The Rising Sea

13

The room was sterile, cold and well lit. At the center, a headless body lay on a metal table.

“Male, six feet tall,” a Chinese technician said. The technician wore a white lab coat, glasses and sported a shaved head. His name was Gao-zhin, but he went by Gao. He was Walter Han’s most accomplished engineer. “Skin tone: Caucasian,” Gao added. “Obviously, we have no face or hair yet.”

Walter Han crouched to inspect the body. An odor of burned plastic came off the skin, which sported an oily appearance. “You need to run the production again,” he said. “There are imperfections. The wrong kind of imperfections.”

Gao didn’t argue. He wouldn’t, of course, since he worked for Han, but the look on his face suggested he wasn’t happy. “The body panels are very complex,” he insisted. “They have to move and flex like true skin and muscle. Even with the 3-D printing process and the new polymers, it’s very difficult to achieve a realistic, lifelike surface.”

“Levels of difficulty do not concern me,” Han said. “A blind man could tell that this ‘skin’ is artificial. The smell alone would give it away. But should one get close enough to actually touch it, he would feel that the arms, legs and torso are hairless. That the body has not a single mole, freckle or scar.”

“We hadn’t thought about that,” Gao said.

“Think about it now,” Han ordered. “Redesign the skin. Imagine it as an artist would. It should not be perfect; it should have creases where the elbow folds, occasional marks from age or damage. And, unless we’re modeling someone with a rare genetic condition, the body should have follicles.”

Gao nodded, making notes. “I understand, we will—”

“And while you’re at it, do something about the scent. It smells like a tire store in here.”

Gao looked appropriately cowed. “Yes, sir. We’ll get to work immediately.”

“Good,” Han said. “What about scalability? Can we produce different body sizes and shapes?”

“The layers of artificial skin and muscle rest on an inner frame,” Gao explained. “Unlike the factory models, these frames can be adjusted for any height and weight combination, ranging from four feet eight inches, up to seven feet tall. Once the frame is built, we use the 3-D printing process to make the body panels. We can even use one chassis repeatedly. Bringing it in for adjustments and new body panels, changing the head and the length of the limbs and torso.”

“Excellent,” Han said. “Get to work. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on the improvements.”

Satisfied with Gao’s newfound sense of urgency, Han moved to the door, pulled it open and walked through. In one quick step, he went from the bright confines of the laboratory, with its smooth, clean walls, to a rough-cut tunnel carved from dirty stone.

The passageway was dark, lit only by a few harsh LEDs along one wall. They gave off a pure white glow, but the dingy walls were wet with condensation and they drank the light where it landed.

Han moved slowly to avoid striking his head on a low point or tripping over a spot of uneven ground. He traveled onward and upward, passing through larger man-made chambers and then stepping out into an open area filled with natural light.

He emerged from the tunnel not in the outside world but in a vast, empty warehouse. Corrugated metal walls rose up around him. Dusky light streamed in through windows high above — half of them cracked and broken, the rest covered with years of caked-on grime. A stack of old wooden pilings lay unused in one section while a rusted three-wheeled bicycle that obviously hadn’t moved in years sat abandoned in another.

His arrival startled two pigeons. They launched themselves from the rafters high above, the sound of their flapping wings strangely loud in the open room. Han watched them fly around in a circle and settle onto a new perch.

According to the technicians, the birds had found their way in several days ago and had yet to find their way out. Han felt the same way about the mission he had undertaken. At each turn, it seemed more like a self-created trap.

He’d jumped at the chance to act as Wen’s vanguard, but things had grown instantly more complicated.

As he made his way toward the exit, his phone buzzed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled the slim black device out. No number appeared on the screen, just a code word indicating it was an encrypted call from another phone on his personal network.

He pressed the green button and took the call.

“Where have you been?” a voice asked him bluntly. “I’ve called you ten times this morning.”

The Demon doesn’t sound quite himself, Han thought. “My whereabouts are none of your concern. Why are you calling me?”

“To get what you owe me.”

“You know the deal,” Han said. “First, I have to confirm that your effort was successful. Until then…”

“I’m sending you a link,” Ushi-Oni said. “It will tell you what you need to know.”

The phone chirped as the link arrived. Han held the phone out to watch. It was a Japanese news report, indicating that the death toll from the blaze at the castle was now up to eleven, including three of the four Americans and the castle’s owner, Kenzo. Several others were still in critical condition and not expected to survive.

On the video, the reporter was standing outside the hospital, explaining that the cause of the fire was under investigation but that there was little information to go on.

“You should pay me extra for such a job.” Ushi-Oni wheezed as he spoke and went into a short coughing fit as soon as he finished.

“Are you ill?” Han asked.

“I was injured,” Ushi-Oni said. “But I’ve done my job. Now it’s your turn. I want my money.”

Han wondered how badly the Demon was hurt. Perhaps the fumes had burned his lungs as well. “You’ll be paid what I promised. But I’ll have to double-check this information.”

“Do whatever you have to,” Ushi-Oni said. “But I’m not waiting. There were survivors. I need to disappear in case the truth comes out. I want that money tonight.”

“I have other things to do,” Han said.

“Don’t think you can cheat me,” the Demon snapped. “Better men than you have died trying.”

The last thing Han wanted on his hands was an angry, jaded assassin. The money itself was meaningless but the principle mattered. “I’ll pay you tonight. I may even have another job for you — if you’re up to it.”

Silence for a second, then, “Payment first. After that, we can talk.”

“Of course,” Han said. “I’ll send you a location where the money will be distributed. You’ll have to dress for the occasion.”

“I’m not coming to you.”

“Neutral ground,” Han insisted. “The Sento. Trust me, you’ll see plenty of your old friends there.”

Sento was a form of the verb meaning to fight. But it was also the name of an illegal club and gambling palace. Casinos weren’t allowed in Japan. That didn’t mean they were nonexistent.

“Fine,” Ushi-Oni said. “I’ll meet you there. No tricks.”

Han wouldn’t need any. The Sento was an upscale place, hidden on the outskirts of Tokyo. It was frequented by high rollers, the young rich who wanted a thrill, criminals who exuded class and the occasional politician.

It was run by one of the prominent Yakuza cartels and there would certainly be other gangsters among the crowd, but none of them would have any connection to or love lost for Ushi-Oni. Their only concern was that nothing disrupt their business and, to that end, they employed a large force of armed men and other security measures.

All who entered were searched for weapons and wires. In Han’s opinion, that made it the safest place on the entire island to finish his business with the Demon.