When his wake-up alarm chimed, Sam let the demands of the moment push all these disturbing thoughts into the background. Hanae would be here soon and he still hadn't eaten or showered up. He stepped back inside. He was dumping the empty packets from breakfast into the disposal slot when the door chirped. "Who's calling, please," he said into the intercom, at the same time hitting the switch to send his refuse down to the arcology's recycler.

"My, we are formal this morning. All right. Hanae Norwood, sir. Perhaps you remember me? We met at the Independence Day celebrations last year."

Sam palmed the door open to a giggling Hanae. The jet black helmet of her hair set off her bright Eurasian features, but the drab gray of her very proper suit was out of character. Though suitable for a funeral, it was a far cry from the bright colors she favored. Lifting herself onto her toes, she kissed Sam's cheek as she entered.

"This would have been much simpler if I had stayed here last night."

"I wanted to be alone."

"Don't sound so worried. I understand," she assured him as she fished through her purse. "I've got an armband for you here somewhere."

Mumbling his thanks, he took the black band she held out. It was so like her. Knowing he'd probably forget the band, she'd taken it upon herself to keep him from making a gaffe of corporate etiquette. Like a good helpmate, she understood those little details that seemed so meaningless but were worth points on the corporate ladder. Loyal, attentive, ambitious for him, and not least of all, charming and pretty, she was everything a salaryman could want in a woman. He should formalize their relationship, but something inside him held back.

Hanae followed him into the bedroom to check her makeup while he finished dressing. The mirror was near his computer console. Too late, he realized he had not blanked it. He could see her reading the screen as he pulled on his shoes.

"You still haven't sent off your letter to Sato-sama?"

Not now. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You really should," she insisted softly.

"What's the use? If Sato remembers me at all, he remembers our last meeting at the hospital in Tokyo. He made it abundantly clear that he resented wasting time on me, even if Aneki-sama thought it worthwhile. Sato has no love for gaijin and still less for anyone who might threaten his position by siphoning off Aneki-sama's attention."

She looked confused. "But you weren't a threat to him."

"Aneki-sama was watching my career. That's threat enough for someone like Sato."

"You're exaggerating. Sato-sama is a smart man. He couldn't be otherwise to become Aneki-sama's special assistant. He knows that a simple researcher would never be a threat to a man of his position. You must have misinterpreted his intentions."

"Misinterpreted? He seemed pleased enough to see me exiled to the arcology. Everybody knows that the only people who have any real future with Renraku work out of the home offices in Japan. The arcology project may be important, but it's just a side show."

"Of course it's important." She seemed offended that he could think otherwise. "That's why you're here. Aneki-sama probably wants you to get experience you'll be needing later. It's just a stepping stone, not a punishment."

"You really don't understand, do you?" A familiar rage made Sam snap at her. "I saw Sato's face when he told me about what had happened to Janice. He enjoyed giving me the bad news."

"That's unkind."

"He was unkind. No, cruel. Not that he cared what happened to my sister. He was pleased at what it meant for me. Whether Janice lived or died, she had shown that the Verner bloodline is what they call tainted. As if not being Japanese weren't taint enough for someone like him. Like everything in Japan, the kawaru affects more than the one who is changed. A whole family can be destroyed. My sister's metahuman blood is enough to bar me from rising in the corporation."

"But they didn't fire you," Hanae observed as though that settled the question.

"Doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? I've often wondered why. I've heard of enough others who've been sacked under similar circumstances."

"Perhaps it was Aneki-sama's influence. He was your patron and wouldn't abandon you. So you see, he probably sent you here for training."

Her optimism never failed to cheer him, perhaps even more so when it helped him to continue believing in his old life. "Maybe he didn't abandon me. But even the head of a major multinational corporation has to bow to the immense power of social conventions in Japan. This exile to Seattle was probably the best he could do, perhaps an expression of regret for the dictates of unfortunate circumstances."

Hanae smiled. "Aneki-sama is a good man."

