Mr. Deshpande from the Ministry of External Affairs arrived precisely at ten o'clock the next morning. He was a slight man in a slightly-too-large safari suit, with a mild smile and eyes that missed nothing. He carried a worn leather briefcase and an air of polite, bureaucratic exhaustion.
"Mr. Shakuniya," he said, shaking Rajendra's hand with a dry, firm grip. "A pleasure. We have heard many interesting things about your… rapid diversification."
"We are trying to build something that lasts, sir," Rajendra said, guiding him through the mill compound. He had dressed carefully—a simple white kurta and trousers, projecting earnest industriousness.
Shanti joined them, the perfect foil in a crisp cotton sari, her demeanor respectful but confident. She was the Sharma heir, after all. Her presence legitimized him in a way no suit ever could.
They began the tour. Deshpande watched the pressure cooker assembly line with detached interest, asked a technical question about safety valve tolerances that Rajendra deftly passed to the floor manager, and nodded at the right moments. In the textile section, he ran a thumb over the rich Karjat silk of the Heritage collection.
"Beautiful work. And you are marketing this as 'story-woven'?"
"Every pattern has a history, sir," Shanti explained smoothly. "It connects the buyer to the artisan. It's not just cloth; it's a narrative."
"Narrative," Deshpande repeated, jotting a note in a small book. "A good word. India has many narratives. It is good to sell them, not just spices."
The tour continued to the film division—a small office with posters of Pyaar Ki Jeet and a bustling young team coordinating distribution. Deshpande paused before a poster of Madhuri Dixit.
"My wife enjoys this film. She says it is… wholesome. In a time of much change, wholesomeness is a valuable commodity."
"We think so too, sir."
Finally, they were seated in Rajendra's office. Chai was served. Deshpande sipped his, placed the cup down neatly, and folded his hands.
"Your growth is impressive. Unusual, but impressive. The Finance Minister's office has taken note. In these difficult financial times, success stories are… needed. They give hope. They show the world that India's private sector can be dynamic."
"We are only doing our part," Rajendra said.
"Of course. Yet your 'part' seems to involve… international holdings. A Singapore company. Even property in Europe." Deshpande's tone was light, but his eyes were sharp. "A castle, I hear?"
"A historical site, sir. In disrepair. We see potential for cultural tourism—a bridge between Indian hospitality and European heritage. A long-term project."
"A very long-term project, I imagine. And your exports to Singapore? The… charitable shipments?"
Rajendra felt Shanti tense beside him. This was the moment.
"We believe in giving back, sir. MANO International's outreach program sends essential goods to underprivileged communities in Southeast Asia. It is good for the soul, and it builds goodwill for Indian business abroad."
Deshpande held his gaze for a beat too long. Then he smiled, a real one this time, though it didn't reach his eyes. "A noble sentiment. And one that coincidentally creates very useful shipping manifests and corporate relationships across borders. How… efficient."
The room was silent. Deshpande took another sip of chai.
"Let me be clear, Mr. Shakuniya. The government is not your enemy. In fact, if you are what you appear to be—a brilliant, if unconventional, young industrialist creating jobs and earning foreign exchange—then you are an asset. The nation needs assets. But if you are something else… a clever front for capital flight, or for dealings that could embarrass India on the world stage… then you become a problem. And the Ministry has a very large department for solving problems."
The threat was velvet-gloved, but the iron fist was unmistakable.
"We have no desire to be a problem, sir," Shanti said, her voice steady. "Our books are open. Our goals are aligned with India's."
"I am glad to hear it." Deshpande stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "I will file a positive report. Continue your good work. And, Mr. Shakuniya?"
"Yes, sir?"
"A word of advice, from one Marathi man to another. When you play on a big stage, the lights are very bright. They show everything. It is best to have nothing in the shadows that cannot bear the light."
He left, leaving behind the scent of official cologne and unspoken warnings.
Shanti let out a long breath. "Well. That was a friendly visit from the secret police."
"He's not secret police. He's a bureaucrat. Which is worse. He doesn't want to arrest us. He wants to make sure we're useful."
"And are we? Useful?"
"We're about to be," Rajendra said, his mind already moving past the threat. "We need to give them a win. Something tangible that fills the government' coffers and makes them look good."
