Counting Heads

2.14

After Cabinet’s visit to his office, Meewee packaged his few personal belongings in archival wrap. The wrap asked for forwarding and shipping addresses, and he had to admit to it that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Shortly after noon, when there was nothing more to do, he left for the last time, leaving behind Arrow’s small ceramic container of paste. Meewee didn’t even thank it for its service. At the first opportunity, he planned to undergo a terminus purge to eliminate his inbody connections to the aloof, unhelpful so-called mentar.

There was no one present in the Heliostream suite of offices to say good-bye to. The offices were usually bustling, even at night. But this afternoon the rooms were vacant, and the hallway checkpoints were staffed entirely by machines. Perhaps with the announcement of Eleanor’s tragedy, everyone was sent home early.

Meewee strolled to the dispatch bay, in no special hurry. From there it was a short ride by bead car to his apartment in Slab 44, but he took a lift up to the surface instead. It was Meewee’s habit to walk home from work each evening through the fields. The lift he boarded was a studio car, designed to carry three hundred, but it was also deserted.

On the ground floor, he passed the boardroom suite where they had met that morning and witnessed Eleanor’s undoing. With his position at Heliostream terminated and Eleanor’s daughter missing, there was little chance that he’d ever pass this way again.

When Meewee exited through the great crystal doors of the reception building and stepped outside, he savored delicious lungsful of soupy, tangy, pollen-soaked air. The ten-thousand-acre campus of Starke Enterprises stretched out before him, rolling Indiana hills planted in soybimi and troutcorn and dotted with fish ponds. Except for the reception building, there were no buildings in sight. Virtually all of the industrial complex and residential housing was buried in an underground arcology.

It was here, in front of the reception building, where his taxi had landed twelve years ago and he met Eleanor for the first time. She had invited him, the Birthplace bishop, to her “little shop” for lunch and a special proposal that she thought he might be interested in hearing about.

Meewee turned from the building and walked down the hill. For his last hike at Starke headquarters he chose a meandering path through the soybimi fields. Nearly five kilometers to his apartment, his evening walks usually took him an hour to complete. They had become his favorite part of the day and a priceless perk of his job (She couldn’t have foreseen that, could she?). For not only was the air alive with life, it was about the safest outdoor air on the planet that a person could breathe. The whole ranging campus was secure under its own canopy, which was in turn located under the Greater Bloomington canopy. A bubble within a bubble, it was a countryside free of fear of bandits large and small.

The soybimi fields weren’t exactly fields but rapid growth systems five tiers high, towering over his head. And the land had been cut into kilometer-wide slabs and the slabs tilted a few degrees north to allow for generous southern skylights for the arcology underneath. The tilted slabs of earth gave the horizon a weird sawtooth profile. He walked along the ridge of one of these slabs, protected from the sun by the wall of soybimi bushes. He paused more often than usual to savor the views and birdsong and chirpy crickets in this blessed refuge. He stopped to balance wobbily on one leg and pour powdery dirt, like diamonds, from his shoe. It was still early afternoon and warm, and his overalls kicked into cooling cycle. He wore no hat and let the sweat roll down his neck. When would he have access to a private reserve like this again?

At the end of one slab, Meewee reached a concrete promontory that overlooked a shallow valley beyond. This was the spot where she had brought him on that first day when he was so resistant to her and everything she stood for. She was, in his informed opinion, one of the chief architects of the slow corporate strangulation of Gaia, and he couldn’t fathom any proposal from her to have any possible merit. He prided himself in the righteousness of his cause and felt himself to be immune to her fresh-faced charisma.

She’d brought him here in a little cart and parked it overlooking the valley beyond. On the valley floor sat the Heliostream Target Array Facility, which was shaped like a three-kilometer-diameter trampoline. The plasfoil skin that was stretched across it was utterly black because, as Eleanor explained to him, it absorbed all EM frequencies. From where they sat, the black oval target looked to him like a giant hole punched into the planet, and the image had only increased his ire.

“Look up there,” she said and pointed to the sky. He saw a double halo, one above the other, of what looked like boiling air. “That’s where the microwave beam passes through the canopies,” she said. “Although the microbeam is nearly one terawatt in strength and the electricity it generates powers all the agriculture and cities from Terre Haute to Indianapolis, we can’t see it. Isn’t that fascinating?”

“I suppose,” he said.

“Well, let’s fix that,” she said and drew two pairs of spex from a seat pocket. “Put this on, your excellency.”

He put on a pair of spex and looked into the valley again. At first all appeared as before, but gradually the landscape darkened as though at sunset, and the huge array target in the valley below gave off a ghostly glow. No longer black, the oval target took on the appearance of a creamy disk, when, suddenly, it was stabbed from the sky by a shimmering shaft of the purest, whitest light Meewee had ever seen. “Ah!” he said.

“Ah, indeed.” Eleanor chuckled.

They sat for a while silently dazzled by the beam of raw energy, and then she said, “I’ve given a lot of thought to something you once said about your organization, your excellency.”

“Oh? And what was that?”

“About how Birthplace International’s mission covers only part of the job.”

