Delivering His Heir Page 2

  “You have… a condition,” the doctor says. “I suppose I should explain.”

  Su Lin

  The streets of Beijing are not the ideal place for a twenty four year old woman to be at three in the morning. Then again, I don’t really have a choice. With my height, my pale skin, and green eyes that I inherited from my father, working in a bar is just about the only job I can find, and bars don’t close up at ten in the evening.

  It’s not like I’m stupid, despite what some of the local prejudices about girls like me may say. I have a degree in economics with a minor in English. But I wasn’t able to get in with any of the major companies in Beijing, who all looked at me and made a couple of assumptions. Sadly, they’re the same assumptions that I’ve had to face my entire life. Dumb and down to fuck are two of the biggest.

  “Hey baby, you looking for a late night date?” some guy asks from an alcove just ahead of me. I keep going, pulling my jacket tighter. While I’ve taken years of wushu, part of my mother’s intent to try and make me seem more Chinese, I know the odds. He’s bigger, and unless he’s drunk, probably stronger. I’m in a tight dress and high heels, and this isn’t The Matrix.

  “Not interested,” I tell him, hoping that he’s not going to make an issue of it. I get a closer look, and see that he’s Chen, one of the frequent patrons of the bar. I inwardly cringe, wishing that it was just about anyone else. Chen’s the sort of guy who spends most of his time as some sort of corporate warrior, like the Japanese used to do back in the eighties. He most likely slaves away at his desk from eight in the morning until he gets off work to come hit on me and the other bar girls. “Go home, Chen.”

  “Why? It’s Friday night baby,” Chen says, stumbling slightly as he steps down from the alcove. I’d served Chen tonight, he seems to have decided that I’m his favorite of the servers at the bar. Too bad he tips like shit. “I’ve got all weekend to enjoy myself.”

  “Then go enjoy it starting at home,” I reply, walking off. I hear Chen’s footsteps after a moment, and I reach into my jacket pocket. While guns and lots of other weapons are illegal here in the People’s Republic of China, that doesn’t mean that I’m helpless. Besides my wushu skills, which I don’t want to turn to, I have an old bar girl trick in my pocket, a paper packet filled with crushed, ground chilis that’s nearly as effective as pepper spray.

  Chen reaches and grabs my right shoulder and I strike, flashing backwards with a hammerfist before my left hand throws the powder packet. It hits him directly between the eyes, a cloud of deep red appearing in the neon lights of the few signs still on. Chen breathes in by reflex before coughing, rubbing at his eyes and making the burning even worse. I dodge out of his way, scampering off as fast as my high heels can take me, turning the corner and seeing a taxi. They’re expensive at this time of night, but I don’t have far to go, so I decide to swallow the fifteen yuan fare.

  The building is silent when I get out, not that I expected any different. Taking my key out, I unlock the door and go into the lobby. At least it’s better than where we used to live, I had to walk up eight floors there. Taking the elevator up, my exhaustion drops over me like a heavy blanket and I almost stagger into the apartment, condo, whatever you want to call it. My bedroom’s the second on the left, and I barely have enough energy left to get my shoes off before I collapse into it, asleep.

  “Su-Lin!”

  It feels like I’ve only been asleep for a few minutes, but a glance at my clock tells me it’s nearly noon, and by the strident anger in the voice in the main room of the house, I can assume my mother’s been up for hours.

  I roll out of bed, quickly stripping off my work dress to put on some jeans and a t-shirt, I’m not scheduled for work tonight thankfully. I walk out to see Mother, her new T.M. Lewin outfit that she got on a trip to Hong Kong looking fresh and perfectly clean. She’s miles from the hard working woman who raised a daughter by herself, scratching and clawing her way up the social ladder. “Yes, Mother?”

  “I wanted to talk with you before going out for the afternoon,” Mother says. “Your father-”

  “Step-father,” I correct her, knowing it sets her teeth on edge. I can’t help it, but she’s only been married for six months, and the man barely speaks to me. He leaves for work when I’m still asleep, and I’ve usually left for my work before he gets home. “Yip cannot call himself my father.”

