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.
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.”