Page 50 of The Presidents Shadow

AT THREE IN the morning Margo and I approach the four connected Quonset huts where Jason told us the Japanese government’s investigation is housed, along with their files and equipment. It’s cold and rainy, and the smell of decomposing bodies hangs heavily in the air.

Although the small complex of huts has no identifying signage, it stands out from the others.

It is surrounded by six armed guards; the four men and two women carry rifles and electronic equipment.

They all wear suits made of the Japanese-manufactured chemical compound Ganko, a virtually impenetrable material made from a combination of elastomers and advanced polyurethane.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” I say to Margo.

“Then why do you look so happy?” she asks, a smile of her own pulling at her lips as we approach the guards.

I am always amazed by how well Margo knows me, as if we are on the same wavelength. She’s right. The delays, the setbacks, the lack of progress on this trip, have me frustrated. Right now, I believe we have a chance to learn something, and that does make me happy, danger be damned.

I turn to her, my smile spreading. “As much as I like how you look, I believe it may be time for a change.”

“Ah, what did you have in mind?” Margo asks. She knows I’m not talking about a new haircut or color. We’re about to use our shape-shifting powers. Right here. Right now.

Worms, snakes, roaches, and rats all have exceptional invasive powers, yet none of them has the strength and power necessary for hand-to-hand combat.

Margo suggests the Japanese scarab, one of the few insects that Dache himself taught us to inhabit in order to utilize the scarab’s powers of flight and speed, not to mention a nasty set of pincers.

But today we need something different. Nothing large, nothing noisy, nothing flashy.

Would it be too challenging and risky to change into another human being? A new guard? Yes, we agree that it will.

As we are debating, one of the guards shouts out in Japanese, “Examination of weapons.”

Each of the six guards twists a small lever on the magazine release of their gun, then clicks it back into place.

The man who gave the original order shouts again, “Number Two! Test!” One of the guards, presumably Number Two, fires the weapon into the air.

Margo and I reflexively cover our ears but soon discover that we don’t need to. The weapon is absolutely silent.

The test over, all six guards return to their positions.

Margo turns to me and speaks quietly but with a note of excitement in her voice.

“Pika,” she says.

“Pika?” I repeat. “What the hell is that?”