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almondinflowerStreets of Nippon - ch. 7
Characters: Atobe, Taki, Momoshiro, Oshitari
Wordcount: 3400
Summary: In which Seigaku's hand is revealed, Oshitari gratuitiously angsts as per usual, and Taki is actually useful for once.
“You want to break into InSec.”
For a moment it seemed as though Taki Haginosuke would break into laughter. Then his face smoothed over, he took another bite of cannelloni, and he chewed ponderously, gaze fixed on his plate. Keigo regarded him with some impatience.
“Can you do it, or can't you?”
Haginosuke swallowed his food. It was a graceful, controlled motion; Keigo barely saw his throat move. “Do I have much of a choice?”
“I don't like people promising things they can't deliver.” They looked at each other. Haginosuke's features still carried a hint of bitter mirth – well, he had always been devoted to that pose of ironic amusement. It was probably why he'd failed to remain partners with Ootori Choutarou. Ootori hated insincerity.
“Then I won't promise,” Haginosuke said. “Are you going to eat? That roasted lamb is meant to be exquisite.”
The meal in question was sitting in front of Keigo, basically untouched. He stared at it, a ruddy beautifully carved thing offset by potato medallions, zucchini and glazed baby carrots, picked up his fork, felt suddenly tired, and put down his fork again. He was in fact hungry, but in that awkward state of hunger where the thought of eating made him nauseous.
“The universe would keep running even if you collapsed of hypoglycaemia,” said Haginosuke, “but it wouldn't hurt for you to stay healthy. It's been a horrendous week, hasn't it?”
Keeping firmly in check the tension within him that threatened to break surface, Keigo spoke, harsher than he'd intended, “Just tell me what you're capable of.”
“Well, I really don't know. I'd need at least a day to gather intelligence, check out their security systems. Probably more like two days. Are you in much of a hurry?”
“Do it as quickly as possible. Kabaji can take over your regular duties while you work on it. But don't cut corners.”
Haginosuke took on a miffed expression. “I never cut corners.”
“And don't take drugs.”
“I don't – I'm not taking drugs at the moment.” Haginosuke spoke with a wry, strained smile. Keigo experienced a sudden, heady, dangerous dose of empathy. Most of the time Haginosuke's brittle poise, his effeminate sarcasm, provoked in Keigo either annoyance, or more often, a kind of condescending tenderness. Today Keigo's own state was too close to Haginosuke's default one.
He had miscalculated in arranging to meet Haginosuke for dinner. Debriefing over wine and food was an old tradition of theirs, upheld since Keigo's days as a squadron leader; in Keigo's more honest moods, he admitted to himself that he kept up the practice because there was something fundamentally and aesthetically apt about spending money on Haginosuke.
Haginosuke was temperamental, mercurial, high-maintenance, and fragile, which was almost everything Keigo hated in his subordinates. Somehow it didn't matter.
Haginosuke had paused eating and now gazed at Keigo speculatively. “You look an absolute wreck, did you know that?”
“I don't recall asking your opinion.”
“Your clothes smell of smoke. You have bags under your eyes. And broken veins on your cheeks.” Taki sipped his Chardonnay thoughtfully. “Okay, I was lying about that last bit. Would you like a pocket mirror?”
Keigo, who'd turned to examine his shadowy reflection in the glass wall that bounded their end of the restaurant, now stopped to glare. “You could attempt--” He stopped. What was he asking for? For Haginosuke to desist? For comfort, understanding?
Alarm flickered in Haginosuke's good eye. “Two days. I should have all the information I need in two days.”
Keigo didn't like to think about how vulnerable he seemed right now. If Haginosuke was making an effort to restrain himself--
“Atobe.”
He picked up his knife and fork and began cutting up strips of lamb, mechanically focusing on the action. A key purpose of food: it provided something to do during difficult conversations.
“We need you. To keep Hiyoshi humble and Jirou awake, if nothing else. Atobe, talk to me. Actually, never mind. Just eat. Then get drunk. Something.”
“As if I'd get drunk with you around.” The moment the statement slipped out Keigo knew he'd mishandled something: the tone, the wording, maybe the entire context. It hung in the air a tad too long, the two of them carefully avoiding eye contact. Then Haginosuke's eyes crinkled with humour.
“I suppose I'd have have to call Kabaji and ask him to carry you home. I can't do it, that's for sure.”
Keigo fingered his wine glass, unsure how to deal with this unexpected, sudden – grace, this kindness, on Haginosuke's part. It was something more typical of Shishido or Oshitari.
“Two days. That's all you get,” he said finally, gruffly. “Would you like some dessert?”
“Only if it's expensive. I suppose everything on the menu qualifies.”
