“Get back to your work.” Ignoring the image of the hugemaned male cat that was now pawing at her hips, she resumed going through the contents of the console. Chelowich’s thoroughly debunking demonstration notwithstanding, Terror was still unaccountably relieved when the feline simulacrum vanished. Its presence was replaced with a sharp, warning voice.
“Lumkela—qphela—beware!” it barked in the three principal local languages. “Your presence here is unauthorized. Vacate the premises immediately or suffer the consequences! The wrath of the electric sangoma Madame Lulo Thembekile be upon you!”
How suitably biblical, Chelowich thought as she continued to plow through the console’s contents. No doubt it would have the desired effect on the ignorant. Pulling out one drawer after another she dumped the contents onto the top of the console and sorted swiftly and efficiently through the growing pile of papers, devices, and witch doctor paraphernalia. Terror continued to guard the entrance and keep a watch through the small side window for visitors or busybodies while Lindiwe was plowing through the contents of the big cabinet that stood against the far wall.
Clipped to her belt, the European’s monitor hummed softly for attention. Irritated at the interruption, Chelowich pulled it out and glanced at the readout. Pausing in her excavating, Lindiwe glanced over.
“What is it? Something wrong?” She looked around uncertainly. “Another projection coming?”
Chelowich shook her head and reattached the monitor to her belt. “It’s picking up a very low-level, very short-range broadcast. Might activate another projection. Be advised and don’t let the boogeyman unnerve you.” Having found nothing informative she had settled herself into the chair in front of the box screen and was preparing to activate the unit. If there was any information in local storage regarding their quarry a quick and straightforward hack ought to produce it.
“Look on these clever vit apparitions as entertainment. Something to keep you from getting bored while we’re searching.” Her fingers began to move swiftly over the keyboard. She couldn’t hack the aural input to activate the unit, of course. That would be coded to its owner’s voice and unlikely to respond to the demands of an intruder. But she felt confident she could get in utilizing one or more of the specialized devices she had brought with her.
A crawling sensation tickled her left leg. Whenever she sat down her stylish balloon pants drew up slightly to expose a couple of centimeters of skin between boot and hem. The tickling might come from a microwave projection designed to unnerve and irritate. If it intensified to the point where it felt hot then it would bear monitoring, but given the state of the residence and the previous feeble attempt to frighten them off with a simple projection she didn’t anticipate the presence of anything as sophisticated as a bloodboiler. One powerful enough to be small yet effective would demand more juice than a modest dwelling like the sangoma’s could safely or anonymously draw from the municipal grid.
Sure enough, her skin did not grow hotter. There was no perceptible temperature rise at all.
In front of her the box screen sprang to life. Removing yet a different device from a pocket she clipped it onto the base of the screen. It would feed wirelessly into the box console itself, burrowing through defensive passwords and decoding any protective encryption. Once in, it would also allow verbal access. A couple of quick questions ought to bring up whatever useful information the witch doctor’s private files contained. Chelowich’s left leg itched again. Absently, she reached down to scratch it.
Something bit her. It was small, sharp, and decidedly more consequential than a projection. At the same time Terror yelped and stumbled sideways. As the big woman did so she grabbed for support at the cloths that were hanging from the nearby window. They ripped loose in her strong fingers. Gray afternoon light flooded the room, banishing the darkness.
Looking down at her leg Chelowich saw the spider. Two spiders. Then a third. All were small, fat, and an almost metallic glossy black. Lindiwe was screaming and slapping at herself, leaping about and contorting as if infected with the latest shebeen dance craze.
Rising, the increasingly wide-eyed European stared down at herself. Her lower body was covered with the scuttling arachnids. Having reached her hips they were continuing to migrate rapidly upward. As she frantically slapped and brushed them away she could feel the weight of their tiny but undeniably substantial bodies. Looking around she saw that the room had been flooded with hundreds of the ugly little black biters. The interruption was unexpected but not necessarily …
She was starting to have trouble getting her breath. Her heart began to beat faster. Another sharp twinge on her other leg indicated a third bite. Despite having eaten little that morning she felt as if she was going to throw up. Having been bitten many more than three times, Terror was now lying on the floor writhing and moaning. Her defensive slaps were growing more and more feeble, her huge melded muscles useless against the multipronged, multi-legged attack.
A frantic figure was suddenly in Chelowich’s face. Lindiwe’s fingers clutched wildly at the European. “Button spiders, button spiders! Real ones!”
Chelowich shaped a ready reply only to discover that her tongue wouldn’t work. Fire seemed to be infiltrating her entire body from her navel to her chest. Sweat began to run from her pores and her eyes started to water. Drool bubbled in her mouth and spilled from her lips as she fought to form words. Though unfamiliar with the cause she knew pretty well what was happening. Her body was reacting to multiple injections of a powerful neurotoxin.
