Who Hunts the Hunter (5 page)

Or maybe they do understand it, but simply refuse to practice what they preach when dealing with non-Asians.

Or maybe they don’t know how.

Enoshi quotes the American editor and critic H.L. Mencken."Nine times out of ten,” he says, “in the arts as in life, there is actually nothing to be discovered. There is only error to be exposed.”

Amy considers that in light of the fact that Hurley-Cooper Laboratories specializes in biomedical research.

Just what is his point?

“Allow me to now introduce to you Mr. Kurushima Jussai. Mr. Kurushima has been appointed by the board of KFK, North American Division, to assist us with the survey of North American subsidiaries. Mr. Kurushima is a graduate of Tokyo University and he and his staff are very highly qualified.”

Kurushima, of course, turns out to be the Asian who accompanied Hurley-Cooper’s executive VP into the room. His suit is as black as his hair. He takes the floor and rambles on for nearly an hour, but the point of him being here is soon clear. Kurushima is an auditor. His staff is composed of auditors. They are here to examine the accounts of Hurley-Cooper, everything from income and expenditures to interdepartmental transfers, and no record anywhere will be excluded from examination.

Janasova merely smiles paternally and nods as if pleased to accommodate the least request Kurushima might make. Amy glances across the table at Chang. The man’s brow is gleaming with perspiration.

“It is our objective to complete this audit within two weeks,” Kurushima continues."I have assigned the senior members of my staff to coordinate the work with each of your areas of responsibility ..

“How extensive do you expect this audit will be?”

Janasova looks down the table."Amy—”

“This is important, Vernon.” Amy puts up a hand to Janasova to forestall any further objections, then looks to Kurushima. The man does not seem at all perturbed at being interrupted. The emotionless mask of his face is without flaw.

“I’m primarily concerned,” Amy explains, “with the potential for disruptions and discord in our research groups. We have many highly regarded people on the research staff, and they are very devoted to their work. They don’t appreciate interruptions. Hurley-Cooper management has made a deliberate, continuing effort to minimize the impact of business practices on our research groups. Research,” Amy continues, as no one else is speaking up, “is not at all like manufacturing. It’s a process that relies at least in part on creativity and imagination. As one of our leading scientists has remarked, research is half art, half guesswork. Untimely distractions can damage that process, and have the potential to cause irreparable harm.”

Kurushima gazes impassively at Amy for several moments, then consults a palmtop."Perhaps you refer to Dr. Liron Phalen of the Metascience Research Group?”

Amy hesitates just for an instant. Kurushima has apparently not come ill-prepared. She wonders why he would name any one scientist. As it happens, his guess is right, but what is his point?

What is Tokyo really after?

“Dr. Phalen is an excellent example of what I am referring to,” Amy replies."He has been cited by the Noble Commission for his work in metaserology. His group has provided Hurley-Cooper with some of its most significant patents. Quite frankly, his value to Hurley-Cooper is inestimable. However, he is both a brilliant man and an eccentric man. He could easily triple his salary should he choose to seek employment elsewhere. He stays with Hurley-Cooper because he holds his colleagues here in high regard and he likes the way we do business.”

At the head-end of the table, Janasova fiddles with his necktie, still smiling, but looking uncomfortable.

Across the table, Greg Vanderlinde, VP for Research and Development, gives Amy a quick glance and adds a quick nod, as if to confirm what she just said. What he should have said. Greg’s a good man, with a strong science background and an incredible imagination, but he hasn’t got the nerve to stand up to anyone, much less a Tokyo-appointed auditor. How he got the VP post for R&D is really a mystery. Amy suspects he was promoted one step beyond his level of competency.

Chang’s sweaty sheen has spread to his cheeks. Kurushima gazes at Amy impassively, and opens his mouth to reply, but then Enoshi Ken is on his feet, talking about
daikazoku
again and how everything can be worked out to the greater benefit of the whole corporation.

Amy doesn’t believe that for a second. She can see there’s a collision coming. The Tokyo cadre is driving straight at her, whether they know it or not, regardless of what they really want, and she’s put too much effort into her work, and into this corporation, to tug on the wheel and veer off.

