Counting Heads

2.11

The Blue Team was within sight of the Gary Gate when it was attacked. One moment the team of bee and wasps was crossing a suburban canyon at rooftop level, and the next moment it was engulfed in a whiteout of diatomic dust. The jagged, microscopic grit clung to the bee’s exoskeleton, cams, and feelers. It worked its way through the bee’s seals and jammed its joints. Within moments, the Blue Team bee was spiraling blindly to the ground. Before it could hit, a jet-powered scupper swooped down like a bird of prey and scooped it into its V-shaped bow catcher. The bee tumbled through slotted gates into the scupper’s gullet, breaking a wing, and landed in a dark collection cage crowded with other damaged mechs. Media bees, witness bees, other mechs-for-hire, a police minidrone, and a smashed homcom slug. All of the captured mechs that were still viable were on Red Alert. The dark space inside the scupper was bright with Mayday transmissions in all spectra, but nothing penetrated the scupper’s shielded hide. The captives seethed in the tight space, thrashing broken wings, butting heads, and grinding themselves into a hash of shattered components.

As the scupper repeatedly changed course, the frantic mechs were dashed like pebbles against its cage walls. Blue Team Bee was unaware that one of its own wasps was present until the wasp grasped it around the middle. It, too, had been captured. Or rather, the wasp had followed its leader in. Now it wrapped its articulated segments around the bee, doing its best to buffer it against the violence with its own body.

When at last the scupper came to rest, its battered cargo gradually settled down. The bee ordered the wasp to release it and to try to cut through the cage wall with its lasers. But the cage was lined with plasfoid velvet that soaked up the concentrated laser light like a sponge. So, the bee instructed the wasp to pick at the velvet with its pincers, pulling filaments out one at a time. If it could breech the plasfoid in even one pinpoint spot, its lasers could burn a hole through the monster from the inside out. Other able-bodied mechs joined it in picking velvet strands.

Too soon, the scupper was in motion again. It dove, peeled out, tumbled, and looped. The wasp again grasped its bee protectively while the mechanical mulch flew about the cage. Meanwhile, the bee ran scenarios. If its wasp failed to pick apart the plasfoid velvet, the bee could order it to incinerate broken mechs against the cage wall, perhaps creating enough heat to melt the velvet lining. If all else failed, the bee would order its wasp to ignite its own plasma in a tiny fireball taking out prisoners and prison alike and destroying all traces of the bee, itself.

Before the bee could decide on a course of action, the scupper made a sharp dive from a great height straight into the ground. All the mechs slammed together against the forward bulkhead, and Blue Team Bee’s systems went dark.

SAMSON REACHED THE fourth floor of the charterhouse undetected. He tiptoed past the open door to the Green Hall where some of the Kodiaks were having coffeesh. He tiptoed past the closed door to the Administrative Office on the third floor, where Kale worked on the charter’s household accounts.

When Samson reached the ground-floor foyer, he donned a broad-brimmed hat and selected his favorite bamboo walking stick from the charger.

“Might I suggest the maple stick, Sam,” said Hubert.

“I like this one.”

“The maple stick carries a heavier charge, as well as a blade.”

Samson thought about it for a moment. The pest was probably right. He substituted the maple for the bamboo. Glancing around at the old charterhouse one last time, Samson touched the palmplate, and the heavy street door slid noiselessly aside.

On the steps, he looked left and right. There was little foot traffic on the block at this hour, few patrolling bees, and no Tobblers in sight. He descended to the street and, as quickly as he could, walked in the direction opposite the entrance to the NanoJiffy. Before he reached the end of the block, however, one of the Tobbler doors opened and a pair of Tobbler men came out.

Houseer Dieter and Chartist Hans, said Hubert in his ear.

Samson muttered, “I know who they are.” He went to the curb and turned his back to the men, hoping they would go by without bothering him. But Charter Tobbler was nothing if not nosy, and they stopped to chat.

“A fine afternoon to you, neighbor Kodiak,” said Houseer Dieter.

Samson acknowledged them with a nod.

“A fine day for a journey,” said the other.

Samson followed the man’s gaze to his maple stick. He would have liked to test its charge on him, but instead he said, “It’s true that a stroll to the end of the block and back qualifies as a journey for me these days.”

“Well and fine, and we shan’t keep you. Do enjoy your stroll.” Before leaving, however, the houseer asked, “By the way, what word on our request for inspecting the Kodiak rooms?”

