Thembekile frowned. “The storage thread some way affects children? How?”
“Not the thread. Nanoscale devices made of the same substance that have been implanted in their heads. When you try to examine one of them closely they just—vanish. The tiny devices must do something, but we don’t know what because they won’t allow themselves to be studied. Likewise, the thread itself doesn’t appear to do much of anything. Also, it’s infinitely larger and it doesn’t disentangle when you examine it. Why the minuscule devices do and the thread doesn’t is just one of the mysteries we’re hoping to unravel. We think the key might be among the information that’s stored on the thread itself. Except we can’t see the information, not with any known reading device.” She jerked her head in Whispr’s direction.
“My friend just wants to find out what it’s worth. I want to learn its purpose and what it contains—if anything.” She shrugged and sat back. “If we finally manage to find a way to read it and it turns out to be blank you’re liable to hear two cries of disappointment all the way back here in Cape Town.”
The sangoma sat and thought for a long minute. “I can see you have many questions. About this thread and about many very small things you cannot show me because you say that to look upon them is to make them disappear. But you only ask one thing of me. To play tour guide. To give you directions to a place that I am sure you have already determined is not listed in the government-sponsored visitor brochures.”
Spinning alarmingly in her chair she faced the darkened, semi-transparent box screen. As soon as her eyes made contact with the unit its security mode sprang to life. Her back to her guests, she named a fee. Whispr blanched at the figure. Ingrid unhesitatingly agreed.
“Ngiyabonga—thanks. We have an agreement.” Still fronting the box she turned her head to smile back at her clients. Ingrid was expectant. A characteristically wary Whispr rose.
“How do we know you aren’t just contacting friends of yours to come and rob us?” The unnaturally lean Namerican had edged toward the hallway. “How do we know any information you give us will be valid and not just some address or location you make up on the spot?”
“How do I know that your credit is good?” their hostess responded good-naturedly. “How do I know you haven’t come here on behalf of the authorities to arrest me simply for practicing my art?”
“Come on, woman,” Whispr sneered. “Do I strike you as a cop?”
“Of course you don’t.” Her smile widened. “If you had, you would be dead by now and on your way down-mountain to feed the sharks.” She turned back to her setup. As she did so the thick middle fingers of each hand began to elongate. The tip of each finger flipped up to reveal bare connector terminals. With ease born of long practice she slid them smoothly into waiting slots beneath the screen. Her voice was a knowing singsong.
“It is traditional for a sangoma to see through their hands.”
Whereupon her eyes popped out of her head and retracted smoothly upward on flexible metal stalks.
Normally collapsed within the sangoma’s eye sockets behind her real eyes, specialized lenses now unfolded to focus exclusively on the activated box screen. While using them Thembekile was effectively otherwise blind, the eyes now resting on her forehead still attached to the inside of her skull by extensible composite muscles, moisturizer tubing, and maniped elongated optic nerves. The extraordinary melds that had been performed on her hands and eyes were as complex as they were unsubtle. Neither Whispr, attuned to such extensive modifications from experience, or Ingrid, familiar with them from her medical work, had detected the manips until they had been activated.
Through them the sangoma essentially became as one with her mass of high-tech equipment and with the Cape Town box. This melding of human and machine did not restrict awareness of her guests nor prevent her from keeping in contact with them. She continued to speak to her customers in the same easy, relaxed fashion as she had prior to the revelation of her complex meld and the unexpected elevation of her eyeballs to their present position on the top of her forehead.
“Does my temporary transition to contemporary sangoma unsettle you?”
“No—no.” Ingrid found herself fascinated by the continuing immobility of the eyeballs that had been retracted against the woman’s hairline and the two long flexible fingers that were now embedded in the box console. “I’m a doctor. I’ve seen a good deal more extreme manips than the average person.”
Not to be outdone Whispr added, “And I’ve seen some straight out of nightmares. Freely chosen nightmares.”
“I am pleased you are not uncomfortable. Now I will go to work for you.”
Behind the screen a constellation of glowing telltales sprang to life, their light reducing the screen itself to near invisibility. It was impossible to tell how far back into the wall the complex of electronics extended. Insistent and primal, the rhythmic pounding of drums echoed throughout the reception area.
An uneasy Whispr found himself searching the crowded corners of the increasingly dark room. “Why the drums?”
“Very important part of sangoma ritual,” the temporarily eyeless woman explained. “Necessary to the summoning of the relevant ancestral spirits.”
Ingrid looked uncertain. “You’re not telling us that you’re trying to use the box to summon ancestral spirits?”
“Of course not,” came the pleasant reply. “What do you think I am—some kind of primitive fakir?”
“Then why the drums?” Whispr wondered edgily.
Her explanation was as simple as it was straightforward. “I like drums. They put me in the mood.”
While she worked he studied the technical aspects of her setup. It was impressive but not overawing. He’d seen elaborate conjoined boxworks before. Most recently in the Alligator Man’s workshop and on the houseboat of the late and not especially lamented Yabby Wizwang.
