“Minaqonda—got it.”
The second armed company floater was just visible hovering on the eastern horizon as Kruger’s craft topped the last low rise and the target came into view. One did not need the security chief’s practiced eye to tell that something was wrong.
The shredded bodies half buried in the sand were proof enough of that.
“Circle,” he directed the pilot. “Distant but within range. Gatlings powered up.” Sobered by the sight of so many motionless human forms being slowly claimed by the desert, none of the floater’s gunners cracked wise. They kept their hands on their triggers, the electrically powered weapons ready to run riot at the touch of a switch.
“I’ve got nothing moving, sir.” The scanner operator’s fingers and tentacle tips efficiently worked her console. “No heat signatures, either. Individual reads are cold.”
“Might be somebody alive inside and shielded.” Kruger was thinking out loud. Given the presence of so many dead on the ground outside the downed craft it seemed unlikely anyone had survived within, but one of the hallmarks of his administration of security at Nerens was that he was always ready for the unlikely.
“Close pass,” he ordered tersely.
The floater pilot performed a second circumnavigation of the silent transport. The scanner’s follow-up report was as void of life as its predecessor. As the security craft gradually orbited in closer and closer to the crash site, Kruger was able to make out details without the aid of supplementary lenses: the hole in the vehicle’s windshield, the open port, and the main doorway gaping wide. From the spray of sprawled corpses that fanned out like palm leaves from the vicinity of the portal he could tell that those inside the downward craft had managed to get out. The question that nagged at him was what, if anything, had managed to get in? He was close enough now to be able to see where weapons had been dropped beside bodies.
What had happened here? Had the intruders fallen to arguing among themselves, with fatal results? His interest was purely personal. From a professional standpoint the intrusion had conveniently resolved itself.
“Find a level spot and set down near the intruder’s front end,” he told his pilot. “Raki, you stay at your gun. The rest of you make sure your sidearms are charged and loaded and get ready to disembark.” He directed his last words to a console pickup. “Sipho, move in close but stay aloft.”
Nothing challenged him or his subordinates as they raced quickly down the ramp that the pilot deployed from the side of the company floater. Outside the armored transport the air was utterly motionless. A common-enough atmospheric condition in the Namib, and one that was especially appropriate given the grisly scene that was spread out before the wary security personnel. Standing in dead air Kruger slowly took stock. It seemed as if the carnage had even intimidated the wind.
Naturals and Melds, men and women alike had been felled by unknown adversaries. The identity of the latter soon became apparent. Spreading out to count the bodies, Kruger and his team came across a number of far smaller corpses scattered among the deceased humans. Broken, smashed, half incinerated, several of the deceased meerkats still carried quivers of poison-tipped spines on their backs or clutched weapons improvised from bone and scavenged, coarsely reworked metal and plastic. As if the presence of their embattled dead was not proof enough, the ground was covered with thousands of tiny footprints.
A shuffling Maranon joined the security chief as Kruger nudged a huddle of dead meerkats with his right foot. There were half a dozen of the small twisted bodies in the pile. They looked as if they had met their end at the same time, cooked with a single shot. A practitioner of Brazilian mechcandomblé, Maranon was visibly uncomfortable in the presence of so many unexplained undersized fatalities. Dead humans, Natural or Meld and in any number, did not trouble him. Armed meerkats were something outside his experience, and it showed in his voice and expression.
“What the hell, Mr. Kruger, sir? I mean, what the hell?”
As a scientific explanation of the lethal biological anomaly that was spread out before them, the subordinate’s observation left much to be desired. Viscerally, however, Kruger found himself in complete accord with the other man’s remark. Raising his gaze he began to scan the surrounding landscape, searching for any sign of movement. Especially small mammalian movement.
“This is unusual,” he commented with characteristic understatement. “Decidedly out of the ordinary. There will have to be a report.” Lifting his wrist, he spoke into the communicator that was strapped to his lower forearm. “Sipho, we’ve got a real anomaly here. Remnants of a massacre the likes of which you won’t believe. Set down and deploy your people in a defensive perimeter around the site. Tell them to—tell them to keep an eye out for meerkats.”
