Counting Heads

by David Marusek

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Concierge said. The white-jacketed mentar raised his hand to both of them and left the room.

  Wee Hunk raised his hand too and said, “Myr Meewee, thank you for coming.”

  “I came as soon as I was free.”

  “That was considerate of you.”

  Meewee glanced at the mentar to see if it, too, was mocking him. But its features were so pronounced, its expressions so large, it was hard to tell. He replied, “I need to speak to Ellen as soon as she’s awake. Please take me to her.”

  “At once,” the caveman said and turned and walked away. Meewee hastened to follow, but they went only two steps before Wee Hunk stopped short in front of a wall of slanted windows. “There she is,” he said, gesturing to a surgical theater below.

  Meewee looked down into the brightly lit room expecting to see the young woman, but what he saw was a chromium table and three people in sterilewrap gowns. On the table lay a scorched and badly dented safety helmet. He had forgotten that she was recovered in a helmet.

  “They don’t have her out yet?” he said.

  “The doctors aren’t sure how best to unclench it,” Wee Hunk said. “It took quite a beating in the crash. Two of its cryonics coils failed, as well as its first responder interface. Ellen’s life signs are strong, however.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Meewee said, momentarily distracted by a new scent in the air—vanilla and almonds? What strange odors for a scape like this. “It’s nothing serious then? No lasting brain damage?”

  Wee Hunk said, “Let’s wait until the surgeons have had a chance to look at her before we make medical pronouncements.”

  “Yes, of course,” Meewee said.

  “A safety helmet can’t prevent all trauma to the brain,” Wee Hunk said, “and they do a certain amount of damage all by themselves. Fortunately, most of it is correctable. Ellen’s doctors are concerned about the less than optimal level of life support her brain has endured and the length of time it has endured it.

  “Now, Myr Meewee,” the animal skin man continued, “was there something in particular that you wanted to discuss with Ellen?”

  “Yes, there is, but it’s confidential. Put me on her FDO list and inform me as soon as she regains consciousness.”

  The caveman inspected his thick fingernails and said, “With all due respect, I don’t think so.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Myr Meewee, Ellen has never had much of a personal relationship with you. You are neither friend nor family. If you like, however, I’ll put your name on the invitation list for a reception to celebrate her recovery, but that’s all.”

  “You don’t understand!” Meewee said. “I have urgent Starke Enterprises business. It’s not up to you to decide whether or not I can see her.”

  “On the contrary,” the mentar said, crossing its bulging arms, “Ellen is solely my responsibility. The court has appointed me guardian ad litem until she recovers. And as for Starke Enterprises business, Cabinet informs me that your tenure there will shortly come to an end. I suggest you put whatever it is you wish to tell her in a memo that I will see she gets as soon as she’s strong enough to deal with business matters.”

  Meewee wagged his finger at the ridiculous cartoon. “You have no right! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

  Commotion in the surgical theater below caught their attention. A technician rolled a vat of clear liquid next to the procedure table where two surgeons were initiating the helmet’s unclenching sequence. The helmet blossomed like an eight-petaled flower, and in the center, where Ellen’s head should have been cradled, sat a plastic mannequin head instead.

  Wee Hunk’s beetle brows rose in alarm. “That’s not possible!”

  “What does it mean?” Meewee said, but he said it to his empty office where he again found himself sitting in his armchair.

  If there was any doubt in Meewee’s mind that Eleanor’s yacht had been sabotaged, it was thoroughly dispelled by what he’d just witnessed. Ellen was missing. Meewee jumped to his feet, intent upon doing something to help, but he didn’t have a clue what. He felt like a tiny fish in a tank full of sharks.

  “You have a visitor,” Arrow announced.

  “Tell them I’m busy!” he snapped at his so-called mentar. Couldn’t it even deal with routine office tasks?

  “It’s Cabinet,” Arrow replied.

  Meewee felt a rush of fear. What else could go wrong today? “Let it in,” he said.

  Cabinet instantly appeared in his office as the attorney general persona, a middle-aged woman who had always struck Meewee as the most ruthless of the bunch. At this moment he found its familial resemblance to Eleanor unnerving.

  “What do you want?” he asked it point-blank.

