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Against all instinct, Bhatia let his body sag, and when he heard his assailant grunt under the sudden dead weight, Bhatia reared, then rolled right. His assailant gave a muffled cry as they tumbled to the floor, and Bhatia thought he had her for a moment, but then somehow she managed to wriggle free, roll onto her back; he felt her grab his left arm at the elbow and his kimono with her right. His kimono fell open, and she pulled, planting her left foot against his right hip. A tug, and then he was sailing, flipping over her head. The floor rushed at his face; he managed a tuck and roll, but then she was on him again in a flash. In another second, or maybe two, his shoulders were tacked to the floor by her knees, her weight on his bare chest. Then she laughed, a deep, husky sound. And then she did something more remarkable: kissed him so thoroughly his mind reeled.
“Miss me?” Miko Tanaka said. Her hair flowed in loose black rivers and he shivered, this time with lust, as her hair skimmed along his skin.
“God, yes.” Bhatia slid a hand beneath a fold of Miko’s kimono. She was naked and his fingers traced the smooth curve of her left breast. Impatient now, Bhatia tugged the kimono apart, and as the fabric puddled around her waist, he caught the scent of lemon and couldn’t wait any longer. Pulling her down, he moaned with pleasure as their skin met. “You don’t know how much.”
Bhatia’s Mansion
Noon, 21 January 3135
Bhatia hummed as he toweled off from his bath. What a minx: a woman who knew enough to slip away so there would be no awkward questions come morning. A terrific piece of luck, too—that night one of his informants reported that Emi’s little jukurensha had been a very naughty girl with one of the Peacock’s palace guards. The hapless guard was moldering at the bottom of a very long, very abandoned mining shaft. And Miko had ended up in his bed.
And poor deluded Emi Kurita, thinking she can play at a game in which she’s an amateur… Emi’s plan was laughable. What, marshal sleeper agents, the descendents of the original O5P cell that defected with Akira Tormark, eh? To her credit, she’d narrowed it down to a particular agent, but what made her think he’d answer her call? He wouldn’t, for a very simple reason: Because little Emi doesn’t realize that I had him first. Bhatia’s grin widened to reveal his very white, very perfect teeth. A double agent, yes, but the beauty of it… he’s really still mine.
Then he thought about the other, more cryptic message on Emi’s data disk. Junction? A fabrics merchant? Why? Naked, Bhatia padded to his bedroom. He saw that his lunch had been delivered while he bathed, and his appetite, roused from the exertions of the night before, roared to life, and he did nothing more for a few minutes than drink his soup and dip up rice balls and sweet rectangles of tamago.
When he was sated, he settled in for a good think. The message was addressed to a merchant, an importer-exporter of exotic fabrics. Nothing unusual about that, but the message was clear, brief and utterly indecipherable: Black goes well with a little red.
Black? Bhatia inhaled a mouthful of green tea and rolled it on his tongue before swallowing. As in a fabric? But black was the color of night and evil. And red was a bad omen; the color of blood and fire, of passion. Not colors a Keeper would choose.
There was a rap at his shoji, and an ISF agent—Bhatia couldn’t remember all their names; who could keep track?—entered. He cradled a bulky package in his arms. Bowing, the agent averted his eyes from Bhatia’s nakedness and said, “A package marked for your eyes only, Tono. There is also a data crystal.”
Bhatia frowned. “The origination point?”
The agent looked over Bhatia’s head. “Unknown, Tono. But the package and crystal have been sca
Dismissing the agent, Bhatia studied the package. Perfectly square, plain black plasticene exterior, with a combination catch centered on one of the faces. But to obtain the combination, he’d have to listen to the message. He studied the crystal for a long minute, then slid it into his player. The player clicked and then a voice seeped from his holovid’s speakers. The voice had been electronically distorted, but Bhatia felt his stomach bottom out.
“Good day, Director. I hope this finds you well. I, on the other hand, am more than a little peeved. Haven’t you learned yet? The only reason I let the last pup get so close was because, well, he seemed so eager. But then we had a meeting of the minds, and I told him listen, you’ve got to relax and not let the job go to your head.
“But, no hard feelings, and to show I’m sincere I’ve sent this small token of my esteem. Sorry, I know it’ll have taken a dog’s age to get to you, things being what they are. Honestly, you can’t get a good postman for love or money. The combination is… oh, do get a pen, Director, I’ll wait.” Bhatia jerked out of his shock, scrabbled for a pen. The voice reeled off a series of numbers while Bhatia scribbled.
“Oh, one last little bit of advice, Director,” said the voice. “Watch your back. You can be sure I will.” The recording clicked off.
No mistaking the malevolence in that voice. And that last bit about watching his back… There must be a clue in the package. Sweat dewed Bhatia’s upper lip, and his heart stuttered. But, in the next moment, Bhatia was cursing himself as a fool. Idiot, this was what that monster wanted! Bhatia snatched up the paper and punched in the combination code. Well, he’d see about that.
There was a tiny, metallic snick. The outer shell cracked, revealing an oval, gunmetal gray, plexipolymer shell. Another mechanical hum, and then the gray egg split in two with a long sigh as if it’d held its breath. Rearing back, Bhatia let out an inarticulate cry, something between a moan and a scream, as a noxious, foul miasma of decay slammed against his face. Bhatia wanted to look away but couldn’t, and the sight seared his eyes and skewered his brain like a red-hot spike.
The first wave of blowflies had gone on with their business of feasting upon the fleshy remains. But they had died, and the maggots hatched from the millions of eggs deposited on C’s eyes and in his gaping mouth and nose and ears and the mangled stump of his neck had liquefied to gray-green, gelatinous ooze. The agent’s hair had sloughed off in a black, matted mass and puddled along what was left of C’s left ear.
Gagging, Bhatia flinched away; the table jittered. C’s head lolled, with a squelching, sucking sound. The eyes were gone; the carrion eaters had nibbled away his lips, and in that ghastly rictus grin, C revealed another failing (beyond the obvious that he was rather bad at surveillance). He hadn’t taken very good care of his teeth, either.
A ball of sour, hot gorge rocketed up Bhatia’s throat and, stumbling back, Ramadeep Bhatia turned aside and lost his lunch.