Goulart, Ron - Chameleon Corps

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Chameleon Corps

By Ron Goulart

1. Chameleon

THE MIDDLE ROW of view screens showed a half-dozen images of a wrecked man. Resting his palms

on his backside, the Chief stopped pacing the office, "I can't buy him."

Azeler, the Junior Chief, Jerked his pale close-cropped head in agreement. "Too pathetic, not heroic."

Slouched in a dark wing chair Ben Jolson said, "Which is why you sent for a Chameleon Corps man?"

Chief Prittikin said, "Can't you sit up straight during a briefing, Jolson? After all, the Political Espionage

Office should command every good man's respect."

Azeler added, "We put your file through one of PEO's personnel brains, Jolson. You're not the best man

in the Chameleon Corps by any means."

Jolson's dark eyes narrowed. "For the last five months I've been in the wholesale pottery business. Then

yesterday CC recalled me for an emergency mission. You're free to request another man."

"You're all that's available in these tense times," said Chief Prittikin.

"We're hoping," said Azeler, "your notorious instability won't crop up on this assignment." Jolson's slump

was making Azeler uneasy and he kept absently throw-tog his narrow shoulders back. "Once on Peregrine

you refused to stop playing your role. It took six Police Corps men to make you come back home to

Barnum here."

"I liked that part," said Jolson. "Being the ruler of that jungle kingdom. I like outdoor work."

"Later, on Murdstone, you spent two months being a baboon," continued the Junior Chief.

"That was a mistake now that I look back on it."

"This," said Chief Prittikin, pointing at the hollow looking man on the screens, "is our problem at the

moment."

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Chameleon Corps

"Can you become him?" Azeler asked Jolson.

"Sure. You don't want him looking that bad, though, do you?"

"Of course not," said the Chief. "That's the whole trouble."

"His name," said Azeler, straightening so much that he was standing up, "is F. Scott Cutler."

"I read about him," said Jolson. "Imprisoned on Pedra for six-and-a-half years. By mistake as it turned

out. Probably a frame-up. Before that he was a rising military man on the planet of Barafunda."

"Just look at him, though," said Azeler. Cutler was sitting in a cane chair in an all gray room muttering to

himself. His hands danced gently in his lap and his shadow-rimmed eyes blinked too rapidly. "That's not

my idea of a hero."

Chief Prittikin said, "It's a shame so many martyrs end up looking so unattractive."

"Where is Cutler now?" Jolson asked.

"In a sanitarium near here. We brought him in secretly from Pedra after his pardon came through." The

Chief reached up and punched the switch that cut oft the pictures. "I can't stand too much of him. He

doesn't lift my spirits."

"He's not hero material," said Azeler. "So few heroes are. That's where you come in, Jolson."

The Chief laughed with relief. "Let's look at those pictures of F. Scott Cutler at his trial." He threw

another switch and the top bank of monitor screens lit up and showed an assortment of younger upright

Cutlers. "He was thirty-four then. A bit weak in the chin perhaps but I could buy that man as a positive

figure."

"I go along," said Azeler. "Jolson we want you to be the man Cutler might have been if he had aged more

gracefully and not succumbed to prison conditions."

Jolson stood and came up to study the images. "Isn't there a chance Cutler will recuperate on his own?

Why not wait?"

"It will take," said Azeler, "a full year and even then we can't be sure."

"A clean limbed, sturdy, positive-looking F. Scott Cutler has to appear on Barafunda by this weekend,"

explained the Chief.

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Chameleon Corps

His eyes on the moving pictures of the former Cutler, Jolson said, "Why?"

"Barafunda, as you may know," said Azeler, "still uses reactivated workers in many of its nonskilled

industries."

"Zombies," said Jolson. "That's right. Cutler got in trouble, in part, because he was against the using of

zombies."

"There is still a strong pro-zombie faction on Barafunda," said the Junior Chief. "The president of the

United Territories is, however, believed to be anti-zombie."

Jolson said, "That's that pretty girl, isn't it? The current President."

