Chapter 13 | The Emperor

The Emperor stirred in his bed.
He had not been woken up by the satcomlink- oh no, letting a stray holo-ad find its way into The Emperor's private chambers was grounds for dismissal for the lucky, ritual execution for the not-so-lucky.

No, The Emperor had been woken up by his pet terrier, Peony. She was wearinga a choker of linked diamonds, and sported a delicate jewel-encrusted silver-thread tunic. This was not Peony's choice, of course.

The Emperor's newest consort had gotten it into her head somehow that all that finery was exquisite, charming, and simply darling on the terrier. She had designed it herself, of course.
The Emperor privately thought that Peony looked ridiculous in all that sparkling superfluity, but he didn't have the heart to say no to Min. After all, she gave the best head he'd ever had, and coming from him, that was an extravagant compliment.

He sighed and stretched, luxuriating in the liquid glide of the satin sheets on his skin, but bored of them at the same time. He made a mental note to get Paulo to rustle up some velvet bedclothes later. The satin had become irritatingly perfect.

Peony barked excitably and leaped onto the bed. He did not move to reprimand her. He cared more about Peony than about most of the humans he knew, and some of them were his best friends. Who were, incidentally, more or less plotting his demise at one time or another, but respected him all the same. The terrier eyed him dolefully and setttled down next to him, absentmindedly worrying the tunic, more out of habit than real discomfort.
"Don't look at me like that. I have needs too, you know," he said to Peony, who was sprawled out next to his stomach. The terrier sniffed. "Yes, " The Emperor said mildly,"I think it looks awful, too."

A tentative knock on the door interrupted the conversation.
"What?" grunted The Emperor.
"Would you like your breakfast now, or later, your Highness?"
"Come in."

A portly woman in a smart suit entered. She glanced quickly at his face, just a tiny dart of the eyes. She had been working for The Emperor for 15 years, and she knew that he did not take kindly to being gaped at by the hired help. She relaxed- a little. The Emperor was in a good mood.
"What would you like for breakfast, Your Highness?"

The Emperor moved ponderously, propping himself up on the slippery cream-coloured satin.
"Caviar on whole grain rye toast, no crust, with butter, not olive oil, shark's fin soup- and a large Blue Pipe. And a komodo meat and ostrich egg omelette. No yolk. Oh- and send for the royal consort- if she's awake."

The servant bowed low, and backed out, shutting the enormous sliding teak doors noiselessly. When she was safely out of hearing range, she tutted to herself- softly. Nine o'clock in the morning and The Emperor wanted the most potent alcholic drink invented to wash down his farm-reared caviar. Royalty. They never changed.

Chapter 12 | Paradise Lost

1500 hours. New Kyoto. Date: Classified.

The General blew a tendril of cigar smoke out, letting it waft right into the Japanese diplomat's face. It was, of course, a the most polite way that the general could say "Fuck you," without actually saying anything. It was the human equivalent of a territorial canine unrination on lamp posts. Not that there were many of them around in the trendy cosmopolitan stretch that housed the General's office.

"I will not allow any mistakes, Mizou."

"Sir," Mizou gave a quick nod, "there won't be any. We have our very best agent on location right now, tracking the target as we speak."

"How did this happen, Mizou? How did this worm manage to wriggle all the way up to my highest in command? Those pinkskin detectives know where my nephew lives. Why is that, Mizou?"

Mizou refrained from shuffling in discomfort. "Sir, it was a coincidence. The mole leaked information to the Republic police. But-" he added hastily, noting the look on the General's face with great alarm," it's all been taken care of. In fact, the Emperor himse-"

The General got up suddenly and struck Mizou hard across his jaw. "Imbecile!" he hissed. "You call yourself a diplomat? You should know better than to speak of such people in the open!"

The General was breathing very fast. His face was flushed, and he was quivering.
Mizou, crouched, stone-like, his skin deepening to an angry pink where he had been struck. He looke like very apologetic gargoyle. A quickly bruising one, at that.

"I am sorry, sir. I spoke too hastily."
"Hastily." The General made a disgusted noise somewhere between a snort and a growl and sat down again. "Get out of here. And tell the director to send me someone with brains the next time."

Mizou bowed and backed out of the office awkardly.

Just before he turned to leave, the General called out to Mizou.

"Tell your director that we will give as much support as we can to his agent in New Shanghai, as soon as he gives me his intel about this mangy drug dealer that blabbed to the Republic police."


1500 hours. Los Angeles.

Detective Chad Russell sat down heavily on the park bench where he had spent many sleepless nights. The ring twinkled and gleamed in the fading sunlight, almost laughing at him. Chad Russell looked at the dipping sun. He looked at the ring, squatting like a bloated, golden toad on his finger.

Half-closing his eyes, he tugged the ring off.

It cried protests of remembrance, disguised as friction, along his finger, and rubbed his skin raw where he tried to yank it off by brute force.

But in the end, he won.

Eyes still half- closed, he hurled the ring as far into the green-gray sea as he could.

And it was done.

He walked back back to his chirpy, GPS-controlled car as nonchalantly as he could. He felt light and heavy at the same time, and he was not ashamed to admit to himself that he had no idea why this was so.

Tomorrow, he would brief Iris. God help him, he thought quietly.


0900 hours. Day before departure to New Shanghai.

Iris was feeling good.
For the longest time ever, she had slunked into police stations, head hung low, or been dragged there kicking and screaming, with the neuro-cuffs biting into her spine, searing pathways of agony into her brains. Today, she was technically a free woman, and was, most thankfully, not cuffed.

New Shanghai.

She had heard about it, snatches here and there. Good food. Great parties on the beach, only during the full moon. Islands of gleaming, virgin sand and turquoise, liquid cystal waters. Paradise.

That was the only good stuff she'd heard about it. In the cities, oh, it was different. Hell, yeah. Whorehouses squatted unapologetically next to the finest hawker stalls in the whole of the country. Entertainment dens gaped with their hungry, ever-open mouths, ready to swallow up the sorrows of the people, and numb them with sex, drugs, cable tv, and sweet-salty popcorn. Amazingly, none of these joints ever sold sushi.
Not even a decent smattering of sashimi.
Iris found it strange, but she'd also heard that the beef noodles there were the best in all of the Free and Marxian states, and she was eager to find out if it was fact or fiction. All these thoughts swirled around in her head, a badly assembled holo-ad, until Chad Russell lumbered into the doorway of the briefing room.

"Good morning, Detective."
Russell grunted in response.
"Where's Belugi?"
"None of your business, sweetheart."
Ouch. So much for being partners.
"Ah."
"Okay, Iris, its pretty simple. First rule of all is- don't get shot."
"Uh-huh."
"Second rule is- don't let your partner get shot."
"And that would be you, correct?"
"Yeah. Okay, next. Whatever you do, don't blow your cover. You're gonna be doing most of the undercover work. Abbreviation: UC. Got it?"
"Yeah. UC. Very deep, Bill Gates. Any more pearls of wisdom for this little adventure?"
Russell didn't even blink. "Yeah. If your partner's in trouble and you're outnumbered, don't be a damn martyr. Run. Recuperate. Call for back up. The worst thing that can happen is, both of us are in-"
"Irreconcilable shit?"
"Well- yeah. Let's just call it non-negotiable circumstances."
"Anything else?"
"Iris. You know what we're going to New Shanghai for, right?"
"Hmnn. Five dollar hookers for for you, and for me, dressing up like a five-dollar hooker so I can be a free woman again?"
"Uh- that's simplifying things- and I'm not going all the way to freaking New Shanghai for damn five dollar hookers, but-"
"Chad. I get it. We go there. I use my contacts. We find the drug lords. The elites, you could call em'. You use the muscle of your boys in blue. Drug lords get nabbed. I get freedom, you get a promotion. Yes?"
"Well-yeah."
"One condition."
Chad looked at her in puzzled silence. She was making demands now?
Russell needed Belugi.
"You- have conditions?"
"Yeah. I can be a real pain the ass otherwise. Want a demo?"
Iris knew she was being a bitch. But she couldn't help it. They were going to the land of freaking beef noodles. The least she was gonna do was to get a few free meals outta the police.
Okay, best beef noodles in the world. Here I come.
"Food completely paid for."
"That all?"
"Oh yeah- I'm not having intercourse for UC puposes."
Russell tried not to laugh.
"I believe those terms won't be a problem."
"Great."
She paused.
"Fine. Let's blow this joint, Chad."
Chad Russell was not falling.
He wasn't.
He'd fallen on the bridge already.
He cursed and prayed at the same time.
This was gonna be one helluva assignment.

Chapter 11 | New Shanghai

Iris woke up to the smell of synthesised bacon wafting from the dataglobe. It had been far too long since she had smelled real bacon, so it smelled pretty damn good to her. She rolled over in bed and realized that she was in her underwear.

