Sagramanda, a Novel of Near-Future India

by Alan Dean Foster

  Keshu still wrestled on an amateur level, though there were not many competitors in his age group. Too much chance of tearing a muscle or breaking a bone. Such risks seemed minor in comparison to the everyday dangers faced by someone in his position, but not to those who were businessmen, or teachers, or doctors. There were no politicians in his gym group. Politicians tended to shy away from any kind of rough physical contact. He knew. In the course of his career he had been called upon to arrest a number of them.

  A government shuttle chopper was the favored means of transportation for senior officials. While the underground and the maglev were fast and reasonably efficient, nothing beat flying over the traffic to be dropped off on the roof of your office. Dozens of the compact, silent, fuel-efficient craft plied the skies above cities like Sagramanda like so many worker bees, ably shedding themselves every morning of bureaucrats, technocrats, plutocrats, elected officials, and the occasional very wealthy housewife. Larger lifters served as express delivery vehicles, while a few even transported the offspring of the especially privileged to their gated, guarded, exclusive private schools.

  Keshu was well aware of the status he had acquired as he stepped out of the chopper and grunted a good-bye to its pilot. There had been some outcry when the shuttle service had first been proposed, until the rice-counters had shown that the increase in efficiency in terms of man-hours worked more than compensated for the cost of the transport. All Keshu knew was that it saved him from having to deal twice daily with city streets. It was a perk for which he had worked hard, and was appropriately grateful.

  His cubicle was on the fifth floor of the Haradna East headquarters building. As senior inspector, he was entitled to a corner office. The room responded to his arrival by lowering the air-conditioning setting and darkening the windows. Settling himself into his chair, which promptly molded itself to his stout frame, he pursed his lower lip at the projection unit built into the desk. Before switching it on to con template the morning's litany of outrages, he swiveled in his seat to eye the right-angled intersection of Chittragout and Sabhagar streets.

  This early in the morning the flow of traffic was slow but steady. Looking out his windows, he could see five centuries. Modern Marutis vied for lane space with imported cars and small delivery trucks. They kept to their lanes lest they encounter one of the millions of dischargers that had been placed in the city's sidewalks over the past fifty years. Prior to the installation of the dischargers, frustrated drivers had simply used the sidewalks to try and drive around traffic jams. The installation of the dischargers put an end to that practice. Drive over one, and it would fry a vehicle's electrical system, simultaneously setting off an alarm. The immobilized driver could only wait for the traffic police to arrive, issue a fine on the spot, and impound the disabled vehicle. Initially, the number of immobilized vehicles slowed traffic until they could be removed. But word about the efficiency of the dischargers spread quickly. People stopped trying to turn the sidewalks of Sagramanda into extra driving lanes, and the flow of foot traffic improved markedly. Drivers caught with illegally installed discharger shields had their fines quintupled and their vehicles confiscated.

  Of course, the absence of vehicles on the sidewalks only opened them up to more residents and immigrants as potential dwelling sites and places of business, but at least feet and bodies were easier on the pavement than tires.

  A camel cart was making its way down the street, its pair of huge wheels fashioned of plastic instead of wood. Plastic wore much better and did not suffer ill effects from the rain and the sun. The camel needed no fuel and in much of the densely packed city made as good time as a truck. Gazing out his own private portal onto India, Keshu also saw overburdened Tata trucks and buses, heavily laden donkeys, and a plethora of powered tri-wheeled rickshaws. The last of the latter had been converted to battery or fuel-cell power about twelve years ago, with concomitant improvements to the quality of the city's atmosphere both in terms of breathability and noise pollution.

  What a country, Keshu mused. What a city. His city. Nobody paid much attention to population projections anymore. Not since the municipality's population count had passed seventy million. They were invariably inaccurate, anyway. With a sigh, he activated the desk and watched as the built-in box generated images and statistics in the air before him. There were no surprises.

  With a hundred million human beings crammed into one corner of the planet, there were bound to be quite a few who were desperate, despairing, or just plain bad.