Shoving the panicky Lindiwe aside she turned and stumbled toward the door. Whatever the toxin’s exact chemical makeup she could tell that she needed a significant injection of the appropriate antivenin, and fast. Stepping over the recumbent and now barely audible bulk of Terror, she reached for the door handle. It seemed to dodge out of her reach. Given the other subtle and unpleasant surprises the house had already dished up Chelowich wouldn’t have been startled to learn that the handle actually had moved and that her inability to grasp it was not an illusion. Still upright and unbitten, Lindiwe came up beside her. But the local had no better luck as the handle proceeded to migrate off the door and climb up the wall. It hung there out of their reach, gleaming down at them like a muscular brass bat.
“ ’Nother door. Look for another door.” Chelowich felt her lips going numb. Her heart was undergoing severe palpitations. “Get out. Need antidote, fast.” She reached out toward Lindiwe, looking to her subordinate for support.
Something small, active, and fast-moving bit her in the left eye.
If not for the surprising amount of soundproofing contained within the walls of the dwelling her scream would have been heard throughout a sizable portion of the ambulatory suburb. It was sufficiently forceful and penetrating that a few nearby dwellers did hear it. Those who did put it out of their minds. Strange and sometimes disturbing noises were often heard from the house of the electric sangoma, and were best ignored.
A less tortured but equally shattering exclamation interrupted the relative calm of the neighborhood as a female figure threw herself through one of the dwelling’s locked windows. Bleeding from numerous cuts but still unbitten, Lindiwe staggered to her feet. Brushing off shards of glass, she stumbled down the nearest stabilized walkway. Like the exceptionally unsettling sounds that had preceded her violent exit from the house, she was dutifully ignored by the neighborhood residents.
Within the slowly striding structure nothing moved that was bigger than a mouse. Sensing no living presence larger than the soldiers of the small black impi it had silently dispersed, the house’s defense system altered the high-pitched and highly localized signal it had been emitting. Responding instantly and without thinking to the precisely tuned stimulus frequency, the several hundred electronically aggravated, marauding button spiders halted their continuing assault on the two already dead women and hurried to scurry back to their concealed holding pens. Hidden in small dark corners of the building these were exa
ctly the kind of locales Latrodectus indistinctus preferred. A banquet of captive crickets was promptly disgorged by the house and an orgy of contented arachnidan consumption ensued. No triumphant roaring accompanied the feasting.
The intruders’ odds of survival would have been far better had they merely been forced to deal with a threat as simple and prosaic as a lion.
The view was beyond stunning. From the top of Table Mountain they could see not only all of Cape Town but a great deal of the coast to the north and nearly all of it to south. This early in the morning the clouds that normally hugged the top of the massif like a gray fox stole around a matron’s neck had not yet woken themselves sufficiently to obscure the crown. Dark green water edged with foam like white lace crept up the distant shore, the sound of breaking waves smothered by distance and height.
They were alone near the edge. The few tourists and couples who had ascended with them in the cab of the antique cable car had wandered off among the fynbos on their own. Declaring her desire to avoid their attention Ingrid had insisted on walking away from the protective railings and along the trail that paralleled the edge of the escarpment. Rimmed by bushes and exotic grass, Whispr felt that the fringe of the great mountain probably looked much as it had for thousands of years.
He trailed slightly behind and to one side, letting her take the lead. She was wearing the light jacket purchased in the city the night before. A gusty, intermittent wind puffed it out around her small form and made her look bigger than she was. Pausing beside a dark stone outcropping she turned back toward him and smiled. Women didn’t often smile at him. When they did, no milk bath of Cleopatra’s could have felt as enveloping and warming.
“What a sight! There’s nothing like this on the East Coast.” She gestured seaward, her arm taking in the vast sweep of shore, city, and sky with a shared flurry of arm and enthusiasm. “You can see halfway to Namibia!”
You couldn’t, of course. That immense and empty desert country lay too far to the north to be visible even from the crest of Table Mountain. Drawing in his gaze he let it focus on her to the exclusion of the grand panorama spread out before them. She was too lost in the landscape to notice that he was staring.
He was struck again by how small she was. Small and Natural despite her recent cosmetic manips. While the mystifying thread was reasonably safe within the special compartment in her underwear he would have felt better with it sequestered in the secret hollow in the sole of his shoe. But she insisted on retaining possession. He had to admit that in its present location it really might be less likely to be discovered than it would be anywhere on his person.
Below the sheer drop the first brush-covered rockfalls beckoned. Unbidden, he found his thoughts turning naturally if alarmingly to ill-met options all too reminiscent of his life on the streets of Greater Savannah. Willowy lightweight that he was, he had no doubt that street life had toughened and strengthened him physically as well as mentally to a far greater degree than his view-distracted companion.
It wouldn’t take much, he knew. Compared to encounters he had survived on the streets, it would take very little effort at all. Though still wary, she was by now used to him being close to her. He could approach even closer while complimenting the view. A single brusque two-handed shove and over she’d go. He looked around. They had walked quite a way in the opposite direction from the other visitors. No one would hear her scream, and in any event her descending shrieks would be swiftly swallowed up by the wind and the speed of her descent.
He imagined the impact on the rocks below. It would all be over instantly, almost painlessly. As a doctor she would be aware of that. While she fell she would have a few seconds to appreciate the looming finality and the fatal consequences of her misplaced trust. He doubted he would be able to hear the final smash.
