The Human Blend (10 page)

Whispr looked down at the excitable little man. As a marginally
competent if unlicensed melder Chaukutri could have had himself melded to stand taller. He did not do so because in a surgeon slightness of stature, especially in the hands and fingers, was a positive benefit. That did not mean he had shunned productive manip entirely. Greatly enhancing the melder’s already exceptional natural dexterity, each of his fingers possessed an extra pair of joints as well as terminating in a specialized and artfully concealed surgical tool.

As a comparatively unremarkable bit of melding they did not even draw Whispr’s attention. The fact that Chaukutri had fourteen fingers instead of sixteen, or eighteen, or twenty slimmer, smaller digits spoke to a desire not to stray unnecessarily far from the natural. Those who did notice the enhancements and commented on them were told that the extra equipment was intended to assist their owner in his work as a chef. This was accepted because the instruments employed by a surgeon and a cook were not all that different.

Swinging his backpack around in front of him Whispr dug into its depths and fumbled with the contents. The card he flashed at his fretful host glistened as its unique, embedded, irreproducible identification matrix caught the vehicle’s interior light.

As Whispr expected, Chaukutri’s anxiety gave way to a rapidly escalating surge of greed. “That’s a Hain Ltd. card. Stolen?”

“No.” As always, Whispr’s sarcasm was gently put. “I acquired it with my hedge fund profits. What do you care about—its load, or its origin?”

Reaching out, the melder took the card and examined it closely, turning it over and over between his fingers as he did so. “Can I—scan it?”

His visitor had to laugh. “If you don’t, then you’re not the ’Cuda Chaukutri I know. You’re an imitation, and a bad one at that.”

“Wait here.”

Whispr watched as his reenergized host headed toward the front of the vehicle. He was uneasy letting Chaukutri and the card out of his sight, but the meld-maker had a reputation of sorts to maintain. He was an artist, not a thief.

On the other hand, it was evident from the semihysterical manner of his greeting that he knew his visitor was wanted seriously by the authorities and that there was probably a substantial reward attached to the slender fugitive.

Whispr tried not to let the extent of his relief show when a smiling
Chaukutri returned and handed the card back to his guest. “I suppose in the end money always triumphs caution.”

“If it didn’t,” Whispr replied, “you wouldn’t still be standing here and I wouldn’t be talking to you. Both of us would be solid, upstanding citizens.”

When the mutual laughter this image invoked finally subsided, the biosurge wiped at his eyes. “All right, all right. You know, my wife keeps saying we should forgo all this and move back to Nagpur.”

“Why don’t you?” Whispr’s query was not in the least inhibited by the fact that he had no idea where Nagpur was.

“Because I’d have to live in Nagpur. With my wife.” Chaukutri looked at his watch. “This is all very jolly, but my feeling is that we are both of us in a hurry. What is it you want done?”

“What are my options today?”

Chaukutri turned and beckoned. “Come. Let us go shopping.”

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 applied 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.