Who Hunts the Hunter (4 page)

Or maybe not. Knowing what path is right and what is wrong can be difficult. He lets Shell and her tribe of children share this sub-basement apartment because they have nowhere else to go, because he must attune himself with people, because people are part of nature. But what of the risk he runs? There’s so much he could lose.

“Bandit?”

He turns his head to look at her. She’s watching him with a funny expression. She smiles, then blinks her eyes and frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“Is something bothering you?”

How can he possibly answer that? If he told her of his thoughts concerning his alone place, she wouldn’t understand. When he’s tried in the past she got hurt and offered to leave. She tells him she may be a thief but would never steal from him because of all that he’s done for her and the kids. She tells him that she cares for him too much to scarp him—ever. Whatever that means. The point seems to be that he should trust her, but that is easier to say than do. Shell may be a thief but she is no shaman. She may recite his words back to him, but she does not understood Raccoon.

Which brings him back to a familiar question. How can he succeed in his magic, succeed in attuning himself with people, and therefore with nature, if he cannot decide what to do in regard to just this one woman? Perhaps he has reached the limit of his understanding. Perhaps the greater secrets of the world are to be forever hidden from him.

How can he know? How can he answer?

“Bandit?”

“I’m tired.” He rubs at his eyes. He has a headache. He wishes he knew a spell to cure headaches. He knows of someone who does, but asking for the spell would be an insult. Like asking Raccoon for a favor."I’m hungry.”

“I’ll fix something.”

“Okay.”

The stuff she brings him is an odd assortment: beans, soybran, parts of frozen meals stolen from various stores. Seven Hexes spiral pizzas. Shell hoards money the way he guards items of interest. She never buys anything unless it’s impossible to steal it. That’s because money is hard to come by, hard to steal, or was, till Bandit figured out how.

Of course, he could always contact some fixer and get into a shadowrun, but that would waste time, and, worse, it would force him to shift his mental focus. Attuning himself to people is what matters now. As for money, he’ll make do with donations to his begging bowl and whatever Shell happens to snatch.

“You seem really zoned tonight.”

“Yeah?”

Shell nods, smiles, sits in the other small chair, and pulls out a wallet."I got this on the concourse today. Isn’t it wiz?”

“Is it?”

To tell the truth, it doesn’t look like much. Just a burgundy-colored wallet like some exec might carry. There isn’t a trace of magic about it. Shell opens it to display the interior. The trio of silver credsticks couched there could be sold to dealers in stolen sticks, but that’s about it. Shell draws a card from a fold in the wallet and smiles. It’s some kind of ID card, corporate. Useless trinket. There are big black letters identifying some corp Bandit’s never heard of. There’s also a hologram of some woman.

Bandit takes the card in hand and examines it closely, then searches through every flap and fold of the wallet. There’s another card, more stylish than the first. It’s the kind of thing a man or woman of the elite might pass someone at a party. The address that shows is for the office. But squeeze the ends of the card and another address appears. Residence. Complete with matrix address and telecom code.

“Bandit?”

Bandit stares at the card, incredulous.

5

The broad window panes crossing the rear of Amy Berman’s office provide a panoramic view of New Bronx Plaza, including the riverfront, the fountains, the condoplexes, the still unfinished Villiers Arcology. In the distance rise the tall towers of Manhattan.

The day came up bright and unusually sunny. The sky appears an almost bluish shade of gray.

On any other day, Amy might have paused there before the windows merely to take in the view and enjoy a few moments’ quiet contemplation. Today, she sees only her own image, reflected faintly in the panes. Today, she wears her sleekest dark gray suit of faux gabardine and matching shoes, her Cartier watch, and a single onyx ring. Her makeup is designed to subtly emphasize her eyes and cheeks while minimizing her mouth. She’d intended to look like pure executive juice, wired with so much voltage she’s near to overloading, but she doesn’t, and she has only herself to blame.