She just hopes her seatbelt holds.

6

It’s a little past noon when Brian Guemey eases his battered brown and green Mitsubishi Sunset Runner through the intersection and onto some street in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Brian’s heard this part of the city referred to as The Pit, and it’s easy to see why. The buildings are pretty decrepit, the streets are strewn with crap, and the streetlife has the look of chiller thriller go-go-go gangbangers.

There are no street signs. The building numbers are either hidden somewhere behind steel grilles or mesh gratings or buried beneath about forty gazillion layers of multicolored and mostly illegible graffiti. Brian’s supervisor told him what to look for, but the only thing he really recognizes, as he turns onto the street, is the small group of Sisters Sinister gangers on the corner to his right, and the group of Blood Monkeys on the corner to his left. He’s seen them before on Staten Island and in Brooklyn, though what they’re doing here, in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge, maybe two blocks from the elevated FDR Drive, he couldn’t guess. And he wouldn’t try to even if he could. The gangers look ugly as usual and they’re carrying submachine guns and machine pistols in addition to their usual ordnance. Most of the surrounding streetlife seems intent on getting as far away as possible with no delay.

About halfway up the block is a DocWagon clinic with metal bars arrayed across its façade of graffiti-covered windows. Brian wonders how the graffitoists got their paintguns in through the bars. Directly across from the clinic, jammed in between slum-rent apartment buildings, is a small structure that looks like it was carved out of a block of grayish bedrock. Brian guesses that’s where he’s supposed to go, based on his super’s descriptions, and pulls his car into an empty space at curbside.

As he switches off the ignition, the clatter of autofire weapons erupts. Brian leans down across the front seat, covers the back of his head with his sky blue Department of Water and Wastewater Management hard hat, then waits.

The opening fusillade is followed by a thunderous discharge of guns, like the whole First UCAS Marine had just opened up. That’s followed by a bang and a boom that could be from any one of a number of offensive or defensive explosives, possibly grenades. More bangs, thumps, wumps, and clatterings follow. Brian risks lifting a hand to flip down the sun visor on the passenger side, just to show his orange florescent Department of Water & Wastewater Management Official-Use-Only permit, allowing him to park anywhere in direct violation of law. That’s to show he’s a noncombatant. Just a guy with the D.W.W.M. The “Water” Department. He doesn’t bother anybody, nobody bothers him. Most of the time, anyway.

A few minutes pass. The gunfire subsides. Brian carefully sits up, looking all around and rearranging his hard hat. Good thing he popped the extra cred for the special Kevlar-3 insulated hard hat, just in case. If his super keeps on dispatching him to neighborhoods like this, he’ll spring for the matching body armor and face shield, too.

The quiet holds. Streetlife returns to the sidewalks. A few cars pass by. There’s a bunch of bodies sprawled near the corner, but nobody looks on the verge of punching any more tickets.

Brian pulls his utility belt from the passenger-side floor and gets out. In addition to the hard hat, he’s wearing his sky blue D.W.W.M. jumpsuit. Nobody passing by more than glances in his direction. He’s invisible, or nearly so. Just another grunt for the city making his daily rounds. Too bad he’s not bullet-proof as well.

He steps across the sidewalk to the rough-faced gray stone building. He’s never been to this particular site before, but that’s no surprise. The D.W.W.M. has literally thousands of sites scattered around the metroplex, everything from management offices in Midtown to sewers out in Queens. Brian notes that the building before him is certainly plain enough, workmanlike enough, to be a D.W.W.M. outpost. There’s a vehicle-sized bay door and a human-sized door, both black. Beside the latter is a black stud like for a doorbell. Immediately above the stud is a mesh-covered speaker and, above that, the lens of a security cam.

Brian lifts a finger to touch the black stud, but a metallic-toned voice says from the speaker, “Let’s see your ID, kid.”

