Hunger Makes the Wolf

by Alex Wells

  Part Three

  Chapter Eighteen

  The rift ship Raiju was named for a beast of myth, like every ship in the TransRift fleet, but looked like none that had ever graced the Newcastle landing field. The synthcrete expanse dwarfed the relatively tiny ship, its aerodynamic curves engineered for rapid atmospheric maneuvering shining blindingly in the noonday sun. Gossamer solar sails, folded away neatly for landing, had been extended like the wings of a great bird for the inspection of ground crews.

  And instead of a river of humanity and cargo streaming through multiple exits, ordered and ranked by class, there was only one hatch on the ship’s smooth side, obviously meant for the fast vessel’s crew. Comms ships like the Raiju, made for relaying messages and undertaking emergency deployments, didn’t come to places like this, and certainly didn’t expose their highly trained crews to the atmosphere of a world under long-term Class B hazard quarantine – an internal corporate designation for the eyes of upper management only. Tanegawa’s World was good enough for immigrants, but too dangerous for valued employees such as space captains or courier crews.

  But a special, air-conditioned ramp was escorted to the ship by a squad of men and women in green, a black saloon car parked and waiting as close as safety allowed. One woman and one man exited the ramp, quickly covering the few steps to the car. Both wore the standard TransRift blue suit. The woman was tall and broad-shouldered, her iron-gray hair short and neat. The man, obviously the lower on the food chain, waited deferentially for the woman to get into the car first. He had neatly trimmed black hair framing narrow eyes; a wide, rounded nose; and was of medium height with a slight build that made him look delicate next to his boss.

  They rode in silence to the TransRift tower, the hum of the car’s tires against the synthcrete roadways barely audible. From the car they went directly into the elevator, and from there to the top floor of the building, the Vice President’s office. The lights in the elevator dimmed and brightened as it hummed smoothly up the floors, something both passengers noted coolly.

  The elevator doors opened to reveal a spacious floor with a fountain, decorative plants, a desk, a large conference table surrounded by leather-upholstered chairs, and a small coffee bar. The windows offered a panoramic view of the city and off into the bright wasteland that surrounded it.

  Vice President Leeroy Gregson waited for them, standing in front of his desk, feet apart and shoulders stiff. He looked like a man anticipating a fight, short-cropped salt and pepper hair bristling. “Gentlemen, good afternoon. Can I interest either of you in a drink?” The words were companionable, the tone formal and cold.

  The woman stepped forward, and offered her hand to be shaken. “Jennifer Meetchim. So good to meet you. Water would be lovely. This is my secretary, Mr Rolland.” The man bowed his dark head.

  “A pleasure to meet you both.” He shook both their hands. “Please, have a seat. While I hope you both had a good trip – and I appreciate Corporate responding to my request this quickly – you’re not who I expected.”

  “Not what you expected, you mean,” Meetchim said. “If you please, Mr Gregson. Be mindful of security.”

  “Right, right.” He moved to his desk and tapped a button, then frowned and pressed it again. When nothing happened, he moved to manually pull a set of dark blue curtains across the windows, rendering the office a velvety, dark cave. The lack of natural light only highlighted the seemingly random brightening and dimming of the overhead lights. “Damn curtains don’t work half the time,” Gregson said. “All the minor tech in the city is fucked.”

  “Your report indicated that was likely,” Meetchim observed. “And I assume that’s why your research and productivity numbers have fallen.”

  “It’s not something I can control. Miracle I’ve got anything done at all in these conditions.” Leeroy poured a glass of water for each of them, setting the tumblers down on the glass-topped conference table before sitting himself. “It’s not going to taste like much. The water. We’ve got to distill it down to nothing before we can drink it. It’s the only way to be safe.”

  Meetchim didn’t touch her water, even as her associate drank. “I read the security briefing.”

  Gregson stared at her, or perhaps tried to stare her down. She remained still, expression cool and pleasantly bland. He finally continued, “I can’t help but notice you don’t have a Weatherman with you.”