  There was a riot of some significance starting up off to the south, centered on the Mayapur roundabout. Preliminary reports suggested a protest against the granting of a major commercial concession to a large Chinese consortium. Harsh words were being bandied about con cerning runaway production and lost jobs. The usual anarchic, oppor tunistic elements had appeared out of nowhere to join in and send the original demonstration spiraling out of control. Shops were being looted, pedestrians assaulted, vehicles overturned and burned.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. A minor episode. His presence would not be required.

  Before diving back into the interminable scroll of ongoing unsolved cases he skimmed through the litany of the previous twelve hours. Only nine murders, including one domestic dispute that by itself had resulted in four dead. Suspects already picked up in half the cases, not counting the family fight in which all the protagonists died. A good night, in that respect. He read on. To an outsider the long list of dreadful happenings would have bordered on the monstrous. In contrast, Keshu was not depressed. He had seen worse. Much worse.

  As he was reading, the electricity failed in half of Haradna East. His readout did not die. Essential city services such as police, fire, and traffic stations were equipped with their own proprietary backup power, as were hospitals, most major businesses, and the better hotels. The system of interlocking power grids and cables was so complex that it required thousands of gigabytes of storage space just to monitor the important junctions.

  Four major fires were burning across the city. Two substantial riots were in progress. It gave him much pleasure to note that none of these were taking place in his district. Within the past hour the city had recorded fifteen rapes, twenty-two robberies, eight cases of arson, and forty-four of serious vandalism. Those were the major crimes. He had no time to read about, much less deal with, the hundreds of minor ones. One hour, one crime at a time, he told himself imperturbably.

  Especially at the start of such a calm day in the city.

  His desk brewed tea. He contemplated spending the day doing a follow-up on the kidnapping of Bira Gumbadi. Mr. Gumbadi, senior vice president of the Bank of Bengal, Sagramanda section, had been kid napped three weeks ago by a gang of dacoits who had disabled his limousine as it was whisking him home from an important speaking engagement. Using a small laser, they had proceeded to crack the sealed, airtight vehicle and whisk the protesting Mr. Gumbadi away before the car's automatic alarm and location system could draw private security to his aid. It had been very embarrassing for the security firm in question. Keshu felt bad for the company management, not least because it was comprised largely of ex-cops. That was one advantage to his job. Maybe he did not make as much as he would have in private practice, but on the other hand, when there was a major cock-up, he didn't find his picture plastered all over the evening news, either.

  The kidnappers wanted fifty million rupees to free Mr. Gumbadi. Not an outrageous sum for one in his position, but substantial enough to give his family pause. Bargaining was ongoing. If, in the meantime, the inspector and his people could find and free the banker, gratitude would be liberally forthcoming, like dung spread across a newly planted field.

  The darkened, bullet-proof transparency that was the door to his office changed color, attracting his attention. Issuing an oral command, he bade it rise into the ceiling.

  Into the room came a small, dark man deferential in manner and afflicted with a pair of glasses that ought to be put ou
t of their misery by a vision-correcting laser. After said instrument had corrected the style-blind owner's deficient eyesight, of course. That this procedure had not yet been performed was most likely due to an insufficiency of funds rather than an unawareness of the relevant medical technique.

  Keshu made it a point not to stare. The financial compensation, or lack thereof, of others who worked in the department was not his concern.

  "Excuse me, Inspector," the man said by way of introduction, "but might I have a moment of your time? I am Subrata, from downstairs."

  Sitting up straight, Keshu beckoned for the man to enter. "Some thing I can do for you, my friend?"

  The much smaller man placed a hardcopy on the chief inspector's desk. "I would not bother you, sir, if I did not think this a matter of some importance."

  "I'm sure you wouldn't," Keshu concurred. No one would, who knew the chief inspector's reputation. Keshu Jamail Singh could tolerate the wasting of most anything but time.

