Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Eyes wide and fearful, the oldster hung slack in the grip of the two Melds. “I don’t—who are you people? What are you doing in Dr. Seastrom’s home?”
The portly leader of the invading trio felt a twinge of disappointment at the mention of the mildly honorific “Dr. Seastrom.” The elder’s choice of words seemed to rule out any sort of perverted amorous rendezvous. Further questions would therefore be restricted to the ordinary.
“I might ask you the same question.” Sitting down on the arm of the woven free-form couch, she toyed with the slender blade that now shimmered with its own pointed internal illumination. “Are you a friend of Seastrom’s? If your answer is yes, we have questions for you. If your answer is no, then that raises an entirely new and unexpected suite of inquiry.” Her gaze narrowed. “How either proceeds is entirely up to you.”
The old man sighed. “Yes, I can see that. Please don’t hurt me. I will respond to the fullest extent of my ability to do so. What is it that you want to know?”
Still playing with the knife and making sure as she did so that the immobilized oldster had a clear view of the lustrous blade, the woman began organizing questions in her mind. Might as well begin with the obvious, she told herself.
“What’s your name, old man?”
His tone by turns pleading and deferential he responded softly and without hesitation. “My name is Napun Molé,” he said just before the middle finger of his left hand lengthened explosively into a meter-long shaft of pointed carbon-ceramic alloy that went right through the throat of the startled tattoo-crested Meld holding on to his left arm. Retracting almost as swiftly as it had extended, it left blood fountaining in its wake.
To her credit, the dead actress Meld gripping his other arm brought her shocker around and forward to slam into his ribs. A crackle of electricity filled the air, followed by pale smoke and the scent of ozone as the discharging weapon was shorted out by contact with the dissipation weave
that had been melded into the Molé’s muscles. She ducked as he swung at her, the blade now protruding from the side of his left hand whistling through the air over her head.
Straightening as she recovered from the shock of the senior’s reactions, the trio’s leader took aim and threw the blade she was holding. Even as it left her fingers she was already reaching for her concealed sidearm. The sharp-edged metal tore through the back of the old man’s clothing to bounce off his reinforced flesh. As it did so, he fired his left index finger. The single pellet thus discharged detonated against the Marilyn Meld’s neck with enough explosive force to blow her head off. It landed near the kitchen area, ricocheted off a cabinet, and lay still, a macabre echo of a glamorous past framed by a spreading pool of blood. Spurting crimson from its open neck, the decapitated torso remained erect a moment longer before collapsing to the floor.
Uttering a fluid, energetic flow of expletives in several languages, the surviving woman leaped behind one curve of the couch and held down the trigger of her sidearm. A spray of small-caliber explosive shells tore up the workings of the other side of the living area and the kitchen. Faux upholstery, carbon-fiber framing, molded crystal, reinforced glass, and a wide assortment of other contemporary decorative materials were shredded like cardboard in a tornado.
Propelled by a pair of superior-grade military spec leg melds, the Molé kicked off the floor, bounced off the ceiling, and was grazed by shells as he slammed headfirst into the woman who had nearly emptied her weapon. The air went out of her lungs as the impact cracked her sternum. Bright red pain threatened to overwhelm her vision as she staggered backward. With her free hand she drew her other sidearm. In lieu of a multiplicity of smaller ammo, this one was defined by the size of its barrel. It only held four shells, each one of which was capable of demolishing a vehicle of considerable size. Its employment would bring building security (if they weren’t already on their way) and municipal police running, but at this point she didn’t care. She knew now she probably had only one chance to put her deceptive assailant down. If that meant razing the codo above or below this one along with their respective inhabitants, that was the kind of collateral damage she would gladly rationalize later.
She did not get the one chance.