He would run screaming back the way they had come, his face contorted into a rictus of despair as he howled out his woe. Barely able to stand, he would collapse gasping into the arms of startled but compassionate strangers. The police would be called. The SAEC police had become exceptionally efficient ever since the massacre and mass purge of ’23. They would ask plenty of questions. The spot where the two Namericans had been standing just prior to the tragedy would be combed by local forensics. Suspicion would immediately fall on him. But in the absence of any eyewitnesses other than himself there would be no proof of foul play.
Sobbing, overcome at the loss of his friend, he would be asked to identify the remains. Whispr had been in morgues before. Unless procedure varied radically here, the opportunity to recover the thread would present itself. He would be able to continue with the journey of discovery unencumbered by a smart but oftentimes gullible traveling companion. Most importantly any subsist, any proceeds that might be realized from the trip, would accrue to him and him alone. In one push, with one shove, he could instantly double any potential profits.
He edged nearer to her. Wholly absorbed in the splendid panorama she paid him no attention. She was now within easy reach of his long, spindly, but strong arms.
One shove, he told himself again. A quick thrust with both hands and it would all be over in seconds. No more disapproving sideways looks. No more clumsy efforts at concealment.
Several things gave him pause. For one, if she was dead it would be difficult for him to make use of her credcards. Her easy access to subsist was something he had relied upon ever since they had formed their partnership. For another, despite her frequent sarcasm her companionship was more often pleasant than not. And he had not given up hope of somehow, someday, hopefully bedding her. Most important of all …
She was smarter than he was, and he knew it. But he was smart enough to recognize when he was in the presence of someone smarter than him, and to make use of that. As he would continue to make use of her now—at least for the foreseeable future. He knew what kind of person he was. Knew all too well. The real question, he asked himself, was what kind of person could he become.
He took a step backward. The movement caught her eye and she turned to him. Curiosity replaced awe.
“You’re looking strange, Whispr.” She was teasing him. “Stranger than usual, even. Something wrong?”
A local crow went soaring past just below the edge of the cliff. An omen, he wondered—or just a hungry bird on the wing. He felt an instant kinship with the black and white scavenger.
“No, nothing wrong.”
Her grin faded as she continued to stare at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He turned away—from her as well as from deeper, darker thoughts. “Not looking at you, doc. I just—I don’t like heights, that’s all.”
She started past him, heading in the direction of the tramway. “It didn’t seem to bother you when you were staying at my codo in Savannah.”
He was glad of the opportunity to change the subject—and to divert his thoughts. “That was way different. It was enclosed, and there was lots of entertainment to take my mind off how high it was. And there was food. Which reminds me—I’m hungry.”
“Must be the air.”
“Yeah,” he agreed quickly. “The air.”
He said little during the descent from the top of the mountain. She was still too enraptured with their surroundings to notice the lack of conversation—or if she did, she found his uncharacteristic silence not worthy of comment.
Unaware of the fact that two-thirds of a criminal pursuit that had been less than a day from making contact with them had early that afternoon died deaths as primitive as they were painful, they posited a query to a floating info sphere outside the tram station gift shop. From a list it provided they settled on a local transport company. Local was cheaper. More importantly and unlike the case with an international vehicle rental company, its database would be far less likely to be sitting on alerts that could be triggered by their inquiry.
Riding on the small public transport that slowly worked its way toward downtown they had plenty of time to discuss what kind of vehi
cle they ought to rent for the remainder of the journey.
“Has to be something inconspicuous.” Whispr’s seriousness was never more in evidence. “Can’t be something that draws attention. But at the same time it has to be tough enough to handle any conditions.” He looked down at her. “Because where we’re trying to go we’ll be showing up unexpected and unannounced, and that means going off-road.”
She readily agreed. Behind her a middle-aged gentleman in suit, tie, bowler sporting two backward-sweeping yellow bird feathers, and the battle paint of a well-known international conglomerate was concentrating intently on the projector that filled the left-hand lens of his designer glasses. While the right eye looked out onto the world of transport and passing pedestrians the other was deeply engaged in the small but still three-dimensional episode of a locally produced soap opera. Seeming to float in front of his left eye, their turgid but addictive dialogue communicated itself via the induction insert comfortably nestled in his left ear. The faint hiss of two women shrieking at one another was barely audible above the rattle of the public transport. Ingrid ignored the well-dressed viewer and his choice of semiprivate viewing just as she paid no attention to the commuter-dominated crush of Naturals and Melds packed in around her and Whispr.
“I always thought we’d have to go that way,” she added. “We can hardly pull into the company parking lot, assuming the facility we’re seeking has one, walk up to the front door, and ask to be shown around.” Her expression turned grim. “My money will get us as far as that door. Getting us inside will be up to you and your street expertise.”
Not to mention getting us out again, he thought glumly. “Assuming we can get in, what then? You can’t dangle the thread in front of somebody’s face and expect them to tell us anything about it.”
The determination in her reply didn’t surprise him. She could waver and equivocate—except where science was concerned. Then she turned as tough as a football center. It must be wonderful, he mused, to be able to sacrifice all recognition of reality in the hope of acquiring a new fact or two.
Body, Inc. Page 9