“I get what you’re after with the drums. Atmosphere, to intimidate your less sophisticated clients. But what’s up with intimate box connection? I thought you relied on the throwing of bones.” He sniffed. A strong loamy fragrance had begun to seep into the room. Ingrid smelled it, too. Its unannounced intrusion did not worry Whispr. If their host had intended to knock them out or otherwise subdue them with some kind of gas it most likely would have been odorless. “And what’s that stink?”
“Burning imphepho—another sangoma tradition. As for throwing the bones, that is what I am doing.” Thembekile kept them informed without looking away from her work. Indeed, with her eyes resting comfortably almost on top of her head she could not do so even had she been so inclined. Light flared from the box screen and the interwoven mass of instrumentation behind it. “I am casting forth your request together with what relevant information I can summon from the box. To enhance the chance of success we should also sacrifice a chicken or goat, but I feel it is not something you would understand. Or appreciate.”
“I told you: I’m a physician.” Ingrid was staring closely at the now explosively alive box screen. “I’ve probably worked around more blood than you have.”
Whispr was equally unfazed. “Wouldn’t bother me, either, woman. I’d like to see how you carry out the procedure. When it comes to sacrificing meat I personally favor grilling or frying.”
“Ah, sociocultural convergence.” Thembekile spoke softly and without turning away from the closely contained lambent cosmology she had called up. “Traditional African societies sacrifice animals to gain wisdom. European-derived societies do it to gain weight.”
Out of the forest of lights multiple shapes and reader platforms started to appear. They began not only to fill but to surround the screen as its integrated minijectors coughed up three-dimensional responses to the sangoma’s stream of queries. Leaning forward Ingrid was able to make out a rapidly shifting succession of maps, reports, news articles, pictures, brief video clips, and a vast assortment of tangential information. To an unintegrated onlooker it all appeared very much unrelated. Drawing co
nclusions from the mass of material was impossible unless one was virtually a part of it. Meanwhile synthesized hide and wood drums continued to fill the room with their portentous beat. Twice she found herself tapping her feet in time to the rhythm and had to make herself stop. The throbbing might inspire their host but she found it distracting.
The pounding didn’t seem to bother Whispr. Equally intent on the glowing river of information he evinced no visible reaction to the drumming.
Eventually the data stream began to slow down. Far-reaching and all-inclusive as the box was, its supply of relevant info was not infinite. Surely their host, who no doubt had been probing locked and supposedly private corners of the box as well as public resources, had by now acquired more than enough data to parse. The refulgence from the box faded and the telltales behind it that served to identify active electronics winked out in rapid succession. As her two extensible fingers disengaged from the depths of the console her gel-protected eyes slid neatly down off her forehead and retracted back into their sockets. The sangoma blinked a couple of times, took a damp medicated tissue from a nearby box, wiped at first her right eye and then the left, and swiveled in her chair to face her customers. As she tossed the used tissue aside a small hard copy was printing out from a slot in the console beneath the box screen.
“Good news?” Ingrid did not try to hide her eagerness. Whispr considered this one of her greatest faults. In the brief time she had spent in his company she had learned much, but not yet how to dampen her zeal.
“I have some Muti for you, if that is what you mean.” Pulling the hard copy from its receptacle with one hand she touched one arm of her chair with the other. Hidden motor humming, it rolled toward her clients.
Though thoroughly fed up with this latest manifestation of African obfuscation Whispr kept his feelings to himself. This was not Greater Savannah. He was nothing if not adaptable. He could even, when the occasion demanded it, show patience.
“What,” he asked slowly, “is ‘Muti’?”
“It is that whatever which you want.” The sangoma grinned. “Traditionally Muti can be swallowed, snorted, smoked, smeared, or even given as an enema.”
Grinding his teeth in frustration Whispr turned away so that she wouldn’t see his expression. “Oh, yeah, that’s what we came halfway around the planet for.”
Thembekile ignored him and her chair motored a little closer to Ingrid. “You say you a doctor. A sangoma is also a doctor. Even today many people without much education come to us for treatment. But times change and even sangomas must change with them. So in addition to doctoring people, some of us have learned how to doctor information. That is the kind of Muti I have for you.” With great ceremony she handed over the single sheet of hard copy.
Ingrid took it impatiently. “This is the location of SICK’s main research facility?”
“Ah, but there are three.” One thick finger tapped the waterproof, fireproof printout. “I have rank them in order of perceived company importance. I make of this Muti a hard copy because it is safer than electronic.” Pivoting her chair she rolled over to a wall of shelving and scanned the contents briefly before selecting a small jar. Holding it she returned to her fellow physician.
“I have some other Muti for you.” Popping the lid on the vacuum-sealed container she shoved one index finger inside, twirled it briefly among the contents, and then extended the newly coated digit toward Ingrid. It glistened. “If you will allow me to continue one older tradition …?”
Eyeing the pointing finger, a dubious Ingrid drew back slightly. From the greasy substance that now coated the sangoma’s fingertip came an unholy reek.
“What is … is it harmless?”
“To you, yes. To those with whom you may have to deal if you continue your search, hopefully not.” Extending her finger Thembekile drew a long streak across Ingrid’s forehead. As she suffered the attention the wincing doctor tried not to inhale. The sangoma turned to Whispr. “Now your turn, skinny man. Or are you afraid?”