Samson hesitated, and Hubert briefed him, The Tobblers think Howe Street is being undermined by material pirates. They want to inspect our part of the building for damage. Houseer Kale hasn’t made up his mind whether or not to let them.

Samson said, “I’m afraid, Myr Tobbler, that I am but a useless appendage to the clan. You’ll have to ask Houseer Kale about that.”

“I’ve tried on several occasions to reach Houseer Kale, but he does not return my calls.”

“That’s probably not his fault,” said Samson. “Our houseputer’s efficiency grows worse each day. Lately, it spills all sorts of data, including phone calls.”

“In that case, we’ll knock on your door and ask him in person.”

Samson froze. It would do him no good to have these Tobbs mention to Kale that they saw him on the street. “Unfortunately, our houseer is away on business. He won’t be back till tonight.”

“Splendid,” said Houseer Dieter. “We’ll speak to him tonight, then.” The two Tobblers continued on their way.

Our taxi is arriving, said Hubert. I told it to pick us up around the corner.

Samson hurried to the end of the block and turned the corner just as a yellow-black-yellow car dropped from the grid in a cloud of dust and opened its passenger compartment door. Samson clutched the seat and door frame and levered himself into the car. There was already a passenger inside who smiled indulgently at this incredibly old man, at least until his reeking stench reached her. She looked confused, and her eyes began to water, but she continued to smile.

“Good afternoon, Myr Kodiak,” said the taxi, “and welcome aboard. At Hi-Top Charter Taxi, we’re pleased as punch to cater to your transportation needs.”

“I thought I ordered a private car.”

“Your assistant has already indicated your destination, Myr Kodiak, and I have charted a route requiring only three or four intervening stops. Now, if you’ll sit back, the seat will secure you, and we’ll be on our way.”

Samson leaned back in the plush seat. Its cushions swelled around his thighs and waist to hold him in a gentle but firm grip. Satisfied, the taxi revved its powerful fans and lurched into the air. The woman beside him groaned and held her hand against her mouth. She looked a little green.

The taxi entered a nearby up-spiral and climbed around and around to the local grid. Samson closed his eyes for this dizzying part of the trip, while his fellow passenger was huffing through her mouth and swallowing repeatedly. Finally, she doubled over and vomited on her shoes.

Samson watched her and said, “Sorry, but I have that effect on people.”

The woman shook her head and vomited again.

“Myr Cornbluth,” said the taxi to the suffering woman, “I perceive you to be in physical distress. Shall I divert to a medical facility?”

The woman wiped her mouth with a towelette that the armrest dispensed. Floor scuppers were already cleaning up the mess at her feet and sponging her shoes with their busy little tongues. “No,” she said to the taxi, “take me to a train station.”

The taxi dropped to the CPT station located not far from the charterhouse. The woman swiped the pay plate, and her door opened. Before she decarred, she turned to Samson and said, “Best of luck to you, myr. I had a brother—” Sudden tears welled in her eyes, and she did not finish.

Samson was taken aback by such unexpected civility from a stranger. Before he had a chance to reply, two new passengers shoved past the woman and hopped into the taxi, only to hop out again just as quickly.

The taxi waited another half minute, and when none of the other people waiting in the taxi queue approached, it latched its doors and rose into the air. “Sorry for the delay, Myr Kodiak. We are rerouting and will depart at once to your destination in Bloomington.”

“It’s about time,” said Samson.

Sam, Hubert said, I have just contacted the manse, and Eleanor and Ellen aren’t there.

“Are they still up at Trailing Earth?”

No, and Cabinet doesn’t return my calls.

“Well, find them! I can’t do this without at least saying good-bye.”

Sam, prepare yourself for some very bad news.

“What bad news?”

The media is reporting a space yacht crash.

“Yes?”

Both Eleanor and Ellen are reported dead.

“But they said they’d meet me at the manse,” Samson said, aware of how stupid he sounded. “Are you one hundred percent certain, Henry?”

I’m checking sources.

“Oh, Henry, you shouldn’t say terrible things like that until you’re absolutely certain. It’s tormenting. You should know that.”

I am certain, Sam. Only the details disagree. It’s possible that Ellen may be retrievable.

The taxi did a U-turn and headed back the way it came.

“What’s happening?” Samson said.

I told the taxi to take us home.

“No, taxi, ignore my valet. Take us to Soldier Field.”

Are you sure, Sam?