"Jennifer Crosby," said Azeler. "Five-feet-five, 110 pounds, complexion medium, hair auburn, posture

and muscle tone excellent, age twenty-six formerly President in Territory #13. She won the presidency of

Barafunda at last season's Seaside Political Festival. She'll hold office for another two years."

"And you want Cutler," said Jolson "to work on this President Crosby girl. Get her to come out positively

against the zombie trade."

"We know she's considering the almost immediate issuing of a proclamation against the whole zombie

industry," said the Chief, striding over to his low gray desk.

"Cutler, as a now-hero and a long time anti-zombie man," said Azeler, "will have a favorable influence on

Jennifer Crosby. His return to Barafunda and the attendant parades, speeches, and ceremonies will be

only one of the assorted pressures that the Political Espionage Office has planned and in various stages of

operation."

"This weekend," said Chief Prittikin, sitting rigidly down, "a reception celebrating Jennifer Crosby's first

half-year in office will be held in the capital of Barafunda. We're hoping she can be pushed into making

an anti-zombie statement at the reception."

"How tall is Cutler?" asked Jolson, backing away from the view screens.

"Two inches taller than you," said Azeler. "His weight should be about yours. It isn't of course because of

his eating habits while a prisoner. For the purposes of your masquerade we'll say he weighs what you do."

Jolson frowned and shifted his position slightly. Then he grew two inches. "About right?"

Azeler, swallowing, said, "Fine. I never get used to you fellows, though." He added, "Being chosen for

the Chameleon Corps must be quite an elating thing."

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Chameleon Corps

"I was twelve when I was tapped to start undergoing the conditioning and processing," said Jolson. "At

the time I guess I was elated. My father arranged it. He was." He tucked his chin once and his face blurred

and his features quivered and shifted.

Turning away Azeler said, "You are aware of our central Keystone government's reasons in this

Barafunda business?"

"Sure. They want all the planets in the Barnum System to have fully automated factories and so on."

Jolson checked his new face with the images of Cutler. "Automation is more functional, less expensive.

Besides which, the Keystone government quietly controls two of our biggest automating outfits. Whereas,

the zombie process is privately owned."

"You're not pro-zombie?" said the Chief, half-rising.

"I'm pro nothing," said Jolson. "Well? Is this what you want?"

The Junior Chief moved up to study him. "That's wonderful." He glanced at Prittikin. "A little more

suffering around the eyes?"

"Yes," agreed the Chief. He motioned to Jolson. "Walk up to me and let's see how you register."

Jolson walked. "Okay?"

"Beautiful," said Chief Prittikin. "I buy it. Could you fake the chin just a bit, make it a little more

positive?"

"Like this?"

The Chief popped up, patting himself on the backside. "I'm abundantly satisfied. I know this is an image

that's going to sell."

"Definitely," said Azeler. "Now, Jolson, you can report to our Indoctrination Cottage for some sleep-

briefing and a quick course in Cutler's voice and background. You'll be on tomorrow's rocket to

Barafunda, arriving on the morning of the day after. That will give you a couple of days to work on

Jennifer Crosby before the reception."

"Be sure not to get in the way of our other pressure groups," said Prittikin.

"Tell them the same for me," said Jolson. He took a last look at the still running films of F. Scott Cutler

and walked to the door.

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Chameleon Corps

Azeler came alongside him. "I'll escort you to Indoctrination."

"By the way," said Jolson, "do you have any information on a guy named Jose Terranova?"

The Junior Chief reached for the door lever. "He's a citizen of Barafunda, isn't he?"

"Yeah," said Jolson. "When I was at the Chameleon Corps Senior Academy I used to follow his exploits.

I just thought of him now. He was Baratunda's greatest romantic figure. A great operator. I admired him."

"A thoughtless womanizer and playboy," said Azeler. "He dropped from sight several years ago." He

turned to face the Chief. "I'll report back shortly."

"Excellent," said Prittikin, laughing. "I'm really very happy with the way this has gone so far."

