Two figures entered the room: a man and a woman. The reaction of the three remaining prisoners to the appearance of the new arrivals was as varied as it was confused. Het Kruger was a type known to them: physically imposing, tough, lethal, completely self-controlled, and dedicated to his work. But this pair … the prisoners did not know what to make of them. They could console themselves with the knowledge that neither would anyone else.
They had to be Melds: no Natural human could grow so obese and still move with such apparent ease. What passed for clothing on their enormous bloated bodies consisted of colorful but untailored overshirts that fell almost to their knees. Matching blue or yellow pants accumulated in loose folds around huge feet that were encased in dark, loose-fitting boots of unnatural height and width. The woman had skin the color of burnt chocolate while her companion’s complexion suggested that he was suffering from an advanced case of jaundice. Their huge dark eyes were sunk so deeply in their bulging, fat-larded skulls that it was impossible to identify their exact color. Nostrils were wide and mouths reminded a couple of the prisoners of bottom-dwelling fish.
Advancing with a balletic waddle, they halted directly behind the security chief. When they spoke, the unexpectedly faint words seemed to come from somewhere deep within their massive, lumbering bodies.
“Why you try to enter Nerens?” the man asked.
The leader of the infiltration party strained to hear. What accent was that? Tongan, or perhaps Samoan? But there were too many clipped consonants, none of the softness in the brief query that would define Polynesian origins. Melanesian, perhaps, or even something local—meaning anywhere south of the Sahel.
She responded without hesitation. The security chief had not put away his communicator. Not that it mattered whether she replied or not, she knew. She and her associates were dead anyway. It was the manner of dying she was bargaining.
“We were dropped off by floater and asked to perform a general reconnoiter and report back to Guangzhou.”
“Report on what?” inquired the corpulent female. Despite her similar size and shape her accent was completely different from that of her male companion.
The bound woman shrugged as definitively as her bonds would permit. “We were told to keep an eye out for unusual materials. Plastics, composites, especially metals.”
This response sparked a surprisingly animated conversation between the two blobs. Though the leader of the infiltrators strained to hear, the phrases being enunciated were too low and too garbled for her to glean more than an occasional word or two of the debate. When the overweight pair had concluded their discussion the man addressed the security chief. This time his speech was loud enough to be overheard.
“That is all. We are done here. Dispensation is yours, Mr. Kruger.”
The security chief nodded and the pair departed, barely managing to squeeze their respective bulks through the single portal. When the door had closed behind them Kruger turned back to the remaining captives.
“You heard the man. Dispensation is mine. Given your collective incompetence I’m inclined to think you’re relatively harmless. From the time your bumbling alerted the facility’s outer perimeter to your presence until the moment when you were rendered unconscious you were always under surveillance. You were only finally picked up because we got tired of monitoring you.”
To the prisoners’ credit a couple of them muttered a few choice sardonic comments.
“I’m not going to waste time haranguing you. I have better things to do and more important demands on my time. You have cooperated, so you’re going to be released. After all, you’re only low-level contract employees carrying out orders, and you didn’t harm anyone while you were inside.” He gestured toward the burned-out human wick at the far end of the line. “You’ve paid a twenty-five percent mortality penalty, chosen at random. We consider that warning enough.”
The captives could not have been more startled had Kruger suddenly morphed into a media star and announced that their present circumstances were a cleverly concocted sham and they were actually participants in a live reality vit. As he raised a hand to still their surprised murmuring, the group’s leader eyed him coldly.
“We answered a couple of questions and now we’re free to go?”
Kruger gave an indifferent bob of his head. “In a manner of speaking. You’ll be taken well outside Nerens’s security perimeter and set free.” His tone hardened slightly. “Without gear or clothing. Not even shoes. I’ve been security chief at this station for a long time and I have confidence that the Namib will render the final judgment on your illegal intrusion.”
The other woman started to protest, only to be silenced by a sharp “Shut up!” from the group’s leader. No one knew better than her what a tremendous break they had been given. She was careful not to smile.
“We’re very grateful for the compassion. Speaking as a professional I know we don’t deserve it. I for one certainly didn’t expect it.”
“Speaking as a professional,” Kruger replied evenly, “you’re absolutely right.” He raised the communicator. The prisoners tensed, but the commands the security chief uttered were directed to his staff and not at lethal apparatus. Entering the room through the single doorway a couple of security personnel commenced to free the prisoners’ limbs while others (too many others to try anything, the leader of the intruders knew) trained short-range riot control weapons on the surviving trio.
As Kruger had promised they were released, sans clothing, in an area of low dunes and gravel plains an indeterminate number of kilometers from the facility they had infiltrated. A light but thankfully warm breeze was blowing, uncertain whether to whoosh toward distant mountains or remain close to the nearby ocean. As their heavily armed escort trooped back into one of the two floaters that had carried them from the facility to this spot, the group’s leader put her hands on her naked hips and took stock of their immediate surroundings. She did not speak until both transports had disappeared to the west.
“They think we’re going to die here.” She spoke with a confidence born of extensive training. “As if we need clothes or modern equipment to survive.”