"Whatever the intention, Renraku is keeping me away from Janice when she needs me the most. They've blocked every attempt to see her."

"It's hard to believe that Aneki-sama could allow such a thing."

Sam's new doubts made him wonder, but another part of him still wanted to believe that Aneki was, indeed, a good man, that it was others who were corrupting Renraku.

"Someone else must be responsible," she concluded.

"Like Sato?"

"I don't think so," Hanae said firmly. "Aneki-sama would never let such nastiness so close to him."

Again, Sam wanted to believe, but he had heard the viciousness in Sato's announcement with his own ears and who was closer to Aneki-sama than Sato? Sato might be the villain, or he might not. Sam had no evidence other than the man's disagreeable nature. Not knowing who to blame only made Sam angrier and more frustrated. "Whoever is responsible, I'm stuck here in Seattle, confined to the arcology 'for security reasons.' What a joke! They haven't let me near any sensitive data since I arrived. They keep me busy on trivial researches. I've done my job and been a good little researcher, but I still don't know what happened to Janice."

"Maybe you should hire someone," she suggested.

"With what? Arcology prices are outrageous. With my lower job rating, I haven't got enough credit to hire a detective even if they would let me contact one."

"Then you should work through the corporation."

"What do you think I've been trying to do for the past year?" Sam snapped. "It hasn't done any good. Janice has become a nonperson to Renraku. I know they provided her with the usual benefits of relocation and restart money, but that's all I know. The Imperial Japanese government is scrupulous about that. They despise metahumans, but they do care about their global image as a compassionate government. Compassionate! Metahumans are the new bunrakumin in Japan; a new class of outcasts, doomed to misery, poverty, and the dirty jobs that the upper classes disdain. Even the bunrakumin look down on metahumans. That's what Janice has now."

Hanae quailed from his intensity, fright in her eyes. Having been raised entirely within the corporate environment, she still believed in the corporation and the great zaibatsu spirit. She was even more sheltered than Sam had been at the moment his step into the shadows showed him that all was not as it seemed. Hanae truly didn't understand what he was trying to tell her.

There was no point in pushing the issue. His own feelings were in turmoil; he didn't need to upset her further. Shrugging into his suitcoat, he said lamely, "We're late."

Hanae nodded timidly and took the hand he offered. "We can talk more later if you want."

He reminded himself that she only wanted to help. "Sure. Later."

4.

The outer doors of the hangar opened slowly, their electric motors whining in protest at the unaccustomed work. Standing on the other side was the Dragon, its golden scales glinting gloriously in the morning light. When the doors had completely retracted, the beast furled his great, membranous wings against his body; they were too wide to permit him to pass through even this opening intended for aircraft. Dipping his neck, the Dragon lowered his wedge-shaped head enough for the great paired horns to clear the lintel.

Katherine Hart was as impressed as ever at the size of the beast. Western Dragons were the most massive of the dracoforms, lending them a greater air of power than their more slender cousins. She performed a formal bow of greeting as the great beast advanced into the shade of the hangar. The Dragon's massively muscled body moved sinuously past her without acknowledgment. He paced down the ramp into an unlit tunnel.

He was obviously in a bad mood.

The only good thing was that the Dragon's annoyance was not directed at her, she had been on time, as directed. As the closing outer doors left them enveloped in a soft darkness, she turned to follow him. Untouched by sun or artificial light, the tunnel corridor they entered was darker still. Within that blackness, a soft hissing accompanied the clanging of steam pipes. The temperature and humidity rose, and the tang of rust overlaid the antiseptic smell of the corridor as the antiquated climate control system struggled to do its job.

Good, Hart thought. Maybe this will improve the old lizard's mood. It did little for hers. She hated the clammy air that Dragons seemed to prefer, but she was willing to put up with it and its effects on her wardrobe if it made the beast at her side less irritable.

