The Shapeshifter Chronicles

by Peralta, Samuel

  Sometimes I worried about my vocabulary becoming too Earth-bound. I missed the abstract and fluid forms of home and wondered if the chemical combinations of this planet had rendered my accent too clumsy and thick. Sometimes I worried they wouldn’t understand me when I finally returned. To be perfectly honest though, most of the time I was too relieved to be back in my natural shifting state to care about much of anything beyond the joy of change.

  I tightened into a mass of bone, muscle, fur, and teeth. My claws made satisfying clicks on the cement floor as I stalked over to a vat just outside the edge of camera range. I sucked in a breath and caught a whiff of the proprietary chemical blend designed to replicate the salty copper tang of blood. I growled low in my throat and my whiskers quivered.

  I know the boys missed the way things used to be. Before we took the scholarship, this house had stood proudly unchanged for three generations. The corporations had no hold on us and we could do as we pleased. The arrival of the meat marked the end of that tradition of prosperous independence. The house lost the basement and first floor to it. Our daily routines soon revolved around its needs. But while we all mourned the loss of the family’s legacy and shared the resentment over our situation, I couldn’t bring myself to hate the meat itself.

  Truth be told, I felt a strange kinship to it. We poured a mess of cells into a machine, bathed it in nutrients, and it transformed into beef—a miracle of possibility and change. I didn’t understand the production process much more than I understood the mechanics of my own shifts. That’s what scientists and philosophers are for. I prefer to operate on instinct and intuition.

  I closed my eyes, content to float in the quiet of the moment.

  A tinny moo from the main computer threw me out with a jolt. I wanted to beg for just five more minutes, but unlike a reluctant slugabed, I had no snooze button to jab.

  I squashed back into the form I’d worn for over a decade.

  Pain returned with my first breath. Aside from adding a touch of silver to the hair, a few extra lines to the skin, and a couple inches to the usual problem areas—the body called Ma-too had remained the same. I knew it down to its atoms, and shifting back into it was easy.

  Holding the shape was becoming more difficult each time. Shifting to add clothing to the form used to bring some relief, a small bridge of respite on the way back. These days my muscles clenched in the agony of cramps and my bones ached no matter what I did.

  The need to stay in motion nearly overwhelmed me and fighting it was like trying to fend off a sneeze. I froze and clamped down. Every inch of skin prickled as the stillness tightened its grip. The pain swelled, roaring through me. I responded by sucking in air—hee-hee-hee—and letting it out in near-silent puffs—hah-hah-hah. I’d learned the technique by watching shows for expectant mothers. I’d never birth a child, but the exercise helped keep me from screaming until I reestablished full control.

  The computer bleated again. I shuffled past the camera and took a seat at the desk. First, I checked the machines’ heartbeat. The intervals were regular and all systems had reported in as normal. I sighed. Not all of the mandatory upgrades to the machinery had meshed as well as this quarter’s.

  Everything looked good—smooth, solid, and efficient. Even the notoriously delicate adipose integration routine had gone off without a hitch. The marbling in this batch would be prime. We were on schedule and all signs indicated the yield would be exceptional. Nothing had occurred to compromise quality.

  It might be enough to push us back into the black. My finger trembled as I clicked the verification button. When the company’s transport hub sent their automatic confirmation for our usual pick-up, I had to suppress the urge to smile. We had two days to wait for the good news.

  A lime green halo glowed around the mail program’s icon. I’d already received the weekly checklist and newsletter, so this was unexpected. While I gathered my nerve, the icon flickered and turned yellow. If I let it turn red we’d get a non-compliance demerit on our account. EnviroSteak valued quick action and didn’t forgive errors. Still, I hesitated while worry gnawed at me with needle-sharp teeth.

  Leo’s GPA was perfect, and he was sure to make the dean’s list once again. His classes were almost exclusively STEM and his extracurriculars were all on the approved list. His participation percentages were right on target—just enough to be invested in networking without drawing too much energy away from his studies. He was fine.

