Page 48 of Green City Wars

“If Herr Bandit means the farms’ professional murderer then yes, she hunts still,” Fischer agrees. “Mad with not finding her quarry, is Frau Stoat. Rushing here and there. Warm-bloodedness is wasted on some Gehirner. And the Princess of Cats also. All parties to the dispute very keen to know where Herr Doktor is. Except you, Herr Bandit, the investigator.”

“The Reds and the Grays? They decided they want him for themselves yet?”

“Herr Bandit might think so.” A throaty chuckle from the frog. “But the generals do not understand how it impacts their war. And the soldiers just take buttons to be the swords of others.”

Skotch frowns, the pendulum of live mouse–dead mouse swinging in him again. He doesn’t like the sound of that impacts their war. Because that makes Meece sound like a weapon and he’d almost convinced himself otherwise.

“But still,” Fischer continues philosophically, “you’ll see plenty livery on the streets right now. This district’s ripe to change hands. Reds’ve had it too long. Herr Bandit might want to be wary of what stones get turned over when the Grays come through here.”

“They won’t come here, though,” Skotch mutters, casting an eye up at the towering form of the Saint, currently dispensing pills to an injured squirrel.

The frog regards him, but then, by default, he’s constantly regarding almost everything around him. “Herr Bandit may remember his friends,” Fischer says. “In his time of need.”

And Skotch doesn’t think the Maulers are his friends, and he doesn’t know how damn needy he’d have to get to call on them. Anarchists, after all. And sure, Skotch isn’t going to die on the hill of Gehirner life being sugar-sweet perfection, but he reckons if you rip out the foundations then you’ll never get anything to stand up straight after.

“Been nice chatting with you, Herr Fischer,” he says. “But don’t hold your breath.”

Fischer, who breathes at least partially through his skin, watches as Skotch heads away from the water, back towards Saint Frances.

“Sister, I’m really sorry, I need another favour.” He’s thought it through. Found his best options have him tracing a circle to where it all began. “Can you put in another call for me?”

Communications between Gehirner are surprisingly patchy. There’s a makeshift network of data resources and connections, but they’re piecemeal and unreliable. Guilds are jealous of their channels, and humans didn’t really intend for their unseen Little Helpers to be chatting on the phone every minute of the day. Didn’t really foresee that their animal infrastructure would self-generate the sort of complex society that might need it. Hence there are occasional hubs of connectivity, like Uwe’s little cyborg holdout, but very few official points of contact. A few guilds are wired into the network, and probably you can put a call out to the farms, which is something Skotch has no intention of doing. And then there’s his old friend. Because one place that Saint Frances can get a reliable line to is Embassy Plaza and HengZeico. Because Skotch has no intention of marching into Das Uzcogebäude and putting himself in Benson’s shadow, but at the same time he sees that somewhere between his former employer and his embassy staff friend is his last roll of the dice. The final chance to find a happy home for displaced possibly genius mice.

Before he goes, he tracks down Herr Fischer again, still dabbling his feet in the water.

“If he wasn’t trouble, your lot wouldn’t be interested in his wellbeing,” he points out, jabbing his snout at the frog. That broad regard absorbs his ire without flinching.

“The problem with animals like Herr Bandit,” Fischer says lugubriously, “is that one can take the animal out of the company, but not the other way round. Herr Bandit knows it’s a bad world, but thinks it’s as good as it gets. If Herr Bandit believed in better then perhaps he wouldn’t be so scared of change.”

Saint Frances has made his connection and he has two terse conversations with two very different and opposed powers. At the end of which he has what promises to be a fraught dinner date at the Bärenhaus and a last throw of the dice to find somewhere for Meece.

The tourists at Embassy Plaza are having a field day. It’s only tourists, really, who cluster at the windows of the Bärenhaus to watch the funny little animals sit on stools and have dinner. Local Neuwieners don’t care for it, really. It’s not a novelty, maybe. More than that, they are part of a compact even if they don’t know it. Being reminded of the presence of the Gehirner underfoot and in the walls and all over, it doesn’t sit well with them. As though they, too, are dedicated to upholding Rule One even though they don’t know it exists.

