Counting Heads (21 page)

Their situation was bad, but not dire. Other regenerating mechs were already creeping out of the wreckage. The slug was still trapped inside, too big to pass through the hole. Meanwhile, the bee sensed five private security cars and one HomCom GOV circling over the roofs of the surrounding buildings. The garden plot was too tight for any of them to land, but soon they would send down small warbeitors to secure the scene. If the bee and its remaining escort managed to hide for an hour, they might still continue with the mission.

Except for one complication—the missing wing that was still inside the scupper’s collection cage. The bee was hardwired to always conceal its identity. Only its mission trumped the need to remain anonymous. So, as it spun out scenarios, its primitive mind kept jamming on the missing wing. Must it allow its wing to fall into the hands of the Homeland Command?

There was no more time to hesitate. The bee ordered the wasp to reenter the scupper and to either find and retrieve its wing, or incinerate the entire contents of the cage. Meanwhile, the bee climbed farther up the building to a patch of sunlight to begin recharging its fuel cells. The repair nano inside it had completed mending critical systems and was proceeding to those of secondary importance. The bee arched its leg to peel open a pair of blisters under its thorax, releasing millions of mite-sized mechs. These swarmed over its body, cleaning the remaining diatom dust from sensors and digging it out from articulating surfaces. As the mites ran out of energy by the thousands, they crawled along the broken wing struts and fused themselves together to make temporary splints.

Soon there was activity in the garden plot. A ground-floor window overlooking the garden opened, and out stepped two humans. Perhaps two or perhaps six or eight; the bee wasn’t able to make an accurate count. They were small humans, in any case, and their clothing did not transpond any official agency ID. Indeed, it was their clothing that confused the bee’s optical pickups, creating ghosts and multiple images. In IR the distortion was even worse, and they cast no radar reflections at all. Although the bee could acquire no solid fix on these humans, it could tell that the scupper was being lifted from the bricks.

Report progress
, the bee ordered.

Much debris. Target wing armature found and destroyed. This unit can smell wing hoop but unable to locate
.

Leave scupper, prick humans, resume search
.

Acknowle
— the wasp’s transmission was cut off as the scupper disappeared completely from the bee’s sensors. The crowd of ghostly humans seemed to be flowing back toward the open window. Before it/they reached the window, a hot spot appeared in IR. Twelve or sixteen ghostly hot spots, to be sure. The humans yelped in turn, and the scupper abruptly reappeared on the ground.

Several long moments later, Blue Team Beta Wasp alighted on the wall next to the bee.
Wing parts located and destroyed
, it reported.

Recharge
, ordered the bee.

THE TAXI REENTERED the up-spiral. When they reached the local grid above the city, Samson saw the silhouette of Soldier Field outlined against the lake in the distance, but they were heading in the opposite direction.

“Taxi,” he demanded, “where are we going?”

The taxi replied, “Our new route includes only two intervening stops, Myr Kodiak. We’ll be there in no time.”

“No!” Samson insisted. “I want nonstop. I want express service.”

But the car docked in a transit bay at the 300
^th
-floor lattice arcade between two downtown gigatowers on the Midway picket. A gent in a richly tailored business jumpsuit climbed halfway into the car before he smelled Samson, and his expression changed to one of pure revulsion. He backed out of the car and said, “I thought all of you were dead by now.”

“Soon,” Samson said, “and fuck you too.”

“Call me another cab,” the man ordered the taxi and went back to the waiting area.

The taxi spoke to Samson again, this time in a different voice. “Good afternoon, Myr Kodiak. The taxi unit you are currently occupying has called me to mediate a possible customer relations issue. I am more proximal to the Hi-Top controlling mentar. Since our taxi units lack full sensory capability, I must ask you for your judgment: Is there some condition that makes conveyance in this unit uncomfortable to passengers?”

Samson was incredulous. “You have a lot of nerve,” he said. “I demand you immediately take me to my destination. No more delays.”

“What about odor?” the taxi went on. “Is there some foul odor in the unit?”

“I am running low on patience, taxi.”

Samson’s door unlatched and folded open, and his seat released him. “In that case, Myr Kodiak, would you mind stepping out? I need to take this unit back to the barn for further diagnosis.”

