“Personally?” He blinked at his companion.
She hid her smile. “The ballet.”
He stared down at his bowl, embarrassed. “I don’t know anything about ballet. And the only sleeping beauties I know are Melds too broke to afford a place of their own or those who are renting themselves out instead of renting a codo. They’re all sleeping beauties to me. They’re my friends.” He looked up, his gaze suddenly startlingly intense. “Just like you’re my friend.”
“Business partner,” she shot back. Seeing the downcast look on his face she added reluctantly. “And friend, I suppose.”
He brightened at the concession, however forced it sounded. Meanwhile the maniped seals in the bay outside the restaurant continued their performance, executing aqueous flips and pirouettes that no human, not even one who had been specifically maniped, could have duplicated. The preprogrammed dance was as charming as its company of performers, though there were unavoidable lapses in the choreography. It’s hard to execute a grand jeté in the absence of legs.
“I think before we go any farther we should get some minor visual manips.”
“What, again?” She stopped chewing. “Maybe melding is nothing to you, but getting the makeover before we went to Florida was the first time I ever had to go through all that. And now you’re suggesting we do it again?”
“Florida’s exactly the reason why. The pronasty who scattered junior Wizwang all over the inside of his residence got a good look at both of us in our present traveling mode. He may have had access to what we looked like before we underwent melding, too, but seeing us subsequently and in person would’ve made a much stronger impression. We need to make some new changes.”
“Maybe we could change back to our original appearances?” she asked hopefully.
Every time her companion’s narrow head shook briskly from side to side atop its attenuated neck, Ingrid worried it was going to fall off.
“No.” He was insistent. “We need third, brand-new façades. Hair do-overs first—it’s warm here so I think for myself I’ll just undergo a temporary depilation. Then body shape. I’ll have to add some mass. Hate the flesh, but preserving anonymity’s more important than adhering to an aesthetic.” He looked her up and down. “You could lose some of the facial collagen and osseoputty.”
“Well, that’s a relief. If that’s the kind of meld you’re talking about it’s one I can get behind.”
“You ought to get taller, too, but that’s bonegrow and we don’t have time for it to heal properly.” His gaze dropped. “I’d recommend breast enhancement.”
“To preserve my anonymity, no doubt?” she replied icily.
“I’m serious. You have to change your body shape quickly. Keep the fat pads—you already paid for them—but use them to change proportions.”
She took a swallow from the self-chilling glass of a fruit juice whose name she couldn’t pronounce. “All in the interests of safety, of course.”
“Look, I’m just making a suggestion.” Surprisingly, his exasperation seemed genuine. “If you prefer you can opt for a chest concavity. Anything to accomplish a quick shape-change. I’d also suggest going with long red hair.” He sniffed. “Or if you think long hair is some kind of personal fetish of mine you can join me for a depilation.”
Ingrid envisioned herself bald. It was a common-enough look, and not only for patients being prepped for surgery. “Long red hair it is, then.” That image was far more appealing. “Maybe I’ll add some twinkle. I’ve seen it on a couple of the nurses at the hospital in my tower. I didn’t think it appropriate for someone in my position.”
Off to her companion’s left a seal was cruising along the harbor front soliciting donations on behalf of the evening’s performance. Half the money would go for maintenance of the ballet program, the other half for herring. Whispr edged his chair a little farther inland and tried to make himself even more inconspicuous than usual.
“Well, doc—your ‘position’ has changed. I’ll make the necessary inquiries about a good, discreet melder tomorrow.” He scrutinized the several couples who were sharing the above-water dining platform with them. All appeared utterly engrossed in the pinniped ballet. But then, a company agent engaged in surveillance would naturally be skilled at diverting attention from his or her actual task by blending in with a crowd. “And I think it’s time to change hotels,” he finished.
Upset was prominent in her reply. “Change hotels?” She indicated their surroundings. “But we just got here, and I like this hotel.”
“So do I.” He pushed back from the table. “First rule for avoiding the attention of lods and nasties: never stay more than two or three nights in the same place.”
AVOIDING THE FANCIER MELD parlors in the upscale areas of Cape Town, with their spalike recovery rooms and expensive post-op customizers, Whispr settled on one in the commercial section of the harbor whose owner-practitioner came well recommended locally. Having checked out of their hotel earlier that morning, her spine-conforming luggage pack slung against her back, Ingrid eyed the shop front less enthusiastically.
“I don’t know about this, Whispr. It doesn’t look any too—clean.”
“Unlike the hospitals you work in, it doesn’t have to look clean: it just has be minimally hygienic.” He considered the security door set in the center of the battered faux-wood entrance. “I crosschecked this biosurge both via the box and with people on the street. Her local rep is stellar.”
A touch on the door activated an automated synthvoice response. Information was exchanged. As soon as it was determined to the door’s satisfaction that the two visitors represented neither the police nor local medical surveillance they were admitted.
Patience Nonyameko was short as the gold miner her father had been and delicate as a rare shore bird. Almost fragile, Ingrid thought. But there was nothing flimsy about the female biosurge’s hermetic operating chamber. As near as Ingrid could tell the instrumentation on view was completely sterile and surprisingly up-to-date. The presence of a large amount of heavy equipment prompted her to question its purpose.
