Sagramanda, a Novel of Near-Future India

*7*

Chal was a patient man, but the lack of leads was beginning to irritate him. Never particularly fond of Indian food, he was also growing tired of eating at the numerous Western fast-food franchises that had extended their french-fried tentacles throughout the city. He could afford better, but preferred to avoid the fancier restaurants. For one thing, such destinations were among the few where despite his assiduous lifelong efforts to main tain his anonymity, he might be recognized. For another, he took an almost perverse delight in subjecting his body to the corruption fast food could engender. Lastly, the very act of eating wasted time. The dour tracker regarded eating as akin to putting fuel in a car: a necessity to ensure forward motion best completed in the least possible amount of time.

Yet it seemed as if the time thus saved was being wasted. None of his contacts had brought him anything useful. That was the conun drum he was mulling over in his mind as he walked down Park Street.

It was natural that he would take his time; not only because he enjoyed walking, but because he was on his way to report his lack of progress to Mr. Nayari. It was from Mr. Nayari's company that the much-sought-after researcher had taken his abrupt leave, and it was from a sizable if surreptitious account that Mr. Nayari was personally paying Chal for his services. Given the size of the daily retainer Chal was charging the company, it was not unreasonable for the vice president to expect results. While Chal could not yet supply these, he felt it incumbent on him to provide an explanation for his lack of progress thus far. "Sagramanda is a big city," he knew, would not be accepted as a sufficient excuse.

He was passing the old cemetery, with its stone monuments and thick vegetation, when the weapon was pointed at him. Its appearance was accompanied by a whisper.

"Step in here, please, sir, or I will have to shoot you where you stand."

From off to one side, another young man materialized out of the bushes to come up behind Schneemann. Eyeing the speaker and his weapon, Chal nodded tersely, wiped several fingers over the left breast pocket of his one-piece beige jumpsuit, raised his hands, and stepped off the sidewalk and into the underbrush. Once out of public view, he found himself confronted by three young men.

Defying the heat of midday, they wore long white leather pants electrostatically charged to repel dirt. Two flaunted matching white cotton tank tops while their companion, the one holding the weapon, wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the dancing image of a popular singer. All were shorter and considerably darker of skin than the larger, mixed-race Chal. One had the sloe-eyed features of a Nepali. If pressed by the police, they would smilingly insist that the stripes that streaked their pants legs were only decoration. Among Sagramanda's gang culture, such stripes stood for the number of people the owner of each pair of pants had beaten up or robbed. Red stripes for male victims, green for women. One of the trio displayed an inordinate number of green stripes, of which he was no doubt proud.

Chal's attention remained concentrated on the single visible weapon. It was a wire shocker. He had to smile at the irony of it. Whatever hath that multitalented dead American Thomas Edison wrought? he mused to himself not for the first time. It was doubtful the famous inventor had ever envisioned anything as compactly diabol ical as the wire shocker.

"Wallet," the young man nearest him demanded curtly. "Do not try to hide anything from us or it will go harsh with you."

Expertly feigning fear, Chal nodded again. "The decoy is in my breast pocket; the real, secured one is up inside my right pants' leg."

Seeing that their victim was going to cooperate, the youth holding the wire shocker relaxed slightly. His cronies advanced hastily, one kneeling to remove the outed security wallet from their impassive prey's pants' leg, the other reaching for Chal's top pocket. Being naturally anxious to conclude their mugging as quickly as possible, they worked fast and in tandem. Both made contact with their target at the same time. There was the sharp, crackling sound of a powerful electrical discharge. The two stunned gang members found themselves shocked backward, down, and out.

By lightly pressing his fingers in a particular pattern over his left breast pocket, Chal had activated the sealed superconductive wiring woven into the fabric of his jumpsuit. Fully powered up, the thin, flexible, lightweight batteries sewn into the back of his jumpsuit not only provided protection to his spine, they were also capable of delivering a charge of several hundred volts to anyone who touched him once the system had been activated. Their wearer was not affected because he was fully grounded through the soles of his special shoes, to which the jump suit's integrated defensive mechanism was linked.

Its effect was instructive. The youth who had reached for Chal's other top pocket was blown into a clump of bushes. Receiving a slightly bigger jolt, the kneeling Nepali now lay on his back. Several fingers on his clutching right hand were burned black. Smoke issued from the tips.

