The Sum of Her Parts (10 page)

The dancing white lady spider was poisonous, and it certainly was as
pale
as a ghost, but it was not aggressive. Having migrated north from South America, far more dangerous arachnids now infested the lowlands of her home county in southeastern North America. Fascinated, she tracked the spider’s pallid progress until it disappeared into the depths of the overhang. A nocturnal hunter, it was unlikely to retrace its steps and trouble them again. Turning, she smiled reassuringly at her still trembling associate.

“It’s just a white spider. It won’t bother you.” She snuggled back down beneath her cover. “Go back to sleep.”

He continued to hesitate. After several minutes of hard staring during which he failed to pick out the fast-moving and now vanished arachnid’s path he finally returned to his sleeping pad and with considerable reluctance slowly slid back down into a prone position.

“Easy for you to say. It didn’t go tiptoeing across
your
face. What if it had been something more dangerous?”

“Then
I
would have screamed.” She rolled over onto her side. “I’ve seen a lot worse on a biosurge’s table.”

Whispr was muttering to himself. “White spiders. Black mambas. What’s next—green scorpions?”

She did not reply. Muffled in a dearth of sympathy, he closed his eyes and once more bemoaned his situation. Why was he here, halfway around the planet, trudging through open desert in expectation of imminent demise when he could be back home in Savannah, riffling tourists and sharing tall tales and short toddies with his friends?

The answer had not changed any more than had the question. Because “back home” offered no prospects, no future, and no friends. Because back home the cops were looking for him. Because he had chosen to risk all for a chance to find the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow that probably terminated in hell. And because he had grown far, far too fond of a Natural woman who was so beyond his station that his train never even stopped there.

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.

W
HEN 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 frustration 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.