Body, Inc.

by Alan Dean Foster

  “The number you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time.”

  “Again, try again!” Ingrid wiped furiously at her face. Despite the fact that it wasn’t hot within the 4×4 or outside either for that matter, she was perspiring profusely.

  More music, further demurral. “The number you are trying to reach is—”

  Without taking his eyes off the track ahead Whispr interrupted. “If you’re gonna do this in spite of what I say, try the lodge!”

  She eyed him blankly, completely out of her depth. In a medical emergency she could make quick decisions. This part of the world required experience she did not have.

  “What department?”

  “Any department!” His exasperation overroad any attempt at politeness. “The front desk, the dining room, janitorial center—anything! Just get somebody online.”

  She tried every possible call signature she could think of as Whispr fought to keep them level while driving wildly over and around immovable rocky relics of Gondwanaland. To his horror he saw that no matter what he did and in spite of the dangerous chances he took, the machine behind them was now beginning to close the gap between the two vehicles. And they still had no idea who its occupants represented or what their goal might be. Worse yet, every one of Ingrid’s electronic shout-outs produced the same indifferent synthesized response. A coldness began to spread within him.

  “Try Cape Town. Try—try the company office where we rented this sled!”

  She stared at him, her communicator held tightly in her right hand. “Why? What good would it do even if …?”

  “Just try it!”

  Though bewildered by his request, she did so. After several failures she even tried entering the request manually on the unlucky chance that the comm unit’s vorec firmware or software was malfunctioning. Unbidden, she then tried to contact first the rental company’s district office, then its main office. She tried the hotel where they had spent their last night in the city. She tried the Cape Town Visitors’ Welcoming Bureau. She tried dialing her own codo.

  “The number you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time. The number you are trying to—”

  “Block.” Whispr stole one of his rare glances at the rearview. He could not make out any visible antennae on the following vehicle but that was hardly conclusive. What was irrefutable was that none of Ingrid’s outgoing calls were going any farther than the immediate vicinity.

  Holding on to the wheel with his left hand as they careened down a narrow straightaway between lines of huge boulders interspersed with low conifers, he used the other hand to pull out his own comm unit.

  “Universal access four-six-five!” he barked at it.

  “Acknowledged, Mr. Kowalski,” the compact unit replied immediately.

  With a nod he passed it to Ingrid. “Here—I canceled secure ID. It’ll work for you now. Try it.”

  She did so—with the same disheartening results.

  “They’re blocking us,” he explained bleakly. “Using an ether-either blanket or else a directional disseminator.” He chewed his very thin slip of a lower lip. “If it’s the first method then there’s nothing we can do except keep trying to outrun them. If it’s the second, then if we can put a ridge or something else big and solid between us, our gear should work again and you should be able to call out. Keep trying!”

  She did so. He instructed her to keep at it not only because she might suddenly be able to make contact but because it gave her something to do and thus kept her mind off the fact that someone was trying to run them down.

  Who had the resources and the tenacity to have found them here, in a remote South African game preserve? SICK itself? Or was it the opportunistic criminal consortium that had been behind the attack on Ingrid’s elderly physician friend? Or maybe an entirely new entry into what threatened to become an expanding field of thread-seekers?

  It didn’t matter, he told himself. If whoever was pursuing them caught up to them, they wouldn’t have much leverage out here. No witnesses for sure. No curious onlookers to dampen the anger or the avarice of whoever was on the hunt. He was certain now that they could not, must not, stop until they succeeded in meeting up with other humans, be they Natural or Meld or off-worlders.

  He still didn’t know exactly what kind of vehicle was darting in and out of the rearview. Was it tougher than theirs? Faster? If the latter it seemed as if it should have caught up to them by now. If its off-road capabilities were less …

  They weren’t having any luck losing the pursuit by keeping to the established trail. The guide app on their communicators would keep track of their position no matter which way they went. Reaching a decision, he wrenched the wheel hard to the left.

  If not for the highly responsive passenger seat that reacted by wrapping itself gently around her shoulders and side, Ingrid would have gone flying. As it was, the ensuing jolt as Whispr took them fully off-road nearly sent her head crashing into the roof.

  “What the hell are you doing, Whispr?”

  “Trying to avoid hell, for one thing.”

  He had taken aim at a narrow slot canyon. Rocks and boulders and talus closed in around them. Deliberately he began letting the 4×4 skid from side to side, allowing it to make contact with the narrow walls. Dislodged by the recurrent impact, first small rocks and then larger ones came tumbling down. With luck the mini-landslides he was creating just might be enough to impede or even disable their pursuers’ vehicle before Whispr rendered their own inoperable. Still holding her communicator a wide-eyed Ingrid sat staring straight ahead.

  The only other time in her life she had been this frightened was in her first year of medical school when she had been asked to take over from a paramedic fighting to restart the heart of an accident victim. As Whispr sent the 4×4 airborne once again she found herself hoping she wouldn’t have to perform a similar procedure on him.

  Or on herself.…

  MOLÉ WAS DIVERTED. NO, he told himself. More than diverted. He was—amused. How utterly delightful! His quarry was trying to outrun him.

