The Sum of Her Parts

by Alan Dean Foster

  Every breath of wind caused him to open his eyes sharply. Every imagined touch, contact, brush, and crawling sensation made him look down or flutter his covering. It was the middle of night-morning and he was never going to go back to sleep. Not pills, not singsong, not anything was going to erase the tickling memory of the ghostly scuttling shape that had forged a methodical path across the angular topography of his face. He shuddered at the remembrance.

  Ten minutes later he was sound asleep.

  WHEN AGAIN HE FELT scratching sensations he held himself still. Blinking, he noted that the sun was almost up. This time he wouldn’t panic. This time he would not scream, no matter if a hunting leopard was pawing at his hip. Whatever the cause, he realized quickly that it was having more impact than the comparatively delicate touch of the dancing lady spider. As he grew more and more awake he realized that someone was trying to tie his hands behind his back.

  They had been jumped by wildlife of a different kind.

  Struggling, he saw that Ingrid was lying nearby on top of her bedding instead of beneath it. She had been bound at ankles and wrists and padded tape had been slapped over her mouth. Her wide eyes were eloquent with fear. Still trying to wrestle with his unseen assailant a single horrifying thought crossed Whispr’s mind and chilled his blood.

  Molé had found them.

  If the elderly assassin succeeded in binding him as well then he and the doctor were both dead. The only difference from falling off a cliff was that if they were suitably restrained Molé would take his time with them. That would be very, very bad. The assassin was serious evil personified. Whispr knew he had to fight back, had to get free. But though much stronger than he appeared to others he proved no match for the hands that were securing his arms. Even as he fought he was thinking that the parameters of the desperate struggle made no sense. Yes, Molé was strong and tough. But he was not big. The sheer weight pressing down on Whispr suggested someone far more substantial than the elderly killer they had encountered in South Florida.

  Twisting his body as he tried to free a hand, he finally glimpsed his attacker. It was not Molé. Nor was it a representative of company security.

  Satisfied with his handiwork, the panting freewalker straightened and stepped back from his prisoners. Enough light now penetrated the arroyo to reveal the unmistakable features of the Meld who had sought engagement as a guide as Whispr and Ingrid had been leaving Orangemund. The fleshy winglike water storage sac attached to his back sloshed audibly as he turned to check on her. Whispr used the lull to anxiously search the ravine in both directions. Unless others were concealing themselves farther down the gully or up top, their attacker was alone.

  “Been following you ever since you left town.” Quaffer’s gaze flicked back and forth between the two bound figures. “Thought I might’ve lost you in the flood. Glad you made it out.”

  “Your concern is touching.” Whispr continued to fight with the plastic loop that had been used to secure his wrists behind him.

  Off to one side Ingrid had managed to struggle into a sitting position. The tape having finally slipped away from her lips, she glared at their captor.

  “What do you want, Quaffer? Are you planning on selling us to SICK?”

  The manta-backed Meld looked shocked. “Hell no! I don’t want any more dealings with the company than you do.” He indicated their surroundings. “If they find me here they won’t have to make any deals. They’ll just shoot me. And you too, of course. But you are not foolish people—at least, not entirely foolish—and I am sure you already know that.” He leaned toward her, the water sac that was part of his back shifting fluidly.

  “I don’t want to hurt you. As I said back at town, I want to help you.”

  Jerking his head toward his left shoulder, Whispr gestured with his chin. “How about helping us out of these ties?”

  The guide spoke without looking in his direction. “Certainly, stick-man. I will be pleased to do so. But not just yet.” The multiple overlapping folds of his forehead slid toward Ingrid so severely that she marveled they didn’t slide off his bald skull. “First we must come to an agreement. I want a share.”

  Whispr looked away, rolled his eyes, and said nothing. “A share of what?” Ingrid inquired blankly.

  The tiny deep-set eyes glittered in the brightening morning light. “Don’t play the stupid with me, woman. The same thing we discussed on the dirt outside Orangemund. No more games, no more lies.” He waved at their surroundings. “Such things are meaningless out here. In the Namib only the truth survives. This is the Sperrgebeit. A company searcher could come by at any minute and we will all be as good as dead. But with my help you will survive. And with your help all this difficulty and suffering will be made worthwhile.”

