Body, Inc. Read online

  Whispr didn’t trust that, either. But he made no move to intervene.

  Both the smooth-faced young man’s words and expression were full of concern. “Are you two all right? Am I correct in assuming you are visitors?”

  “We are and you are.” A cool breeze off the bay nipped at Ingrid’s cheeks. She really was going to need some warmer clothing here, she told herself.

  The young man was shorter than her or Whispr; slim of build, well dressed, his appearance neat and well groomed. Like the twenty-five or so children gathered behind him, he was a Natural. All of the youngsters would naturally be Natural, she knew, since the legal age for receiving one’s first meld was fifteen. At least, it was in Namerica. From the looks of the troupe staring back at her out of curious eyes it was no different in the SAEC.

  “Were you the ones who scared those rifflers away?” she asked him.

  “Yeah. I’ve heard of calling for the police, but this is the first time I’ve known anyone to sing for them.” Whispr tried not to twitch. He always was uncomfortable in the presence of many unknowns, even if they were a bunch of schoolkids.

  “So we did.” The youthful leader of the group (he couldn’t be more than nineteen, Ingrid felt) flashed a confident smile. “Such men are cowards in the face of the Lord.”

  Whispr blinked. “ ‘The Lord’?”

  “We are a Capella squad,” the man explained. “We consider it our solemn duty to help keep the city free from such scourges as those who just threatened you. All Capellas are volunteers. Each of us has chosen a district in which to offer our assistance.”

  “That’s wonderful of you!” Ingrid exclaimed.

  “Yah, wonderful.” Whispr wasn’t buying it. He nodded up the street, past the glow from those Simon’s Town business establishments that were still open at this hour. “You expect me to believe that those two thundering lods took off just because they heard a bunch of kids yelling for the cops?”

  “Ah, not just any kids.” The man beamed. “A Capella kids.” Turning to face his young charges, he raised both arms high in front of him.

  A mass clearing of throats was accompanied by the straightening of small bodies. Ingrid inhaled sharply and Whispr stepped back as twenty-five weapons made their sudden and unexpected appearance, flashing in the moonlight. Brandished by boys and girls alike was an uneven but unmistakably lethal hodgepodge of weapons built to fit a child’s hand; everything from homemade shivs to single-shot pistols to highly unauthorized variations on neuralizers. Whispr even thought he recognized an injector or two; small pensized devices that held and fired a single poison dart. Accuracy might not be a hallmark of the small army, but if fired in unison the eclectic assortment of weapons would constitute a formidable threat.

  The teenage leader of the group brought his hands down. Whispr flinched, but none of the myriad killing devices let loose. Instead, the children began to sing. Their small bodies quivered with emotion, their expressions were intense, and their harmony was angelic. All twenty-five weapons remained in clear view.

  “He teaches my hands to war, so that a bow of steel is broken by my arms!” they intoned mellifluously there on the side of the dark Simon’s Town street.

  More than a little freaked by the Boschian combination of sight and sound, Whispr would have taken the opportunity to make a break for it. But Ingrid, perhaps unsurprisingly, remained where she was, clearly enraptured by the a capella street concert. Notwithstanding all they had been through, Whispr reflected, and despite everything they had survived, it was plain that she still had a lot to learn.

  As the children sang the rest of the psalm he looked past them. It was noteworthy that despite the presence of open establishments and the comparatively early hour not a soul was to be seen. Except for the singing, the street had gone dead quiet. Evidently knowledgeable tourists and residents alike had chosen to give the impromptu concert a pass—or to take shelter until it had concluded. No doubt the visible presence of so many weapons, even in childish hands, perhaps especially in childish hands, was something of a deterrence to musical appreciation.

  As the final verse faded into the night the leader (Choir director? Drill sergeant? Whispr wondered) paused briefly before resuming. For a second time the prepubescent voices of the neatly dressed and heavily armed seraphim trilled in perfect synchronization.

  “Blessed be the Lord my strength which teaches my hands to war and my fingers to fight!”