  “Keenly observed.” Meetchim reached into her jacket. Leeroy tensed, and then relaxed as she drew forth a folded set of flimsies rather than something more sinister. “I have new orders for you.”

  Leeroy snatched the flimsies up and began leafing through them, his hands slowing bit by bit, face going paler and paler. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “I’m being replaced? And audited?”

  “And I’m your replacement and chief auditor. Though you needn’t worry about finding a new placement within the company. We have a position prepared for you back at headquarters.”

  Leeroy slapped the flimsies down on the table. “I’ve been getting good production out of this shit hole. Good luck if you think you’ll do better.”

  “Really, I wouldn’t have thought that you’d greet a transfer back to civilization as a punishment,” she said, her tone mockingly sweet. “Even if it will come with fewer managerial responsibilities… and a proportionally smaller pay scale.”

  “We both know what this is,” Gregson growled. “I kept production at an all-time high!”

  “Yes, we do.” Her voice was all ice, now. “And that is the only reason you still have a job at all. Enough of your posturing, Mr Gregson. My time is valuable. And your cooperation, or lack thereof, will be noted.” Down the table, Rolland took a small notepad computer from his jacket and activated the projected keyboard.

  “You’re better off using flimsies, or paper if you’re feeling fancy,” Leeroy said with bad grace, glancing at him. “Anything more sophisticated than a damn toaster isn’t going to last long, not with Mr Green down. The planetary magnetic field is fucked to hell.” He looked back at Meetchim. “So what are you really here for?”

  “The break-in at the lab is concerning enough, even if Mr Green hadn’t been injured in the process. A new strategy has been deemed necessary.”

  “That incident hasn’t repeated.”

  The curve of Meetchim’s eyebrow implied words politely withheld, likely to do with the current status of the Weatherman. “Corporate is well aware of that and is, of course, grateful that you have plugged that specific security hole. A pass over the history indicates unrest in the mining towns and the disruptive existence of non-employees from the wastelands, given free access. We fear it shows a pattern of disciplinary problems, exacerbated by those who have been allowed to go native.”

  Leeroy sat back in his chair. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve been too lenient on the miners.”

  “They seem to have taken shameful advantage of your good will,” Meetchim said, drily. “And forgotten who the real enemy is here.”

  That won her a grimace. “We’re still trying to repair the structural damage to the floor of the lab. Taking longer than it should because the decent equipment shits itself half the time. One of the… natives… cracked the floor in half past the foundation. If you think you can handle that, more power to you.”

  “It has been nearly thirty-two years since the last planetwide witch hunt, Mr Gregson. Corporate believes that is likely why the situation has begun to spiral out of control. Our workers need to be reminded of the threat that hides amongst them and stirs such trouble. Humans really ought to stick together.” Meetchim smiled thinly. “Of course, Corporate has an interest in furthering our research as well.”

  Leeroy rubbed his chin. If this was Corporate’s angle of approach, it sounded like a golden opportunity to dodge responsibility for such messy business. Maybe he could land in a better spot back at headquarters. “You did hear the part where I said that one of them cracked the lab’s floor in half? This new
crop isn’t the usual sort of freak.”

  “We’d gotten that impression. That is why, in addition to the repairs for Mr Green, I have brought an experimental enhancement.”

  “Experimental?”

  Meetchim’s smile offered nothing. “Highly.”

  Leeroy sat up a little in his chair. “Well, since you’re taking over this viper pit, I’ve got some fresh information to share with you. In regards to production, not… the other matter.”

  “Please, go on.” Meetchim gestured regally with one hand.

  Leeroy went over to the desk that was so suddenly no longer his and pulled a small, burlap sample bag from his top drawer, as well as a plastic tray. He set the small tray down in front of Meetchim and emptied the bag onto it, a scattering of fine blue crystals like a little fall of rain. Some of the crystals were almost as big as his pinky nail. “The number seven shaft at Rouse had a cave-in about three months ago,” he began.

  “Rouse…?” Meetchim said.

