The Sum of Her Parts (29 page)

As Molé turned back to the prisoners and the security chief headed for the door, the fat woman lurched lightly forward. For the first time, her voice rose to the level of audibility. The words that emerged were formal and oddly stilted. Try as he might, Whispr couldn’t place the accent, nor could Ingrid.

“We will assume control of the interrogation at this point,” the woman announced.

Her companion had lumbered up beside her. At closer range Ingrid saw that despite their weight neither of them appeared to be breathing with much effort. She was surprised that there was no indication of respiratory stress. Dwarfed by the massive pair, Molé nonetheless protested vigorously.

“Pardon me? I have spent many frustrating weeks chasing this pair of thieves across two continents, at considerable risk to my constitution and, in one instance, to my physical person. Oftentimes I was sustained principally by the expectation that I would eventually be able to conclude the matter personally.”

The obese man trained enormous dark eyes on Molé. Far too large to be natural, they must have required an extensive optic meld, Ingrid knew. Something about the sheen on the corneas left her puzzled.

“Your individual concerns and preoccupations are of no interest to us, Mr. Molé. You were engaged because you are a professional and were given a job to do. You did not fail, but you did not exactly succeed, either. The individuals in question and the stolen item presented themselves here, for capture and recovery not by you but by the forces of Chief of Security Kruger. Nevertheless, it is taken into consideration that you carried out all that was asked of you, and you will therefore be recompensed accordingly. But this interrogation is now concluded. We will conduct the follow-up.”

While Ingrid accepted that the fat man’s final pronouncement was less than reassuring, she was enormously relieved that further questioning would not be carried out by Napun Molé.

Like a dog forced to watch as its favorite bone was taken away by its master, the elderly executioner persisted.

“If it’s answers you wish from them, no one is more skilled at information extraction than myself. I have the experience and the desire. I plead with you; leave them to my care.”

“I fear,” declared the vast woman from the depths of her bloat, “that the methods I perceive in your heart would involve extracting more than information. The decision is final.”

Molé was left standing and shaking with disappointment. After all he had been through, after all the slights to his skill and experience, now even this small compensation was to be denied him.

“What can you possibly want with these two? They are beneath ordinary. What good can they do you?”

The big man seemed to swell beyond the bounds of his already immense girth. “If she is truly a competent physician then she can possibly be made useful. We always have need of pliant doctors. She is not to be harmed.”

Kruger was buoyant as the door to the interrogation chamber shut behind him. Napun Molé might be the most highly thought of hunter-tracker in the company’s arsenal, but he was also an arrogant old prick. It had been a quiet delight to watch as the two executive untouchables pulled his expected prey right out from under him. Cut him down a notch.
Arshloch
, he thought as he rounded a corner.

No less than the thwarted Molé, Kruger wondered why the untouchables had decided to spare Ingrid Seastrom. Why did they “always have need of pliant doctors”? Well, it was none of his business. He had a break in security to locate and plug and plenty of paperwork to attend to. It was all out of his hands now in any case. The untouchables did not explain or elaborate upon their decisions. They did not have to. From the time the installation at Nerens had been established it was understood that within the facility’s boundaries, the corpulent commanders’ words were law. That suited the security chief just fine. It was much easier to follow orders than to propagate them.

Within the interrogation chamber Molé was pointing toward the back wall. “What about
him
?” Fixed in the assassin’s glare like a moth under a magnifying glass, Whispr tried to shrink back into the whiteness. Ingrid held her breath.

The paired masses of flesh consulted. “We have no interest in him and he is of no use to us,” the man finally burbled. “You may do with him as you wish.”

Molé looked satisfied. If he could not play with the striking doctor,
he could at least amuse himself with her companion. Small consolation but better than none.

“Like hell he can!”

Corpulents and killer alike turned at Ingrid’s shout. Having already surprised herself, she plunged onward lest she think too much about what she was doing.

“Unless Whispr is allowed to stay with me and remain unharmed, I won’t—help you—with whatever it is you have in mind for me.” Looking to her right she mimicked her companion’s voice along with his earlier words. “Don’t hurt him.”