“It's coming out of your salary.”
“Of course.” Haginosuke waved a waiter over. “Would you like something sweet, or nauseatingly sweet?”
“As long as it's unhealthy.”
Haginosuke smiled in that rare, blindingly charming manner of his. “I'll try my best.”
#
He came awake gradually and groggily, unsure of his surroundings. The bed was firm but soft. Silk sheets. Semi-darkness.
His sleep had been dreamless. As he lay there, silently allowing alertness to descend, the events of the past forty-eight hours cycled through his mind in slow motion: Kotoha dead. Mizuki dead. Yukimura bargaining for – something. SeiRu territory bloodied and chaotic, saturated with gunfire. Hanamura Aoi, suspecting something. Too many people suspecting something. Himself, dead in ten days' time. Eating lychees and gelati with Haginosuke.
Blankness. There were gaps in his memory. There was an ephemeral jolt of alarm. He willed it to fade, then forced himself to a sitting position.
He was in his own bedroom, still wearing the suede jeans and dress shirt he'd worn to dinner last night. Several buttons were undone, and his belt had been loosened but not removed. The blinds were drawn, but around their edges a warm-colored light was seeping in.
Keigo looked for the time. He found it on his wristcomm, which had been removed from his person and was lying in its usual spot on the bedside table. 1300 hours, in illumined green letters.
It was one o'clock.
Keigo's final memory of last night was of the sharp, tangy coldness of dragonfruit gelati. Haginosuke had been saying something he couldn't quite remember, something not particularly witty or caustic which had nonetheless managed to sound both at the time. Keigo had felt blurry, as if someone had misted up his consciousness with a vapouriser spray.
Haginosuke had drugged his ice cream.
For a minute he was so impressed that the Sixth Squadron leader had managed this feat that he forgot to be furious. Then he remembered, and abruptly jabbed a button on his wristcomm.
There was a beep, and then Haginosuke's voice spoke, sounding light and breathy, as it always did on recording: “You've reached Taki Haginosuke's number. I'm sorry I can't take your call right now – I'm busy working on a top secret project for our fearless leader. If you happen to be our fearless leader, I'm afraid I can't take your call at all. Love and kisses, Taki Haginosuke.”
A second beep marked the end of the voice message, and Keigo hesitated only slightly before disconnecting. He had more important things to do than wring Haginosuke's neck. Really. Maybe.
Damn it, he could take care of his own health!
Keenly aware of the lost hours of the morning, he brushed his teeth, showered, and changed quickly, then called Oshitari next.
“Is everyone okay?”
“They'll all pull through. Souta won't be using that arm for a few months, but he's the worst case by far. I was just about to contact you, actually. Are you in your study?”
“I will be, in five minutes. See you there?”
“Sure. I can be there in ten.”
“I'll give you twenty,” said Keigo dryly. Oshitari was not known for his impressive time management.
In the end Oshitari took half an hour to get there, which gave Keigo time to e-mail Sakaki as well as read reports from all the other squadron leaders. Things seemed to be going as well as could be expected. Hiyoshi was efficient, Jirou was – awake for once, and getting things done with the startling, buoyant competence that he always displayed during his periods of manic alertness. There was no news from either Akazawa or Kajimoto, which Keigo chose to interpret as good news.
Oshitari knocked and entered without waiting for Keigo to invite him in. If possible, he looked even worse than he had yesterday morning, dressed in an indifferent T-shirt and pair of jeans, eyes rimmed with shadowy fatigue.
Although Oshitari always managed to pass as remarkably good-looking even at his worst.
Keigo's first words to Oshitari were, “Good work.”
Some tension went out of Oshitari's shoulders, and he sat down in the rattan chair in front of Keigo's oversized desk. “Thank you. You too.”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“That's a novelty. What is it?”
“Haginosuke and I will be heading out to investigate InSec tomorrow. Kabaji will take over most of the administrative duties, but I need someone to be acting president while I'm away. That'll either be you or Ohtori, depending on your decision.”
Oshitari blinked, reached up to remove his glasses, and then frowned consideringly. “For how long?”
“If we get caught? Possibly a long time.”
“It's not like you to take risks like that.”
“As you may have guessed, we're running out of options. I need information,” Keigo said sharply. “Besides, I've never known you to have a false precognition.”
“Uh, about that. Look, Atobe, I might be able to precog more information for you.” Keigo's answering glance must have been dubious, because Oshitari hurried to elaborate. “I just need to find the right way to counteract the suppressants. I haven't taken any pills since the night before last, but normally the effects take a week to wear off. But there should be something that speeds up the drug clearance, antagonises the physiological mode of action maybe--”
“Hold on. Slow down. You're not being coherent.” He noted the agitation in Oshitari's gaze. “You've been on psionic suppressant drugs all along?”
