The Human Blend

by Alan Dean Foster

  The makeshift surgery’s scanner took the measure of every part of Whispr’s naked body inside as well as out. An analysis was performed. Options were put forward that took into account his height, weight, age, bone and muscle density, visual acuity, hearing, sexual competency, follicular health, status of vital organs, and everything else from a physiological standpoint that might in one way or another either permit or compromise any one of thousands of available melds. As the scanner generated a final tally, melder and customer passed the time discussing aesthetics.

  “If you are trying to disguise yourself I suppose the first thing you want is to add some beef. Or perhaps chicken, or fish?”

  Whispr shuddered as he relived his recent agonizing slog through the swampland south of the city. “No fish. I’m not particular about the protein base, so long as it’s mammalian. I’ll settle for something unobtrusive that doesn’t smell. Even plain whey derivative.”

  Chaukutri nodded. He took no notes nor did he need to. Everything they were saying was being recorded.

  His customer continued. “How about semi-orientalizing my eyes along with a color change? Thin out the hair and make it black instead of blond. Give the muscles a tune-up and while you’re at it, add a couple of extra leg tendons.” Having always been jealous of Jiminy’s leaping ability, as long as he was going under the carver he might as well put a little extra spring in his step. Literally.

  When they had concluded the discussion Chaukutri printed out a hard copy and studied the ramifications. “This is simple stuff, Whispr. Are you sure it is all that you need?”

  His visitor nodded. “I want to look like myself, but just different enough to fool the monitors. More …”

  “… Natural?” the biosurge finished for him.

  Whispr sighed. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “It is your money.” Chaukutri let out a short, contented laugh. “Well, actually I am quite certain it is somebody else’s money, but that does not matter because soon it will be my money.” Leaning forward, he winked. “For a small additional cost I can embed a special pheromone synth that will make you irresistible to the ladies. It comes with a verbal activation system so you only turn it on when you want to—you know. A reputable supplier offered me six of them a few months ago. Knowing a good thing when it is presented to me, I bought them all. And what do you know—I only have one left. It is a meld you cannot fail with.”

  “Thanks but no thanks.” Whispr was firm. “Personally I think all that stuff is overrated. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, ’Cuda—not for any reason and not in any way.”

  Spreading both hands wide the melder shrugged. “As you wish. I suppose therefore I cannot talk you into letting me make you better-looking either?”

  Whispr had to grin. Ever since the advent of cheap melding anyone could look like anyone else. When a thousand men looked exactly like Admiral Nelson and a thousand women like Lady Hamilton such visages ceased to be distinctive. Not to mention the innumerable and fatal faux pas that occurred at social gatherings when two exact equals accidentally confronted one another. Far more intriguing to members of the opposite sex to flaunt an idiosyncratic rather than classic visage.

  This development led to a burst of originality among facial sculptors. For a time it was not unusual to see everything from Frankenstein monsters to frogmen to sharp-tailed succubae wandering the streets of the world’s more cosmopolitan capitals. It was yet another meld fad that soon faded as people quickly learned that paying for a Frankenstein or a succuba meld only gave one the appearance of such beings. As yet, no one had figured out how to meld personality.

  There was nothing worse than paying for a meld that was at obvious odds with who one really was.

  Someone wishing to avoid the attention of the authorities would opt to look as ordinary as possible. And all the melded-on muscle or body-integrated weaponry in the world was not sufficient to allow a criminal to break out of a modern meld-proofed prison. Years on the street had taught Whispr that the best option for avoiding incarceration was not to get caught.

  Not only was Chaukutri good—he was fast.

  Having been maniped before, Whispr required no instruction on how to prep. One advantage to his current meld was that his body could fit in nearly any size surgery. The bustling Chaukutri left his customer to get ready as he prepared himself to operate.

