Company Town (3 page)

His hands fell away. Suddenly she was a million pounds lighter. Her body snapped up, towered over him, the gun absurdly huge and awkward against her chest. Hwa watched his gaze flick over her shoulder. She turned. Above them, against the hazy blue of the sky, was a thin silver disc. A flying saucer. As she watched, a single laser painted her skin.

Beneath her, the man shouted: “No, wait, stop, don't—”

Then the pain started.

 

2

Broken Arm

The holding cell was unlike any Hwa had ever seen. It was a small room. Hwa had a hard time estimating just how small, because the edges of it had a tricky way of blurring away just at the periphery of her vision. Tower Five, then. Five had all the bells and whistles. At least, it had most of the programmable matter in Newfoundland and Labrador. Lynch, then. Not the NAPS. They were wasting no time taking control of things.

Carefully, Hwa stood up. Both her ankles and hands were gelled together. She knelt down and then sat. The floor beneath her was oddly warm, like skin. It moulded up around her the longer she stayed in place. Raising her legs parallel to her chest, she rocked back and forth until she could fall back on her shoulder blades with her legs and core straight up in the air. Slowly, she slid her legs through the loop of her bound arms. Now, at least, they were in front of her. Where she could use them.

A seam opened in the wall. It was the man from the platform. And he was carrying a big knife.

“Back for more?” Hwa asked.

“What? Oh.” He looked down at the knife. It looked so incongruous in his hand. He'd cleaned up and changed into a blue Lynch polo shirt and cargo khakis. The knife trembled a little in his right hand, until he gripped it more tightly. “Hold your hands out, please.”

Hwa held them out. He cut the bonds in one quick motion. Experienced, then. He knelt at her feet. Looked up at her for a moment cautiously. He was afraid she would kick him again, she realized. She stood straighter and looked away. He cut the ties, and flicked the knife back into its handle and put the whole thing in a back pocket as he rose.

“Sorry about that. How are you feeling?”

Her mouth worked. It was painfully dry. This had to be some sort of game. It certainly didn't feel real. He was being too nice. Then she remembered her script: “My name is Go Jung-hwa and I want to speak to my union representative. Séverine Japrisot, USWC 314. I won't answer any questions until she sends an attorney for me. Also I want to see a doctor. I have a seizure disorder. It can be triggered by things like pain lasers or whatever the fuck was on that saucer.”

“But…” His eyes flicked back and forth rapidly, like he was reading up on the keywords in their conversation. “The saucer should have picked up your stimplant, or your subscription—”

“I don't have a stimplant. Or any subscriptions. At all. I take drugs, not machines. That's what my plan covers.” She gestured at herself. “All of this is completely organic.”

“Organic?” His gaze refocused sharply on her. “Completely?”

“Are you asking about my IUD or my diet?”

To her satisfaction, he went red to the roots of his hair. Apparently that much of him was still organic, too. “Neither,” he muttered. He held his hand out. “Daniel Síofra. I'm with Lynch.”

Hwa nodded pointedly at the logo on his shirt. “No shit?”

He snorted. “And I'm not pressing any charges.”

His hand was still out. She flexed her fingers before shaking it. He had a good handshake. Right-handed. Long-fingered. Skin too smooth for the strength she knew was there. She watched his eyes and his smile widen as she intensified her grip.

“You just don't quit, do you?” he murmured.

She relaxed her grip and slid her hand away. They had already been talking too long. “Am I free to go?”

“Aren't you going to apologize for breaking my nose?”

Now he was just being ridiculous. Hwa squinted. His nose was straight. His eyes were clear, no puddles of purple beneath. “Your nose looks fine. You had it reset. And drained. Or…” She watched his eyes. He was not staring at her skin. He was not watching the left side of her face, or trying hard to avoid looking at it. Filters, then. Like the bald girl on the platform. Hwa wondered where she was, now. She decided she didn't want to know. “You have programmable tissues.”

He blinked. “Something like that.”

Augmented people were so uptight about their augmentations. As though everyone around them actually gave a damn. As though learning about what they'd fixed could really tell you anything about the places they were broken.

