broadly in response, but his eyes were cold and wary.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sam was nervous. No doubt about it. His palms were wet and he wanted to find the nearest rest room. If they didn’t call him in the next few minutes, he could be out and back again before it was time to go in.
Sam tried to catch the eye of the red-uniformed guard who had been his escort ever since he had stepped out of the elevator carrying him to the upper stories of the arcology. The man’s stare remained as fixed straight ahead as it had since he’d taken up position across from Sam’s seat on the leather couch. His stance was only slightly less fixed and rigid than his manner. It was pointless trying to communicate with him.
Reaching a decision, Sam levered himself free from the sticky embrace of the couch. Before he had straightened, the guard was by his side, face expressionless, waiting for Sam’s next move. Doubtless the samurai was as ready to be executioner as escort. Sam hoped the man wasn’t too disappointed by his charge’s slow walk to the receptionist’s desk.
“Excuse me.” He smiled politely when the woman looked up from her console. “Will it be much longer?”
Her earlier warm smile was a memory. She said nothing for a few moments, her stare and expression so harsh that all the beauty dissolved from her face. He had overstepped the bounds of expected politeness, and she intended to let him know. “Sato-sama will call for you when he is ready, Verner-san.”
“But I just wanted to...”
“Please take a seat,” she interrupted icily.
Her lack of polite forms told Sam how rude she thought him. Rather than retreat to the clammy confines of his former seat, he gave himself a promotion based on length of wait. Crossing in front of the desk, he entered the other half of the spacious room, though he knew this was trespassing into territory reserved for those of more exalted rank. The receptionist did not react to his breach of manners, but he was sure she would record it. Let her. His minor rebellion against proper etiquette made him feel a little more in control of the situation.
This side of the reception area was no more capacious than the other, but its furnishings were more posh and it was more crowded. Two Red Samurai guards flanked the heavy wooden door to the inner office. Two more men sat on a couch that backed against that wall. One of those seemed to be dozing, but the other turned his head as Sam crossed the Persian rug. Though he couldn’t see the eyes behind the implanted chrome lenses, he was sure they were studying and evaluating him.
Sam selected a chair. This time, it was one upholstered in fabric; he didn’t need any help sweating. As much as he wanted to return the scrutiny of the man with the chrome lenses, Sam decided it was unwise to do so directly. Turning his head toward the glassed-in area behind the receptionist’s desk, he feigned interest in the activities of the bevy of office ladies hard at work inside, occasionally letting his gaze drift over the Red Samurai with him in the waiting area.
It turned out the samurai weren’t of much interest. Standard issue, they were hard, competent, no-nonsense types like his own red shadow. They would be dangerous in a fight, but they were no threat to a good employee like Sam.
The other two were different. Their lapels bore corporate pins whose expanding wavefront design was so familiar that he easily picked it out as Renraku. Despite their affiliation symbols, neither looked like Sam’s idea of a typical Renraku salaryman.
With a start, Sam realized that he knew these men. Or rather, knew of them. In the week between Hohiro Sato’s arrival in Seattle and the granting of this interview, Sam had used his free time to do some research. He figured the more he knew about Sato, the better he might come off in the unexpected audience. He had learned that Sato always traveled with an entourage, as was natural for a man of his stature in a multinational corporation. Besides the usual crowd of office ladies, guards, aides, and chauffeurs, several people of more obscure function were frequently part of the Kansayaku’s traveling party.
From the pictures in the files, Sam recognized the chrome-eyed man as Kosuke Akabo, a public relations specialist. If he truly was what his job title stated, the relations he handled were not those conventionally assigned to such a functionary. He had the menace of a restrained predator, much like that of the Red Samurai guards. Akabo’s well-tailored gray suit was cut from expensive material, far too costly for a typical salaryman, though the outfit mimicked the currently fashionable cut. Even to Sam’s untrained eyes, it was clear that Akabo was something more than a desk jockey.
Calm but alert, Akabo made no extrane
ous movement, but showed none of the tense vigilance of the samurai guards. His was the composure of a man confident he would be instantly aware of any threat. As perhaps he would. His eyes had certainly been enhanced technologically; his other senses may have been as well.
