Counting Heads (53 page)

The Blue Team bee, on the beam over Mary’s head, watched the human activity below with the dimmest of comprehension. Today, all of the humans seemed to be running hot.

The first medtech left in search of nose plugs, but Coburn stormed over to the evangelines at the controller and demanded, “What are you dittoheads doing?”

“Her father was a seared,” Mary said, “and quit using that word.”

“Get away from this equipment.”

“Relax, Coburn,” Hattie said. “No one’s harming your precious equipment.” She went to the controller herself and paged through a quick series of diagnostic reports. “So, Ellen had a stinker in the family. Why didn’t they tell us that a few days ago when it might have done some good?”

Coburn set his medkit on a tray next to the tank and laid out his instruments. “Lower armature,” he told the controller.

“Controller, hold up a sec,” Hattie said.

“Hattie, let me do my job. Concierge wants the deceased unplugged and morgued as soon as possible.”

“Give me two minutes,” Hattie said and continued paging through diagnostic reports. She settled on one that displayed a cross section of Ellen’s brain stem.

Mary stood next to Hattie and said, “Did you find something?”

“Did you, indeed?” said Concierge, who strolled in through the cottage door. “I don’t see anything,” it said, answering its own question, “except use of the controller by unauthorized personnel to input odor. Did it work? No, I see no response.” The tall mentar in its snowy white jacket stopped in front of Mary. “Myr Skarland, in the future, if you find employment in a Fagan facility, please bear in mind that only licensed personnel are permitted to operate clinic equipment. That includes the olfactory sampling port of a hernandez tank controller. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Concierge,” she said.

“I am barring you from this clinic,” Concierge continued. “Please leave at once.”

Neither Mary nor the other evangelines protested, but Hattie said, “It’s not her fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I’m the one who showed them how to sample odors and told them it was all right to do so.”

“I agree,” Concierge said, “and you shall leave with Myr Skarland. As for you, Medtech Coburn, why hasn’t Myr Starke been de-installed as I requested?”

Coburn quickly removed the wings of the tank lid and lowered the waldo armature into place. Its mechanical fingers immediately began removing tubes and wires from the skull. This got the Blue Team bee’s attention—a machine removing other machines from the prize.

“That’s more like it,” Concierge said. He looked at Hattie and Mary. “Why are you still here?”

Hattie said, “I am entitled to disciplinary protocol, which isn’t initiated until Applied People has received a written complaint from you. Unless you’re accusing us of endangering this patient? Is that what you intend to do? If so, I must say, it will be easy to prove that you’ve been aware of the evangelines’ so-called unauthorized use for days and said nothing.”

Concierge said, “As you wish. I’ve ordered campus security to escort you from the premises.” Concierge went to the door and said, “I am appalled by your lapse of professionalism.” It left the cottage and the door closed behind it.

Hattie, Mary, Cyndee, Alex, and Renata stood in stunned silence. Meanwhile, Medtech Coburn quietly tended to the plucking of Ellen’s skull.

Finally, Mary broke the spell. “Hattie, tell us what you found.”

Hattie shook her head and said, “I didn’t find anything, but Concierge thought I did, so there must be something to find.” Outside, there was the sound of footfalls on the garden path. The door swung open, and two security officers in clinic uniforms, a russ and a jerry, came in. The jerry bawled, “Security! Would Myren Beckeridge and Skarland please step this way.”

The women only stared at him.

“Do it now!” he commanded and extended his standstill wand with a loud snap. This was enough to tip the bee into action. It left the security of the blind spot and crawled to the underside of the ceiling beam.

Hattie, the only jenny present, said, “Officer Jerry, I understand you have a job to perform and all, but are you threatening me with a weapon?”

The jerry blanched. “Nothing personal, Nurse Jenny,” he said and telescoped his wand, “but you and the ’leen have to come with us—
right now
.”

“No, they don’t,” said another clinic guard who entered the cottage behind the jerry. It was a belinda of a slightly higher rank. “You’ve been reassigned,” she said. “Check your orders.”

The jerry did so and said, “They’re all yours, Lieutenant.” When the russ and jerry had left, the bee crawled back to its blind, and the belinda simply vanished.

“What just happened?” Renata said, but no one had an answer.

