The Human Blend

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I—I don’t understand. We were careful! No one saw us—no one!” He stared down at the amputated hand. “This doesn’t make any sense. It’s not even a whole limb.” His bewildered gaze shifted to another of the hovering holos. As the flotilla of police scoots materialized to fill it, the preceding image winked out.

  “Mayhap thy slaying unknowingly and foolishly involved an important personage.” As he spoke Swallower waddled behind the circular counter, having to pass through the police-heavy holo to reach his destination.

  “He didn’t look important.” Jiminy was mumbling and sweating now. “There wasn’t anything in his wallet to suggest consequence. Just the usual subsist. No spec defensive glam—nothing.”

  “On one thing we doth agree.” A small open-sided elevator was descending slowly from the second floor. The lift was industrial grade, Whispr noted. It would have to be, to handle their host’s impressive bulk. “This indeed maketh no sense.”

  Didn’t look important, Whispr thought slowly. Just the usual subsist. Except for one thing. Except for the thread. Noting the fury in Swallower’s expression he decided now might not be the best time to bring up the matter of the tiny, artfully camouflaged storage device.

  “We didn’t sell you out!” Jiminy was insisting.

  Face flushed, quartet of eyes glittering, their bearded host stepped into the open lift. “Not intentionally, perhaps. I do not grant you that much acumen. But for one such as myself whose business be fencing without fences, stupidity be a synonym for blindness, and the blind sometimes cannot avoid stepping in shit.” Emitting a grinding noise that was less than reassuring, the lift started to rise toward the circular opening in the ceiling from which it had descended.

  “Where are you going?” Whispr asked their host.

  From the depths of the ebony Assyrian beard flashed a hint of a wry smile, like a crack in dried asphalt. “I am going to bed. If the police wish to speak with me, I shall appear before them cloaked in coverlet and yawns, affecting an air of bemusement at being rudely roused from my beauty sleep.”

  Taking a long step forward, an increasingly distraught Jiminy continued to follow their host’s ascent. “But what about us?”

  “Get thee hence from my sight and my shop. Flee these surrounds, lest thee shortly be identified to the looming authorities as intruders whom I was compelled to welcome only under duress, and with whom I would surely never do business.” Swallower’s hand slipped to the instrumentation on his belt.

  As Jiminy was readying further protest, long, attenuated shapes began to emerge from the mountains of merchandise. In slinks and links the modified serpents came squirming toward the two visitors. Neither man being herpetologically challenged, they immediately recognized the venomous bushmasters and fer-de-lance who were advancing toward them under Swallower’s control. He liked his snakes as well as his cats, did their no longer congenial host, and there were far too many of the fat man’s pets to shoot.

  When a seven-meter-long python dropped from the ceiling to land right in front of Whispr and start toward him, the slender thief whirled and bolted for the exit. Coming to the same conclusion that trying to argue with Swallower was no longer a viable course of action, Jiminy soared over his retreating associate with a single bound. Behind them the pursuing serpents, more effective than any human security guards, halted at the doorway.

  Once more outside, both men could see glimmers of light reflected from the eyes of Swallower’s beloved rescued and personalized felines. Be they calico or tabby, manx or maniac, they prowled the raised walkways flashing scythelike claws on their front feet. Patterned after the killing talons of the long-extinct Deinonychus, they were as adept at cutting a man’s throat as they were at disemboweling intruding rodents.

  Hissing, fur standing on end, claws upraised, one overzealous stiletto cat barred their way. Jiminy cleared it effortlessly, leaping high to land well on the other side of the potentially lethal feline. Whispr, however, was forced to pause and search frantically for a way around it. Driven by instructions broadcast by Swallower directly into its brain and those of its stealthy, watchful companions, the killer kitty continued to block Whispr’s flight.

  It wasn’t going to matter. Having safely reached the scoot waiting in a far corner of the small parking area, Jiminy slipped inside, threw one melded leg over the seat, and powered it up. Dashing toward his partner would send the security cat scrambling on all four paws to get out of the way. With the pack containing the still unfenced hand slung across his back, the Cricket accelerated. Emitting a softly rising whine the scoot headed toward Whispr.

