Society. The corp encouraged him to take an interest in Japan's traditions, and in the political expression of them. He had also been the beneficiary of seven years of intensive and expensive training, which put him in the corp's debt. He was legally bound to work for them at least until his fiftieth year. After that, he would be entided to seek employment elsewhere if he could find any organizations looking for a fifty-year-old junior trainee with his specialized skills. He fully expected to stay with GenTech until his retirement. He had advanced within the Blood Banner society, along with many of his generation of executives, and had received a substantial yen bonus the day after his satrap arranged for the incendiary-bombing of a Kyoto record store specializing in decadent Sovrock and worthless British pop music.
Shiba downloaded his report into the computer's memory. A print-out would be prepared for Zarathustra, but a copy would be logged at the GenTech US computer banks in Maryland, and eventually logged along with an entire world's worth of data by the mastemet in Seoul. Sometimes, the masternet would cross-reference trivial details filed by GenTech managers as far apart as Antarctica and the Isle of Skye, and come up with a conclusion that could mean billions of yen in profits. He slotted his lightpen back into its hole, and straightened his desk. A neat executive was an efficient executive, and an efficient executive advances steadily. He crossed his sparsely-furnished office and checked his snail tank. The overwhelming majority of his specimens hadn't breathed in over a month, and yet they were still active. Eventually, he would turn over his findings to the masternet and—who knows?—maybe a profitable application would be found. At eleven-o-eight, he left his office, and began his rounds, leaving the admin tower and crossing the compound to check on all three research blocks. His shirt was drenched through by the time he got to 'A' block, and he had been badly bitten again by mosquitoes. He was artificially immune to any diseases they might be carrying, but the bites still irritated him like the acne he had left behind with adolescence.
He had been selected for an overseas post by a programme instituted by CEO Kobayashi himself, and had been given a complete gene-level overhaul at the company's expense before being sent to Florida. There had been a moving ceremony at the Kyoto office as he was sent on his way, his belongings in the presentation set of whalehide luggage handed ritually over to him by Inoshira Kube, now advanced to Kyoto bureau chief. At least a third of the smart-suited men and women at the tea ceremony had worn the discreet red ribbons in their lapels that marked them as fellow members of the Blood Banner Society. The Florida appointment was obviously intended to signal to everyone that Shiba was a rising star within the corp. The titular director of the project was Dr Zarathustra, but he was everywhere and nowhere, pursuing his own researches, almost never on site. In the Narcoossee Compound, Hiroshi Shiba was the top dog.
But he felt strangely isolated, almost as he had done those first few weeks away from Akashi. Despite his success with snails, a field he had pursued, he was essentially an organizer, and that set him aside from all three of the distinct groups he had noticed in Narcoossee. The highest and mightiest were the scientists, who felt themselves beloved of director Zarathustra, and made a game out of thwarting Shiba in every minor detail. They were the ones who never kept a correct log of their computer time, and who wasted the satellite link window exchanging chess moves and incomprehensible mathematical in-jokes with their counterparts in Japan, Korea and Europe. Then there were the security people, the Good Ole Boys. They came from one of the Op Agencies, thanks to a secret treaty of alliance made by the corp with someone with the improbable name of Judgement Q. Harbottle. In Japan, Shiba had imagined all American Sanctioned Ops were like Johnny Salvo, the cartoon hero who was always zooming down the roadways of the West taking on the toughest gangcults.
Captain Spermwhale Visser, the GOB Op in charge of security, was about as far from whip-thin, square-jawed Johnny Salvo as Ken Dodd was from Mozart. The third group were the most difficult for Shiba. The scientists were sneaky, the Good Ole Boys were surly, but the indentees were shuffling, smiling and servile. Whenever he saw an indentee sweeping up the corridor, swabbing a slide in the lab or restringing the etemally-ragged compound fence, Shiba had the feeling that the man or woman was planning to assassinate him as soon as his back was turned. God knows what was in the daily drug cocktail they all had to down—something to keep them going throughout an eighteen-hour shift, something to keep them placid, something of Dr Blaikley's just to see what it would do. Nobody could predict what a diet like that could do. Yes, the Good Ole Boys might have the guns, but the indentees were the ones to be worried about. And yet, these slaves-in-all-but-name were the group Shiba felt himself closest to.