THE STARKE CAR set down in the clinic lot, and Meewee and Dr. Rouselle lifted the hernandez jr. tank out of the cargo well and lowered it into the arms of the medbeitor. Man, woman, and beitor traversed the parking lot and turned down the brick drive. When they reached the gatehouse, Meewee ordered the guard, “Drop the gate!”

The guard, a jerry, raised an eyebrow and said, “Excuse me?”

“I’m ordering you to drop the gate.”

The guard turned and called behind him, “Hey, Chaz, come here. You’ll want to see this one.”

A second jerry guard came over and said, “What’s going on?”

“He’s
ordering
me to drop the gate,” the first guard said, and the two of them had a chuckle. Then the second one said, “Swipe the post, myren.”

Having used up his small reservoir of bluster, Meewee nodded to the doctor and together they swiped the post.

“Myr Meewee,” said the guard, “it says here that you have FDO status, so you may pass. But I’m afraid that you, Dr. Rouselle, have no visitor privileges. And as for that,” he said, pointing to the medbeitor bearing the hernandez jr., “you’d better leave it out here.”

Meewee said, “Call Concierge at once. I demand to speak to it.”

“Speak away,” said the guard. “It’s always listening.”

“Concierge, I demand you let us pass.”

Concierge emerged through the pressure gate and greeted Meewee with a holo salute before turning its attention to the doctor. “Dr. Rouselle, what an honor,” it said, “and surprise. I’ve followed your career with interest. I had no idea you’d returned to the UD.”

“Thank you,” said the doctor.

Meewee broke in. “We didn’t come here to discuss careers.”

“What did you come here for?” asked the mentar.

“We’re here to assist Wee Hunk in removing Ellen Starke from your clinic immediately.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it. Why hasn’t Wee Hunk informed me?”

“It’ll inform you now.” Meewee turned to the medbeitor and said, “Wee Hunk, tell Concierge we want to remove Ellen.”

The medbeitor projected a life-size version of Wee Hunk, but its image quality was poor, and it flickered. Meewee repeated his request, but the mentar seemed not to comprehend, and Meewee said, “Hello? Wee Hunk?”

“Yes?” said a new Wee Hunk that appeared opposite them. It was not flat or halting, but a solid, coyote-skin-clad Neanderthal in hyper-sharp definition. “Ah, Meewee, good to see you again,” it said. “And look what you’ve brought me, my missing backup. I was wondering where it had gotten itself off to.”

Identification failure
, Arrow said.

The medbeitor projection next to Meewee ceased, and the portable tank buzzed for half a second. Wee Hunk said, “Sorry, Merrill, but as I told you this morning, Ellen has succumbed to her trauma. The doctors did all they could, but her injury was too extensive.”

Meewee ground his teeth. “That is bad news indeed, but we’ll see her anyway. At once.”

“Patience, old friend. Let’s let the staff clean her up a bit first.”

Dr. Rouselle peered at the Wee Hunk projection and said, “He is not Wee Hunk?”

“I’m afraid he’s an impostor,” Meewee said. It was time to launch Plan B. He stepped back a little, raised his hand, and brought it down sharply to his side.

Immediately a GOV appeared over the treetops and landed on the greensmoat next to the drive. Its gull wings sprang open, and six deputy marshals in blacksuits trundled out, armed with railgun carbines. A large emblem of the UDJD Marshal Service floated above them, and the pressure gate fell at their approach. They hustled right through the mentars Wee Hunk and Concierge, pausing only to swipe them their writ of habeas corpus. The clinic guards offered no resistance.

Meewee grasped both handles of the hernandez jr. and took it from the medbeitor. Clutching the portable tank to his chest, he hurried to get ahead of the deputies. “This way,” he shouted, skirting the scanway and S-barriers and leading them and the doctor through double doors marked “South Gate Plaza.” From the plaza, he found the path to Mineral Way and jogged past Quartz and Mica cottages to Feldspar.

Meewee led the charge up the garden path, but a marshal held him back at the door and signaled her squad to go in first. Meewee was breathing hard from exertion and exuberance. When the officers had all passed inside, he boosted the heavy tank in his arms and followed them through the door.

Only to find himself standing in the clinic parking lot next to his own car.

The deputies were milling around, bewildered.