  Then veered away, heading for the raised access road that led south and away from the shop.

  Surrounded by lethal felines a dumbfounded Whispr looked on as the two-person vehicle continued to pick up speed. He did not call out. He was too stunned, and there was no point. It was not as if Jiminy had forgotten about him. It was not as if Whispr had been overlooked.

  There is something about the act of wanton abandonment by a friend that beggars comment. The orphaned can go to wrack and ruin in an orgy of loud recrimination, or respond with silent acceptance. It was not in Whispr’s nature to do the first, and he did not have the intelligence to offer more than the latter.

  Instead, he continued to stand there, gaping dumbly at the swiftly receding silhouette of the speeding scoot. Jiminy would hit an intersection and strike off safely away from the incoming police, leaving Whispr alone and isolated to answer their questions. Swallower had already as much as declared that if pressed by the arriving authorities he would not hesitate to categorize his recent visitors as nothing more than potential thieves, and that as a consequence he was relieved to welcome the police onto his premises.

  Was it possible, Whispr wondered, that the approach of authority in such numbers had nothing to do with his and Jiminy’s presence? Might the city or state be mounting a raid on Swallower’s establishment for reasons that had nothing to do with his latest visitors? It would be easy enough to find out. All he had to do was stand right where he was and await their arrival.

  For someone who had been raised in indigent surroundings and who upon maturity had drifted into a lifestyle charitably described as unsociable, this was not an option. Espying one corner of the parking area that was not infested with Swallower’s damnable killer cats, Whispr bolted in its direction, put both hands on the molded plastic railing, and without hesitation leaped over the side.

  TOO BAD ABOUT WHISPER, Jiminy thought as he urged the scoot onward. Behind and beneath him the finely tuned engine whined softly as it carried him south. The willow man had been a good companion, always helpful on jobs, never extending himself beyond the limits of what he knew he could do. That was the trouble with so many contacts in Jiminy’s business. Intoxicated from absorbing one too many popent plays, they all too often made the mistake of confusing entertainment with real life. Or worse, conflating the two. Be they Natural or Meld, successful lawbreakers were the ones whose names and faces you never saw splashed across the media because they never got caught. Jiminy was perfectly content to languish in prosperous anonymity. To maintain that enviable status one sometimes had to make sacrifices. Friends, family—in this instance, Whispr. Cricket knew he could find a new partner more easily than he could handle incarceration.

  He smiled to himself as the scoot angled sharply to the left as it automatically leaned into a turn. Whispr’s internment wouldn’t cost the state much. They could lock him up in a closet. Or a golf bag.

  He saw the police search unit before he heard it. Swift and nearly noiseless, it went right past him, the bright light from its belly illuminating the water and stultified swamp that flanked the narrow roadway on either side. Then it swung around in a wide arc to come up behind him. Moments later his vehicle was undergoing a scan from a wide, diffuse laser as bright as day. He hunched down as low as he could in the driver’s seat and muttered a curse. There was no way he could outrun the robot searcher. If they would just
ignore him long enough for him to get into Georgetown proper he could ditch the scoot and lose himself in the pedestrian crowds: one more Meld among thousands.

  Alerted by the first, a second searcher drone arrived and began to track him in parallel with its brethren. Still no cops. He was only minutes from the first major Georgetown intersection. There would be traffic, offramps, shopping—not downtown, but he would have a chance. Knowing this, he did not slow or pull over even when a floater appeared overhead and in front of him. Pretending not to hear, he ignored the commands to stop.

  They put a disabler on him. As it drained the battery pack that powered the scoot he felt his transport slowing. Well, he had made his best effort at flight, though he doubted the authorities would give him credit for it. Letting the depowered scoot coast to a halt on the roadway he prepared his response. Since he had no idea what was going on or what they might want him for, it was necessarily generalized. His spirits rose slightly. Maybe they just wanted to ask him some questions about Swallower’s operation. It might have nothing to do with the killing at all.

