Company Town (4 page)

“Bio or nano?” she asked.

“I'm not sure,” Wade said. “He asked for a fat sample, 'cause it's a custom job. That's why it costs so much.”

“What's the subscription fee? For the maintenance, I mean.”

He shrugged. “He says he'll take a percentage of whatever I earn, after.”

“And you get a discount if there's something else to fix?”

“Three jobs.” Wade reached inside his mouth and plucked out a tooth. “See? I need another one. A better fit. They printed this one when I was, like, eleven.”

Hwa nodded. “Why the abs?”

Wade pinked. It started at his ears and marched across his face, as though his blush were on a quest to embarrass him. “The oil's drying up. Most everybody's already left. All the other companies, I mean. That's why they're selling it. There aren't any jobs. I want to get off the rig, while I still can.”

“Doesn't everybody?”

“Well, yeah, but…” His lips pursed. “I want to go to
university
.”

Hwa winced. “Sounds expensive.”

“Exactly. There's no way my parents will help pay for it. I already asked. They flat-out told me no. They think it's a waste, when there's still some money to be made right here. So I have to get a job. And I
can,
I just have to get some work done first.” The pink had become magenta. “I got an offer to do some modelling,” he said. “Online.”

Hwa willed her eyebrows to remain in a neutral, nonjudgmental position. “Do your folks know?”

He shrugged his shoulders and looked down. “You have to spend money to make money, I guess,” he said.

Well, he had that right, at least. He was probably getting naked for somebody, but if it paid enough to get the hell off this floating asylum, that wouldn't be so bad. Besides, he'd look like a hard case once the doc was finished. Nobody would ever hit him again, after today. Not unless they paid Wade for the privilege.

“Okay,” Hwa said.

“Great!” Wade dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He rolled his shoulders, bounced on his toes, and clapped his hands. “Let's do this.”

Hwa pulled her right arm back. She pivoted her hips to give her maximum follow-through on the strike. One pop, and it would be done. She twisted forward, and Wade's hands flew up. And that was how her fist got to be there, hovering in front of his glistening mouth, tension climbing up her arm as she held it in place.

“Yes. It's going to hurt. Of course it's going to fucking hurt.”

He frowned. “There's no need to be
mean
about it. God. Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

Her fist connected with his face. It was a short, sharp strike. Wade fell to his knees immediately. He dragged the placemat with him, and his plate landed facedown on his back, streaking his shirt in beans and hot sauce. He knelt on the floor, hissing and rocking. He reached for his wallet.

“Keep your money,” Hwa said. “Thanks for the eggs.”

*   *   *

On the train to Tower Three, someone played “This Train Is Bound for Glory” on a conch shell ukulele. She found the students in her self-defence class sitting in the hallway outside the door to their studio at the gym there. Eileen gave her a little wave and Hwa nodded at her. She addressed the rest of the class. “What's going on? Why aren't you warming up? Is Destiny not done with Astral Yoga, yet?”

“There's other people in there,” Sabrina said. Sabrina was one of Hwa's best students. She was a big girl, but agile, and always had a ready smile, even when her face was glowing red with exertion and the sweat had completely soaked through her shirt. Her reserve in Ontario didn't much take to the genetic editing; the tribe held the position that the province should expect the nearby chemical companies to clean up their act, rather than expecting the Chippewa to clean up their genes. Like Hwa, Sabrina was mostly organic. She was very popular among a certain set of clients. “One guy was really big. The other one looked just like a kid.”

“Nothing creepy, though,” said Calliope, from the floor. She didn't look good. Her black hair was greasy and she hadn't even bothered with eyeliner. Without a pronounced cat-eye, she looked like an entirely different person.

“Are you okay?” Hwa asked. “You look kinda sick.”

“Gee, thanks, Coach. Not like my whole career depends on my looks, or anything.”

Sabrina reached over and patted her arm. “This job isn't just about looks, and you know it.”