  While a portion of the vehicle was given over to the preparation of Indian fast food, the bulk of the interior housed a completely portable melding theater. Disinfecting as well as illuminating, a pale lavender glow highlighted Whispr as he stripped to his skin. He had no compunction about leaving his clothes and backpack outside the sanitation tube. Chaukutri would be too busy to riffle through them. Even if he chose to do so he was unlikely to find the artfully concealed storage thread that was still the principal object of Whispr’s curiosity. At present the thread’s container lay concealed in a hidden pocket of his shoe. This was the safest place since the forthcoming meld might require him to purchase some new clothing. While the surgery healed, Chaukutri or his wife or a hired runner could fulfill that more mundane need. The additional forthcoming expense caused Whispr no distress.

  An occasional need for a new wardrobe came with the job.

  Nor did Chaukutri’s unconcealed desire to get the work over and done with and get rid of him worry Whispr. After all, it wasn’t as if the melder was actually going to touch him. Whispr knew there had been a time long ago when surgeons actually made personal physical contact with their patients. A time when incredibly delicate corporal manipulations, excisions, and embellishments had in fact been performed by shaky human fingers. The very thought of it made him shudder as he stepped into the cylinder. The transparent curved door slid tightly shut behind him.

  Tilting back his head he allowed a thin tube to slide between his parted lips. It halted partway down his throat. A second tube entered his body via his anal canal and a third through his urethra. In each case there was no pain, no discomfort. Like the anticoagulant in a vampire bat’s saliva, the intruding probes released salving emissions of their own. He felt soothed, not violated.

  In less than five minutes his entire body had been properly sterilized, cleaned, and prepared, without harm to any of the useful bacteria in his gut. Responding to a musical tone that rose above the sanitizing tube’s soft, steady beeping, he stepped out of the prep cylinder through a portal on the other side and entered the equally meticulously hygienic operating chamber. Off to his left Chaukutri waved at him from the other side of the transparent barrier. Lights on the console in front of the biosurge were alive with readiness.

  Giving a nod to indicate that he was doing fine, Whispr turned, lay down on the bare, internally heated, sterilized platform, and closed his eyes against the subdued illumination. It was almost dark within the chamber. A gentle rising hum was accompanied by a tingling sensation as the maglift took hold of the iron in his body and raised him two meters off the platform. By controlling the magnetic field Chaukutri or the instruments in the chamber could rotate the patient’s suspended body into any position.

  The melder’s voice reached Whispr through a speaker. “What kind of sleep would you like, my friend? I can offer you quite a selection.”

  “Something Ceylonese,” the already half-anesthetized patient replied contentedly. “Surprise me.”

  Chaukutri nodded and proceeded to program the remainder of the sedative. As soon as the Ayurvedic anesthetic took hold he set to work programming the chamber.

  Behind the transparent barrier a multitude of extraordinary instrumentation went to work on Whispr’s levitated corpus. They performed their labors independent of any real-time surgical instruction. Having programmed in the melds requested by his customer, Chaukutri had only to sit back, watch, and monitor their progress. Machines did all the actual work. The presence of a human melder was necessary only for backup.

  Synthesized facial bone was grafted and sculpted. Over it, delicate fine-tuning was a
pplied to Whispr’s brows and eyelids. There had been a time in Asia when rounder eyes had been considered a sign of beauty. When anyone could have whatever size, shape, or number of eyes they wished, such peripheral beauty concerns became nonexistent. Permanent ionic depilation thinned Whispr’s hair while minuscule injections turned the remaining follicles permanently black from root to tip.

  Chaukutri paid no heed when Whispr’s entire body began to jump and twitch. It was merely a sign that chemicals and electronic stimulants which would have been the envy of ancient bodybuilders were giving his muscles an instant tune-up without damaging or overworking the fibers. Cutters opened his legs and peeled back skin and flesh. There was no bleeding at all. Each incision was accompanied by the introduction and adhesion of a mesh of hypoallergenic shunts. Instead of being allowed to leak out of his body, every drop of his blood was allowed to continue circulating normally through tubing that perfectly matched and mimicked his own arteries and veins.