To visitors, though, Gehirner are one of the great fascinations of green city life. Brits and Chinese, Italians, Americans, they all take photos of the tea party. They see just the cute. Here is a raccoon and a possum, a tanuki and a turtle, and they’re all having a delightful tea party together like they just stepped out of a children’s book. While on the other side of the glass, the Gehirner are talking serious business.

Talking in Furze, because none of the other three speak Shojen’s native Henge, but other than that, they’re all foreigners. And Skotch hadn’t really thought Benson would actually haul his bulk out of Das Uzcogebäude himself. Had expected some slick Uzco negotiating team to pitch up, Business Raccoon and Legal Possum at your service. It’s the old man himself, though, chewing on a slow-burning stogie, and Maria with a spiker shoved into her super in case of trouble. Although probably Benson’s tank has plenty of lethal surprises if some guild or gang thought his death was worth the appalling weight of mausgelt the turtle’s worth.

They had to shift some stools, for sure, but the staff of the Bärenhaus are nothing if not obliging. Benson’s motorised demi-fishbowl is shunted right up to the table, and the turtle has his foreclaws grappled over the rim, looming down on everyone like a monstrously bulky priest in a glass pulpit.

For his part, Shojen sits and sips green tea. Tanuki are big animals. He’s not too overshadowed. Sitting next to him, Skotch looks a little like Shojen’s brought his kid to work. Maria, theoretically the muscle, is the smallest at the table, which plainly rankles with her.

“You’ve got some big words, to call us all the way out here, Skotch,” Benson says. His wrinkled neck stretches down and he crops at the shredded meat on his plate. The Bärenhaus is one of the few places a Gehirner can eat real food legitimately, because the tourists don’t want to see them tucking into ration bars made of separated dead Gehirner.

“Chief,” Skotch says, “you’re not getting me into Uzco Towers without a gun at my back right now.”

“It’s almost as if you don’t trust me,” Benson says, playing for wounded.

“Let’s just say there’s been a breakdown of employer-employee relations,” Skotch tells him.

“I’m going to advance this conversation a little,” Benson says. “Just to save everyone a slice of their allotted lifespan. You’ve got the mouse. Despite taking our pay, you’re on the fence about handing him over. You’ve been speaking to communists and crazy people and they’ve filled your skull with talk. So now you’re stuck in the middle of just about everyone and you don’t know what to do. Even though just about anyone involved will make you a very rich raccoon if you hand the squeaker over.”

“Dead and rich just buys a good funeral,” Skotch points out, and honestly it probably doesn’t even do that. It’s not as though the Separation Plant runs a VIP service. “And you?”

Shojen, here as unofficial representative of HengZeico, Uzco’s great rivals as foreigners seeking influence in Neuwien, tilts his head. “The account of your position fits our own understanding precisely,” he says. Sips his tea. Manages to look apologetic out of the corner of his eye. “You’re in a bind, my friend.”

“So let’s see if we can cut the knot,” Skotch offers. “Come on, Benson. Chief. Straight answers for once. Everyone knows what the deal is with Meece except me, it seems like. He’s going to poison the whole city, overthrow our human masters, make the Maulers’ day? What’s the deal?”

He reads the table, then, or as best as he can. Maria doesn’t know, he’s pretty sure. Just muscle after all, and why tell her anything that might get in the way of her pulling the trigger? Benson absolutely knows—Skotch isn’t quite sure when the button dropped for the turtle, but it switched the assignment from live to dead or alive between Skotch getting hired and him getting marched in after Fitch died. Shojen is still and stiff on his stool too, for a moment just a stuffed tanuki, a toy. While Skotch has been chasing about, some amount of knowledge has come to the Gehirner of HengZeico too.