She bolted upright, clutching the blanket to her chest protectively.
"Russell?"
Chad Russell stirred stiffly on the thinly carpeted floor.
"Yeah?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"Why am I in my underwear?"
"You were really sick last night. Jetlag. Didn't think you wanted to sleep in your soiled clothes."
"Soiled?"
"You were running a fever and puking your ass off. Cold sweat. Pretty nasty. You should lay off that spicy shit for a while."
"And- taking off my clothes helped...how?"
"It worked for me."
Iris leaned over the edge of the bed to glare at him.
"What do you mean, it worked for you?" she asked sharply.
Chad winced. That hadn't quite come out right. "I mean, it worked for me when I was a kid. My mom would let me sweat out the fever. I'd sleep in my underwear the whole night, but I'd be smothered in blankets and I'd always wake up better in the morning. Somehow."
"Ah."
Chad quickly got up. Despite her irritation, Iris realized that the detective was really, quite edible. His back was traced with muscles that rippled as he slipped a shirt on. Yeah, he cleaned up nice.
He turned around to look at her.

She looked away quickly.
"Well-thanks. I think."
Russell pointedly looked away as he spoke. "If I wanted to- ah- take advantage, I wouldn't have slept on the floor." He rubbed his neck absentmindedly. "It's not real comfy down there, you know."
Iris sighed. She wanted to dislike him, but she couldn't. He was like a big, well-intentioned, but slobbery dog. Well-sort of. Metaphors weren't her forte first thing in the morning.
"I see the Justice Department is being real tight fisted with the foreign investigations funding," she said, looking at the peeling walls and mildewed ceiling. It was downright disgusting.

"We're undercover. We're supposed to be low key. The Hilton isn't really low-key, if you know what I mean."
Russell started to make coffee. Nothing fancy, just powdered instant stuff.
Iris wrapped herself in the blanket and moved awkwardly towards the bathroom. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take a shower."
Russell nodded. "The hot water needs 15 minutes to get going."
Iris made an impatient growling noise and plopped back down in the bed, looking like a petite, disheveled mummy. "So, any food to go with that coffee?" she asked hopefully.
"You're not planning to regurgitate it anytime soon, are you?"
"No, I only puke on command. Like pointer dogs. Except I puke. Instead of pointing."
Russell chuckled softly. "Fine. I'm gonna get breakfast. And- don't do anything silly when I'm gone."
"Like what? Escape?" she snorted. "Please. I know about the locator chip you guys planted in me."
Russell was taken aback by this. "Oh. Well," he said brightly, "then you know better than to try to jump ship."
She waved her hand at him irritably. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Could you please find some decent beef noodles? And hold the chilli. It kills my stomach."
"You know, you're real demanding, for a felon."
Iris merely grunted at this.
Russell made to leave, but stopped. He took a gun out of a drawer and placed it on the dressing counter carefully. "You know how to use this?"
"Yeah."
"If anyone comes by when I'm gone, have this handy. Don't engage them unless you have to."
Iris looked at the gun disdainfully, like a jungle cat might look at brass knuckles,if knew what they were. "I don't need a gun to defend myself, Russell."
He shrugged. "Just in case."
And with that, he was gone.
The water heater beeped industriously. Iris threw off the blacket and picked out some clothes from her open suitcase. She trudged to the bathroom, and promptly screamed.

Russell backtracked in the corridor. He was sure the scream had come from their room.

He burst into the room. No sign of Iris. He glanced at the bathroom and after some thought, kicked the door open.

Iris was standing there, stark naked and terrified. In her terror, she seemed to forget that she was completely naked.
Russell looked away, with some effort. "What is it?"
She scuttled past him back into the room and disappeared under the covers.
"There- is- a- huge- fucking- spider- in the bathtub!" she shouted from the safety of the bed.
Russell sighed deeply.
This was going to be a very, very long assignment.

Chapter 10 | Assimilation

She looked around.

"This is it?"

Chad Russell nodded.
"This is it."

Iris looked around her. She thought she'd seen the worst in New San Francisco, but this was really something else.

It was too much, way too much to process at one time.

"This-" she paused, the fumes didn't allow her to continue for much longer; "this is New Shanghai?"
She coughed.
Russell nodded grimly.

"Russell," she choked, "I can't breathe."
Russell produced an oxygen pack, seemingly out of nowhere.
"Breathe on this for a bit."
She gasped and held on to the diminutive air pack. Helpless like a fucking newborn kitten, and she didn't like it one bit.
"Is the air always like this, in the Outer States?", she gasped, once she'd had enough oxygen.
Russell smiled grimly. "Honey," he rumbled, "You'll be getting used to a lot worse than thin air before this assignment's done."
Iris rolled her eyes and took deep, sweet lungfuls of the processed air.

"I told you, you should've been sound asleep by now. Takes the bite out of landing, you know?"
Iris looked at him for a moment, then scrambled to the airline-sponsored washroom and proceeded to vomit copiously into the toilet.
She returned weak-legged and broken.
"Russell," she muttered.
Chad cocked his eyebrow in response.
"This air? Killing me. Literally, K-I-L-L-I-N-G me."
Russell swirled his drink around.
"Iris?"
She could hardly respond, let alone breathe. The air seemed to be devoid of any useful gas, let alone oxygen.


Russell looked at her appraisingly. Sure, she was supposed to be a undercover whore at one of those cheap New Shanghainese joints, but hell- how could they continue if she couldn't barely breathe?
Ain't no way they were pulling those high spenders, high rollers; high class brass without her looks.
And right now, her looks were busy discharging the jetlag down the toilet bowl.
Russell sighed deeply.
"Iris."
She looked up at him briefly, and proceeded to discharge the precious little contents of her stomach into some unfortunate shrubbery nearby.
"Russell?"
He looked warily at her.
"If you and the DP don't quite mind- I don't think I'm up for much UC work tonight."
She chased this remark with a momentuous belch into a nearby bunch of hibiscus.

Russell draped her around his broad shoulders.
"Lady," he muttered," you're lucky this is our first night here."

He folded her neatly into a taxi, and they speeded somewhat bumpily to the hotel.

"Russell," she breathed, somewhat wanly, in the pedicab, "I owe you one. Major fuckin'. Favour. "

Daniel Russell smoothed a stray hair away from the porcelain face absently.
Partners, he told himself.
Partners.
Partners, he told himself, as he he stripped her unceremoniously of her clothes, and lay her down in the soft, thick nest of the hotel blankets and pillows.
He made sure she was tucked in securely before he wondered where he would sleep.
Him?
He slept on the floor.

Detective Russell had strange, heating dreams that night.

Chapter 9 | Smokescreen

Mr. Hiromo, or Sir, as he was known to lesser and unimportant acquaintances, leaned back on a lush velvet couch in Club Kyoto.
He was having a good time.
A waitress shimmied her way up to his table and served him his Bloody Mary, treating him to a superfluous, but highly enjoyable glimpse of her generous, tanned breasts. She straightened up and gave him a half-smile, then walked away. He watched her buttocks bounce away invitingly in an electric blue thong, supported by an awe-inspiring amount of lean, perfect legs. He made a mental note to talk to the manager about that one later.

A slim, compact young man snaked his way through the crowd. A passing waitress jiggled at him hopefully, but he wasn't paying attention. Nor was he interested. He scanned the crowd, waiting for each flash of the blinding strobe lights to locate Mr. Hiromo. He looked around for the table with the most amount of girls. Big breasted and white. Not a personal preference for him, but very much to Mr. Hiromo's taste, and usually the most efficient way to find him in a club like this. He narrowed his eyes. He had found his target.

Mr. Hiromo did not see the young man making his way to the table. He was distracted by the three girls making their way to the table. He smiled. The entertainment was here.

K noted, without surprise, the three girls approaching Mr. Hiromo's table. Predictably, they were all white, had huge breasts covered by impossibly small bikini tops, and were wearing g-strings that left practically nothing to the imagination. He frowned. Headquarters hadn't specified what to do with the girls. He decided to follow his usual policy. He felt a little sorry for them, and genuinely hoped that they believed in reincarnation.

The first girl sat down on Mr Hiromo's left. She was a redhead, with milky, pearlescent skin that seemed to glow in the UV light of the club. She smiled brazenly and traced a perfectly manicured finger from her lips, down her neck, to the pale valley of her breasts. "I'm Ruby," she said, as she started stroking Mr. Hiromo's thigh. She indicated the blonde on his right with a wave of her free hand. "That's Pearl." Pearl smiled vapidly, draping herself over his left shoulder and nibbling on his ear, with absolutely no hesitation. "And," she waved at the third girl, a petite Pan-Asian girl with impossibly large breasts, who had climbed on the table, "that's Honey." Honey proceeded to execute a slow table-dance, treating him to an unimpeded, exclusive view of round, firm buttocks and ripe, firm breasts, nipples barely hidden by a sheer white bikini.
Mr Hiromo decided instantly that he wanted her before the other two.
He took a sip of his drink and moved both hands casually, almost playfully, over the blonde's and the redhead's breasts. For a moment, he wondered where the agent was. As the redhead became much bolder in her exploration of his upper thigh, he found he really didn't care. Also, Honey had began to ease off her white top, and he was very, very preoccupied. He half-closed his eyes, blissful and wholly aroused.