“Yes, I would mind,” Samson said, keeping his seat. “I would mind very much.”

“Regrettably, we are unable to transport you farther in this unit. If you decar now, Hi-Top Charter Taxi will waive your fare to this point.”

“Waive my fare to this point? Are you crazy? I’m farther from my destination now than when you picked me up. I’m not getting out. Take me to Soldier Field—or else!”

“That won’t be possible,” said the taxi. “After reviewing the in-cab recordings, I have concluded that
you
, Myr Kodiak, are the source of the problem. While we are never eager to take legal steps against our customers, unless you decar at once, we will file a suit against you to recover damages to this unit plus loss of economic opportunity for the time it is out of service. In addition, until any court-imposed penalty is satisfied, you will be unable to use any Hi-Top Taxi or affiliated service.”

“Are you
threatening
me, taxi?” Samson shouted, his scalp mottling in shades of red. “Believe me when I say that you don’t want to threaten me.”

In response, the seat cushions stiffened into a disergonomic “reject” shape that jabbed Samson in the kidneys.

“Henry!” he screamed. “I’m feeling like here will do. Right here, right now!” He pawed through his pockets for the simcaster, but he couldn’t find it.

Sam
, Hubert said,
please calm down and allow me to handle the situation
.

“I demand my rights under the Accommodations Act of’54!” Samson cried.

Relax, Sam. You’ll hurt yourself
.

But Samson did not relax. He beat the seat cushion with his fist. “Are you fireproof, taxi? Tell me that, are you fireproof?”

Two building security men, a jerry and a russ, in teal and brown uniforms approached the car. “Come on out of there, gramps,” said the jerry. When they came into smelling range, they recoiled in surprise.

“Whew!” said the jerry. “What you do in there? Crap yourself?”

“That’s not crap,” said the russ. “That’s a stinker.”

“Not possible,” said his partner. “They’re all dead.”

“Sure smells that way.”

The two men sealed their face masks, then reached into the taxi to try to grab Samson’s arm, but he scooted out of reach and poked at them with his maple stick.

“You don’t want to make us come in there after you, old man,” said the russ.

“Right here!” Samson cried in a rage. “Right now!”

“Now, now,” said the russ. “Do as we say, or we’ll be forced to sleep you.”

He extended his standstill wand and pointed it at Samson, but Samson fenced it away with his walking stick. The door behind Samson opened; the jerry had outflaked him.

“Henry, cast a sim of me now!” Samson shouted. Nothing happened. “Do you hear me, Henry? Do as I say!”

Sam, this is Hubert, not Henry. Do as the men say; I’m attempting to negotiate a truce
.

“I will not!” he cried, and when the jerry tried to lift him from the seat, he spat at him. The spittle boiled away against the officer’s face mask.

The jerry backed away from the car and said, “Hey, this guy’s toxic.”

“No, he’s a stinker,” said the russ, “like I said.”

“Yeah? Well? I don’t recall how we’re supposed to handle ’em. Do you?”

The two security men fell silent while Nicholas briefed them on protocol for handling the cellularly seared. Meanwhile, the taxi closed its doors, shutting Samson in, and spoke to him in yet another new voice, “Good afternoon, Myr Harger,” it said. Harger, not Kodiak. “This is Hi-Top mentar Fuller speaking. I’d like to apologize for any misunderstanding caused by my partials. Please sit back, and we’ll proceed to your destination as soon as I smooth things over with building security.”

In a little while, the two security men outside Samson’s window turned around and left the bay. The taxi’s motors revved up, and the seat melted once again into an ultra-soft restraint.

“That’s more like it!” Samson said. “Be afraid!”

Chicago slipped by beneath them. Soon they were flying over the lakeshore, and the tall trapezoidal shape of Soldier Field Stadium lay below them. Samson ached all over. There were simmering bruises on his arms where the jerry had grabbed him, and his fist burned where he’d beat the seat cushion. It occurred to him that the next time he was in a situation like that, all he had to do was whack his skull against something solid, and that should do the trick. “Hubert,” he said, “next time, do exactly as I tell you. No arguments, no negotiations. Is that clear?”

If you say so, Sam
.