  “He provides for us!” Mother almost yells, holding onto her temper with sheer force of will. “Su-Lin, I fought for every scrap I could for twenty years after you were born to try and provide for you, and Yip is a good man. He takes care of me, and he gives you a bed as well, when a lot of other men-”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I know Mother,” I reply tiredly, not wishing this shit would be starting five minutes after I woke up. “Nobody wants to take in a daughter who isn’t their own, and a half-white one at that. All I’m good for is working the bar since all of the drunk executives every night seem to think that my lighter hair and half-European features means that I’m one of the easiest fucks available on a regular basis. Not good enough to date, to court, or to marry, but certainly down to fuck.”

  Mother recoils slightly, she hates when I talk about the reality of my position. Despite the supposed progress that Chinese culture has gained over the past twenty years, there’s no real place in ‘good’ Chinese society for someone like me. I don’t blame my mother, she was seduced by her English professor when she was a university student before he ditched her on the first plane back to Scotland once she told him she was pregnant. If anything, I owe my mother a debt since she could have easily gotten rid of me.

  Still, when your own society sees you as nothing more than a sexpot who can’t be trusted because you aren’t ‘really Chinese’ and are good for nothing more than using your body, it wears on you. It’s worn on Mother too, and that frustration is sharp in her voice when she replies. “You are disrespectful and smart-mouthed,” she fumes, getting out of her chair and trying to stare me down, even though she’s shorter than me by a good bit. “You are lucky that I have found a way for us both to be relieved of this situation.”

  “Relieved of this situation?” I ask, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I have met with a matchmaker,” Mother says, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes again. Talk about old fashioned! “There is one who is willing to meet you. They specialize in hard cases like yours, finding mail order brides for overseas foreigners.”

  “A mail order bride?” I reply, holding onto my own temper now. “I didn’t know I was that ostracized that you could sell me like a dog.”

  “Watch your tone with me, young lady!” Mother says, standing up. “I am your mother and I will decide what you can and cannot do!”

  “Like hell!” I yell back, losing my temper. “I’m tired of being treated like some mongrel mutt just because it held you back from marrying your way up the ladder in society!”

  The glass comes flying from the table quickly, but I’m used to my mother’s fiery temper, it’s not like mine is much better. I dodge, the tissue box next to me becoming my own missile weapon as it goes flying back at her. It hit’s Mother’s shoulder, and she screeches like a pissed off dragon. “You stupid burden! How dare you try and assault me! I should throw you out of this house right this minute, force you to live on your own!”

  “Maybe I should!” I scream back. “It’s not like I get treated like an adult around here! Sure, you paid for my education, you paid for all of that, but it was all so you could take the burden off your conscience!”

  “So what?!” Mother yells back. “Yes, for all those years I busted my back and my hands in the office, kissing up and doing my best to find a husband who’d actually take care of me. I got lucky with Yip! Now it is time for you to get out, so I can be a good wife to him and give him what he wants!”

  “Great, get rid of the mutt so you can have a proper Chinese baby!” I yell back. “I don’t care if you shit out half a dozen perfect li
ttle members of the Communist Party, it won’t take the stain of your mutt off your hands! I am your daughter!”

  “Not for much longer!” Mother yells back. “Now, you will go to this meeting, you will meet with this matchmaker, or else you’re going to find yourself out on your ass by tomorrow! Maybe you can talk the bar owner into letting you stay there, if you pay for it on your back!”

  “Pay for it there, or pay for it with some fat, wrinkly, obnoxious idiot with no social skills but plenty of money to keep me as his whore!” I yell back. “Nice fucking choice there, Mother!”

  I turn and storm back to my room, slamming the door shut and throwing myself on my bed. I pull out my cell phone, but realize that all of my university friends are now either working or married off, none of them are available to talk right now. Instead I stew in silence, waiting for Mother to leave. My phone buzzes, and I see I have a message from her.

  I am leaving now. If you are back when I come home from shopping, you will find my threat to be a promise. The meeting place is The Peninsula Beijing at three PM.

