Sagramanda

by Alan Dean Foster

  Admikhana. Man-eaters. Cannibals.

  As the lowest of the low, the poorest of the poor, society expected them to eke out a pitiful existence until disease and especially starvation overtook them. Except that some years ago, no one could say exactly when, three such women had impertinently refused to remain complicit in their own quiet, courteous demise. All had children. No matter what their mothers consumed and no matter how it affected them in this life or the next, these women had determined that their children would thrive and survive on a diet of normal mother's milk. The foundation of that milk was immaterial. It was the survival of the children that mattered. It justified everything. Anything.

  Though never boasting many formal adherents, the cult the triumvirate of poor women had founded had grown large enough to alarm the authorities. Despite repeated efforts, they had never been able to completely stamp it out. There were too many poor women, too many starving children. The moral rationalizations offered by the cult were sufficient to sustain its always fluctuating membership. Besides, it was only one of hundreds of cults old and new that boasted believers scattered throughout the city's vastness.

  They weren't going to sell him, a terrified Taneer realized as he backed up. They were going to gut and eat him. Horrific servants of a noble purpose, they began to spread out, to cut off any possible retreat. Before that could happen, he turned and bolted into the night.

  Upraised dirks and dirty kitchen knives flashing, hems of silk and cotton rising and flapping about their legs like the wings of ascending bats, the Admikhana broke into a run behind him. The piercing ululation that rose from their throats as if from a chorus of stoned banshees was bloodthirsty in every sense of the word, and not merely a metaphor.

  Getting around the hotel was no more difficult than entering it. All one had to do, Jena reflected, was dress appropriately and act as if you owned the place. Here, her sun-darkened skin was assumed to be the product of long hours spent whiling away the afternoons at luxurious beach resorts, instead of simply surviving from day to day beneath the burning tropical heat like everyone else in Sagramanda.

  She had discarded her modified sari in favor of an outfit that would not have drawn a frown in Montmarte or Lyon, or for that matter New York or Zurich. Handsome photophobic skirt and blouse, credible shoes, long narrow shoulder bag, passable fake pearl necklace and earrings comprised the kind of elegant yet casual travel gear any sensible European woman would choose to wear during a visit to India. The tall, traditionally uniformed, magnificently mustachioed Bengali doorman was quick to offer the usual salute and open the heavy glass door for her without asking to see any kind of identification.

  Striding through the open, multistory lobby, she kept her gaze forward and purposeful. She was not attractive enough to draw lengthy stares. Not in this five-star hotel, a favorite of visiting film stars and other notables. The indifference suited her purposes perfectly. Though she acted as if she owned the place, she had never been here before. It was important, when she was in a hotel mood, never to visit any hotel more than once. In a city the size of Sagramanda, that was not a problem.

  High overhead, virtuals of scenes from the Ramayana and Mahabharata played out silently on the slightly concave ceiling. Glancing up, she caught a glimpse of Hanuman the Monkey God triumphing over the demon-king Ravana, as he did every hour on the hour. It was an impressive display, made all the more so by the fact that she couldn't spot the projectors.

  The mongoose that confronted her stood up on its hind legs and inquired politely if there was anything she needed. It was a deft mechanical, and a clever change from the usual miniature elephant. Hotels of this class were always looking for any edge over the competition. Indicating that she was fine, she thanked the device and found her way out back.

  The poolside bar was comfortably cool thanks to the invisible air curtain that kept the outdoor facility at half the chill of the main lobby. Choosing a chair by one of the small, elevated, mushroom-shaped tables, she ordered a drink and settled down to study the pool itself. It was a trilevel job, the two upper levels connected to the lower by transparent waterslides and waterfalls. Both of the upper pools were fashioned of transparent acrylic, so that swimmers could look out at the world beyond while those seated nearby or swimming in the main pool below could watch the upper-level swimmers cavort. Rainforest vegetation abounded, giving the setting the appearance of some movie-set jungle paradise. Miniature versions of the air screen that sealed off the bar area ensured that the vegetation was not doused with lethally chlorinated pool water.