Calliope gave Sabrina's wide, soft body a long, shady look. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Hey!” Eileen leaned over to catch Calliope's eye. “Don't be a bitch. So what if you look like shit? We're here to work out, not make dates.” She squared her shoulders and stared at the other two women. “And besides. We should all be supporting each other as best we can. Times being what they are.”

“Sorry I'm late!”

They turned, and Layne stumbled into the hallway. The door caught the hem of her shorts, and she had to turn around and tug it back to herself. For some reason, Layne always treated these classes like they were make-up days in some long-ago gym period. Like Hwa, she'd quit high school years ago. Her parents figured it was for the best, after her second suicide attempt. They sent her to an in-patient hacklab in Toronto run by the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, instead. In the city, she'd had her gender confirmed. Now she ran tech support on the Belle du Jour system.

“How come we're not in class?” Layne asked.

Hwa looked at the door. “That's a good fucking question.”

Calliope heaved a massive sigh that caused the huge Greek cross tattooed across her ponderous cleavage to stretch and bounce. “I knew I should have scheduled my tattoo appointment for today, and not next week.”

From behind the door, Hwa heard a heavy thud and a high, surprised yelp. The other women all froze. Hwa held up a hand. “Get someone,” she said, in a low voice.

She pulled open the door quietly and slipped inside. Inside the studio at the far end of the room, a well-built man stood with his back to her. Before him stood a skinny teenaged boy. The boy was white. The man wasn't. The wing tattoo across his broad shoulders fluttered slightly. Hwa recognized it, and him. His name was Angel.

Angel had thrown her through a glass coffee table, once, when the choking game he was playing with Connor Donnelly got too rough. Connor tapped out—made the emergency call—and Hwa burst in. She'd jumped on Angel and he'd thrown her off. The moment the glass shattered, he'd come back to himself. But by that time, it was already too late. The union blacklisted him. His money was no good in the New Arcadia sex trade.

Apparently, Angel still liked hurting men who looked like boys.

“Get up!” He bounced on his toes. Moved his fists. “Come on. No rest for the wicked, son.”

The kid shot him a mutinous look from his position on the floor. Then his gaze fell. He saw Hwa. Hwa saw him seeing her; he quickly checked the mirrored wall behind Angel and then she knew he saw her face, too. In the mirror, she lifted a finger to her lips. Slowly, awkwardly, the boy got to his feet. His movements were messy. Loose. Gangly. He focused on the man in front of him. On his face, not his shoulders. Beginner mistake.

“Now, you come at me this time,” Angel said.

“You're supposed to be teaching me self-defence,” the kid said, wheedling. He was playing for time. Hwa took off her shoes. “Shouldn't you be teaching me blocks and stuff?”

No,
Hwa thought.
Survival and escape techniques first.
Then posture and breathing.

Angel brought up his fists and exposed his forearms. His right arm was heavier than his left. The grip in the fingers a little softer. He'd had the nerves cut and sewn, then. Probably by a poor tailor. Good. “This is a block.”

The kid jabbed out at a weak angle. He drove from the elbow, not the torso, with no pivot in the toes or hips. Terrible form. No power. Angel slapped his little fist away with his left arm and pulled a punch with the right. His fist hovered just above the kid's left ear. The boy didn't flinch. He just stared at Angel's fist like he was waiting for it to tell him something. Like they were playing a game whose rules he didn't understand.

“Gotcha,” Angel said, and Hwa didn't need to check the mirror to see his shit-eating grin.

Hwa padded up behind him swiftly and silently. “Hi, Angel,” she said, just to be nice, and drove a back kick straight into his right knee from behind. He fell down and twisted to the right, left arm up, right arm reaching for her legs. She quickly swung a leg over him and trapped the right arm between her knees at the elbow.

“You fucking crazy bitch!” His left fist hammered her in the thigh and the stomach. “Get the fuck out of here, this is my gig—”

“It's my class time, Angel.” She pivoted away from his swinging left fist, grabbing his right hand and stretching his right arm and feeling it twitch between her legs. Squeezing it, she could feel the machinery at work. Off-brand, she decided. Maybe secondhand. So to speak. “And that means it's my studio. And I don't like it when people use my studio to pick on people smaller than them.”