  As he stepped out of the scoot he walked quickly to the roadway railing. Bending over the side, he pantomimed throwing up. The movement caused his backpack to slide around in front of him. Continuing to feign upchucking, he allowed the hand to slip out of the pack. It made nary a splash as it landed in the water between support pilings and sank out of sight into the dark muck. Having thus neatly disposed of the only incriminating evidence and wiping nonexistent drool from his mouth, he felt much better about his imminent prospects as he turned to face the roadway.

  Touching down in silence the floater completely blocked the scoot lane leading southward. Holding his arms above his head Jiminy blinked as handheld lights were turned on him. He was startled to see half a dozen lod cops coming his way. Expecting regular police, the presence of the lods was a surprise. Two ordinary cops would have been more than adequate to take the unresisting Cricket into custody.

  All lods were Melds, of course. Four of them were characteristically enormous. Pumped full of modified HGH, their pituitaries gengineered, their bones infused with organic titanium powder, extra heart muscle layered on, the smallest of them stood two and a half meters tall and weighed a shade under two hundred kilos. For all that mass and muscle they were not slow. Meld injections had supplemented their natural bulk with many grams of high-twitch muscle fiber. It was a brave (or highly specialized Meld) lawbreaker who would directly challenge a lod.

  Hands held high above his head Cricket had no intention of doing so, of course. As they drew nearer his concern gave way to a touch of ego shine. Whatever they wanted him for he could not help but be flattered by the amount of manpower and hardware that had been deployed to catch him. The lods were heavily armed and armored. Eyeing their approach, he knew he did not have enough strength to even lift one of their guns, much less aim and fire it.

  “Evening, gentlewhen.” The lights illuminating his face were harsh.

  Unlike some of his friends he had never had his eyes melded to allow for better night vision. Or like Swallower had additional orbs added to compensate.

  The nearest lod was a sergeant. A rhino in blue, he loomed over the melded flight risk and leaned forward. For a lod his voice was unnaturally, almost comically high-pitched.

  “Where is it?”

  Cricket responded with a bemused smile. “I guess that all depends on how you choose to define ‘it.’ ”

  The lod was not amused. Reaching out and grabbing the prisoner with one huge hand, he lifted the other Meld off the pavement. Cricket’s elongated and strengthened legs could deliver a potent kick, one powerful enough to stun even a lod. He didn’t dare, of course. If he used his legs against this squad they would respond by breaking them, and if he struck first he would have no legal defense at all. He took comfort in the knowledge that as with all interactions involving the police and public, every moment of the confrontation was being recorded. He would not give them the satisfaction of allowing himself to be provoked no matter how much they manhandled him.

  “It’s too late in the day for funny, bug-boy.” The lod wasn’t smiling. “Hand it over.” The thick fingers gripping the detainee’s shirtfront tightened ungently. “Now.”

  Jiminy lost the smile. “Go on, keep abusing me.” He nodded in the direction of the parked floater. “The result won’t look good in court.”

  “In court. Of course.” Setting him down, the lod turned to his massive colleagues, then looked back at the much smaller Meld. “You’re right, bug-boy. Shaking you around would look bad to an adjudicator. So would this.”

  Stepping out and forward, the sergeant brought one elephantine foot down on the smaller Meld’s right foreleg. The bone snapped loudly, not unlike a branch of dead pine, and Jiminy screamed like a girl. Clutching at the shattered limb he collapsed to the pavement. Widening eyes filled with unrestrained tears as he held himself, moaning. Unmoved, the police sergeant extended a huge hand downward.

  “Give it over. Last chance.”

  “Can’t be the last chance.” Another of the lods was gazing emotionlessly at the writhing, whimpering Cricket. “Can’t kill him ’til we have it.”

  “Shut up, Noril.” Kneeling down beside the sobbing prisoner, the sergeant reached out and placed one hand over the other man’s face. Fingers the size of small clubs began to squeeze. “Talk to me, bug-boy. Tell me where it is. Don’t bet your life on the corporal’s faux pas. Bet it on us recovering what you took.” He relaxed his grip.

  Trembling with fear and from the screaming pain in his smashed leg, Cricket struggled to raise an arm and point to his left. “There—over there. I dumped it over the side. In the water.”