  “That still doesn’t tell me what you want from us,” she protested.

  He sounded honestly bemused. “I cannot figure out if you are strong or stupid. Myself, I think, inclines to the latter.” His voice rose. “A share of your diggings, of course. In return for my guidance and protection.” A wide grin spread across the almost hairless face. “It will be worth your while to engage me.”

  “Diggings?” Torn between fear and confusion, Whispr’s expression was as twisted as his tone. “You mean diamonds?”

  “No,” the much bigger man responded dryly. “I mean cattle droppings. Of course I mean diamonds. There is nothing else in the Sperrgebeit worth digging.”

  Lying bound on the ground Whispr started to chuckle. His characteristic straight-faced laugh only served to infuriate their captor, but the slender Meld couldn’t help himself. Having this water-back idiot confront them outside Orangemund with such a ridiculous challenge had been unsettling. Finding that he had trailed them all the way out into the emptiness of the Namib on the basis of the same misguided premise was irresistibly hilarious.

  Quaffer found it less than amusing. Approaching the prone captive he drew back his right foot. “Shut up! Shut up or I’ll kick your head in!”

  Preceding his response with a hurried cough, Whispr swapped hilarity for dead seriousness. “Listen to me, freewalker. I’m a poor streetie-sweetie from urban Namerica. The only diamonds I’ve ever seen are the ones locked up in arcades behind heavy security, secured in museums with even stronger security, or bouncing on the bodies of the rich who are too well protected for a street scavenger like myself to even think of riffling. Stones that are flashed by lesser citizens I don’t try to apprehend because it takes an expert with specialized techrap to tell a real stone from a fake. I learned that early on. Hellup, these days stealing stones pays less than stealing bones. There’s a market for morrow marrow because you can’t fake genuine organics. A rock, on the other hand, is just a rock. Easy enough to synthesize. I expect there are always those willing to pay for guaranteed real, though, or there’d be no mining here.”

  The guide listened to this so stolidly that Whispr was unable to tell if his logic had made any headway. At least the freewalker’s foot descended without making contact with the slender man’s spine. Such hesitation suggested that perhaps a word or two had penetrated the solid node balanced atop of the man’s neck.

  Sensing vacillation on the part of their captor, Ingrid hastened to chime in.

  “Whispr’s telling the truth, Quaffer. We’re not here after diamonds. We don’t know anything about diamonds. I don’t even own any diamonds myself.” She hesitated. “We can’t give you shares in a nonexistent mine.”

  The big man mulled over his captives’ words. Both Meld and Natural had spoken without being pressured to do so. Their expressions were earnest, their voices sincere. And yet, and yet …

  “If you are not after diamonds,” he said slowly, “then what are you doing in the Sperrgebeit?”

  Whispr was quick to jump on the guide’s indecision. “We told you, back outside Orangemund. We’re scientists and we’ve come out here to …”

  Suddenly angry all over again, Quaffer glared down at him, his fury more a product of fru
stration than antagonism. “Don’t tell me you risk your lives to come to this place in search of wildlife! Don’t insult my intelligence again!” The foot drew back, farther this time. Whispr closed his eyes and waited for the blow.

  “All right, I’ll tell you! Don’t hurt him!”

  Both the man on the ground and the Meld standing over him turned in Ingrid’s direction. The restraining plastic band digging into her wrists, she implored their captor with her eyes.

  “I’ll tell you the truth. But it isn’t what you want to hear.”

  “Try me.” Lowering his booted foot for a second time, Quaffer stared at her out of eager, beady eyes.

  “Don’t do it, doc! Don’t tell … ummphh!”

  Aimed at Whispr’s stomach instead of his head the forceful kick did no permanent damage. But it did shut him up. Holding his boot in reserve, the freewalker nodded tersely at Ingrid.

  “Go on—talk.”

  “You’re right. We’re not here to look at wildlife.”