  “Rouse is the town that was attacked by bandits a few weeks ago, sir.” Rolland didn’t look up from his notepad.

  “Ah, yes. Continue, please, Mr Gregson.” She extracted a cloisonné pen from her breast pocket to stir the crystals, but carefully did not touch them.

  “They just got the shaft reopened before town discipline went tits-up. It’s mostly just a regular ore vein, but we found this as well.”

  “Interesting. Has the onsite lab found anything, or are they just pretty to look at?”

  “At the pit, it might as well be stone knives and flint arrowheads. Our labs here aren’t anything close to Earth standard on a good day, even with the Weatherman doing his job. Right now, they’re practically paralyzed. The best the white coats could come up with was that it’s not poisonous, it’s not radioactive, and it’s not anything they’ve ever seen. I’ve got sample bags prepared for the next cargo run, but–”

  “The Raiju is holding for twenty-four hours for engineer inspection, as the atmosphere was extremely rough on the way in. The samples can accompany you and my initial assessment back to Corporate tomorrow. Are there other shafts that are workable at that mine?”

  “Three right now, and we’re sinking another.”

  Meetchim nodded. “We’ll seal off number seven for now, then. Make note of it, Mr Rolland. Until we know what these little beauties are, I’d rather not have the common filth digging around and breathing them in.” She carefully wiped her pen with a handkerchief – which she left on the table – and tucked it away again.

  “Yes, sir,” Rolland said.

  “And now for Mr Green.” Meetchim rose to her feet, Rolland following, after he’d finished the sentence he was writing. But as Gregson levered himself up, she held up one finger. “Mr Rolland, please stay here and help Mr Gregson clear out of my office.”

  “But–” Gregson began as Meetchim headed toward the elevator.

  “Mr Gregson, you had best begin packing. The Raiju will not wait.” She gave him a cool smile as the doors slid shut between them. “I am taking the Mr Green situation off your hands, if not in the way you wished.”

  She rode the elevator down to the sub-basement, noting the brightening and dimming of the lights. In the labs she knew precisely where to go; she’d studied the building layout during the journey.

  The glass-walled observation room indicated as Mr Green’s was a hive of activity, doctors and technicians in white isolation suits hurrying back and forth. One wheeled in the reinforced security case that Meetchim had brought with her on the Raiju. It was marked all over with biohazard symbols in a particular shade of bright, poison green. Mr Green had been partially unwrapped, the bag around him unzipped down to his navel. He looked like a corpse, eyes open and sightless, mouth hanging slack. Red lines carrying blood ran in and out from under his collarbones; they’d gone the direct route with blood oxygenation rather than depending on lungs that had been badly damaged at the time. His chest was a neat formation of red lines held together by temporary clamps. His heart had been replaced by a temporary pump; his new one, stored with the other spare parts at the Corporate laboratories, was also in the case.

  Meetchim tapped the speaker output on the outside of the wall to hear the murmur. Mostly the sounds of a well-ordered team, laced with far more static than she liked, but then she caught a woman saying, “What’s the security code for this? It’s not in the manifest.”

  Meetchim activated the intercom. “It’s a twelve-digit code. Stand by for it.”

  “Who are you?” the woman demanded. Meetchim noted her suit’s tag said Kiyoder.

  “Vice President Jennifer Meetchim. I brought the equipment for you.”

  There was a hiccup to the sound in the room, the noise of techs reshuffling their worldview made manifest. Then Dr Kiyoder said, “Thank you, sir. We will proceed.”

  Meetchim watched them unload the case: replacement heart in its static container; various syringes, tailored to the possibilities of what might have gone wrong with the Weatherman’s internal neuro-wiring; and the experimental enhancements like a tangle of thin, squirming wires safely encased in glass. She observed with mild curiosity as Kiyoder and her assistants unzipped the Weatherman’s chest and installed the new organ, redirecting the blood flow and starting his lungs working again over it. Then several of those syringes were injected, one right after the other, into the large catheters in both of the Weatherman’s bone-thin arms.

