Body, Inc.

by Alan Dean Foster

  It occurred to her that he might be an undercover operative for SICK. It also occurred to her that if they tried to dicker with him or tiptoe around the truth they would get no more second chances. He would throw them out without a moment’s hesitation. They had come too far to risk that happening. In fact, ever since they had left Savannah life every day had been all about risk.

  She felt unreasonably and unnaturally exhilarated.

  “We have in our possession a small device that’s made of a kind of metal that shouldn’t exist. Our own personal research suggests that SICK may be the manufacturer. I want to find out how it’s possible to manufacture such metal while keeping it stable and also to learn its purpose.” She gestured at Whispr. “My companion’s interests are less lofty. What interests him is the subsist that might be gained from learning the answers to these questions.”

  Morgan absorbed all this, listening quietly and occasionally nodding slowly. When she had finished he pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Learning the answers to those questions might also get you both killed.”

  “We have some understanding of the dangers involved,” she told him. “We’ve already had to deal with a few. We’re prepared to go to the limit to learn these secrets.” Next to her Whispr muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

  “If I tell you what you need to know,” their host murmured tightly, “you must swear not to mention my name in context with your proposed ‘visit,’ no matter how strenuously and persistently you’re asked.”

  “Sure, we swear.” Unlike the doctor Whispr had no money to offer their informant, but his capacity for making meaningless promises was boundless.

  Morgan glanced at him, turned away as if the slender Meld didn’t exist, and locked eyes with Ingrid. “I’d never tell anyone else what I’ve seen—and I’ve seen a few things—but convincing them of that would be hellishly difficult.”

  “Yeah, you told us. ‘The Big Picture.’ ” Whispr was unimpressed. “ ‘Painters.’ ”

  Morgan didn’t even look in the other man’s direction. “So I just left,” he told Ingrid. “Fast, unofficially, without signing anything, and notably without undergoing the decommissioning physical they give to everyone who’s retiring or leaving for any other reason. I’ll tell you what I can and what you want to know, which is how to get there, for …” He named a figure.

  Whispr stifled a laugh. Ingrid stiffened, but nodded agreement. Satisfied, their host took out his communicator and extended it toward her. As Ingrid removed her credcard Whispr moved to intercede, smiling at their host as he did so.

  “Huh-uh. Information first, then subsist.”

  Morgan looked as if he was about to object, then nodded reluctantly. Ingrid withdrew her card. “Give me both of your comms,” he told them. She passed hers across, followed by Whispr. Their host made some rapid adjustments to his own device, then pressed the necessary contacts first against her unit and then Whispr’s. After a final check to make sure the transfer had gone through he sat back and looked satisfied.

  “I’ve conveyed to your units all the information and details on the best way to get from here to Nerens without going through official channels. On the only way to get from here to Nerens without going through official channels. I know it’s the only way because as far as I know I’m the only one who’s ever managed it. The crossing will take more time than the actual distance suggests because you’ll have to go on foot. It’s rough in places but it’s all negotiable. I know—I just did it myself.” He indicated Ingrid’s comm unit. “The trail mostly follows gullies and ravines. That helps you to stay out of sight as much as possible. Safe sources of water are marked on the maps. There are enough perennial waterholes so that you’ll be able to travel without having to carry too much.”

  Delving into the files Morgan had downloaded onto his communicator Whispr was furiously checking every detail as fast as he could. Searching for blatant inaccuracies, he could find none.

  “Why do we have to walk?” Ingrid was not looking forward to the prospect. Not after the hot, arid trek they had been forced to make in the Sanbona Preserve.

  Their host explained patiently. “Because the facility’s security is always scanning for intruders. It’s never down. Additionally, there are three overlapping layers: the one operated by the research facility, the park’s, and the one belonging to the diamond mining concession. This being the Namib, their personnel are trained to expect any unauthorized visitors to arrive by mechanical means: floater, aircraft, heliarc boots, ground vehicle, boats, scuba—any way except on foot. Even so, they have security out watching for hikers also, but it’s not as intensive or as well monitored. At least, not according to the security people I got to know. I made it out. By the skin of my arse, but I did. Who knows? Maybe you’ll make it in.” He appeared to wrestle with himself for a moment before leaning toward her again.