“I don't expect you to understand.”
“Well good, because I don't.”
“But I can help you. You're not up to precognising anything right now.”
“If we could move beyond stating the obvious, I'd rather appreciate it--”
“You're not going to die. I won't let you.”
A ringtone started up on Keigo's wristcomm -- a twentieth-century Bruce Springsteen single.
“I'm not sure whether that's excellent or terrible timing,” Keigo said. He checked the identity of the callers. “Or both.”
“Who's that?” asked Oshitari. He'd always been good at reading the inflections of Keigo's voice.
“Momoshiro. Echizen's with him.”
#
The two Seigaku runners approached Hyoutei headquarters on their flyers, identical black machines with thin curved aerodynamic bodies and silent engines. Even at a distance Keigo could tell which vehicle was Echizen Ryoma's; it was the one that moved like it was an extension of the pilot's own body.
They eased onto the rooftop in symmetrical perfect landings and then stepped out. They appeared calm but alert. Momoshiro Takeshi's expression was cautious behind his genial grin – but well, Momoshiro was always watchful. Echizen was Echizen. He walked over to the garage, under the eaves of which Keigo and Oshitari were waiting, and scrutinised Keigo, with that glint in his eyes that managed to look both pensive and obnoxious at once.
Keigo raised an eyebrow. “Haven't managed to kill yourself yet, I see.”
Echizen tilted his baseball cap. “Still ugly as ever, I see.”
“Is it okay to have a private conversation here?” Momoshiro asked.
“We're on the rooftop of a five-storey building. Seems private enough to me.” Oshitari's snark factor always went up by a factor of three when Momoshiro was in the vicinity.
“Are you here on behalf of Tezuka, or is this a personal visit?” Is Tezuka awake yet?
The breeze idled with Oshitari's hair. Faint sounds drifted up to them from the streets below – motor vehicles, conversations, footsteps. Momoshiro folded his arms across his chest. He was a muscular young man with an indifferent haircut, nice eyes and a nice smile. At sixteen, Echizen was a little shorter than Momoshiro, but showed great promise of height. He resembled a badly-dressed television model. It was well-known that girls throughout Tokyo regularly broke their hearts over Echizen. No doubt the women were starting to join in.
“We're not speaking for Tezuka.”
Keigo measured Momoshiro's sentence. It was a statement that could mean many things. “Oshitari, get some wine and cola from my room. And four glasses.”
While Oshitari was gone Keigo led the Seigaku runners to a garden table near the railed edge of the roof. Echizen relaxed into his chair when he sat down, the brim of his cap lowered over his eyes. Evidently not planning to take part in this parley.
“I heard that you talked Akazawa out of surrendering to InSec,” Momoshiro said.
Atobe leaned back in his seat. “You're exaggerating my influence over St. Rudolph, I assure you.”
“You killed Mizuki, didn't you?”
“No. For the record, no. Not that I see how that'd encourage Akazawa to listen to me.”
Oshitari appeared with bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, root beer, and mineral water, and the requested glasses, all balanced on a silver tray. There was some shifting and clinking as they sorted out the drinks.
Keigo said, “Did you come to level petty accusations at us? If I were you I'd be worrying about more urgent things.”
Momoshiro knitted his brows at Echizen, but the younger boy was gulping down his dark carbonated drink and pointedly ignoring everyone. Momoshiro sighed. “Vice-president Oishi came to Hyoutei about a month ago, inviting you to join us and Chief Superintendent Inoue.”
“The legalisation of runner syndicates. Yes. We turned him down.”
“Why?”
Keigo took his time sipping at his white wine. “I should have thought the reasons were obvious. It's an impractical, bloody plan. And it goes against what Hyoutei stands for.”
“Bloody,” Momoshiro leaned forward, “but not impractical.”
Somewhere in the distant streets, a siren blared.
Momoshiro tried again. “Atobe. We're runners, aren't we?”
“Exactly.”
Oshitari was studying his own fingers. His eyes were hard.
“Why?” Momoshiro repeated.
Keigo grew impatient. “What do you want me to say? Let me tell you this --” He rose to his feet. “As long as I live, you will not find me working with or for the government of Shinnihon. Is that very clear? I really don't have time to waste talking to you. ”
He turned to walk away, but Momoshiro reached out and caught his arm, gripping painfully. “I want a reason.”
“I have my own reasons,” said Keigo, pulling easily out of the grapple-hold. “You'll have to find your own.”
No more was said after that, and soon Momoshiro and Echizen mounted their respective vehicles and moved quietly off into the sky.