Incredulity was prominent in the other man’s reply. “ ‘Meerkats’—sir?”
“Yebo, meerkats. Someone, somewhere, has been engaged in some extreme magifying. At least we won’t have to deal with the intruders. They’ve already been dealt with.”
“Dealt with, sir?” came the other man’s voice. “By whom, sir?”
Kruger hesitated a moment. “By the natives. And not the ones you’re thinking of. As soon as you set down come on over and you’ll see for yourself.”
Lowering his arm and breaking the connection Kruger resumed hiking away from the downed floater. Several of the dead humans had so many Codon spines sticking out of their bodies that they looked like desert succulents themselves. One still clutched her pistol in a death grip while the rest lay weaponless. Either they had panicked and abandoned their floater while it was under attack and the rest of the intruders’ guns lay inside, or else someone had carried their weapons away.
Could a meerkat aim and fire a weapon designed to be utilized by a human? Kruger pondered the possibility. Even a small gun would be too big, too heavy, too clumsy. But several agile meerkats working in tandem, now …
Having not enjoyed a single comforting thought since setting down in this haunted place he looked forward to returning to the comfort of his apartment and office back in Nerens.
At least his report would be able to include a full description of the intruders. Though individually they were a flutter of aliases, there was more than enough information in their floater computer to mark them as operating on behalf of the Yeoh Triad out of Guangzhou. What the Triad was looking for in the Sperrgebeit, Kruger had no idea. Maybe someone had given them a line on a diamond deposit and this team had been sent to check it out. That made sense, the security chief told himself. If they had entered the Forbidden Zone only to validate information and then leave, they could reasonably assume they would be able to do so before he and his people had time to respond to their intrusion. The lack of any mining gear on the downed floater lent further credence to such a theory.
Of course their incursion might have nothing to do with diamonds or mining. Since he had been deprived of anyone to interrogate, their true motive remained open to speculation. That was now a matter for SICK intelligence, not him. He made sure that his personnel recorded everything as they wandered among the sandy killing field. Otherwise no one back at the facility was going to believe them. Murderous meerkats—oh, certainly! That Het Kruger—what a joker!
But it was no joke. There was nothing funny about a septet of corpses. He found himself wondering if the encounter that had taken place here represented an isolated incident or was a precursor to a brand-new security issue. He would have to find out what poisons were effective on meerkats. Or had these heavily maniped specimens been magified to the point where they knew enough to recognize and ignore baited traps?
All matters for speculation, he told himself as he turned back toward his waiting floater. The ethics of animal magifying, the how much and what kind, had long been hotly debated. Its practical aspects were less frequently addressed. Here was a perfect example of how such biological manipulation could get out of hand. In the old days security at the facility had just been a matter of dealing with
invasive species. Now people were developing their own invasive species in labs and illegal manip centers.
It had been stated with confidence by the appropriate international regulatory bodies that the Ciudad Simiano in Central America represented the end of such thoughtless research and experimentation. His expression twisted. He would have liked to have been able to show some of those self-satisfied, overconfident politicians around this particular patch of the Namib.
Meerkats were smart, social, and adaptable. So were rats, who were even more adaptable and far more procreative. The weapons on their broken little bodies proved that the meerkats who had done battle with the intruders had been given at least a minimal intelligence boost. What if some deranged biosurge or gengineer somewhere decided to do the same for a few rats?
He shook his head at the shortsightedness of it all. You couldn’t stop the magifying of animals. Too many people wanted their “special” pets. There was far too much money to be made in the underground market, selling yodeling lemurs and cooing cats and dogs who could speak a few programmed phrases. Greed would always outweigh danger. The Sperrgebeit was proof enough of that.
Aware that Maranon was shadowing him, he turned abruptly.