  I stare at the message for a full minute before setting my phone down on my bed. It’s either that or throw the damn thing out the window, and I worked too many hours to get it. Instead I sit on my bed and I fume, weighing the alternatives.

  If I stay in Beijing, never mind in China, I’m stuck. I can never be accepted in wider Chinese society, it’s still at least a generation from being ‘open’ to integrated children. Instead, I’d have to spend most of my youth in the gray area I’m in, seen by both the Chinese and the foreign tourists as some exotic, down to fuck girl who isn’t the kind you bring home to your mother to marry.

  On the other hand, I could go to this meeting with a matchmaker to meet this foreigner. I wasn’t lying to my mother, most of the mail order brides I’ve seen, the men they marry are fat, ugly, socially inept, or worse. But at least I’d have a chance at a future. Some of the men, while they might be socially inept losers, have wanted to be good husbands.

  “Knowing my luck,” I grumble at the far wall of my tiny bedroom, “I’d end up with one of those perverts who’s watched too much Japanese porn and thinks all Asian women are supposed to be quiet, submissive little flowers for their husbands.”

  I lay back, my mind still whirling. Well, at least the hotel I’m supposed to meet this matchmaker at is a good one. It probably means that they’re able to milk really rich foreigners. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up with some Silicon Valley millionaire who just is too busy coding programs to actually know how to meet girls.

  Rick

  “So how are you feeling today, Mr. Kelley?” Dr. Gordon asks me, like he does every time that I come into his office. I swear the man is a hypochondriac in some way or another. I know I have my condition, but that doesn’t mean every sniff and sniffle I get is a sign of my impending doom.

  “Just fine, doc,” I answer him, shrugging off my shirt. I know he’s going to want to give me a full check-up, and considering how much I pay the man, I guess I can tolerate the extra stethoscope touches freezing my nipples into icy little points. “You would have enjoyed my workout Monday afternoon, did double salmon ladders.”

  “Impressive,” Doc says, looking distracted. “You know, most men in your position don’t spend as much time as you do on your body.”

  “Do you mean being a billionaire or being on some weird sort of terminal timeline?” I ask. “It’s been five years since I had a flare-up.”

  “That ‘flare-up,’ as you call it, was your disease moving from stage one to stage two, as you well know,” Doc says. “You’ve actually lasted a long time with the disease. Trikala Syndrome normally has a timeline of five years or less.”

  “Which is why I semi-retired and take good care of myself,” I counter, hopping up on the bed. “Come on Doc, other than Trikala, you gotta admit, I’m in good shape.”

  Dr. Gordon laughs, but still seems distracted. “Rick, you know that I don’t normally do regular patient care, but as one of my nurses who shall remain nameless says, you’re well put together.”

  “Then why are you looking at me like I’m a foot and a half in the grave?” I ask him, and Dr. Gordon sighs. “Shit.”

  Gordon nods. “You haven’t felt anything, probably a sign of your diet and fitness regimen, but the markers in your most recent bloodwork are undeniable. You’ve moved into stage three. From here, the disease is very easily chartable.”

  I sigh, rubbing at my face. “How much time do I have?”

  Dr. Gordon consults his readings before looking at his calendar. “I’d say a year. You’ll have a good six to ten months before the symptoms start seriously affecting you, then from there….”

  “No more Richard Kelley,” I finish for him. “Doc, I’ve had thirty years of life so far. And for the past twelve of them, since I contracted Trikala Syndrome, I’ve lived more than some men do in two lifetimes. So if that’s the way it’s gotta be, that I have to check out just shy of thirty one… well, so be it.”

  “Rick, I’ll keep trying to find treatment,” Dr. Gordon says. “You’ve invested millions of dollars, it hasn’t all been wasted. There’s a few ideas out there, I’ll see what I can do.”

  I nod, shrugging my shirt back on. “Well Doc, stay in touch. If you don’t mind though, I think I’ll pass on the normal checkup rigmarole.”