  That portion of the pool area not facing the hotel was enclosed by a two-story-high fence topped with electrified wire and a silent laser alarm beam. On the other side of the fence was a service alley that was the sometime home of perhaps a thousand people. Clapboard lean-tos and empty shipping boxes served as shelters for those who had taken up residence in the narrow lane; at least, they did so until a particularly wide delivery truck or utilities vehicle needed to make use of the passage. Then people would scatter frantically in all directions as their transitory residences were smashed to pieces or crushed flat, whereupon they would wordlessly set themselves to the laborious task of rebuilding them anew. Occasionally a ripe coconut, or mango, or papaya would fall into the alley from one of the branches of the decorative landscaping that overhung the security wall, whereupon a small war over its possession would ensue.

  The residents of the hotel, of course, never had any contact with the residents of the alley, and the hotel's indomitable security staff ensured it stayed that way.

  None of the alley's citizens would have dreamed, or had the means, to bluff their way inside the hotel. For Jena it was easy. Any decently dressed European, especially a single woman, who entered the hotel was assumed either to be staying there, or visiting a guest, or meeting someone on business. It could be said that the latter was the case for her. It was just that she had not yet chosen someone to meet.

  She sat for an hour; nursing her drink, then another. Watching, waiting, appraising, calculating. A middle-aged Italian couple sat down at the table next to her and exchanged polite greetings in broken English. She chatted with them while they ordered, waited until a plate of satay arrived at their mushroom table, watched as the individual thermotropic skewers cooked the chunks of pork and chicken from within, did not bother them as they ate, and decided against asking to see their room so she could compare it with her own. Despite his age, the man was a bit too big, a shade too physically competent-looking. Jena did not buy trouble. The couple departed smiling, utterly unaware how near they had come to participating in an afternoon of sudden death and dismemberment.

  Eyes narrowing only slightly, she picked up her drink and walked over to another table.

  “Hi. Mind if I join you? I hate drinking alone, and it doesn't look like the person I was supposed to meet here is going to show up.”

  She guessed the other woman to be about her own age, perhaps a year or two younger. With the Chinese it was sometimes difficult to tell. The woman wore an expensive sun-repellent wrap around a form-fitting swimsuit. Her black hair was cut short and fashionable. The only jewelry she wore was a single earring, so long that its tip brushed her clavicle. A waterfall of color played through it, controlled by the internal chip.

  After studying Jena's face, the woman gestured courteously at an empty seat. “Why not?” Her English was excellent, and no surprise.

  “I am Marie-Louise.” Jena extended a hand, shook the other woman's. The grip was firm but not overbearing. “From French Guiana.”

  That piqued the other's curiosity. “Xinzhou Mai-ling. Everybody calls me May. French Guiana?” She eyed her visitor with obvious interest. “I have never met a person from that place. What do you do there?” She laughed lightly as she set the drink down. The steadily fizzing contents were blue, Jena noted. “What is there to do there?”

  “Not very much, it is true. I work for Arianaspace.”

  “Shih?” This time intere
st mixed with surprise. “Are you an astronaut? Or as we say, a taikonaut?”

  Jena laughed. Rapport had been established. “Nothing so exciting. I'm a technician. I am here for a conference.” She did not say what kind of conference. Nor would she, unless she was pressed to elucidate, in which case she would have to elaborate further on things she had read on the Net while constructing her current cover.

  Fortunately, May Xinzhou was not particularly interested in the details of her new European friend's profession. She was much more interested in the Frenchwoman herself. She was an executive for a major white goods manufacturer in Guangdong and was in Sagramanda exploring wholesaling possibilities. Jena could not help her there, but she could help relieve the ennui the other woman anticipated having to deal with until her next appointment, which was not until tomorrow morning.

