The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [89]
The disintegrating debris formed an excellent foundation for spreading mangroves and new coral. Contented fishermen plied their trade among the architectural wreckage. Shuttled out from the city, boatloads of air-conditioned tourists gawked at the collapsing structures much as their Antarctic counterparts gazed upon calving glaciers. Alligators, caimans, and American and Orinoco crocodiles sunned themselves on decaying slabs of prehistoric retirement dreams.
Ingrid had never been to Miavana. Able to afford more expensive vacations, her brief periods of downtime had taken her to the more exotic and distant parts of the Caribbean. She had never traveled farther than Curacao, had not yet been to Europe. It was not that she was particularly a stay-at-home. “No time,” was the simple explanation she gave to friends who inquired. Like so many other nearby tourist locations, Miavana too had been skipped over. Until now.
Except, she reminded herself, she was not on vacation.
While periodically inundated throughout its history by hurricanes and the sinkage of land brought on by the pumping of too much groundwater, parts of the old city had once rested on actual semidry ground. Or so she had read. Now “the Venice of North America” existed solely on stilts and pilings driven deep into bedrock as the city kept reinventing and raising itself to stay ahead of the rising sea level. Except for a few irreplaceable monuments like the Doge’s Palace and St. Marks, the original Venice was of course long gone. It was now a destination only for enthralled scuba divers and a home only to those who had undergone full gill melds.
Throughout all the changes Miavana had retained its historical predilection for pastel hues. Leaving the rental roadster at an automated drop lot, Ingrid and Whispr joined a dozen commuters aboard a mechanized shuttle heading into the city proper. The sun was hot and the air clammy but inside the air-conditioned transport it was comfortable and cool.
“Where are we going?” she asked her companion.
His reply was not what she had been anticipating.
“We’re going to see a doctor,” he told her, plainly relishing her reaction.
“To get these temporaries removed?” She indicated her puffy cheeks and temporarily resculpted nose.
“That wouldn’t be smart. I know about the thread, but you’re one up on me, doc. I may look useless and act dumb, or act useless and look dumb, but I don’t miss much. One thing I do have is a good memory. You tried to access the thread, with no luck. Same for your unfortunate co-doc. So I’ve been thinking that maybe we should try a different approach.”
The shuttle slowed into port to unload a quartet of bored-looking commuters clad in business shorts, shirts, and protective hats. “What kind of ‘different approach?’ ” she asked warily.
“Well, if we can’t figure out what’s on the thread, maybe we can learn more about its composition. I’m thinking in particular about the piece of the same stuff you said you got out of the head of that girl you worked on. You said that it disappeared soon after you started trying to research it. That it was ‘entangled,’ or something.”
Ingrid nodded. “That’s right.”
Leaning close, Whispr whispered intently, “Wouldn’t it be interesting if there were more of such things floating around? Other nanodevices made out of the same stuff? Find some of them and we might learn something about the thread’s origins, if not its purpose.”
“Yes.” Her heart thumped. “Yes, that would make sense, Whispr. Provided the device and the thread really are related, as their similar composition seems to indicate. But how can we do that safely? If I