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“Last I heard, it was being tested in Hawaii,” Paul said. “If they haven’t boxed it up and shipped it back stateside, Rudi can send it to us on the next flight. That should give us just enough time to buy our tickets and attach our little stowaway.”
13
HASHIMA ISLAND, OFF THE COAST OF NAGASAKI
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 . . .”