K's voice cut through his reverie unpleasantly.
"Mr. Hiromo?"

He opened his eyes, slightly annoyed. The redhead pouted, annoyed that her ministrations had been interrupted by this stranger. The blond however, smiled, just a little too hungrily, at K and licked her lips. She smelled a new customer.

"Yes. Mr. K?"
K nodded. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
Hiromo smiled briefly. "Please, take a seat. Pearl, please keep my guest entertained while we conclude our business."
Pearl launched herself onto the table with surprising speed, and began dancing slowly, locking eyes with K. After giving the girls a few polite minutes of attention, K looked at Mr. Hiromo. "I came to discuss the newest assignment."
Mr. Hiromo nodded, still cupping the redhead's breast in his hand, and squeezing it lazily. "Yes. Your secondary target has been approved for elimination. Also, there are certain complications that have developed recently."
K remained silent. A shiny silver bikini top floated down onto his lap. He looked up at the table. Pearl, ever industrious, had taken it off, and was now engaged in a heated dance with Honey. K glanced at Hiromo. His eyes were positively glazed with lust. Now would be a good time, but it was way too open. It could get messy. Plus, he needed the intel first. Pearl wiggled her butt at him invitingly and proceeded to caress the other girl's ample globes, grinding her hips against her suggestively. K was annoyed at himself to realize that he was somewhat aroused by this. He cleared his throat. "Indeed? What kind of complications?"
Not taking his eyes off the girls for a second, Hiromo replied vaguely, in Sino-Japanese, "The man will be arriving with a female. They will try to take the dragon down. The girl will equivocate. She's the key. Whatever else happens, she must be eliminated. Apart from that, you have to make sure their operation here fails. At all costs. The stakes are higher now than they've ever been. HQ is counting on you to execute this assignment without any complications."
K nodded. "Anything else?"
Hiromo shook his head.
"In that case, may I suggest we adjourn to a private room where we can- get to know these lovely girls more intimately?"
Hiromo wrenched his gaze from the girls on the table with great difficulty, and grinned broadly at K. "An excellent idea, young man. Ladies, shall we?"

The girls got down from the table. Joined by the redhead, they all walked to the private room that K had thoughtfully booked beforehand.
Hiromo looked at K curiously. "From what they said about you, I didn't think you mixed business with pleasure. Not like this, anyway."
K smiled. "They say many things about me."
He locked the door behind them. Ruby and Pearl arranged themselves on a couch large enough for five people to sleep on, while Honey proceeded to pour everyone drinks from an elaborate crystal decanter. She also made a small noise of surprise.
She had discovered a pretty crystal container that seemed to contain a substantial amount of white horse.

"Is this for us?" she said, eyes large with glee. Her pupils were dilated, a sure sign of too much, too soon. She was breathing small, shallow, rapid gasps of air and her eyes looked glazed.

K looked at the box and took it from her. "It's for all of us."

He took the small crystal box that looked like an old-fashioned cigarette box and laid it on the lacquered table.
Hiromo opened it. "My, my. I had no idea you were- a connoisseur, Mr. K."
K shrugged politely. "We all have our vices, Mr. Hiromo. And I thought the girls might enjoy it." Apart from that, K needed them to be stoned out.

The girls took the first hits. They enjoyed it immensely, judging from their sudden euphoria and willingness to let Mr. Himoro and K do various things to them without any prophylatics.

After a while, K pulled away from them.
This was not what he was here for.

Mr Himoro took the clear crystal tube and snorted a thin trail of the white powder from the crystal box.

After a few seconds, he smiled. "Ah. This is top-quality, Mr. K. My compliments."
"Only the best," K said. The girls were on their second hits already, cooing like inebriated, glamorous birds. Ruby was caressing Hiromo's crotch with a
complete lack of inhibition.

Honey and Pearl seemed to be picking up where they left off on the table outside, this time, somewhat horizontally on the couch. It didn't seem to be entirely for his benefit, however.
K noted with irritation, again, that this seemed to be arousing him, and he toyed briefly with the idea of having some fun with the girls before completing the night's work. He dismissed it quickly. He could have fun any time, but this had to be finished tonight.
He looked carefully at Hiromo. He was now sitting on the carpet, at the sleek, low-set hardwood table. His eyes were closed, and Ruby appeared to be servicing him from under table. His face was red and shiny, thanks to the dope and the alcohol. With all his gold rings and the smug gold Rolex on his wrist, he looked like an extremely wealthy lobster.
K glanced at the two girls on the couch. They were oblivious to him, and clearly enjoying themselves tremendously.
Now seemed as good a time as any.

In one fluid motion, K takes out his gun.
He flicks the silencer on, a deft movement from his wrist. Practiced. A thousand times over, done, practiced. He makes no noise.
He shoots Mr. Hiromo in the forehead three times.
Pop, pop, pop, sings the energy bullet, three times, finding its target.
Each time, the bullet embeds itself deep in Hiromo's brain, searing his neural pathways with paralyzing electromagnetic shockwaves, causing him to twitch, invisible puppet strings pulling his limbs in a strange, unnatural dance, grotesque and beautiful all in one.
The bullets stop and implode.
The sheer impact kills the brain cells nearest to the bullet, and then those around them. Death moves through his brain cells like a very quick-blooming, beautiful flower.
His heart stops, constricts a few final times, more out of habit than a real will to struggle for life. His lungs, too, constrict.
He wonders, in the brief seconds before soft, silky darkness embraces him, why he is breathing, but no oxygen seems to enter.
His heart pulses for the last time.
By now, the bullets have imploded completely, leaving absolutely no trace of themselves in his brain. The electromagnetic debris from the bullets will neutralize itself hours before the body is found.
The most painless way is die is from a pulse gun, very like the one K now points at the girls still caressing each other on the couch. They did not hear the energy bullets sing Hiromo's departure.
Not bothering to reload, he shoots the three girls in the head.
He knows he will get the shots.

Pop, pop, pop, sings the gun.
He is well-trained, and his aim is faultless.
The bullets soar to their intended destination, like tiny, wingless birds, little ambassadors of death.

They do not hear the pop sound of the energy bullets leaving the gun's barrel.
The girls do not hear the hissing of the energy bullet entering hteirs brains, the nanoseconds of sizzling and the faint smell of bacon as their brains are literally cooked to death.
It is done.

He tucks the gun into his belt and takes out the nanobot med-lotion, smearing a generous amount on each of the wounds. Hiromo first, then the girls. The longer one takes to apply the med-lotion, the longer it takes for the nanobots to reconstruct the skin. After too long, the nanobots cannot repair the skin well enough to avoid detection.
This is standard procedure.
An autopsy will reveal nothing, as the nano-bots will instantly regenerate new skin tissue over the tiny bullet entry wounds.
A post-mortem will suggest nothing other than an over-dose.
It is lethal to mix low-quality drugs with alcohol.

Because K knows this, he mixed powdered bleach in with the top-grade cocaine in the pretty crystal box hours ago.
Hiromo was not a regular user. He would not know cat shit from top-grade white horse. K knows this; hence, the bleach mixed in with the white horse.

He sweeps the room clean of any debris he might have left behind. He walks to the door, and opens it a tiny bit. No-one around.
He opens the door and closes it quickly, melting into the crowd. His silent six-star hotel room waits for him at the other end of town.
The intel had been collected.
Hiromo had been eliminated.
He didn't know why HQ wanted Hiromo elminated, and he didn't want to know. This whole assignment gives him the creeps.
K is not a man who scares easily.
He decides to make a pit stop at the club opposite, well known for its girls, among other things.

The night air is humid and warm. It presses on him suffocatingly, like too many bad memories, like a baby with its stench of vomit and defecation and inevitable decay.