  Whispr stood and made himself drink it all in. He couldn’t very well abandon Ingrid to whatever coda was to come. Well, he could, but he had come too far with her to flee now. Besides, without her he wouldn’t have a rand to his name.

  When the second psalm had concluded the leader turned back to her. Though he spared a glance for Whispr his attention was concentrated on Ingrid. His smile was as ingratiating as ever.

  “That is how we sent packing those who would have robbed you. They cannot stand before the power of the Lord.”

  “Or the muzzles of a couple dozen weapons,” Whispr muttered, but under his breath. He didn’t want any encores or anything else directed his way.

  “We don’t know how to thank you,” Ingrid gushed. “And the children’s singing was beautiful!”

  “Thank you. Psalm 18:30 and 144:1. Favorites of the children—especially if they know they might have to cut somebody. As to thanks, it pains me to say that our congregation is a poor one. Any contribution would be most welcome and would go to support and further the efforts of the squad.”

  Whether out of wariness or honest charity Ingrid hesitated only a moment. “I’d be happy to make a contribution. But I have no cash. Only the usual credcard.”

  “Of course you do.” Reaching into a pocket, the choirmaster produced a compact wireless credcard processing unit. “If you will just quote me an amount.…”

  She recovered quickly and named a figure. The leader frowned.

  “We just saved you from probable physical harm as well as from being robbed. And we gave you the gift of song. Can you not see it in your heart to augment your contribution somewhat?” There was a shuffling behind him. Still gripping their assortment of weapons, the children were edging closer. And spreading out along the street.

  Ingrid stared at the teen, then looked to Whispr. He had no suggestions to offer and was beginning to wish he had made a run for it when he’d had the opportunity, the doctor’s inane indifference notwithstanding.

  She allowed a considerably larger figure to be entered into the choirmaster’s processing unit. Apparently it was sufficient. Or else he chose not to push the matter further, perhaps because someone had called the real police. A conspicuously marked scoot sporting bright red and yellow lights was approaching from the north. Quickly he verified the exchange, slipped the unit back into his pocket, and turned to gesture to his flock. Pocketing their miniaturized armory they swiftly dispersed, vanishing into the darkness between and among the buildings that lined the street.

  The scoot slowed to a stop before the pair of benumbed visitors. Both of the cops who got off were straightforward police Melds, black and white with weaponized hands and communications gear integrated directly into the sides of their shaved skulls.

  “We heard there was some trouble here.” His face a permanently melded swirling pattern of white, coffee-brown, and ebony-black skin, the officer addressed himself to Ingrid.

  “We’re—okay now,” she murmured. “Some men tried to hold us up, but we were saved by an—by a ‘Capella’ squad. Or maybe I should say ‘rescued.’ ”

  Muttering a curse in Zulu the second cop turned sharply to survey their surroundings. Filing out of flanking buildings, pedestrians were returning to the street. The buzz of casual evening conversation had resumed in nearby shops and cafés. The first cop remained focused on Ingrid.

  “I hope your ‘rescue’ didn’t end up costing you too much.”

  “The request for a donation was—unexpected,” she admitted, “but not unbearable.”

 
“Maybe not for you.” Turning away from her the cop headed back to the waiting, light-flashing scoot. His partner joined him. “These religious vigilantes usurp the function of the Cape police. They should be wiped out. But it’s hard to wipe out well-meaning children, even if they are being used to extort money. I hope the rest of the night is better for you visitors. Watch where you walk. Stay on the main street. And beware of massed singing.” The scoot revved to a whine, spun on its axis, and shot off back the way it had come.

  Whispr came up alongside her. “Still want to go into the city?”

  Ingrid was chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. “Maybe—maybe it would be better to wait until tomorrow. Until daylight.” She turned back toward their hotel.

  He nodded sagely. “Good idea. Easier to see clearly in the daytime, less likely to get mugged by God.”

