“Haven’t made the acquaintance of any illegal experiments myself. Though I have met one or two Melds who should have been.” He gestured with his quickly warming, expanding breakfast. “Aren’t you hungry? Better eat something even if you’re not. More walking today.” He shook the bulging envelope gently, the better to mix and evenly heat the contents. “You’ll need the energy. Never know in a place like this when a meal might be your last one.”
Ignoring his characteristic pessimism she continued to scrutinize the rocky overhangs even as she prepared her own food. Sipping a mix of hot cereal, milk, sugar, and reconstituted berries, he sat and watched, unable to understand her fascination.
“Look,” he finally said, “I know the little cat-rats saved our butts.” For emphasis he nodded in the direction of the unprepossessing mound beneath which lay the body of the freewalker Quaffer. “But they’re gone, and I for one don’t miss ’em.” He made a rude noise. “Sure they were heavily magified, but they were also too close to full wild and they had too many teeth. Not to mention their little nightymare poison darts.”
Ingrid was shaking her own breakfast to life. “Well, I do miss them. I’ve never heard of a nonprimate being raised to true sentience, not even illegally. It would have been enthralling to get Nyala’s perspective on so many things.” She spoke wistfully. “Who knows? Maybe they could even have helped us get into Nerens.”
At this Whispr smiled and began shaking his head. Her brows drew together as she challenged him.
“What? What’d I say?”
Setting his empty biodegradable food container aside he chuckled briefly before meeting her eyes. “Doc—Ingrid—you have more knowledge of science in your pretty little pinkie than I do in my whole besotted brain, but I have more in common with street folk.” He gestured upward, toward the sand and gravel plain that was cracked by the ravine. “Those mere cats, they were kinda like little subgrubs. A gang permanently on the run from the authorities.” His laughter faded. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m thankful as hell their leader decided to get all noble on us and vape the freewalker. It was getting bad squeeze there for a few minutes and I don’t like to think what would’ve happened if they hadn’t showed up. But spine-tickling one Meld is one thing. Exposing themselves to the authorities, even private security such as SICK’s, for a cause that doesn’t involve them, is more of a risk than your typical street snarks are willing to take. Even,” he concluded, “if the snarks in question happen to hold a patent on cute.”
Casual pondering of her companion’s heartfelt observations left a reluctant Ingrid no choice but to agree with his judicious assessment of meerkat motivation. Despite all he and she had been through together she was still not in a position to challenge the wisdom of someone who held an advanced degree in the acumen of the street. Downing the last of her liquid eggs Benedict, she set the empty package aside and shouldered her pack. After adjusting the straps she took a moment to ensure that the pressure-sensitive inflatable pads were correctly positioned. Bending, she picked up her wide-brimmed thermosensitive hat and nodded in his direction.
“All set. Let’s go.” She squinted skyward. “Nerens won’t come to us.” A hand gestured up the gulch. “We keep on straight?”
Whispr checked their remaining communicator, glanced up, checked it again. “It’s something like ten k’s to the next permanent water hole. About half along this creek bed, the rest exposed up top.”
“Then we’d better get moving.” Making a final adjustment to her pack’s position, she started past him.
“Hey, slow down, doc! You’ll burn out before lunch.” He hurried to catch up to her. “You’re still having regrets about losing your pets, aren’t you? Don’t think about it.” He tried to lift her spirits. “Maybe we’ll run into the mob again.”
“Yeah, that’s likely,” she mumbled.
They hiked in silence for nearly an hour before he spoke up again. “This affection for the little critters, doc: it wouldn’t have anything to do with you not having kids, would it?”
Hemmed in on both sides by layers of ancient sandstone she looked at him sharply, then shook her head. “We’ve spent a lot of time in each other’s company, Whispr, but I swear there are times when I just can’t figure you. Like right now I can’t decide if you’re being perceptive or just utterly ignorant of the meaning of the word ‘tact.’ ”
Her pointed retort did not faze him in the slightest. Words never did. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“And because of your attitude, I’m not going to.”
Lengthening her stride, she deliberately moved out ahead of him. He shrugged and maintained his pace, content to follow. Not that he really gave a damn one way or the other about how she might have answered. Then why had he asked the question? No wonder she baffled him.
There were too many times when he baffled himself.
UNLIKE THE BRIEF BUT intense deluge that had nearly drowned Ingrid in a previously negotiated ravine, the rising sandstorm announced itself visually but not audibly. More alert to the unexpected and blessed with better distance vision, it was Whispr who wondered aloud at the changing color of the horizon.
“If we were back in a big city in Namerica I’d say that was smog.” The longer he gazed at the darkening phenomenon the deeper became his frown. “But there can’t be any smog out here. There are no big cities. Hell, there aren’t any cities. According to all the maps and Ouspel’s instructions there’s nothing out here but Nowhere.”
He looked over at his companion. Clad in loose-fitting desert gear, Pollocked with dirt, and sweating profusely, she still roused sensations in him that burned through protein better invested elsewhere. “So what is it?”
Shielding her eyes with one hand, Ingrid squinted into the distance. “Whatever the cause, it seems to be intensifying. Let me have your monocular.”
