“You will need to be.”
“Just a minute.” Whispr bade the other man pause. “You haven’t told us what it is that you do at Nerens, inside the facility. Are you a scientist?”
Looking back at him, Gwi smiled. “The only scientists among the San are in Gaborone, and a few who work in Joburg. The jobs SICK makes available to my people at Nerens are of the more mundane variety.”
“Yet you still think you’re clever enough to get us inside?”
“Much of my work is with the facility sewerage system. So I think I am clever enough to get you inside, stick Meld, since I work with shit every day.”
As a suddenly grim Whispr started toward the younger man Ingrid hastened to interpose herself. “I believe you, Gwi.” She looked sharply at her companion. “Just like I believe we won’t get a kilometer from here if we start fighting before we’ve even started.” She turned back to their new guide. “The part of the facility we need to get into involves something called the Big Picture.”
Gwi eyed her blankly. “Never heard of it.”
It was the response she had expected. An honest answer but a discouraging one. They were going to have to find out everything for themselves.
“So despite how smart you are there are areas of the facility that you’re not allowed into?” Whispr queried mockingly.
Gwi replied as if addressing a child. “Of course. I specialize in general sanitation. Why should I be allowed into the Restricted Zone?”
Ingrid perked up. “But you know that such a place exists?”
The young man nodded. “Security there is impossibly strict. If that is your intended destination you will never reach it.”
She smiled. “That’s where we want to go. That’s where we have to go. Where security is tightest. Where casual visitors aren’t allowed.”
“I can direct you toward it,” he told her reluctantly, “but I cannot take you there. It lies on the lowest level of the complex.”
“Of course it does.” Whispr was nodding knowingly. “It would be closer to hell than any other part of the facility.”
“You mean you have not already visited that famously warm place, stick Meld? I would have thought otherwise. Well, not to feel deprived. Once SICK security gets hold of you I am sure they will provide you with a ticket. One-way.” Before Whispr could snarl a reply, Gwi turned back to Ingrid. “Let us find you some additional supplies, Doctor Alice. We can leave tonight if you like. Where company searchers may be about it is always better to move at night.”
Whispr nodded agreement. “What kind of communicator do you use to find your way in the dark?”
“My GPS is in my hard drive.” Reaching up, Gwi touched his head. “In here. Seven thousand years of accumulated intimate, traditional knowledge about this part of the world, learned at the feet of my elders. My communicator is impervious to sand, wind, and even SICK security. All the animal trails are there, all the watering places, all the holes in which to hide from the patrolling drones that will become more frequent the closer we get to Nerens.” He paused, then looked again at Ingrid. “You must understand that if we are stopped by Security I will have no choice but to turn you over to them.”
Her lips tightened. “I would expect nothing less from a representative of the world’s greatest desert survivors.”
10
Below him and to his left was the wet emptiness called the Southern Atlantic Ocean. To his right was the dry emptiness called the Namib desert. Nature in its vastness and variety was all the same to Molé, who more than ever longed for the puzzle-piece packages called crowds that filled the world’s most densely populated cities. In that regard even Cape Town had its diversions.
That great southern city lay far behind him now, almost as far down the barren, empty coast along which he was traveling as it was possible to go. Quiet, completely controlled anger powered him as efficiently as did the jatropha that fueled the small private VTOL aircraft on which he was the only passenger. Plenty of fury seethed within his small squat frame. He was mad at his employers for sticking him with this assignment. Mad at the foolish mismatched pair who had somehow, impossibly, succeeded in evading him on not one but several occasions. Mad at those who could have helped to bring his chase to a much earlier conclusion. Most of all he was mad at himself for allowing this project to waste, to burn up, and to occupy time that could have been better spent indulging his simple if unorthodox appetites.
Well, it would be over and done with soon enough, he assured himself as the plane turned inland and began to descend. Blue-green below gave way to yellow-brown. Off to port, beyond the silent pilot who was the aircraft’s only other occupant, a cargo vessel was unloading containers inside a single-quayed harbor. In moments the sight fell behind and out of view. In the distance rose mountains of modest height and forbidding aspect. Molé knew his topography. Were the plane to travel onward in a straight line it would have to cross almost the entire continent before encountering anything resembling a center of population. The advances made by contemporary technology notwithstanding, the west and center of southern Africa was as inhospitable to man now as it had been since the breakup of Gondwanaland.
There was no visible landing strip. The VTOL did not need one. Hidden electronics buried beneath the flat, dry plain guided the plane down. It was an easy site to camouflage, since the surrounding terrain looked exactly the same as the landing site. Only when the whine of the aircraft’s compact jets were subsumed into the overwhelming silence and it taxied forward on battery power alone did a sizable slab of faux rock rise up like a modern drawbridge to reveal a sloping ramp that angled gently downward. Brakes squealing like a saurian hog, the plane slid into the ground like a spider entering its lair.