  "You know how we are all trained to search for patterns in columns of crimes. Robberies, rapes, extortion, kidnappings-everything and anything." Keshu saw no reason to comment. He was impatient to get back to his reading. "I have been working homicide, and I think I have found something that should be brought to your attention."

  The chief inspector's beard rose and fell as he nodded. "Don't keep me in suspense, Mr. Subrata."

  "No sir." The smaller man continued hastily, gesturing at the printout as he proceeded. "I have been working on this with several people down in Forensics, and we are all agreed on the conclusions. As you know, the most common method of committing murder in our wonderful city is by knife, which is cheap and easy. Even if unrecovered, the type of knife employed in a killing can frequently be determined by analyzing the nature of the inflicted wound or wounds: their depth, width, angle of penetration, and so on." Adjusting his glasses, he scanned a duplicate copy of the printout he had passed to his superior.

  "The past year has seen many dozens of such killings. However, research and follow-up by myself and those people in Forensics seem to indicate that a small number exhibit enough unusual similarities so as to mark them as distinct."

  Keshu was still not intrigued, but neither did the level rise on his built-in irritation meter. "Unusual in what way?"

  "The blade utilized in these particular killings appears to be unusually large. The lethal wounds were much greater in extent than would have been caused by even a fairly large kitchen knife. A number of the killings included full decapitations, suggesting either an extremely sharp blade, a most powerful assailant, or a combination of both. Addi tional study ruled out the use, in these particular instances, of axes. Though a large machete remains a possibility, it is the consensus of myself and the people in Forensics that at least twenty-four of these studied murders were committed by someone wielding a sword."

  Now Keshu was involved. "A sword? You say you are all reason ably sure of this?"

  The smaller man was nodding vigorously. "Not just 'a' sword, sir. The same sword. Detailed analysis of the lacerations point to the same weapon being utilized in each instance. The killings were committed by a large, sharp blade with a smooth, unserrated edge. We feel confi dent that we have a forensics match for twenty-four."

  He shrugged dif fidently. "There may, of course, be more. The bodies of a number of the victims studied were found in various stages of decomposition."

  "Possible serial killer." Keshu was perusing the printout with his full faculties. "Why wasn't this brought to my attention before now?"

  Again, Subrata shrugged. "Those of us who have been working on this wanted to be certain, knowing that the consequences would inevitably lead to certain conclusions."

  From beneath bushy eyebrows the chief inspector's gaze rose, unblinking. "And you are certain?"

  "Sufficient for prosecution, should the perpetrator be found," the other man replied. "It was decided to bring this to you now because of the most recent instances. Two people, a man and a woman, who were fished out of the Hooghly only two days ago. Both bodies came up entangled in a fisherman's net. Before the crocodiles could get to them. Their wounds proved quite consistent with the other twenty-two unsolved cases." He added, almost apologetically, "Australian tourists."

  Now his visitor really had the chief inspector's attention. "That's very bad. I don't recall seeing anything about it in yesterday's news, or this morning's."

  Subrata allowed himself a thin smile. "Public Relations has been working overtime to keep this one in-house for as long as possible."

  Keshu nodded to himself. "Sword-wielding Serial Killer on the Loose in Sagramanda!" was not a headline the municipal authorities would be likely to look forward to seeing splashed all over the front of their morning news report. How long his department could keep such a revelation quiet depended on the reaction of the Australian consulate. Clearly, they were not yet fully in the know. Perhaps his people could keep them in the dark a while longer yet. At least until the unfortunate tourists' friends and relations began to wonder about why they were not hearing from their vacationing friends, and started to make inquiries.

  The disclosure prompted another, obvious follow-up question. "And the other twenty-two killings this is related to? Not all tourists, I presume?"

  "Only three others. One elderly German gentleman, and an Indonesian couple from Sulawesi. Also two Bangladeshis and a Bhutanese who were not tourists, but illegal workers. The rest all Indian." Subrata gestured with the printout. "There is no pattern to it, sir. Men and women, a number of teenagers, but no children under the age of fifteen. There are victims from every caste, and every walk of life. Rich, poor, middle-class. Dark, light, long and short hair. Nothing to link them except the methodology behind their murders."

