Unpopular Science

Chapter 3

James Sharma knew death. He’d seen death and delivered death, sometimes with a pen stroke, sometimes with his own bare fingers. He always thought he would recognize death when it came for him.

Three minutes before he died, Sharma was smoking a cigarette and standing at the window of his room. The cigarette smelled despicable, but it masked the stench of the city of Casablanca. Forget every preconception you had ever gotten from certain movies; Casablanca, in reality, was a hot, ugly outhouse of a city.

But some of the world’s biggest business deals were conducted here. Maybe one would go down within the hour. Sharma wanted to be in on it He had a suitcase full of U.S. currency tucked under his flimsy, lumpy mattress.

Two minutes before he died, Sharma took a call on his mobile phone. He spoke briefly in Langley-approved code words. The CIA had specific ways of delivering messages. He essentially told the operative that he was sitting on his ass waiting to hear from his contact.

One minute before he died, James Sharma spotted the biggest, ugliest centipede he’d ever seen, and it was scuttling around the floor of his hotel room. He tried to stomp it, but it shot under the mattress.

Yech, Sharma thought. Maybe that’s what all the lumps were in that bed. Bugs.

The centipede emerged from the other side of the bed and started up the wall. Sharma watched it as he reached for his vibrating phone.

“Our lookout says the store is open,” said his CIA mission coordinator.

“Shit!” Sharma said. “Why’d they open without telling me?”

“You tell me. We thought you were one of their preferred shoppers. Is it too late to get in on the fire sale?”

“I don’t know! I’ll call you.” Sharma disconnected and hit the number to dial his merchant contact. What had gone wrong? He was supposed to be one of the bidders! They knew he was CIA and they didn’t care— why should they? He had cash and he had a lot of it.

“Faizel?” he barked into the mobile phone. “You there?”

Faizel seemed unusually pleased to hear from him. “How are you, Jim?”

“Pissed off! What’s the problem? Why’m I being shut out of the bidding?”

“Because you’re dead, Jim,” Faizel said happily.

Eight seconds before he died, Central Intelligence Agency Field Agent Jim Sharma felt something drop on top of him. He knew it was the centipede, and then his mind registered the fact that it was very heavy. As his phone clattered on the floor and the centipede tightened around his neck, Sharma felt the cool touch of metal.

Some kind of a robot centipede? Didn’t make sense. The thing wouldn’t have the strength to strangle him, would it? He grabbed it and heard at that instant the high-pitched vibration of tiny spinning motors inside the centipede. His fingers were sliced to hamburger. He yelped and snatched his hands away, then realized his big mistake.

The thin tungsten centipede legs were unbelievably strong and micromachined to be razor-sharp. As they wiggled, they slid into Sharma’s flesh like hot knives into warm butter.

One second before he died, Jim Sharma felt his sweaty shirt become drenched in blood, and it smelled worse than the raw sewage on the streets of Casablanca.