  “Can I—see this device you say you’ve got, whose attraction is powerful enough to bring you to the point of risking your lives to learn about it?”

  She looked over at Whispr. He was still intent on validating the information their host had provided to them. The decision was hers.

  Reaching inside her shirt she gently squeezed the concealed pocket containing the hidden capsule. Reading her touch the compartment unsealed, allowing her to remove the tiny transparent cylinder. Intact and undamaged, the metallic thread gleamed within its storage container. It had been a while since she had actually looked at it. As she started to pass it to Morgan he reached out to take it …

  And recoiled from it as if she were trying to hand him a live cobra. His eyes grew wild. The alarm in his voice was enough to make Whispr instantly look up from his communicator.

  “Oh, shit—a distributor!”

  A startled Ingrid looked down at the capsule that contained the thread. To her eyes it appeared as harmless as ever.

  “You know what this is?”

  “It’s a distributor! Goddamnit—chances are it’s still loaded.”

  “ ‘Loaded’?” Whispr’s thin brows drew together. “Loaded with what? It’s an information storage thread.”

  “Is that what you think? It’s not. It looks like one, but it’s not.” His anxious gaze returned from the capsule to Ingrid. “It’s full of implants!”

  “Impla …?” She gaped at him, looked down at the thread, over at Whispr, then back at their host. “It’s a storage thread. It’s made to hold information, not surgical components.”

  Morgan’s eyes were hard. “You already admitted you don’t know what it does.”

  She contained her exasperation. “Look, this is impossible. Even if someone, somehow, somewhere, managed to figure out a way to put surgical implants on a storage thread, the ones I’m interested in were quantum entangled. There’s no way to preserve them on some kind of faux storage medium in a state of permanent stasis where …”

  She stopped herself. Where the thread and the implants were concerned, “impossible” was a descriptive term that had long since outlived its application. She hesitated, then looked over at her companion. The stick-man stared back blankly and shook his head, desperately aware that he was well out of his depth.

  “You know, Whispr, it might explain why neither my lab nor the Alligator Man nor Yabby Wizwang could figure out what’s on the thread. If what Morgan is saying is the truth, the contents are probably security screened. A normal thread reader looking for information might see only a blank. In the usual sense there wouldn’t appear to be anything on the thread.” She peered down at the hair-thin piece of glistening, tantalizing, impossible metal. “If the thread’s been engineered and security-screened to contain something other than information, even an advanced data decompiler is going to see the content as empty.”

  “Empty, yeah.” Whispr turned to their host. “You say there are implants on the thread. What kind of ‘implants’? What do they do?”

  Morgan continued to stare at the thread as if mesmerized. “I don’t know. I don’t kno
w. I don’t want to know. I only know that they come out of the facility stored on the threads and that they’re sent away, and that no diamonds or gold or government secrets ever were moved from one place to another under tighter security. I only learned enough to know that these implants are transported on the thread, not what they actually contain. It was a freak encounter that enabled me to learn that much, and I was lucky I wasn’t shot on the spot.” His gaze went again, briefly, to the window and then to the front door.

  “I’ve told you everything you deserve to know and more than I should.” He indicated the capsule. “Put that back where you got it and don’t show it to anyone else ever again. Don’t even hint that you have it.” His eyes flicked back and forth between them. “You’re never going to find out what’s on the distributor, but it’s not my business if you’re determined to try. Pay me my money.”

  Ingrid checked again with Whispr. This time he nodded. As soon as the transaction had been completed and verified, their host rose from his chair. His tone was solemn.