Lights came on automatically as the hangar cover descended behind them. Figures appeared on both sides of the plane, directing it to a parking place alongside several other aircraft. All save two were the same size as the private craft that had conveyed him here from Cape Town. Wings folded up like giant white butterflies, the two larger planes were executive jets, luxuriously fitted-out and capable of flying nonstop from Nerens to welcoming metropolises like Abuja, Accra, or even Casablanca.
Thoughts of proper civilized cities replete with the modern amenities he loved depressed him. He forced such images from his mind. All their delights would be open and available to him as soon as he concluded this assignment. When his safety harness released him he rose and made his way to the rear of the plane, picking up his cane as he went. The pilot remained behind, ignoring his passenger as he spoke into the vorec suspended near his mouth. In the course of the flight north from Cape Town the stolid driver had exchanged perhaps two sentences with his passenger.
Must remember to recommend the man for his professionalism, Molé reminded himself as he waited for the door to rise and the plane’s integrated steps to extend themselves. He did not wait for the pilot to follow him. The Meld could not. True and dedicated flyer that he was, his lower extremities fit tightly into the aircraft itself. He would have to wait for the landing team to disengage him. He did not fly the plane—he was the plane.
The burly Natural waiting for Molé near the bottom of the stairs looked as if he would rather be somewhere else doing something worthwhile. His disappointment as his attention shifted between the reader he was carrying and the old man standing at the top of the stairs was plain. Frowning, he leaned slightly to one side as he tried to see past the single figure that blocked the entrance to the plane’s interior.
“I’m here to escort a Napun Molé?”
“That would be me,” Molé replied quietly.
Frown morphed to scowl. “Says here that Molé is a tactical operative, senior classification. You don’t look like a tactical operative to me—of any classification.”
“That is the idea.”
When the escort looked up again from his reader there was no sign of Molé. Not until he felt the end of a cane tap him on the shoulder and, shocked, turned to see
the old man standing behind him.
“How did—how did you …?”
“I jumped. It is not far.” The smaller man’s voice tensed ever so slightly. “I could have landed on you instead of behind you. But then I would have needed a new escort. While momentarily satisfying, that result would have wasted time, and I have a chronic aversion to wasting time.” He smiled pleasantly. “Would you be so kind as to take me to station Chief of Security Het Kruger? I have an appointment.”
“Yes, sure, I …” The much bigger, much younger man swallowed hard and tucked his reader under an arm. His tone had become considerably more respectful. “It’s a bit of a flight up from the Cape. Wouldn’t you like to see your quarters first? Maybe take a shower, unpack …?”
“I have no luggage. Everything I need is in me.”
The frown returned, less put-upon this time. “Don’t you mean ‘on’ you—sir?”
“Yes, of course. ‘On’ me. Mr. Kruger?”
The escort hesitated, but not for long. As he led the visitor from the underground hangar and into the depths of the facility he offered no more suggestions. This was wise.
Molé’s curiosity concerning his new surroundings extended only to a characteristic need to map them in his head. He did not care what the facilities were used for, was uninterested in the motivations of the many Naturals and Melds who bustled around him. He was here on specific company business. The rest of company business did not concern him. Diversions were for when his task was done.
They descended one floor in a massive lift large enough to hold a dozen people and several vehicles. More walking and more corridors brought them to a second lift. This one was considerably smaller and descended a good deal farther. Exiting down another hallway eventually brought them to a double door flanked by two guards. Both were large lods hefting large weapons. Molé identified the guns at a glance, casually noting with approval that both were powerful fast-firing contemporary models that would be well suited to defending a subterranean corridor. The escort identified himself to the guards, who in turn identified him to the door. A feminine voice responded via a speaker and the doors parted with a click to admit the visitors. The paired barriers were thick, fireproof, and probably capable of stopping anything up to and including an armor-piercing military round.
A curving desk in the reception area was staffed by a woman in her early thirties. She appeared to be a Natural, though Molé knew better than most how external appearances could be deceiving. Hovering off to one side between a pair of purple couches, a floating holovit whose volume had been turned way down was showing the most recent episode of a popular folk drama from Madagascar. The receptionist looked up from her box screen.
“Napun Molé?” He nodded and she smiled, showing none of the instinctive disdain that had initially been displayed by his younger escort. “You’re expected. Go right in.” A single door nearby slid aside and Molé stepped through the portal. As he did so it scanned him, even though he had long since been cleared through an assortment of checkpoints. When his escort moved to follow, the woman spoke pleasantly but firmly.
“Not you.”
It was a measure of the woman’s tone, or Kruger’s status, or perhaps both, that the formerly self-confident young man did not try to argue with her. Turning, he departed wordlessly back the way he had come. The outer doors slid silently shut behind him.
Kruger’s office featured one full vit wall that was presently displaying a live three-dimensional projection from St. Mark’s Square. Excited tourists mingled with locals while a tenor outside the oldest café in Italy strove manfully to project Puccini above the babble of several dozen tongues. Beneath the transparent pavers that were part of Ascended Venice, the waters of the Grand Canal surged restlessly, stirred by passing vaporetto. Wandering into the foreground and indifferent to the presence of the global box or local police pickups, a pickpocket casually riffled a wallet from a woman’s purse. The unjudgmental Molé noted that the man wore a live fluctuator on his wrist. Disguised to look like a cheap chrono, its signal would cancel out the proximity alarm embedded in the stolen wallet, rendering it useless. So went the eternal war between the ever innocent and the always opportunistic.