Halting beside her, he stood patiently while she dug through his pack to find the single-lens magnifier. Peering through it, it took only a moment for her to ascertain what was coming their way.
“Shit,” she said concisely as she put the compact optical device back in his pack.
Whispr was not shocked, but he was mildly surprised. Ever since their first meeting the doctor’s language had been decorous tending to the excessively polite. Rough travel and hard experience were wearing her down. To his level, he told himself. That realization ought to have pleased him. Perversely, it did not. Though the passage of time was rendering her more approachable, he found to his surprise that he preferred her on her pedestal.
“Sandstorm,” she told him. “At least, that’s what I think it is. I’ve only ever seen a sandstorm in nature vits.”
“Same here.” He stared at the burgeoning yellow wall that was approaching rapidly from the north. “Not something you see in Savannah.” He began searching their immediate surroundings. “Guessing from the speed at which it’s moving it should hit here inside an hour. It’s right in front of us, we can’t outrun it, and we can’t go around it. We’re gonna have to hunker down somewhere and ride it out.” He grunted. “Your cat-rats would probably just shrug and wait it out in burrows. Feel like digging?”
She held up her hands. Physician’s hands. Normally soft and sensitive, long days of difficult travel had turned them hard and tough. They were not miner’s or road worker’s hands, not yet. On the other hand (so to speak), digital decor like fingernail polish was a distant memory. Staring at her upraised fingers she saw that she needed a manicure. Her whole body needed a manicure.
The flat, sandy plain across which they had been walking offered little in the way of shelter. There were no trees; nothing taller than knee-high succulents. Both of them picked up the pace until they were almost jogging.
“Can we make it to the next ravine?” she asked anxiously. By this time the sky ahead had been subsumed in yellow grit. She could hear the approaching storm now; the faint howl of a meteorological golem. Abrasive grit driven by weeping winds was scouring the landscape. Si
tting and waiting it out on flat ground would not be pleasant. Walking through it would be impossible. As she looked on it seemed to gain speed toward them; a smooth-faced rolling wall of unforgiving geological obfuscation.
“We can try,” Whispr told her. He picked up the pace until he was running across the flat surface.
According to Ouspel’s map they were very close to safety. They had made good time across the flats. Furthermore, the next concealing gully that spilled out of the foothills ran northwest. Besides offering shelter from the oncoming storm it would have the added benefit of bringing them closer to their goal. He found himself visualizing its sheltering walls. All they had to do was reach it, scramble down inside, and wait for the tempest to blow over. They could rest and regain their strength from the long hike and final dash across the plain. They could …
They didn’t make it.
The outburst did not come upon them gradually, like a rainstorm. Scouting for the airborne sand that filled the body of the storm, zephyrs of increasing strength buffeted them as they frantically sought last-minute cover.
“Over here, doc!” A madly beckoning Whispr directed her toward a slight depression that was fronted by several smooth-surfaced boulders. A few scraggly Euphorbia formed a loose hedge around the depression. They had chosen the site to put down roots and propagate because water occasionally collected in the low spot, or perhaps was found deeper below the surface. It was not much of a kraal, but it was better than nothing. The truth of that determination brutally announced itself moments later.
The storm did not hit. It enveloped them, swallowed them, blinded Ingrid with such unexpected alacrity that she could barely make out Whispr’s attenuated form even though he was only a few meters ahead of her.
With fine particles of grit stinging her face and threatening to damage her eyes, she stumbled forward. The lethal potential of a sandstorm, a danger that humans had been forced to deal with since the dawn of civilization, made no allowance for her acquired social graces or advanced education. She was in as much danger now as if she had been a veiled member of a camel caravan crossing the Sahara thousands of years ago. She found herself stumbling in near darkness, unable to hear, unable to see.
Where had Whispr gone? Where was the depression? Seconds earlier both had been right in front of her. Now she couldn’t see a thing. If she opened her eyes all the way, the sand that was now screaming parallel to the ground threatened to blind her. If she turned her head away to protect them, she could not see where she was going. What she needed was something technologically regressive but highly appropriate for the conditions in which she now found herself: a scarf.
Holding her right arm in front of her face she staggered on. Surely she should have stepped into the depression by now? If she wandered off in the wrong direction she would be lost in minutes. And what if Whispr was looking for her? Without any idea how long the storm might last, they could become permanently separated.
Shouting his name, she heard nothing. The roar of the storm overwhelmed her best efforts to make herself heard more than a foot or so from where she was standing. Since her own communicator was gone, if they did become separated he would not be able to find her.
How had people located one another in such desolate places before the advent of electronic tracking? Such ancient skills were not taught in today’s urban environment. And most of their remaining equipment was with him. She had food and her waterpak, but how would she survive? Alone in the world’s oldest desert, beset by ignorance and the inability to find her way, she would die a lonely death, her body picked at by scavengers, her friends and patients back home wondering how and where Dr. Ingrid Seastrom had vanished. She would never be found because no one would know where to search. It might be hundreds of years before curious travelers discovered her bones. Assuming that the desert hyenas left anything to be found. To her immense surprise, she started to cry. Again.