#
After the pair from Seigaku had left he could not shake off a feeling of ill-humour. It lingered even despite the impressive amount of work he managed to get done that evening, and his sleep that night, drug-free, was suitably restless. The next day dawned sunny and exuberant, and halfway through an exquisite breakfast of pancakes and berry compote, Haginosuke called:
“Tell me how amazing I am,” he said in a liquid, drawling voice.
“You're done already? Come on up.”
“I'm already outside. Let me in.” Haginosuke needed no invitation to reach for the mixing bowl of batter and start making pancakes for himself. He cooked them very thin, like crepes, and flipped them without the help of a spatula, relying only on the easy movement of his wrist. Then he smothered them in an unholy quantity of butter and sugar, sat down at the breakfast counter, and without prompting began talking in a rush:
“So yesterday was absolutely horrendous. Some awful woman tried to proposition me, and I spent twelve hours skulking around the InSec grounds, mapping out their cameras and sensors. I had to climb into the sewer once. And the InSec agents kept capturing my electronic spies! I spent a fortune in espionage insects and little nanobots, all for your sake. Tell me I am a wonderful person.”
“I'll take you jewellery shopping,” Keigo said, and after giving Haginosuke time to absorb this offer with delight, asked, “What did you find out?
Haginosuke stuffed his mouth with pancake and butter, made sloppy and approving noises, then placed his infodevice between them and set it to holomode.
“Who's the current Chief of Internal Security?” It was obviously a trick question, but Keigo decided to play along.
“Last time I checked, that was a highly classified state secret.”
“Wrong answer!” A holovid flashed above the infodevice, showing an man in his early forties, dressed in grey slacks and a rumpled shirt. As he walked through a large compound, guards and men and women in dark suits alike were bowing to him in respect. He responded to all of them with a friendly, distracted smile.
Keigo studied the picture. “That's--”
“Tezuka Kuniharu. The eleventh generation eldest son of House Tezuka, former rising star of the corporate sector, best-known in our circles as the father of Seigaku president and runner extraordinaire, Tezuka Kunimitsu.”
“That man's in charge of InSec.”
“Yes.”
“You're sure--”
“Don't insult me.” Haginosuke sniffed.
Keigo contemplated Tezuka Kuniharu. He was a gentle-voiced man, who walked at a leisurely, even slothful, pace – and paused his journey continually to chat to his subordinates.
“He's good with people.”
“In a position like that, wouldn't you need to be? Anyhow I did some more background research last night. You know about Tezuka Kunikazu being Chief of National Police, right? Tezuka's grandfather. Now officially Tezuka Kuniharu has never been involved with the government of any kind, and most of my contacts told me that they were under the impression that he'd been estranged from his father for quite a while. Choosing to work in the private sector and all that. So nobody thought it was weird when Tezuka chose to join Seigaku. Seigaku's ridiculously vanilla, after all. But you don't get to be head of InSec without having worked in internal affairs for a really, really long time. Decades. So that means that Kuniharu's corporate work was just a cover.”
“And that means – Tezuka's government ties are much, much closer than we thought they were.”
“Exactly. Inoue Mamoru has nothing to do with this. Tezuka is loyal to his family – has been loyal to his family all along.”
“This plan of theirs. The rehabilitation of runner syndications. The death-knell of organised crime in Nippon. They've been planning it since before Tezuka joined Seigaku. They've been preparing for it for years. Except that begs the question, how did they manage it for so long? Who's the Immune who's protecting them from the runner Precogs?”
Haginosuke nodded vigorously. “I knew you'd catch on quickly. But anyway shouldn't InSec be filled with Immunes? It seems like the sort of psionic they'd draft on a regular basis."
“How many Immunes have you met in your entire lifetime?”
“...Good point.”
“There's somebody with significant psychic power, protecting them. And I'd rather like to know who. Tezuka's own Immune gift isn't strong enough to account for a plan like this going unnoticed for so long."
“Then we can find out.” Haginosuke polished off the last of his pancakes. “But we can't break into InSec. Honestly, it's just not doable. We'd need a telepath and a telekinetic, as well as myself, to get anywhere near anything classified. I was awfully worried yesterday that they were going to trace my bugs that they caught; luckily all my stuff's black market, and purchased anonymously. But physically getting in ourselves is going to be--”
“You're right.”
Haginosuke's eyes rounded. “Wait. You're not going to lecture me about inadequate effort and giving up too easily?”
“I'm sure you can come up with a suitable approximation of said lecture in your imagination. But there's somewhere else we can try first before trying to crack InSec.”
“Where?” asked Haginosuke.
“The Tezuka mansion.”
