Londenstane, Costa said. The van is opaque.
Her transmission was cut off the instant he entered the container. He turned to Veronica Tug and said, “You have about fifteen seconds to convince me.” Even as he spoke, a valve in the undercarriage of the GOV shot open, and a dozen homcom bees streamed out and flew for the van, stringing themselves into a beevine.
“Ellen Starke’s head—” was all Veronica managed to say before the lead bee entered the van and took up a relay post just inside the hatchway.
Ellen Starke, of course, Fred thought. No wonder Cabinet wanted me here.
The male tugger, Miguel, reared up in front of the lead bee and said, “Desist!” But the homcom bee was under no obligation to leave.
“I said desist!” he roared.
“Miguel, leave it alone,” Veronica said, “and show the commander the way to the booth.”
When Miguel hesitated, she made a sharp click with her tongue, and he jerked into motion.
Londenstane? Do you copy?
Yeah, Fred said. Thanks for the bees.
Londenstane, my scouts are only two minutes out.
The tuggers were halfway down the van, waiting for him. Fred picked up his pace and almost tripped when he saw the gear. The van was filled with electronics. A whole wall of fuel cells and a row of man-sized, rapid discharge, ultra-high voltage capacitors. There was a shaft along the entire length of the van’s ceiling, watercooled and bristling with induction coils. No wonder Miguel didn’t want him or the bees in here.
Two minutes. Understood, he replied to Costa.
The heavily shielded control booth in the center of the van was too small for more than one tugger at a time, and while Miguel sat in it on a stool to operate the board, Fred and Veronica stood on either side of the door and looked in. The beevine expanded to remain right over Fred’s shoulder.
Miguel shot him a look of pure hatred as he thumbed the board pads. Some lumbering machinery began to spin up, and the metal floor rattled. There was the smell of ozone. Fred scrunched in closer to get behind the booth’s shielded door.
When the hum reached a turbine pitch, Miguel thumbed another pad, and a frame, like a sheet of paper, appeared before him. To be joined by another and another until a stack of sheets, each an individual cross-section of the residence, blended into a small diorama of the house and yard. The house and everything inside it was outlined, like transparent boxes inside boxes.
Miguel dialed down the gain, tinting out the furniture, walls, and floors. Only the plumbing, antique wiring, and other dense objects showed up as dark gray lines. The electronics in appliances were smudges. There was a coffin-sized wall safe in a room upstairs, and a brace of pistols in a downstairs closet. No people, at least none with implants. By far the densest thing in the house, so massive it showed up solid black, was a four-legged object in the main ground-floor room. It might be a sculpture done in some weird material, though probably not.
“Patch this through to my GOV,” Fred said.
Now even the tugger woman seemed reluctant, but she ordered Miguel to comply with a curt jab of her chin.
A few moments later Costa said, Nameless One IDs it as an unregistered warbeitor of unknown ownership, design, and capabilities.
“It’s a warbeitor,” Fred told the TUGs.
“No kidding,” Veronica replied. “We thought it was a house pet.” She caught Fred’s eye, reached into the diorama, and touched a rectangular object, much less dense, in the same room. “And this might be its bone.”
Fred studied her expressionless face. Why was she being so helpful? Part of her campaign to heal the rift between her people and his? He doubted it. She was here on a job, a big job from the look of it. The TUGs were risking this whole expensive field unit. There was too much at stake to waste time as a goodwill ambassador.
More than likely, Cabinet had recruited both him and the TUGs to accomplish the same goal. Why else would she tell him about the girl’s head, if that was what the warbeitor’s prize was? Double teaming made sense. She’d let him and the inspector do the heavy lifting and be in position to pick up the pieces in case they fumbled.
Fred nodded to Veronica and said, “Inspector, inform Nameless One that I’m officially confiscating this van for an ongoing police action.”
“Hey, feck you, man!” Miguel Tug said, springing from his stool.
“Sit down, scrub,” Veronica ordered, “and shut the feck up.”
The tugger sat down and glowered at Fred. Fred said, “Just keep the pictures coming, sonny.” Turning to leave, he said to Veronica, “You say I hired five hundred just like him?”
As Fred walked back to the aft hatch, he could feel the rippling of magnetic fields against his suit. He stooped to retrieve a homcom bee that had fallen from the beevine. “Saddle up,” he ordered the others.
As he returned to the GOV, the scout tender arrived and set down alongside them. When Fred reclaimed his cab seat from the jerry, Costa said, “Nice of you to return.” The densiscanner diorama was superimposed over their own in the HUD. The warbeitor had not moved in the house.
“Are we ready with the scouts?” Fred said.
“Just waiting on you, Commander.”
Fred glanced at the inspector. Despite her tone, she seemed to be enjoying herself. He cleared his throat and said, “House at 2131 Line Drive, this is Commander Londenstane of the Homeland Command.” He swiped his hand at the house through the windshield. “And these are Justice Department Inspector Costa and HomCom Lieutenant Michaelmas.” The other two swiped their hands.
When the house remained unresponsive, Fred continued. “We’re here to serve you this warrant—he swiped again—allowing us to frisk you.”
It was a federal warrant, one that superseded the SFR’s surveillance variance, and after a few moments, the house said, Proceed.
Across the street from them, the house’s heavy front door unfolded. The scout cart rolled around the van and up the drive and climbed up the stone steps to the porch. It lowered its shovel chute through the open doorway and opened its tank. Thousands of scouts rolled into the front foyer, unwrapping themselves and fanning out.
“House, is there anyone at home?”
No, there isn’t, officer.
“Who resides there?”
“No one.”
The scouts, meanwhile, linked up to create a forensics carpet that skittered across the floor and wall surfaces, testing, tasting, sounding, collecting. Pictures and data began streaming to the GOV as the scouts methodically mapped and inspected each room, crawling into cupboards and drawers, behind and under furniture. Tagged samples of fibers, soil, and other debris were relayed back to the cart for detailed analysis.
The scouts found incinerated bits of flying mechs that drew the officers’ attention, as did ample confirmation of a recent firefight. The unknown warbeitor in the main room had the good sense to remain perfectly still during the bug frisk. Fred studied the mech from all scout angles. It was a piece of work: four multijointed legs—like wide-diameter intake hose—attached to a powerful-looking trunk. About the size of a Great Dane dog, but without a head or tail. Its trunk and legs were covered with laser-absorbing velvet.
Costa studied it over Fred’s shoulder. “None of the other Cabinets was so well guarded,” she said.
The rectangular object near the warbeitor turned out to be a procedure cart of the sort used in laboratories and medical facilities. It was locked, and the scouts couldn’t look inside.
Fred said, “SFR 2131 Line Drive, I am placing you under arrest.”
Acknowledged, said the house. On what charge?
“A weapon zone violation. You will immediately send the weapon that’s in your main ground-floor room outside to stand on the porch.”