He looks at the bouncer, a tall, beefy man who looks North African. He flashes a card with a strange name. The bouncer scans it with a security data-scanner, checking for a criminal record or telltale psych-stats. His eyes are neutral, but they betray him with the slightest flicker of fear when he scans the occupation bar code. Classified, says his data scanner, in pixellated red text. He whispers into the door bitch's ear. She (or is it a he? It is hard to tell, under the layers of cosmetics and the dim light) smiles deferentially and leads him to his own couch, and table.
As if by magic, a girl appears at his table. She wears dark red lipstick and a sultry look in her eyes. On her back, the yin-yang symbol is tattooed. K stares at it for a while, then calls for the waitress. He asks her for whisky and a white knight for two. They never call it dope, out loud here.
Never.
Always euphemisms and nicknames. White knight, pretty lady, pewter shooter, donkey paw, kangaroo. So many names, all meaning the same thing.
The girl hops onto the table and begins dancing. K looks at her buttocks, firm, supple and smooth, bouncing to the beat of the music. He feels like he is underwater, and time has stopped. Only he and the girl exist in this moment.
The waitress brings a tray. On it is a bottle of the most expensive whisky the club carries, accompanied by a decanter of generic cola, and a glass ice bucket, shaped like a fat, oversized bullet. The ice in the bucket catches the dazzling bursts of white strobe lights and retches the light back out, making it sparkle like so many cool, large diamonds.
K beckons the girl down from the table, and pats the seat next to him. Her legs, flawless, double up as she slips back down onto the couch next to him. She and the waitress exchange a glance. K is surprised; it is one of familiarity and camaraderie.
The waitress lays a circular box on the table. It is metallic, and flashes disorientingly in the multi-coloured strobe lights of the nightclub.
The air smells like a jaded hooker.
The waitress places two slender straw-like tubes, both glass, with the club's logo embossed at the end of both tubes, on top of the box. She also places a smaller, square metallic box on the table. "Compliments of the manager, sir," she smiles, and indicating a small silver button in the center of the table, she purrs,"Just buzz me if you need anything."
K nodded. The waitress smiles perfunctorily and walked back to the bar.
K opens the smaller square box as the girl reaches out for the whisky bottle. "How would you like your drink?" she says, voice dripping with the promise of debauchery. How exactly the girls manage to communicate such a complex thing with their voices alone is a mystery to K.
"On the rocks," he says. His voice is flat. Not unfriendly, but sterile.
She pours him his drink, then helps herself to her own drink. She does not drink it like he does, but chooses to pour in a mixer. Her perfume is spicy, and makes him think of Jamaica, for some unknown reason.
The small square box contains a smorgasbord of designer and social drugs. Spanish fly, jack rabbit, rave pills, and so on. He knows that the club does not do this for all of its clients; only the elite few, usually, the very rich, very famous, or very important. Such as high ranking militia or government officials. Or assassins. Or the few remaining royalty in the world. He wonders briefly what his father is doing at this very moment. Perhaps, exactly what K himself is doing.
The girl's breath in his ear whisks him back into the moment. "Would you like to try one of the house specialties?"
From the girl's tone, it impossible to decide if she is talking about the dope or more carnal forms of entertainment. He knows what he wants at the moment.
"I'd like both of us to relax and enjoy some of this white knight," K says. He is partially aroused by the feel of her barely-covered breast brushing against his arm as she leans back.

They both sample the white knight. It is good. Top grade. He opens the cigarette container, cleverly built into the transparent glass table. Takes out a perfect, white cigarette, offers one to the girl. She accepts. He lights her cigarette for her, then his own. The tip glows, fierce amber, as he inhales, then fades to a warm orange, slowly creeping up the creamy paper, consuming the flawless cylinder of quality tobacco encased in smooth, white virgin paper.

The music throbs, so loud, he can feel the bass reverberating in his chest. The strobe lights assault his vision, blue one second, white the next. The girl has climbed onto his lap, and is treating him to a lap dance. Her movements are slow, sensuous, utterly erotic. Her skin is smooth under his fingers; warm perfumed satin. Her breasts are large, but not too large, and perfectly rounded, like warm, living fruit. Her hair smells of spices and apple shampoo. He thinks of taking her back to the hotel room, later.

K still feels like he is underwater. All he knows is the moment. He feels light and carefree. The evening's sins have been absolved by the mysterious power of the white knight, and the images of the three dead girls have been replaced by the living, almost naked girl on his lap, who is now caressing his nether regions.

He closes his eyes lazily and surrenders.
He lets himself drown in the girl's touch, lets his hands trail over her smooth, rounded buttocks, submerging himself in the carnal pleasure of her skin.
The music is loud and overwhelming.
He allows it to swallow him.
He wants to be swallowed, to be possessed completely by something other than conscious thought. The absence of it. Anti-thought. Was there such a word? His mind wanders in a place with no shadows, no light or dark, no logic, no absolutes. No gravity. He feels clean and unsullied.

She releases her breasts from her miniscule top. They are pert, rounded and inviting. She dances, and her breasts bounce as she moves to the music, head thrown back. Her hair spills back over her shoulders, and he gets whiffs of apple shampoo and perfume as she moves. He decides that he will take her back to his hotel room tonight.

He reaches out to the small, square metal box, and fishes out a jackrabbit pill. He wants to lose himself completely tonight; he is only halfway there, now.
She whispers in his ear; an intimate gesture, but she is only asking him if he would like to go someplace else.
He nods his assent and tells her to get dressed. She leaves the table, walking a little unsteadily. She has had quite a bit, tonight.
One of the club's limousines waits for them at a VIP exit, driver at the door.
He collects her from the waiting bay, and they get in.
"Hilton Royale," K says, before proceeding to lose himself in her. He does not want to think, tonight.

Chapter 8 | The Call

23.48 p.m. 11th October, 2253 A.D.


Kinsey fiddled with his pen for a while, ignoring Russell and Belugi. He appeared to be lost in thought. One could never really tell, with the inspector.
After what seemed like an unbearable silence (for Russell, at least), Belugi cleared his throat as politely as possible.
Kinsey looked up at them.
"Boys, I know this girl has co-operated, not to mention given us a goldmine of intel, but the fact remains that she has been trafficking- and according to these blood samples from the lab- using drugs for close to ten years.We can't just let her off scot-free, the other p.d.'s would never have it. Not to mention the press.I really don't want to, kiddoes, but I gotta give this on eto the Justice Department."
Russell blinked, slowly. The Justice Department and its prosecutors were not well known for their leniency with narcotics offenders, especially traffickers. She could be looking at a lifetime in jail, or if she was really unlucky, the death penalty.
"Are ya' sure, boss? I mean, she really helped out a lot- she didn't resist at all," Belugi said hopefully, "and she gave us a helluva lot of intel. This girl has direct links all the way up to the elite drug ring bosses in the East- couldn't ya give her a deal? Slap on the wrist, a month or two in jail, and a clean slate when she comes out? We need this girl to bust the ring- she's got the contacts."
Kinsey sighed. "I know. I wish I could, boys, but I can't. I'll check with the chief, but it isn't likely."

Kinsey fiddled with his pen some more. "Tell you what- you boys go get the reports on this girl done, give it to me, and you can take the rest of the night and tomorrow off. Paid. How's that?"
Belugi grinned. "If my wife were here, she just might give ya' a kiss."
Kinsey smiled, a thin, strained smile.
Russell remained silent.


2.47 a.m., 12th October, 2253 A.D.

"Send," said Kinsey wearily. He wanted this business with the girl over and done with. He noted with mild irritation that if the dealer had been male, Belugi wouldn't have been quite so eager to keep the Justice Department out of it. Intel or no intel.

His dataglobe started spinning and blinking. That was odd. The Chief couldn't possibly have replied that fast.
"Display."
A holograph advertisement for Lucky Belly Beef Noodles appeared in his office, complete with synthesized smells. Kinsey slammed the desk with his fist. Another damn-holo-flyer. He'd told Joey time and time again to fix the loopholes in their infocomm security system. He was going to have a few words with that young lady tomorrow.
However, the synthesized smells from the holo-advertisement were calling forth deep rumbles from his dormant stomach. They'd really got it down to an art, they had.

The satcomlink hovered in front of him. "Call for Mr. Kinsey," it chirped, in a disembodied electronic voice. Kinsey fervently hoped it wasn't another one of those phony property solicitors.
"Answer," he said irritably.
"Gordon, when are you coming home?" His wife sounded about as irritable as he felt.
"I don't know. Maybe in an hour. Why, is anything wrong?"
"The pipe burst. Again. And that damn plumber refuses to come until tomorrow morning. I'm telling you, Gordon, that man is a no-good, conniving little conman, and lazy to boot. You know what I-"

Krrring. Krrring.

His wife's voice faded into static noise in his head, as he wondered who might be calling him on his analog telephone line at this hour.

"-potatoes! Ate them all! Some people just have no shame, I tell you!"

Krrring. Krring.

"Gordon, are you listening?"
"Honey," Gordon Kinsey said slowly, "I'll call you back. I have a call on the analog line."
His wife fell silent. Her voice was hushed, and laced with a hint of fear when she spoke again.
"Alright then. See you at home, dear."

The satcomlink hovered back onto its charger as Kinsey picked up the telephone.

"Hello?"

His face changed from puzzlement, to doubt, then shock, and suspicion, and lastly, puzzlement again, as the Chief personally gave him his orders regarding the girl's case.

"But Chief...are you sure? Yes, yes, I understand...No, no not at all, I'll tell them in the morning, they've gone home already.. Belugi and Russell, sir.. yes...Thank you, sir...You too, sir. Goodbye."

Click.