It was amazing how easily and copiously the tears spilled from her eyes. They flushed some of the grit that had accumulated there but otherwise didn’t make her feel any better. Worst of all, she thought as she sobbed, her demise would all be for naught. She would not even have the comfort of learning the secret of the thread before she died. As for Whispr, despite his street survival skills he would probably perish as well. Of course with the thread gone, secreted on her person, there would be no reason for him to continue to Nerens. If he turned back immediately instead of trying to find her body he might have a slim chance of making it back to now distant Orangemund.
Unable to see where she was going, blinded by yellow instead of black, she tripped over something and went down.
“Farko, doc! Watch where you’re going!”
She threw herself against him, heedless of whether she might have suffered an injury in the fall. A bigger woman would have been able to wrap her arms around his willowy melded form twice over. After a moment’s hesitation he gently placed his own thinner but stronger arms around her and held her close. She continued to cry until she remembered where she was and what she was doing. Pulling away from him, she tried to hug the ground. The clump of boulders and the sturdy wind-whipped Euphorbia provided just enough of a windbreak to send a good deal, though not all, of the blowing sand flying over her head.
She was forced to wipe continuously at her sand-struck eyes. Her tears turned the accumulating grit to a kind of clenched particulate muck. As she periodically dug out the dirt she decided she didn’t need a Q-tip—she needed a spoon. Eventually she remembered to apologize to her companion.
“I—I’m sorry I fell on you, Whispr. I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t even know if I was going in the right direction. I shouted, as loud as I could, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
He had to raise his own voice to pump out an audible reply. “I can hardly hear you now, doc.” Tilting his head to one side and raising up slightly on an elbow, he tried to see beyond the rocks. Ferociously whipping sand quickly drove him back under cover. “Still can’t see anything, either.” Reaching down, he removed his waterpak and took a long drink, careful not to spill a drop. He wiped his lips with the back of one forearm before resealing the container. “Might be here for a while.”
“How long is awhile?” She lay prone next to him.
He sniffed and dug into his rapidly filling nose. “How should I know, doc? I don’t know anything about sandstorms. Minutes, hours. Days.” He nodded at the peculiar nearby plants. “Look at these guys. They might be hundreds of years old. Just sitting out here, nothing to see, nothing to do, hoping that in between storms like this their spines are deterrent enough to keep off the plant eaters.” He shook his head. “I farking hate this country! A day in Savannah or Charleston is better than an eternity out here.”
“Maybe not if you’re a plant,” she countered.
“Well, I wish I was one right now. One with deep roots.” As he slid lower he let his gaze drift upward, blinking against the wind and sand and blowing gravel. “My mother—don’t look at me like that, I had one—used to say that some good comes out of everything. Even though we’re stuck here out on the flats we shouldn’t have to worry about company searchers or patrols. Even machines will shy away from this kind of weather. Grit’ll choke their intakes.” He closed his eyes.
She peered at him in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to sleep through this?”
His eyelids fluttered but did not open. “I once slept through a free ten-band spatially multiamped technopulse concert in Jackson Park. This is nothing.” He went quiet.
Having little else to say and no one to say it to, Ingrid tried to emulate her companion’s sangfroid. She had only limited success.
7
“Goddamn storm!”
Volksmann wrestled with the controls as the floater lurched to port. Not an aircraft, it was unable to rise above the furious winds. He was in no position to object to the choice of transport since he was among those who had from the beginning vetoed the suggestion that
an aircraft be used for the intrusion.
“You can’t take a plane or a chopper into the Sperrgebeit,” he had explained to his superiors in Guangzhou via closed satellite link. “SICK security would pick it up immediately. And ground transport will show up on their searcher drone sensors. The only thing that has a hope of working is a fast floater. Keep low to the ground but above it, get in fast and get out fast. And it’s still going to be risky as hell.”
“If a floater has a chance of getting in and getting out,” Hsing Pa inquired reasonably from Triad headquarters, “then why are such attempts not made more often?”
“Because there’s nothing to be gained from just getting in and getting out.” Volksmann was patient with the older man. “You have to have a worthwhile reason for going in beyond being able to boast that you did so. Every such incursion I know of involved prospectors. A ten-minute visit isn’t long enough to find and mine diamonds. It isn’t even long enough to locate a site. Especially when eight minutes of it would have to be spent looking over your shoulder. But it’s plenty of time to land, kill two people, take what they have, and leave.”
Hsing considered. “Will you need that much time on-site?”
Volksmann had shrugged. “Five minutes. Another five as buffer.”
The Triad operations chief nodded once. “Since we are not entirely sure what we are looking for, you should bring everything out. Including the bodies in case there is something of significance secreted within their persons.”
“That’s what I figured. I don’t anticipate any problems.” Volksmann had spoken with confidence.
He had not, however, anticipated having to navigate at night in the depths of a sandstorm.
They could have set the floater down and waited it out. But lingering in one place for any length of time might expose them to passing satellite coverage, or bring them to the attention of a drone. Now he had no choice. He and his team were committed.