“This is absurd!” Molé protested. “I am entitled to
some
satisfaction!”

The untouchables conferred. As a tense Ingrid and Whispr looked on, the woman spoke to the assassin.

“Your monetary recompense will be doubled. Consider that your satisfaction.”

As far as Molé was concerned, it was a dismissal. The woman turned her attention to the prisoners. Perhaps at the same time she gave a hidden signal, or perhaps her male associate conveyed unseen instructions with chunky fingers. However the command was transmitted, it resulted in the bands that secured the prisoners’ limbs debonding. Both Whispr and Ingrid promptly collapsed to the floor; two piles of skewed limbs and cramped muscles.

“He lives as long as you cooperate.” As he addressed Ingrid, the fat man’s voice was perfectly flat and devoid of emotion. He might as well have been warning a child that she could keep her teddy bear so long as she minded her manners at the dinner table.

His companion was gazing unblinkingly at the elderly but ramrod straight hunter-killer. “Is there a problem remaining, Mr. Molé?”

“No,” the oldster replied curtly. “No, there’s no problem. I will deal with my disappointment.” Collecting himself, he mustered a
smile. “I am, as you say, a consummate professional. The additional funds you have promised will allow me, among other things, to indulge in the diversion you have blocked here.”

“You are comfortable with this?” the woman persisted.

Molé adopted his most avuncular mien. Still smiling, he walked over to where Whispr was now sitting up with his back against the wall trying to rub some feeling back into his legs. At Molé’s approach his fingers ceased their ministrations.

Inclining slightly, even elegantly, forward at the waist, the assassin proffered an accommodating hand.

“I have only been doing my job. In a sense, you have bettered me. In my entire experience this has never happened before. Yet still I extend my hand.”

Whispr’s reply was cold and even. “You tried to kill me. Me and Ingrid. Several times. I watched you kill other people.”

Molé’s acknowledging nod was barely perceptible, as was the mockery in his voice. “How fortunate you have never had to kill other people.” His eyes fastened on Whispr’s. “Have you, riffler?”

Whispr stole a quick glance at Ingrid. Then he reached up and took the assassin’s hand. Aware that the oversize eyes of both obese executives were on his back, Molé pulled firmly until his former quarry stood standing before him, swaying slightly. He eyed the stick-man appraisingly as the latter cradled his slightly bruised fingers.

“I have always felt height overrated. In my profession, anyway, the last thing one wishes to do is stand out.” Turning, he walked over to Ingrid and once again extended a helping hand. Having watched him assist Whispr to his feet without incident, she accepted the reaching fingers.

Yanking on her arm forcefully and with artfully concealed power, he pulled her hard up against him and jammed his aged lips against hers. Those fleshy flaps, at least, remained unmelded.
They tasted of a moral and physical decrepitude no biosurge work could purge. His sallow breath rose from lungs that, no matter how skillfully and repeatedly had been maniped, were still reflective of his age. Before she could pull away he gently but firmly bit her.

She yelped and wrenched free of the noisome embrace. Or rather, he let her go. Had he so desired, he could have held her against him no matter how many kicks or punches she tried to deliver. Ever mindful of the heavy-lensed executive eyes monitoring his every move, he had released her. Stepping away, she put the back of her left hand against her mouth. It came away stained crimson. He smiled one last time.

“All the blood I’m going to get today, it would seem. Goodbye, Dr. Seastrom. Whatever the untouchables decide to do to you, consider yourself fortunate.”

With that he turned, strode wordlessly past the pair of hulking decision-makers, and disappeared through the doorway.

Behind him he left a slowly strengthening Whispr and Ingrid facing their podgy, soft-voiced saviors. If savior was indeed the right word. At least whatever happened now they were free of and safe from the perverse and deadly attentions of Napun Molé. Even if they ended up dead it would count as a victory of sorts.

She tried to read the man and his female colleague and failed. Their expressions never varied and it was impossible to tell what their heavily maniped eyes concealed. Judging from their words, not empathy. They had preserved her and Whispr from the attentions of Molé out of a self-interest that had something to do with her being a doctor.