  “Nothing, actually,” the mentar said. “I just came to personally notify you of your termination from Heliostream, effective at close of business today. You will vacate these offices and turn in whatever verification codes you control and whatever Heliostream or Starke Enterprises property is in your possession. That includes the mentar Arrow. Also, vacate your company housing at your earliest convenience, but no later than tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You’re firing me?” Meewee said incredulously.

  “Firing, sacking, canning, downsizing, excessing, whatever you want to call it. There are so many quaint expressions to choose from.”

  “But I thought that as custodian, you lack the authority to remove me.”

  “From the GEP board, that is correct. But I have more latitude over employees.”

  “But,” Meewee sputtered, “but terminating my employment strips me of my seat on the board and amounts to the same thing.”

  “Funny how problems sort themselves out, isn’t it? But don’t be so glum, Bishop; we are prepared to offer you a generous separation bonus, so long as you are cooperative.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Cabinet vanished, leaving behind the Starke sig, which melted into the air like vapor.

  2.11

  The Blue Team was within sight of the Gary Gate when it was attacked. One moment the team of bee and wasps was crossing a suburban canyon at rooftop level, and the next moment it was engulfed in a whiteout of diatomic dust. The jagged, microscopic grit clung to the bee’s exoskeleton, cams, and feelers. It worked its way through the bee’s seals and jammed its joints. Within moments, the Blue Team bee was spiraling blindly to the ground. Before it could hit, a jet-powered scupper swooped down like a bird of prey and scooped it into its V-shaped bow catcher. The bee tumbled through slotted gates into the scupper’s gullet, breaking a wing, and landed in a dark collection cage crowded with other damaged mechs. Media bees, witness bees, other mechs-for-hire, a police minidrone, and a smashed homcom slug. All of the captured mechs that were still viable were on Red Alert. The dark space inside the scupper was bright with Mayday transmissions in all spectra, but nothing penetrated the scupper’s shielded hide. The captives seethed in the tight space, thrashing broken wings, butting heads, and grinding themselves into a hash of shattered components.

  As the scupper repeatedly changed course, the frantic mechs were dashed like pebbles against its cage walls. Blue Team Bee was unaware that one of its own wasps was present until the wasp grasped it around the middle. It, too, had been captured. Or rather, the wasp had followed its leader in. Now it wrapped its articulated segments around the bee, doing its best to buffer it against the violence with its own body.

  When at last the scupper came to rest, its battered cargo gradually settled down. The bee ordered the wasp to release it and to try to cut through the cage wall with its lasers. But the cage was lined with plasfoid velvet that soaked up the concentrated laser light like a sponge. So, the bee instructed the wasp to pick at the velvet with its pincers, pulling filaments out one at a time. If it could breech the plasfoid in even one pinpoint spot, its lasers could burn a hole through the monster from the inside out. Other able-bodied mechs joined it in picking velvet strands.

&n
bsp; Too soon, the scupper was in motion again. It dove, peeled out, tumbled, and looped. The wasp again grasped its bee protectively while the mechanical mulch flew about the cage. Meanwhile, the bee ran scenarios. If its wasp failed to pick apart the plasfoid velvet, the bee could order it to incinerate broken mechs against the cage wall, perhaps creating enough heat to melt the velvet lining. If all else failed, the bee would order its wasp to ignite its own plasma in a tiny fireball taking out prisoners and prison alike and destroying all traces of the bee, itself.

  Before the bee could decide on a course of action, the scupper made a sharp dive from a great height straight into the ground. All the mechs slammed together against the forward bulkhead, and Blue Team Bee’s systems went dark.

  SAMSON REACHED THE fourth floor of the charterhouse undetected. He tiptoed past the open door to the Green Hall where some of the Kodiaks were having coffeesh. He tiptoed past the closed door to the Administrative Office on the third floor, where Kale worked on the charter’s household accounts.

  When Samson reached the ground-floor foyer, he donned a broad-brimmed hat and selected his favorite bamboo walking stick from the charger.

  “Might I suggest the maple stick, Sam,” said Hubert.

  “I like this one.”

  “The maple stick carries a heavier charge, as well as a blade.”