With the first step onto the flooring, she knew her hopes for an improved mood were slim. The Dragon would be annoyed by the cold, smooth tiles, disliking the uncomfortable hardness and poor traction. Why couldn't the suit in charge of the physical facilities have prepared better for the Dragon's visit? His claws were rasping gouges into the carefully polished surface. Perhaps the person responsible would take a hint from the Dragons' destruction of the flooring and replace it with something more to the beast's liking. At the very least, they could have sanded the corridor.

The beast's tail swept back and forth in an unconscious rhythm that broadcast its pique. The spines on his tail could eviscerate someone in moments. Though her position just aft of the creature's hindquarters allowed Hart to demonstrate proper deference, it placed her too close to those barbs. She hoped the big lizard wouldn't get so ticked off that he forgot she was there.

As they paced toward the faint light ahead, Hart nearly tripped in one of the half-meter furrows, but fear of the lashing tail kept her on her feet. The Dragon would no doubt be aggrieved if he accidentally killed her. After all, the services for which she had been paid had yet to be performed. Sincere or not, however, the Dragon's grief wouldn't make her any less dead.

Flashes of light probed toward them from the depths of the corridor, the cyan tones glinting a green highlight on her companion's golden scales. He belched slightly in annoyance, halting the flames before more than a wisp of smoke escaped his jaws. Hart breathed her relief aloud; if the beast unleashed a blast of fire, it would set off the building's sprinkler system. A bath from the sprinklers would really raise his anger. Hers, too. Her hair was going to need repair as it was.

Though annoyed, the Dragon showed no concern over the nature of the light. She assumed, therefore, that it was no more than a side effect of the activities at the end of the corridor or some kind of scanning beam. Either way, the Dragon appeared to deem it harmless. Or at least harmless to him, she corrected herself. No matter that he wanted her services, she could not be sure that he would warn her of any risk that affected only her. It would be just like a Dragon to haul her into danger as a test of her skills.

Nothing threatened them as they traveled the corridor to a pair of retracted containment doors. Beyond the arch, the passage was blocked by a wall of glowing green light, a magical barrier of great strength. Hart shook her head at the foolishness of the proprietors. Were they going out of their way to annoy the Dragon? They should have opened the circle as he approached, instead of making him wait. This Dragon disliked being kept waiting by those he considered inferior.

The pair stood for a long minute before the pale green glow ebbed away, crawling back from the center of the corridor like acid eating away at paper. Within the boundaries protected by the circle was an inner set of doors. These sighed open even before the magical barrier had widened enough to admit the Dragon's bulk. A Human awaited them, bowing and mumbling apology and welcome.

The man wore a pale green lab coat embroidered in stylized designs. A heavy silver disk swung from a chain around his neck as he held himself bent at the waist. Hart recognized the markings as cabalistic symbols, real ones rather than the crude protective runes worn by the superstitious. The symbols were much like those she used, but with subtle variations whose study could give her a clue to the magical orientation of this person. It was obvious from the arrangement and profusion of the markings that the wearer was a mage and member of an hermetic order. She didn't recognize the particular group, but she knew enough about Human magical orders to tell that this mage was a minor member of his organization.

"Greetings, Lord Dragon," the Human said in a louder voice. "We are honored by your presence today."

The Dragon disdained to reply.

Hart caught a flare of emotion from the beast, confirming that he was as testy as she had feared. She remained outside the archway as the Dragon continued on, sliding his great golden bulk past the man. When the Dragon's tail flicked toward her leg, she sidestepped quickly, the sharp spines missing her knee by centimeters. The mage, holding his bow, was oblivious to the danger. Foolish, norm. Always keep your eyes on a Dragon.

The tip of the beast's tail had barely cleared the door when Hart saw the ripple begin in the powerful tail muscles. Ivory spines arced up as the Dragon's tail swept toward the mage. The man grunted in surprise and pain as the barbs tore across his left thigh and into his belly. The impetus of the blow lifted him from his feet and slammed him aside, into the wall. He slipped to the floor, moaning.

"Perhaps you will not be so slow the next time."