She should have drawn her hair back this morning, made it every bit as severe as she could. What the hell had she been thinking? With her bushy mop of curling brown dangling all around her face and scattering across her shoulders, she looks nothing if not warm and fuzzy, overtly and overly feminine.

She’ll probably be mistaken for someone’s personal aide.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, then taps her brow with the palm of her hand. A woman in her position ought not to be making mistakes like this. It’s just incredible.

But in fact, it’s this morning’s meeting. She slept little last night, thinking about it. What the devil is someone like Enoshi Ken doing here anyway? It can only mean trouble. The man is rumored to have a direct line to the board room in Tokyo, and Tokyo always means trouble. People like Enoshi Ken talk endlessly of wanting only the greater good for all, but what they say and what they mean ... What they really mean ... If you can tell ... If you ever really find out ... If by then it isn’t too late ...

Her telecom bleeps.

It’s Laurena, her executive aide, saying, “They’re ready to begin upstairs.”

“Right,” Amy replies."Grab your pad.”

Time for one last look at her hair, but no time to do anything about it. She steps through the door to her outer office. Laurena hops up out of her chair, palmtop in hand, and they head into the hallway. They’re both so blatantly Anglo it’s almost scary. If that weren’t enough, Laurena’s a natural blonde, and a brilliant gold-hued shade of blonde at that. How much more non-Asian could a person get?

It won’t help.

The elevator chimes. They get on. The doors slide closed and the car rises. Laurena smooths back her hair and says, “What’s this meeting supposed to be about, anyway?”

“I suspect it began somewhere in Tokyo.”

“Oh, god.”

It’s just two syllables, but the anxiety comes through clearly. Amy turns her head just enough to meet Laurena’s eyes, and says, “Remember your mask.”

“I’m sorry, boss.” Laurena makes a visible effort to compose herself. She’s new to the higher echelons and not used to dealing with upper-rank Japanese. She’ll be all right, though, as long as she remembers her mask.

The mask is an essential part of corporate life, at least when Tokyo comes calling. Think or feel anything you want, but keep it safely hidden. The Japanese model for the efficient corporate executive places an emphasis on business, getting the job done and done right and to hell with everything else. That poses a problem for Laurena because, simply, she has heart. She cares about people and has no natural reserve. That’s one of the main reasons why Amy picked her for an aide. She’s very un-Japanese: open, expressive, empathic. She’s very human, very warm, and she cares, and not just about the organization. She cares about people. To Amy’s mind, the corporate world in general and Hurley-Cooper Laboratories in particular need as much of those sorts of qualities as it can possibly acquire.

Impersonal robot employees may be all right for automated factories, but when people enter the equation, something more than simple nuyen, mere efficiency, and the fabled bottom line must be taken into account.

This morning, of course, such views should be carefully shrouded. Tokyo won’t want to hear it.

The elevator chimes, the doors slip apart.

Amy steps ahead briskly, Laurena at her side, into the richly appointed reception area for the executive “manor”, as it’s called. It’s one of the few places where Hurley-Cooper Labs has invested any significant money in what amounts to mere window dressing. To the left and right are the office suites of Hurley-Cooper’s CEO and executive VP. Directly ahead, to the rear of the circular reception counter, are the gleaming rosewood doors to the executive conference room.

Flanking the conference room doors this morning are a pair of distinctly Asian men with distinctly impassive features and trim physiques. The pins on the lapels of their dark blue suits bear the green willow insignia of Kono-Furata-Ko International, parent corporation of Hurley-Cooper Labs. Amy guesses these men are security agents, escorts for the Tokyo bunch. She understands that KFK has a large covert security organization, but knows little about it. Officially, it does not exist. If it has a name, she’s never heard it.

One of the agents gives her a nod. She passes through the open doors and into the conference room. It’s large enough to be ridiculous, and lavishly decorated: simwood paneling, gilt-framed portraits of various corporate heavyweights, a full range of electronics, including a wall-sized video screen. The conference table, apparently made of mahogany, is easily long and broad enough to seat a small multitude. Each place at the table comes with miniterms jacked into the headquarters computer network. The chairs look like mahogany, too, though upholstered in dark burgundy leather or synthleather.