  “You were never here. You never heard of me. With luck and if I can arrange events in the right sequence I’ll be on my way out of here and out of Africa by tomorrow morning. I’d advise you to do the same.” A pause, then, “If you don’t, and you’re determined to go ahead with this, make sure you take plenty of food concentrates with you. As I said, you’ll find plenty of potable water along the way, but there’s precious little to eat. The Namib is the world’s oldest desert and it’s no more a bulging larder now than it was a million years ago.”

  Ingrid nodded her understanding. “It’s a lucky thing we were able to make contact with you.”

  For the first time since they had entered the house his attitude seemed to soften a little. “You think I’m the first employee who’s quit the facility? Plenty retire, on good pensions. Others can’t take the isolation and just tender their resignations. What’s different is that I had a top security clearance. As soon as I saw what I saw and learned what I learned I knew that if I wanted to get out I was going to have to do so fast, before I learned too much, and without official approval. And no way was I going to go through their medical decommissioning procedure.” He lowered his voice.

  “Like I said, plenty of people retire. But above a certain grade there are none of the usual personal box sites for ex-employees. No way to make contact, no way to have a friendly chat. They just disappear.” He straightened. “If I was going to have to disappear I damn sure wanted it to be in my own way and on my own terms.” He surprised Ingrid again, by reaching out and taking her left hand in both of his.

  “You seem like decent people. As a favor to me and as a last caution, before you start out pay a visit to the Boot Shop under Market Square.”

  She eyed him blankly. “The walking shoes we have are still in good shape.”

  Their host was almost amused. “It’s not that kind of boot shop. Ask for Nokhot and ask her to run a boost trace on the signal from the thread.” At their expressions of surprise he smiled. “Yes, I know about that, too. Every thread emits a signal. For what purpose I don’t know and can’t imagine. If you live long enough maybe you’ll be the ones to find out.”

  “Boost trace can’t be run,” Whispr countered. “The signal is way too weak, and omnidirectional.”

  “It’s not omnidirectional.” Morgan reached into a carved wooden box resting on an end table. Withdrawing paper and an actual old-fashioned writing stylus (a “pen,” Ingrid realized) he scribbled furiously but briefly before passing her the result.

  “Here’s a bit of key information that can’t be traced back to me electronically. Show it to Nokhot and ask her to follow the directions. Don’t tell her where you got it, and make sure when you’re finished with it to destroy it completely.”

  She perused the succession of hastily jotted words and figures.

  “What is this?”

  “Coordinates and instructions for how to boost the signal so you can run a proper trace. Without them she’ll get nowhere no matter how hard she tries. Maybe the results will give you pause.” He started for the front door. “Now you must leave. I have to pack what little I’m taking with me.”

  Ingrid inquired without thinking. “Where are you going?” It was a question Whispr, who knew better, would never have dared ask.

  They were at the door. “Elsewhere,” Morgan told her. “It doesn’t matter. Anywhere beats where you’re going.”

  A resigned Whispr nodded knowingly. “That’s for sure, since we’re going to Nowhere.”

  Their host shook his head. “Close but not quite accurate. You’re going to Hell.”

  IT WAS NOT SURPRISING to find Orangemund’s smaller shops located on two levels below the central marketplace. Subterranean climate control was simpler and cheaper. So was the real estate. Vendors sold fruits and vegetables but no meat or fish. The latter were banned by mutual agreement since the smell in an enclosed space would have imposed more than just a minor inconvenience on sellers and shoppers alike. Similar markets could be found anywhere in the world.

  Relegated to shop space below the surface were hardworking vendors of secondhand goods, electronic trinkets, cheap children’s toys, superficial manips, dubious meld repairs, temporary cosmetics, designer knockoff clothing, practitioners of traditional medicine, exploiters of local endangered species, and the inevitable Chinese-run general store. Within the rock-walled surroundings the raucous chatter of customers and salesfolk ranged from muted to deafening depending on the nature of the transactions that happened to be taking place at one time. The more respectable enterprises such as those that sold validated entertainment, packaged foods whose use-by dates had not yet expired, on-site custom-fashioned clothing, front-line furniture, pornography, and drugs, occupied the main market aboveground. Ringing the marketplace were service facilities that dealt with delivery vehicles and large goods which could not be accommodated underground.