Sam searched surreptitiously for telltale signs of modification, but beyond the chrome lenses, he saw no obvious cybernetic additions. That did not shake his conviction that the man in the gray suit was more highly modified than a street samurai whose reputation depended as much on visible chrome as fighting prowess. Akabo was a warrior, protection for his master. Sam was sure of it.
The other had to be Harry Masamba, because only one black man had been on the list of those associated with Sato. The dossier named Masamba as a time-management specialist, but his profession was as obvious from his indecorous attitude as from the symbol-laden slouch hat that covered the upper part of his face. No respectable salaryman would sleep in the office of his boss. Masamba was a mage. Perhaps it was because his talents were as rare as they were valuable that he could take liberties in his personal behavior.
Sam considered the presence of the magician. He had been raised to believe most of their kind charlatans, trading on the beliefs of the credulous. Unlike his father, however, Sam had grown up in what people like Masamba called the Sixth World. There was too much evidence to deny that magic really existed. Still, he didn’t trust its practitioners.
Not everyone felt that way. The corporate world had embraced magic and magicians, not so much for profit as for protection. Magicians were too rare and unreliable to work on assembly lines, but they offered unparalleled capabilities in industrial espionage. And where there was magic on the offense, magic was needed on the defense, making mages a common feature of corporate security. Almost all multinational corporate heads had wizards on their personal staffs for protection. Lesser officials had to make do with the company wage mages, for a person able to manipulate magical forces was too rare a resource to be squandered lightly. That Sato had a mage of his own was a sign of his power.
Power was something Sato had a lot of in Renraku Corporation. He held the title of Kansayaku, but was much more than a mere auditor of financial records. He audited people as well, pruning the dead wood and non-conformists from the Renraku tree. His reputation as a hatchetman was fearsome. Now he had come to Seattle, where the arcology project was chronically behind schedule.
Sato’s appointment to the arcology didn’t worry Sam personally. Sam had not been involved in any significant tasks that might link him to the delays, and having been banished from staff operations when banished from Japan, he had no contacts with the management who would have to take responsibility for those delays. Even if they and their staffs were removed, he was likely to remain, checking files and cross-referencing data.
But the response to his letter requesting permission to meet with his sister was worrying. He could not reason why Sato would want to talk to him personally. Hadn’t the Kansayaku shown nothing but contempt for Sam when they had last met? A reversal of attitude seemed unwarranted, despite Hanae’s belief that such a happy turnabout was just what Sam could expect from the meeting. Sam had been seeing too much behind the surface lately; he held little faith in her optimism.
The receptionist called his name, cutting off any further speculation. Whether Sato wanted to help or reprimand him, lack of promptness would not improve Sam’s position. He stood and straightened his jacket, then marched forward under the cold chrome stare of Akabo. Behind him, his red shadow did not move.
The inner office made the outer seem furnished in cast-offs. The entrance swept away from the door in vaulted magnificence. Beyond the masterpiece-bedecked walls of the entryway, the room opened out into a broad space many times the size of the office Sam shared with a dozen co-workers. As impressive were the furnishings, the long outer wall diminished them. The direct view of the Seattle skyline offered by the floor-to-ceiling windows was vaguely disturbing after Sam’s long isolation within the arcology.
Midway between the entry and the window, a desk stood isolated from the rest of the chamber, elevated on a dais of some dark, close-grained wood. A well-groomed and carefully attired man sat in a suede-covered chair behind the chrome-legged marble slab.
Sato.
He stood as Sam entered the main portion of the chamber and stepped off the platform and came around in front of the desk.
“Konichiwa, Verner-san.”
“Ojama shimasu, Sato-sama,” Sam returned with a formal bow. He thought it wise to be extremely polite.
“Please have a seat,” Sato offered, extending a hand toward an alcove by the window.
Sam selected a chair that placed his back to the vista. It was a relief that etiquette required him to allow his host the scenic view. He did not want to be distracted.