Before she could fire, the Molé had picked up the nearest section of
couch, spun around twice to give it added momentum, and flung it in her direction. Melds that had replaced his lower spine with powerful rechargeable organic servos gave the segment of flung furniture tremendous kinetic force. It slammed into the fleshy woman with enough impact to lift her off the floor. By the time her finger contracted reflexively on the trigger of her larger-caliber handgun, the resultant shot went harmlessly wild. Harmlessly, because she was already outside the building, having been smashed through one of the tough but not indestructible reinforced floor-to-ceiling glass panels.
Wishing for a sudden airfoil Meld did not make it a reality. In confirmation of one in a long line of thousands of demonstrations proving the truth of Galileo’s original experiment, both she and the portion of couch hit the sidewalk eighty-five floors below at the same time.
Surrounded by the wreckage of the codo, Napun Molé took stock of his surroundings. He was not pleased. He had arrived in silence and, he had believed, in secrecy, only to be grabbed and confronted by three women about whom he had immediately been certain of one thing: they were not members of the same profession as Dr. Ingrid Seastrom. He had not needed to wait for their questions to divine their purpose in invading the good doctor’s living quarters. Self-evidently not representatives of the local police, their presence and attitude could only point to an objective similar to his own. They were also after the thread.
Very disturbing
, he thought as he walked into the kitchen to get himself a drink of water. He was careful to step around the spigot of blood that continued to pump in steadily decreasing volume from the neck of the tall, bony-headed, already dead Meld whose throat he had pierced. For one thing, the appearance on the scene and attempted intervention of outside interests was a most unwelcome infringement on the claim to the thread that had been staked by his employers. For another, in the course of the preceding squabble his suit jacket had been torn in at least two places. It was all most disconcerting.
Word was slipping out where knowledge of the thread should be inviolate, he mused. Too many people were learning of its importance, if not what was on it or what it signified. Unlike what those lying dead on the codo floor and the now carmine-blotched street outside believed, a great deal more was at stake than the mere abstraction of wealth. A great deal more. Everything tonight had happened too fast. There had been no time
for assimilation; only reaction. As a consequence he had been forced to make a mess. Those who had charged him with the recovery of the thread would not be pleased.
He was none too happy himself. Downing the last of the water he initiated a swift, methodical, and professional search of the rooms. Even a basic residence would boast at least one basic box outlet. Someone of Seastrom’s persuasion was likely to have access and a projector in every room.
The main living area and the kitchen having been largely destroyed, he had to go into the bedroom before he found an intact vorec. That was all he needed. Utilizing the usual omnidirectional pickup it would enable a resident to command access from anywhere in the codo.
Removing a special and highly illegal convertor from a pocket, he started speaking softly into the tiny but sensitive diaphragm. There was no immediate response from the codo’s box. That was to be expected. It would take time for the ware inside the convertor to detect and decipher the codes and tonalities that were specific to the codo’s owner. Only when that had been compiled could he then proceed to the next step of having himself recognized as an accepted user by the doctor’s residential programming.
He was patient and prepared to wait for as long as required—or at least until Security put in an appearance. Helpfully, the coughing of the tall Meld whose throat he had lethally perforated had finally ceased. The choking sounds had been a minor distraction.
The amplification and sensitization meld that had replaced the normal organic hearing apparatus in his right ear alerted him to the presence of numerous moving figures in the distant hall well before they arrived.
His hearing told him that they were advancing cautiously. That was only common sense, given the amount of destruction that must by now have been reported by other residents living in the vicinity of the badly damaged codo. As he rose from the bed he strained his specialized hearing meld to the utmost, but he could not tell from cursory analysis of the still distant footfalls whether those making the semistealthy approach were building security or regular city police. The former he might be able to deal with. The latter, if present in any numbers, would pose a real threat.
Anger and frustration in equal measure surged within him. He eyed
the convertor. He was close, real close to breaking the codo’s individual coding. He could sense it. But proximity was not resolution, and if he was hauled in to jail or shot, having come close to what he was after would be small consolation. Muttering invective that was in shocking contrast to his homely appearance, he pocketed the convertor, flung the vorec onto the bed, and abandoned the room. No one saw him leave.