Chapter 8.
Characters: Atobe, Taki, Momoshiro, Oshitari
Wordcount: 3400
Summary: In which Seigaku's hand is revealed, Oshitari gratuitiously angsts as per usual, and Taki is actually useful for once.
“You want to break into InSec.”
For a moment it seemed as though Taki Haginosuke would break into laughter. Then his face smoothed over, he took another bite of cannelloni, and he chewed ponderously, gaze fixed on his plate. Keigo regarded him with some impatience.
“Can you do it, or can't you?”
Haginosuke swallowed his food. It was a graceful, controlled motion; Keigo barely saw his throat move. “Do I have much of a choice?”
“I don't like people promising things they can't deliver.” They looked at each other. Haginosuke's features still carried a hint of bitter mirth – well, he had always been devoted to that pose of ironic amusement. It was probably why he'd failed to remain partners with Ootori Choutarou. Ootori hated insincerity.
“Then I won't promise,” Haginosuke said. “Are you going to eat? That roasted lamb is meant to be exquisite.”
The meal in question was sitting in front of Keigo, basically untouched. He stared at it, a ruddy beautifully carved thing offset by potato medallions, zucchini and glazed baby carrots, picked up his fork, felt suddenly tired, and put down his fork again. He was in fact hungry, but in that awkward state of hunger where the thought of eating made him nauseous.
“The universe would keep running even if you collapsed of hypoglycaemia,” said Haginosuke, “but it wouldn't hurt for you to stay healthy. It's been a horrendous week, hasn't it?”
Keeping firmly in check the tension within him that threatened to break surface, Keigo spoke, harsher than he'd intended, “Just tell me what you're capable of.”
“Well, I really don't know. I'd need at least a day to gather intelligence, check out their security systems. Probably more like two days. Are you in much of a hurry?”
“Do it as quickly as possible. Kabaji can take over your regular duties while you work on it. But don't cut corners.”
Haginosuke took on a miffed expression. “I never cut corners.”
“And don't take drugs.”
“I don't – I'm not taking drugs at the moment.” Haginosuke spoke with a wry, strained smile. Keigo experienced a sudden, heady, dangerous dose of empathy. Most of the time Haginosuke's brittle poise, his effeminate sarcasm, provoked in Keigo either annoyance, or more often, a kind of condescending tenderness. Today Keigo's own state was too close to Haginosuke's default one.
He had miscalculated in arranging to meet Haginosuke for dinner. Debriefing over wine and food was an old tradition of theirs, upheld since Keigo's days as a squadron leader; in Keigo's more honest moods, he admitted to himself that he kept up the practice because there was something fundamentally and aesthetically apt about spending money on Haginosuke.
Haginosuke was temperamental, mercurial, high-maintenance, and fragile, which was almost everything Keigo hated in his subordinates. Somehow it didn't matter.
Haginosuke had paused eating and now gazed at Keigo speculatively. “You look an absolute wreck, did you know that?”
“I don't recall asking your opinion.”
“Your clothes smell of smoke. You have bags under your eyes. And broken veins on your cheeks.” Taki sipped his Chardonnay thoughtfully. “Okay, I was lying about that last bit. Would you like a pocket mirror?”
Keigo, who'd turned to examine his shadowy reflection in the glass wall that bounded their end of the restaurant, now stopped to glare. “You could attempt--” He stopped. What was he asking for? For Haginosuke to desist? For comfort, understanding?
Alarm flickered in Haginosuke's good eye. “Two days. I should have all the information I need in two days.”
Keigo didn't like to think about how vulnerable he seemed right now. If Haginosuke was making an effort to restrain himself--
“Atobe.”
He picked up his knife and fork and began cutting up strips of lamb, mechanically focusing on the action. A key purpose of food: it provided something to do during difficult conversations.
“We need you. To keep Hiyoshi humble and Jirou awake, if nothing else. Atobe, talk to me. Actually, never mind. Just eat. Then get drunk. Something.”
“As if I'd get drunk with you around.” The moment the statement slipped out Keigo knew he'd mishandled something: the tone, the wording, maybe the entire context. It hung in the air a tad too long, the two of them carefully avoiding eye contact. Then Haginosuke's eyes crinkled with humour.
“I suppose I'd have have to call Kabaji and ask him to carry you home. I can't do it, that's for sure.”
Keigo fingered his wine glass, unsure how to deal with this unexpected, sudden – grace, this kindness, on Haginosuke's part. It was something more typical of Shishido or Oshitari.
“Two days. That's all you get,” he said finally, gruffly. “Would you like some dessert?”
“Only if it's expensive. I suppose everything on the menu qualifies.”
