#5

Mr. Venables had already sunk the egg halfway into his mouth when the knock came. He made a noise through the egg, something between a hiss and a grunt, and the door unlatched and forced open. It was the first time the air in the dry, vacuum-like office had been stirred in over an hour.
“Mr. Venables.” It was the whiny voice of Mr. Credafore, a low level Rat under his command.
“Eating,” Mr. Venables snarled, after popping in rest of the squishy egg; some red flakes of egg spattered onto his desk blotter, and he eyed them greedily. He snorted with amusement, imagining the alarmed look of ineptitude on Mr. Credafore’s face. Mr. Credafore had undoubtedly been ordered to summon him, and had probably not relished or enjoyed the assignment. Mr. Credafore had probably not been briefed on what to do should Mr. Venables decline to move. He imagined what he himself must look like: the bulbous figure hunched over his desk, the heaping plate of slimy red eggs to one side, the tiny airless metal office with no decoration and no furniture except the chair and desk facing away from the door and the wall-mounted computer terminal.
“It’s Mr. Mercaster,” Mr. Credafore, clearly banking on this helping his cause. Mr. Venables thought he could even hear the little verminous Rat smirking.
Mr. Venables spun around and lurched his bulk out of his chair. He glared hard at Mr. Credafore, who shrank back appalled. Go on, say it, Mr. Venables thought. Go on and tell me my eyes are more bloodshot than normal, that I eat too many eggs. I dare you, you filth.
“What happened,” Mr. Venables demanded.
“Broke free from his reboot. The machine is damaged. Sparrows have him cornered but we can’t get him to calm down.”
“Take me there,” Mr. Venables replied, backing toward his desk, seizing another egg and pocketing it.
They snaked their way through the gleaming corridors and arrived at Mr. Mercaster’s reboot room. Mr. Credafore knocked twice on the thick bolted door and the frightened face of a guard Rat, his helmet clasped a little too tightly, appeared in the tiny window. The Rat disappeared, there was a fumbling and a scraping, and then the door was thrust open.
Mr. Venables pushed Mr. Credafore aside, entered, and surveyed the room. It was a mass of red feathers and a smashed, sparking reboot machine.
Mr. Mercaster growled in the corner, swinging some kind of hooked stick or pipe he had torn from the wall in an apparently desperate search for any weapon, no matter how crude.
Three Sparrows stood around him, in a standoff, waving shock wands but wary about getting too close.
The guard Rat cowered in another corner, near the door, and watched Mr. Venables helplessly.
The air stunk of shock wand static, recycled air, and burnt fur.
Mr. Mercaster’s steady growl grew louder when he saw Mr. Venables appear between two Sparrows.
“I want out,” he barked. “I want my boys!”
Mr. Venables looked over at the reboot machine. The headstraps were torn out and lying frayed on the floor. The chair had been pitched across the room, smashing some monitoring equipment. The reboot machine was still blaring: pictures of the Mercaster twins danced artfully across the screen. Mr. Venables found one of the earpieces and listened to it for a moment. “Floyd and Jules lived rich, full lives,” a calm voice informed the listener, over tasteful music. “Their loss has affected us all. The best way to honor their memory is to move on.”
“You should pay more attention to this,” Mr. Venables said calmly.
“Lies,” Mr. Mercaster growled.
“We are your friends. Your friends would never lie to you.”
Mr. Mercaster barked wordlessly at everyone in response, his voice cracking in frustration.
Mr. Credafore appeared by Mr. Venables’ ear.
“Should I get more Sparrows?” Mr. Credafore asked.
“No.”
“Should I get Mr. Talaree?”
“No!” Mr. Venables snapped. “I’m handling this.” He stepped forward through two Sparrows, and slowly approached Mr. Mercaster, who lifted up his crude weapon threateningly.
“The Sparrows will beat you to death if you hurt me,” Mr. Venables said pleasantly. “They will not think twice. Put it down.”
“No.”
“Put it down,” Mr. Venables, “and we can discuss this like adults. Like friends.”
“You are not my friend.”
“Put it down,” Mr. Venables went on. “Don’t you want to know the truth about your sons?”
Mr. Mercaster froze, as did the quivering tip of his weapon.
“You . . . you would never tell me.”
“This is your best chance,” Mr. Venables said. “You have been asking, and I’m willing to tell you. We will not hurt you – you are too important to us. Put it down.”
Mr. Mercaster glared deep into Mr. Venables’ eyes, ground his teeth angrily, then let the pipe clatter to the ground.
Mr. Venables immediately snapped his fingers, and one of the Sparrows swept silently and smoothly across the room and forced itself behind Mr. Mercaster, locking its wings around his arms. Mr. Mercaster, genuinely surprised by the Sparrow’s stunning and impressive speed, only thought to struggle half-heartedly after he had already been locked motionless against the Sparrow’s warm feathers.
“Your sons are dead,” Mr. Venables said.
Mr. Mercaster let out a quick, clipped, agonized howl – but with a hesitant tone, as if he still believed, or hoped, that Mr. Venables was lying.
“To you,” Mr. Venables went on.
“What?” Mr. Mercaster asked.
Mr. Venables reached into his pocket and produced the slimy, and slightly crushed, red egg. He held it out as he took a step closer to Mr. Mercaster, who was now attempting to thrash his way wildly out of the Sparrow’s grip.
“Listen to me, you tailwagging bastard,” Mr. Venables said, a joyless sickening grin splayed hastily across his face. His bloodshot eyes seemed to twinkle. “Your sons are dead to you. You will never see them again – no one will. They are too important to us. The sooner you finish your reboot, the sooner you will never think of them again, and the happier we will all be. You can start with this,” he added, reaching out to force the egg into Mr. Mercaster’s muzzle, but Mr. Mercaster snapped at him and he had to draw back, actually frightened for just a moment. He frowned and snapped his fingers again, and another Sparrow appeared next to the first, reached out its wings, seized Mr. Mercaster’s muzzle and forced it open.
“We’re just trying to help,” Mr. Venables said, jamming the egg inside.