Moving up alongside his commander, the big male Meld joined her in studying the southern horizon. “Maybe they’re thinking that even if we do survive they can pick us up whenever they want.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll have to keep well under cover. Fools. That Kruger: you could smell the arrogance drifting off him. He thought he had us cowed when he vaped Sulok. Probably he’s used to frying poor stray prospectors and wandering animal poachers. He has no idea what we’re capable of. We’ll get out of this.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “And one of these days, in a restaurant or a pub or on a public transport, I’ll make his acquaintance again.” She regarded her companions. “We’re supposed to die out here. Well, the local animals don’t, and if there are any Rousseauean natives, they don’t either. None of them have our training or our survival skills. Let’s get moving.” She started southward, marking her heading by the sun. “Keep an eye out for anything that looks useful; as food, weapon, or shelter.”
“What about water?” the other female Natural wondered.
“Don’t worry—I can smell water. What, you thirsty already?” She jerked a thumb in the direction of now distant Nerens. “If your mouth’s feeling dry why don’t you head back toward the facility? I’m sure they’ll be happy to give you a drink.”
The other woman went silent.
By evening they had managed to accumulate an impressive collection of found objects. Some bush berries proved bitter but edible and, more important, moist. Using their fingers and rough-edged rocks the three of them were busy putting points on tough sticks to serve as spears. Clouds on the horizon held the promise of possible rain. Water-carriers could be fashioned from suitable plant material. Oh, they would survive, all right. They would make it all the way south to the Orange River, avoid the town of Orangemund and any company agents waiting there, and work their
way inland. All they needed was access to a single communicator and help would be forthcoming. Their employer would be disappointed, but not crushed. While their mission had been far from completely successful, neither was it a total failure. They had information to impart: details on Nerens security, memories of a portion of the internal layout, and a good deal more.
A fire was easily built from scavenged dry sticks and the waxy branches of bushmen’s candle. Ancient human hunter-gatherers had utilized the same survival techniques. Seated around the blaze and building it higher let them ward off the chill of the desert night. Yes, it was cold, but being dead was colder. Each of the trio was resourceful, well trained, tough. The Namib at night was chilling but it was not the Arctic. In letting them go, Nerens’s overconfident security chief had seriously underestimated them.
The group leader had closed her eyes and was resting her head on a small pile of dead brush when she heard the cough.
At first she thought it was one of her comrades. Only when the deep, rough sound came again did she lift her head to blink into the darkness. Moon- and starlight showed her companions dozing peacefully beside the fading fire.
Rising to her feet, she threw a few more twisted, wind-scoured branches onto the blaze. Flames sprang higher and sought the sky. Embers danced briefly before flaming out. Turning a slow circle she sought the source of the sound that had disturbed her. She was not worried. If there was something out there it was probably only curious as to the nature of the intruders on its turf. If there was something out there that was more than curious, the substantial campfire would keep it at bay.
The big Meld blinked sleepily and found her with his eyes. “What’s on, Shu?”
Still studying the darkness beyond the glow from the fire the group leader shook her head. “Not sure. Probably nothing. Thought I heard something.” She stopped turning. Staring at her, the Meld started to sit up.
“Shu, what …?”
The eyes looking back at her did not blink. They were large and in the light from the fire yellow. Advancing with great deliberation, regal poise, and in complete silence, the male lion advanced toward her. Black of mane, he was at least three meters long and massed a couple of hundred kilos. Keeping her eyes fastened on the cat she knelt, reached behind her to grab one of the flaming branches from the fire, straightened, and thrust it forcefully in the lion’s direction. Exhibiting utter disdain for the crackling flames it continued its measured approach.
This wasn’t right, she told herself as she started to back up. Something here was not natural. All cats were at least wary of fire. The tawny quarter-ton beast in front of her was coming on as if the torch wasn’t there, as if she held nothing in her fist more primevally threatening than a sprig of parsley.
By now both of her companions were awake. Taking immediate notice of the nocturnal visitor they had similarly armed themselves with blazing branches. The male Meld began yelling at the lion even as he scrambled to keep the fire between it and himself. Meanwhile the other woman hurried to add the remainder of the wood they had gathered onto the blaze. This caused the flames to shoot several meters high.
Without breaking stride, the lion walked majestically through the center of the conflagration.
A few wisps of smoke trailed from the tips of its mane as it emerged on the other side. At the same time the light from the blaze was strong enough to reveal the small box of tan-colored metal that was mounted on the back of the big cat’s skull. Her initial reaction had been more accurate than she knew: this lion was indeed not natural. It had been magified.
At the same time as she threw her makeshift torch at its face and turned to run she caught a glimpse of something else poking out from the depths of the magnificent mane: a tiny black spot sporting a bit of gleam in its center. A vit camera. Grabbing a handful of sand as she ran and ignoring the screams and curses of her comrades she threw the sand in the lion’s direction, hoping to hit its eyes, and raced for the ravine they had crossed earlier. In its depths she might find shelter; an overhang, a cave, something. Behind her the cries of panic had turned to shrieks of agony and pain. They were nearly drowned out by the butchering roar of not one but several desert lions.