“How did you do it?” he asked.

“Kick you? With my feet.”

“Surprised me. I didn't even see you coming.” He tilted his head. Tapped his temple. “For some reason your face doesn't show up on the camera. It's just a blur.”

It's because my face is a natural dazzle pattern,
Hwa thought of saying. But she didn't. Let him keep whatever vision of her face his eyes were feeding him. Let the cataract of data growing over his vision blind him completely.

“Oh, sorry. No wonder you don't feel like talking.” From another pocket, he produced a flask. “You did so much screaming, your throat must be raw.”

Hwa took the flask. She opened it up and sniffed.

“It's just water,” he said. “I promise.”

Hwa sipped. Seemingly just water. And it did feel nice on her throat. “Screaming?”

“The pain ray. You just went rigid, and…” He swallowed. “I didn't want them to. So you know. I don't like those things.”

“But you're cool with pointing rifles at crowds of people.”

He sighed. “It wasn't a rifle. It was a long-range microphone. The company doesn't have access to all the networks in the city, yet. So I was using the scope to pinpoint the sources of the conversations I was listening to. You probably didn't notice, what with all the karate—”

“Tae kwon do.”

“Tae kwon do?”

“Karate is Japanese. I'm Korean. Half Korean.”

His brows rose. “And clearly very proud of it.”

“I'll learn karate when the Empress apologizes for the comfort women.” She folded her arms. “Anyway. Guns are bullshit.”

“It was a ricochet that set off the chain reaction that blew up the Old Rig, wasn't it?”

Hwa nodded.

“You knew someone in the blast?”

Hwa levelled her gaze with his. Made sure he could see her eyes, if not her true face. That was the nice thing about anger. It could burn away any hint of embarrassment. “It's a small town, Mr. Síofra. Everybody knew somebody.”

She tipped the flask high before he could say anything, but left some water sloshing at the bottom. He gestured for her to finish it. He was back to being the version of himself he'd introduced himself as. “You're the escorts' escort?”

Hwa swallowed and shook her head. “Just one of them. There are more.”

“Is it a good job?”

“There's a pension. Flexible hours. Nice people.”

“Nice people who won't cover a machine subscription that could improve your quality of life.”

“It'll come up next bargaining session. I talked to my rep about it.” Hwa tried not to sound defensive. It wasn't like it was any of his business, anyway. He was just trotting out the usual multinational rhetoric about how much better he had it as a corporate drone.

“Would you ever consider leaving? For a job with Lynch? I work in our Urban Tactics department.”

“The fuck's that?”

“I change the moods of cities.”

Hwa gave him the look she gave clients who refused to pay overtime.

“It's applying a design thinking sensibility to urban engineering, on a day-to-day basis. Changing light levels in a building so its inhabitants sleep more easily. Raising the tempo of music in the refinery to increase production.” He gestured as he spoke, and Hwa immediately understood that this was part of his work, that he orchestrated cities like a symphony conductor. “I have a certain knack for it. A sensitivity. Or so I'm told.”

Hwa looked at the dead gel ties on the floor. She toed one of them and flipped it up into her waiting hands. She twisted its length in her fingers. It twitched back to life like bait on the end of a hook. “You start every job interview in handcuffs? Because if you're hurting for talent, that might be why.”

“You have skills we need,” he said, seemingly undeterred. “You got the jump on me. Literally. That's not easy to do. It hasn't happened in years. Also literally.”

Hwa grinned. “There's plenty of muscle in this town. You don't need mine.”

“I don't need it. I want it.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. “And I'm willing to pay for it. Handsomely.”

The laughter bubbled up out of Hwa before she could stop it. Maybe it was the pain ray, still playing with her nerves.
Handsomely.
Jesus wept. Men always sounded the same, when they tried to buy women.

“I'm sorry.” She got herself together. “It's a very kind offer. But the answer's no. I like me own job just fine.”

He opened his mouth to answer. Then his head jerked to one side. He scowled, and then nodded. “Mm. Mm-hmm. I'll let her know.” He refocused on Hwa. “Someone's come to collect you. She says she's your mother.”