“Of a little grease?” Rising from his chair Whispr came toward the sangoma. “There were times when all I had to eat for days was a little grease.” He bent toward her. She smeared a streak above his eyes, then resealed the jar.
The snarky odor lingered. Ingrid wanted to wash it off, but desiring not to offend decided she would wait until they were back at their hotel. Folding the hard copy carefully she slipped it into a side compartment in her purse. Their hostess had been as helpful as word on the street had promised and the doctor did not want to do anything that might upset her, such as violating an ancient tradition. Reaching up to gingerly touch her forehead her finger came away glossy with a bit of the slick, viscous, smelly substance.
“What is it?”
“Lion fat,” Thembekile told her brightly. “To stimulate bravery and ward off attackers.”
Doctor or not, Ingrid almost gagged. Whispr only smiled. “How do we know it’s not just pork or chicken fat from your last meal?” He wanted to say “from your last meld” but did not.
His skepticism did not offend the sangoma. “You will find out the next time courage is required of you, stick-man. If you are confronted by danger and run away with your dick between your legs, then you will know I was untruthful with you.” She turned back to Ingrid. “And now makes itself known the disagreeable business of authorizing final payment.”
“I have a feeling dealing with that will take some courage,” Whispr muttered as Ingrid fumbled in her purse.
The grease that had been applied to their foreheads by Thembekile could just as easily be cow fat, or guinea fowl fat, or any other kind of lard, Ingrid knew. Not that it was important. All that mattered was the information on the hard copy that was now resting safely in her purse. At last they had a physical destination, a goal. It might prove unreachable, but at least it was no longer theoretical.
Actually Thembekile had provide them with three destinations. A glance at the hard copy had shown that they had indeed been ranked in order of likely importance.
Ingrid could hardly wait to head for the one at the top of the list.
“THIS WOULD BE SO much easier,” she told Whispr over dinner later that night at their small hotel in Simon’s Town, “if we knew even a little of what was on the thread and why SICK is so desperate to get it back. Maybe all they’re trying to do is just protect an unprecedented discovery in metallurgy.” She shook her head in frustration. “But that wouldn’t explain the MSMH link between the thread and the nanodevices that are turning up in unsettled young adults’ heads.”
Whispr stared across the table at her. “You think maybe the devices are what’s unsettling the teens?”
“No. From what we’ve been able to learn the affected individuals are disgruntled before they get the unrecorded implants. They’re put in as part of one kind of cosmetic meld or another.”
He considered. “Someone has to insert them at some time during the cosmetic procedure. Why aren’t we questioning the melders?”
Her mouth tightened. “I’m not sure they’re even aware of what they’re implanting. The devices are so small it would be easy to conceal them as part of standard, mass-produced cosmetic melds. That has to be what’s going on. If a hundred melders or so around the world knew about the nanodevices, more information on them would be available. And you and I wouldn’t be the only ones looking for their source or trying to find out what it is exactly that they do.”
Whispr gazed down at his food. “The funny thing is, from what you’ve told me, doc, they don’t seem to do anything. The subjects—the kids—don’t seem to suffer any harm or aftereffects from the implants. So what’s the point of ’em?”
She paused with her glass of tea halfway to her mouth. “That’s one of the things I’m hoping to find out. Nobody goes to the trouble of developing a quantum entangled nanodevice made out of an impossible material and having it surreptitiously inserted into the heads of numerous young adults all over the world without some sort of plan in
mind.”
He grunted. “You make it sound diabolical.”
She didn’t smile. “I’m hoping, Whispr, I’m really hoping, that it’s not.”
Their table was built out over a shallow shelf of False Bay. In the distance a swath of clouds like brushstrokes lifted from a Turner glowed a dying crimson over Seal Island. Unwilling to stray too far from their slips this late in the evening, private watercraft cruised back and forth while hugging close to several small boat harbors. Powered by sail, by electric engines, or by a combination of the two they resembled fistfuls of paper crumpled into fanciful shapes and cast out on the darkening water.
“The longer we chase after this the more convinced I am that there’s something important and valuable on the thread.” Whispr dipped a spoon into his perlemoen bisque. It resembled a number of seafood soups he’d enjoyed in Savannah (on those rare occasions when he’d had the money to buy such luxuries) but with a richer, deeper flavor. In addition to cream, spices, and chunks of the meticulously aqua-cultured shellfish the bisque included a healthy dose of the supplements necessary to support his melded digestive system. “Forget about the implanted nanodevices for a minute. If it’s just the nature of this special metal the company is trying to keep secret, why go to the trouble of using some of it to make an ordinary storage thread?”
“It’s not ordinary,” she corrected him. “For one thing there’s that very low-level signal it’s putting out.”
“Real low-level,” he agreed. “Or we would’ve been surrounded by company agents by now.”
She shoveled something round and fried between her lips and chewed reflectively. “Maybe it has to be in direct physical contact with its intended receiver in order to carry out its function.” Sitting across the table from him with her left side facing the water she allowed her attention to be drawn to the evening’s entertainment. “Do you know Sleeping Beauty?”
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