  Quaffer smiled contentedly. “Of course you’re not. Now tell me something I don’t know.”

  As best her restricted circumstances permitted, she nodded toward the gasping Whispr. “My friend is my assistant, and I am a scientist. A practical one.” She took a deep breath. “We hope to sneak into a SICK research facility located at Nerens.”

  Recovering from the punt to the gut, Whispr’s eyes grew wide. Had his intellectually brilliant but socially naïve companion finally gone over the edge? Now all their captor had to do was call SICK security and turn them in. No doubt there was some kind of standing award for those who exposed intruders into the Forbidden Zone. Except …

  If Quaffer notified the company of their intrusion he would also have to explain what he was doing in the Sperrgebeit. They might let him off, they might pay him a reward—or they might execute him along with those he had exposed. Just to ensure everything remained nice and clean and that once back in Orangemund the wayward guide did not reveal to others of his ilk the safest route inland. No one would question the company’s actions in such a case. Their ruthlessness and methods were long-established and well known. Certainly such an extreme response would be unfair to the guide. Satisfaction carried to the grave, however, tends to wither as fast as flesh.

  To his credit the freewalker Meld did not reject Ingrid’s explanation out of hand. He ruminated quietly for several moments. Then he walked deliberately over to the doctor until he was standing next to her recumbent form.

  “I give you credit, woman. That is the most outrageous pretext for risking one’s life in the Namib I have ever heard. It is so outrageous that I could almost credit it being true. Almost.” He leaned over her, his partially depleted water sac sloshing against his spine and expanded supporting ribs. “Why in the name of Mandela’s mandala would you even think of trying to sneak into Nerens? Unauthorized entry into the Sperrgebeit means almost certain death. Attempting to infiltrate Nerens removes the ‘almost.’ Explain yourself to me, pretty woman!”

  Gazing up at him out of recently color-maniped eyes, she was quietly defiant. “You don’t need to know.”

  With his insides churning Whispr waited for the inevitable heavy-toed kick to strike his companion. That it did not was testimony to a combination of Quaffer’s uncertainty and his astonishment at being openly challenged by the helpless woman lying at his feet. His reaction, when it came, was unexpected.

  He laughed. Out of amazement, and out of a perverse admiration.

  “I was wrong. You are not smart, woman. You are crazy!” He looked over at the anxious Whispr. “And whether you are following or leading, stick-man, you are crazy for being with her!” Lowering his voice he knelt on one knee to bring his face closer to that of his captive.

  “Listen to me, red-haired lady. Listen close, listen good. Nobody gets into Nerens unless they are authorized by the company. Nobody! People have tried. If you live in Orangemund and you pay attention, you learn that anyone who tries to do so ends up dead or worse.” He was nodding as much to himself as at her. “Yes, there are worse things than death.” Rising, he placed his hands on his hips and shook himself, adjusting the water in the skin sac as easily as a Natural would reposition a backpack. “I have had enough lies. It is getting warm and I am getting tired. No more lies. No more jokes.” He lifted his right foot. But this time he did not draw back his leg to deliver a kick. Instead, he slowly lowered the sandboot until it was resting on Ingrid’s upturned nose. A great deal of crushing, shattering weight lay behind the deeply scored sole.

  “Where … are … the diamonds? Where is the mine, or the field, or the alluvial deposit?” His foot descended slightly. Unable to turn away, she felt the pressure. Her sinuses began to scream. As a doctor she knew in detail the succession of physiological events that would follow if he allowed all his mass to follow his foot. The crunching noise and the subsequent copious blood would be the least of it. More worrisome would be the direction the numerous bone fragments would take as they spread throughout her …

  The boot wavered, moving slightly back and forth, and then slid forward off her face to land in the sand. He was straddling her now and swaying slightly. As he turned he reached for the pistol that was attached to his belt. His hand and fingers seemed to freeze. Hardly daring to breathe, she squinted up at him.

  Something was sticking out of the side of his neck. Several somethings. They looked like green needles. As she stared, another struck him in one fold of his ridged forehead. Reaching up, he plucked it free and gaped at it with a confusion of shock and wonderment. His eyes rose; searching, scanning. Another of the green needles penetrated the left one, just below the pupil.