“It's coming out of your salary.”
“Of course.” Haginosuke waved a waiter over. “Would you like something sweet, or nauseatingly sweet?”
“As long as it's unhealthy.”
Haginosuke smiled in that rare, blindingly charming manner of his. “I'll try my best.”
He came awake gradually and groggily, unsure of his surroundings. The bed was firm but soft. Silk sheets. Semi-darkness.
His sleep had been dreamless. As he lay there, silently allowing alertness to descend, the events of the past forty-eight hours cycled through his mind in slow motion: Kotoha dead. Mizuki dead. Yukimura bargaining for – something. SeiRu territory bloodied and chaotic, saturated with gunfire. Hanamura Aoi, suspecting something. Too many people suspecting something. Himself, dead in ten days' time. Eating lychees and gelati with Haginosuke.
Blankness. There were gaps in his memory. There was an ephemeral jolt of alarm. He willed it to fade, then forced himself to a sitting position.
He was in his own bedroom, still wearing the suede jeans and dress shirt he'd worn to dinner last night. Several buttons were undone, and his belt had been loosened but not removed. The blinds were drawn, but around their edges a warm-colored light was seeping in.
Keigo looked for the time. He found it on his wristcomm, which had been removed from his person and was lying in its usual spot on the bedside table. 1300 hours, in illumined green letters.
It was one o'clock.
Keigo's final memory of last night was of the sharp, tangy coldness of dragonfruit gelati. Haginosuke had been saying something he couldn't quite remember, something not particularly witty or caustic which had nonetheless managed to sound both at the time. Keigo had felt blurry, as if someone had misted up his consciousness with a vapouriser spray.
Haginosuke had drugged his ice cream.
For a minute he was so impressed that the Sixth Squadron leader had managed this feat that he forgot to be furious. Then he remembered, and abruptly jabbed a button on his wristcomm.
There was a beep, and then Haginosuke's voice spoke, sounding light and breathy, as it always did on recording: “You've reached Taki Haginosuke's number. I'm sorry I can't take your call right now – I'm busy working on a top secret project for our fearless leader. If you happen to be our fearless leader, I'm afraid I can't take your call at all. Love and kisses, Taki Haginosuke.”
A second beep marked the end of the voice message, and Keigo hesitated only slightly before disconnecting. He had more important things to do than wring Haginosuke's neck. Really. Maybe.
Damn it, he could take care of his own health!
Keenly aware of the lost hours of the morning, he brushed his teeth, showered, and changed quickly, then called Oshitari next.
“Is everyone okay?”
“They'll all pull through. Souta won't be using that arm for a few months, but he's the worst case by far. I was just about to contact you, actually. Are you in your study?”
“I will be, in five minutes. See you there?”
“Sure. I can be there in ten.”
“I'll give you twenty,” said Keigo dryly. Oshitari was not known for his impressive time management.
In the end Oshitari took half an hour to get there, which gave Keigo time to e-mail Sakaki as well as read reports from all the other squadron leaders. Things seemed to be going as well as could be expected. Hiyoshi was efficient, Jirou was – awake for once, and getting things done with the startling, buoyant competence that he always displayed during his periods of manic alertness. There was no news from either Akazawa or Kajimoto, which Keigo chose to interpret as good news.
Oshitari knocked and entered without waiting for Keigo to invite him in. If possible, he looked even worse than he had yesterday morning, dressed in an indifferent T-shirt and pair of jeans, eyes rimmed with shadowy fatigue.
Although Oshitari always managed to pass as remarkably good-looking even at his worst.
Keigo's first words to Oshitari were, “Good work.”
Some tension went out of Oshitari's shoulders, and he sat down in the rattan chair in front of Keigo's oversized desk. “Thank you. You too.”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“That's a novelty. What is it?”
“Haginosuke and I will be heading out to investigate InSec tomorrow. Kabaji will take over most of the administrative duties, but I need someone to be acting president while I'm away. That'll either be you or Ohtori, depending on your decision.”
Oshitari blinked, reached up to remove his glasses, and then frowned consideringly. “For how long?”
“If we get caught? Possibly a long time.”
“It's not like you to take risks like that.”
“As you may have guessed, we're running out of options. I need information,” Keigo said sharply. “Besides, I've never known you to have a false precognition.”
“Uh, about that. Look, Atobe, I might be able to precog more information for you.” Keigo's answering glance must have been dubious, because Oshitari hurried to elaborate. “I just need to find the right way to counteract the suppressants. I haven't taken any pills since the night before last, but normally the effects take a week to wear off. But there should be something that speeds up the drug clearance, antagonises the physiological mode of action maybe--”
“Hold on. Slow down. You're not being coherent.” He noted the agitation in Oshitari's gaze. “You've been on psionic suppressant drugs all along?”