Sato seated himself with a comment about the current league standings of the Sonics that made it painfully obvious that the Kansayaku knew nothing about basketball. Sam played along, knowing that the small talk was only a preliminary. It was merely polite noise to allow the participants in the conversation to gauge each other’s mood.
A woman brought a tray with tea and sweet cakes. Only as she began pouring the tea did Sam realize that it was Alice Crenshaw doing the serving. Crenshaw grinned at him, and Sam suddenly felt cold.
“Ms. Crenshaw has been filling me in on your activities since you arrived in Seattle,” Sato confided, dropping the faltering pleasantries. “Most interesting.”
Sam didn’t know what to say. How could he? He had no idea what Crenshaw had told Sato. Anything he said could easily get him into trouble.
“Nothing to say?” Sato’s smile reminded Sam of the sharks in the Level 2 public aquarium. “I should think that you would want to make some comment. A reason for what you have done, perhaps?”
Sam cleared his throat. Sato had still not given him a clue to the nature of this test. “I have always held Renraku first in my thoughts. I do not believe that I have ever performed a disloyal action.”
“That is a rote response, Verner-san,” Sato observed. “This is not morning assembly, so I do not need to hear you repeat the shakun. I assure you that I know the corporate articles by heart.”
“I meant no disrespect, Kansayaku.”
“Then I shall take no offense.” Sato placed his tea cup on the tray. “Yet.”
Sam returned his cup as well. The porcelain clattered slightly as it met the lacquered surface. Sato’s next words were so soft that Sam almost didn’t hear them.
“You are dissatisfied with your job?”
“I serve the corporation, Kansayaku,” Sam stated strongly. “I do my best at whatever task is set before me.”
“Yes. So it seems. There have been no complaints about your performance.” Sato tapped the arm of his chair. Sam thought that he detected a slight hint of disappointment. “But you are dissatisfied.”
“I am distressed at being kept in the dark about the fate of my sister.”
“I am informed that she has been relocated safely. Renraku always fulfills its obligations in that regard. You were advised of this through official channels.”
Sam recalled the two-line entry in his electronic mail. “I believe that the corporation has done what it considers its duty. But I don’t understand. Why can’t I contact her?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have repeatedly requested communications links with my sister. They have been denied. I have not even been given the postal code of the relocation center.”
“That seems unusual.”
“I thought so too, but I have been reluctant to bring my concerns to the Contract Court arbitration board.”
“My comp,” Sato ordered peremptorily.
Crenshaw brought it, setting it on the table and unrolling the screen before turning it on and sliding it before Sato. He spent a minute tapping on the keyboard.
“There is no record of these requests in the files.”
“How can that be possible?” Sam asked incredulously.
“Indeed,” Sato agreed smoothly. “How?”
Sam scented danger. Sato had just told him that there was no official record of Sam’s attempts to contact Janice. Any complaint about the corporation’s inhumane response would not be supported by the Renraku Corporation’s correspondence data base. He was being coerced into letting the whole issue drop. Never. He would never give up his sister. She was all the family he had left.
Sato confirmed Sam’s suspicions by saying, “Now you have come to me and, in a private conference, asked after your sister. I have told you that she was well cared for by the Renraku staff during her traumatic experience. She received all the consideration to which she was entitled under the law. You will receive regular reports and may undertake to send correspondence through the personnel office. There is no further need to trouble your superiors over this issue.”
“I understand,” Sam lied.
He really didn’t understand at all, but one thing was becoming clear. For whatever reason, he was deliberately being cut off from his sister, and somehow Sato was involved.
“I am glad that we understand each other, Verner-san.” Sato stood, his sudden motion leaving Sam to scramble upright. “You may return to your duties.”
Sam bowed to Sato’s back. “I apologize for having taken so much of your valuable time, Kansayaku.”
Having been dismissed, Sam had no choice but to leave. As he walked past the last painting in the entryway, he risked an impolite look over his shoulder. Sato had returned to his desk, absorbed already in something on the console screen. Crenshaw was standing by the edge of the dais, watching Sam with a grin of satisfaction plastered to her face. She seemed pleased. What had he done to earn her enmity?
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