Motivated by a mixture of fear and fury, the third youth instinctively fired his weapon. Connected to its gun by a superthin conducting wire, the penetrating dart struck its target square in the stomach. Glancing down at where it had pierced his jumpsuit to embed itself in the Nanocarb-Kevlar undersuit he always wore, Chal eyed the dart with interest as its potentially lethal charge was dissipated by the combination of outer jumpsuit and inner defensive material. Had the dart packed an explosive instead of an electrical head, his unpretentious looking but very expensive clothing would have success fully dissipated its deadly effects as well.

Having shot his electronic wad, the wide-eyed surviving youth dropped his now-useless discharged weapon, turned, and ran. Chal could have shot him several times before he fled out of range, but there was no need. He had delivered a lesson that might or might not be absorbed. Whether it was or not was of no consequence to him. Sagramanda was home to thousands of such youths. Statistics showed that there were already enough who would not make it to adulthood. He saw no reason to add to the total.

Testing the wire that connected the dart in his belly to the gun lying on the ground, he made sure that it had spent its charge before yanking it out of his body armor. Without bothering to look down, he stepped over the supine body of the half-paralyzed Nepali. Gazing in unblinking shock at his burned fingers, the youth was already beginning to twitch spasmodically. In less than an hour he and his companion of the bushes would be back on their feet. Unsteady, in pain, but alive. Their delayed recovery would give them time to contemplate the ironic nature of their surroundings.

Emerging from the cemetery brush, an unperturbed Chal resumed his interrupted stroll up Park Street. From the time he had disappeared within until the time he had reemerged, his expression had not changed. None of the other pedestrians looked at him; no one glanced in his direc tion. What people did in the bushes was their own business.

Though clad in bronze-hued glass from New New Delhi and green marble from Rajasthan, the tower that housed the Sagramanda administrative offices of the company that had engaged his services had been designed to look like an ancient Chandela temple. Multiple smaller spires surrounded and supported the sixty-story main structure. Instead of the sculptures of sensuous apsaras, or celestial maidens, who decorated the real temples in places like distant Khajuraho, the office tower and its subsidiary spires boasted glowing virtuals that promoted the giant multinational's many divisions and diverse products. While the virtuals did not stray far from their projection units they gave the structure, especially at night, the appearance of being under assault by angels.

Heavenly commerce, Chal thought as he entered the first of several double-doored layers of building security. How Indian.

With his suit deactivated, he set off no immediate alarms. The ultrathin, concealed superconducting wires that were part of the weave were of course picked up by detectors, as were the twin flexible battery packs that were woven into the back of his jumpsuit. When a swift, professional analytic scan by building security revealed that they were connected to nothing explosive and that the batteries had fully discharged, he was allowed to proceed. The woman who accepted his weapons for safekeeping while he was on business within the building kept looking from the sophisticated devices, several of which were beyond her experience, to their owner. Clearly, she wanted to ask about them, and about him. He left her unsatisfied, with only a polite smile.

He did not feel naked or unarmed as he walked toward one of two express lifts. Not every lethal weapon had been checked with building security. For example, he still had his arms and legs.

The live receptionist on the fifty-ninth floor greeted her sinewy visitor with a pleasant "Soobden"-good day. Jaded as he was, Chal tended to look at people once, size them up, and file the information. On this occasion he was moved to look twice. Not because the woman was exceptionally beautiful in her early maturity, which she was. Not because the full-length sari she was wearing rippled of its own accord, programmed as it was with its own integrated flex-breeze, to alternately stand away from and cling to her supple body. No, he looked a second time because one glance was not enough to enable him to identify the long, slender gun she wore strapped to her long, slender left leg underneath the distractingly motile sari.

Though he could have put the question to her as a matter of mutual professional interest, it would have been impolitic to pry. Nothing in her demeanor suggested the presence of such an impressive weapon in such an intimate location. Doubtless if he acted in a threatening manner the device would present itself for closer inspection- probably by being thrust swiftly and efficiently in his direction.

Giving no indication that he was aware of its existence, he announced himself. Outward demureness ably masking her concealed aptitudes, she allowed as how he was expected, and that

he should go in. Softly voicing a command (in perfect Etonian English, he noted), she caused a pair of security-camouflaged doors to appear in the wall behind her desk. A thousand years ago one would have assumed a Chaldean witch had performed sorcery. Today it was simply a matter of rear ranging batches of preprogrammed photons. Flashing her a faint and oddly knowing smile, Chal eased around the reception desk and all of her concealed weapons. The doors opened as soon as he drew near enough.

Gautaum Nayari was standing by a wall staring down at Sagramanda. The wall was the window: completely transparent armor glass from floor to ceiling. When he did not immediately turn to greet his visitor, Chal contained his irritation and walked over to stand beside the executive.