“Please come with us,” the woman requested. No explanation, no elaboration. Under the circumstances Ingrid decided that a thank-you for saving them from Molé would have been superfluous. Not that it would necessarily pass unrecognized. She just suspected it would be ignored.

They were not bound prior to exiting the interrogation room. There was no need. They could not possibly escape the complex without being recaptured. Ingrid almost smiled to herself. It had proven easier to break in than it would be to break out. So confident were the overweight escorts of their prisoners’ security that they led the way down passages and hallways without once looking back to see if Ingrid and Whispr were still following.

Maintaining an unexpectedly fast pace for such a hefty couple, they forced their prisoners to break into the occasional jog to keep up. Along the way they passed dozens of other employees, Meld and Natural alike. A few glanced in the direction of the two oversized striders and their trailing captives, but no one said anything.

“What do you think they want with us?” Whispr spoke as they all but ran down one corridor after another, making remarkable time through the complex.

“I don’t know, I don’t know. Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than what Molé had in mind for us.”

Her companion had reverted to his usual optimistic self. “Sure, you say that
now
, but when we get to wherever it is that we’re going …”

“Have you noticed, Whispr? I think we’ve been heading north.”

“You think maybe they’re taking us to Research?” He considered. “That could be a good thing or a bad thing. Good if they’re going to explain what their research here is all about.” His voice fell. “Bad if they’re intent on making us part of it.” He hesitated, swallowed. “I really appreciate what you did for me back there, doc. Ingrid.”

She meet his gaze evenly. “Earlier you did the same thing for me, Whispr. Archie.”

“No.” He shook his head firmly. “I screamed on your behalf out of desperation. You had a choice. You put yourself on the line for me.”

She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “You’re the only piece of useful equipment I paid for that I’ve got left.”

“Huh,”
he grunted. “You’d better check again. I think the warranty’s expired.”

The entrance to Research before which they finally slowed and stopped was different from the one they had tried to bluff their way through previously. But there was a similar desk set off to one side, and the chair behind it was occupied by a guard clad in a uniform identical to the one worn by the all-too-alert young employee who had called them out. What happened next was instructive.

The guard looked up, then immediately and without comment returned his attention to whatever he had been perusing on his box monitor. He did not ask questions of Ingrid and Whispr’s escorts nor did he seek any form of identification. Recalling previously observed security procedures Ingrid expected one of the massive interrogators to run a retina check, or flash a glowp tag. Their escorts did nothing. Despite this, the massive doorway swung silently inward to admit them. Without being bidden, the two mystified Namericans followed.

Two more security barriers had to be passed. Following the third they found themselves in a series of brightly lit corridors and rooms whose functions Ingrid could not divine despite passing rank after rank of glistening equipment. Men and women, Naturals and Melds, and most notably several more of the exceedingly large people labored intently and often silently at tasks whose purpose remained a mystery to her.

As far as Whispr was concerned he might just as well have stepped through the looking glass into Wonderland. Not a bit of the suddenly bewildering surroundings registered on his experience. The most apropos adjective he could think of to describe what he was seeing was “expensive.”

Directed into a small room they were instructed to sit. The
walls, ceiling, and floor were a pure, flawless white, as was the single simple table and several chairs that constituted the only furniture. Their new surroundings made the recently vacated interrogation chamber seem dirty. Ingrid felt as if they had been injected into a square eggshell.

Their escorts did not sit. Waddling to the far side of the room the female began dragging sausagelike fingers over the slick plasticky surface of one wall with all the adroitness of a concert pianist essaying a sonata by Schubert. Wherever her blunt fingertips lightly made contact with the wall, strange glowing shapes appeared in their wake. Swathes of pastel color took on depth and shadow as the nebulous rainbows she conjured became solid. Ingrid thought of languid Greek letters entwining in linguistically incestuous relationships. As to whether the writhing, morphing shapes represented language, advanced mathematics, or something else, she could not have said.