Eventually.
Keats grabbed her hand and pulled her away.
“We’re separated,” Keats said breathlessly.
“I know. I know,” Plath said.
Her biots ran blindly across a human palm, no idea where to go or what to do. And no better idea, really, up in the macro.
“This jacket is hot. I think I’ll wear a summer dress. Something sleeveless.” The voice was not recognizable, not even through the sensors of the two nanobots specially modified to detect sound waves. Even with the best “Big Ears” a nanobot rendered every voice into a high-pitched whine.
But the droll sense of humor was that of the president of the United States.
“That would certainly draw the media, Madam President.” The second voice was Liz Law, the president’s body woman, who at that moment unwittingly carried a small but potent army.
“In April I had the honor of meeting with the queen. Goddamnit. In April I had the honor of meeting with Her Majesty the queen.” The president was practicing her toast. “Her Majesty. Her Majesty the queen.”
In the end, it had been easy for Bug Man.
He had made all the jumps along the pathway. Down in Washington, and then back in New York. Like a passenger plane making multiple stops, or a flea hopping from dog to dog. Now all his boys—twenty-four fighters, four spinners—were ready and primed and quivering with readiness on Law’s finger.
Nanobot optics had strengths and weaknesses. Biots saw in greater resolution; it was one of their strengths. Biots were insanely quick at detecting movement and had a connection between sight and mind and action that made them superior to nanobot fighters one-on-one.
But nanobots were machines, and had the advantages of machines. For one thing their visual data could be combined to form macro images. Line a dozen or so nanobots up in a row, point their optics in the same direction, and the computer at the base station could form those smaller images into a larger one. Nanobots produced digital data, and digital data was, as always, wonderfully manipulable.
It was complicated, using the optics that way, and doing it meant keeping a large percentage of his force stationary, which Bug Man did not like. No twitcher did. But sometimes it was worth it.
Worth it now as he saw the actual face, the familiar jowly chin all the comics joked about, the sleepy/smart eyes, the stiff, brown hairdo, the slightly too-hip earrings, all of it. Probably the most recognizable face on Earth.
It was only a flash, that image, because Liz Law’s fingers were moving, fussing about. So Bug Man saw a dish and a desk and a sleeve and a cloth used to wipe something from that sleeve, and the presidential face again, then a window …
“In April I had the honor of meeting with Her Majesty the queen. When my good friend, Prime Minister Bowen, joined us, Her Majesty pointed out … What is it, Tom?”
A new voice, male, too far away to be understood. It spoke briefly. “That’s good news,” the president replied. “Good work, Tom. Tell the Speaker that seven percent is fine.”
Bug Man was in a storefront dental office directly across First Avenue from the UN. On the outside the office looked a lot like a tavern. On the inside it looked a lot like a tavern after an epic drinking contest, because the dentist, receptionist, hygienist, and two unlucky patients were stacked like firewood against a back wall, passed out after being shot full of a narcotic that would guarantee a nice, long sleep.
A sign on the front door pleaded illness and asked patients to call to reschedule.
AmericaStrong techs had moved the twitching gear into the two examination rooms, and now monitors hung from bungee cords above the dental chairs, and wire, gathered by Velcro ties, spooled onto the immaculate floors. Bug Man sat in the chair in Exam Room A while Burnofsky sat in Exam Room B.
Somewhat to Bug Man’s irritation, Burnofsky had also made it along his pathway and was now positioned aboard the Chinese leader’s assistant/girlfriend.
The president was at the Hilton Manhattan East hotel, barely a block from the dental office that was itself just a block from the UN. Bug Man would have direct linkage all the way through, from the reception at the hotel to the UN.
By the time the woman reached the podium he expected to be busy wiring her brain.
The Chinese UN mission was farther away, up 40th Street in a sleek new office tower built by the Chinese as a statement of their ambition to be seen as the world’s other superpower. At that distance Burnofsky had to use signal repeaters. Bug Man wished him nothing but static.
It would not be enough for Bug Man to succeed; Burnofsky must also fail. Then Bug Man would stand unequalled atop the twitcherverse.
The POTUS had moved to a smaller room. The picture swirled dizzyingly as Liz Law’s finger swung by her side and then soared up into space to take something.
Bug Man saw a sky of fibers, each like a bridge cable.
A garment.
Was it the president’s? Was it time?
But then the fibers zoomed away, off into the distance where they rested on the presidential shoulders.
“Just let me get that, Madam President,” Liz Law said.
Bug Man could see the president’s face clearly in the serried ranks of nanobot optics. Had he missed his moment? Fear swelled within him. What would the Twins do if—
But no, now the hand was rushing toward the president, touching, smoothing, and now, now, now!
Bug Man’s army raced across fingertips and leapt. He could see the picture of two dozen nanobots falling, like an insect army platoon jumping out of an airplane.