"What do you see?" Nayari gestured with the home-rolled incense stick he was smoking.

Chal disliked games. In his profession, it was directness that was prized. But this was the man whose company was paying for his time. If Nayari could not buy his interest, he could at least rent his attention.

"City. People. Smog. Buildings, vehicles." Unsmiling, he turned to his right to regard his host. "Am I missing something?"

"Customers."

Nayari walked away from him, toward the small shrine built into the back of the office. Designed like a stupa lying on its side, it had the general shape of a fallen helmet, with the shrine to Ganesh at its apex. Figures of Ganesh, who promised prosperity and happiness, were everywhere in India, and Chal had seen thousands of them. This one was bronze and wore a patina of considerable age, its dull golden hue burnished with sooty black, its costume inlaid with jewels. The statue was an antique, and the rose-cut stones were not imitations.

The executive took his seat. Or rather, it took him, rolling up to meet his approach and gently nudging the backs of his knees. Wafting upward from the incense stick, hints of sandalwood and nutmeg tickled Chal's nostrils.

"People today need four things," Nayari declaimed importantly. "Food, shelter, entertainment, and energy. The company doesn't get involved with the first two. For one thing, the profit margins are insufficient. We are very big on the last two."

"I know," Chal responded. "I've read the annual report."

Nayari's eyebrows rose slightly. They were like the man; very thick and forward. Ruffs of white hair like mislaid cat fur framed a skull that was otherwise bald from front to back, as if someone had pushed a shovel down the middle of a snowbank, leaving high drifts on both sides. The executive was quite dark-skinned, though this was not necessarily reflective of caste. His eyes were those of someone twenty years younger, as was the mind behind them. The latter had to be, for him to occupy and maintain an important position in a company of such size and reach.

"Most of the men like yourself that I have met are not big readers."

Chal shrugged slightly. " 'To stop learning is to start to die.' Erasmus, I believe. It's the same in any profession." A hint of a smile tweaked the corners of his mouth. "Before agreeing to any job, I like to know that my employer can afford my services."

The executive let out a guffaw of approval. Or maybe it was just a surprised grunt. "Given someone with your reputation for efficiency, I had expected to see results by now."

"This isn't some backward mud-and-dung village in southern Tamil Nadu." Chal's tone was curt, but not disrespectful. He could have severed this puffed-up, self-important windbag's throat before the man's finger could hit the alarm button that was no doubt built into his desk. Such actions were generally good for the soul but bad for the pocketbook. Schneemann never gave in to impulse. He continued conscientiously.

"I have sources who are devoting all their efforts to locating your missing individual. I have contacts who will inform me the instant anyone in officialdom receives information as to his whereabouts. Meanwhile, I am not waiting on them but am also pursuing specific information on my own." Afraid that his eyes might betray his feel ings, he kept his gaze focused on the statue of Ganesh reposing in its shrine well back of the desk. The right hand of the elephant-headed god remained aloft, palm benevolently facing him.

Suddenly Nayari seemed to slump, some of the sturdy officiousness oozing out of him like accumulated gas. "I don't mean to belabor the same points, or to in any way belittle your efforts, Mr. Schneemann, but I am under a great deal of pressure to get this issue resolved." With a sweep of his hand he indicated his spare but elegant office. "It may appear to you that I am a powerful man. And I do exercise a certain amount of power, especially within this country. But there are those above me who are even more concerned, more impatient, to see this awkward matter swiftly brought to a conclusion."

Some sort of empathetic response seemed in order. "I'm doing the best I can, Mr. Nayari."

"I know, I know." Despite the perfectly controlled temperature and the genetically engineered antiperspirant he wore, the executive was starting to sweat. "Despite what the company is paying you for your current assignment, Mr. Schneemann, I am not certain you entirely understand what is at stake here."

Chal hardly ever lost his cool. "It might help if I had some idea what is at stake, besides 'information.' For a start, you might at least tell me which half of company interests this does involve: entertain ment, or energy?"

Nayari looked up at him. He was not uncomfortable sitting at a lower level than his visitor. Someone occupying a less-powerful position might have been, would have stood or sought a dais on which to stand. Nayari was only frightened of real threats, not implied ones. "I wish I could give you more details. Believe me, I wish I could. But I can answer your question. It involves energy."

Chal nodded, noting the streak of slight discoloration in the thick carpet that semicircled around the executive's desk. No wonder Nayari wasn't afraid. The discoloration almost completely masked the presence of the charged conductor woven into the carpet. It was impossible to tell whether it was presently activated or not without crossing the line. It was a test he had no intention of taking.

