Body, Inc.

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Why this isilima want to kill you?” The old man’s gaze narrowed. “You tell-say you just tourists. Nobody come out here all this way and trouble just to kill couple of ordinary tourists.” He examined Whispr closely. “You say he been following you a long time. Why he been following you? Why SICK want you dead?

  “You know what I think? I think you both more than just tourists. I think you full of secrets you try to keep from old Josini. Well, that okay. I got plenty secrets myself.” To Ingrid’s amazement the death-dealing end of the rifle came up and Umfolozi proceeded to place the narrow butt on the ground. The slender metal rifle, she noted, was taller than its owner.

  “Say maybe I not kill you. If SICK, Inc. want you dead, then you my friend. Better still, you say you can pay me.”

  Weak from heat and hunger, Ingrid staggered to her feet. “Yes, yes, I can pay you! Whatever you want, Mr. Umbolazi, I can pay you! Just please help us!”

  His free hand made calming gestures. “It ‘Umfolozi.’ But you call me Josini. Is better. Especially coming from pretty lady I maybe now not going to kill.”

  Whispr eyed him suspiciously. “How many wives did you say you had?”

  “I am old, stick-man—but not dead. Calm yourself. I have enough wives already. Wives easy to get—money not so easy.” Turning back to Ingrid he flashed a bewitching smile. Or at least, she mused, it would have been bewitching if not for the rotating front tooth. She had the crazy thought that it might be capable of playing music.

  “I take you back to the lodge, you pay me. Is plenty time to agree on a sum satisfactory to both.”

  “Okay, sure.” Ingrid’s relief was unfettered. “And some food. And water, if you have it.”

  “No water.” He was deeply apologetic. “Only cold beer.”

  “We’ll manage.” Whispr spoke without a hint of irony. “But we can’t go back to the lodge. We, uh—when he doesn’t find us out here this Molé will look for us back there.”

  Umfolozi pursed his lips, ruminating. “Now I think of it, you not walking toward lodge when I first telescope you. You walking away from it. Upstream toward way I come. Either you bad lost or—you got other reasons for picking way less traveled. Maybe while we beat hell out of here you tell old Umfolozi why you walking away from lodge. Maybe you also tell me your real names.” He smiled anew. “If we going to be in business of hired transportation it only fair and just we know each other’s rightful names.”

  Whispr didn’t like being caught out. “How do we know that you’ve given us your real name?”

  “You don’t, but I did. If I was not going to kill you I would have made up a good name.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. Too late to take back truth.”

  A reluctant Whispr gave up his real name. For all he knew their potential savior was carrying a truth sensor along with all the other gear that was spilling out of his vest pockets. If he and Ingrid told another lie or two the old man might decide they weren’t trustworthy enough to do business with. Then he would shoot them.

  Umfolozi turned expectantly to Ingrid, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was gazing back the way they had come. Whispr was beside her in an instant.

  “You see something, doc?” His voice was tight.

  “I—I don’t know. I thought maybe—it could have been blowing dust.” Extending an arm, she pointed. “Up near the top of that low ridge.”

  Whispr nodded, squinted in the indicated direction, then looked back at the old man. “We’d better move. This son of a bitch is kind of like you: old but tough. I’d still like to think he’s Megatherium chow, but knowing this squint I wouldn’t be surprised if the sloth came out on the short end of the fight. We do know that he’s on foot, however. Depending on the speed your ‘vehicle’ can make without attracting the attention of Preserve authorities, we should be able to outdistance him easily. But just in case he’s still alive, let’s finish this conversation while we’re on the way out of here.”

  “You awfully anxious. You sound like nervous poachers. I think maybe you two are pilfer something also. Maybe on way out of Preserve you share interesting information with a bored old man.” Another smile. “Just for friendlies sake.” His voice rising to a near shout he hefted his rifle and pointed it at the ridge Ingrid had picked out.