  Screaming and clawing at his face, he stumbled backward and tripped over the body beneath him. She was grateful that he landed nearby and not on top of her. As he rolled in pain and dug desperately at his punctured cornea a hail of pale green needles peppered his body. Water began to seep from his back sac where they pierced the aqueous manip. Soon he stopped screaming and stopped digging. More moments passed before he stopped for the last time.

  As Ingrid lay on the ground breathing hard, a small scrabbling noise drew her attention away from the body of the guide. Squinting against the still rising sun she was able to make out shapes gathering along the upper edge of the ravine. More and more appeared until there were several dozen of the upright figures staring silently downward. Each carried a hollow reed that had been strengthened with treatment from vegetable resins and a quiver full of needles slung across its back. A few wore small pouches slung over one shoulder or the other. Their hair ranged from brown to gray and on to white, but their eyes were universally black. None stood much taller than the other.

  None stood much taller than a foot.

  She was dreaming, Ingrid told herself. That had to be it. There was no other reasonable explanation. On the other hand their tormentor was dead. The freewalker Quaffer lay nearby within arm’s length, motionless and studded with green needles. Moments ago he had been alive and delivering very real threats. Now he was unmoving and harmless. The indisputable cause of his condition stood lining the rim of the ravine and staring down at her.

  A glance showed that Whispr was equally mesmerized. But despite the belligerent guide’s evident demise her friend was not as sanguine about their prospects as was his companion. The creatures had killed Quaffer. They could with minimal effort kill him and his equally helpless companion.

  They began to chitter among themselves. Then one that was slightly bigger than his companions descended into the arroyo. Small clawed feet effortlessly found footholds where a human would simply have fallen back to the bottom. As it approached Ingrid she lay perfectly still, not wanting to do anything to alarm it. Not that she could do much with her hands bound behind her and her ankles locked together by plastic strips.

  The slender mammal performed a quick circumnavigation of the doctor, staring and sniffing, while its companions watched intently from above. Scrambling up onto her c
hest it rose up on its hind legs and stood as comfortably as any biped while it studied her face. The black nose at the tip of its long snout quivered. When it yawned she had a glimpse of small but very sharp teeth.

  Whispr could stand it no longer. “What is it?” His gaze swept the line of armed figures that dominated the rim of the little canyon, their eyes intent on the two bound shapes below. There were more than thirty of them now, each grasping a minature blowgun. “What are these things?”

  Her attention fixed on the face of the furry being standing on her chest, Ingrid swallowed before replying. “I’ve seen nature vits of them. I think they’re meerkats.”

  A response was immediately forthcoming—but not from any source she would have anticipated. It arose in the form of an intelligible squeaking from the enchanting lightweight whose strong supportive tail was presently aligned with her cleavage. Each word was enunciated with the painstaking care reflective of the effort that had gone into forming it. At the same time sunlight glinted off the bits of crudely clipped nanocable that emerged from the back of the diminutive speaker’s skull. The trailing wires imparted a faintly Rastafarian look.

  “Yes—meerkat.”

  6

  “They can talk!” So flabbergasted was Whispr that for a moment he forgot he was bound and incapable of more than the slightest movement. “Talking weasels—here!”

  The subject of his amazement turned to look at him. “Why not—here?” The tiny paw not clutching the blowgun gestured upward. “I, called Nyala, can talk. Other friends—cannot.”

  Hopping down off Ingrid’s chest the meerkat landed on all fours and scurried over to the mountainous body of the big freewalker. As she trotted across the sandy bottom of the ravine Ingrid could see that the quiver on her back was filled with more of the minute needles that feathered the corpse. Approaching with caution, the creature who called herself Nyala sniffed gingerly of the body. Jumping onto the chest she quickly explored the dead guide’s length from ribbed forehead to booted feet. Coming back around the torso she paused beside an open hand, opened her jaws, and sank needlelike teeth into the extended thumb. Whispr winced as blood leaked. The test was conclusive.