“Most of my customers are sailors, my dear. Those of them who choose to be melded tend to request fairly extreme manips, to make their work easier.” Her smile revealed a rainbow. Entrancingly, the tooth tinting was different each time she opened her mouth. The panoply of colors was activated by melded salivary glands that had been chromocharged.
“Then there is the diversity and intensity of the sexual manips. They are sailors, after all, and little in seamen’s tastes have changed over the centuries.” When she beckoned to a large metal-bound book the mobile tome slid across the desk toward her. “If you would like to see some examples of …”
“That’s okay,” Ingrid replied hastily. She was no prude, and the human body kept no secrets from her. No secrets—but since the advent of melding there were always surprises. There was always something, usually customized, that you’d never seen before. When it came to individual tastes in sexual melds, some surprises were best kept hidden.
“We don’t need any major work done.” Having chosen not to take a seat, Whispr continued to stand nearby. Sitting with a door at his back, even in a biosurge’s secure inner office, made him twitchy. “Just a few cosmetic touches here and there. We’re—on vacation, and we’d like to take the opportunity to experiment.” He winked conspiratorially. “You know: spice things up a bit. But nothing radical.”
“Ah. Very well then.” Directing the sample book to crawl back to its resting place the diminutive Nonyameko activated the desk’s projector. It scanned first Ingrid, then Whispr. A moment later a pair of body images materialized in the space between the biosurge and her customers. “Which of you would like to go first?”
“I will.” Ingrid didn’t hesitate. The sooner this was over with the better. Also, going first would allow her a little more healing time than her companion and, more importantly, a little more time to get used to her third appearance in barely a month. “I wan
t long red hair—shoulder length, anyway. My eyes are fine with that color but you’ll need to do an all-over match.”
“Of course.” Nonyameko did not have to take notes. The conversation and description were being recorded.
Putting her hands to her face Ingrid pinched her cheeks. “I want any recently maniped collagen and osseoputty removed.” Sitting straight in the chair she mentally resculpted herself. “A longer neck, if you can manage it without a bone push. Same for longer fingers.” Certain that she could feel Whispr’s eyes burning into her back, she lowered her voice as she continued describing the changes she wanted made to her face and body. “Breast enhancement.”
As she continued checking her notes the biosurge never looked up. “What size, my dear?”
“Um, let’s go for an even ninety-four centimeters, same cup size.”
As the biosurge’s client enumerated her requests they were automatically entered into the appropriate hovering image so that Ingrid could see how the requested finished manips would appear on her body.
“How many?” Nonyamenko continued politely. “I can do a half dozen in a perfect circle or …”
“Just the usual pair,” Ingrid added hastily. This was a sailor’s establishment for sure. For emphasis she added, “Horizontal.”
Nonyamenko still wasn’t finished. “Color? Technological enhancements?”
“Color body match.” Ingrid shook her head uncertainly. “I’m not certain what you mean by technological enhancements.”
Whispr spoke up helpfully. “She’s been a Natural most of her life. This is only her second meld ever.”
“I understand.” The biosurge’s tone was sympathetic. “We can add a variety of sound effects that respond according to the degree of contact, rise in body temperature, or extent of digital manipulation. Then there’s chemophoric color flow, music responsiveness, adjustable tactility …”
Ingrid had heard enough. “How about feeding a baby? Can you manip for that, too?”
“You are being cynical, my dear.” Nonyameko pushed back slightly from the desk. “Perhaps I am not the right person to perform your melding.”
“No, no!” Whispr stepped forward quickly and offered the biosurge a reassuring smile. “Like I said, she’s new to all this.” He glared down at the seated Ingrid. “Though I would have thought she’d be more knowledgeable.”
“I’m pretty familiar with standard melds,” the doctor shot back frostily. “But you’re right: some of these kinds of manips are indeed new to me.” She returned her attention to the patient biosurge. “Don’t mind me, Ms. Nonyamenko. I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.”
“This being only your second meld, I can understand.” The petite biosurge rose. “Come with me and we will start prep. I don’t want to rush either of you, but my time is reserved to do half a dozen stevedores late this afternoon. You would be surprised that in this day and age how many essential occupations still require the application of manual strength and labor.” Her eyes twinkled. “I like working on big, strong men.”
Ingrid wanted to say to Whispr, “That lets you out,” but though her propensity to sarcasm seemed to be increasing day by day, this time she kept her feelings to herself.
Soothing music supplemented the sedative chosen by the biosurge. Having administered a vast variety of medication herself and only recently undergone her first manip, Ingrid knew what to expect as her prone form was lifted from the gurney to be held suspended in the medical magnetic field. Despite her foreknowledge she was surprised at how little time the procedure took. As she sat up on the white carbon metal platform she expressed grudging admiration for the biosurge’s skill.
“Thank you, my dear.” Nonyamenko gently helped her toward the recovery chamber. “I’ll do your friend now and then we’ll finalize arrangements. I won’t be long.”
“I know. You’re fast. Very fast.” I only hope you didn’t sacrifice skill for speed, she thought to herself.