“This doesn’t change a thing,” Samson said. He leaned back in the pillowy seat and shut his eyes. “I have to go through with it. Now more than ever. Soldier Field, taxi, and step on it.”

APPROXIMATELY TEN MINUTES after systems crash, as measured by an internal timekeeper, the Blue Team bee’s noetics rebooted. Its self-repairing bots had been released and were busy field-patching the bee’s vital systems. In the cage around the bee, only a few other mechs were stirring. Blue Team Alpha Wasp was dead, broken in two, both segments still clenched around the bee in a death grip. Wasps were expendable and carried no repair nano.

A crinkling sound alerted the bee to a spot on the cage wall where the velvet shield was melting away from the alloy fuselage. Blue Team Beta Wasp was lasering from the outside. The bee, encumbered by the locked segments of its dead companion, clawed across the debris pile to the wall. But the homcom slug got there first and blocked the growing breech in the wall with its body. It was sending a Mayday to its base through the broken RF shielding. This was not good. The bee could ill afford to be captured, and it had no means of destroying itself without help from its remaining wasp.

Precious minutes passed before the wasp cut a hole large enough to accommodate the bee, but the slug still blocked the way. As the bee worked through its options, the slug tried to crawl through the too-small hole itself. There was a hiss as its skin made contact with the hot metal edge, and it retreated reflexively, clearing the way for the bee.

While Blue Team Bee waited for the metal to cool, it ordered Beta Wasp to reach its grippers through the gap and break off the legs of its sister that still encircled it. Freed of its burden, the bee pushed the pieces of the wasp through the hole to Beta Wasp before crawling through itself.

The scupper had smashed into a pile of bricks at the back of a tiny garden that was wedged between two buildings. The dead scupper was a Frankensteinian contraption pieced together from odd bits of technotrash. Burn marks across its diaron armor traced the beta wasp’s probing laser fire. As the two surviving mechs of the Blue Team dragged the pieces of their broken comrade from the fallen scupper, the bee took stock of their systems. Its own repairs were proceeding apace, but it still could not fly. Its power cells were more than half depleted. Three of its six wings had suffered broken struts, and one wing was shorn off completely and was missing. The beta wasp was undamaged, but it operated on reserve power. Worse, it had depleted its store of weapons plasma. The dead alpha wasp, on the other hand, still had three-quarters of its original supply. They collected all of its pieces except for three of its six wings. The wings were of little consequence, for a wasp’s wings were off-the-shelf and sufficiently anonymous. The bee’s missing wing, however, was state of the art and traceable back to Starke Enterprises.

The bee crawled up the side of the nearest building and hid itself in cracked masonry in order to plot a course of action. It ordered the beta wasp, meanwhile, to incinerate the alpha wasp, after siphoning off its plasma into its own reservoir.

Their situation was bad, but not dire. Other regenerating mechs were already creeping out of the wreckage. The slug was still trapped inside, too big to pass through the hole. Meanwhile, the bee sensed five private security cars and one HomCom GOV circling over the roofs of the surrounding buildings. The garden plot was too tight for any of them to land, but soon they would send down small warbeitors to secure the scene. If the bee and its remaining escort managed to hide for an hour, they might still continue with the mission.

Except for one complication—the missing wing that was still inside the scupper’s collection cage. The bee was hardwired to always conceal its identity. Only its mission trumped the need to remain anonymous. So, as it spun out scenarios, its primitive mind kept jamming on the missing wing. Must it allow its wing to fall into the hands of the Homeland Command?

There was no more time to hesitate. The bee ordered the wasp to reenter the scupper and to either find and retrieve its wing, or incinerate the entire contents of the cage. Meanwhile, the bee climbed farther up the building to a patch of sunlight to begin recharging its fuel cells. The repair nano inside it had completed mending critical systems and was proceeding to those of secondary importance. The bee arched its leg to peel open a pair of blisters under its thorax, releasing millions of mite-sized mechs. These swarmed over its body, cleaning the remaining diatom dust from sensors and digging it out from articulating surfaces. As the mites ran out of energy by the thousands, they crawled along the broken wing struts and fused themselves together to make temporary splints.

Soon there was activity in the garden plot. A ground-floor window overlooking the garden opened, and out stepped two humans. Perhaps two or perhaps six or eight; the bee wasn’t able to make an accurate count. They were small humans, in any case, and their clothing did not transpond any official agency ID. Indeed, it was their clothing that confused the bee’s optical pickups, creating ghosts and multiple images. In IR the distortion was even worse, and they cast no radar reflections at all. Although the bee could acquire no solid fix on these humans, it could tell that the scupper was being lifted from the bricks.