  “These Indians,” she confided well into her fourth drink, “the men they are always so very surprised when they find out there is such a thing as female Chinese executive. Some of them cannot deal with it. Those who only want to talk figures and look at fiscal projections are no problem.” She giggled. “You are staying here too?”

  “Of course,” Jena lied effortlessly as she sipped. “I'm trying to find a way to relax myself.” She raised a hand and pointed to the far side of the pool where a dark stairway could be seen leading downward. “I understand this hotel has an excellent Ayurvedic facility. If you want, we could continue this conversation while really taking it easy.”

  The executive half turned on her stool. “I have heard about Ayurvedic massage, but I have never tried. Because I know nothing about it and would not know where to start.”

  “I know all about it,” Jena assured her. She hopped off her stool, still holding her current drink. “Come on. I guarantee the experience will relax you completely.”

  “Hokay. It will be something to tell my friends back home.”

  As they walked toward the stairway, Jena frowned suddenly. “Merde—I must have left my access in my room, and I can't remember the code.”

  “No problem, no problem,” her new acquaintance assured her. “I have mine with me.” She smiled graciously. “I am on full expense account. Time to make use of some of it.”

  “Thanks,” Jena said simply. “That's good of you.”

  The big male was hungry, but he was also confused, and uncertain. Days ago, he had made an easy kill south of the area he was now prowling. Liking the taste of the strange meat and hoping for more of the same, he had intended to return as soon as his stomach demanded refilling. But on his initial approach to the place he had sensed and heard unusual noises. Advancing with great caution through the cloud-heavy night, he had espied something unnatural moving through the brush not far from where he had made the kill.

  The creature patrolling the edge of the jungle marched on eight legs. It had only a single eye, curiously dead, that scanned its surroundings from the end of a thin neck. There was no visible mouth to worry about, certainly no teeth, but the tiger was wary nonetheless. The cylindrical, armored body emitted a steady hum so subtle that many animals would have been hard-pressed to detect it. Not the tiger. It sounded more like a buzzing, flying thing than anything else, but there was no evidence of wings. Most peculiar of all, the smell that emanated from it was a faint, thick stink the likes of which the tiger had not encountered before. Then there was the matter of the internal light that was visible for just an instant when one of the creature's rear legs flexed.

  Anything never encountered before was to be regarded with great suspicion. Given the creature's much smaller size, younger, bolder males and females might have decided to attack first, taste second, and evaluate later. Not the big male. He had not reached his present mature age and size from acting impetuously. From his hiding place in the thick underbrush, he pierced the night with vision six times sharper than that of a human as he watched the strange being trundle down its chosen path. It made no move either to enter the jungle proper or drift toward the well-kept dwellings beyond. The single-mindedness of purpose it exhibited was impressive.

  Silently, the tiger tracked it for a while longer. Once, he shifted his place of concealment to follow the thing, maintaining the distance between them. To see a quarter ton of tiger moving in absolute silence through the jungle on footpads big enough to completely blot out a man's face is something to remember—or to terrify, depending on the thrust of the cat's movements and one's proximity to it. The eight-legged creature did not react to being stalked. Nor did it pause to drink, or to browse, or to try and catch something to eat.

  Suspicious, the big male retreated, backing up until he was well out of sight of the odd being and then turning to retreat into deeper, darker jungle. He did not trust what he did not know, especially the eerie smell. Hungry as he was, the big cat would look elsewhere for tonight's twenty kilos of meat. He would have been even more wary had he been able to read and understand the markings on the creature's side, one of which said in both subdued English and Sanskrit script:

  DEPARTMENT OF WILDLIFE AND GAME

  SUNDARBANS NATIONAL PRESERVE

  Mobile Tranquilization and Capture Unit A-23

  Only one attendant was on duty in the facility. Jena studiously examined the three-dimensional artwork on the wall while her new executive friend checked them in. In response to the attendant's query as to whether they required a live masseuse, the Frenchwoman replied in the negative, without turning her head to face the attendant. When she and May entered their assigned cubicle, Jena was confident that the bored employee had not managed so much as a glimpse of her face.