  Cape Town was lucky. Unlike so many port cities that had suffered from the great Greenland slide and the commensurate melting of the Antarctic fringe; cities like New York with its Great Wall and Hudson tidal barrier, or London-become-like-Venice, or long-lost Venice itself (now a scuba diver’s paradise), the high green mountains that cupped the South Africa metropolis were sufficiently steep to have allowed its harbor to retain its original functions. Port facilities, docks, warehouses, hotels, and individual dwellings had simply worked their way up the surrounding hillsides. Much as had been done on a far smaller scale at Simon’s Town, Ingrid reflected as she and Whispr disembarked from the cliff-hugging public transport.

  As they strolled the elevated Victoria and Albert waterfront while doing their best imitation of a typical tourist couple she could see that Whispr was unhappy. Or rather, unhappier than usual. Her companion wore melancholy like a black headscarf. He ought to be feeling good, she thought. Hadn’t they just escaped a potentially violent mugging, even if she had been “persuaded” to make a rather substantial donation to a local church group?

  “What’s wrong now?”

  Long tapering fingers gestured at the lights shining around them, at the contentedly strolling couples and clusters of nattering tourists, at the placid cold waters of the harbor and the cargo ships docked across the way, their great computer-controlled carbon-fiber sails furled against the night like pupae in their cocoons.

  “I guess—I thought it would be different. I thought it would be—I don’t know. African.” He shook his head. “It looks like Greater Savannah. Or Charleston, or Baltimore.”

  She turned to indicate the immense cloud-shrouded monolith that loomed immediately behind them: Table Mountain. “Does that remind you of Savannah?”

  “No,” he groused. “It reminds me of a migraine I once had.”

  She sighed resignedly. “Nothing pleases you, does it?”

  Bright eyes set in a narrow skull peered down at her. “I want it to be African. I want it to be exotic. I want to see wildlife.”

  “We will.” Her tone was soothing. “I promised we would. Just like you said, going on a game drive will cement our identities as genuine tourists.” She turned back toward the broad expanse of the harbor. Reflected lights glimmered on the dark water like flattened sprites suspended between reality and faery. “But first we need to lock down our goal. We need information so that we can blend touring with our real reason for being here.” Shivering slightly, she wrapped her arms around her upper body and hugged herself.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I forgot that you need warmer clothing. I could do with some myself.”

  The shop they entered in the waterfront tourist complex was expensive compared to what they could have found in the city proper, but buying touristy jackets and caps was in keeping with their adopted sightseeing personas. Ingrid didn’t care. The jacket she picked out was warm, thermosensitive, hydrophobic, and the rampant lions on the back that appeared to be chasing leaping impala depending on how light struck the material comprised an attractive scene. Whispr opted for less flamboyant accoutrements in the form of a sweater woven from pulse wool and standard mudenim safari pants. With shoes swapped for boots they felt ready to take on either city or veldt.

  Their new clothes did not prepare them for the rhino that blocked their way up the street outside the shop. They did not panic. The outrageousness of its presence instinctively obviated any likely threat. This assumption was quickly proved correct. As the rhino addressed them a sampling of animated brochures slipped from its mouth like so many cards from an automated poker dealer.

  “Hang-glide off Table Mountain!” one handout beseeched breathlessly. The others were equally strident in their description of things to do, from trekking to the tip of the Cape of Good Hope to taking a guided walk through the local fynbos forest.

  “No thanks.” Stepping to one side, Ingrid strode past the robot. Thankfully, the accuracy with which it had been constructed did not extend to emitting an appropriate scent. In passing Whispr looked for something useful to swipe: an instinctive reaction he had been forced to suppress ever since they had left Florida. Stuffed full of brochures and other advertisements the rhino’s flank offered no obvious ingress. Instead of lions and leopards it was armored to fend off opportunistic rifflers like himself.

  Sampling brews from Kenya to Tanzania, Ingrid downed a lot of coffee that night as she watched Whispr sidle up to every passing character and inviting cozy who looked like they might have info to sell.

