effects. When separated, each statue glowed, brighter bands of light pointing in the direction of its two companions. When all three were brought together . . .
That was the main reason she had come to Japan. To find out. She had never had the chance to complete the set before they were stolen by Stikes.
Now, that chance had come.
7
D ressed in a cheap suit from Hong Kong, Eddie entered the Takashi building.
Scarber had provided the information he sought. Stikes was in the building right now, meeting the company’s boss on the fiftieth floor. The first obstacle he would have to overcome was getting up there. The penthouse – apparently the guy lived right above his headquarters, which Eddie supposed was one way to cut down on commuting – was only serviced by a single lift, which was permanently guarded. He could see two uniformed men standing at a set of doors away from the other elevators, and guessed they were backed up by electronic surveillance.
But that wasn’t the lift he would be taking. Scarber had also given him the name of a contact within the company, who could get him up to the thirtieth floor. That left another twenty, but one step at a time . . .
Feigning casualness, he strolled to the reception desk. ‘Hi, I’m here to see – whoa!’ He flinched as he realised he was talking to some sort of mechanical mannequin rather than a young woman, and looked round to see if he were being secretly filmed for some elaborate practical joke. ‘What’s this, Realdoll HQ?’
The robot’s response was to bow its head, then say, ‘My apologies, sir. I did not know you spoke English. May I take your name, please?’
‘Ed— er, Barney Phelps,’ he stuttered, thrown by the disconcerting encounter.
‘I’m sorry, I did not hear you correctly,’ said the robot apologetically. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’
‘Barney Phelps,’ he said again. ‘Look, no offence, but I’d rather talk to a real person. Wait,’ he added, ‘why am I apologising to a fembot?’
A lifeless smile spread across the robot’s face. ‘Thank you, you are expected. Mr Jiro is waiting for you. If you will please take your visitor’s pass, and wear it at all times while you are in the building?’ The machine indicated a slot in the desktop. Eddie hesitantly took the pass that slid out and attached it to his lapel. ‘Please go to elevator number twelve and exit on the thirtieth floor. Have a nice day.’
‘I might, if this wasn’t fucking Westworld,’ Eddie muttered as he headed for the lifts. ‘Okay, number twelve . . .’
He was the only person waiting; at this time of day, Takashi employees were just starting to leave for the evening. Once the elevator had disgorged its occupants, he entered and rose up through the building alone. The doors opened, and he stepped out into a small lobby area. Another of the unsettling robot receptionists was waiting at a little desk, but to his relief an actual human being came to meet him before it could speak. ‘Mr . . . Phelps?’ said the thin-haired Japanese man. Despite the air-conditioned cool, sweat was beading on his forehead.
‘That’s right,’ Eddie answered. ‘You’re Jiro?’
‘Yes, yes.’ He gave the Englishman a perfunctory bow, glancing about to check that nobody was watching. ‘Come with me, please.’
Eddie followed him down a corridor into a small office. Jiro quickly closed the door behind him, then pulled open a drawer and, hands shaking, took a holdall from it. ‘I will be fired if anyone learns of this,’ he said. ‘Or worse. Give me your pass.’
Eddie took it from his jacket. ‘What’re you going to do with it?’
‘I will log you out of the building. On the computer, it will look as though we left together. I don’t want to be connected with whatever you’re doing.’ He exchanged the holdall for the pass.
Eddie opened the bag. Inside was a gun, a Russian Makarov PMM automatic. Considering Japan’s extremely strict gun laws it
That was the main reason she had come to Japan. To find out. She had never had the chance to complete the set before they were stolen by Stikes.
Now, that chance had come.
7
D ressed in a cheap suit from Hong Kong, Eddie entered the Takashi building.
Scarber had provided the information he sought. Stikes was in the building right now, meeting the company’s boss on the fiftieth floor. The first obstacle he would have to overcome was getting up there. The penthouse – apparently the guy lived right above his headquarters, which Eddie supposed was one way to cut down on commuting – was only serviced by a single lift, which was permanently guarded. He could see two uniformed men standing at a set of doors away from the other elevators, and guessed they were backed up by electronic surveillance.
But that wasn’t the lift he would be taking. Scarber had also given him the name of a contact within the company, who could get him up to the thirtieth floor. That left another twenty, but one step at a time . . .
Feigning casualness, he strolled to the reception desk. ‘Hi, I’m here to see – whoa!’ He flinched as he realised he was talking to some sort of mechanical mannequin rather than a young woman, and looked round to see if he were being secretly filmed for some elaborate practical joke. ‘What’s this, Realdoll HQ?’
The robot’s response was to bow its head, then say, ‘My apologies, sir. I did not know you spoke English. May I take your name, please?’
‘Ed— er, Barney Phelps,’ he stuttered, thrown by the disconcerting encounter.
‘I’m sorry, I did not hear you correctly,’ said the robot apologetically. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’
‘Barney Phelps,’ he said again. ‘Look, no offence, but I’d rather talk to a real person. Wait,’ he added, ‘why am I apologising to a fembot?’
A lifeless smile spread across the robot’s face. ‘Thank you, you are expected. Mr Jiro is waiting for you. If you will please take your visitor’s pass, and wear it at all times while you are in the building?’ The machine indicated a slot in the desktop. Eddie hesitantly took the pass that slid out and attached it to his lapel. ‘Please go to elevator number twelve and exit on the thirtieth floor. Have a nice day.’
‘I might, if this wasn’t fucking Westworld,’ Eddie muttered as he headed for the lifts. ‘Okay, number twelve . . .’
He was the only person waiting; at this time of day, Takashi employees were just starting to leave for the evening. Once the elevator had disgorged its occupants, he entered and rose up through the building alone. The doors opened, and he stepped out into a small lobby area. Another of the unsettling robot receptionists was waiting at a little desk, but to his relief an actual human being came to meet him before it could speak. ‘Mr . . . Phelps?’ said the thin-haired Japanese man. Despite the air-conditioned cool, sweat was beading on his forehead.
‘That’s right,’ Eddie answered. ‘You’re Jiro?’
‘Yes, yes.’ He gave the Englishman a perfunctory bow, glancing about to check that nobody was watching. ‘Come with me, please.’
Eddie followed him down a corridor into a small office. Jiro quickly closed the door behind him, then pulled open a drawer and, hands shaking, took a holdall from it. ‘I will be fired if anyone learns of this,’ he said. ‘Or worse. Give me your pass.’
Eddie took it from his jacket. ‘What’re you going to do with it?’
‘I will log you out of the building. On the computer, it will look as though we left together. I don’t want to be connected with whatever you’re doing.’ He exchanged the holdall for the pass.
Eddie opened the bag. Inside was a gun, a Russian Makarov PMM automatic. Considering Japan’s extremely strict gun laws it
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