Everyone starts concentrating on my silent chant. In response, the Reds peck harder.
Thorn lets out a whoop of victory when the first Red finally squirms his head in, and wriggles in sideways, wing-by-wing. We cheer as the other three follow suit.
“No doubt there are armed guards in there,” Armonk says.
“The Reds will need to disarm them somehow,” Blane decides.
Feel the Reds. Direct them, Thorn thinks.
Turning to each other across the seat backs, we bow our heads and spread our arms across each other’s shoulders. Our silent humming picks up velocity. Its energy directs us to a mutual point of thought, of feeling, of language. Disarm, disarm, disarm, confuse, confuse we chant inwardly.
In my mind’s eye, I see the Reds swarm the guard closest to the window. In my chest, I feel the force of them charging him, over and over, nipping at his head, his hands. “The guard’s panicking,” I whisper.
“I feel that too,” Blane says.
“One Red is jabbing its wings in the guard’s eyes. Another one is pecking at his cheeks,” mumbles Armonk.
We hear the guard in our brains: What do you want, you crazy birds? How did you get in here? We feel him stagger to the window and release the automatic lock in frantic hope that the critters will opt out.
The orb window gapes open.
Now, we decide. I reach down and lift the cargo door. Dozens of Reds swarm up, jabbing at the window.
Release us, release us! they demand.
Cover the security cameras, we tell them.
But first, help me get in, I instruct.
The second I open the window, the Reds zoom out. Half of them fly inside and the rest, hovering, wait for me.
“I’ll go in and dose the guards,” I say.
“Good luck,” Armonk says.
Blane squeezes my hand. “We’ll be right behind you.”
I climb onto the undulating carpet of Reds they’ve formed like a magical woven basket to hold me aloft. They deliver me gracefully to the orb’s window. I sense that the Reds who have already flown in are covering the security cameras with their pliable bodies.
My vials at the ready, I leap off and through the orb window. The burly guard, dressed in jackboots and a NanoPearl logoed jumpsuit, wheels around with a scowl and a cry of shock. He raises his weapon, an odd looking blaster with tiny blinking lights. With everything I’ve got, I attack him before he can fire by leaping on him and smearing elixir over his face and hands. The salve’s effect is instantaneous. He groans as phlegm drips from his mouth. Drooping inch by inch to the floor, he sticks one sluggish arm out to brace his fall and then crumples like a doll that’s lost its stuffing.
I yank up his shirt, and spread salve, on his stomach and back—anywhere there’s exposed skin. The more I smear on, the longer he’ll stay zonked. And I want him zonked a whole lot longer than my demo lizard at the Axiom contest. Then I stuff his blaster in the waistband of my suit.
Dashing back to the window, I signal for the others to enter. Armonk secures the glider to the frame, and a contingent of Reds zooms out to ferry the guys in. Once in, Armonk adjusts his bow and helps Thorn slide inside. With all of his muscle mass, Blane has the hardest time squeezing in. The Reds soar around us, forming a crimson tide.
We blink at the flickering light in the hall. Its tremulous strobe reminds me of the carnival funhouse the elders made for us children in one of their rare playful moods.
Once my eyes adjust it’s clear that the hallway itself is dark, but a series of animated holograms, at intervals, spark the darkness to light. They’re almost as high as the ceiling. Some holos are spinning, while others jag maniacally up and down. As long as they don’t come near me I’m okay.
“Which way should we go?” I glance over at Thorn, our truest weathervane.
His eyes run down the length of hallway, as if he’s scanning what exists behind the surface. Then he wheels around and studies the hall from the other direction. Along this section, I see a few side doors. “How about those office doors—”
“No office.” Thorn stops and closes his eyes. “Warehouse.”
“Which way?” I whisper. He shrugs. The Reds seem momentarily confused too. They perch on the rafters, nervously chattering.
“Let’s huddle,” Armonk suggests. When we take each other’s hands and stand in a closed circle the air around us seems to talk.
Don’t damage us. We’re part of you. Don’t damage us.
Get us out of here, free us, get us out of here!
It’s confusing because even though the message is contradictory my inner core tells me it’s coming from the same source. During our huddle, the Reds careen overhead, from one end of the hall to the other as they eep loudly. I worry that their nervous chatter will give us away.
Don’t damage us, a stranger’s voice pleads.
Destroy them, destroy them runs a contradictory line.