Kinsey sat in his office, thoroughly bemused, for quite some time. After much unproductive fiddling with his pen, he got up, put on his coat, and went home to his wife, and their busted water pipe woes.
Perhaps he'd pick up some of those beef noodles on the way back. They usually cheered Rosie up, and he could do with something in his stomach.

He opened the hatch of his car and sat down inside, booting up the nav-computer.

"Nearest Lucky Belly Beef Noodles outlet, pit stop there, then home."
He leaned back and watched ancient cartoon reruns on the onboard entertainment screen as the car whisked him to the Happy Belly.

Chapter 7 | The Hunter

K surveyed the blanket of assorted weapons on the floor, gleaming like coiled snakes. As a rule, he didn't like using the weapons they issued. One poorly maintained sniper rifle could cost him the mission bounty, or in extreme cases, his life. K was not a careless man by nature.

He decided not to take the machete.
Not likely he would need it on this mission.
The crossbow. Ah,his pet. This little beauty could put in a hole in three men's heads, all in a single shot. This one was definitely coming with him.

The samurai sword lay naked on the bed, softly sensuous with it's slight curve. Its sharp heaviness was almost vulgar as it reposed, on the wine red silk bedsheet, silent, but menacing all the same, like an unspoken threat. He picked it up and examined it. Its ivory handle was carved with the code of the samurai in ancient Japanese, not the modern bastardized version that was an inelegant mix of Mandarin and Japanese. He had never actually used it to eliminate a target before, but one never knew when it would be needed in a melee fight.
He slid it into its ivory sheath, and packed the rest of his silent, formidable arsenal. Tools of his trade.

His dataglobe started spinning and blinking furiously in its holder. The target intel, he thought. That was fast. Even for them.
"Display," he said calmly, testing the edge of his stiletto.

The holo-projector hummed to life, showing him the mission objectives.
Now it flickered, showing the targets. He looked at the holo-projector's image of the man. He semed harmless enough. Just a run-of-the-mill law enforcement officer. Less ugly than the usual donut-guzzling variety, but that couldn't possibly be the reason why they wanted him out of they way. Well, you never really knew with them. He wouldn't put it past them.
He started to clean and load his chrome gunpowder revolver as he waited for the next target to appear from the holo-projector.

The holo-projector didn't show the next target, though. It proceeded to cycle through the routine mission info and finally, turned itself off after stating that there might be another target, female, but that was to be confirmed once he had actually arrived in New Shanghai.

K packed his bags and systematically began to remove all traces of himself from the apartment.
It was an old habit for him; one deeply ingrained as cleaning his teeth when we woke up and before sleep.
Like cleaning his teeth, it was a basic, and necessary habit.
Never, ever, under any circumstances, leave a trail. It was a mark of ineptitude and sloppiness.

Chapter 6 | The Gun and The Pendant

2.26 a.m. October 12th, 2253 A.D.

Chad Russell got into his car and tapped the nav-screen.
"Home," he grunted.

A smooth, cool female voice answered. "Good morning, Mr Russell. Destination: home. Approximate arrival time: twelve minutes. Confirm?"

"Yeah."
Russell felt ridiculous, as always, talking to the nav-computer. It just wasn't normal.
"Would you like to watch some television, sir?"
"No," he answered shortly. He couldn't watch TV or read in the car. He always felt like throwing up afterwards.
"Destination- home. Please buckle up, and enjoy your journey," the computer purred.
He leaned back as the safety bar snapped into place automatically. He closed his eyes. On days like this, he was glad to let the nav-computer do the driving for him.

The car sped off into the commuter tube, humming quietly to itself.


7.58 p.m. October 11th, 2253 A.D.


Iris got out of the car. The police department had traded in metal handcuffs for fancy energy field restraints a few years after the Tech Wars had ended. They were pretty much the same, except they didn't bite into your wrists the way the metal cuffs did. Iris knew this from personal experience.
"Okay, lady, lets move it along," Belugi said, taking her by the shoulder. "You an' me and my buddy here are gonna have a nice long chit chat."

Iris looked at Belugi curiously. He was clearly well-fed. Married, said the ring on his finger quietly, but firmly. He was pink, and his hairline was beginning to sneak back from his forehead, as if it was hoping he wouldn't notice. She guessed place him in his late thirties. His eyes were jet black, but not unfriendly. He walked with an easy, confident stride, despite his protruding belly and ho-hum face. She decided that he was going to be the good cop later.

Iris was being escorted to the interrogation room, affectionately referred to as the 'squealer' by most. She was sandwiched between Belugi and Russell. Bizarrely, it felt like a childhood trip to the dentist with her parents.

Mildly irritated by the ease with which Russell had tricked her, she studied him. He was large; (large being an understatement) she felt that perhaps his muscles should have their own postal code, seeing how they took up so much space.
She smiled to herself briefly at this thought. He was not unpleasant to look at.
He could have been a male model, back in the 21st century, when masculinity was still a requirement for male models. He had a squarish, firm jaw, with a boxer's nose and dark green eyes. She was quite fascinated by his eyes; they were dark, emerald green at the centre and fanned out to a burnt caramel colour at the edges.
Not bad at all. For a cop.

They had arrived at the squealer.
She sat down, mute, and annoyed at herself.
"Cigarette?"
She took the proffered smoke from Belugi and lit it herself.
"Thanks."

Russell was growing more and more uncomfortable. He really wasn't relishing the thought of doing his usual routine. Not with this girl.
"Ted?"
Belugi looked up at him, surprised. "Yeah."
"Could I talk to you outside for a moment?"
Belugi looked at him, then at Iris. A look of pitying realization spread across his face. "Yeah."

Iris sat alone in the room and smoked her cigarette. A hanging globe light swayed overhead. How unoriginal, she thought. One would have thought that with all the new shit pouring in after the Tech Wars, and with the extra funding, that the P.D. would have better damn interrogation tools than hanging lights. It was a little sad, actually.

Belugi waited for Russell to speak.
"Would you mind switching places? Just for this one," Russell added quickly.
Belugi stared at him, face as blank as he could manage.
"Sure. Eh- Why?"
Russell shrugged. "Just don't feel like playing hardball today."
Belugi kept his eyebrows unraised, with considerable effort.
"If ya say so, buddy."
"Thanks, Ted."
"Shall we start the party?"
"Yeah."

Iris was blowing smoke rings in the air when they came back in
This time, they brought her jade pendant and her gun with them, encased in little bio-gel cubes. Nice, but useless. Her jade pendant wasn't going to tarnish anytime soon.
She grew even more annoyed. She didn't mind them taking the gun, but the pendant was a personal item. Did they think they'd find concentrated dope in there or something? Like travel detergent? Idiots.

Belugi cleared his throat.
"You've been a busy girl."
She remained silent. No fuckin' shit, she thought. I don't get a salary on taxpayers' money like you guys do. Some of us actually have to make a living here. But she kept silent.
"Tough cookie, eh? Ya' won't be so tough when we're done wit' ya."
Iris raised her eyes to meet his. They were devoid of fear.
"What do you want from me?"
Belugi tried to conceal his surprise. He had anticipated her to be a lot tougher. He glanced at Russell, who took the cue.
"What's your name?" Russell asked, not unkindly.
"Iris Maisson-Ngay."

Russell placed the gunpowder pistol on the table in front of her.
"How did you get your hands on this?"
Iris remained silent.
"Lady, if you co-operate with us, we'll go easy on you."
She looked at him steadily. He suddenly wanted very much to be at home sleeping while Belugi grilled her.
"I got it from an acquaintance."
"What kind of acquaintance? Business? Personal?"
"Business," she said softly, now looking down at the gun. It was pearl-handled, with pure gold dragon motifs hand-carved into it, and a pure chrome-finished barrel.
For a weapon, it really was quite beautiful.
Belugi spoke up. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but the only people who have these gunpowder shooters are the Chinese Mafia."
Iris remained silent.
Russell unobtrusively motioned him to stop. He took over.
"Iris, how did you get this gun?"
The question lay in the silent, musty air, like an unfired bullet.
Iris weighed her options.
"If I co-operate completely and give you vital information about the narcotics ring and its major players, will you cut me a deal?" She paused, kicking herself mentally for resorting to the pity card.
"I -I don't want to go to jail. I want my life back."
She knew it was pathetic, but one had to play what cards one had. And right now, she only had the pity card left.