"Considering what you are paying me, and how everyone inside the company I have come in contact with reacts when I mention what I am doing, I didn't think it had to do with some vit star's infidelities or a stolen story script for the next big soap opera. I know that billions are at stake." He spoke the word calmly, as if discussing last week's rent.

"Billions." Nayari nodded in agreement. "Careers. Entire companies. Not just subsidiaries. Whole companies. A significant portion of humanity's future."

"Then why put just me in charge?" There was no sarcasm under lying Chal's question. It was an honest inquiry.

The display of personal concern that had started to overcome the executive vanished. He was once more the cool, implacable, completely collected administrator. "Because within your idiosyncratic job description you were clearly the most trustworthy person in the company. Given what is at risk, that was deemed more important than any other considering factor. Also, it was decided that because you live outside India, you could bring an outsider's perspective to a sensitive situation."

Translation: he could act with impunity and if caught, the com pany could more easily disown one of his singular ilk than, say, half a dozen. He was not offended by the explanation. It was no less than what he expected.

"And," Nayari continued, not yet finished, "you have a reputation for discretion. The last thing the company wants is to attract attention to what everyone hopes will remain an internal matter."

Translation number two: if whatever the missing researcher Taneer Buthlahee had made off with got out onto the open market, heads would roll: perhaps literally. And one of them surely sat on the shoulders of the erstwhile powerbroker seated before him.

"I promise you, Mr. Nayari," he replied calmly, "that I understand the need to resolve this matter as quickly as possible. Rest assured I will do so."

Preoccupied now, the executive nodded absently. Chal had to prompt him. "Was there anything else, Mr. Nayari?"

"What? No, no. I don't want to hold you up any longer. I just wanted to"-he sighed-"reemphasize the importance of haste. If you come across anything to report, anything at all…" His voice was level, but his posture was pleading. Chal almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"The instant I know anything, I promise that you'll know it too, Mr. Nayari."

"Good. Excellent. If you need more resources…"

Translation the last: find the son of a bitch and I'll personally see to it that you receive an ample bonus on top of the already promised remuneration.

"I have access to as much as I can appropriately supervise," Chal replied. "Wouldn't do to spread the word too far afield. As you say, that's exactly what the company doesn't want to happen."

"True, true," Nayari murmured. "Well then, I hope to hear from you soon."

"And I hope to speak to you soon. With news."

Exiting the impressive but aloof office, recovering his assortment of armament from the efficient and otherwise unresponsive receptionist, striding down the corridor toward the private, guarded lift,

Chal was silently fuming. What did they expect him to do? Put a hundred million people in a giant chickpea sorter and sift out the one named Taneer Buthlahee? The man he was hunting might not be experienced at hiding, but an accomplished research technician and scientist was no fool. He was not going to walk around in plain sight, nor do anything to advertise his location. What part of that did Nayari and his breed not understand?

He entered the lift shaking his head. The guard/operator took one look at him and had sense enough to hold his tongue, since his solitary passenger wore the expression of someone capable of cutting it out at a moment's notice just because a comment or question had irritated him.

Together, the two men rode down in silence; both armed, both working for the same employer, but in matters of competency and experience as far apart as Delhi was from Dublin.

It was really quite interesting to observe the animals, Anil Buthlahee mused as he strolled through the zoo. There were no bars, no cages in the ancient sense. Movement of the exhibits was restricted by less medieval means such as moats, precisely sloped ground, and in the case of particularly agile specimens, varying levels of restrictive electronics such as beamed microwaves. The result was that visitors could get quite close to dangerous creatures like cobras and lions without fear of being killed.

People were much more dangerous, Anil knew. Take the device resting inside his shirt pocket. Anil was no marksman. When he had gone looking for a tool with which to commit the necessary deed, he had deliberately sought out one that need not be especially accurate to carry out its task.

The Dalit bitch, now-he would prefer that she die slowly, for having forever corrupted his son and permanently sullied the family honor. But in lieu of carrying around multiple weapons, he would have to be satisfied with her ordinary death.

Animals had castes of their own, as was only proper. Was that not the true way of things? Did not the gorillas lord it over the chimpanzees, and the chimpanzees over the lesser simians? Were not lions and tigers superior to the leopard, and the leopard to the ocelot and margay? Even among the insects there was a natural hierarchy that all parties respected. Therefore it was nothing unusual to find a similar arrangement among humans, or at least those who were part of a successful civilization that stretched thousands of years into antiquity. Brahmins did not marry Kshatriyas, Shudras did not marry Brahmins. And VyMohans, of which the Buthlahee clan was a noble and respected part, most assuredly did not marry Dalits.