  “I am Josini Jay-Joh Umfolozi! I am half Afrikaan and half Zulu. That is a meld by Nature. I fear nothing but sand cobra in bed and ancestors in dreams! Only thing in this country tougher than me must be made of wood or metal—and not so sure of that!” Pivoting on one heel he gestured for them to follow as he lowered his voice. “But no reason to stand here in afternoon sun. Plenty of time to talk while moving.”

  Ingrid and Whispr followed him toward the waiting elephant. “Are you sure you’re still not going to kill us?” she asked plaintively.

  “You pay me, I not kill you.” He tucked his rifle under his left arm. In his aged but powerful clutch it was an echo of the spears and guns that had been raised at Isandlwana. “You don’t pay me, I kill him (he gestured at Whispr) and sell you.” Big smile. “Otherwise everything fine and we friends forever.” He halted with one foot on the lowest step of the stairs that had descended from the vehicle’s belly. A slightly rattled Ingrid noted admiringly that it even smelled like a real elephant. The illusion was as complete as science and semilegal engineering could make it.

  The ultimate perfectly camouflaged 4×4, she thought.

  Whispr was not shaken by their host’s offhand response. In the shadows of the antisocial segment of society in which he had grown up, certain facets of business were sacrosanct. He and the doctor might be thousands of kilometers from home, in an alien land and a difficult country, yet despite their awkward situation it was some relief to learn that these qualities did not differ greatly from their set-in-stone equivalents back home.

  Familiarity, even when murder was being discussed, was a comfort.

  THE BANDAGE MOLÉ HAD improvised from the same kind of vines and leaves that had cushioned Ingrid Seastrom’s sleep the previous night were stained dark, but the serious bleeding seemed to have stopped. To worry the assassin the bleeding would have to be profuse enough to threaten his mobility. His left leg had been mangled but not broken. A long gash ran down the right side of his face where just the tip of a single claw had barely made contact. Had he been a second later in ducking, the rest of the Megatherium’s giant paw would have removed his head like a cork from a bottle.

  Neither Molé nor his monstrous, hirsute assailant was dead. While capable of dispatching targeted representatives of his own species with a single bullet, the pistol he carried was insufficient to affect the lumbering giant ground sloth. Unable in the darkness to line up a potential killing shot, he had sensibly opted for flight. Having overcome its outrage at being awakened from its beauty sleep the sloth had eventually given up the pursuit, deciding that the fast-moving, jittery, sting-carrying primate was not worth the effort it would have taken to bring it down.

  It had taken Molé most of the night to regain some of his strength and bind up his wounds. While it was true that everything from head to toe worked, it was also true that everything in that vicinity was sore. His muscles protested when he heaved his body upright at the first sign of daylight. They screamed louder when he insisted on following the path taken by his target. That they had used the opportunity presented by his inadvertent encounter with the Megatherium to put distance between them and himself was obvious from the nature of the trail they had left. Longer than usual strides plus the depth of their footprints showed they had taken off running. Surprisingly, they had headed upstream and not back toward the lodge. Perhaps they felt that he would expect them to flee in that direction and by heading for a different point of the compass they could shake free of him. He shook his head sadly. It was hurtful that even after all this time they thought so little of his abilities.

  He always looked at the evidence, not at the expected. And the evidence clearly showed them heading north.

&n
bsp; For the first few hours of walking he had relied for support on a crude crutch he had fashioned from a tree branch. Eventually he had cast it aside, disgusted at the picture it presented. The longer he pushed on without pausing, the stronger he became. His only fear was of infection. The medical kit that was one module on his still largely intact work belt contained only basics. Though an antibacterial spray was included, it was not designed to cope with the exotic parasites to be found in the Little Karoo.

  No matter, he told himself. He could tell from the footprints and other signs he had been following that the gap between him and his quarry had been shrinking for some time now. If he maintained his current pace he should catch up to them within the hour. His only regret was that now he would not be able to linger over his work as he had planned. Present circumstances and a lack of supplies dictated that he reclaim his employer’s property and dispatch those who had stolen it with efficiency rather than enjoyment. Upon rendering recovery and termination he would immediately have to start the long hike back to the lodge to ensure his own safety and survival.