  Samson thought about it for a moment. The pest was probably right. He substituted the maple for the bamboo. Glancing around at the old charterhouse one last time, Samson touched the palmplate, and the heavy street door slid noiselessly aside.

  On the steps, he looked left and right. There was little foot traffic on the block at this hour, few patrolling bees, and no Tobblers in sight. He descended to the street and, as quickly as he could, walked in the direction opposite the entrance to the NanoJiffy. Before he reached the end of the block, however, one of the Tobbler doors opened and a pair of Tobbler men came out.

  Houseer Dieter and Chartist Hans, said Hubert in his ear.

  Samson muttered, “I know who they are.” He went to the curb and turned his back to the men, hoping they would go by without bothering him. But Charter Tobbler was nothing if not nosy, and they stopped to chat.

  “A fine afternoon to you, neighbor Kodiak,” said Houseer Dieter.

  Samson acknowledged them with a nod.

  “A fine day for a journey,” said the other.

  Samson followed the man’s gaze to his maple stick. He would have liked to test its charge on him, but instead he said, “It’s true that a stroll to the end of the block and back qualifies as a journey for me these days.”

  “Well and fine, and we shan’t keep you. Do enjoy your stroll.” Before leaving, however, the houseer asked, “By the way, what word on our request for inspecting the Kodiak rooms?”

  Samson hesitated, and Hubert briefed him, The Tobblers think Howe Street is being undermined by material pirates. They want to inspect our part of the building for damage. Houseer Kale hasn’t made up his mind whether or not to let them.

  Samson said, “I’m afraid, Myr Tobbler, that I am but a useless appendage to the clan. You’ll have to ask Houseer Kale about that.”

  “I’ve tried on several occasions to reach Houseer Kale, but he does not return my calls.”

  “That’s probably not his fault,” said Samson. “Our houseputer’s efficiency grows worse each day. Lately, it spills all sorts of data, including phone calls.”

  “In that case, we’ll knock on your door and ask him in person.”

  Samson froze. It would do him no good to have these Tobbs mention to Kale that they saw him on the street. “Unfortunately, our houseer is away on business. He won’t be back till tonight.”

  “Splendid,” said Houseer Dieter. “We’ll speak to him tonight, then.” The two Tobblers continued on their way.

  Our taxi is arriving, said Hubert. I told it to pick us up around the corner.

  Samson hurried to the end of the block and turned the corner just as a yellow-black-yellow car dropped from the grid in a cloud of dust and opened its passenger compartment door. Samson clutched the seat and door frame and levered himself into the car. There was already a passenger inside who smiled indulgently at this incredibly old man, at least until his reeking stench reached her. She looked confused, and her eyes began to water, but she continued to smile.

  “Good afternoon, Myr Kodiak,” said the taxi, “and welcome aboard. At Hi-Top Charter Taxi, we’re pleased as punch to cater to your transportation needs.”

  “I thought I ordered a private car.”

  “Your assistant has already indicated your destination, Myr Kodiak, and I have charted a route requiring only three or four intervening stops. Now, if you’ll sit back, the seat will secure you, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Samson leaned back in the plush seat. Its cushions swelled around his thighs and waist to hold him in a gentle but firm grip. Satisfied, the taxi revved its powerful fans and lurched into the air. The woman beside him groaned and held her hand against her mouth. She looked a little green.

  The taxi entered a nearby up-spiral and climbed around and around to the local grid. Samson closed his eyes for this dizzying part of the trip, while his fellow passenger was huffing through her mouth and swallowing repeatedly. Finally, she doubled over and vomited on her shoes.

  Samson watched her and said, “Sorry, but I have that effect on people.”

  The woman shook her head and vomited again.

  “Myr Cornbluth,” said the taxi to the suffering woman, “I perceive you to be in physical distress. Shall I divert to a medical facility?”

  The woman wiped her mouth with a towelette that the armrest dispensed. Floor scuppers were already cleaning up the mess at her feet and sponging her shoes with their busy little tongues. “No,” she said to the taxi, “take me to a train station.”

  The taxi dropped to the CPT station located not far from the charterhouse. The woman swiped the pay plate, and her door opened. Before she decarred, she turned to Samson and said, “Best of luck to you, myr. I had a brother—” Sudden tears welled in her eyes, and she did not finish.