“Are you following me, mister?”
“I’m watching your back, Mr. Kruger, sir.” The other man spoke with deference as he shifted his rifle from one arm to the other.
A small smile played across the security chief’s face. “No, there’s more to it than that. You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
If Kruger expected a sputtering denial it was not forthcoming. “Yes sir, I’m afraid.” The Natural’s eyes darted nervously over the surrounding silent terrain. “These meerkat creatures aren’t normal. They live in burrows, in tunnels. They could be anywhere, even right under our feet right now, waiting for the right moment. Waiting for us to relax so they can pop up and fill our legs with toxic darts.”
“Well then, you can stop worrying, Maranon. I’ve seen enough here and we’ve recorded enough to prove to the others back at the facility that we’re not liars. Analyzing and trying to make sense of what happened here is a job for the bio-boys, not us. We’re pulling out.” He clapped the other man on the shoulder. “Go on, get back to the transport. And for pity’s sake, quit worrying about cousin mongoose. I haven’t seen anything alive bigger than a bug since we got here. However they did this, or why, any killer weasels are long gone.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Maranon smiled and nodded, grateful that his boss had chosen not to demean him.
After he gave the general order for departure Kruger waited while the rest of his team pulled back to the two waiting floaters. Alone once more on the desert floor he took the time to stroll slowly around the perimeter of the confrontation. Aware that the members of his team would be watching and monitoring his progress from inside the two floaters, he knew it would bolster their spirits to see their commanding officer making a final inspection of the impossible battlefield without any immediate backup. It should settle a few nerves. That was his job, too.
Satisfied that there was nothing more to be learned unless he left a detachment behind to conduct a more in-depth study, he broke into a jog toward his floater. An explanation for what had taken place here would be forthcoming in its own good time. He looked forward to it. Unlike many of his subordinates he did not make jokes about the desert. He had a healthy respect for its vast empty spaces and the many secrets it doubtless still contained. Much as he would have liked to know exactly what had transpired in this place he felt no need to rush to judgment. Sometimes it was best not to pursue things in the Namib too closely or in too much haste lest a camouflaged sand cobra jump up to bite you in the ass.
Climbing back into the transport he gave the order for both crafts to lift off and return to Nerens. Settling himself in one of the seats in the back he helped himself to a cold Tusker and reflected on the morning’s work. Though he was returning with a mystery in tow, at least he could assure his superiors of one thing.
The trespassers had been dealt with down to the last Meld and no other intruders were left alive in this sector.
9
Despite her unease, despite her fears, and despite the steady, unrelenting howl of the storm and the particles of wind-borne grit that assaulted her face like a thousand tiny biting gnats, Ingrid Seastrom had fallen asleep. Exhaustion is ever the tortoise to the hare’s pain.
She woke up choking on sand. Spitting and wiping at her mouth, she sat up and found herself staring at a sky of such untrammeled Prussian blue that it seemed a glaze on the ceramic bowl of heaven. In that perfect-toned firmament nothing moved: not a breath of cloud, not a stirring of wind, not a whisper of wings. Speaking of Whispr …
While she brushed sand off her legs she looked to her right, then to her left. Twisting her tired body, she looked behind her. No Whispr. Only eastern mountains and western plains, rills and runs and rips in the rocks that were millions of years old. Her heart started to beat faster—and in the complete and total silence she felt she could hear it.
What if he had decided he would be better off on his own and had taken off while she’d slept? What if he had finally surrendered to his nagging paranoia and decided to return to Orangemund and thence home? He had the only functioning communicator. On the communicator was the only copy of Morgan Ouspel’s instructions on how to get to Nerens—and how to return safely to the Orange River. If he had abandoned her then she would have time enough only to contemplate her own imminent demise.
But he wouldn’t do that to her—would he? Not to the doctor who had removed the police traktacs from his back. Not to his partner in exploration. Not to the woman he childishly and transparently wanted to possess. Not to Ingrid Seastrom, M.D., beloved of all her patients and …
There was no point in shouting her frustration because there was no one to hear her.