“I'm gonna fuck up the other side of your face, you useless cunt,” Angel said.

“And I'm gonna break this arm,” Hwa said. “I'd turn it off, if I were you.”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

It didn't take much. She kept pulling on the right fist until the arm hyperextended, and then she twisted her knees. It was just the gentlest motion. The snap wasn't even properly audible. And he had turned off the arm—he didn't howl, didn't cry, didn't throw up, just stood and spat on her.

“I'm gonna sue the shit out of you,” Angel told the boy. The boy said nothing. He just kept watching the scene play out. “Fuck you both,” Angel added, turning to Hwa. “Especially you, freak. Watch your back. Karma's a bigger bitch than you are.”

He stalked away. Hwa watched him the whole time, and let her breath out when he was gone.

The boy held out a hand. Hwa could stand on her own, but she took it anyway. “Wow,” he said. “Weren't you scared?”

“Not really. He's just an asshole. Were you scared?”

He shook his head. “I don't get scared, really. Not anymore. They fixed that part of me.”

Hwa snorted. She thought of the man in the shark cage outside Mistress Séverine's studio. She decided that telling the kid about him would mean explaining too much. “Right. Well. That part of
me
is still broken. And I like it that way, because fear is useful. Fear tells us when to run. And running is what stops a fight before it starts. You want to defend yourself, you have to learn that, first.”

His head tilted. “So you still get scared?”

“Sometimes.” Hwa looked the kid over. A nice welt was already building on his shoulder. Angel had knocked him down but good. “But I have a trick for being scared.”

The kid brightened. “What's the trick?”

“I imagine the master control room.”

“What's that?”

“It's a rumour my brother—my half-brother—heard once. About a room that controls the entire city. Water, power, cameras, the whole thing. We spent a whole summer looking for it. So when I'm scared, I pretend I'm there. In control of things.”

The boy seemed to consider the possibility. He nodded. “That sounds like it could exist. Did you ever find it?”

“No, but we found other cool places. A whole abandoned floor. A secret way into an elevator shaft. Stuff like that.” Hwa rolled her neck until it popped. “Who hired that guy?”

“My dad. Sort of.”

“Your dad doesn't know much about this town, eh?”

The kid's smile broadened. “Not really. We're new.” He pointed at himself. “My name's Joel Lynch.”

Behind her, Hwa heard the gym door creak open. She knew who would be standing there before she turned around. She wasn't quite sure how, but she knew.

“Oh, hi, Daniel,” Joel Lynch said. “This is, um … I don't know her name.”

“Go Jung-hwa,” Daniel Síofra said. He sounded like he'd rehearsed the Korean pronunciation.

“Just Hwa,” she said. “My full name was too much for the kindergarten teacher.”

“She broke that guy's arm,” Joel said. “She says he's an asshole.”

A smile touched Síofra's eyes but not his mouth. “Does she? What a shame. I suppose you'll need a new self-defence teacher. And a new bodyguard, as well.”

Hwa looked at her class, standing outside the door. She glanced at the studio, and the kid standing expectantly under the cold lights. “You should spray down those mats on the floor and put them away, since you're done here,” she said, nodding at the rack of crash pads and mats on the opposite wall. He got right to work.

“You must really want me for this job,” she said, when the kid was out of earshot. “Changing the gym schedule around like that, on such short notice. Just so I'd come here and see all this. It's pretty manipulative, if you ask me.”

“I prefer to think of it as enterprising,” Síofra said. “Creative. Strategic. That's the Lynch way.”

She watched the kid awkwardly move mats from one corner of the room to the other.

“You
change the moods of cities
?”

“It's in the job description. Much of it is urban planning and design. But some of it is also communications. Optics.”

“Seems a long way off from personal security.”

“Hiring you, and not a skullcap or someone like Mr. Ramirez, sets a tone. I'm in charge of that tone.”

“So it's just good PR.” Now she was certain he'd never seen her true face.

“It's establishing a relationship. Between the company and the city. We promised to bring better jobs. This is one of them.”