"So far," said Jolson, following Azeler into the quiet green corridor.

Jolson shook his head and poured the poisoned cup of chocolate into the dispozehole of his small metallic

cabin. He was still half a day away from Barafunda and this was the third poison attempt. Not to mention

the retired dentist who had taken a shot at him in the TV lounge. The Baratunda pro-zombie faction was

apparently as well informed and widespread as the anti group. They already knew that the man they

believed to be F. Scott Cutler was heading for their planet to do them harm. Maybe they even knew he

was a fake. Either way they were trying to eliminate him.

Jolson was in his sleeping robe. He scratched himself and sat on the arm of his relaxachair and rocked

thoughtfully. He, his real Jolson self, was twenty-nine now and the Chameleon Corps work bothered him

increasingly. You could never, once they'd processed you, quit the CC. You could go inactive after a

certain number of years. It always hung over you, though. They had called Jolson back twice since he'd

dropped out of the corps five months ago. He'd never really liked it but, as Azeler's files showed in detail,

Jolson had enjoyed some of the fringe activities of his work. But he was becoming increasingly interested

in devoting his time and effort to being only Ben Jolson. It seemed about time.

A faint polished sliding sound came from his closet area. Jolson looked around the room. He unseamed

the robe and tossed it down on the chair. He hesitated and then crossed silently and sat on the edge of the

bunk. He concentrated and changed into a good facsimile of an orange, tufted pillow. Some of the

Chameleon Corps men didn't like to switch to inanimate things but it had never bothered Jolson too much.

In fact, it was less unsettling than being another human.

The bright closet door arced open and a fat sweat-dotted man in a blue sleep robe dropped into the cabin.

He had a stun pistol in his hand and a medical kit tucked into the fat shoulder crotch between his left arm

and side. He scanned the cabin and then ran into the bathroom. He came back and dropped to all fours in

the room's center. "Now where in the heck is he?" the perspiring fat man asked himself. "Hiding in some

other quarter of this vast ship I'll wager. Cutler's turning out to be a more artful dodger than I had at first

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Chameleon Corps

fancied." The fat man rose up and padded into the closet. In a second the sliding secret door sounded

again.

Jolson decided to remain as he was. He spent the sleep period as the pillow.

Jolson, playing it safe, came down the disembarking ramp wearing his own face. Even so, he flinched

when something was thrown at him. It turned out to be only a handful of yellow flower petals, let loose

by an impetuous member of a grade school reception committee. The little girl apologized and asked

Jolson for her petals back.

The crowd seemed about half for F. Scott Cutler and a quarter against, with the rest there to meet other

passengers. Parked against a blue grillwork fence, was a long shiny ground car with the official seal of

Barafunda on its side and roof. Jolson worked free of the crowd and moved casually in the car's direction.

There was a plainclothes driver at the wheel, stiff and straight-staring. When Jolson was clear of the

assorted reception groups he let himself return to the resemblance of F. Scott Cutler. "You sent to meet

me?" he called to the driver.

"For heaven's sake, get down!" called someone behind him.

Jolson turned, dropping to one knee. "What?"

The landcar blew up.

Jolson flattened, cradling his head with his locked hands. A piece of plastic bumper nicked at his elbow

and a heavy fragment of tire slapped into the small of his back but that was all.

"The car was a decoy, driver a dummy," said a raspy voice. "They went for it. You've exposed yourself,

though, which was a mistake."

Pushing to his feet Jolson looked at the tall, wide man who had grabbed his arm. "The President send

you?"

"Yes," the man said, flicking open his dark coat to reveal the secret identification labels sewn in it. "I'm

Dennis Winslow. For the lord's sake, come along with me." He swung out his hand and clamped a pair of

dark glasses on Jolson. "There. Now act natural. I'm not known to the pro-zombies and we may be able to

get away from here on a couple of bicycles. I had hoped to catch you while you were still on board.

Cutler. but you slipped by."