Laurena takes a seat along one wall and jacks her palmtop into the network, then lifts a second platinum lead to her temple. Amy walks to the head of the room to join the group there. The minor luminaries are already present: the VPs for Systems Engineering, Information Management, Marketing and Patents, Research, Product Development, Finance. Amy herself holds the post of VP for Corporate Resources. Her specific domain includes personnel, purchasing, and consumption control. She and Chang, the money man—finance and accounting—interface frequently. Usually concerning nuyen.

Chang gives her a nervous flicker of a glance.

Amy replies with a quick, questioning flick of an eyebrow.

But then the doors at the head of the room swing open and the meeting’s as good as begun. In comes the executive VP and some Asian man Amy doesn’t recognize. Behind them come Hurley-Cooper’s CEO Vernon Janasova and KFK’s VP for Corporate Liaison-North America, Enoshi Ken. Enoshi looks very much the proper Asian executive, immaculate in a dark blue suit bearing a KFK lapel pin. Janasova looks exactly his usual self: checked sports coat and slacks, powder blue tie over a pastel yellow shirt. One collar of the shirt is neatly secured by a platinum tab. The other tab is open, the collar protruding at a burlesque angle. By comparison to that, the bedlam of the man’s thin gray hair is hardly noticeable. Amy forces herself to suppress an unseemly reaction, such as a roll of the eyes or a sigh of dismay.

Janasova immediately begins introducing Enoshi around.

“Yes, I remember,” Enoshi says, briefly clasping Amy’s hand."A pleasure, Ms. Berman.”

“Likewise,” Amy replies.

And then, abruptly, Enoshi smiles.

Amy mutes her response, struggles to appear composed, like nothing untoward has occurred.

During his rapid rise from obscurity, Enoshi Ken has become well known as something of a sphinx. He never smiles, except as an afterthought, and even then the smiles are so ill-timed that they seem deliberately indicative of something other than mere good humor. Amy gains a sense of foreboding, in addition to a sudden chill and a nervous something that rises into her stomach. She feels confirmed in her suspicion that nothing good will come of this meeting. Nothing good at all.

They’re invited to sit. Janasova begins the meeting in his usual jocular fashion, saying that Enoshi is touring the North American subsidiaries of KFK “to see what we’re up to,” and to ensure that “we’re all being good boys and girls.” Amy lifts a hand to screen the lower half of her face, to hide the tug of a cringing smile, and, she hopes, to distract from the exasperated flush she feels rising into her cheeks. Janasova is a smart man, an excellent science-administrator and a good CEO for an organization like Hurley-Cooper. Amy just wishes he would stop joking around. This is not the time and place for his lighthearted avuncular routine.

A man like Enoshi Ken isn’t the type to approve of comedy in the boardroom, or any other room. He’s as straight a suit as one might find. With him, it’s all business all the time, right on down the line.

Enoshi takes the floor. His opening remarks address the concept of
daikazoku,
the oneness of the corporation and all its subsidiaries, like one big family. Amy’s heard this spiel before. It’s part of Hurley-Cooper’s own orientation program for new employees. And in Amy’s view, the analogy is flawed. Any family she’s ever known could be characterized by diversity both in attitudes and objectives, whereas the point of a corporation is to get everyone pulling in the same direction. Doing that takes a lot more than morning anthems, more than group exercise, more than lectures on the “oneness of being,” or zen and the art of successful corping, and more than cute analogies. Making a corp successful means getting people to feel like they’re an integral part of something bigger than themselves. It means addressing people’s concerns, their frustrations, their complaints, their objections. It means trying to improve their lives, both off and on the job. It also means getting personal, and that’s what people like Enoshi Ken and other Tokyo suits never seem to comprehend.