Report progress, the bee ordered.

Much debris. Target wing armature found and destroyed. This unit can smell wing hoop but unable to locate.

Leave scupper, prick humans, resume search.

Acknowle— the wasp’s transmission was cut off as the scupper disappeared completely from the bee’s sensors. The crowd of ghostly humans seemed to be flowing back toward the open window. Before it/they reached the window, a hot spot appeared in IR. Twelve or sixteen ghostly hot spots, to be sure. The humans yelped in turn, and the scupper abruptly reappeared on the ground.

Several long moments later, Blue Team Beta Wasp alighted on the wall next to the bee. Wing parts located and destroyed, it reported.

Recharge, ordered the bee.

THE TAXI REENTERED the up-spiral. When they reached the local grid above the city, Samson saw the silhouette of Soldier Field outlined against the lake in the distance, but they were heading in the opposite direction.

“Taxi,” he demanded, “where are we going?”

The taxi replied, “Our new route includes only two intervening stops, Myr Kodiak. We’ll be there in no time.”

“No!” Samson insisted. “I want nonstop. I want express service.”

But the car docked in a transit bay at the 300^th-floor lattice arcade between two downtown gigatowers on the Midway picket. A gent in a richly tailored business jumpsuit climbed halfway into the car before he smelled Samson, and his expression changed to one of pure revulsion. He backed out of the car and said, “I thought all of you were dead by now.”

“Soon,” Samson said, “and fuck you too.”

“Call me another cab,” the man ordered the taxi and went back to the waiting area.

The taxi spoke to Samson again, this time in a different voice. “Good afternoon, Myr Kodiak. The taxi unit you are currently occupying has called me to mediate a possible customer relations issue. I am more proximal to the Hi-Top controlling mentar. Since our taxi units lack full sensory capability, I must ask you for your judgment: Is there some condition that makes conveyance in this unit uncomfortable to passengers?”

Samson was incredulous. “You have a lot of nerve,” he said. “I demand you immediately take me to my destination. No more delays.”

“What about odor?” the taxi went on. “Is there some foul odor in the unit?”

“I am running low on patience, taxi.”

Samson’s door unlatched and folded open, and his seat released him. “In that case, Myr Kodiak, would you mind stepping out? I need to take this unit back to the barn for further diagnosis.”

“Yes, I would mind,” Samson said, keeping his seat. “I would mind very much.”

“Regrettably, we are unable to transport you farther in this unit. If you decar now, Hi-Top Charter Taxi will waive your fare to this point.”

“Waive my fare to this point? Are you crazy? I’m farther from my destination now than when you picked me up. I’m not getting out. Take me to Soldier Field—or else!”

“That won’t be possible,” said the taxi. “After reviewing the in-cab recordings, I have concluded that you, Myr Kodiak, are the source of the problem. While we are never eager to take legal steps against our customers, unless you decar at once, we will file a suit against you to recover damages to this unit plus loss of economic opportunity for the time it is out of service. In addition, until any court-imposed penalty is satisfied, you will be unable to use any Hi-Top Taxi or affiliated service.”

“Are you threatening me, taxi?” Samson shouted, his scalp mottling in shades of red. “Believe me when I say that you don’t want to threaten me.”

In response, the seat cushions stiffened into a disergonomic “reject” shape that jabbed Samson in the kidneys.

“Henry!” he screamed. “I’m feeling like here will do. Right here, right now!” He pawed through his pockets for the simcaster, but he couldn’t find it.

Sam, Hubert said, please calm down and allow me to handle the situation.

“I demand my rights under the Accommodations Act of’54!” Samson cried.

Relax, Sam. You’ll hurt yourself.

But Samson did not relax. He beat the seat cushion with his fist. “Are you fireproof, taxi? Tell me that, are you fireproof?”

Two building security men, a jerry and a russ, in teal and brown uniforms approached the car. “Come on out of there, gramps,” said the jerry. When they came into smelling range, they recoiled in surprise.

“Whew!” said the jerry. “What you do in there? Crap yourself?”

“That’s not crap,” said the russ. “That’s a stinker.”

“Not possible,” said his partner. “They’re all dead.”

“Sure smells that way.”