“This is our car?” said Dr. Rouselle behind him.

BLUE TEAM BEE, in its blind atop the ceiling beam, detected a sudden barrage of clinic comm concerning possible intruders. The whole southern half of the campus was being placed on Yellow. All staffers were instructed to strongly encourage guests to move indoors without causing alarm. For the bee, these events were of a tactical nature and easy to parse. Intruders could mean allies.

The bee sent the wasp to South Gate to investigate. Blue Team Wasp flew to South Gate and lurked near a plaza path until a convenient pedestrian went by. The wasp rode into the gatehouse under a hat brim.

AN ASSAULT PARTY of UD Marshals running around in circles on the greensmoat and parking lot was just the sort of funny business that Fred had been watching for. He called a taxi to pick him up on top of the container. It took him down to South Gate and dropped him off in front of the gatehouse. Behind the pressure gate, two jerry guards were on duty, and behind them Fred glimpsed enough of the gatehouse to guess its basic layout from hundreds of similar facilities he had done duty in. There would be two offset, floor-to-ceiling vehicle barricades that, together with pressure gates on both ends, segmented the gatehouse into three independent blastproof blocks. It was a summit-class gatehouse, and he was glad he had ditched the idea of trying to smuggle a weapon through.

Fred went to the far end of the pressure gate and said, “Hey,” to the jerry standing behind it.

“Hey, yourself,” the jerry replied and opened a sentry window.

Fred swiped the post with his false palm, thereby starting the clock on Myren Planc and al-Hafir’s fictitious existence.

“Myr Planc,” said the guard, “what can we do for you?”

Fred relaxed a bit, relieved that his disguise had passed its first test. He was Myr Planc, and this was a jerry. “What are you asking me for, Myr Klem?” Fred said, reading the man’s name tag. “Why not ask your Visitor Log?”

The jerry said, “I already did, Myr Planc, and you’re not in it.”

Fred made a show of scratching his chin, which was a jerry habit. Jerrys scratched their chins whenever things didn’t add up. The guard frowned and said, “Knock it off.”

“Well, it’s a problem,” Fred said. “My boss is already paranoid enough about deep-body mechanics as it is. So he sends me down here to glass your shop, and the first thing I discover is you lost my appointment?”

The jerry said, “I doubt it’s even possible for Concierge to lose an appointment, Myr Planc.”

“No, wait,” Fred said. “That’s
not
the first thing I discover. The
first
thing I discover is you have a squad of deputy marshals chasing themselves around in circles in your greensmoat.” Fred smirked at the jerry, and the jerry smirked back.

“You mean those training exercises?” the guard said. “Give me a minute, Planc, and I’ll try to straighten out your problem.” The window closed, and Fred let out his breath. He watched the deputies across the greensmoat returning to the parking lot. They piled into a GOV and sailed away. Whatever their action was, it was a complete washout.

While feigning a yawn, Fred covertly popped a spitball from the identikit into his mouth. Then he noticed movement on the ground near him. A homcom slug was crawling across the driveway. Fred had to remind himself that he was in Decatur, not Chicago. Decatur still had a canopy in its sky. And it still had slugs.

The skin mastic that Fred wore was coded to Myr Planc, but slugs generally tasted cells deeper than that. The slug made several search grid switchbacks, then stopped and changed course, heading straight for Fred. It seemed to have a lock on him.

Fred took a couple steps closer to the pressure barrier. The slug kept coming, so he pressed his back closer, generating a zone of air turbulence around him. The pressure heated his skin painfully, but the slug stopped advancing. It had lost track of him and resumed its default gridding. When it set off across the drive, Fred stepped away from the gate. Immediately, Marcus’s pulsing icon appeared in his visor. There was an urgent message from the BB of R, and Fred dared not ignore it. But he couldn’t use his newly deeper voice with the mentar, so he glotted instead.

Yes, Marcus?

Oh, it is you, Londenstane. I was unsure. I am getting confusing signals from your most recent skullcap
.

It’s me, Marcus. What can I do for you?

We need to discuss a BB of R bylaw
.

Now?

Yes
.

The slug, which had almost crossed to the greensmoat, stopped suddenly and idled in place.

By all means, Marcus. I’ve had a long week, it’s my day off, and you want to talk shop. Be my guest
.