  “Just want to know where the SAEC mushes its hush-hush,” he would ask. Sometimes the eager would feed him fresh-cut baloney, which he was adept at smelling. Sometimes the honest climbers and clamberers along the waterfront would tell him they knew nothing of what he wanted. And sometimes the mere mention of such a request would send Naturals and Melds alike scurrying away in fear as if he was asking directions to the vampire crypt of horror or some equally terrifying milieu instead of a division of a major commercial-industrial complex.

  For a small consideration more than one of his interrogatories offered to provide the location of SICK’s corporate headquarters. Whispr could only shake his head at the shamelessness of such responses. Just because he and his lady friend were from out of country didn’t mean they had failed to bring their brains in their baggage. SICK’s great hexagonal central office complex, its two-kilometer-high spires alternately lit red, blue, green, yellow, black, and white in homage to the colors of the combine’s flag, dominated not only the city but the entire peninsula. Whispr didn’t see any reason to hand over subsist in return for the self-evident location of the most prominent architectural feature in this part of Africa.

  What he wanted to know and what the street informants could not tell him was whether the sextuple towers also contained within their radiant depths the SAEC’s primary scientific research facilities.

  Ingrid was leaning against a transparent railing gazing out at the water. Protected Cape Fur seals frolicked nearby, barking and playing tag beneath the lights of overhanging structures. Despite the danger posed by passing ship traffic the marine mammals were safer here than in False Bay, with its equally protected population of wild great whites. She turned from the calming view of the harbor as he approached.

  “Any luck?”

  He joined her at the railing. “Take me for a stupe the tide washed in, the locals do-do. Try to sell me mind goo, or think they can flash my pan, or perceive my perception as no broader than my beam.” He looked over at her. Yet again she was struck by the mix of determination and anxiety in his expression. “I got nothing,” he finished dourly.

  She let it glide. “We just got here. It’s our first night and it’s been a busy one. Riffle, shopping, interrogating. We’ll get a good night’s sleep and try again tomorrow.”

  “Animals,” he told her. “Wildlife. You promised.”

  “We need to pick a direction first.” She was adamant as ever. Her nostrils were filled with the rich, dense odor of salt and kelp and scuttling crustaceans. “We need to at least learn where we have to go. Settle on a destination and we’ll find a way to work your childis
h obsession into the going.”

  He made a rude sound. “Childish? You’re the one who bought a jacket with lions running across the back.”

  “It was warm and it fit properly.” She eyed his newly wrapped leanness. “At least I don’t look like a pig in a blanket.”

  “I don’t care what I look like,” he shot back. “I’m a practical man. There’s not enough room in me for vanity.”

  She laughed lightly at his comeback but it did not take away the sting of her words. He wanted her to like him, to admire him, to find him tolerable if not actually handsome to look upon. Instead she treated him as a tool, a means to an end, a human prybar with which to help unlock the secret of the thread. The misguided episode with the zoe hadn’t helped his cause. That had not only been intrusive—it was juvenile. Pursuing the doctor was a hopeless quest, a cause lost before it could be fully formulated. He made himself turn his thoughts elsewhere. If she was unattainable the promise of the money the thread might bring would have to suffice. If what was on it was valuable. Or if it proved empty, if the storage device was valuable in and of itself.

  All dependent, he knew, on whether they could survive long enough to learn the answers to those and other nagging questions. He rubbed at his eyes and his forehead.

  “I’m exhausted. How come you’re still awake?”

  “Caffeine and practice. Doctors are used to working late hours. At least, I am.” She stepped back from the railing. It moaned softly, trying to get her to stay and peruse the advertisements that ran along and through it. “But you’re right. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  Tomorrow’s another day, Het Kruger mused, and hopefully he wouldn’t have to okay the execution of any more fools like the trio who had set up operations not far to the east of the Nerens facility. Hidden inside a cave in the five-hundred-meter-high massif of the Boegoeberg they had probably believed their camp was safe from the installation’s aerial patrols. Wearing lightweight thermoline suits that caused their heat signatures to blend with that of their chilly surroundings and working only at night, they had done their sifting solely by the light of the moon and stars. Thus rendered invisible to any patrolling seekers utilizing infrared or visible light they had plied their trade in self-assured secrecy.