“I do say so. I insist so.” The portable simcaster had been in his breast pocket the whole time. He took it out and flipped the control switch to voice mode. “Charge yourself,” he said to it, and the small device powered up.

“Ready,” it said.

“Myr Harger,” the taxi broke in, “we have arrived, see? And Hi-Top Taxi is pleased to waive the entire fare. In fact, we’re crediting you with three free rides to any Chicagoland destination in private cars. We’re landing now. We’re here!” The taxi settled on the uppermost transit parapet of the stadium and opened its door.

“That’s more like it,” Samson said, and when the seat released him, he began to climb out, but stopped and said, “You waived the fare? Anything else?”

“Yes, Myr Harger. Hi-Top Charter has asked me to apologize for this unfortunate incident. It seems a shame that chartists should fight among themselves.”

“Yes, a shame,” he said and put the simcaster back into his pocket. As soon as Samson got out of the taxi, the taxi slammed its doors and took off, leaping into the air on all six fans, not waiting for him to clear its wash zone. The dust caught Samson, and he coughed for a whole minute. He waited a few more minutes to recover, then crossed in front of the row of waiting scanways. Spared a side trip to Indiana, he was early. It was hours before the canopy ceremony would start, and the place was empty. Samson skirted the scanways and went to an adjoining pressure gate. The intrusive radiation of a scanway would set off his cellular wardens just as surely as a simcaster, and as a registered seared he had a waiver (something the taxi should have checked). The pressure gate fell, and a security arbeitor rolled out. It performed a gentle but thorough frisk and sniff of his person. It even asked him to open his mouth so it could peer down his throat. It confiscated his walking stick, loading his palm with a claim ticket for it, and escorted him through the gate. On the other side, an orange usher line lit up at his feet and led out of sight down the spiraling stadium gangway.

“Is it far?” he said.

“Not far, and downhill all the way,” Hubert replied from his belt.

Samson shuffled past not-yet-activated concession kiosks. It was hard to believe he was really doing this at last. “Hubert, have I written a farewell speech?”

“No, Sam, you haven’t.”

This puzzled him. He was almost certain he had jotted down a few ideas for a speech. Certainly, it was all he’d been thinking about these last few weeks. “Are you sure?”

“You said,” Hubert continued, “that when the time came, the words would take care of themselves.”

Samson didn’t believe it, but at this point, what could he do? “It’s refreshing to see how much confidence I have in myself.”

He followed the usher line to a loading gallery. Gratefully, he collapsed into a seat. Soft restraints threaded themselves over his shoulders and across his chest. “Ready to exit?” the seat asked.

Samson said, “Ready,” and the seat lifted him slowly outside through a pressure curtain and up and over until he was suspended over the gaping maw of the stadium. It was exhilarating to be the first seat out, and Samson took several deep breaths. The playing field was so far below him that it looked like a dinner plate at the bottom of a well.

“Tilt back,” he said, and the seat complied. “A little more.” Now he was looking into the blue sky beyond the stadium rim. This was the direction where the real action would take place tonight.

Hubert said, “I suggest a Gooeyduk snack now and some ’Lyte and maybe another oxytab. Then a nice nap. I’ll wake you up in plenty of time. Are you warm enough?”

“Toasty,” Samson said and reopened the Gooeyduk he had been nibbling on earlier. “But, tell me one thing, Hubert.”

“Go ahead.”

“What you said about El and Ellen earlier—how is that going? What do we know for sure?”

Hubert said, “Eleanor is gone. Ellen is an open question.”

“Ellen is all right?”

“No, Sam. Ellen is either dead or dying. The reports conflict.”

Samson opened a pouch of ’Lyte and drank several sips. He pulled the hood of the jumpsuit over his head. Oh, El, to pick the same day as me, he thought. What’s the point in that?

There was no point, at least none that he could see, just as his searing had been pointless. Just as Eleanor’s whole Target UKB turned out to be pointless. She had promised to identify those responsible for his attack, and she did, five years after he and Skippy left the manse. Only, she found too many of them, over two thousand individuals and groups. There seemed to have been a widespread consensus that her success was too meteoric and that brakes needed to be applied. The baby permit had been one result of this consensus, as they had suspected. His assault had been another. But not even with her most sophisticated snooping could Eleanor uncover anyone who actually gave the orders.