Counting Heads

2.26

Fred and Costa analyzed the house from a restricted holding pattern one kilometer overhead. Fred had changed into the HomCom blacksuit in the aft compartment of Costa’s GOV as he briefed his new partner, a recent-batched jerry by the name of Michaelmas. Fred’s new skullcap wasn’t fully initialized yet, and his blacksuit balked at its attempts to synch up.

When Fred joined Costa in the cab, he made no comment about the fact that she, too, wore a full, regulation blacksuit. The evening must be too chilly for culottes.

Although the neighborhood they covered from their parking loop was bright with alarm, there wasn’t much moving down there, and the rows of houses, each proudly planted on its own lot, were doubly opaqued to outside snooping.

Costa said, “Hail them.”

Fred opened a diorama of the Line Drive neighborhood and laid it over the theater map on the car’s HUD. Then he reached into the diorama with his pointer and tapped a house on its roof. “SFR2131 Line Drive,” he said, “this is Homeland Command.”

The house made no response.

“I repeat, SFR2131 Line Drive, this is Homeland Command. Please respond.”

When still the house ignored Fred, Costa said, “Libby?”

The UDJD mentar replied, The subject SFR possesses a federally granted surveillance variance.

Fred and Costa exchanged a glance.

The subject SFR is registered to the Sitrun Foundation, Libby continued. We are attempting to locate the foundation’s officers. In the meantime, you may serve your warrant.

Costa spiraled the Gov down to the street and landed it within view of the house. Fred said, “Go over this again with the broadcast.”

“Libby says that Nameless says that it came from the basement here.” Costa leaned over Fred and pointed to the spot in the diorama. “It was encrypted and unintelligible, except for the sig. The broadcast was on multiple bands and channels and ended with what appeared to be small-arms discharges inside the house.” She pointed again. Fred looked at her arm rather than where it was pointing. Not a small arm. Rather an athletic one. He turned his attention back to the diorama. The many bees present showed up as pinpoints of colored light, the color depending on the mech’s affiliation. More bees were arriving by the second and joining the legions already lurking in the shrubbery. “I feel like a latecomer to the party,” Fred said.

Costa gave him a look. “Speaking of parties. I’m sorry to have interrupted yours.”

“Not a problem.”

Costa pointed into the HUD again, this time at the outskirts of the theater map where a little blip was moving in their direction. “I’ve ordered some scouts to ring the doorbell for us. They’re still five minutes out.”

Fred pointed to a closer blip approaching from the opposite direction. “What’s that?” A large vehicle was entering their perimeter. Its transponder ID’d it as a shipping container belonging to a moving and storage company.

Costa said, “Libby?”

They seem to have a legitimate permit to pick up an object in the subject SFR.

“I’ll bet they do.”

The huge van touched down halfway in the residence’s driveway and halfway in the street, effectively blocking both. On its vast side was painted a large, mustard-colored capital T in an olive-green circle—Charter TUG.

Libby said, What do you want me to do with them, Inspector?

“We’ll want to talk to them, of course,” Costa replied, “but not right now. Send me someone to collect them, and in the meantime, order them to shut everything down and to remain inside their vehicle.”

Acknowledged, Libby said, but a minute later, the van’s rear hatch opened, and two TUGs stepped down to the street.

“Libby?” Costa said.

They’re ignoring our orders.

Two matched specimens of that odd charter, in their olive and mustard jumpsuits, loitered next to the aft hatch of the container van.

“Michaelmas,” Costa said, “what are they doing?”

“Just standing there s’faras I can tell, Myr Inspector,” said the jerry. “They scan as unarmed, but the van is opaque, so there’s no telling.”

Fred zoomed in a little with his visor and discovered that one of the tuggers was a woman. Their body mass and shape were so similar it was hard to tell. A jarhead uniformity achieved not through cloning or retrosomal gengineering, but through deep body sculpting and phenocopic surgery.

Fred zoomed in a little closer and said, “I know her.”

“Say again,” Costa said.

“I recognize one of them.”

“Really? How can you tell?”

Fred let the question pass and said, “Looks to me like they want to parley.”

“They can parley at the station.”

Fred got up and opened his door. “Looks like our scouts are still a few minutes out. I won’t be long.”

Costa watched him without comment. The jerry rose to accompany him, but Fred motioned him to sit. He exited the GOV and was immediately surrounded by bees. They darted in front of his face vying for his attention. Tiny frames opened, and tiny heads shouted questions at him: What is the nature of this HomCom action? Is it related to nanoterror? Was there a firefight inside the house at 2131 Line Drive? Is the incident related to the Market Correction of’34?

Fred said, “Uh, Libby?”

Suddenly, and all at once, the bees flew away.

Cordon in place, Commander.

“Thank you.”

He shut the starboard door, catching a glimpse of the inspector, who didn’t seem too happy with him.

Fred approached the van and TUGs. Well? he said, when he was almost upon them. Marcus, I’ve forgotten her name.

Veronica Tug, Marcus said.

“Veronica Tug,” Fred said, offering her his hand. “Didn’t expect to see you again today.”

“Me neither,” she said, shaking his hand. Her hand was bigger than his, and stronger, an odd sensation for a russ to experience. “Looks like you’ve had a day of it,” she chortled. Though her mouth was buried in the fleshiness of her face, the sound that came out of it was light and melodious. “And an interesting one, by the smell of it.”

“Interestinger by the minute,” Fred said and offered his hand to the male tugger.

“This is Miguel,” Veronica Tug said, not bothering to append his charter name.

“A pleasure, Miguel,” Fred said. “I’m Fred Londenstane.” But the tugger couldn’t force himself even to shake hands with an iterant. Fred dropped his hand and turned back to the woman. “I haven’t had a chance to debrief my proxy from this morning, Myr Tug. I hope the arrangements you made with it have satisfied Myr Pacfin.”

“There’s no satisfying some people,” the tugger woman said, “so don’t beat yourself up. You did a good enough job. You agreed to keep the pikes on a leash.”

That probably meant keeping them off the convention floor. “That sounds doable,” he said.

“Those are the exact words your proxy used. It also agreed to enlist five hundred TUGs to supplement your security force.”

“It did?” Fred said. “Amazing. I’ll have to talk to my proxy and find out what I was thinking. As to this situation—” he went on, gesturing to include the entire block. “We want you to return inside your big box and wait for some nice officers to come talk to you. Okay?”

“Gladly, Commander,” Veronica Tug said without hesitation, “but first you might wanta see what we got in our big box.”

“And what would that be?”

“I don’t know what it would be, Commander, but I know what it is.” Her delivery was deadpan and sweet.

Fred said, “So what is it?”

“Only just a gamma S-ray densiscanner.”

Fred looked doubtfully at the van and then at her. “That’s a pretty hairy piece of gear to be hauling around.”

“Why, thank you,” she said. “It can do a seatrain in fourteen passes, a warehouse in two or three.”

“I’m sure it can,” Fred said. “And now that you mention it, I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing something like that.” He gestured them toward the hatchway. “After you,” he said and followed them inside.

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.”

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.”