Hwa winced. “You sure you can't just arrest me?”

*   *   *

Sunny stood in the halo of green light cast by an
EXIT
sign. She wore a sleeveless red dress and a black scarf of smart silk that adjusted itself over her blond tease-out as she turned her head this way and that. For those that had the eyes to see it, Sunny's profile would be popping up along with her contact info and relevant testimonials. Stuff like how she still knew all the steps from all her old routines, how she still spoke perfect Korean in perfect baby talk, how she'd call you “big brother” and punch you in the arm when you teased her just the littlest bit, how her blow jobs made you see stars. Hwa knew. Sunny made her do a spell-check on the whole profile, once, back when she was still in school.

Behind her, Síofra pulled up short. “That's your mother?”

Of course, he could see Sunny's profile, too. Hwa felt only the tiniest tingle of embarrassment. Not because of Sunny's job. Nothing to be ashamed of, there. She kept more money fucking than she ever had singing or dancing. But the profile itself, the old songs, the duck lips, the overwhelming pink tide of cuteness currently washing across Síofra's vision: that was fucking embarrassing.

“That's her.”

Síofra said nothing. He was staring at Hwa, now. Making the comparison, probably. Between her wasp-waisted mother with the delicate limbs and perfect skin and the titless wonder in the black running tights and rash guard. He couldn't see her face, but he could see everything else: the empty space around her, the lack of outputs and lack of profile, the lack of connections and lack of status.

Sunny spoke in cheerful Korean with a radiant smile: <<
Hwa-jeon!
Hurry up! You're making me late!>>

“I have to go.” Hwa passed Síofra his flask. “Thanks for the water.”

Síofra nodded. “It's no trouble.” He sized up Sunny and looked back at Hwa. “Is she taking you to your doctor? To check you over?”

Hwa almost laughed. Strangers were adorable. “Right. Sure. My doctor.”

Hwa hurried down the hall. Sunny held her arms open again. Those arms took hold of Hwa gently, pressing her close but not too close, as though Hwa had just told her she had something contagious.

“You were so brave!” Sunny said in loud, bubbly English.

And with that Sunny ushered her down the hall. Sunny kept her smile as tight as her grip until they hit the elevator.

When the doors closed, her hand left Hwa's elbow. Then it smacked hard into Hwa's left ear. And then again, across her face, so hard her head
clunked
against the side of the elevator.

<>

*   *   *

She could have slept on Eileen's couch. Or maybe Mistress Séverine's. Or even her own squat, on the condemned floor of Tower One. But there was a paying gig in her messages, off-book, and she offered the client a discount on the service if she got to crash for the night. She offered an even deeper discount if the contract offered dinner and breakfast, which he did. She just had to be gone before his parents came back from their shift.

“Wait! Stop! Is this gonna hurt?”

Hwa's fist stopped an inch from Wade's nose. For a moment she saw him as the kid she remembered from grade three, the one who gave her sorry eyes when the other kids made fun of her face and her name and her English. He'd been cute then, too. Over twenty-two years he'd grown into his good looks in a very pretty way: bright blue eyes, blond hair in a persistent state of bed-head, broad shoulders with solid definition, a body like an inverted triangle on two strong swimmer's legs. He had good clear skin that tanned just right, and he got dimples when he smiled. Back when she actually went to school, almost all the other girls had crushes on him, even the girls who didn't like the same guys that all the other girls liked.

Now he was asking her to break his nose.

“What's the procedure?” she had asked, after he slid her a coffee.

“My abs.” He had pulled up his shirt and showed her. “See that line down the middle? That's good, but the doc says he can get me real definition on the sides. The
tendinous inscription,
it's called. And down here,” he gestured at the line where his torso ended and his thigh began, “that's the
inguinal ligament
. He's going to define that, too. Just make it pop, visually. So I can wear my jeans lower.”

Hwa had considered showing him her own stomach, which had some good cuts, but then he'd have to see the stain and nobody wanted to see the stain. Besides, she doubted he wanted to try her diet.