  As befitted a hotel of this class, the subterranean room was intimate and welcoming. Responding to her room flasher, a soothing male voice husked as they passed through an open portal into the sanctum, “Welcome, Mai-ling Xinzhou and guest.” Jena tensed slightly. But as hoped, since she was clearly with the Chinese executive and already inside the hotel grounds, the facility's subsidiary security system did not feel compelled to ask her for additional identification.

  There were four private grottos and no human attendants. That was the nice thing about exclusive places like the hotel, Jena reflected. Management respected the privacy of its guests above all else. Even better, none of the other cubicles were presently occupied.

  “Preferences?” inquired Mai-ling. “Please remember that I am new to this.” Jena noted that not everything the executive said rang true. But then, she had already figured as much. The mix of anticipation and mild excitement in the other woman's voice was unmistakable.

  “It doesn't matter.” Jena touched the “Open” button on the nearest cubicle. “I'm sure they're all identical. Private and soundproofed.”

  With a soft whoosh of air, a door decorated with Ayurvedic symbols drew aside to reveal a small room. Virtuals of forest scenery—lush trees and rippling springs, blossoming flowers, lullabying songbirds—immediately added depth and dimension to the surroundings. Overhead, a curved ceiling was filled with fluffy white clouds backlit by gentle sunshine. The musical equivalent of falling water, the trembling tones of a sitar filled the chamber in concert with the dulcet crooning of the oboe-like shehnai. Standing between two raised, padded platforms, the delighted Mai-ling smiled like a schoolgirl who had just unexpectedly been presented with a new dress.

  “I am relaxed already, and I believe we have not even started, yes?”

  Nodding, Jena reached for the tab under her left arm that would disengage her outfit. “Get undressed and lie down on one of the tables. I'll take the other one.”

  As the visiting businesswoman complied, Jena carefully folded and set her own attire aside. By the time both women were completely naked, their cubicle had pumped enough perfume into the room for it to smell like an ancient harem. The carefully compiled blend of fragrances scented their nude bodies with droplets of warm mist.

  A bit awkwardly, Mai-ling climbed onto one platform and lay down on her stomach. “Like this?”

  Reclining supplel
y on the other platform, Jena gestured approvingly. “Stretch your arms out in front of you. Like this.” While demonstrating, she began to search impatiently for an activation control. It was not necessary. The room was simply taking its time, allowing them to get comfortable before treatment commenced.

  Now a different male voice greeted them. “Welcome, guests, to the ashtahvaidyan Ayurvedic experience. Please lie back and relax while your specific composition and body types are scanned in preparation for the receiving of treatment. Be so kind as to keep your eyes closed until the brief period of preparation is complete.”

  Both women shut their eyes as a laser spent half a minute scanning each of them from head to toe. When that process was complete, the inner portions of both platforms sank less than a centimeter into their receptacles, except for the dense foam pillowlike portions that supported their heads.

  “Please relax while your beds are filled with a light application of the appropriate massage oil,” the voice told them. Jena felt the familiar warm glow of precisely blended liquid filling the basin in which she lay. Moments later they were instructed to turn over onto their backs, then back onto their stomachs once again.

  Giggling drifted across to her from the other table. “I feel like duck in a wok,” the delighted executive told her new friend. “I warn you—if I see vegetables being added, I am going to get out!”

  Jena made herself smile. “Just relax. Let the oil penetrate your skin.”

  “The special blend that has been prepared for you,” the room voice murmured, “contains a typical Ayurvedic mix of sesame oil, extract of sweet flag, round zedory, beech, nightshade, Uraria lagopoids, deodar pine, fennel, sandalwood oil, eaglewood, valerian, costus, cardamom, musk root, country mallow, and winter cherry. It is designed to relax and invigorate your specific body types.”