  He did not expect to see them when he topped the rock-strewn rise. Far less did he expect to see them in the company of others, even if only a single stranger. He ducked out of sight behind a protruding boulder. Neurons welded to nanoscale wiring caused the superfine optics in his left eye to zoom in on the trio. There was the exasperating stick-man Whispr, next to him the moderately attractive physician Seastrom, and striding along just in front of her a lanky local of indeterminate ancestry and name unknown. At this distance Molé could not tell if the unexpected newcomer was Natural or Meld. Not that it was important. What mattered was that the stranger appeared to be conversing amiably with Molé’s targets. Such conviviality did not bode well for the hunter’s intentions.

  More peculiar still was the unnatural composure of the elephant standing nearby. It was virtually motionless. Squeezing highly trained muscles in his left eye, Molé zoomed in on the solitary quadruped. It looked real enough. Its true nature only became apparent when a narrow set of stairs descended from its underside and the intruder and probable owner led the two Namericans up and into its stomach. Plainly it was a superbly camouflaged vehicle of some sort.

  Having no transportation of his own save what his battered body and injured legs could manage, the determined Molé drew his pistol and took aim. No matter how slow the elephant-transport he did not doubt for a minute that it would leave him in the dust.

  There was no need to mount a scope on the weapon. Circuitry imbedded in the gun made wireless contact with equally minuscule receiving equipment in his melded left eye while the right one closed in a lethal wink. Crosshairs appeared in his field of vision. Wherever his eye focused the muzzle of the gun would aim. Suitable fine adjustments were entered into the weapon to compensate for distance, wind velocity, and other properties that might interfere with a bullet’s trajectory.

  From atop the ridge he could see his targets clearly. The barrel of the pistol lined up on the back of the stick-man’s head. But the pale red warning that appeared on the inside of his eye above the crosshairs as he pulled the trigger could not be denied.

  DISCHARGE ABORTED: TARGET OUT OF RANGE

  His frustration knew no bounds. He needed a rifle. Or a small launcher. Or a self-propelled explosive seeker. He had brought none of these with him, believing the newly purchased pistol more than sufficient to conclude his business. As it would have been, had they not tricked him into crashing by deliberately wrecking their own vehicle. As it still would be, if the present distance between them could be halved. Rising, refusing even to wince at the shooting pain in his badly injured left leg, he pocketed his weapon and started down the far side of the stony slope as fast as he could limp.

  He had not descended twenty yards through the talus and brush when what he feared most happened. With its human passengers safely inside, the “elephant” returned to life, turned elegantly on its four massive legs, and set off northward at a fast trot. Its destination was unknown but its speed could be estimated. Even at his best Molé could not have kept pace with it.

  The elderly assassin could only totter downhill and curse. The pachyderm-driving stranger might give his two hitchhikers a lift for an hour, for a day, or for longer. Attempting to keep up in the heat of the open Karoo would be foolish, perhaps fatal. As much as he hated to do so Molé knew it would make more sense for him to start back toward the lodge in hopes of being picked up. He was tough but not invulnerable, determined but not obdurate. His body needed medical attention and he knew it.

  It was infuriating. By the time he was in any condition to resume the hunt his quarry would probably have acquired swifter and more modern transportation. By the time he could resume formally tracking them they were liable to be anywhere. Since he did not know their intended destination they could vanish anyplace, even out of the country. Unless he could quickly reestablish contact he would practically have to start all over again.

  At least he didn’t have to worry about them going to the authorities. If that had been their intention they would have done so in Savannah.

  He had been so close to finishing it. To completing the assignment. What made the recent series of events almost unbearable was that his failure had been due not to human interference but to a wholly accidental nocturnal encounter with one of the Preserve’s resurrected mammals. Better the giant herbivore whose sleep he had inadvertently interrupted should have stayed extinct, he told himself as he turned reluctantly westward.

