I press my ear to the duct again and concentrate. I hear nothing. I risk crawling back to listen at the vent, whose open slats should allow more sound.

Still nothing.

Oleg has probably given up and headed back down to Three, where the rest of the engineers are. What is the status of Blackquest 40 now? Will they forge ahead without me? Who'll fill in for me? Is Prisha being pressured to step up? Will Paul shift back into a programming role, revive his former code-ninja persona?

I need to know what's happening—whether they're giving it whirl or packing up, planning to cut bait and blow us all to smithereens on their way out the door.

Unfortunately, Raven is no longer an option, and I get the feeling if one my dragonflies shows her pointy face to a Yellow Shirts, she'll be squashed with the nearest heavy item.

The only workable option is my droid-Hot Wheels. They do have audio, micro-electro-mechanical microphones that're part of our Hot Wheels of the Future prototype for Mattel. I begged Paul for this project. Hot Wheels had been my favorite toy growing up; I used to keep a plastic bag hung off Mom's cart, a dedicated receptacle of found cars, and stage epic races down overpass concrete.

I love those guys and the tech is cash-money, but I haven't tested their hearing range. If Oleg is addressing the engineering team, will they pick it up?

Depends.

On where he is. Possibly on how their bin is oriented.

I sit up, Hedgehog Eleanor Roosevelt on my crossed legs. When I check HOTWHEELS_FLEET, the expected number, fifty-seven, report for duty. I activate number sixteen at random and tap into her audio feed. The sounds are so faint I wonder if her mic is malfunctioning, or she's buried in the middle of the bin.

I try a few other Hot Wheels. Their feeds are no better.

Grime is gathering between my toes—feeling it, I use the cuff of my sleeve to clear it. What to do? Should I sneak around through the ductwork and disable all those charges? Though I dabble in it for robotics, electrical engineering isn't my forte—and disarming explosives is not a thing you wing it on.

I really need ears downstairs.

I think I have to knock over the bin of droid-Hot Wheels. If I can land one right-side-up on the ground, I can drive it within range of the action on Three.

When I considered this option before, I kinda tossed it off—oh yeah, theoretically I could dump the bin—but now I have to make it work. The sides of the bin aren't that high, maybe a half-inch taller than the pile of Hot Wheels. It's even possible, with all of them revving and spinning their tiny rubber wheels like banshees, one could whiz its way up and out, tumbling to the carpet without toppling the whole bin.

I write a simple script instructing all to accelerate to infinity for ten seconds, beam it to the fleet, then EXECUTE.

Listening on number sixteen's audio, I hear the high whinny of many three-volt motors, metal knocking, and much static.

The feed returns to its former nothingness after ten seconds.

I tap out a command asking number sixteen for her position history. Hedgehog Eleanor Roosevelt belches out a series of latitude-longitude-altitude numbers, all of which are identical out ten decimal places.

So she went nowhere.

Did any of them? Is the bin simply too heavy?

I write a script to loop through and find the lowest-altitude Hot Wheel, to see whether any managed to escape. I am not wildly hopeful kicking it off...but the script finishes with intriguing news: a few Hot Wheels do show altitudes about four feet lower. I grab the first, nine, and give its audio a whirl.

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