More soft music was playing in the recovery room. As Ingrid took a seat on the soft padded circular bench in the center she could feel the tautness in places where fresh synthskin had been applied. Almost afraid to look down at herself, she called up the reflectors. Even through the fine therapeutic, healing mist that filled the chamber she could still see her likeness clearly. She was shocked by what she saw. Doubtless someone who had been a Meld all their life would not have reacted so strongly to what were after all little more than a few comparatively minor cosmetic manips. Still new to the process, Ingrid responded to changes with wide eyes.
Her new proportions were not only stunning, they were downright daunting. Long red hair cascaded down her back almost to her waist. Her eyes had been enlarged slightly, fostering a boldness wholly in contrast to her age and experience. Her ears had been trimmed and her lips returned to their former thickness. Rajeev would have been pleased to see that her nose had finally been fixed. He would have been pleased by other alterations as well.
She had always been attractive. Now she was, if only by older and somewhat historical standards, beautiful. Having always valued the small imperfections that constituted a visible reminder of her individuality it appeared that at least for the foreseeable future she was going to have to live without them.
Studying what she now had to work with she knew she could spice up her appearance even further, could modernize it, by adding some of the latest gengineered cosmetic accoutrements, whether sparkling eyes or flame-firing ear cartilage or spark-emitting fingertips. Changing her height or skin color or adding limbs (or any other body parts) would alter her appearance more completely, but she wasn’t ready for that. Not mentally, not emotionally, and they didn’t really have the time. But she could not deny that she found intriguing the notions such images conjured.
She needed to be careful. Meld addiction was a widespread and well-documented psychological condition against which education and knowledge offered only limited defense. As she knew from experience as well as from keeping up with the relevant literature it posed a particular danger to always body- and appearance-conscious teenage girls. The trouble was the same as it had been since the beginning of time: cosmetic fads came and went with demoralizing regularity. In a matter of months today’s concept of beauty could be yesterday’s idea of gruesomeness. This was not a problem when one was speaking of trends in fashion or styles in jewelry. It posed considerably more of a dilemma if the changes that were incurred on behalf of trendiness involved manipulation of muscles and fat, tendons and ligaments, skin and keratin. Being, say, sixteen only magnified every change and option, only made every decision taken that much more significant and potentially permanently damaging.
She was a long way from sixteen, she told herself. She should not be having such thoughts. She was a physician, for heaven’s sake! But now that she’d undergone melding twice, albeit for what any biosurge would regard as minor manipulations, she was coming to a greater understanding of the temptation in ways that no reading of the literature or listening to distraught patients could convey.
Suffer one meld and you were tempted to try another. Try another and you became convinced that a third would make everything just right. Undergo the third and … It was all too easy, if one possessed the time and the inclination, to be melded and remelded out of all recognition by the time one reached thirty. And that was speaking only of cosmetic melds. Industrial melds, sports melds, commercial melds—some of these made simple cosmetic manipulation look positively juvenile. Professional melding was where the really radical alterations were made to the now easily manipulated human body. Beyond the professional lay scientific melding of the kind necessary to transform a terrestrial into Homo maritianus or titanus.
Seen in such lights a little hair lengthening, eye widening, nose shaping, and boob enhancement seemed positively unworthy of comment. One more time she reminded herself that the manips had been required not to satisfy personal vanity but to maintain her anonymity. To veil her from the view of possible pursui
ng assassins. In that context traditional female beauty, no matter how perfect, was less likely to draw attention than more radical or avant-garde melds.
She found herself discussing her thoughts with Whispr as soon as he had recovered sufficiently from his own operation to engage in coherent conversation. The irony of a doctor seeking advice from a patient did not escape her. Anticipating being on the receiving end of some of his characteristic sarcasm, she was surprised when he was immediately empathetic. Understanding, even.
“I’ve seen too many friends die from bad manips.” He sat nearby in the recovery room, inhaling the lightly aromatic mist that enveloped them. “I know just what you’re talking about. A lot of people start with the small stuff because that’s all they can afford. If they’re lucky enough to glom onto some really significant subsist, that’s when they go crazy. They want bigger muscles, they want more classic proportions. They want smaller ears, they want better hearing. Bright eyes, subdued eyes. Back and forth, in and out, around and down. There are some bad biosurges out there, doc. Take your money and treat your body like putty. Twist and pull and tug and then one day you can’t manip it anymore. There’s just not enough foundation left on which to build recovery.” He stared across at her. “You’ve probably seen examples in hospital.”
Ingrid had: broken and twisted bodies that had been roughly and faultily maniped until the addict could no longer walk properly, or walk at all. Other poor, overmelded souls who had been left blind, or deaf, or impotent, or worse by the kind of inept or outright inadequately trained biosurges who plied their efforts in unregistered and unmonitored facilities. Human grotesqueries who would have been right at home in a Bosch landscape. No matter one’s chosen specialty, every student had to study such failures in medical school. Even a GP like herself.
You rarely saw such failures on the street or elsewhere in public. They kept to themselves, to the poorer and least visited corners of dark cities, fumbling in the shadows for subsistence and assistance, wondering if it was worthwhile to fight to stay alive.