There was no sound to the Dragon's words, but Hart knew the mage heard it as well as she did. Dragon speech was a trick of mind and magic, something much more than a voice, something less than telepathy. The creatures still needed to know a language before "speaking" it. Their "words" had a consistently flat intonation, but carried emotional overtones in a way that Human speech could not. The emotional content that they broadcast needed no language. The Dragon's annoyance and irritation would have communicated even to someone who spoke no English.

The beast proceeded into the chamber, heedless of the spatters of blood that flicked from his tail spines and the wail that arose from his victim.

Hart approached the fallen mage. A brief glance was enough to tell her that his injuries were beyond her own skills. She bent and placed her hand on the screaming man's forehead. Taking advantage of the pain that shuddered through him, she overrode his will and sent him down into sleep. A small enough blessing.

Behind her, she heard running footsteps. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the mage's co-workers were coming to his aid. One woman ripped a first aid kit from its wall receptacle and almost caromed into a white-haired fellow with the most elaborate coat Hart had yet seen among them. The woman's haste to prepare mundane aid earned her no kind thoughts from her superior, judging from the glare he gave her. Hart had to agree; it should have been perfectly obvious that the fallen mage would need more than coagulant and spray seal to save him.

Hart stepped back to let the new arrivals tend to their comrade. Noticing that her sash was stained where it had dipped into the mage's blood, she briefly considered its worth as a material component for ritual purposes and found no significant value. This mage was too stupid to ever make it necessary. She untied the knot that held the band around her hips and let the scarf flutter to the floor. One thousand nuyen on the expenses, Old Lizard. That was real silk and a Scaratelli to boot.

Dismissing the ruined sash from her mind, Hart surveyed the chamber, It was large, a vast womb in the belly of the earth. The ceiling was hidden, even from her eyes, in darkness and haze. Lights mounted on the exposed girders of the structure cast sharply defined cones of light onto the floor. Hart stood on the highest level, a platform with twin ramps leading down in opposite directions. She could just barely discern other platforms hugging the walls at various levels below her. The chamber formed a great bowl, each level spiraling toward the crowded floor of this carefully guarded sanctum.

In the center, a great vat made of some transparent substance sat on a platform of machines and monitors. Technicians stood in a recessed pit around the cylinder, monitoring consoles and adjusting dials. The color of their clothes was washed out by the iridescent glow emanating from the vat. They paid no attention to the motions of a dark shape that roiled the milky fluid within the receptacle.

Still watching the activity below, Hart strolled down the ramp the Dragon had taken. She caught up with the beast on one platform that offered a wide, graveled area with an unobstructed view into the theater. As she approached, he settled his bulk on the rough surface and arched his neck until his head rested on the railing around the landing's perimeter.

In the bowl below, mages and technicians bustled about, performing activities that sent mingled odors of rank organics, the ozone of technology, and the sharp scent of sorcerous workings wafting up to the visitors. This environment should be more to his liking. Hart decided as she watched the beast nestle into the gravel.

"This is more satisfactory," the Dragon confirmed, unasked.

Hart and her employer observed without interruption until Hart noticed someone approaching. It was the master sorcerer who had arrived at the side of the wounded man just as Hart left to catch up with her employer. The mage stopped a few meters away to compose his face into a pleasant expression before stepping forward to where he thought the Dragon could see him. From where she leaned against the beast's withers, Hart felt more than heard the soft chuff that she recognized as a sign of the Dragon's amusement.

Hart knew that the beast could see that the mage stood waiting. The Dragon let him stand there for some minutes, a period sufficient to establish dominance, then inclined his head to signal his attention.

The Human smiled. "You are just in time, Lord Dragon. It's almost ready."

"It will work as desired, Doctor Wilson?"

"Certainly. The last two prototypes performed well within parameters. Mutability factors have all been right on prediction and there has been no decay in stability. We have no reason to believe the process is flawed."

"Well that you should not."

Wilson swallowed, his fear apparent to Hart. She had no doubt that the Dragon sensed it, too. He could probably smell it.

"I meant no disrespect, Lord Dragon. It's just that, as both a mage and a scientist, I expect all new processes to have some problems. It's only natural. This project has gone very smoothly under your guidance. I have no doubt that the product will meet with your satisfaction."