  It was only to be expected, of course. By now they surely would have discovered that he had made it impossible for them to call for help. Their solar-rechargeable vehicle would keep going unless it broke down. That was becoming more and more of a possibility, he mused as he watched his quarry’s vehicle repeatedly slam up against the sides of the increasingly constricted canyon.

  Enjoying himself, he still felt no overriding compulsion to overtake his victims. Having memorized their enhanced dossiers, by this time he knew both of them as well or better than did their nearest living relatives or best friends. As Archibald Kowalski had very few of either, he felt that he knew Dr. Ingrid Seastrom a little better than he did her lanky, worthless associate. Certainly she was the more interesting of the two. She was intelligent enough to by now have learned more about the company property she had stolen than he had.

  This lack of knowledge did not trouble him. It mattered not one whit to him whether she was carrying the secret formula for a new weapon, a new medicine, or information with which to blackmail unsuspecting politicians. He had been charged with getting it back. Knowledge of the actual contents was immaterial to the fulfillment of his obligation.

  By this time he was confident he could overhaul them whenever he wished. The one who called himself Whispr was an enthusiastic but plainly inexperienced off-road driver. Molé had once participated in and finished third in a downhill race that began at the crest of the Andes and finished at the town of Tacna on the Pacific shore. Not a bad result for a nonprofessional off-road driver. Keeping up with his current target hardly compared to rocketing downhill in an uninterrupted sprint that from start to conclusion boasted a vertical descent of several kilometers.

  He knew that he was wasting time. He did not see the harm in spending a little of it on a personal divertissement. Certainly after pursuing his quarry across a good chunk of southeastern Namerica and now all the way to the southern tip of anothe
r continent he had earned the right to some entertainment. He could bring down the curtain at any time. Close the distance between the two vehicles a little more and he could easily disable the one in front of him with a single shot. Assuming they survived the resultant crash, spend a little more leisure time with the Natural and the Meld. Perhaps leave one alive but unable to move so they could watch as their companion was shredded and turned into biltong.

  The more he pondered this option, the more it appealed to him. Leaving most of both of them here would be his contribution to the Preserve’s wildlife. Napun Molé was nothing if not an ardent conservationist.

  Just not of his own kind.

  Whispr could be slow about many things. Reading too much always gave him a headache, and try as he might he could not get the hang of crosswise gaming. Women he would never understand, and language held mysteries that extended beyond the mere meaning of words. But certain things he knew not only from experience but viscerally.

  Such as the fact that no matter how hard he tried he was not going to be able to lose whoever was behind them.

  Certainly he had given it his best effort, to the point of nearly crashing several times. Trying to disable their pursuer by knocking rocks from canyon walls and into his path had not even slowed the other vehicle down. Following that failure Whispr had sent the roadster struggling up a winding streambed without even knowing if it had an exit. The guide app on their comm units had been vague about that particular bit of local geology. Fortunately, there had been a way out.

  Climbing out of the rocky wash at the first available low spot he had once again flattened the accelerator in hopes of losing their pursuer. But whoever was behind the wheel of the trailing vehicle was no tracker on foot, to be thrown off course by such an obvious maneuver. Instead of continuing on upstream their pursuer had rolled out at the same access point. Once again he was directly behind them.

  Directly, Whispr thought frantically. Maintaining a proper distance. Why didn’t whoever it was try to close the rest of the intervening space? Instead, they didn’t fall back and they didn’t make a move to draw alongside. Why?

  It finally dawned on him that whoever it was, was playing with them. Drawing out the game. Postponing the ending. The realization was alarming. It implied complete confidence on the part of their pursuer. The knowledge that he could call “game over” as soon as he or she or they became bored.

  Whispr did not inform his already terrified companion of this chilling epiphany. Better she should keep busy trying to send messages that could not get through. He would endure enough silent panic for the both of them. It was plain that they were on the losing end of an equation.

  He had to find some way to change the numbers.

  Over the course of the preceding hour of mad flight and insane driving their vehicle had acquired several insistent internal complaints that had begun to grow noticeably louder in the past five minutes. Any moment now any one of them might graduate from an aural irritation to a declaration of mechanical hara-kiri. Much as their pursuer might want to string out the chase, if their 4×4 broke down that would probably bring an end to it—as well as to Whispr and the doctor. His expression tightened. His whole life had been predicated on not succumbing helplessly to seemingly overwhelming odds. He would not be a wimp to Fate.

  Also, and quite unexpectedly, he thought he smelled lion fat.

  A gap loomed ahead; another small canyon like several they had already traversed. Accelerating yet one more time, he headed directly for it. Only this time he would not drive down into it. Dirt and gravel flew from the 4×4’s rear wheels. With luck it would be thick enough to obscure their pursuer’s vision, if not his vehicle’s radar. At the last possible instance Whispr singled out a large, smooth boulder that sloped slightly upward. A fleeting glance to his right showed that the frightened Ingrid was still making futile demands of her communicator.

  She did not look up until they were soaring through the air. When she finally did, she was too stunned to scream.