Belugi didn't even blink. "How vital are we talkin'?"
Iris exhaled a lungful of bluish-grey, top-grade tobacco smoke into the already stale air of the interrogation room.
"I'm talking top-brass-of-the-Chinese-mafia-vital," she said quietly, as blandly as if she were discussing groceries.
"Are you trying to tell us that you actually have links to the Mafia?" Russell asked, keeping his voice neutral, and as bland as hers.
"What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm not going to tell you anything until you guys cut me a deal."
Belugi and Russell exchanged a meaningful glance. Iris smiled inwardly. Score one for me.
"Lady, there ain't gonna be no deals till we get some solid info from you first," Belugi said, a trifle sternly.
Iris shook her head very slightly and smiled.
"If I squeal on them, I die. Literally. If I don't, I still die. In a prison or death row. I know the penalties for trafficking. I have information that you want. I'm not stupid, and I value my life too much to just give you the info with some kind of guarantee of a deal first. You cut me a deal, I give you the info."
She stubbed out the cigarette and looked up at them expectantly.
Russell spoke after a thick silence. "Before we cut a deal, we need some proof that your information's the real thing."
Iris considered this, tracing abstract patterns on the worn surface of the table with slender fingers. "I need to know what kind of deal you're willing to cut me before I give you the sample info."
Belugi raised an eyebrow. She noted it.
"Look, this information could get me killed once I leak it. I'm not going to tell you anything until I know what kind of returns I'm going to get from it. Protection would be nice, for starters, because once you start tracing them, they're going to know it was me that squealed, and they're going to be out for blood. Whether I tell you or not, I still stand a high chance of getting killed. Death row, life sentence or the mafia. Either way, it doesn't look good. I don't think it's unreasonable to want to know what you're willing to put on the table in return."
Belugi struggled with himself, and finally muttered. "Fine, fine. Ya' don't get jail or a record, and ya' get placed on the Witness Protection Program- if ya' need it. If ya' intel is good as ya' claim it is."
"It is," she said brusquely. "So do you want that sample info or not?"
Belugi started scribbling furiously as she spoke, his pen etching long gashes of ink on the creamy white paper. A few minutes later, he stopped writing. "That all?"
"That's all I can give you right now."
Belugi sighed. He had the distinct feeling she was enjoying this in some way.

"Right. I'll be back inna few minutes. I'm gonna check ya' intel, and if it's not bogus, we got us a deal."
"Is that a verbal contract?" Iris asked, her face blank, but serious.
Belugi rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah it's a verbal contact. What were you, a lawyer in ya' past life or somethin'?"
"No,"she said, still perfectly serious and still, "I just dated one a few years back. Taught me a few things."
Belugi opened his mouth briefly, then closed it again. He turned to leave the room, then stopped. "Chad, a word wit' ya outside, if ya' don't mind."
Russell got up quickly and exited the room.
Outside, Belugi looked at the notebook. "If this is just a little bit of what she knows, this girl is sittin' onna goldmine of intel."
Russell nodded. "Do you think you can get Kinsey to approve the deal?"
"Shouldn't be a problem. I just hope her intel checks out. I'm gonna run it through the database now. I'll come back once I get approval. Ya' stay in there wit' her and try to get whatever ya' can outta her."
Russell nodded again. "Got it."
He walked into the room, slightly nervous. He couldn't help it. The girl just unnerved him, somehow. He noted with considerable discomfort, that she was staring at him. At his hand, to be more precise.
"Are you married?"
Russell flinched. "No. Not really."
Flinging all social ettiquette to the wind, she persisted. "What do you mean?"
"What do you mean, what do I mean?"
She spoke slowly, as if talking to a small child. "What do you mean by 'not really'? I mean- either you are or you aren't. So are you?"
He looked at her, surprised and slightly embarrassed.Her brown eyes were not twinkling anymore. But they didn't hold a trace of hostility. They warm and alive, albeit with curiousity. The colour reminded him of the taffy candy he used to love when he was a child.Warm, sweet, sticky and comforting.
He forced himself to look away.
"Well- no, I'm divorced."
He fervently hoped Belugi would return soon. How long could it take to check the info? They were using the new optical processors, for crying out loud. It would take a minute or two, at most. But then computers and Belugi had never been the best of friends. Damn Belugi and his technophobe issues.
"Then why are you still wearing the ring?"
Silence, sharp and and painful, filled the room, making it difficult for him to breathe. Or think.
She looked at him steadily, clearly waiting for his answer.
"You know, it's funny, my partner asked me exactly the same thing today," he said, with a nervous smile.
She raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"Honestly, I don't know."
She nodded gravely. "You and me both."
Russell looked at her curiously. Before he had time to ask her exactly what she meant, Belugi strode back into the room. He looked very pleased. "Ya' intel checks out. So, what else did ya' have to tell us?" he asked, sitting down and offering her another cigarette.
Iris sighed, and plunged into the abyss. Here goes nothing, she thought.

"You guys know how the system works- from the elite Asian drug lords, to the regional suppliers, to the country suppliers, to area suppliers, and lastly, city by city, the individual dealers, like me. Each supplier is buffered by at least one middleman. They act as decoys, in case someone gets arrested by the cops and leaks info." She paused, smiling inwardly at the irony of this. "My supplier distributes to the entire region of East America. His supplier is the country supplier for North and South America, and he happens to be the nephew of one of the successors to the royalty of the Chinese Mafia. The Black Dragons." She closed her eyes briefly.
"Could I have a cigarette, please?"
Belugi gave one to her, lighting it absentmindedly.
"All the other dealers have at least one middleman between their regional supplier and the country supplier, but there was incident with some hitmen at a club, and my supplier's middleman got killed. His boss, the Chinese guy, he decided to do away with the middleman for my supplier, because he trusted me. "
"Why would he trust you?"
"I saved his life the day the hitmen tried to axe the middleman. They were after my supplier's boss- the Chinese guy. There was a scuffle, and I saved his life by fending off the hitmen. So he decided I could be trusted. Later, he sent me the gun as a thank-you gift. That's how I got the gun."
She smiled wryly. "Guess he made a mistake trusting me, huh?"
The detectives stared blankly at her. "Ya' shitting us."
Iris shook her head. "I can give you names and addresses, if you want. Go ahead, check them out. I'm not lying."

"So," Belugi said slowly, "this means that ya' have a direct link to the Mafia."
Iris nodded.
Visions of promotions and accolades were having their own cabaret show in Belugi's mind, complete with feather boas and sequins.

"So, does this mean I don't have to go to jail?" Iris asked quietly, allowing some time for the information to sink in.
"It's likely ya' won't, but we gotta talk it over wit' our boss first."
She nodded. Once again, her fate was in the hands of someone who knew nothing about her. She hoped their boss would make a better choice than that soldier had, during the Tech Wars.

"Wait," Russell said, "how did you manage to overpower and deter two professional hitmen? While you were unarmed, I presume?"

"I didn't deter them. I broke their necks. And yes, I was unarmed." She dragged another cigarette. "I was trained in the art of Rahka-riinju from the age of nine, all the way until my twentieth birthday. Weapons are not a problem for me. "
"Isn't that the banned Japanese martial art?"
"Yes. I'm surprised you even recognize the name."
"Who trained you?"
"My neighbour was a retired Rahka-riinju master. He noticed I started coming back from school covered in bruises and cuts from the bullies, so he decided to teach me the basics so I could defend myself. As I got older, I pestered him to train me fully."
Belugi seemed on the brink of laughter, but he shook his head uncertainly and asked her, "Why would an old Japanese man teach a a pre-pubescent girl a deadly, banned martial art?"
"He had a soft spot for me. I used to bring him cookies and read him his favourite books. He had cataract problems, but he couldn't afford surgery. So I'd read him his books while we had cookies and milk and he helped me with my homework. He always said I kinda looked like his daughter when she was my age. He lived alone, and he was grateful for the company, even if it was just the company of a little girl. Plus, he only started training me fully in the aftermath of the Tech Wars. When I was eleven or so.You know how crazy things were back then. He didn't want me to get raped or bludgeoned to death by those goons running amok in the streets."

Belugi tried, and failed, to kept the incredulity out of his voice. "You read him books over milk and cookies?"
Iris shrugged. "His cataracts made reading difficult for him. And no one could resist my mother's butterscotch cookies."
Belugi blinked weakly. Butterscotch cookies and cataract-ridden Japanese martial arts masters. Well, no-one could say his job was boring. He and Russell looked at each other. This had to be the most bizarre interrogation they'd ever conducted.
Belugi gathered himself. "Well, ya' gotta stay in lockup till we verify all of ya' information."
Iris nodded.
The detectives left the room, leaving behind her jade pendant.
She put it back on and allowed herself to be herded back to a holding cell.
It could have been worse, she told herself. A lot worse.
They could have laughed at me.
She wondered if they'd let her keep her gun.

Chapter 5 | The Bridge

Iris looked at her watch again.
Really, those kids were too much. They were three damn hours late. If they didn't turn up in half an hour's time, she was leaving.


Chad Russell looked up from his papers, antique fountain pen clasped in one meaty hand.
He had the distinct impression that his partner had just said something, but he had no idea what it was.

"Eh?"

Belugi sighed.
"I said, we should go check out the dealer the kid mentioned. She could still be there waiting for him."
"Yeah, we probably should. I'll be with you in 5. I gotta finish up this damn report or Kinsey's gonna have my balls for breakfast."
Belugi, who had a considerably active imagination, winced at the visuals this remark conjured up and picked up his coat hastily.
"I'll see ya in the car."
"Nah, it's good, I'm done here," Russell said, stuffing the papers into a creamy manila folder.