The Dragon flexed its wings slightly, dismissing Wilson's remarks. "Show me."

"As you wish, Lord Dragon." Wilson wet his lips with a pink tongue that only slightly protruded beneath his mustache. "With your indulgence, it will take a few minutes."

The Dragon remained silent. Wilson turned quickly and vanished into the darkness of a side tunnel. A moment later, he reappeared, emerging from a corridor onto the floor of the chamber to have a brief conference with a quartet of his fellows.

Hart wanted to get a closer view of the operation. Reaching into her shoulder bag, she retrieved a pair of glasses. She tapped once on the frame to adjust the setting to magnification and settled them on her head. What she saw on the screens was fascinating, though she understood very little of the abstruse hermetic formulae, much less the chemical formulae. She wished she had a copy to study at leisure.

The consoles forfeited her attention when they blanked at the first faint strains of thaumaturgic chant beginning to drift up from the group of mages gathered below. She scanned the bowl's floor. All the ordinary technicians, save one, had disappeared. That one was attaching a hose to a wheeled canister. The other end of the hose was fastened to the vat. The technician moved to a nearby panel, where she adjusted a few knobs. Bilious green swirled into the vat's fluid, commingling with the liquid until it resembled molten jade. As more and more of the green substance entered, the shape in the vat slowed its motion, ultimately becoming still. Apparently satisfied, the technician shut down her panel and vacated the floor.

As soon as she was out of sight, the mages raised their voices, strengthening the chant spell. The four who had joined their master split away in two pairs to take up station's at opposite sides of the container. Their song rose again in volume as Wilson stepped up to the tank. The paired mages split, one of each couple remaining in place while the other walked a quarter of the way around the circumference. The cardinal points occupied, they raised their chant almost to a shout before dropping it to a soft, monotonous tone.

Within the hermetic circle, Wilson executed a series of intricate hand motions. The sweeping gestures described by his arms grew ever smaller until only hands and fingers moved. Then they too stopped. A heartbeat later, Wilson stepped back. A casual gesture of his right hand brought a harness down from the obscurity of the ceiling. A flaccid spider trailing its web, the straps plunged into the once more translucent liquid to snake around the limp shape. Wilson raised his hand and the harness rose in sympathetic motion.

The figure that emerged from the tank was humanoid. Though it was naked, Hart could discern no sexual characteristics, primary or secondary. Now that it was no longer a shadow, she could see that its skin was as milky white as the fluid had been when they arrived. The flesh was soft and unlined, barely disturbed by the swell of muscles. It seemed somehow undefined.

Around the bowl, computer screens sprang to renewed life, displaying columns and rows of figures as well as formulae and diagnostic illustrations. Hart had no interest in numbers or pictures. The limp shape, at once compelling and repulsive, absorbed her whole attention. The strength of her fascination blew her usual cool professionalism away on the faint breeze from the air purifiers.

"Quite extraordinary, isn't it?"

Hart was startled. She had not registered Wilson's departure from the floor of the chamber, let alone his return to the platform.

"I've never seen anything like it."

"No one has. That is part of what makes it so valuable."

"Direct your attention to the reaction data, Hart."

She was annoyed at the beast's use of her name in front of the mage, but she did as she was told. Scanning the screen displaying physical data, she whistled. The specs would look good on an Olympic athlete, but no Olympian had ever excelled in so many areas. "Superlative," she concluded.

The Dragon chuffed his satisfaction.

"Very good."

The mage bowed in acknowledgment. His face was a carefully constructed combination of the praised servant and the acknowledged savant, but Hart could see behind the subservient mask to the relief that was the man's real emotion.

The Dragon stood, arcing its neck in a stretch that radiated satisfaction. When they had left the birthing chamber behind and the barriers both astral and mundane had been restored, the Dragon spoke. "I believe it is time for Mr. Drake to begin Operation Turncoat."

Hart could feel the beast's anticipation.