  The meat was fine.

  There was no reason to get any additional correspondence from the corporation.

  I clicked. Both messages flashed URGENT.

  * * *

  Glen smacked the couch cushions again and repeated the same litany he’d been grinding out for the past five minutes. “Heartless, gutless scum. Every last stinking one of them.” He drew his fist back.

  I caught it mid-blow. “Watch your hands, love. The furniture didn’t do anything to deserve a beating, and neither did you.” I feathered his knuckles with a kiss. “We can get through this.”

  “It’s not fair. How can we win when the game is rigged?”

  He looked so lost—I wished I had an answer.

  Glen slipped his hand away from mine and picked up the crumpled printout. “How can they get away with this? I don’t understand any of it.” His voice shook and his ears went red at the edges. “What the fuck is the Maillard reaction? And what does it have to do with the house or Leo’s scholarship?”

  “It’s about sugars, amino acids, and heat. You know, what makes browned food taste so good.” I closed my eyes and winced. “But that’s beside the point. The bottom line is that EnviroSteak has a new blend that they’re rolling out this week.” I waved my hand toward the paper. I’d read it so many times I had it memorized. “Our latest crop won’t be worth a penny.”

  “And we owe them too much to recover, don’t we? We’re in deep for the renovations, plus all those upgrades and other hoops we didn’t see coming. Selling to another buyer isn’t even an option because we don’t own the raw materials or the final product.” Glen stared at me, his dark eyes brimming with moisture. “That’s why they’re talking about taking the house.” He groaned. “A single-family residence like this one must be worth more than …”

  I nodded and waited.

  “Leo.” He sucked in a sharp breath and his brow furrowed. “We took the scholarship so he could go to college, have a bright future. I thought he’d be safe because he’s not like me—not an artist. But he isn’t safe at all. Not when they say his math is getting too theoretical for them to support. And now they want … they’ll try… no.” He shook his head. “I will not let them indenture our son, Em. Leo shouldn’t be sacrificed because some junior executive decided he’s a bad investment.”

  “I’m with you, but what are we going to do about it?”

  “They aren’t the only ones with connections. I’ve still got a patron or two I can call on.” He clenched his fists again and his voice turned hot and thick with anger. “We’ll see those bloodsuckers in court.”

  I stayed still, and the silence stretched between us.

  A moment later he brightened and said, “I bet they won’t even let it go very far before they settle. We’ll move Leo out of their reach and find a way to save the house. I’m sure of it.”

  I murmured in agreement, but my heart wasn’t in it. Uncertainty and tension made me feel like the skin I was wearing was too tight. I wanted to shift, to fight, to flee.

  Glen reached over and drew me into the circle of his arm. As I took comfort in the regular rise and fall of my husband’s chest and snuggled in to soak up his warmth, I remembered the letters’ shared closing line. “Your account has been forwarded to Collections.”

  They’d changed the game. Dread filled the pit of my stomach and I shivered.

  * * *

  Glen called our attorney the next morning. EnviroSteak’s legal team had been ready for the move and the next volley of demands was sent out by the aftern
oon. We paced and fretted all day. It was all we could do.

  By the time evening had deepened into night, we were exhausted. Without a word of discussion, we retreated to the sanctuary of the family room. I brought out a half-empty bottle of middle-of-the-road brandy and poured us each a generous finger. Glen put on something adagio—achingly beautiful, swelling with strings. Leo flipped the switch on the gas fireplace. We sipped and watched the flames dance with their shadows until a series of booming blows on the front and back doors broke our fragile peace. I jumped to my feet, snarling and ready to fight.

  Glen took one look at me and his mouth fell open. He started to say something but was interrupted when the kitchen window shattered.

  I ran toward the sound, just fast enough to catch sight of two figures as they leaped into a vehicle. They were going to get away so I started to shift without a thought. I stretched out my hands to guide my dive through the ragged opening.