They had started walking, away from the remains of the car, as the crowd hustled toward it. "I take it,"

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said Jolson in his Cutler voice, "my release is not universally appreciated."

"No," said the government man. "I wanted to sneak you in without any fanfare. Orders came from

Keystone itself calling for pomp and ceremony. They won't listen on Barnum. Have the idea they know

how things actually are on Barafunda. Here."

Two black bicycles leaned against a striped out-building on the edge of the spaceport grounds. "Can we

slip into the capital on these?"

"Let's hope to the good lord we can," said Winslow. "Hop on."

"Okay," said Jolson, running his bike along after Winslow's.

Winslow jumped onto his bike and rode through an opening in the fence.

"How far is the capital?" Jolson asked, mounting his rolling cycle.

"Don't you remember?"

"Roughly three miles as I recall," said Jolson, letting his sleep-briefing knowledge answer for him. "I've

been gone for quite awhile."

"Understandable."

The countryside was free of buildings, low hills bordered both sides of the rundown road they were using.

After a few minutes they passed a roadside restaurant that announced it sold frozen harkness, which

Jolson's Cutler background told him was a custard made from a native Barafunda plant.

Jolson's mind was checking details and his body was intent on pedaling the bike. He jerked his head when

Winslow suddenly cried out. "What?" asked Jolson.

"Into the fields," yelled Winslow, letting his cycle carry him off the roadway. He was in midair, aiming

for the grass, when a blaster rifle crackled and Winslow ceased to be there.

Jolson threw himself into the high, crisp grass and rolled. He'd had a glimpse of the two landcars that

blocked the road and the gray suited men running from them. Maybe they wanted him alive but he didn't

feel like gambling on it.

He unsealed his suit as he edged on his side, hidden by the grass. He had gotten out of his clothes and

footgear before a voice shouted, "Over there! The grain is wavering."

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Jolson changed into a small compact neutral-colored rodent. He crept carefully away from his clothes,

scurrying and dodging, hoping he wasn't making waves.

"What the heck," said one of the pro-zombie men. "He's stripped down to the buff. Lett all his clothes

behind."

"Fear brings on strange reactions," said someone else.

"Screw you," thought Jolson. He changed himself to a local grass-colored bird and twittered for awhile.

He hopped further from the men, making sure he established the idea that he was a bird. Jolson chanced a

spring into the air. Nobody shot at him and he flew away in what he hoped was the direction of the capital

city.

The sign hanging askew on the dirty stone building said: Welcome To The Tenderloin. Optimists Meet

Every Tuesday At The Lighthouse Mission. Jolson had become a scrubby-looking dog and he was

working his way through the outskirts of town. He was wondering how charitable the social welfare

groups in the capital's tenderloin would be. If he walked into a welfare store completely naked would they

generously clothe him or would they make arrangements to lock him up someplace.

Maybe he could slip into a secondhand clothing store and sneak a suit of clothes without being seen. The

F. Scott Cutler role was too dangerous to continue with. Jolson had made up his mind to work out an

alternate plan. He'd tell the Political Espionage Office and the Chameleon Corps about it after he'd done

the job of getting the President to make an anti-zombie proclamation. He preferred working this way,

which was one reason for his complex reputation.

He trotted along the dusty street, keeping clear of the sprawled derelicts. This close to the street the

tenderloin had an intense odor he'd never noticed when walking upright in similar places.

A lopsided man with veined nose and cheeks came up and kicked Jolson. Jolson considered biting him

but couldn't work himself up to it. He trotted faster and reached the comer. Across the cobblestone street

was a vast secondhand clothing store with three entrances. Steamer trunks made a protective wall in front

of its time-smeared windows.

Jolson crossed over and was about to sneak into an unguarded doorway when he saw a man leap out of a

bar and grill named The Realms of Gold. The man flapped his arms and shuffled to keep his balance. He

was tall, in his forties someplace. His coat was a few years older than his trousers and his cap was of the

style that had been popular in the Barnum System when Jolson was in his teens. That hat and the way the

man moved, now that he was capable of moving again, added to Jolson's initial impression. This derelict

was his old hero, Jose Terranova, once Barafunda's greatest romantic figure. A prolific lover and

renowned swashbuckler.