  I leave the doctor’s office, taking the elevator down to the ground floor of the hospital. The hospital with its attached university are just one of the reasons that I built my estate where I did. Besides, Minnesota’s nice, and I don’t have a problem with cold winters.

  My assistant, Freida Worth, is waiting for me in the limo when I climb in, dressed as she always does in a very sexy Donna Karan suit that highlights the figure that turned heads when she was in college, and still does in the boardroom. To say that I’ve used her physical charms to off balance some of my business enemies from time to time… I’m not ashamed one damn bit.

  “I can tell it’s not good news,” Freida says, adjusting her glasses and setting down her tablet. “I’ll wait until I hear the news before I add the cherry on top then.”

  Freida’s worked for me for the past decade, she’s a little older than me, but I’ve never had an interest in her beyond professionally. Still, she cares about me in a sisterly sort of way. “Seems you might be out of a job come next Labor Day,” I tell her before filling her in on the short meeting with Doc Gordon. It doesn’t take long, and Freida listens silently as I reach the finale. “So… figure I’m going to have to get as much living as I can in before stage four.”

  Freida takes a moment to collect her thoughts before replying, it’s one of the ways that I know she actually does care for me. “I’m sorry, Rick. Really, I am.”

  “And I guess you don’t have good news for me either,” I say, cracking open a mineral water and taking my afternoon vitamins. “Hit me with it, Freida. I’m dying, but I’m not dead yet.”

  “Harvey is calling a board meeting,” Freida says after I swallow my water. “Says he wants to bring the Panther contract to a vote of the board.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “How many times is he going to try and get me to cave on the goddamn Panther project?”

  “As many times as it takes until he can get it in front of the Pentagon,” Freida says. “I’ve got a few contacts within the Department of Defense-”

  “You mean broken hearts,” I wryly comment, and Freida chuckles. “Go on.”

  “They say that the Air Force is looking for something to replace the B-52 finally. And after the clusterfuck that the F-35 program was….”

  “They want something that’s got good PR and more behind it,” I finish. I sigh, leaning back as the limo speeds towards my estate. “Freida, I designed the Panther to be a revolution in ecological aircraft.”

  Freida, who holds a degrees in business as well as mechanical engineering, nods. “I know. Unfortunately, the same technology that makes the Panther able to superc
ruise from LA to New York on half the fuel of a Dreamliner also means the plane’s nearly radar invisible. You know that’s half the reason the FAA is shitting their pants about approving it for commercial use.”

  “And why we changed the design to incorporate more aluminum dope in the paint job,” I say. I hated that change, it cut fuel efficiency by ten percent. “What does Harvey want to do with it?”

  “He says that with the current design, the seats can be yanked, a bomb bay put in, and it’d carry more than a B-2,” Freida says. “Honestly, the engineer in me says it can be tweaked to carry more.”

  “And the B-21 program?” I ask. “Wasn’t the Air Force all hard up on that one?”

  “Apparently the price tag’s a bit too much for them,” Freida says. “Half a billion, when a Panther would be roughly half that, plus savings in fuel costs and commonality?”

  “Commonality?” I ask. “What the hell else does Harvey want to do with those things?”

  “Replace the KC-135’s and KC-10’s with Panthers,” Freida says. “I took a minute to look over all the details, since you were too busy swimming to read it all. He thinks that with Panther technology and airframes, he can pitch the Pentagon on replacing all their old airframes with K-S systems.”

  I curse, hating the name. “You know, making that decision to join forces with Harvey Stone when I was nineteen was probably the dumbest decision I’ve ever made.”

  “Even more than bicycle touring through Greece at eighteen?” Freida asks, and I smirk.

  “Nah… too many good memories of that trip,” I concede. “We have to stop him, Freida.”

  “Of course, Rick. How would you like to go?” she asks, before rolling her eyes. “Of course. I’ll have the helicopter fueled and ready to go. When would you like to depart?”

  “This evening. And book a reservation for dinner tomorrow in New York, I’ll let you choose where. If I have to go to New York City to deal with Harvey, the least I can do is get some decent food out of it.”