Sam didn't know if the Yomi officials would have allowed Janice to select her own new name. If so, she might have chosen Walters; it was their maternal grandmother's name. Janice hadn't been born when she had died, but their mother had regaled them constantly with tales of Grandma Walters' world travels. She had been the star of many a bedtime story. Janice had grown up idolizing the woman. When faced with the bureaucratic demand that she cease using Verner as her surname, she might have chosen Walters.
It seemed a slim chance that the woman Glover sought was his sister. But could he afford to take the chance that Janice Walters wasn't Janice Verner?
What did Glover want with all these people, anyway? If one of them was his sister, Sam needed to know. What better way to find out than by becoming part of Glover's organization? It was always easier to snoop around from the inside. But what if he was working for Lofwyr? All the more reason to keep his sister out of the dragon's grasp.
He didn't like it, but it looked as though he would be working for Glover a while longer.
Janice thought she understood comfort and easy living. Before her exile to Yomi, she had lived the life of a corporate dependent. It was a comfortable, cozy life complete with all the easy conveniences of civilized society. Renraku took care of its dependents. She had felt safe and secure. Yomi had taught her just how fortunate they had been.
Her corporate comfort had been due to her brother. She had often wondered what would have happened to them after their parents were killed if Sam hadn't caught the eye of old Inazo Aneki, the master of Renraku Corporation. Sam was five years older than she was, and he was only eighteen at the time. There had been no money and few prospects, but Aneki had taken an interest in Sam and seen to it that her brother finished his education. Under the distant but benevolent patronage of Aneki, Sam had gotten started on the fast track at Renraku. Aneki's charity had been like a gift from God, an offering of a long, comfortable life. They certainly wouldn't have been able to make it on their own. Her brother's position was exalted, for a gaijin, and she had been proud of him. His salary and position should have ensured congenial accommodations for both of them for life.
Now, her thoughts of Sam's success were less kind. He had abandoned her to keep his sinecure, unwilling to be tainted by her goblinization. Kawaru the Japanese called it, a pretty euphemism for an ugly thing. The English word, with its harsh syllables and awkwardness, was so much more fitting.
Sam would call it kawaru. He had always been so enamored of things Japanese, aping their attitudes and manners. The Japanese corporate society liked to pretend that metahumans didn't exist, casting them away to rot on the edges of society and to dwell in the polluted shadows of those gleaming corporate towers. The pure stayed home, safe from taint. Secure in their bastions, they ate their regular, balanced meals, slept in their soft, warm beds in their precisely controlled climates, watched their approved entertainments, and ignored what they wished did not exist. Those hypocritical overlords spoke of financial aid, readjust out. A short, dark man in a white suit waited at the foot of the stairway. As her eyes settled on him, he smiled.
"Welcome to Atzlan," he said in accented English. "I am Jaime Garcia. I offer Mr. Shiroi's apologies. He was unavoidably detained by business and has asked me to entertain you until he is available. I hope you had a good flight. You have no complaints of your treatment?"
Shivering in the sunshine, the pilot tensed. He relaxed only a little when she said, "Everything was fine."
"Most excellent," Garcia said. His dazzling smile vanished as he turned away to speak rapidly in what she assumed was Spanish. The people to whom he spoke were short and dark like him. Their eyes never left her.
Most of the crowd wore loose-fitting blouses and pants, but a few wore tailored coveralls or suits like Garcia's. He finished with an obvious command, scattering the blouses and coveralls. Minions, jumping at his word. She had seen such feverish obedience once when some important Aztechnology officials had visited the Renraku compound. Was it a universal trait of the underlings in Atzlan-based corporations? She didn't like it.
After a few softer exchanges with the suits, he turned his attention to her again. The brilliant smile returned as if it had never been gone. "Please, senorita. Come down and join us."
She wasn't sure it was a good idea, but she stepped through the hatchway. There was something about this Garcia that she didn't like. She ran her tongue across her lower lip, wishing she knew what he hid behind his smile. Her eyes were still hurting as she walked carefully down the stairs. She squinted down at Garcia and realized that he looked different. He was no longer a small man in a suit but a long-limbed, furred metahuman like herself.
In her surprise, she nearly stumbled. He was up the stairs to meet her before she could recover her balance on her own. His grip was strong, steadying her. He was a suit again, armored behind his smile. Solicitously, he helped her down the remaining steps.
She didn't like his cologne.
He seemed unaware of her dislike. "You appear to be taxed by your journey. Perhaps some refreshment would restore your spirit?"
"No, thanks. I'll be fine. Besides, they served a meal on the plane only a couple of hours ago."
"And you found it to your taste?"
He really did seem to be concerned that she be pleased. Maybe he wasn't so bad. She gave him a friendly smile, but she remembered her fangs and closed it down. "The meal was quite tasty. My compliments to your corporate chef. I don't believe that IVe ever had meat with quite so delicate a flavor."
Garcia's smile grew wider. "Yes, it is a specialty. I will be sure to communicate your compliments."
Garcia escorted her across the landing field to a waiting helicopter. They climbed aboard and made a short flight over Mexico City. Their destination was a compound on the north side of the plex. The GWN monogram that she had seen on the uniforms of Garcia's minions at the airport gleamed on the side of the eighty-story skyscraper at the center of the enclosed blocks.
Oozing charm, Garcia took her on a whirlwind tour of the facilities. GWN was an obviously successful corporation. Most of the plants were devoted to food processing and nutrient farming; labels on containerized cargo lots told her that GWN shipped worldwide. She wondered briefly what brands belonged to the firm. Comestibles weren't the corporation's only product. Several impressive structures were dedicated to information technologies and small, high-tech manufacturing plants. The combination wasn't surprising; no megacorporation could survive without at least dabbling in the Matrix and data technology. If all of this belonged to Mr. Shiroi, as Garcia implied, her benefactor was a powerful man.
They had just left a building where cheap simsense players were being assembled, and were walking through a section of employee tenements, when a telecorn box on a street corner called Garcia's name. He excused himself, leaving her to stand in the heat. OflFshift employees, who had been gathered on the front stoops to take in the afternoon sun, suddenly found business elsewhere, but not before she had seen their fearful glances in her direction. Garcia returned.
"Ah, Mr. Shiroi will see you now, if you wish. But there is no hurry. Plenty of time for you to freshen up or partake of some refreshment, if you wish."
She shook her head. Freshening up was something for norms. Make-up on her face would be a travesty, and she didn't have a curry comb for the fur. Let Mr. Shiroi see her as she was, because that's what he got. "You are not hungry yet?" "No. I'm not hungry at all." "That is understandable. After the change one's appetites are often erratic. It is best to trust your feelings. Your body will know when you need sustenance. One should not overdo."