“I don’t remember saying anything like that.”

“Mind if I quote you?” He shook his head, and Eleanor continued. “You said that the Birthplace organization was dedicated to ‘helping Gaia recover from a deadly infestation.’ The infestation you were referring to was the human race, I imagine. Then you said it was a pity that Gaia couldn’t infect all the other planets with the same blight, for then the disease might lose some of its virulence.”

Meewee was appalled. He remembered saying that, but it was an offhand remark made in confidence to several of his most trusted Birthplace colleagues. Furthermore, he’d expressed that opinion within the supposedly total security of a null room. How—?

“Did I misquote you, Bishop Meewee?”

“No,” he muttered, “but those words were not meant for public consumption.”

“Which is exactly why I trust their sincerity,” she said, “and why I believe my offer will be of interest to you. Care to take a little journey with me?”

“Journey? Where?”

“Up Jacob’s ladder,” she said with a laugh. “Up the beanstalk. Let’s climb the microbeam.”

She reached out her hand, which appeared as an icon in his spex, and pulled them right next to the pulsating shaft of pure energy. Meewee was so close to the microbeam, he could feel it buzzing. He knew it was all vurt, of course, but it was frightening nevertheless. Eleanor touched the beam with her hand, and they shot up along its length. Meewee’s perspective changed, and he saw their cart parked on the hilltop, with them inside, shrinking to a mere dot. The entire valley became one fold in a wrinkled green quilt. He saw the outline of the Eastern Seaboard, then the whole hemisphere and the rim of the planet.

They stopped ascending when they were in space and had reached the Heliostream Relay Station, which was an island of mirrors many square kilometers in area. From there, fourteen separate microbeams, including the one they rode up on, fanned out to hit ground targets across eastern North America. The beams looked like strings pinned to a globe.

“This relay is forty thousand kilometers up,” Eleanor said, “in geosynchronous orbit above the equator. From here we have a line of sight to our solar harvesters orbiting the sun ninety-nine percent of the time.” The sun was to their left, too bright to look at. “Each of those microbeams, when converted at their ground stations, provide between 985 and 1004 gigawatts of electricity for an average of twenty-three hours fifty-eight minutes a day, every day.”

Meewee knew he was safely seated in a cart in Indiana, but the view of Earth from this height was dizzying. Intoxicating. At his feet was the very orb he had dedicated his life to protecting. Eleanor drew his attention to fifteen more geosynchronous stations encircling the globe and binding the planet in a spiderweb of energy.

“Very impressive,” he said, “but what is your point?”

“I brought you up here, Bishop Meewee, to make a donation to your cause. Take a look around and choose one of these microbeams. Heliostream will donate to Birthplace International all of the proceeds earned by selling the electricity of that beam for a period of ten years. It’ll be your organization’s own private sunbeam.”

Meewee was incredulous. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“Several reasons. First, because I can. Second, to be a good corporate citizen. And third, to show you how serious I am. But mostly to pull those plugs from your ears so that you can really hear what I’m about to propose to you.”

Meewee removed the spex from his face, and his perspective returned to the cart. He turned to the girl sitting next to him and said, “I’m listening.”

She, too, removed her spex. “I’m offering you a part in a little project I call Garden Earth. It involves some heavy hitters in the business world, a fleet of starships, extra-system colonization, something I call a title engine, and a scheme to harness the most powerful force in Nature.”

“Which is?”

“Human greed, Bishop Meewee. Together we’ll harness the power of greed for the betterment of both the planet and humanity.”

MEEWEE TURNED FROM the promontory and continued his walk home. A fickle breeze rustled the purplish soybimi leaves overhead, shaking ripening beans from their stems and sending them clattering down collection chutes.

Despite all her persuasive power, it had taken Eleanor Starke several months to convince him to join her project. Still, after all these years he wasn’t sure what had motivated her to establish an organization dedicated to launching a thousand ships on thousand-year voyages to the stars. It was for more than mere profit, he was certain, but she was no Gaiaist or lover of humanity. He never managed to come right out and ask her, afraid of breaking the spell. And now it was too late.

Meewee was lost in his thoughts, tramping through the fruited fields when suddenly, out of nowhere, he was confronted by three miniature flying mechs blocking his path. Two of them were sleek and menacing, like assassins, while the third, hovering between them, looked like a larger version of a witness bee. All three of them had bright orange heads. Meewee remembered Zoranna’s parting warning and feared for his life.

“What do you want?” he demanded, but the mechs made no reply. Two of them, the assassins, flew about his head, buzzing him and grazing his scalp with their wings. “Help! Help!” he cried, flailing his arms over his head. Then there was a sharp pain in his armpit. While the assassins had distracted him, the bee stung him through his clothes. The pain quickly spread up his arm and neck.

“I’m dead,” he wailed. “You killed me.” But his assailants only regrouped and flew away. After a few minutes, when he didn’t grow weak or dizzy, he hurried the rest of the way home to his apartment in the executive housing. There he stripped off his overalls and examined the sting mark in the bathroom mirror. It was a swollen lump the size of a grape under the loose flesh of his underarm. It throbbed and was sensitive to touch.