  As he hobbled off in the direction of the distant lodge he decided that he should not be so hard on himself. The great majority of his work took place in cities, in civilized surroundings. He was not used to the country. He did not seek out the company of nor did he much care for animals. He liked them even less now that one had tried to kill him, even though the creature’s reaction had been only natural.

  A proper reckoning and recompense would occur only when he finally caught up to his quarry. Regrettably, there would be no experiments in biltong-making. Not that he couldn’t avail himself of a choice nibble or two. For the sake of tradition. The vision gave him strength. He would begin with a select bit of the good doctor Seastrom.

  And in keeping with his original plans he could still make her wretched, irksome meat-string of a companion watch.

  THE INTERIOR OF THE inimitable four-legged transport provided comfortable space for one. With three packed in, it was crowded even though Whispr did not take up much room. Watching as their host piloted the heavily automated vehicle Ingrid could not help thinking that as opposed to other occasions, this time the problem was not the elephant in the room but the room in the elephant.

  Moreover, it stank.

  Though their agreeable host opened every available vent, the steady flow of air was unable to counter the overwhelming pong of uncured pelts, hastily removed skulls, awkwardly extracted claws, and slabs of plastisealed flesh that were packed into the rear of the single compartment. While much of this highly illicit bounty belonged to resurrected Pleistocene mammals, some of it was contemporary. Flanked by hand-cut wedges of spray-frozen springbok, a kudu skull with its magnificent twisted horns had been crammed into one high corner. Several glittering birds stood posed exactly as they had been when shocked by the poacher’s preservative. A whole Smilodon glowered from the back of the improbable vehicle, looking even in death uncomfortably ready to awaken and pounce.

  Studying the collection, Ingrid remarked on the absence of ivory or modern cats.

  “Nobody want to buy conserved leopard or lion when they can have a sabertooth.” A cheerful Umfolozi addressed his guests from the driver’s seat in the elephant’s head. “Is very unexpected good luck for such modern kitties, py damn. Fortunately all resurrected sabertooth and scimitar-tooth cats reproduce well. Smilodons live in prides and screw like lions. Preservation is assured.” He indicated the menacing presence stored behind the doctor. “You take out one big male, another immediately steps in to
assume his place and make sure all the females get good and impregnated. Original cubs suffer, is true, but the pride lives on.”

  “How do you squeeze something like a Megatherium skeleton in here?” Speaking from Ingrid’s left Whispr had bent and twisted himself like a contortionist in order to fit into the seemingly nonexistent remaining space.

  Umfolozi made a face. “Can’t fit whole skeleton. Sometimes I’ll take a skull and the claws. The pelt I also take because there is big demand. One sloth skin carpets a whole room. I got a suction setup removes all the air from fur. You be surprised what you can pack into a small space once all the air is remove from it. But only works with pelts, not bone or keratin.”

  The elephant gave a sharp lurch to the left. Ingrid yelped as she was dumped into a pile of something warm and pungent. Whispr voiced a strangled protest.

  “Sorry.” Their host ran his fingers over a couple of controls and the ride steadied. “We crossing a stream and climbing opposite bank. I could make ride smoother still, but then this elephant would not look like an elephant. And I can’t risk that. A Preserve floater might home in on the discrepancy.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I going to have to close the vents now. Just for little while. We have to cross the Touws River here.”

  Whispr stared. “This thing is a boat, too?”

  Their host chortled at the assumption. “No, no—is an elephant!” Looking back, he eyed his guest critically. “You not know that elephants are good swimmers?”

  “My error.” Whispr struggled to find a more comfortable position atop his makeshift couch of salvaged animal parts. “There’s an ongoing shortage of elephants where I come from.”

  “You will note with interest,” Umfolozi continued, “that air supply for us is by same method as would be for real elephant. Except our trunk has no-pass membrane and filter installed.”