The two men sealed their face masks, then reached into the taxi to try to grab Samson’s arm, but he scooted out of reach and poked at them with his maple stick.

“You don’t want to make us come in there after you, old man,” said the russ.

“Right here!” Samson cried in a rage. “Right now!”

“Now, now,” said the russ. “Do as we say, or we’ll be forced to sleep you.”

He extended his standstill wand and pointed it at Samson, but Samson fenced it away with his walking stick. The door behind Samson opened; the jerry had outflaked him.

“Henry, cast a sim of me now!” Samson shouted. Nothing happened. “Do you hear me, Henry? Do as I say!”

Sam, this is Hubert, not Henry. Do as the men say; I’m attempting to negotiate a truce.

“I will not!” he cried, and when the jerry tried to lift him from the seat, he spat at him. The spittle boiled away against the officer’s face mask.

The jerry backed away from the car and said, “Hey, this guy’s toxic.”

“No, he’s a stinker,” said the russ, “like I said.”

“Yeah? Well? I don’t recall how we’re supposed to handle ’em. Do you?”

The two security men fell silent while Nicholas briefed them on protocol for handling the cellularly seared. Meanwhile, the taxi closed its doors, shutting Samson in, and spoke to him in yet another new voice, “Good afternoon, Myr Harger,” it said. Harger, not Kodiak. “This is Hi-Top mentar Fuller speaking. I’d like to apologize for any misunderstanding caused by my partials. Please sit back, and we’ll proceed to your destination as soon as I smooth things over with building security.”

In a little while, the two security men outside Samson’s window turned around and left the bay. The taxi’s motors revved up, and the seat melted once again into an ultra-soft restraint.

“That’s more like it!” Samson said. “Be afraid!”

Chicago slipped by beneath them. Soon they were flying over the lakeshore, and the tall trapezoidal shape of Soldier Field Stadium lay below them. Samson ached all over. There were simmering bruises on his arms where the jerry had grabbed him, and his fist burned where he’d beat the seat cushion. It occurred to him that the next time he was in a situation like that, all he had to do was whack his skull against something solid, and that should do the trick. “Hubert,” he said, “next time, do exactly as I tell you. No arguments, no negotiations. Is that clear?”

If you say so, Sam.

“I do say so. I insist so.” The portable simcaster had been in his breast pocket the whole time. He took it out and flipped the control switch to voice mode. “Charge yourself,” he said to it, and the small device powered up.

“Ready,” it said.

“Myr Harger,” the taxi broke in, “we have arrived, see? And Hi-Top Taxi is pleased to waive the entire fare. In fact, we’re crediting you with three free rides to any Chicagoland destination in private cars. We’re landing now. We’re here!” The taxi settled on the uppermost transit parapet of the stadium and opened its door.

“That’s more like it,” Samson said, and when the seat released him, he began to climb out, but stopped and said, “You waived the fare? Anything else?”

“Yes, Myr Harger. Hi-Top Charter has asked me to apologize for this unfortunate incident. It seems a shame that chartists should fight among themselves.”

“Yes, a shame,” he said and put the simcaster back into his pocket. As soon as Samson got out of the taxi, the taxi slammed its doors and took off, leaping into the air on all six fans, not waiting for him to clear its wash zone. The dust caught Samson, and he coughed for a whole minute. He waited a few more minutes to recover, then crossed in front of the row of waiting scanways. Spared a side trip to Indiana, he was early. It was hours before the canopy ceremony would start, and the place was empty. Samson skirted the scanways and went to an adjoining pressure gate. The intrusive radiation of a scanway would set off his cellular wardens just as surely as a simcaster, and as a registered seared he had a waiver (something the taxi should have checked). The pressure gate fell, and a security arbeitor rolled out. It performed a gentle but thorough frisk and sniff of his person. It even asked him to open his mouth so it could peer down his throat. It confiscated his walking stick, loading his palm with a claim ticket for it, and escorted him through the gate. On the other side, an orange usher line lit up at his feet and led out of sight down the spiraling stadium gangway.

“Is it far?” he said.

“Not far, and downhill all the way,” Hubert replied from his belt.

Samson shuffled past not-yet-activated concession kiosks. It was hard to believe he was really doing this at last. “Hubert, have I written a farewell speech?”

“No, Sam, you haven’t.”

This puzzled him. He was almost certain he had jotted down a few ideas for a speech. Certainly, it was all he’d been thinking about these last few weeks. “Are you sure?”