  Nokhot’s place was tucked back in a corner between an old woman who sold local weavings and an armored shop that dealt in jewelry both new and used. The location was darker than most because the peeling luminate on the walls and ceiling was long overdue for reapplication. Ingrid’s initial reaction on seeing the sole occupant of the shop was to inquire as to the owner’s whereabouts. Having dealt with similar establishments on another continent Whispr knew better than the doctor that the owner was already present.

  “Got a small job for you,” he said by way of introduction.

  “No job too small for Nokhot” was the giggly response.

  Ingrid had the feeling the shop’s teenage proprietor giggled a lot. She was very pretty, almost delicate, with sapphire-stained hair styled in counterwoven braids that hung below her shoulders, a wide mouth, and bright black eyes. They made her oversized ears look even more out of place. At five times the size of normal human ears they constituted an extensive meld. The inward-curving rims would serve to amplify sound waves even more. Additionally there were two extra arms that gave the girl four in total. The little finger of each hand had been doubled in length. Each fingertip terminated in a different tool fashioned of reinforced bone. Ingrid decided Nokhot looked like Little Miss Muffit and the spider all rolled into one.

  In response to a meaningful glance from Whispr, Ingrid drew forth the protective capsule and handed it to the Meld. Giggling pensively, Nokhot turned it over and over in her many fingers as she contemplated the thread within.

  “What do you want me to do with this? Run a compositional analysis? See what’s on it?”

  Whispr shook his head. “It’s putting out a really weak signal.” He glanced over at Ingrid. “We’d like to know where it’s being sent. Where it’s being received.”

  Nokhot nodded, eyed Ingrid. “I’ll have to take it out of its container.”

  “Go ahead. Just don’t drop it into a crack or anything. Or snap it.”

  The girl crossed her top two arms indignantly as the slightly lower pair went to work on the capsule. “I’ll
have you know, missy, that I treat my customers’ goods like my own.”

  The thread slid into a receiving slot in the middle of a complex of coupled electronics that comprised the most jury-rigged mass of gear Ingrid had ever seen. Cold lights flared to life from floor to ceiling. With two hands the quadridexterous Nokhot swung her box projection around and forward so that it hovered between her and her customers. The other set of fingers were busily at work deep within the jumbled mass of equipment.

  “We were told this would be of help.” Ingrid handed over the sheet of paper Morgan had filled with instructions and symbols. Nokhot studied it closely.

  “Never seen anything like this.” She chuckled. “It calls for a power boost that while brief is strong enough to get me arrested.”

  “So you can’t run the trace the way the paper suggests?” Ingrid was downcast.

  The girl giggled loudly. “Didn’t say couldn’t do it. Said could get me arrested. No biggie. I been arrested before.” Her hands went back to work.

  Looking on, Ingrid was not particularly shocked by the shop owner’s meld-supplemented dexterity. For example, there were any number of meld surgeons who flaunted similar manips. She personally knew two who had six arms. Others might have opted for even more except that tests, trial, and unfortunate error had shown that Hindu mythology notwithstanding, half a dozen upper limbs seemed the limit the human torso could comfortably accommodate.

  Ingrid was prepared to wait as many hours as necessary for the trace to be run. Five minutes later the girl’s workseat rolled back, a long finger stretched out to depress a single control, and she said, “Here goes …”

  For a brief instant every light and telltale in the shop put forth the maximum radiance of which they were capable. Then they went dark almost as quickly. As did the lights in every shop within view. Within a couple of seconds the lowest level of the underground market had become dark as a cave. Not as silent, though, as shopkeepers and customers fumbled for emergency lights while shouting vivid imprecations in more than a dozen languages.