"The Odessa machinery?"
"Too secret. Too messy. No, we need something clean. Something export-oriented that we can announce."
An idea began to form. The Crystalline Historian wanted oral histories. What if MANO, with its "national heritage" angle, launched a formal, government-blessed initiative to record and preserve India's vanishing folk traditions? It would be a public relations masterpiece, a genuine service, and a perfect cover to collect the raw goods for his cosmic trade. The Memory Crystals could store the data, and he could even present digitized copies to the Ministry as a "cultural archive."
It was so brilliantly legitimate it almost felt illegal.
He was about to explain it to Shanti when Ganesh appeared at the door, his face unusually pale.
"Bhai. A call. From Germany. On the special line."
Rajendra excused himself and went to the secure phone in the back office—a clunky, encrypted set connected to a scrambler.
"Shakuniya."
The voice on the other end was Kapoor's, crackling with static and tension. "The castle. There's been an incident."
Rajendra's blood went cold. "What kind of incident?"
"Not a breach. An… internal one. Your guest. He became agitated last night. Agitated and strong. He tore the meat locker door off its hinges. Lars tried to calm him. He's alive, but his arm is broken. The creature kept repeating one word: 'Eisen. Nicht genug.'"
Iron. Not enough.
The colloidal iron wasn't sufficient. Kael's biology was rejecting the supplement, or it wasn't potent enough. He was starving, and his predator instincts were rising.
"Did he… drink?"
"No. He stopped himself. He looked at Lars's blood on the floor and… he wretched. Then he locked himself in the tower and won't come out. He's humming. A low, sad sound. It's giving Lars a migraine."
Rajendra closed his eyes. Vex's warning: Do NOT substitute with mammalian blood for first 30 cycles… But what if the substitute was failing? He was torturing the creature with a slow, dignified starvation.
"I'll send something. A stronger solution. Until then, keep everyone away from the tower. And Kapoor?"
"Yes?"
"Thank Lars for his service. Double his bonus. Tell him his pain is not forgotten."
He hung up. The problem was immediate, visceral. A suffering alien in a castle was more urgent than any government inspector.
He accessed the System. He needed a better hematinic, and he needed it fast. The Mad Scientist was his best bet for advanced biotechnology.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): I require a hematinic compound compatible with a hemovoric, oxygen-based Tier-1 humanoid. Current ionic iron supplements are insufficient and causing metabolic distress and behavioral instability. Need a stable, potent, bio-available formula. Non-addictive. Can you formulate?
The reply was not from the Mad Scientist. It was from Vex.
Vex: I monitored your query. The Mad Scientist's solutions are… aggressive. She would give you a compound that restores function but may rewrite baseline aggression protocols. I have something else. A Kaldir nutrient paste. We use it to stabilize emotional volatility in our own populations. It is rich in processed heme from non-sapient fungal sources. It will satisfy the Vesperae's iron thirst without triggering blood-lust. Price: 25 Void-Coins for a one-month supply.
Vex was helping. Not just trading, but intervening. It was a shift.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): Why the help?
Vex: A stable asset is more valuable than a feral one. Also, The Silken Maw's probes have increased near your coordinates in the last 48 hours. A psychically distressed Vesperae is a beacon. A calm one is invisible. This is preventative maintenance for our shared interests. Do you accept?
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): Accept. Send it to the Schloss coordinates immediately.
Vex: Already dispatched via dimensional packet. It will materialize in the castle's lower hall within the hour. Instructions are included. Do not let the creature see the delivery method. Primitive minds find trans-dimensional materialization… distressing.
Rajendra sent an immediate message to Kapoor via the shortwave: "Package arriving in lower hall within hour. Do not question its appearance. Deliver it to the tower door. Do not open it. Leave it and walk away."
Then he leaned back, the weight of the day pressing on him. He had just:
Been subtly threatened by the Indian government.
Started planning a national cultural preservation scheme as a cover for cosmic trade.
Prevented a stranded space vampire from going feral by buying alien nutrient paste from an emotion-starved trader.
He looked at his hands. One held a pen for signing legitimate business documents. The other wore a ring that could become a blade sharper than anything on Earth.