He wiped his hands down the front of his lightweight cotton shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles. It was brown, proudly reflecting his caste. A traditionalist to the core of his being, Anil was not shy about revealing the truth about himself to any who might care to look. Why try to pretend he was Brahmin, or something else he was not? He was a merchant, albeit a very successful one. Adhering to his true nature had been at the core of his success. If only his eldest son had been con tent with that.

But no-he had to go and fall in love.

As if love had anything to do with a successful marriage. Likability, yes. But love? At the age of fifteen, Anil had been betrothed to a girl of twelve from across town. Their families had known one another off and on for years. Now, more than thirty years later, he was still happily married to the same woman. There were no problems of religion, no problems of caste. They had been, and still were, hard working, mutually supportive, and content. Which was one reason why his heartbroken wife did not try to keep her husband from doing what had to be done. That did not mean she was happy about it.

Neither was he happy about it. But he intended to do it, nonetheless. At least the wretchedness and despair of having to kill his eldest son would be mitigated somewhat by the joy he would take in executing the female creature responsible for their collective disgrace.

He was standing and watching the barasingha feed. Only their antlers showed above water as they browsed on plants growing out of the mud, their heads otherwise completely submerged. No wonder they were commonly called swamp deer. As he studied their sleek, elegant forms, unique to one small part of his country, the Rat sidled up alongside him.

It was a name the little man had taken for his own. What his previous name was, or his caste, or religion, Anil did not know. But the Rat had performed certain services for a fellow businessman, and was a friend to many in the city. There was nothing demeaning about the name he had chosen, Anil knew. Rats were to be admired. They were tough, clever, and if you fed them, quite friendly. Also quite tasty, if properly prepared. The Rat spoke often about his visit to the temple of Durga in far distant Deshnok, on the other side of India, where temple priests fed milk to thousands upon thousands of rats. As a visitor, one was expected to remove one's shoes and go barefoot among them, which the Rat had done frequently and in perfect safety. Rats had swarmed all over his naked feet, and he had never been so much as nipped. On one especially fortuitous afternoon, he had even espied a white rat, a sign of special good fortune.

"I have news," the Rat murmured as he pretended to watch the barasingha.

"Of my son and his whore?" Despite its small size, the weight of the gun was heavy against his chest.

Squinting into the sun, the Rat glanced over and up at him. "Indi rectly, one might say. It seems that others are also interested in finding your offspring."

Anil frowned. "Others?"

"The company he worked for is most interested in learning his present whereabouts. For what reason I do not know and therefore cannot say. But much effort is being expended toward that end. Much effort, and much money."

"I am but a businessman of modest means and cannot pay you more than I have already promised," Anil informed him flatly.

His gaunt face looking even more pinched than usual, the Rat was offended. "Have I asked for more? I tell you this only by way of pro viding information."

Anil was soothed. "So his company is looking for him, too. I'm not surprised." His expression darkened. "I don't care who's looking for him, they'd better not get in my way. I'll kill anybody who tries to kill my son. That is my obligation."

Bending, the Rat picked up a loose piece of gravel, checked to make sure no monitors or rangers were watching, and flung it into the artificial pool on the other side of the barrier. Startled by the splash, four antlered heads rose simultaneously to ascertain its source. Hand some animals, the Rat decided.

"Nothing is being said about killing. Only that if your son is found, a great reward awaits the finder." At Anil's look, the much smaller man hastened to add, "I am an honest man. You should know that from those who referred me to you. I am not a hare, to jump on a whim from one field to another. If I locate your son, I will inform only you of his whereabouts."

Anil nodded approvingly. "See that you do. I have prepared myself to kill two people. I can just as easily kill a third."

"Slaying your best source of information would be a poor way to obtain the information you seek," the Rat countered, unafraid.

The businessman had to grin. "You're as tough as my friend claimed. Tell me: what caste are you?"

The Rat smirked. Those of his teeth that were not broken were blackened, but it was a winning smile nonetheless. "Ask the priests of Deshnok. There is no caste among rats, which is one reason why they are so successful. They stick together."

Suddenly Anil found that he was uncomfortable in this man's presence. He was a respectable entrepreneur, and it shamed him to have to engage the services of such a person. But not half so much as Taneer had shamed him. "Find my son and my son's slut. Find them before his company does."

The Rat stepped back and inclined his head slightly, still displaying his wreck of a smile. "Someone surely will. When that happens, I hope it will be myself, or someone that I know."

He left the honorable merchant to contemplation of the swamp deer, and his private visions of righteous murder.