  “Ma-too! Don’t move.”

  Leo’s concern snapped me back into my form. I twisted to look at him.

  His eyes were wide, but I saw no panic or horror in them. I nearly sighed with relief. Despite my lapse, my cover was still intact—and so was my family.

  I glanced back outside. The vehicle was gone.

  Glen spoke up from the doorway. “There’s glass everywhere. And a lot of—” He pointed at the floor. “Did you cut yourself?”

  I shook my head. The room was littered with shards of glass, a thick shank of bone, and bloody wet strands of what looked like raw shredded beef.

  “I’m fine,” I said. But really, I wasn’t. “You okay?”

  They nodded. But really, they weren’t.

  We wrapped up in the comforting silence of our lie and got to work sweeping, wiping, covering, and taping. We didn’t rest or speak again until most traces of the violence had been banished.

  “That was quite a display back there, Em.” Glen bared his teeth and swiped the air with fingers curled up like claws. “Very Mama Bear.” He chuckled and kissed me on the cheek. As he brushed his lips back toward my ear he whispered, “And sexy as hell.”

  I shivered and leaned into his touch.

  Leo cleared his throat. “Get a room, you two.” He smiled and waved to signal a change in subject. “It was pretty badass, though. Who knew?”

  “Not me.” I shrugged and growled, playing up the comedy. “Guess the old protective instincts must’ve kicked in.” I made another show of wincing. “I bet I’ll be paying for it in the morning.”

  “Then I think this calls for another drink. Maybe wine this time. I’ve got a couple bottles squirreled away for emergencies.” My husband held out a closed fist. “Let’s play for it. Two rounds. Loser serves.”

  Our son grinned. “And cleans up afterward.” He brought his fist forward and tilted his head toward me.

  “I accept your terms, gentlemen. Now put up or shut up.” I joined the circle.

  We shook our fists—one, two, three.

  * * *

  We endured four more days and nights of the same cycle: lawyers in the sunlit hours and threats in the dark. Our plight was almost a cliché these days—one of the many cautionary tales spread by whispers, a fate to be avoided at all costs. Fear made the public cooperative and isolation virtually ensured we’d all face our greatest troubles alone.

  Buildings may be stacked closer and higher than ever, but neighborhoods are relics of the past. Instead of living among friends, we were struggling alongside strangers. People were piled into industrial apartment collectives, workhouses, vertical farms, small manufacturing facilities, or lab spaces staffed with one or more resident families. Regular folk worked hard to not see or hear anything that could anger the corporations. Nobody wanted to be thrown into the cold. Out there, anything could happen—and they never let us forget it.

  The owners, managers, and company loyalists owned too much to fight. It was all too abstract to get a bead on a specific target. I didn’t have enough patience to sift through all the levels of bureaucracy, ornate forms, social protocols, and messaging system runarounds.

  I let Glen wrangle with red tape.

  I kept my eyes on the meat instead.

  It wasn’t easy. Our tormentors were clever enough to exploit blind spots in the security system. They picked times of low visibility and avoided falling too far into the trap of routine. If I’d been willing to reveal my true nature, any number of shapes could have shut them down. Though our enemies were coordinated and fast, there are plenty of things that are deadly quick. I could have gone on the hunt. But I didn’t want to risk our happiness or my carefully constructed sense of normalcy. I wouldn’t put more pressure on my family by testing their beliefs about who I was—or what I was.

  I couldn’t bear to lose their love.

  Instead of showing myself, I chose to shield them and woke each morning at dawn to erase the worst of the attacks. I hosed blood off the walkway and picked up gobbets of beef, hunks of pork, and gummy pink strips of poultry. On the morning of the fifth day I disposed of a twenty-pound cow’s head they’d left on the hood of our vehicle. It was an obscene waste of originator animal flesh. The clear escalation in hostilities called the wisdom of my previous strategy into question. I had to make a change.

