Xenoform by Mr Mike Berry

honesty was the better part of business.
    ‘Nice,’ said Detherin. ‘I’ve never seen a skin-mod like it. As always, your taste is excellent.’ He reached out to stroke the shining orange dragon skin and peered at the life signs readout above the stretcher.
    ‘Yeah,’ said Whistler. ‘Only weird thing is this…’ She reached out, unpinned the bandage around Tallen’s upper arm and peeled it back to show him the wound. Detherin stared at it closely before answering. Even on the sterile cotton pad the blood had remained unmixed with the green fluid. They formed two separate stains like butterfly wings. ‘Strange, eh?’
    ‘Yeah, weird,’ he said thoughtfully, and then he shrugged. ‘We’ve had some contaminants recently.’
    ‘Really? What sort of contaminants?’
    He laughed. ‘Damned if I know. I’m just a glorified Goods-Inwards department.’
    ‘Well let’s get him into your evil lair and get your evil money into my bank account.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Detherin apologetically, straightening to look Whistler in the face. ‘You have to go and see Smith first, I was told.’
    ‘What?’ This was very irregular. Whistler had only met Smith in person twice in all the years she had subcontracted for HGR.
    ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing, really,’ said his voice while his eyes said something altogether different. ‘Just you, though. The others can sit in our lounge for a bit. I’ll start my guys looking at this,’ he indicated Tallen, ‘then when you come back I’m sure we can deal with the money. Once Smith has authorised it, of course.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Whistler, more cuttingly than she had intended. ‘I’d best head into the dragon’s den then.’
    ‘I’ll tell her you’re on your way.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    Whistler went out and informed the others of her unplanned meeting with the regional head of HGR. They looked concerned but agreed to stay put until she returned. Tec’s head was a worried yellow colour. It occurred to Whistler what a bad poker player he would make. She bade them behave themselves and got into the elevator. It demanded an iris scan and she told it to take her to the penthouse office of Mrs. Smith. It confirmed her clearance for this and the doors sighed shut. The gees smoothly increased as the lift accelerated into the distant heights of the tower, then smoothly decreased until finally it reached its destination.
    Whistler stepped out onto a finely woven carpet of colour-shifting fibre optics between two armoured guards. They demanded her gun from her. She didn’t hand it to them, instead laying it carefully on the meranti side table where it contrasted dangerously against a company brochure showing beautifully-smiling, newly-modified women.
    ‘Nice,’ said one of the guards in a metallic voice that issued from some unseen speaker in his suit. One gloved hand reached for it.
    ‘Ah!’ Whistler coughed, stopping him. ‘I wouldn’t touch it.’ And leaving it at that, she strode past the butterfly-winged receptionist, who avoided her gaze and turned to announce her arrival into an intercom. Whistler knocked loudly on the huge double doors that led into the office of Mrs. Smith.
    The doors opened seemingly of their own volition and Whistler walked in. The office was huge and high-ceilinged. A dome-shaped skylight gave onto the actual roof of the tower. A khaki-coloured gyrocopter swept overhead and away into the sky with a container clutched beneath its fuselage. The room was decked in chrome techno-gothic architecture. A huge slope-sided dais rose from the centre of the floor and upon this sat Mrs. Smith, drumming her fingers on the glass surface of the built-in desk. Her hair was tightly scraped back, her eyes were sharp flints – her general demeanour filled the room with sinister brooding. She was regarding Whistler coolly.
    ‘Whistler,’ she said. ‘My hired thug, skirmisher and supplier all in one. The unseen arm of HGR.’
    ‘The same.’
    ‘Please