“We’re talking about Mr. Iron Man here, Fleshie. He’s not interested in your Oedipal complex. He likes his fetishes a little more hard-boiled, like me,” said Medium.
“So it seems.” The plug in Flesh’s back started flickering and making a chattering sound.
Flesh scanned the surrounding monitors with a quick flash of his eyes. As with breasts, he had hundreds of monitors, and they too were quivering, this time with lists of seemingly random numbers.
“Okay. All done.” Flesh reached out to one of the monitors. A machine that was evidently designated for writing data started whirring, and a disc popped out into Flesh’s portly fingers.
“Here you go. This is now the only copy of this data in the entire world.”
Boiled took the disc, lifted it up as if to look closer, and squeezed. Until the disc was no more than crumbs of plastic and magnetism.
The data—once the contents of Shell’s memory—was now oblivion.
“And the rest is silence,” said Medium. Boiled glanced at him.
Then, for the first time since entering the harbor, Boiled nodded.
04
“You must be growing weary of carrying those heavy bags around with you, sir. Won’t you let us lighten your load?” Medium asked Boiled as they left the room, as if he were sharing a particularly witty joke.
“I was told that there were five members of this company. I’d like to hand it directly to your boss. Judging by the size of the exterior of the container, there should still be other rooms here. Where are they?” asked Boiled.
“Ah, our boss is not at home just this—”
“There’s someone else inside this container right now. In the Comms Room just now I saw a record of the changes in mass aboard the container. There is someone I haven’t met moving around inside.”
“Well…it’s not that we’re trying to hide the boss exactly. It’s just that he’s in the middle of sorting through his collection, you see…” But Medium had accepted the inevitable and was leading Boiled toward another wall.
“You’ve got telecommunications equipment embedded in your heads, haven’t you?” Boiled asked, and Medium turned around, startled. “And those eyes seem mechanized too. You’re constantly circulating information between yourselves, are you?”
“Well, that’s how we do business,” Medium explained, and pressed the intercom buzzer on the wall.
–Have him enter.
The reply came immediately. There was suppressed laughter. A voice that evidently knew all about the exchange that had just passed between Boiled and Medium.
A section of the wall slid across, revealing the entrance to another room.
In the middle of the room was a man reclining on a leather chair, facing away from them. The chair turned.
“You’re a proper pedigree hunting hound to have seen through our gang’s little secret, Mr. Boiled,” the man said, flashing his white teeth that contrasted beautifully with his dark skin. He was of the same race as Shell, but he had an almost inhuman air about him. He straightened up with a snap. His hair was short and he had a tattoo on his temple. He stared at Boiled with piercing eyes that belied the usually soft features particular to his race.
“To be able to identify the leader of a pack immediately—that’s an important quality in a hunting hound. Looks like the Bandersnatch Company has found itself a worthy partner.” As he spoke, he swung his left hand from the floor to the wall. He wore a single black glove on this hand. There was a golden chain on the back of his hand that jingled as he moved.
It was the sort of glove that could be used in bondage. It covered the pinky and ring finger, but the remaining fingers were exposed. These seemed to be the important fingers. He flicked them rapidly.
In response to this movement a table rose up from the floor, a sofa appeared, and a cocktail bar folded open from the wall. The hitherto empty room was now the very picture of a prosperous merchant’s drawing room.
“Do sit.”
Boiled did so. The two men now sat opposite each other. Medium headed toward the bar to assemble some glasses.
“I’m Welldone. My friends call me Well. A nickname, of course. Everyone here likes his nickname. One of the tricks for getting ahead in the underworld. By creating your own alias you make it easier to meet other like-minded people.”
Welldone brought his hands together, the one with the glove and the one without, and grinned.
“The alias that I chose for myself is Welldone the Pussyhand.”
“There’s one set of parts that I’ve not seen yet. What does your gang do with them?” Boiled asked under his breath.
Still grinning, Welldone snapped his fingers. “Two dry martinis, Medi. Plenty of kick.”
Then he showed Boiled the palm of his gloved hand. “I collect them all for myself. Male and female. But I sometimes sell them. I don’t often transplant my collection onto myself. Reason being that I’m only looking for the one, and it’s only the rare and exquisite pearl that interests me.”
There was a silver zipper on the palm of his glove, and he unzipped it slowly.
Boiled watched with his unflinching poker face.
Behind the zipper, splitting his palm from top to bottom, was a vulva, lips ever-so-slightly apart. It was pink, and no pubic hair seemed to have been transplanted along with it.
Welldone took a finger from his right hand and slid it down the slippery crease, opening it up. Like another zipper.
A clitoris emerged from the top.
He tickled the red slit some more and it started giving off a shiny liquid.
“I’ve even got a proper vagina grafted into a crack in my flesh, so to speak. The urethra is, sadly, just for decoration. The owner—now, that’s a secret, but suffice it to say that everything about her was like a rare jewel. I traveled around the world for her, to obtain her, and the technology needed to transplant her. And now I have her in my hands. Or should that be in my hand?” He grinned.
The sort of grin a ferocious beast might grin, one that concealed a razor-sharp bite.
“My pretty little pussy cat, so tight and so sensitive.”
Welldone zipped his glove up again and received a cocktail from Medium, beckoning to Boiled to do the same. Boiled too took a glass in his hand, and looked back at Welldone.
“We don’t shake hands in our line of work. Nevertheless, we can raise a glass and drink to the demise of our mutual enemies,” Welldone said, and clinked glasses with Boiled before downing his drink in one gulp and placing his glass on the table. “Let’s take this opportunity to seal a deal—we’ll make your future contracts a priority from now on.”
Boiled finished his drink in silence. He then placed one of the attaché cases on the table. “Your reward.”
Medium collected it stealthily and took a step back from the table. He checked its contents and glanced at Welldone’s back. Welldone nodded without turning. Welldone went on to explain that all five of the company members, not just he and Medium, were linked by communication devices planted in their heads. “We’re each other’s eyes, ears, and weapons. That’s what gives us our strength.”
Boiled placed the other case on the table and opened it himself. “An advance payment and to cover your costs for your next target.”
Welldone leaned forward to sniff the case like a dog. “How many people?”
“One—although there are two PIs as Trustees, and the civilian police force will do their bit to interfere,” said Boiled.
“So why are you offering us so little?”
“Because you’ll find the target to your taste. Dispose of the target’s body as you like.”
Welldone lifted a disc out of the case between two fingers, suspiciously.