  My sound-sleepers needed to know the true extent of our troubles. The best way, I figured, would be to break the news over brunch. We may have been screwed, but at least we’d have waffles.

  I scribbled a note, hopped in the car, and headed out to the market for supplies. If any strawberries were available, I planned to carve them into puckered lips for fruit faces. I sang a silly little song and dreamed about how it would be like the old days.

  * * *

  The moment I stepped onto the driveway I knew something was wrong. The air felt heavy and it was far too quiet. I dropped the sack of groceries, flew up the stairs, and put my hand on the door. It swung wide open.

  An earthy smell of salt and iron hit me. It settled in the back of my throat, forcing me to cough. My eyes stung and my legs felt weak and rubbery, but I found enough strength to step inside.

  I saw the red first. Scarlet splatters, rusty smears, and pools of crimson—the downstairs was painted in blood. Strangled mews of terror wheezed out of me as I struggled to catch my breath. I didn’t dare say a word. I was afraid to call out for Glen and Leo—as if the act of speaking their names would somehow finalize everything.

  I moved my fists through shapes like a good luck ritual designed to ward off evil. Rock, paper, scissors. Scissors, paper, rock.

  I found them in the living room and all my hopes withered. My hands stilled and I fell to my knees.

  I lost control. The shifts came on me so fast I couldn’t feel where one shape started and the next began. I took in the scene before me with dozens of different eyes and nearly as many senses, but couldn’t piece the information together. Thoughts skittered away before they could assemble into coherence.

  Slumped bodies. Empty eyes. Notched kitchen knife. Shattered bow thick with rosin. Splinters and pillow fluff and loose threads. So many wounds.

  My brave men had tried to fight, but they’d been outmatched. Their bodies had been sliced to pieces and left to rot—discarded like a bad batch of meat.

  And I hadn’t been there to stop it.

  I screamed with every voice I had.

  * * *

  Cold returned me to my senses. I came to, curled up on the floor, shivering and chattering with it. The ice inside me burned like the deepest frost. The pain seared me until I embraced it and made it mine.

  This was my fault. I’d grown complacent and had lingered too long in one shape. I stood up. It was past time to leave the wife and mother behind. I needed to return to my old identity. I needed the alien and agent. It was the only way I’d survive. And it was the best way to make the murderers pay.

  I surveyed the scene with professional detachment and pieced together enough evidence to reconstruct a rough idea of what had happen
ed. I had surveillance footage to fill in the rest. The recordings had originally been intended to provide fodder for my final localized reconnaissance report, but I had to admit that somewhere along the line they’d changed into something much more sentimental.

  I pushed away shame and the warm touch of emotion. I needed the cold to get me through the video’s final moments.

  It had taken two men to tear down the life I’d made on Earth, and I noted every detail: tattoos, scars, logos, and snippets of words I could pick up through lip reading. The pieces gave me a decent start.

  From there, I cracked open networks, systems, and secrets with relative ease. It’s amazing what a little training and some advanced tech can do. It took under an hour to get two names and two addresses. I committed them to memory, cleaned up, and collected my drives.

  Everything else could stay behind. There was nothing left for me except for good-bye. I returned to the bodies in the family room and scanned their faces, hoping to see one last echo of who they’d been. They remained silent and still.

  I kissed the cold lips of the man I’d fallen for so many years ago—the one I’d chosen to grow old with. He’d taught me so much about passion and compromise—about what it meant to be human. I brushed hair off Leo’s forehead, just as I had when he was a boy. I’d learned about a different kind of love from him. It had been fearful and fierce, proud and filled with wonder.

  The hurt swelled up in me and my vision blurred around the edges. I scrambled to find the icy place again and headed for the door. When I reached the threshold I paused and held out a fist. I shook it three times. A new game had begun.

  I took a deep, shuddering breath, and threw myself off the staircase. Before I smashed into the ground I shifted into a great brute of a raven and took to the air with a cry.