"Now Kinsey can kiss my-"
"Alright, alright already! Enough wit' the visuals, ya killin' me here."

The detectives got into the car and made their way to the crumbling heart of the city.
And the now-defunct Murdoch Bridge, which held a very annoyed young lady whose day was about to get a lot worse than she had ever dreamed.

Iris was playing a game with herself- she'd see how long she could balance on one foot before stumbling and having to put down the other foot.

If she reached the ten-minute mark, she'd get herself a bowl of beef noodles from the nice Vietnamese lady across the street from where she lived. Yes, it was silly. But she had to do something to pass the time till those idiot kids came. Having only reached the five-minute mark twice, she was determined to break her personal best of five minutes and thirty-three seconds.
After all, the noodles were very, very good.
Iris's stomach snarled tentatively as she thought about the noodles. She ignored it and focused all her concentration on keeping her balance.


"Hey, look at that. A broad doing yoga on the bridge."
"Where?" Belugi squinted at the rapidly decaying bridge.
"There. How'd you pass the eyesight test when you signed up? She's right in front of us, for crying out loud."
"Oh. The girl balancing on one leg?"
"Yeah. Say- do you think she's-"
"Cute?"
Russell rolled his eyes. "No, I meant to say, do you think she's our dealer?"

Belugi assessed the girl. "Can't tell from here. She looks normal enough, but why's she standing one leg for?"
"She could be a little funny in the head."
"Or-" said Belugi slowly, "she's been waiting here so long for someone that she's bored outta her mind. Waitin for the kids."
Russell looked at the girl appraisingly. She didn't seem the type.
Yet, she was wearing cargo pants and a trenchcoat. Lots of pocket room.
"Well, whether that's our girl or not, we gotta go talk to her."
"Wait a second. We can't arrest 'er without a warrant."
"We don't need one."
"Oh yeah? How come?"
"Because we're gonna make her admit she deals before we arrest her. If she's our girl."
"And how you gonna do that, smartass?"
"Pretend I want drugs.You stay in the car. She might get suspicious."
Belugi moaned.
"He gets to chat up the broad. What do I get? Recycled ozone and cold coffee. Sheesh."
"You'll live."


Iris noted the man walking towards her with considerable irritation.
It seemed everyone that walked the bridge that day was fated to annoy her in one way or another.
She had made it all the way to nine minutes, and she didn't want the arrival of the man to throw her off.
Nine minutes and thirty seconds. The man, who was roughly the size of a small mountain, smiled at her. She tried desperately to ignore him and felt a wave of panic when she realised that her left foot had wobbled. She steadied herself. Nine minutes and forty-five seconds. He cleared his throat and made to speak to her.

"Excuse me, miss, I was wondering-"
"Keep wondering, honey, cause I'm fifteen seconds away from a bowl of beef noodles."
Russell wondered if his theory about the girl- a woman, now that he was looking more closely at her- was correct; maybe she was just crazy.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Never mind," Iris snapped, wobbling precariously as she grew increasingly agitated with this annoying, distracting stranger.Ten minutes.

"Alright, what do you want?" she snapped.
Russell eyed her cautiously, trying to figure out if she was crazy or not. She had resumed standing on both feet like most normal people.
"I was just wondering if you knew whereabouts in this town I could get a good buzz."

"A buzz," she said slowly, "is the noise a bee makes. I can't help you with that. If it's a good time you're looking for, then I can help."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Russell bit the inside of his lip.
He didn't want to appear too eager, or she might get skittish and bolt.
"So," he said, trying to grin nonchalantly (and failing horribly), "what kind of fun are we talking about, exactly?"
"It depends on what kind of fun you're looking for," she said, with a wry half smile.
This girl was good.

He realised that it would take a lot of time and effort to trick her into admitting she sold drugs, so he took a gamble and decided to just ask her.
"Well, a friend of a friend told me that you sell fun in little plastic bags."

She smiled, and Russell found himself smiling with her, much to his surprise. She had the kind of smile that made you want to grin, too. She was pretty, with small, brown almond eyes, and long hair that fell to her waist. Her frame was petite; she weighed 45 kilos at the most. Yet she looked far from emaciated.
He guessed at Asian blood somewhere in her heritage. Intelligent eyes, he thought to himself. This girl is no birdbrain.
"My, my. How trite. Fun in little plastic bags. Well, what's your idea of fun then? Substance-wise, that is."
Russell looked at the tiny woman in tattered cargo pants with twinkling brown eyes and a cheerful smile. He was about to put her away, and he didn't like it one bit. For the first time. Not because she was cute.
There was a quality in her eyes that defied the world, and gave him the feeling that she wouldn't be doing this if she was given half the chance to do something else. She had something he hadn't seen in a long time- a sort of inner fire that burned low and steady.

"Well? I haven't got all day, honey."
Russell swallowed hard.
"Do you have spice?"
Don't say yes. Don't say yes.
"Does a bear poo in the woods? Course I got spice. Finest quality this side of town, at least."
"Could I see a 30 gram packet, please?"
He was subdued and felt strangely defeated. The air rushed around his head like the pool water did when he submerged himself.
"Sure."
She dug into a cavernous pocket in her cargo pants and produced a packet of the spice.

"30 grams. Tested and approved by yours truly."
She proffered the packet of spice. Russell looked away.
"What's the matter? You don't want it anymore?"
Russell cleared his throat. "I'm really sorry about this, but I'm placing you under arrest for trafficking and consumption."
Her eyes turned wide with suprise.
Well, there went her beef noodles. Russell read the girl her rights with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He felt even worse when he realized that he hadn't had the chance to ask her name before he arrested her.
The girl's eyes stayed wide.
Like two globes of brown glass, clear and warm.
She just looked out of the window and kept silent.
Almost as if she was meditating. Iris wasn't meditating, but she was annoyed.
She realized that the kids had most likely been caught.
That's how the cops knew where to find her. Probably explained why the kids didn't turn up for their dope.
She wanted to be angry, destructive, kcik herself, injure, injure sdsomeone, it didn’t matter who, just maim, rip flesh from the bone- ah, it didn’t matter anyway.
A fucked bird is a fucked bird, is a fucked bird.
As a good man once said.
She sighed and wondered if these two were going to play good cop, bad cop later.What did she care, anyhow? The game was up. Outside, it started to rain.

Iris smiled. She liked the rain.
Well, not the rain in the city, because it was mostly acid rain, but she liked how it looked. When she was a child, she used to sit on the bus and watch the drops of rain travel down the glass window next to her. She had invented a game, where she'd try to guess where the raindrop on the window would end up. 4 out of five times, she'd be wrong.
She watched the raindrops glide down the tinted car windows, serpentine liquid gems illuminated by the traffic light.
Rubies when the light was red, emeralds as it turned green and diamonds of the streetlights after the car passed the traffic lights.
The memories of her childhood faded back to dusty oblivion as she closed her eyes.
She knew she wasn't going to get much sleep in lockup.

Chapter 4 | K

The young man picked up the telephone. He preferred these archaic communication devices to their modern cousins. For one, they were less intrusive than the satcomlink, which would even hover into the bathroom when you were taking a shower. And half the time, it would be sales solicitors trying to get you to purchase fictitious property deeds.The second thing K liked about the the telephone was the privacy it offered; telephones couldn't be traced and tapped; at least not within a fraction of a second like the satcomlink could.

"Hello?"
The voice on the line was calm, yet authoritative.
"We have good news for you."
K remained silent.
He had never actually heard good news follow this statement, when coming from them.

"We'd like you to come to Kyoto for a full briefing."
"Is that so?"
Silence.
"This is a high importance level intelligence and elimination assignment. You will be briefed further regarding targets, objectives and mission contraband upon your arrival in Kyoto. Please find your equipment in safe #657-A3, Banque Credite le Suisse, Kyoto. ID is K-1437. Have a good day, agent."

Have a good day. That never failed to crack him up.

Seconds later, K's wireless dataglobe started spinning and blinking furiously. The game plan had arrived, it seemed.
He perused the information pensively.

"New Shanghai!" he shouted. "A fucking double hit in fucking New Shanghai! No wonder they didn't tell me on the phone!"

He paused.

"Bastards," he said, to no one in particular.

K sighed.
He walked towards his open drawer, which was always ready for such moments.
He took out a small packet of unidentifiable white powder, which would show up as standard talcum powder under chemical analysis, thanks to the ingenuity and generously-funded research of its creators.
He arranged a line of powder on the Belgian-cut crystal table's surface.

It lay there, snakelike and inert.