  "Not just a serial killer, then," Keshu brooded. "One content to choose victims apparently at random. Unless we can establish some additional connection between victims, it suggests our quarry holds no specific grudge against any class or kind of people; only against humanity in general. A nondiscriminatory fanatic."

  "That was our conclusion, too, sir." Subrata waited patiently.

  Keshu was silent for several moments before he looked up anew. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Subrata. Please keep on it, give it all the attention it needs, and relay that request to your coworkers in Forensics. I want to be informed the moment anything relevant, including possible additional victims of this person or per sons, is discovered. Use my personal contact number."

  "Yes sir." The researcher turned to go, hesitated. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

  "Just two things." The chief inspector stared at the other man through the space between them. "Hope that this individual or indi viduals makes a mistake. Otherwise they are going to be very hard to catch. And-pray that he or they do not kill any more foreign tourists, or there will be hell to pay for all of us."

  "I assure you that my friends and I have already ascertained that possibility, sir." Subrata waited for the door to reascend, then exited through the open portal.

  Keshu returned to the study of the morning's readouts, the subor dinate's printout looming ominously on his desk. The Mayapur riot was winding down as a pair of rapid-response tactical squads squeezed it from two sides. Another disturbance threatened to flare up farther to the east. Near the zoo, of all places. He allowed himself a slight smile. Perhaps the city monkeys were trying to liberate their caged cousins. Or one of a number of international and/or local animal rights groups might be involved.

  Six rape reports had come in since his arrival. Two arson attempts, one successful, the other quenched in the bud by automatic snuffers built into the infrastructure of the attacked building. One attempted bank holdup, unsuccessful, with both would-be robbers stunned by automated security and their getaway vehicle successfully immobi lized. Violent confrontation at a private college campus between sit-in demonstrators and campus security guards. Assorted muggings, purse-snatchings, and pickpocketings.
Child-beatings, wife-beatings, hus band-beatings, beatings of household pets. Vandalism and car break-ins. Arrests for graffiti, extortion, theft of utilities, public defecation.

  A normal morning.

  Except for the efficient Mr. Subrata's report.

  With a sigh, the chief inspector rested his elbows on his desk and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of both hands. On top of everything, his wife had been nagging him mercilessly for the past week about the vacation they were supposed to have taken last month that he continued to put off. She would wave the reservation forms for the Maldives resort in his face at every opportunity.

  Smiling encouragingly, touching him affectionately while doing so, but it still counted as nagging.

  What a job, he told himself. What a life. He wouldn't have traded it for anything.

  Better to have a wife ragging on you than a serial killer, he told him self. Using a curt voice command to halt the heads-up readout from the box, he slipped the fingers of his right hand into the controller glove and dove physically as well as mentally into the morning's work.

  *4*

  Chalcedony Schneemann hated Sagramanda. For that matter, he hated India, even though he was half Indian. His mother had been born in Belgaum, in the southwest, and had grown up working in the tourist hotspot of Goa. That was where she had met his father, a German-American executive on holiday. They had fallen in love, she had become instantly pregnant, and he had taken her back with him to New York. But his mother had never for gotten her heritage. Growing up, he had been compelled to learn Hindi and Marathi as well as English and German.

  For a corporate fixer whose job category supposedly did not exist, and who was paid in cash and under the table, Chal Schneemann was very well spoken.

  Everyone who knew him called him Chal. He preferred it, and it worked out well, since nobody could pronounce his full first name properly anyway (he had been named after his mother's favorite semi precious gemstone). He had been in Sagramanda for six months now and was no closer to finding his quarry than he was to developing a fondness for the gigantic, seething, steaming metropolis. He missed New York badly; its comparative cleanliness, its museums and concerts, its cultured women who could converse intelligently even when they were being screwed into the floor. Even the Indian food was better there, he grumbled to himself, and you didn't have to conduct a minute inspection of the restaurant's toilet before voiding your bowels.