Outside 'A' Block, Reuben, the rough-skinned indentee whose job it was to keep the test subjects fed, smiled at Shiba and said 'Howdy, Mr Assistant Director.'
'Good morning, Reuben,' Shiba said. His English vocabulary and syntax were perfect, but he had trouble with the consonants. Sometimes Visser or one of the scientists, usually Mary Louise Blaikley, would pretend not to understand him, but he knew they were simply being obstreperous. Reuben, like all the indentees, knew better than to try such monkey tricks.
'Hot enough fer you?'
Shiba had heard that question before. He could not understand it.
'Quite the opposite, Reuben. It is
Reuben chuckled. 'Ain't that the truth, doc?'
'I am not a doctor.'
'Sorry. So many docs around a man gets confused.'
'That is understandable.'
A flight of birds flew low above the compound, squawking wildly. Shiba did not like such birds. They were inelegant and unclean.
'Somethin's sure spooked 'em. The Suitcase People are on the prowl again. We lost chickens from the pens last night.'
Shiba was shocked. 'What? Why was I not informed?'
'Captain Visser took a look at the damage, suh. It weren't my place to come to you.'
Reuben scraped the back of his hand across his forehead. He sounded like two pieces of sandpaper being chafed together. He must have an allergic reaction to the environment. Shiba would order Blaikley to take a look at him. After all, what was the point of having an immunologist in the compound if she didn't take all the opportunities available to further her knowledge.
Visser appeared, with a couple of his gun- and prod-toting Good Olc Boys trotting behind him. His uniform shirt was missing two lower buttons, and a fold of hairy belly poked out above his belt. He hadn't shaved this morning, and Shiba judged that the dark patches under his arms were almost pure alcohol.
He jogged over, gut wobbling obscenely, and cuffed Reuben about the head.
'Don't you be botherin' the Assistant Director, boy,' he snapped at the man, who was a good fifteen years older than him.
'These nigras,' he said, 'they ain't like you and me, Mr Shiba. They ain't like
Shiba was impatient. 'Reuben informs me there was an incident last night. Why wasn't I told?'
Visser wasn't ashamed of his failure. 'Nothing to tell. A couple of birds got themselves scragged is all. A 'gator will chew through the wire if its gets hungry enough. Or maybe a couple of our Cajun neighbours got a hankering for somethin' to put in their gumbo.'
'I want a full report.'
Visser tried to smile his way out of it with an 'aw, c'mon, you don't want me to waste my downtime tapping keys when I could be doing some real good, like flushing out that still we all know the 'denties got out there in the wetside. You know what the corp brass are like. If we log it, it'll get inflated by everyone who scans the report and by the time it gets to head office it'll sound like the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms smashed the compound into the mud.'
Shiba wasn't impressed. 'Just get me a report, Captain Visser. I will deal with head office.'
Visser spat a substantial glob of mucus at the ground, and shrugged. He turned away and left, his Good Ole Boys with him. The security staff wore light brown suits, Sterling shades and stetsons, and carried Colt pistols they privately referred to as 'coonstoppers' in addition to electroprod truncheons with slick black leather handles. The scientists called them 'goons,' and the indentees called them 'sir' to their faces. The Good Ole Boys called the indentees 'nigras' and worse, and called the scientists 'eggheads.' The indentees tried to keep away from the scientists as much as possible. Everybody, Shiba was sure, called him 'that Jap squirt.' He missed the community atmosphere of the Kyoto Complex, where there were 20,000 GenTech executives living in their own self-contained