“You said,” Hubert continued, “that when the time came, the words would take care of themselves.”

Samson didn’t believe it, but at this point, what could he do? “It’s refreshing to see how much confidence I have in myself.”

He followed the usher line to a loading gallery. Gratefully, he collapsed into a seat. Soft restraints threaded themselves over his shoulders and across his chest. “Ready to exit?” the seat asked.

Samson said, “Ready,” and the seat lifted him slowly outside through a pressure curtain and up and over until he was suspended over the gaping maw of the stadium. It was exhilarating to be the first seat out, and Samson took several deep breaths. The playing field was so far below him that it looked like a dinner plate at the bottom of a well.

“Tilt back,” he said, and the seat complied. “A little more.” Now he was looking into the blue sky beyond the stadium rim. This was the direction where the real action would take place tonight.

Hubert said, “I suggest a Gooeyduk snack now and some ’Lyte and maybe another oxytab. Then a nice nap. I’ll wake you up in plenty of time. Are you warm enough?”

“Toasty,” Samson said and reopened the Gooeyduk he had been nibbling on earlier. “But, tell me one thing, Hubert.”

“Go ahead.”

“What you said about El and Ellen earlier—how is that going? What do we know for sure?”

Hubert said, “Eleanor is gone. Ellen is an open question.”

“Ellen is all right?”

“No, Sam. Ellen is either dead or dying. The reports conflict.”

Samson opened a pouch of ’Lyte and drank several sips. He pulled the hood of the jumpsuit over his head. Oh, El, to pick the same day as me, he thought. What’s the point in that?

There was no point, at least none that he could see, just as his searing had been pointless. Just as Eleanor’s whole Target UKB turned out to be pointless. She had promised to identify those responsible for his attack, and she did, five years after he and Skippy left the manse. Only, she found too many of them, over two thousand individuals and groups. There seemed to have been a widespread consensus that her success was too meteoric and that brakes needed to be applied. The baby permit had been one result of this consensus, as they had suspected. His assault had been another. But not even with her most sophisticated snooping could Eleanor uncover anyone who actually gave the orders.

“It doesn’t work like that,” she told him. “No one at this level of the game actually orders such things. One merely expresses one’s annoyances, and others translate that into action on their own. That’s what minions are for.”

She left it up to him whether or not to destroy all two thousand miscreants. She said, “I promised I would, and I will. Though many of these people are currently my colleagues and business partners.”

She waited for him to answer. He had just moved into Cass Tower and started throwing gala dinner parties for probably these same people. “No,” he told her. “Dining with me is punishment enough. For now.”

THE DIMINISHED BLUE Team entered Chicagoland through the Gary Gate, posing as a media bee with armed escort. Within its mission files, the bee had only five purloined IDs to use, and it used up three of them at the gates separating the city sectors.

At Howe Street, the team ascended to the roof and traversed the tiered rows of hydroponics to the garden shed. The wasp easily sliced a hole through the door screen, and the two mechs entered.

A voice spoke immediately, “This is private property. Identify yourselves.”

The bee quickly scanned the room. The aromatic signature of the catcher was present and strong, but there were no living bodies in the space. The wasp confirmed the bee’s readings. The bee flew closer to the cot where a still form lay under covers.

“We invoke our right to privacy,” said the voice, which came from a speaker lying on a bench.

The bee ignored the vacate order and finished its assessment. The form on the cot was not human.

The Blue Team exited the shed and flew to the stairwell door. The door was shut, and the beeway above it was blocked with concrete. Tomography indicated that many of the building’s bricks were hollow, and the wasp was able to bore a hole through one to gain entry to the building. The team methodically searched each floor, room by room. Non-catcher humans were present in some of them, and they demanded the team’s immediate surrender. One of them even foolishly tried to disable them with an old harmonics wand. The wasp cut the wand in two with one well-placed pulse of light.

Satisfied that the catcher was not in the building, the Blue Team exited through the street-level slugway. It followed a volatiles trail on the building’s wall and sidewalk to the end of the block where the trail ended. If this mission had been provided even minimal tactical support, the bee could have continued tracking its target via the thousands of fixed CCTV cameras, witness bees, CPT recordings, and suborbital drones. But there was no mission support, not even a Legitimate Order Giver; the Blue Team was on its own.

The bee led the wasp to the rooftop of the building opposite their target. Here they had a commanding view of the entire street as well as the rooftop garden and shed. The bee ran its scenario mill while they waited.