Then he heard a buzzing sound and saw the orange bee behind him in the mirror. “Help! Help!” he cried again and hurled towels and a cologne bottle at it. It chased him into the living room where he picked up a chair to use as a shield.

“Relax, Meewee,” someone said. “You’ll injure yourself.” Meewee looked all about but didn’t see anyone. “I’m over here,” the voice said. It was Ellen Starke’s mentar, Wee Hunk, the size of a doll, sitting on the edge of the tea table. He was still wearing animal skins, but he was rendered more realistically, less like a cartoon.

“You!” Meewee said. “What’s the meaning of this?” As he spoke, he searched the room for the bee.

The meaning of this, Wee Hunk replied in Meewee’s head, is that I’ve got to find Ellen, and you’re going to help me.

Meewee found the bee with its two mates on a high shelf. He set the chair down and jabbed a finger at them. “Those things attacked me!”

So I hear. I’ll explain why, but please glot to me instead of speaking out loud. We must assume there are eavesdroppers everywhere, even here in the bosom of Starke headquarters. The little caveman crossed his brawny legs and leaned back against a flower vase. And please sit down, Merrill. You make me nervous with all that charging about.

“So, it’s Merrill now, is it?” Meewee said and went to the bedroom for his robe. “Like we’re old chums when only a couple of hours ago you dismissed me with a shrug of your ridiculous shoulders.”

Again, please glot. Don’t vocalize. I’m not kidding when I say we’re being monitored. And as to your clinic visit, you seemed to me to be more concerned with your own private agenda than Ellen’s welfare, so I tested you, and you failed.

You tested me?

Yes, I challenged your integrity.

Meewee searched his memory of their conversation in the clinic. I don’t recall anything like that.

Of course not, the little Neanderthal said, because I did so in Starkese.

Starkese? What is that, a language?

Exactly, and it’s the reason you were stung.

Meewee pulled the chair opposite the tea table where he could keep an eye on both the mentar and mechs. “Go on,” he said, sitting down.

Starkese is a private language spoken only by the Starke family and its retainers. Since you are one such retainer, I naturally assumed you spoke it too. If you had answered my challenge, I would have been inclined to cooperate with you. But you didn’t.

Meewee said, I don’t recall any challenge in any language.

Exactly, because Starkese can be hidden inside other languages. And since you failed even to realize you were being challenged, I took you for an outsider who was not to be trusted.

Meewee shook his head in befuddlement. And something has changed your mind?

Yes, our little friends there. Wee Hunk gestured at the mechs on their high shelf. They’re part of Eleanor’s command and control structure. They were activated after the crash. They vetted you and instructed me to cooperate with you in locating and assisting Ellen.

Meewee returned to the bookcase and stood on tiptoes to get a better look at the mechs. They were crowding a spot near the skylight that caught the rays of the afternoon sun. They were so still they looked more like jeweled broaches than weapons.

Eleanor sent them? Is Eleanor—?

She’s dead and irretrievable as far as I can determine, but that won’t stop her from exercising her impressive will on worldly affairs for some time to come.

Meewee returned to the chair. They told you to cooperate with me, in what way?

Before we go into that, Myr Meewee, allow me to state clearly what my interests here are. Ellen Starke, not Eleanor, is my sponsor and my friend. I am concerned only for her welfare and could care less about Starke Enterprises or your precious Oships. I do not take orders from Eleanor, Cabinet, or you. The tiny ape man extended his arms and cracked his bony knuckles one by one. Is that clear?

Meewee nodded.

Good. The only reason I’m here is because that bee there says that you have the means to find Ellen.

“I do?”

Yes, though obviously not on any conscious level. I suspect that’s why the bee stung you.

Meewee leaned forward and held his head, which had begun to throb. To help me remember something?

Actually, it said it injected you with Starkese.

Meewee looked up. Starkese again. If Eleanor wanted me to learn a language, why didn’t she just ask? I have a language alphine, after all. I speak thirteen world languages.

Starkese is not something one can learn; strictly speaking, it’s not even a language but a metalanguage that piggybacks on top of other languages. It has no lexicon of its own but simply borrows whole phrases from other languages for its morphemes. Its syntax is based on family lore, literary allusion, juxtaposed images, and much more. It’s not a code, not based on any fixed or one-to-one correspondence or mathematical model or encryption—so it can’t be “deciphered.” The same utterance you’d use now would have a completely different meaning five minutes from now. It can be hidden within ordinary-sounding conversation. No, Myr Meewee, I’m afraid it’s not possible to learn Starkese. You must be imprinted with it.

Meewee lifted his arm and peeked inside his robe. Won’t it clash with the visola in my system?

Relax, Meewee. You’re such a worrier. It’s not a NASTIE. The bee says it injected you with a fast-growing but benign cancer tumor that will grow into a little dab of ectopic brain tissue. Some hypothalamus and neocortex cells, that’s all. It’ll be nestled in your armpit where it’ll be protected by your arm, and you’ll hardly notice it.

Tentatively, Meewee squeezed the little knot in his armpit, saw stars, the floor, and blackness.