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Jolson followed him. It took Terranova several minutes to work down the block and through the doorway

of a hotel which seemed to be called, according to its transparent door, simply Hotel. Jolson changed into

a rodent again to be less noticeable in the tattered lobby. He hurried up the swaying flower-patterned

ramp after Terranova.

The old swashbuckler let himself, eventually, into room three and Jolson dived in before the door closed.

While Terranova hinged over onto a military cot Jolson investigated the closet. There were no extra shoes

but Terranova had a spare pair of trousers and a pullover tunic. Turning back to himself again Jolson put

the old clothes on.

He stepped into the room and said, "Mr. Terranova?"

Terranova's surprise took the form of a brief grunt. "So?"

"I was a great admirer of yours."

"Good." Terranova had a large, sharp cut face with a strong, though fuzzy now, profile. His hair was too

long, tangled, and grizzled.

"I'm Ben Jolson, from Barnum."

"Swell," said Terranova. "How come you have my yachting outfit on?"

"I was ambushed outside of town and lost my clothes."

"Funny kind of ambush." Terranova shrugged vaguely. "Bring my clothes back when you're through.

They steal all your stuff around here anyway. I never take this casual outfit off anymore."

"I still don't understand exactly why you . . ." began Jolson.

"You said you'd heard of me before?"

"Sure. Jose Terranova. I read about you when I was in school. The time you ran off with the Princess of

Condominium A. The affair with the all-girl orchestra. The time you won the twin girl prime ministers in

a game of seven-up. Sure."

"I've had," said Terranova, "a little bad luck." Although it was only midday outside, the small musty room

had a twilight look to it. "Take a good course in accounting. That's the secret of life. Avoid lawsuits.

Don't ever sue anybody. Don't drink to excess and make a formal will. My advice to you."

"How long have you lived in the tenderloin?"

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"Few years."

"Do you want to go back outside?"

"No. I've retired from all that. Too much pressure, boffing every which broad. Too demanding. I live like

an anchorite now. A drunk anchorite. But all the same." Terranova looked up at Jolson. "Why'd they

ambush you?"

"The pro-zombie partisans don't want me to get to the President."

"You know," said Terranova, "that girl, Jennifer Crosby. I knew her family. When she was fifteen she had

a crush on me. Well, so did most all the girls on Barafunda. Jenny I knew and she wrote me letters. A nice

sensitive girl. I haven't seen her for lord knows."

Jolson sat down in the single chair. "Would she still know you?"

"Jenny? I suppose if I spruced up. But I won't. Not likely."

"Look," said Jolson. "Would you mind if I borrowed your identity. I've got to talk to the girl and the

identities I've been using are worn out."

"Borrow?"

"Like this." Jolson gestured at his face and changed himself gradually over to a replica, cleaned up and

sober, of Terranova.

Terranova grunted. "That's a good trick." He closed his eyes for a second. "You must be one of those

Chameleon Corps guys. Right?"

"Yes."

"I don't know if you can walk right in and see Jenny. Even as me. Most people don't know I'm here. They

think I retired to one of my plantations. So that part's no problem. But even Terranova in his prime had to

make an appointment and wait around to see a president. Except for Katy Beecher and I had to marry

her."

"Then you don't mind my impersonating you?"

"No. It amuses me. If you promise to come back and tell me how you do as me."

"I will," said Jolson.

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ChameleonCorpsChameleonCorpsByRonGoulart1.ChameleonTHEMIDDLEROWofviewscreensshowedahalf-dozenimagesofawreckedm\an.Restinghispalmsonhisbackside,theChiefstoppedpacingtheoffice,"Ican'tbuyhim."\Azeler,theJuniorChief,Jerkedhispaleclose-croppedheadinagreemen\t."Toopathetic,notheroic."Slouchedinadarkwingch...

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