She moved back, shrugging off his hand. "Phase ..."
She saw the movement in his face. The sudden anger, softening instantly.
"One kiss," he persisted. "You know you'd like to."
She laughed sourly. "You know that, do you?"
He laughed, the uncertainty in his eyes fading quickly. "Of course. That's why we're here, isn't it? Young girls like to be kissed. It's only natural. And you're a very beautiful young woman, Jelka Tolonen. Very beautiful indeed."
He made to touch her once again, to lift her chin and kiss her, but she pushed him back sharply, the palm of her hand thudding against his chest.
"No. Understand me, Lieutenant? Other 'girls' might well like it, but I don't wish to be kissed. I simply want to be left alone."
He looked down at where her hand had struck his chest, then back at her, angry now. "You shouldn't have done that."
Again she laughed. Who was he to tell her what she should or shouldn't do? She glared at him angrily, then made to push past him and go down, but he grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her about.
"You'll kiss me, understand?"
She stared at him, for that brief instant seeing things clearly. Here it was again. As in that moment when she had faced Hans Ebert in the machine, the day they had been officially betrothed. Yes, and as in that moment when the wall to the practice room had been ripped aside and the three assassins had burst in. To possess her or to kill her, there seemed no other choice for them, these half-men. Like the pure Yang they were, they had either to dominate or destroy.
Maybe so. But she would not acquiesce in it. Would not permit it.
She lifted her chin challengingly. "Are you drunk, Lieutenant Bachman, or just suicidal?"
His right hand was clasping her wrist. Slowly he increased the pressure on it, drawing her closer, his eyes watching her all the while, his smile brutal, unforgiving now. Slowly she moved closer, drawn in toward him, until only a hand's breadth separated them.
His left hand reached up and held her shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh, holding her there.
"Kiss me and I'll break your neck," she warned, her voice cold now, dangerous.
He laughed, unimpressed. "Oh, IVe heard the rumors, Jelka Tolonen. I've heard how you fought off the assassins that time. You're a real tigress, neh? A regular Mu-Lan. But you will kiss me. And you'll not break my neck."
There was a moment's softness in his face, a moment's relaxation, and then he tugged her toward him savagely, his face pushing out at hers, his mouth straining to find hers.
And then he was gasping, doubled up, groaning where her knee had come up hard into his stomach. Jelka stood back, breathing unevenly, looking down at him, then she turned and went down the stairs hurriedly, leaping the last four and barging unceremoniously past the couple in the doorway.
"Hey. . ."
Outside, she almost ran into her friends.
"Jelka . . ." Anna said, holding her arms and looking up into her face. "What is it?"
She drew herself up straight, then shook her head. "It's nothing... Really."
"Are you sure?" Yi Pang-chou said, concerned. "You look dreadful. Your face..."
"I'm okay," Jelka answered, rather too harshly. Then, relenting a little. "Look, it's all right. I've sorted things out. Let's go back now, okay?"
Beyond the two young women, their escorts looked on, not certain whether amusement or concern was the right expression. "Where's that randy bastard Lothar?" one of them called. "Don't tell me youVe worn the young ram out!"
"Enough!" Anna said sharply, turning to them. "Can't you see something's happened?"
"Too fucking true it has!"
The voice came from behind them. From the watchtower. Bach-man stood there in the doorway, one hand to his stomach, his face distorted with anger.
"You should ask the bitch what she's up to, leading me on and then kneeing me in the fucking stomach!"
Jelka turned, a cold, hard anger transforming her. If he said another word...
"She needs a fucking beating, that's what she needs, the spoiled little brat! She needs someone to knock some manners into her. . ."
"Lothar!" one of the young officers hissed. "Remember who she is, for fuck's sake! Her father . . ."
"Fuck her father!" Bachman snarled, then straightened up and pushed himself away from the doorway. "I don't give a shit if she runs and tells her father! That's the way of these bitches, neh? The least sign of trouble and they run and hide behind their father's skirts!"
If his words were designed to provoke, they seemed to have little or no effect. Jelka stood there, strangely relaxed, as if a weight had suddenly lifted from her.
"Lothar!"
"Don't worry," she said calmly, distanced from the words. "I fight my own battles."
"Jelka, come on, this is just silly . . ." Yi Pang-chou tugged at her sleeve, but Jelka shrugged her off.
She was half crouched now, facing him, watching him approach. He was clearly not so sure now. His hurt anger had been enough until now, but suddenly it was not so good an idea. Besides, a small crowd was forming on the steps beside the dance floor. It wouldn't do to make a scene . . .
"Ah, fuck it... she's just a girl."
Jelka's smile was like ice. "What's the matter, Lothar Bachman? Are you scared you might be beaten?"
Anger flared in his eyes anew. Slowly, his fingers trembling, he unbuttoned his jacket and threw it aside.
"Okay," he said. "YouVe had your chance."
"Why, you pompous little powder monkey!"
The reference eluded him, but the tone, cold and mocking, had its effect. With a bellow he charged at her, throwing himself forward in a kick which, if it had connected, would have shattered her lower rib cage. But she was too fast for him. As he fell, she turned, her whole body describing an arc, and kicked, the satin of her dress ripping, the hard edge of her foot smashing down into his shoulder. He cried out, but she was far from done. Savagely she kicked and punched, a kick, a punch, another kick...
"JeBca/"
She moved back, crouched, her bent arms raised before her as if to fend off another attack, her eyes flicking from side to side.
"Gods. . ." one of the young officers said, his face pale. "She's killed him! She's fucking well killed him!"
But Bachman wasn't dead. Not yet. Not unless four broken limbs and two shattered collarbones could kill a man.
"Kuan Yin!" Anna said, kneeling over the young man and looking back at her. "What have you done, Jelka? What in the gods' names have you done?"
Nothing, she thought, straightening up slowly. At least, nothing you d understand.
k'ano a-yin, gang boss of the Tu Sun tong, looked about him, then nodded, satisfied that all was well. His headquarters were four decks up from the Net, on Level 50. A respectable height for a man who, not so long ago, had had nothing but the strength of his hands and the wit he had been born with. He had bought and converted one side of a corridor, turning it into a suite of rooms, some of them interconnected offices, the rest—by far the greater part—his personal quarters. Between was one long room created out of three living spaces, which was where he held his meetings and greeted his guests.
It was an oddly luxurious room for this low level. The floor was carpeted and wall-hangings covered the bareness of the ice. A long sofa, made of ersatz leather, took up the whole of the left-hand wall. Nearby was a low table, and against the far wall stood a bar. To anyone born into the Lowers, as K'ang had been, it was impressive, yet underlying its apparent luxury was a basic shabbiness. The carpet was faded and worn, the leather scuffed and shiny in places; the bottles lining the glass frontage of the bar were genuine enough, but their sour contents had been distilled in vats not far from where they now rested.
K'ang A-yin, standing in the doorway, felt a profound satisfaction in what he saw. The walls were free of graffiti, the floor swept clean. It smelled good and in many ways it resembled those images of the Above that filtered down through the medium of the MedFac soaps. As ever when he expected someone new, he was looking forward to that first look of surprise in their face. Rubbing his hands together, he laughed throatily and turned to his lieutenant.