Standing up allowed her to take in a good deal more of the barren landscape. Squinting against the harsh sun she located more mountains, more scattered brush, more dunes and cracked gravel pans. But no Whispr. No companion. No other motile living thing.
Which way to go? Which way to run? Orangemund lay far to the south now. She might be able to remember the way back, might be able to retrace her steps. But shorn of specific directions she was unlikely to make it. Nerens was nearer now and she knew its general direction, but without Ouspel’s map and details she might stumble right past it. Even if she found the place she would not exactly be assured of a hearty welcome. To the east lay the Kalahari, to the west the undrinkable Atlantic. She had no choice. Grim and resigned, she started off in a northwesterly direction.
A dozen steps and as many silent curses later she tripped over her companion.
Except for his sideways-turned face he lay completely buried in the sand. His pack lay nearby. Whether he had dropped it, set it down, or flung it away in a fit of madness she had no way of knowing. It lay open to the elements, its precious contents scattered by the wind.
Carefully she brushed sand from his cheek and neck. Then she smacked him on the upturned side of his face hard enough to make her palm sting. He sat up so fast that she had to backpedal quickly to avoid being knocked down.
“Wha … huh?”
“I’ll give you ‘wah-huh’ you pathetic, insensitive bastard! I thought you’d run out on me! I thought you’d left me here to die in the desert while you bone-scooted your miserable scrawny ass back to Orangemund! I thought …!”
“Aw, you missed me,” he cooed, interrupting her tirade.
She was ready to continue, stopped, stared at him a moment, then looked away. “I felt so alone I would’ve missed a pustulant iguana. I was scared.”
“Okay, okay. I’m here. Wish I were elsewhere, maybe, but still here. You can relax now knowing that you won’t die alone and that you’ll have company when you do so. Sorry if that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Her heart rate slowing, she looked down at him. “What happened? W
hy’d you move?” Her expression contorted. “Usually when we turn in for the night you can’t get close enough and I have to kick you away.”
Busy shedding the rest of the diminutive dune that had accumulated atop his body, he didn’t meet her eyes. “I thought maybe if I sat upwind of you with my back to the storm I could keep some of the blowing sand off your body, help you to get some sleep. I think that I did. Then I fell asleep. And fell over.”
“I don’t remember passing out, either,” she muttered. “Fatigue will do that to a person.”
“Unfortunately,” he added as he turned and pointed, “I made the mistake of putting my pack next to me. I should’ve put it under me, or at least remembered to secure all the straps and seals. I didn’t think the wind would be strong enough to move it, much less pick it up and dump it somewhere else.”
Together they walked over to where his pack had stopped. Some of the food was missing. The wind had probably carried it halfway to the Makgadikgadi by now, she thought regretfully. Fortunately all of the special supplements required to keep Whispr’s melded digestive system functioning properly remained. Between the two of them they had enough packaged nutrients to keep going for at least another few days. His waterpak was still in working order. And though the force of the wind had sucked it outside the backpack, they found his first-aid kit lying nearby, intact and still sealed against the weather.
Their relief at recovering so much food and drink turned to despair when they finally located his communicator. Wind-driven grit had penetrated the protective housing. No matter what command he tried to enter and irrespective of the contacts he touched, the small screen remained blank and the integrated tridee projector would not light. Nor did the battered device respond to verbal command.
“Can you fix it?” She stared hopefully at the compact glassine rectangle.
His laugh was as bitter and sardonic as any she had heard issue from his willowy throat. “I suppose I should be flattered that you think enough of me to even ask that question, doc. Much as I’d like to say yes, you got me wrong. I just steal these things.” He brandished it at her. “I don’t fix ’em.” A wave took in the distant mountains. “It’s no problem, though. We’ll just amble over to the nearest shop and buy a replacement.”
The Sum of Her Parts Page 13