He took a small cocktail straw in his hand and did the necessary.
Necessary, in his line.
Killing for money. Blood money.
It left gaping pyschic wounds, which had to be closed somehow.
Drugs, girls, alcohol- somehow it seemed there was never enough to wash his conscience's memory clean, or to wipe away the bloodstained mental Polaroids from his head.He sat back and relaxed.
For now, he was in a world without guilt.
His hands were clean, and he was free of gravity, physical and ethical. He wondered idly, as he often did, if the few others like him had the same problem.
Probably, he thought, as he laid another snakelike line of the white powder on the sparkling crystal surface.
Probably.

Chapter 3 | Detective Chad Russell

Detective Russell grabbed the kid's collar and yanked him to his feet unceremoniously.

His partner idly assessed his own fingernails. "Ya know, kid, he's gonna be like this until ya tell him who the dealer is. And trust me, he ain't even angry yet."

The kid squirmed visibly. He could actually see a tiny vein in Russell's head throbbing. He watched it, somewhat like a rabbit mesmerized by headlights.

"Kid," Russell growled,"you gonna talk or do I have ta make ya?"
The kid finally gave in.
"Yeah," he muttered, "I'll talk."

Russell attempted a smile. His partner, Belugi, got up and whipped out a leather-bound notebook. "Okay, kid, you wannna talk? I'm all ears."
Head hung low, the kid talked. He told everything. About the other kids, about the parties, the dope, the strippers, everything.
Russell frowned. "Kid, you left something out."

The preppy college kid squirmed again.
He'd hoped they would forget.
"I-I- yeah, uh, and the dealer...Her name is Iris. I don't know where she lives- I don't- but...you can usually find her hanging around Murdoch Bridge. When she's dealing. Yeah."

Russell reached into his pocket and took out a pair of keys.

"Are those my car keys?"
Russell grunted non-comittally. Belugi answered the kid.
"Yeah, they're your keys. For now, you're free to go. But do us all a favour, eh? Keep ya nose clean."

The kid nodded fervently and bolted for the door.
Russell grunted again as the armed officer escorted the kid to the safety of his shiny Japanese sports car.

"These kids. They go to these parties, they get busted and squeal on all their pals, and 3 months later, they're back at the parties again."
Belugi nodded.
"Don't see what they got to celebrate, anyway."
"We never needed a reason to celebrate when we were kids."
Belugi grinned broadly. "Oh no, buddy- ya got it wrong. The girls were reason enough to celebrate."

He shook his head. "They just don't make em' like they used to."
Russell thought of her momentarily, and sighed inwardly. "They get it right now and then."
His partner eyed him carefully.
Ted Belugi had been Chad Russell's partner in the PD for seven years and counting. He'd learned how to read the big man like a kid's book.
"Buddy, you're not talkin' about who I think ya' talkin' about, are ya?" he asked gruffly.
"Of course not," Russell said, suspiciously nonchalant.
"Why would I be talking about Marie? Or even thinking about her?"
Belugi looked pointedly at the superfluous wedding band still on Russell's finger.
"I dunno. Same reason maybe ya still got that ring on ya finger?"
Russell chose that moment to busy himself with paperwork that had seemingly materialized out of thin air.
Belugi shook his head .
Chad, Chad.
Toughest cop in the country, but a sucker when it came to women. Certain women, in particular.

Chapter 2 | Iris

Iris Maisson-Ngay looked at her watch.

Where the hell were those damn kids? She reached for the package, and felt reassured by its weight. It was there, all right. There was little to do now but wait. She watched the occasional passer by with detached interest. A young couple, well dressed, and probably better paid than her, arms linked. Talking in low tones to each other. The woman stopped suddenly and bent down to examine something on the ground.

It was a lotus; not the pure pond variety, but the urban strain, the type that could grow out of a pile of defecation on the concrete pavement and live on nothing but sunlight and moisture in the air. The woman plucked the lotus, breaking its smooth, slender green neck with ease. The couple resumed their stroll, with the lotus now in the woman's hand.Iris felt a pinprick of anger. What the hell did she have to do that for? Couldn't she afford to buy her own damn lotus from the market? The flowers growing out of decayed buildings and the cracks of pavements were one of the few things that made the city bearable. Their colourful oblivion to the ugliness around them was a miracle, and Iris loved them.

The bitch had plucked the only damn lotus growing on the mouldy, graffiti-blanketed bridge.
She would probably bring it back to her ludicrously expensive apartment and put it in a pretty vase that cost the equivalent of a month's food supplies.
And a week later, the lotus would die and decompose, just like the rest of the city.

How Iris hated the city.

Everything was metal, cement, and plastic. The buildings were made out of supercompressed garbage. Sure, nanobots changed the chemical compounds so that it looked (and smelled) like normal plastic, but it was still garbage, nanobot-treated or not. Building walls were generally mildewed and mould-eaten, and the subways were death traps of druggies, street gangs, rapists and thieves. And all of them were always armed, thanks to the lift on the firearms ban. The streets were no better, though.
There weren't any trees except for those stupid holographic things protected by fibreglass casings. Half the time, they didn't even work, and you'd see a bunch of holographic branches floating in midair with no trunk.
She thought they were funny the first few times, but after a while they were just plain annoying.
The spic cowboys ruled the streets, dividing the city into sectors based on their family clans. Everyone had to pay the cowboys protection credits.
She got a discount from the spics, because a drugged out kid is easier to intimidate than an alert, non-drugged out kid, but she still had to pay the protection credits anyway. Not paying could mean two things: for a man, a long lesson in physical pain, and for a woman, rape. Somehow, the cops didn't see this, or the hookers soliciting in broad daylight, but they saw the dealers like her.

Iris looked at her watch again. Still not here.
The kids in question were real goofs, preppy college type boys who had thought she was part of the dope package, until she took out a fully loaded, old-school gunpowder pistol and cocked it, just a gentle reminder that she was running a business here, not a brothel.
The stuff she sold wasn't any of the hard-hitting stuff that could turn you into a basket case. Well, except maybe for the coke.
It was financial suicide not to stock coke in her inventory. Just like the cola of the same name, coke never lost its appeal with the masses though time. She had mostly designer stuff. Rave pills, a few amphetamines, good old k, and social dope. Social dope was the hottest thing with upper-class teenagers at the moment.
She stocked a new version of the old classic, Spanish fly, which made chicks go mad for sex with just about anyone. It was now called Tabasco, named after the now-extinct condiment from the early 20's and the 20th century. For the guys, she stocked jackrabbit, which could make the average erection last from an hour to three. This, too, was one of her bestsellers. The last staple of her inventory was another 20th century hit: grass.
Though most people called it spice, nowadays. Iris occasionally used some of her own stuff. Usually the grass and very, very rarely, the coke. She was really careful with the coke. She had seen her best friend die after snorting 15 grams of coke at one sitting, and had never managed to force herself to forget the awful bluish-purple tinge of Lane's lips after the third hit in a row, her last hit.
And that had been while Lane was still breathing.
As a rule, Iris never sold more than 10 grams to anyone at a time. If she had to sell it to kids, like today's goons, she'd cut it up with mixers.
She smiled to herself.
What an oxymoron.
The drug dealer with a conscience.

Chapter 1 | The Diplomat

DeGatto sat down in front of the general. He noticed, with slight annoyance, that the seat of his chair was much closer to the ground than The General's.

Just one of the many subtle ways the Chinese used to flip you the middle finger without actually doing a thing.

He took a sip of the green tea thoughtfully provided for him, watched the steam chase itself into nothing in the static dryness of the machine-cooled air.

The General cleared his throat. "Mr DeGatto, I trust your superiors have considered the proposal we have drawn up. Did they find it to their agreement?"

DeGatto licked his lips. He didn't like it, but he had his orders. Decision-making, now, that was for the big guns; he was just the messenger.
"The President has already ratified the treaty, as have all the other nations in the Democrat bloc. Enforcement may now commence without delay."

The general smiled, a thin-lipped smile that failed to reach his eyes.
"Sometimes, my friend, a few pawns must be sacrificed in order to keep the king in his castle. Do you not agree, worthy ambassador?"
DeGatto's countenance remained impassive. "I don't play chess, general."

The general smiled again.

DeGatto shifted slightly in his seat. He had never really liked the Chinese to begin with, and he liked them even less after the Tech Wars. They'd smile and serve you enough tea to drown in and ply you with niceties, all the while waiting for the poison in your tea to take effect.

"Always the quiet ones."
The General looked politely puzzled. "I beg your pardon, Mr. DeGatto?"
DeGatto winced inwardly. He'd actually thought aloud. Again.
"My apologies, General Lee. Just an old habit of thinking aloud."
The General nodded.

"Admirable General, I think our business here is done. I leave with the humble good wishes of the President. May you and your house have wealth and longevity, and prosper for a thousand years." He concluded the standard diplomatic farewell with a curt bow and left the office abruptly.

The General picked up his comlink unit and started the day's work. "Miss Ho. Send a message to the half-breed. Tell him it's urgent. We have a fresh assignment for him- New Shanghai."