They made it back to Castros’ home without incident, and immediately went through the entire place, securing every opening to the outside. Since installing the habitat and cloaking sphere around the entire planetoid, Castros tended to leave his windows open so he could hear his pets out in the menagerie. Now he wished he had battlecruiser plates for shutters.
“What shall we do now?” he asked Beekman, who was laying out bits of machinery from his duffle.
“Now we forget stunning your toys, and take the assholes out,” Beekman replied, assembling all the flotsam into a wicked-looking pulse rifle.
“You mean kill them?” Castros gawped at Beekman, wondering how the man could be so cruel. “They’re just following their instincts. We can’t hold dumb beasts responsible for their actions.”
Beekman stared at Castros, mouth hanging open. “Are you serious, Boss? Those ‘dumb beasts’ figured out how to open all your cages and disable your speeder. Who knows what else they can figure out?”
“Yes, true, but—”
“But nothin’,” Beekman said. “This ain’t a dog catcher situation any more. You can get one of your brainiac xenologists or whatever you call your pet science guys down here. I’m gone.”
“You can’t leave now,” Castros said, some of the take-no-prisoners steel from his days as master of one of the galaxy’s largest teamster organizations back in his voice. “I’ll not pay you a drop if you do.”
“Shove your money.” Beekman stood and looped the gun’s sling over his shoulder. “Dead men can’t spend anything.” He walked to the door, punching the button and waiting while it hissed open.
“Surely we can come to an agreement,” Castros said.
“Surely we can,” Beekman said. He still stood at the open door. Then he pushed the button again.
He turned back to Castros with empty eyes. “Every panel on my ship is laying on the ground, along with most of the wiring. The door to your hangar is open too.”
“Oh dear,” Castros said.
“Screw it,” Beekman said. “I’m calling some of the boys.” He pulled out a pocket comm unit, twiddled the screen and dials, then swore loudly and threw it across the room.
“No signal,” Beekman said. “How about you?”
Castros went to the phone booth, unsurprised when the screen remained blank. He went from room to room, reliably disappointed every time he tried a comm unit.
“No soap,” he said. “The vids are out as well. The entire comm array must be down.”
“That’s great. That’s ab-so-lutely stellar!” Beekman shouted, stomping around the room, sending several priceless curios to smash on the floor and walls. “How long until someone shows up? Deliveries? Guests?”
“Um,” Castros said sheepishly. “Never. Only a few people know about this moon, and none of them have coordinates. I always upload an encrypted autonav package to their vessels personally. I value my privacy.” He knew he shouldn’t defend himself to an employee, but was regretting his lack of a social life.
“Please tell me you’re shitting me,” Beekman said, hard eyes glittering.
“Look, let’s not bicker,” Castros said, doing his best to be reasonable. “We need to fix the array.”
“You know how?”
“Of course I do,” Castros said indignantly.
He hoped so, anyway.
But when they stepped outside, they saw at least seven small lavender figures buzzing around the compound. Even worse, all the creatures stopped as soon as Castros and Beekman began edging toward the comm array, and soon spiraled directly over their heads. The whir of their wings and the constant humming set Castros’ teeth on edge.
“Think we can get back inside?” Beekman asked.
“We have to fix the antennae,” Castros replied.
“You know,” Beekman said. “It occurs to me that maybe they’ll leave me alone if there’s other grub handy.”
Castros stopped short, turning to see Beekman cradling his pulse rifle. His eyes were cold, calculating.
“What are you saying?” Castros said, ice running down his spine. “I hope not what I think.”
“You’ve been a good boss up ‘til now,” Beekman said, raising the rifle. “But I ain’t ready to feed the animals. Know what I mean?”
“I’ll pay you four times what we agreed,” Castros said, raising his arms to his face. “Five times!”
“Your money’s no good here,” Beekman said without emotion. “I’m sorry, Boss. I—”
Castros nearly fainted when Beekman screamed. Warm liquid ran down his trouser leg as pulse rifle fire throbbed in a wide arc, missing Castros but blowing holes in the base of the gleaming comm array.
Castros peeked through his fingers when the noise stopped. A mound of cupids hummed over the humped shape of his ex-employee. Castros gulped convulsively, then spotted the pulse rifle on the ground, not a meter from him.
“Okay, you foul shpurtzers,” he whispered. “Okay, you worthless bags of shit.”
He crept forward and leaned down, never taking his eyes from the rapidly diminishing mound.
“That’s right, keep eating.”
He had the rifle now, slowly raising it toward the heap of meat and cupids.
“Just stay still a few more seconds…”
A high-pitched humming dropped from the sky behind Castros, and the back of his expensive trousers filled.
“Oh dear.”