Drone Command

SEVENTEEN

Feng jabbed the volume button on his HD television. The party music pulsing on the other side of the door was deafening. He could barely hear what Myers was saying. He barked an order at his aide, who rushed back out of the media room. A tidal wave of noise assaulted Feng’s ears when the aide opened the door, worsening the stabbing pain behind the vice chairman’s eyes.

Feng fell onto an overstuffed leather couch, his head still swimming with liquor. His aide shouted on the other side of the door and the music dropped by half. Better.

His English wasn’t very good. He didn’t understand the words “bionic” or “pancreas.” No matter. He’d have translated transcripts on his tablet within the hour. More important than the words were the pictures. Former president Margaret Myers was in Japan, standing next to the fascist Ito and his lapdog Tanaka.

The vice chairman raged. What was Myers doing in Japan? Was Lane sending some kind of message to the Japanese? Was she there to lend America’s support? Perhaps negotiating a new secret treaty?

Another wave of techno beat rushed through the opened door, and just as quickly it subsided.

Feng seethed. Why hadn’t he been informed of Myers’s presence in Japan? He swore. Another MSS failure.

Soft hands reached from behind the couch and began massaging the tension out of his neck.

“So much stress. You need to relax. Come back to the party.”

The soft hands belonged to an even softer feminine voice. A Thai boy, eighteen years old, pretty and fey. One of Feng’s favorites in his stable of young androgynous consorts.

“You don’t understand,” Feng said. He closed his eyes for a moment against the raging headache. The soft hands on his neck felt good.

“Who’s the white lady?” The Thai drove his moist palms deep into Feng’s shoulders.

“No one for you to worry about,” Feng said. “Just shut up and rub.”

“My pleasure.”

Feng opened his eyes just in time to watch Myers, Ito, and Tanaka depart the press conference. He snapped off the television and tossed the remote. The MSS was becoming increasingly inept. He would have sacked Huang Yong long ago, but the minister had powerful friends on the Central Committee.

Worse, Huang knew all about Feng’s financial ties to Mao Island and the ECS initiative, partly because Feng had paid Huang substantial sums of money to support it. Like so many other relationships among the ruling elite, Feng’s web of corruption extended widely, with each strand of the web terminating in a rope around the neck of the man or woman being paid off with dirty money. In Feng’s case, dirty petromoney. If Feng pushed Huang off the cliff, he would only break Feng’s neck on the way down and drag another hundred conspirators tied behind him. It was the Party’s version of mutual assured destruction.

Huang could still prove useful for the time being, but Feng was determined to find a way to rid himself of the fat fool. He never forgave Huang for not discovering his nephew Zhao’s killer. Feng had a blood debt to repay and Huang’s failure was standing in the way.

“My head still hurts,” Feng whimpered.

The Thai padded around to the front of the couch. He wore a brightly flowered silk kimono. He opened it. Nothing underneath but his smooth pale skin and swelling manhood.

The Thai knelt down between Feng’s legs, unbuckled his pants.

“I know how to fix it.”

Feng’s throbbing headache was soon relieved.