To Fred’s surprise, the warbeitor ambled out of the parlor and through the hall to the front door. It was more cat than doglike in its movements. The forensics carpet opened a path for it. It stepped around the scout cart and stopped on the porch.
“Unidentified mech on the SFR 2131 Line Drive porch,” Fred said, “ID yourself.”
Libby said, It’s talking directly to Nameless One. It says it recognizes our authority over its actions.
“Good,” Fred said. “Order it to stand down.”
The quadrupedal thing on the porch seemed to slump. Fred and Costa exchanged a glance. That easy? Fred said, “Now order it to lock itself down, and forward me the only reactivation key.”
This took longer to accomplish. While they waited, Costa studied the forensics summaries coming from the scout cart. But Fred looked at news digests about the Starke assassination until Marcus asked him if he needed a confidential huddle.
No, Marcus, thank you, he said.
“Hello?” Costa said, pointing to a line of text on an inventory report. The scouts had found a taggant in the digester dross. “And look here,” she said to Fred, “zoo flakes.”
“Zoo flakes?”
“Well, kinda like zoo flakes. We’re not sure what they are yet, but they have DNA sequencers for a human genome. What do you suppose they do at this Sitrun Foundation?”
Libby said, Commander, you may accept the key. Fred swiped the console, and Libby continued. Subject warbeitor is verified in lockdown mode. You possess the only reactivation key.
Fred scrutinized his open palm dubiously and then the motionless mech on the porch.
“Well, Londenstane,” Costa said, “shall we pick up our rogue?”
Fred shook his head and signaled for a private suit-to-suit link. Costa gave him a doubtful look but swiveled a little in her seat to touch his leg with her knee. Yes? Something on your mind?
I thought you’d want to know there’s no Cabinet rogue in there.
She pressed his leg a little harder. Say again?
We were brought here under false pretenses, Inspector. Your zoo flakes will most likely check out as containing sequencers for Starke’s DNA. It’s meant to be a big red “X marks the spot.”
I don’t understand, Londenstane. Explain.
Cabinet, or someone, has lured us here to retrieve the Starke daughter’s head.
Costa’s knee broke contact for a moment, then returned. How do you know this?
Two and two, he replied.
You’re joking, right? Russes have a sense of humor. When he didn’t say anything, she asked, Why are you telling me all this in private?
Because there’s a rat in the game somewhere. A big rat.
She gave him a big, mystified look.
Nicholas, the Applied People mentar, who had managed to keep its peace throughout the operation thus far, finally spoke up, Commander, is there a problem?
Fred and Costa broke contact. “No, Nick, no problem,” Fred said. “Libby, call back your scouts except for eyes and ears. And Michaelmas,” he said, craning around to see the jerry, “I want you to wrap that scary fecker on the porch with packing foam. The sooner it’s crated and on its way to the barn, the better.”
“Yessir,” the jerry said. He was standing at the carbine cabinet and handing Costa a Messers 25/750 over-and-under assault weapon.
Fred accepted one from him as well, though after weighing it in his hand, he said, “You know what, Michaelmas? I changed my mind. I want you to stay here and cover us with the megawatter. If that thing on the porch so much as shivers, you blast it. Understood?”
“Yessir,” the jerry said and took Fred’s place at the controls. The car’s large forward cannon started to hum, and Fred turned to Costa. She seemed preoccupied, for once unsure of herself.
“Coming or staying?” he asked her matter-of-factly. She gave him a pained look, then made up her mind. She grabbed an extra canister of packing foam and her carbine and exited the GOV with Fred.
Up close, the scary fecker on the porch was even scarier. It was a leggy thing, almost to Fred’s chest. Even motionless, it seemed to bristle with bad intent. There were weapons ports all up and down its outer legs. Otherwise, its appendages and ports were concealed by its shaggy coat of plasfoil velvet. To my brothers cloned, he told himself, when mentars and mechs get married, they make baby warbeitors.
While Michaelmas covered him with the GOV’s big gun, Fred and Costa sprayed the warbeitor with the foam. It went on like green whipped cream and set up fast. When it cured, it would have a tensile strength of many tons, and the warbeitor would be completely immobilized, even if it decided it wasn’t locked down after all.
The cart, meanwhile, finished reloading the scouts, and Costa sent it back to its tender. She followed Fred to the door. “Hey, Tuggers,” Fred said, “how do things look to you guys?”
Nothing moving in there, Commander, Veronica replied from the van.
Fred and Costa raised their carbines and braced themselves to go in. From her expression it was clear that the inspector had a lot on her mind. She frowned at Fred and said, “A day’s payfer says you’re wrong.”
2.27
Alert! was the perfect drug. It was fast-acting and brought one to a peak of total mental acuity without side effects like tremors or logorrhea. It came in precise doses, from four to twelve hours, and when it wore off, it did so all at once, without a hangover.
Samson washed down the Alert! with a sip of ’Lyte and continued his tale.
MELINA POST’S “ACCIDENT” occurred during an Around the Coyote theater performance that she attended with her husband, Darwin. Midway through delivering a comic soliloquy, one of the actors stopped and clutched his stomach. His waistline swelled ominously, but the audience took it as part of the act, at least until the actor shrieked. Then his bulging abdomen ruptured, and there was a mad rush for the exits. Too late, the building was already surrounded by bloomjumpers.
The Posts, along with audience, cast, and crew, were hauled off to Provo, Utah, and interred in the quarantine block of the Homeland Command holding facility, the same place I had visited several years earlier. Most guests never left quarantine alive, but since my own release, new detainees were given an option. You could stay and live a relatively comfortable life of protective quarantine, or you could leave—after being seared.
Melina and Darwin were permitted to occupy the same cell suite, and it looked as though they were settling in for the long haul—or until their sleepers woke up and expressed themselves. But after a few months of confinement, Melina lapsed into a state of profound depression, and after much brooding and prayer, she opted to be seared and released. Darwin chose to remain. They parted amicably.
Melina’s first couple of years adjusting to the life of a stinker were typically wretched. But then, three years into her new life, she met a dashing man who professed to love her so much he didn’t care about her infelicitous fetor. Naturally, she didn’t believe him because he was poor. But that wasn’t going to prevent her from having a good time. So they traveled together and stayed at posh hotels and tony resorts and took in shows and tours and the whole nine yards. She paid for everything, plus the surcharge stinkers always paid. She didn’t care. She had a beautiful man on her arm who composed sonnets to her.