Micro

Drake took up a hand controller, a device that looked a little like a video game control, and punched a code into it. This disarmed the bots inside the Omicron zone, and he entered a cluster of small, windowless labs with its own special access to the tensor core. Nobody was permitted inside Omicron except for a handful of top Nanigen engineers. In fact, few of the Nanigen employees were even supposed to know of the existence of Omicron. Inside the rooms, several lab benches stood about, and on the benches sat a series of objects draped in black cloth shrouds.

The shrouds concealed the objects. Whatever they were, they were secret. Even people permitted to enter the Omicron zone were not allowed to look at them.

Drake took a shroud off one of the objects. It was a robot with six legs, and it vaguely resembled a Mars robot lander or possibly a metal insect. It was not very big, about a foot across.

Drake carried the six-legged robot back into the tensor core, and handed it to Johnstone. “Your transportation. It’s got a full charge. Quad micro-lithiums.”

“We’re good,” Johnstone mumbled. He was chewing something.

“God damn it,” Drake barked. “What’s in your mouth?”

“Energy bar, sir. You get so hungry-”

“You know the rule. No eating in the core. You could contaminate the generator.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“It’s okay. Just swallow it.” Drake clapped the man on the shoulder in a friendly way. A little bit of mercy goes a long way with people who work for you.

Telius placed the six-legged device into Hexagon 3. The two men stood in Hexagons 2 and 1. Drake went into the control room. He would operate the generator himself. He had cleared all employees out of the core. Nobody could see him shrinking these men and this equipment. That would be a loose detail. He programmed Hexagon 3 to shrink the walker somewhat less than the humans would be shrunk. Just as he had locked down and started to initiate the sequence, Don Makele came into the control room behind him.

Drake and Makele watched together as the generator hummed and the power structures under the floor ramped up, and the hexagons descended. After the men had been shrunk, Drake placed the micro-humans in a transport box, and he put the hexapod in another box. He handed the boxes to Don Makele. “Let’s just hope the rescue succeeds.”

“Let’s hope,” Makele replied.

It was dangerous enough that Peter and the rest knew he had murdered Eric. But Drake also worried that Eric might have shared with his brother a very sensitive fact about Drake’s activities that could not be made public-and that Peter might have passed it on to the other students. This particular fact, if it were known, could destroy Nanigen’s business.

It was just business. Nothing personal, only logic. Just what had to be done in order to keep the business moving. Had Don Makele figured anything out? Drake couldn’t be sure quite what the security man thought or knew. Drake gave his security chief a sharp sidelong glance. “How many ground-floor shares do you own?”

“Two, sir.”

“I’m giving you two more shares.”

Makele’s expression didn’t change. “Thank you.”

Don Makele had just made two million dollars on this conversation. The man would keep his mouth shut.

Chapter 21

Fern Gully 29 October, 4:00 p.m.

Be quiet and don’t move. They have keen eyesight and sharp hearing.” Erika Moll was speaking. She was looking up into the branches of a mamaki plant, which extended some distance over their heads, unfolding large, lobed leaves. Clinging to a leaf was an enormous creature, a winged insect. The animal shone with brilliant greens, and its body was enclosed by a pair of lacy, green wings that looked like leaves. The animal had long antennae, bulging eyes, jointed legs, and a bloated abdomen, visibly packed with fat. They could hear a faint hiss, uhh, hiss sound as it breathed, the air flowing in and out of a line of holes in its flanks.

It was a katydid.

Rick took one of the blowgun tubes he had made and balanced it on his shoulder. He fitted a dart into the tube. The steel tip had a glob of stinking poison smeared on it, wafting a smell of bitter almonds and nastiness: Rick’s curare. A wisp of mattress stuffing, which Rick had taken from Station Echo, was fastened to the butt of the dart.

Rick knelt and brought the tube to his lips, being exceedingly careful not to get any curare in his mouth. The cyanide made his eyes water, and his throat felt tight.

“Where’s the heart?” he whispered to Erika Moll, who crouched beside him. She would direct his shot, for she knew insect anatomy best.

“The heart? It’s posterior dorsal to the metathorax,” Erika said.

Rick grimaced at Erika. “Huh?”

Erika smiled. “Just under the top of the animal’s back.”

Rick shook his head. “Can’t make the shot. The wings are covering the area.” He aimed the tube this way and that, and finally decided on a gut shot. He took aim at the animal’s lower abdomen, took a deep breath, and fired.