  A few more meters, Whispr thought frantically as the 4×4 reached the top of the short arc and began to descend. Just a couple more meters. Seen through the windshield, yellow and ochre stone splotched with the dull green of tough Karoo brush loomed larger and larger. Unfortunately it did not loom quite large enough quite soon enough. In an instant that was less than eternity but sooner than insight his view was replaced by blackness.

  Notwithstanding the swirling dust that did indeed obscure his vision, Molé did not follow his quarry into the open air over the drop as Whispr had hoped. As the assassin’s radar screamed a warning he slammed on the brakes and sent his vehicle skewing wildly sideways. Despite the speed of his defensive reaction it did not quite stop in time. As it toppled over the rim of the chasm he fought with the wheel to stabilize the descent. The wall of the shallow canyon where the two Namericans had achieved all too brief liftoff was not perpendicular, but it was very, very steep. Only for someone of Molé’s skill and experience was it even marginally negotiable.

  Straightening out his machine he applied the brakes intermittently, alternating them with precisely coordinated and carefully gauged taps on the accelerator. Down the canyon wall he plunged front-end first; dodging an upthrust boulder, skewing around a dark slash that was a heavily eroded tributary ravine, the bottom of the canyon and the river that flowed through it coming ever closer, closer …

  The angle of descent became unmanageably precipitous even for him. It was steeper than the tough off-road vehicle could hold. He fought to guide it to the right, angling to gain a less acute slope. As he struggled with the wheel he could feel the roadster rolling; slowly, slowly, turning turtle as if in slow motion. Proof positive that in the end, he reflected without bitterness, gravity always wins. His seat automatically enveloped him as the 4×4 began to tumble, rolling over and over, banging and smashing and groaning as if he were trapped inside a kettledrum at the last hurrah of Respighi’s triumphant orchestral legions.

  When finally all motion ceased and the sounds of splintering composite gave way to the nearby gurgle of fast-moving water he quickly determined that he was not dead. The protective carbon fiber plate installed in his skull just under the skin and bonded with the bone had, as designed, cushioned and protected his brain. Though the world now appeared distorted and strange he knew it was not because he had suffered damage to his perception: his vehicle had come to rest upside down.

  Extending an arm he shoved at the driver’s-side door. Partially crumpled, it would not budge. Irritated and impatient, he shot whiplike tentacles from one hand, wrapped them around the cracked barrier, and yanked. Pieces of the already stress-cracked door came away in his tendrils. A few more rips and tears enlarged enough of a gap for him to pass through. A touch on the emergency release freed him from the protective embrace of the 4×4’s seat. His body dropped toward the roof, which was now the floor. After one more check to make sure that everything important was functional, he crawled out.

  In unsurpassed physical condition for someone his age he rose immediately to his feet and took stock of his surroundings. His vehicle was a total loss. Both its integrated comm unit and his own portable were smashed and useless. Unless he could somehow commandeer a ride he was going to have to find his way out of this wilderness on foot. Fashioned of tougher material, the small pistol he had purchased in Cape Town to replace the weapons he had been compelled to leave behind in Namerica in order to board his commercial flight remained intact. A quick check revealed that it was still in working order.

  At that moment he would have given vent to his frustration and fury if not for the sight that greeted him when he turned his gaze downstream.

  Being carried away by the fast current but beginning to show signs of sinking was the off-road vehicle he had been following. Like his own it was also upside down. Kneeling on its upturned underside an unnaturally slim figure was struggling to pull a woman from the water.

  Molé allowed himself a small smile. One had
to admire the audacity of his quarry, he told himself. Or perhaps in taking such a desperate step the wretched stick-man had simply been acting out of hopelessness and desperation. Whatever his motivation it would come to nothing. Going through his clothing Molé found that at least some of the equipment that he always carried with him had survived the crash intact along with his skillfully melded assassin’s body.

  Starting out slowly to confirm that his lower body was functioning properly he headed downstream. Though not wide, this substantial tributary of the Touws ran swift and deep. Deep enough to carry away his quarry’s upturned 4×4. More than deep enough for him to explore how long the stick-man could survive with his hatchet head held underwater.

  This time of year the midday temperature was mild. Thick brush and occasional trees shaded his progress from the southern sun. Feeling good despite the loss of his vehicle, he lengthened his stride. Sooner or later, and probably sooner, the river would push his quarry’s broken and crumpled vehicle ashore. Or it would ground itself on some projecting rocks or be caught up in a small rapid. Or the exhausted, worn-out couple would abandon it in favor of swimming or walking to dry land. Whatever happened Molé would come upon them eventually. Their end was as assured as if they had died in the plunge into the canyon. But he was glad they had survived.

  On top of everything else, now they were going to have to pay for the damage they had caused to his clothing.

  “DO YOU SEE ANYONE?” Whispr asked.

  Lying on her back on the unyielding underside of the ruined off-road vehicle as it drifted rapidly downstream, Ingrid’s respiration was slowly returning to normal. As she gradually dried out beneath the morning sun she was in no mood to sit up, much less engage in any strenuous searching back the way they had come. That was the sort of thing she expected of her companion. Besides, her vision was trained for close-up work.

  “You tell me.”