  Removing Whispr’s choice from a container of synthetic tendons (he had opted for a set of affordable midrange models grown in Africa), emplacers set them against bone, stretched them to their proper length, and sealed them enduringly in place alongside the patient’s already somewhat worn natural integuments. Informed by sensors that both of the customer’s knees were exhibiting the first signs of bursitis but were otherwise in good condition, Chaukutri had made the decision on his own to have them cleaned and upgraded. He felt that while Whispr would not accede to the cost of full replacement, he would grudgingly pay for a necessary refurbishment.

  As soon as the legwork had been completed and closed up and after a routine check of the patient’s vitals, the machines moved on to the last of the programmed melds.

  While Whispr’s body cavity was cracked, flexible transparent sheeting was installed to protect his exposed organs. As he floated in the hover field everything from his serpentine intestines to his dark liver and beating heart were exposed. Bone was added to the existing skeleton to support the additional tissue to come. Adding just the right blend of muscle and fat, a pair of protein chuggers layered bulk onto the body. New cells immediately began to draw nourishment alongside the old. Obligatory additional nerves were inserted simultaneously with the extra flesh, giving the result the look of dark red silk shot through with strands of tarnished silver.

  Supplementary synthskin filled in the gaps and bound together the separated halves of Whispr’s split epidermis. After taking a shade and tone reading a final cosmetic touch was supplied by a sprayer that permanently matched the color of the new skin to the old.

  Half an hour later Whispr was sitting up and strong enough to argue over the bill. Like the majority of basic, straightforward melds, the manipulations he had just undergone did not require hospitalization. They did, however, itch. From experience he knew not to scratch at the skin seams. Cupping a handful of Ms. Chaukutri’s freshly baked garlic naan he scooped at the beans and lamb the biosurge had laid out for him in the vehicle’s compact commercial kitchen. As it was now late, the serving area was closed. No one could see in through the one-way window.

  Chaukutri joined him in dining. Not to scrutinize his progress but because the effort of monitoring the melding had left him as hungry as his patient.

  “Since you ask for my advice …,” he began.

  Whispr spoke between mouthfuls. “I haven’t.”

  “Since you ask for my advice,” Chaukutri repeated more forcefully, “I am telling you now. As a friend who would not sell you out to the authorities for anything less than a couple hundred thousand—get out of town. Leave Savannah. In fact, leave Namerica. Go as far away as you can manage.” His tone turned wistful. “Try Mumbai, it’s not a lie. Or Dar-es. Djakarta, Guangzhou, Sagramanda—anyplace big where you can lose yourself.”

  His patient replied sorrowfully. “I don’t know any of those places, ’Cuda. I’m not a man of the world like you. I was born here. This part of Namerica is my home. If I were to do as you say, then I really would lose myself.”

  The melder sighed and sipped at his yogurt. “I am telling you, the word is out for you. Strong word.”

  Whispr set his empty plate aside and smiled. Chaukutri did good work and the expression did not hurt his customer’s maniped face. “Thanks to your efforts they’ll have a tough time trying to ident me now.”

  Chaukutri looked away and shrugged, but Whispr could see that he was pleased. “A little nip here, a tuck there, some new add-ons. Basic bone ladling, most of it. You should have gone more radical, Whispr. I could have put fifty kilos on you from top to bottom. That would have done it. Made you simultaneously bigger and more invisible.”

  His guest’s smile widened. “If you had done that then I would have had to change my Meld name, too. No, ’Cuda. I needed a different look, but I still need to feel like me.”

  Picking up the dishes Chaukutri rose from the folding chair on which he had been sitting. “That feeling will get you much sympathy with the police when they pick you up. I have done what I can. The last I can do is wish you good luck.”

  Whispr also rose. “Thanks, ’Cuda. You’re a real friend.”

  “Don’t turn those mournful eyes on me—especially since I just worked on them. You are a repeat customer, that is all. I am nice to you and concerned about your fate only because it is good business.” He nodded in the direction of his guest’s plate. “Would you like me to wrap up some food for you to take with you?”

  Whispr shook his head. “Thanks, no. One of the benefits of my fullself meld is that I don’t need much food. I can’t outrun a lot of my, uh, colleagues—but over a long slog I can outlast them. Speaking of which, you happen to have heard anything about my associate Jiminy? I need to have words with him.”