  Samson was taken aback by such unexpected civility from a stranger. Before he had a chance to reply, two new passengers shoved past the woman and hopped into the taxi, only to hop out again just as quickly.

  The taxi waited another half minute, and when none of the other people waiting in the taxi queue approached, it latched its doors and rose into the air. “Sorry for the delay, Myr Kodiak. We are rerouting and will depart at once to your destination in Bloomington.”

  “It’s about time,” said Samson.

  Sam, Hubert said, I have just contacted the manse, and Eleanor and Ellen aren’t there.

  “Are they still up at Trailing Earth?”

  No, and Cabinet doesn’t return my calls.

  “Well, find them! I can’t do this without at least saying good-bye.”

  Sam, prepare yourself for some very bad news.

  “What bad news?”

  The media is reporting a space yacht crash.

  “Yes?”

  Both Eleanor and Ellen are reported dead.

  “But they said they’d meet me at the manse,” Samson said, aware of how stupid he sounded. “Are you one hundred percent certain, Henry?”

  I’m checking sources.

  “Oh, Henry, you shouldn’t say terrible things like that until you’re absolutely certain. It’s tormenting. You should know that.”

  I am certain, Sam. Only the details disagree. It’s possible that Ellen may be retrievable.

  The taxi did a U-turn and headed back the way it came.

  “What’s happening?” Samson said.

  I told the taxi to take us home.

  “No, taxi, ignore my valet. Take us to Soldier Field.”

  Are you sure, Sam?

  “This doesn’t change a thing,” Samson said. He leaned back in the pillowy seat and shut his eyes. “I have to go through with it. Now more than ever. Soldie
r Field, taxi, and step on it.”

  APPROXIMATELY TEN MINUTES after systems crash, as measured by an internal timekeeper, the Blue Team bee’s noetics rebooted. Its self-repairing bots had been released and were busy field-patching the bee’s vital systems. In the cage around the bee, only a few other mechs were stirring. Blue Team Alpha Wasp was dead, broken in two, both segments still clenched around the bee in a death grip. Wasps were expendable and carried no repair nano.

  A crinkling sound alerted the bee to a spot on the cage wall where the velvet shield was melting away from the alloy fuselage. Blue Team Beta Wasp was lasering from the outside. The bee, encumbered by the locked segments of its dead companion, clawed across the debris pile to the wall. But the homcom slug got there first and blocked the growing breech in the wall with its body. It was sending a Mayday to its base through the broken RF shielding. This was not good. The bee could ill afford to be captured, and it had no means of destroying itself without help from its remaining wasp.

  Precious minutes passed before the wasp cut a hole large enough to accommodate the bee, but the slug still blocked the way. As the bee worked through its options, the slug tried to crawl through the too-small hole itself. There was a hiss as its skin made contact with the hot metal edge, and it retreated reflexively, clearing the way for the bee.

  While Blue Team Bee waited for the metal to cool, it ordered Beta Wasp to reach its grippers through the gap and break off the legs of its sister that still encircled it. Freed of its burden, the bee pushed the pieces of the wasp through the hole to Beta Wasp before crawling through itself.

  The scupper had smashed into a pile of bricks at the back of a tiny garden that was wedged between two buildings. The dead scupper was a Frankensteinian contraption pieced together from odd bits of technotrash. Burn marks across its diaron armor traced the beta wasp’s probing laser fire. As the two surviving mechs of the Blue Team dragged the pieces of their broken comrade from the fallen scupper, the bee took stock of their systems. Its own repairs were proceeding apace, but it still could not fly. Its power cells were more than half depleted. Three of its six wings had suffered broken struts, and one wing was shorn off completely and was missing. The beta wasp was undamaged, but it operated on reserve power. Worse, it had depleted its store of weapons plasma. The dead alpha wasp, on the other hand, still had three-quarters of its original supply. They collected all of its pieces except for three of its six wings. The wings were of little consequence, for a wasp’s wings were off-the-shelf and sufficiently anonymous. The bee’s missing wing, however, was state of the art and traceable back to Starke Enterprises.