Kruger noted the direction of his visitor’s gaze. “You’ve been to Venice?”
“Yes,” Molé murmured longingly, “I’ve been to Venice. I was once witness to a drowning that took place there. The poor fellow ended up in a canal and I was compelled to perform CPT on him.”
The security chief frowned. “Don’t you mean CPR?”
“No.” Molé smiled thinly. “CPT. Cardiopulmonary termination.” Without changing tone or expression he added, “I like cities in general. It is where I am most comfortable. City people are generally accommodating of the elderly.”
Kruger nodded without comment, tracking his guest carefully as the old man settled himself into the chair on the other side of the desk. “You don’t move like you need that cane you’re carrying.”
“Kind of you to say so. I manage my affairs well enough. Unlike you, it would seem.”
Kruger instantly dispensed with the false conviviality he was obliged to display toward visitors. From here onward their conversation would proceed on a purely professional plane. That suited him just fine.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Molé had draped the cane across his lap. “I was informed that you recently lost some of your people here.”
The security chief stiffened in his chair. “An unfortunate incident involving unexpected hostiles that took place far outside the facility. Procedures are in place to ensure it won’t happen again. It’s nothing that need concern an independent contractor like yourself—colleague.”
Molé smiled afresh. “I meant no offense.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“Seriously, I do not. I am merely curious from a professional standpoint. Speaking professionally, I am sure that you recall our conversation of some weeks ago.”
“Well enough.” Still only partly mollified, Kruger leaned back in his chair. “I replayed it when I was told that you were coming. I wish I could say that I was looking forward to this, but I dislike interruptions to routine.”
“Where that is concerned we are of the same mind—colleague.”
Kruger felt a bit better about his guest. “I was expecting someone …”
“Younger?” Molé finished for him.
Kruger nodded. “And larger.” His own smile was flat. “Merely from a ‘professional’ standpoint, you understand.” Without taking his eyes off his visitor he addressed a concealed pickup. “Danae, will you come in here a minute, please?”
Molé did not react as the door behind him slid open to admit the receptionist. When she stopped very close to his left side and leaned toward him he was compelled to take closer notice of her. Ylang-ylang-based perfume assailed his nostrils. Resting her hands on her knees, she locked pale blue eyes with his. Her voice was a trill composed to run up and down specific parts of a man’s body.
“Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Molé? Anything at all? In situations like this I am always at a guest’s disposal.” Watching from the other side of the desk Kruger said nothing, his expression unreadable.
Molé met her gaze without flinching, without blinking. “Tempted as I am by your practiced offer I believe you would find my personal predilections unpalatable, Ms. Danae. You are quite striking and you have excellent breasts and fine hips. I also note that the power mister situated between the former is doubtless loaded with a suitably potent soporific. I would suggest replacing it with a smaller and less prominent model.” Her expression fell and he smiled. “Less volume but less detectable is better. The same goes for the flistol strapped to your attractive and well-toned right thigh. Too much bulge.”
She straightened and her winsome smile vanished. “No one else ever noticed them.”
“No, that is not necessarily correct,” he challenged her. “What you mean to say is
that no one else has commented on them. That does not mean they have gone unnoticed. Something not commented upon does not cease to exist. This, for example.” His hand shot out and grabbed her between the legs.
Shocked, she immediately brought her right hand down sharply, the edge aiming for his neck. Parrying the blow easily with his left hand, the right swung the cane upward. The tip, from which a needle now protruded, halted less than a centimeter from her left eye. She froze. It was dead silent in the room.
Folding his hands on the desk in front of him, Kruger said quietly, “That’ll be all for now, Danae.”
Backing away from the visitor, the receptionist grabbed her throbbing wrist with her other hand, nodded, and retreated to the outer reception area. While the door closed behind her, Molé turned nonchalantly back to his host. As the monitors concealed beneath the top of the security chief’s desk indicated, the visitor’s respiration and heart rate were unchanged.
“She’s fast. And she is decorative. A useful tool, but she needs to learn how to deal with both criticism and the unexpected.”
Kruger shook his head. “I think, Mr. Molé, that you are a little more unexpected than anything she has encountered before. I’ll speak to her about the concealed weapons.”
Molé nodded. “As tests of my competency go, that was relatively unstressful. You must understand that at my age women are at best a diversion, not an inducement. I trust there will be no more games.”
“Why have you come here?”
“That’s better.” Pleased to have the discussion back on a purely professional level, Molé settled back into the chair. Nearly disappeared into it, Kruger thought. “I have come to await the conclusion of an assignment that has already taken far too long.”
Kruger remembered their phone conversation. “The two thieves you spoke about. The ones you said had stolen a small storage thread that belongs to the company. If I recall correctly you said you had reason to believe they might be in Southern Africa.” His eyes widened slightly. “You don’t mean to say that you think they’re somewhere around here?”