  “I have heard nothing about the gentleman you name.” Chaukutri’s shoulders rose and fell. “I am sure once you are back in circulation you will soon enough find out all you need to know.”

  Whispr did, but not in the way he imagined.

  MARULA’S REPAIR SHOP WAS BURSTING with parts and components for scoots, trucks, and a vast variety of personal transports. It was where people brought vehicles to be repaired that had gone out of warranty. It was where they brought vehicles to be extensively customized. It was also where the occasional stolen machine could be sold, bought, or traded in for one Marula had made legal.

  The proprietor flashed quite a few extensive modifications himself. So many that first-time visitors committed the occasional oversight of mistaking the shop’s owner for one of his machines. Not only was N’da Marula not offended by such errors of identification; he was flattered by them. They only confirmed the effectiveness of the manips he had chosen to undergo.

  Dark-skinned as the rest of him, his right hand was perfectly normal except for the variant sensor pads that had replaced his fingertips. The other hand was oversized, double-boned, and terminated in a clamp that had been created by fusing the bones of his fingers together and adding a second fused hand facing opposite. Mated to his enhanced bone structure it enabled him to lift and examine an entire scoot without mechanical aid. Outwardly he looked like a cross between a robot and a troll, but the shop owner didn’t mind such comparisons. In the realm of extreme melds his were far from the most outrageous. For one thing, he still looked human.

  His right eye had been replaced with an analytical probe whose multiple lenses were capable of extending several centimeters from the socket. Ears and nostrils were original, there being no reason to meld them. The kind of repair work his shop specialized in relied little on hearing or smell.

  Seated opposite the square-shaped Marula, Whispr was virtually invisible to anyone who might chance to look into the workplace. The shop owner weighed four, maybe five times as much as his guest. A number of other melded employees toiled in the vicinity with sealers and cutters, handheld analyzers, and other gear on an assortment of vehicles ranging from single-person scoots to an elaborate limo that when finished would be the perfect likeness
of an oversized horse-drawn carriage, complete with robotic horses.

  “I’m taking a chance just talking to you.” The lenses of Marula’s melded eye kept extending and retracting nervously. “Hellslip, I’m taking a chance just letting you into my place.”

  Whispr shifted a little to his right in order to place himself more fully in the stream of cold air blowing silently from one of the air-conditioning vents. It was midafternoon and Savannah-hot and sticky, even inside the shop.

  “If bluebreath is that huggy on us then I bet that prick Jiminy has gone to ground, too.”

  The brows over the shop owner’s natural and melded eyes rose in concert. “Jiminy C? That’s a name you don’t have to concern yourself with. The Cricket has been squashed. He’s dead and boned, his file filleted.”

  Whispr’s jaw dropped as he registered shock. “What? How?”

  “Word on the flyway is ‘resisting arrest.’ ” The shop owner’s sardonic grunt rose like a whale belch from the depths of his huge frame. “That’s always the explana when someone picked up for questioning dies in police custody, ain’t it?”

  A disbelieving Whispr nodded slowly. “ ‘Resisting arrest’ is a nonstarter. That’s not Jiminy’s modus. Even if he had a reason to fight being taken into custody he wouldn’t do it. He’s not that brave. He’s not that stupid.”

  “He’s also apparently not that alive.” Marula sipped from a self-chilling tankard of liquid high-potency calcium. Essential to keeping his massively melded skeleton healthy and functional, a thermos of the fruit-flavored supplement was always close at hand.

  Concluding repairs on the left side of an electric two-seater, a sealer hissed loudly on their right. Whispr waited for it to shut down before continuing.

  “This makes no sense, N’da. Why would the police kill Jiminy? He wasn’t important.”

  In the absence of knowledge the shop owner was perfectly willing to speculate. “Maybe he didn’t tell them what they wanted to know. Maybe they didn’t want him telling someone else something he did know.” One artificial and one natural lens focused on Whispr. “Do you know anything?”