A regular perimeter patrol, she wondered as she fled, or a special surprise dispatched from Nerens specifically for the purpose of disabusing the freed prisoners of any notion of escape?
The ravine lay just ahead. Ignoring the sharp rocks that cut and tore at her bare feet she plunged over the side. Out of sight was not out of smell, but at least this way the maniped cats could not be put on her trail by controllers monitoring the activity from Nerens. The co-opted carnivores would have to find her on their own. Judging from the awful sounds of rending and tearing and the snapping of bone that filled the night behind her, the lions, magified or not, were likely to settle down to feed. If sufficiently preoccupied with their hominid meal they might well forget about her.
Moving fast along the sandy bottom of the ravine she sought to put as much distance between herself and the continuing carnage as possible. When she finally did stop, utterly out of breath and with leg muscles screaming, she could hear nothing behind her.
She’d done it, she told herself. She was the only one to escape the slaughter. But then, in the final analysis she was the only one who mattered. By the time company security arrived at the scene to clean up after their feline patrol, probably in the morning, they would find only the remnants of bodies that had been dismembered and consumed. Sufficiently masticated and disarticulated, the remains of two might well pass for three, in which case they would not come looking for a single survivor. Living to tomorrow night would tell her if she was safe from the further attention of Het Kruger and his minions. As the seconds and then the minutes ticked away with no hint of leonine attention she was increasingly convinced that was indeed the case.
If only she had not sat on the snake.
14
Kruger was relaxing in his office contemplating his vit wall when the call came. As it did on alternate days the projected depth image had automatically changed. This morning it was showing the boulder-flecked beach of Anse Source d’Argent in the Seychelles, perhaps the most famous if not the most beautiful beach in the world. Wavelets the color of peridot broke on smooth white sand while unseen gulls called softly. A study in feathered obsidian, a black paradise flycatcher sat on a rock preening its extraordinary tail feathers.
Irritated at the interruption, Kruger muttered a curt order. Advanced by verbal command the image refreshed. Now it depicted the verdant depths of the western Amazonian rain forest. The chatter of monkeys replaced the calls of gulls. Being surrounded by sand he was not as enamored of beach scenes, no matter how spectacular, as someone else might have been. As he turned back to the vook he had been reading, his desk communicator sounded a second call. This time he acknowledged it.
He listened to the details, verified receipt of the transmission, and rose. What had gone wrong with the world that he should receive three such notifications in the space of a single week? What was this—intruder season? With a sigh he deactivated the vook, which automatically marked the vit-illustrated page he had been reading, picked up his portable communicator, and headed for the door.
“Back soon, I expect,” he told his receptionist. “Another set of infiltrators.”
“Another?” She eyed him in disbelief. Danae was beautiful, they both were single, and their relationship was strictly one between two professionals. Sex was easy to find, he knew. Competent staff was not.
“Sounds like it, from the description. Only these two somehow got inside—deep inside—without setting off a single alarm. Made it all the way to Research before one of our people, thank Oompaul, spotted an incongruity.”
“You don’t think they actually could have penetrated Research security, do you, Mr. Kruger?”
“Based on the brief description I just got I don’t think they could have penetrated security at the Tusker Bar in Pretoria, much less here. But
they did.” His expression was grim. “There has been a lapse somewhere. A serious lapse. I will find out where the gap exists, and it will be plugged.”
She watched him leave the reception area and returned to her own work. For all Het Kruger’s buff construction, gentlemanly politeness, and manicured speech she would never have considered embarking on a relationship with him. The chief of security was solid as a rock, through and through. Emotionally as well as physically.
THE CONTRAST WITH THE previous quintet of intruders could not have been more striking. Just by looking at the pair Kruger could tell they bore no relationship, professional or otherwise, to the infiltration team that had preceded them. Taking up his usual position in the interrogation room he regarded the two new prisoners thoughtfully. Like their now deceased and dismembered predecessors they were bound arm and leg and had been fastened securely to the back wall. The longer he examined them, the less he thought the bindings necessary.
These were not trained assassins or sinister agents of industrial espionage. One was as thin a man Meld as the security chief had ever seen. Hanging in his bonds the scruffy Meld alternated strings of curses with wracking sobs. His Natural companion was a highly attractive and to Kruger’s practiced eye recently maniped redhead who seemed as out of place in the depths of the Namib and the bowels of Nerens as a maniped multilimbed ecdysiast delivering a lecture on Kierkegaard at Oxford.
What the devil were these two doing in Nerens? More important, how had two such obvious amateurs succeeded in penetrating not one but three separate concentric security perimeters without setting off a single alert? Though his employers might feel otherwise, his personal responsibilities demanded that he show more interest in the latter conundrum than the former.
One thing was certain: he would learn nothing by speculating. His right hand did not move toward the communicator resting in his shirt pocket. No ominous apertures appeared in the ceiling in response to a command. Immoderate methods of persuasion would not be necessary with these two. At most, a few selective descriptions of what could happen to them if they refused to cooperate should be sufficient to overcome any hesitancy. Muting the aggravation he felt at this latest interruption in his copacetic daily routine, he sighed and began.
The Sum of Her Parts Page 21