Must be some automated voice program, maybe coupled with proximity sensors. Cute. You wouldn’t think that anyone would ever bother breaking into buildings devoted exclusively to either the water supply or the sewers, but, hey, there’s buttonheads everywhere, so security’s routine. Brian holds his D.W.W.M. ID up toward the security cam lens.

“Okay, kid,” says the voice from the speaker.

The door buzzes and clicks. There are no handles or doorknobs, so Brian steps forward and pushes and the door swings inward. He’s two or three steps beyond the doorway before he realizes that the shadowy interior is not just a lot dimmer than the sunlight outside, or that his eyes are not just taking an extra moment or two to adjust. The door slams shut behind him and he’s enveloped in pitch blackness, a dark so complete he can’t see a fragging thing.

“Uh ... hello?”

“Who’re you?” a gruff voice asks.

“Hit the lights, willya?”

“I asked you a question, kid.”

So much for automated security systems. Confirm name, rank, and ID: nothing new about that."Guerney. Brian. From Metro Two. My super told me to report—”

“Who’s the Deputy Director for Metro Operations?”

“What?”

“Answer the question!”

“Uh ...” What the frag’s the name? “I guess that’d be Orly. Michele Orly, I think.”

A match flares so near Brian’s face he jerks back involuntarily. In the light of that small flame, he sees a man’s round face, a face with a balding pate, a thick black mustache, heavy black brows, and eyes that gaze at him intently."Close enough,” the slag says.

“Who the hell are you?” Brian asks.

The guy lowers the match. He’s wearing a black vest, like an armored vest. On the left breast is an oval patch with broken block capitals that read, “Art”.

“You the site manager here?” Brian asks.

“You ask too many questions, kid.”

What’s with this “kid” scag? And what the hell’s going on here, anyway? This guy “Art” is starting to look kind of lu-lu."Hey, if it’s a problem, I can head back to Metro Two. It’s lunch break anyway.
Art
.”

Art sneers."Union man.”

“You ever meet a D.W.W.M. worker who ain’t?”

“I’m a G-67. What does that tell you?”

Brian frowns, uncertain. He’s a G-8, himself. His super is a G-12."Nobody’s got a tech rating that high.”

“You got a lot to learn, kid.”

Without warning, the lights snap on. Brian covers his eyes briefly, then gets his first clear look at his surroundings and “Art.” They’re standing in a narrow hallway that leads toward the back of the building. Art is about as tall as Brian, which makes him about average height, but he’s chunky, stout. There’s a kind of pitbull-something in his expression that hints he could be a dangerous man in a fight. Beneath the vest, he wears black fatigues stuffed into the tops of mil-style boots.

They watch each other a moment, then Art reaches behind his back and takes out what Brian recognizes as an Israeli heavy automatic."Know how to use one of these?”

“What the frag are you talking about?”

Art flips the pistol to him. Brian has the choice of catching it with his hands or with his face. He uses his hands. Art immediately puts his back to the wall on the left and points toward the end of the hallway, lost in blackness."There’s your target!”

Something comes rushing out of the darkness. It looks like a gangbanger, maybe one of the Blood Monkeys, outfitted in gleaming synthleather and studs and spikes and chains. The ganger points a submachine gun at Brian’s face. Brian’s reaction is nearly automatic. He drops into a combat crouch and snaps off three quick rounds: two to the chest, one at the face.

“Bingo,” Art says."We
have
a bingo.”

In that instant, the figure rushing up the hallway comes fully into the light. It’s a dummy, like a clothing store mannequin, hung on a wire from the ceiling. The dummy’s weapon, though, looks as real as they come, a Sandler TMP."I’ll take that,” Art says, extending a hand.

Brian considers the heavy automatic in his hand, and the man before him. Definitely lu-lu-land. Brian pops the ammo clip and ejects the one shell in the firing chamber, hands Art the pistol, but keeps the clip."I’ll hang onto this if it’s all the same to you.”

“Suit yourself.” Art doesn’t looked pleased, but then he reaches into a pocket of his vest, pulls out another clip and slots it into the pistol, and goes on to cock the slide and return the weapon from where it came, somewhere behind his back.