“I don't expect you to understand.”
“Well good, because I don't.”
“But I can help you. You're not up to precognising anything right now.”
“If we could move beyond stating the obvious, I'd rather appreciate it--”
“You're not going to die. I won't let you.”
A ringtone started up on Keigo's wristcomm -- a twentieth-century Bruce Springsteen single.
“I'm not sure whether that's excellent or terrible timing,” Keigo said. He checked the identity of the callers. “Or both.”
“Who's that?” asked Oshitari. He'd always been good at reading the inflections of Keigo's voice.
“Momoshiro. Echizen's with him.”
The two Seigaku runners approached Hyoutei headquarters on their flyers, identical black machines with thin curved aerodynamic bodies and silent engines. Even at a distance Keigo could tell which vehicle was Echizen Ryoma's; it was the one that moved like it was an extension of the pilot's own body.
They eased onto the rooftop in symmetrical perfect landings and then stepped out. They appeared calm but alert. Momoshiro Takeshi's expression was cautious behind his genial grin – but well, Momoshiro was always watchful. Echizen was Echizen. He walked over to the garage, under the eaves of which Keigo and Oshitari were waiting, and scrutinised Keigo, with that glint in his eyes that managed to look both pensive and obnoxious at once.
Keigo raised an eyebrow. “Haven't managed to kill yourself yet, I see.”
Echizen tilted his baseball cap. “Still ugly as ever, I see.”
“Is it okay to have a private conversation here?” Momoshiro asked.
“We're on the rooftop of a five-storey building. Seems private enough to me.” Oshitari's snark factor always went up by a factor of three when Momoshiro was in the vicinity.
“Are you here on behalf of Tezuka, or is this a personal visit?” Is Tezuka awake yet?
The breeze idled with Oshitari's hair. Faint sounds drifted up to them from the streets below – motor vehicles, conversations, footsteps. Momoshiro folded his arms across his chest. He was a muscular young man with an indifferent haircut, nice eyes and a nice smile. At sixteen, Echizen was a little shorter than Momoshiro, but showed great promise of height. He resembled a badly-dressed television model. It was well-known that girls throughout Tokyo regularly broke their hearts over Echizen. No doubt the women were starting to join in.
“We're not speaking for Tezuka.”
Keigo measured Momoshiro's sentence. It was a statement that could mean many things. “Oshitari, get some wine and cola from my room. And four glasses.”
While Oshitari was gone Keigo led the Seigaku runners to a garden table near the railed edge of the roof. Echizen relaxed into his chair when he sat down, the brim of his cap lowered over his eyes. Evidently not planning to take part in this parley.
“I heard that you talked Akazawa out of surrendering to InSec,” Momoshiro said.
Atobe leaned back in his seat. “You're exaggerating my influence over St. Rudolph, I assure you.”
“You killed Mizuki, didn't you?”
“No. For the record, no. Not that I see how that'd encourage Akazawa to listen to me.”
Oshitari appeared with bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, root beer, and mineral water, and the requested glasses, all balanced on a silver tray. There was some shifting and clinking as they sorted out the drinks.
Keigo said, “Did you come to level petty accusations at us? If I were you I'd be worrying about more urgent things.”
Momoshiro knitted his brows at Echizen, but the younger boy was gulping down his dark carbonated drink and pointedly ignoring everyone. Momoshiro sighed. “Vice-president Oishi came to Hyoutei about a month ago, inviting you to join us and Chief Superintendent Inoue.”
“The legalisation of runner syndicates. Yes. We turned him down.”
“Why?”
Keigo took his time sipping at his white wine. “I should have thought the reasons were obvious. It's an impractical, bloody plan. And it goes against what Hyoutei stands for.”
“Bloody,” Momoshiro leaned forward, “but not impractical.”
Somewhere in the distant streets, a siren blared.
Momoshiro tried again. “Atobe. We're runners, aren't we?”
“Exactly.”
Oshitari was studying his own fingers. His eyes were hard.
“Why?” Momoshiro repeated.
Keigo grew impatient. “What do you want me to say? Let me tell you this --” He rose to his feet. “As long as I live, you will not find me working with or for the government of Shinnihon. Is that very clear? I really don't have time to waste talking to you. ”
He turned to walk away, but Momoshiro reached out and caught his arm, gripping painfully. “I want a reason.”
“I have my own reasons,” said Keigo, pulling easily out of the grapple-hold. “You'll have to find your own.”
No more was said after that, and soon Momoshiro and Echizen mounted their respective vehicles and moved quietly off into the sky.