Just as no one saw the diminutive but stocky figure making its way through the jagged-edged breach in the exterior wall of the codo and around the smooth, sheer side of the tower, where it proceeded to scurry down the back side of the building on two pairs of very expensive and ultra-secure gecko pads.
The methodical approach of the tactical squad that had been dispatched in response to calls from several frantic residents of the tower whose residences bordered that of the respected Dr. Seastrom allowed the single remaining live occupant of the codo to depart the devastated premises unseen and in silence. By the time the armored police entered the ruins, the only ones left to greet them were two female Melds, both very dead. Initial supposition was enough to tie them to the shattered remains of a third woman whose body had been found splattered on the pavement eighty-five floors below. Only after a quick, efficient search revealed that the codo was now devoid of any threat did the arriving police allow themselves to relax.
“Wonder what happened here?” the sergeant-in-charge muttered to himself as he flipped up his protective visor. As Forensics arrived and began their work, a corporal kicked at some of the debris that lay scattered across the living-room floor. Her gaze rose to the hole in the tempered glass wall opposite, through which the clammy night air of Greater Savannah was presently entering.
“Maybe the one on the street lost a fight with the two Melds.”
The sergeant grunted and rubbed at his melded left eye. It was a highgrade Mark I-Five police issue, but from time to time it still bothered him. “From the looks of this place, they all lost. No sign of the owner yet?”
The corporal murmured into the vorec that hung by a thin wire just in front of and below her lips. An audio meld would have eliminated the need for both the support wire and the pickup, but she was a Natural.
“Not yet. Nothing from air or land Scanerch. For all we know
she could be out on a date.” A thin smile creased her lips. “Or an overnight. Communications is presently trying to make contact with another physician who works in this building—a Dr. Rajeev.”
“I hope they’re both out canoodling on a paddle boat somewhere.” Walking over to the gap in the wall, the sergeant looked out and down. Having spent eighteen years on the force he had no fear of heights, or much of anything else. “According to Records she’s a well-regarded and long-established physician. She’ll have good insurance.”
“She’d better.” Raising her forearm-length riot gun, the corporal used the muzzle to indicate the surrounding devastation. “She’s gonna need it.”
Her superior sighed. “Might as well get out of Forensics’ way. You know those guys—always telling us that no matter where we step, we’re infringing on potential evidence.”
“Yeah.” Turning her head slightly, the corporal sipped cold Boost from the tube that projected from beneath her armor. “It’s been a slow night. Maybe HQ will just let us hang out here until shift’s over.”
The sergeant nodded approvingly. “Nobody has to shoot, nobody gets shot. My idea of a good way to end a night shift. If we’re lucky, they’ll locate this doc and bring her here. Be nice to see if she can shed some illum on this mess.”
The corporal readily agreed, but they were to be denied.
Despite the best efforts of Greater Savannah Central to find her, Dr. Ingrid Seastrom’s location was not established by sunrise, at any time in the course of the following day, or at all.
T
HE OBJECT OF THE SAVANNAH
police department’s interested but not as yet overly anxious search had spent some very early morning hours changing her hairstyle and hue, eye color, and adding enough collagen and osseoputty to completely if temporarily alter her appearance. Trying her best to look and act like a typical tourist, she leaned back into the passenger seat of the silent electric roadster. A lightweight, wide-brimmed hat shielded her face while employing a patented heat transfer system to cool her head. There was no need for sunglasses. The color-shifting contacts she had placed over her eyes earlier in the day offered ample UV protection. They would also change tint every few hours, running the currently trendy optical gamut from dark purple to light amber.
“I feel fat,” Ingrid Seastrom grumbled for somewhere between the
hundredth and two hundredth time as her left hand felt gingerly of the still tender skin around her artificially expanded cheeks.
“It wouldn’t matter.”
She looked over at the driver. Unfolded behind the controls, Whispr looked less alien and more normal than usual. “I don’t understand,” she said.