  The result was electrifying. Mr Green jolted on the table, eyes closing spasmodically and then opening, wider than ever. He screamed, high and thin and in registers that made bones and teeth itch.

  “Hold him still!” Kiyoder shouted, barely audible over the burr and fuzz of the Weatherman’s shriek. Several techs rushed to hold Mr Green steady, hard against the table. One of them collapsed without warning; their head bounced off the edge of the table going down.

  Kiyoder took up the last syringe, the one filled with the sinister silver tangle, and with careful timing, drove the long, thin needle down through the orbit of Mr Green’s right eye.

  His scream cut off, his body went limp. Panting, Kiyoder triggered the injection, and carefully removed the needle. For a moment, Mr Green’s eyes rolled wildly, a dot of overly-thick, silvery fluid flowing from his right eye. Then his gaze fixed on Meetchim, something she felt rather than saw in those black-on-black eyes, her figure reflected in their shining surface. His lips moved to form a single word, and then he lost focus and animation entirely.

  “Success, Dr Kiyoder?” Meetchim asked.

  The doctor cast around for the safety cap of the syringe and slid it home with visibly shaking fingers. “We’ll know in a couple of days. I want to keep him static until he’s done rewiring.”

  Meetchim had seen the simulations before, the artificial neural connections growing dendritically throughout the brain, not quite biological and not quite machine. She had a feeling that the real process wasn’t as neat or clean as branching lines of yellow and blue light in a holographic display. That really didn’t matter, so long as it worked. “Very well. Call me immediately when he regains coherence. No matter what time of day it is.”

  As she rode the elevator back up to her office – that fool Gregson had better be gone by now – it seemed to her that the overhead lights had already begun to steady. She focused on that and the steady thrum of the elevator passing by floors, avoiding the mirrored walls. The reflection reminded her too keenly of the Weatherman’s eyes – never look them in the eye, never, it was the first rule one learned – and the word he’d formed with his mouth, just two syllables: Mother.

  * * *

  Shige Rollins, known to everyone else at TransRift as James Rolland, made it his habit to work late. It made him appear industrious, which had helped him rise to such an ideal position, the secretary of an up-an-coming VP. More importantly, it meant that no one found it strange when he was in and out of his office at odd hours.

  And working late was instrumental in being able to look at
information he wasn’t technically supposed to access. Better yet, Meetchim’s files were generally far more detailed than anything he could ever find at the Corporate building – his boss was a very thorough woman.

  Far into the night he finished organizing Meetchim’s daily messages, then took out the files on the security breaches that had brought them to Tanegawa’s World. The woman hadn’t even bothered to lock the desk drawers; Shige had spent years crafting this identity and making himself trusted and indispensable so he would eventually have opportunities like this. That was the point of deep cover, so deep that the Federal Union agency he nominally worked for had long since forgotten he even existed. That was ideal, since TransRift had gotten its tendrils deep into the Bureau of Citizens’ Rights Enforcement’s directorship and rendered it unsafe for him to report officially. It only highlighted the necessity of his presence: TransRift’s monopoly-driven stranglehold had to be broken, and that couldn’t be done without good intelligence.

  The file about the lab break-in had several security photographs of the likely perpetrator: a young woman, a patch obscuring her left eye, her brown hair pulled back severely. She wasn’t pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but her face was quite memorable. Shige stared at her picture, fixing her into his mind as he took out a small, thumbnail-sized self injector. The taste of strawberries flooded his mouth as he pushed the needle into his neck, the chemical fixing the image into his memory with perfect clarity. There were a lot of interesting little biological quirks his parents had made certain to engineer into him, the sort that made him think Mother had intended him to be a deep cover spy even before his conception. Genetic enhancements didn’t show up on electronics scans, after all, and for all its corporate abuses, TransRift still followed galactic law vaguely enough that it respected the right to genetic privacy.

  Maybe it was a waste of a medication he had in only limited supply, but his instincts told him this woman was someone he wanted to find.