  Releasing the detainee’s face the lod sergeant stood and gave an impatient jerk of his head in the indicated direction. Immediately two of the squad moved toward it.

  “Better be well packaged and not damaged. Better be easy to find,” the irritated cop growled.

  The water was dark, but with the advanced search gear at their disposal a badly shaken Jiminy knew these police should have little difficulty finding and retrieving the ampuscated meld hand. In any case, it was over. After recovering what they had come for they would haul him to jail to await an adjudication. That would give him time to prepare a plea.

  He could blame it all on Whispr. The stick-man was not good with words and would likely put up a poor defense. As he considered his options Jiminy felt a little better. With luck he might get off being charged only as an accomplice to the tourist’s killing instead of being marked as the instigator. His hesitation had cost him a broken leg, but before he could appear at trial that would have to be repaired at state expense. He might even be able to file a successful claim charging the Savannah Authority with police brutality and use of excessive force. Though things hadn’t worked out as planned, he would get through this all right. He always had.

  Raising a hand, he tried to block out the stark illuminators that were still shining on his face. “Could you guys maybe do something about the light? It’s hurting my eyes.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Looking over a shoulder, the sergeant spoke to one of his subordinate Melds. “The lights are hurting his eyes. Fix it.”

  The bigger cop nodded and the lights winked out. Jiminy had just enough time to experience a moment of gratitude when the Meld shot a necap. Landing squarely on the prisoner’s head the highly charged diaphanous material adhered securely and flared once, instantly short-circuiting every cerebral neural connection. Jiminy’s head slumped forward as his brain went out. The sergeant eyed the dead detainee a moment longer before turning expectantly toward the roadway railing.

  “Find it yet?”

  A voice called back from somewhere in the shallow water below. “Still looking, sarge!”

  Muttering to himself the police noncom checked his chrono. “Hurry it up! Word from Downtown is they want it back Outown as of yesterday!” Raising his gaze he let it drift south and east, deeper into
the wildlife sanctuary. Bug-boy might have been lying all along, the sergeant thought worriedly. His broken leg notwithstanding, what they had been ordered to recover might not even be where the insolent Meld had indicated.

  Which made it all the more imperative that they find the dead man’s missing partner as soon as possible.

  WHEN THE GREATER MOON SLIPPED behind the clouds that had tiptoed north from Cuba, the owl’s eyes appeared as two smaller substitute satellites. Killing claws locked it firmly in place on the mangrove branch overhanging the water as it hooted softly. Below, a brace of two-meter-long white caiman lay motionless as scabrous logs, waiting for something edible and unaware to come drifting by. The air was still, heavy, and saturated. A steady chorus of nocturnal insects voiced their approval.

  Whispr was likewise wringing wet, but he was most definitely not still. Though lanky beyond imagining, he was neither weak nor feeble. His muscles were thin but strong strings and he powered his way through the water and reeds with a determination and knowledge born of frequent flights from the law.

  He had tried to tell Jiminy that the dead man’s hand was bad news. The quality of it, the superb workmanship, all hinted that its owner was no ordinary citizen, just as the prosthetic was no ordinary meld. Whispr did not doubt for a minute that the sudden and unexpected arrival of so many police was connected with the hand they had tried to sell. Dwelling as it did on the cusp of legitimacy as well as the edge of town, Swallower’s business was hardly unknown to the authorities. Were they so inclined they could have shut it down anytime they wished. On technicalities if not on straightforward charges. The presence of custom-tailored poisonous snakes and scythe-clawed cats notwithstanding, it would not require multiple police floaters to close him up.

  Had he not been on the lookout for ancillary police apparatus like the searcher drone, Whispr probably would not have seen it coming his way. Gliding silently through the air a few meters above the treetops, only its small subdued red ident lights indicated its presence. Fortunately, he had noticed its approach while he was still just out of range. Its fan-shaped detectors had not yet reached his location. He could not outrun the drone, of course. With his powerful melded legs Jiminy might be able to do so. Whispr’s alters were of a different nature.