After the pair from Seigaku had left he could not shake off a feeling of ill-humour. It lingered even despite the impressive amount of work he managed to get done that evening, and his sleep that night, drug-free, was suitably restless. The next day dawned sunny and exuberant, and halfway through an exquisite breakfast of pancakes and berry compote, Haginosuke called:
“Tell me how amazing I am,” he said in a liquid, drawling voice.
“You're done already? Come on up.”
“I'm already outside. Let me in.” Haginosuke needed no invitation to reach for the mixing bowl of batter and start making pancakes for himself. He cooked them very thin, like crepes, and flipped them without the help of a spatula, relying only on the easy movement of his wrist. Then he smothered them in an unholy quantity of butter and sugar, sat down at the breakfast counter, and without prompting began talking in a rush:
“So yesterday was absolutely horrendous. Some awful woman tried to proposition me, and I spent twelve hours skulking around the InSec grounds, mapping out their cameras and sensors. I had to climb into the sewer once. And the InSec agents kept capturing my electronic spies! I spent a fortune in espionage insects and little nanobots, all for your sake. Tell me I am a wonderful person.”
“I'll take you jewellery shopping,” Keigo said, and after giving Haginosuke time to absorb this offer with delight, asked, “What did you find out?
Haginosuke stuffed his mouth with pancake and butter, made sloppy and approving noises, then placed his infodevice between them and set it to holomode.
“Who's the current Chief of Internal Security?” It was obviously a trick question, but Keigo decided to play along.
“Last time I checked, that was a highly classified state secret.”
“Wrong answer!” A holovid flashed above the infodevice, showing an man in his early forties, dressed in grey slacks and a rumpled shirt. As he walked through a large compound, guards and men and women in dark suits alike were bowing to him in respect. He responded to all of them with a friendly, distracted smile.
Keigo studied the picture. “That's--”
“Tezuka Kuniharu. The eleventh generation eldest son of House Tezuka, former rising star of the corporate sector, best-known in our circles as the father of Seigaku president and runner extraordinaire, Tezuka Kunimitsu.”
“That man's in charge of InSec.”
“Yes.”
“You're sure--”
“Don't insult me.” Haginosuke sniffed.
Keigo contemplated Tezuka Kuniharu. He was a gentle-voiced man, who walked at a leisurely, even slothful, pace – and paused his journey continually to chat to his subordinates.
“He's good with people.”
“In a position like that, wouldn't you need to be? Anyhow I did some more background research last night. You know about Tezuka Kunikazu being Chief of National Police, right? Tezuka's grandfather. Now officially Tezuka Kuniharu has never been involved with the government of any kind, and most of my contacts told me that they were under the impression that he'd been estranged from his father for quite a while. Choosing to work in the private sector and all that. So nobody thought it was weird when Tezuka chose to join Seigaku. Seigaku's ridiculously vanilla, after all. But you don't get to be head of InSec without having worked in internal affairs for a really, really long time. Decades. So that means that Kuniharu's corporate work was just a cover.”
“And that means – Tezuka's government ties are much, much closer than we thought they were.”
“Exactly. Inoue Mamoru has nothing to do with this. Tezuka is loyal to his family – has been loyal to his family all along.”
“This plan of theirs. The rehabilitation of runner syndications. The death-knell of organised crime in Nippon. They've been planning it since before Tezuka joined Seigaku. They've been preparing for it for years. Except that begs the question, how did they manage it for so long? Who's the Immune who's protecting them from the runner Precogs?”
Haginosuke nodded vigorously. “I knew you'd catch on quickly. But anyway shouldn't InSec be filled with Immunes? It seems like the sort of psionic they'd draft on a regular basis."
“How many Immunes have you met in your entire lifetime?”
“...Good point.”
“There's somebody with significant psychic power, protecting them. And I'd rather like to know who. Tezuka's own Immune gift isn't strong enough to account for a plan like this going unnoticed for so long."
“Then we can find out.” Haginosuke polished off the last of his pancakes. “But we can't break into InSec. Honestly, it's just not doable. We'd need a telepath and a telekinetic, as well as myself, to get anywhere near anything classified. I was awfully worried yesterday that they were going to trace my bugs that they caught; luckily all my stuff's black market, and purchased anonymously. But physically getting in ourselves is going to be--”
“You're right.”
Haginosuke's eyes rounded. “Wait. You're not going to lecture me about inadequate effort and giving up too easily?”
“I'm sure you can come up with a suitable approximation of said lecture in your imagination. But there's somewhere else we can try first before trying to crack InSec.”
“Where?” asked Haginosuke.
“The Tezuka mansion.”
Chapter 8.
