“Christ's sake, Bill, get in the game!” Vern yelled. “That thing’s useless against a red dragon!”
Garg screamed in rage and pain as one of the players managed to cut a chunk off the dragon’s leg. In response, Garg temporarily abandoned his two-targets-per-breath policy, and gave the player - Tim, I think - the full treatment. From that range, even bones would be unlikely to survive.
Tim yelled “aww, shit!” as he turned to ash.
Garg then went after Vern the old-fashioned way, attempting to eat him. Vern skipped back, desperately waving his battle-axe. Interesting thing about dragon physiology, though - when they leaned down to bite someone, the tail went up as a counterbalance, and I discovered, from my vantage point, that the Gamers had been obsessively thorough about anatomical details. I wondered for a moment if I should be watching for dragon poop. Come to think of it though, a red dragon was probably no more flameproof on the inside than any other animal. With that thought, I ran up behind the dragon - as a first level grunt, I was barely worth paying attention to - jammed the Staff of Fireballs right where a rectal thermometer would go, and pulled the trigger.
There was a muffled wump sound. The Dragon turned with a surprised look and smoke puffed out of its ears. Then it screeched, leapt straight up, and the entire scene froze.
A voice set out of thin air. “Okay, we’ll need a ruling here. Is the target entitled to a saving throw?”
“Are you friggin’ kidding me!?” Vern screamed. “How in the hell is it supposed to dodge that?!”
Vern and the disembodied voice began to yell insults at each other, with Vern capering around and waving his fists in the air as counterpoint. The rest of us gathered around Garg, still frozen in mid-leap, the staff right where I left it.
“Fried dragon on a stick,” Pete said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Nice. You’ll get full credit for that kill.”
We’d shut down the dungeon, and were relaxing in the locker room comparing notes. I wasn't sure why there was a locker room, but I figured if I could have a pub, they can have a locker room.
“They're still arguing,” Gandalf said, shaking his head. “Man, you really created a shit storm.” He chuckled. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”
I grinned at the rest of the dungeon party. Kevin, who’s Staff of Fireballs was now mine, glared sullenly, then averted his eyes. Not a fan, I guess. I was going to get the entire score for the dragon unless the dissenters managed to overturn the decision, and half the dragon’s horde. The combined experience points would boost me three levels, easily. Plus whatever I could get for the staff. Pretty good day, overall. If only real life went that way.
I motioned to Gandalf with my chin. “We should really get on with things.”
He nodded and popped us both into his private VR, which closely resembled Orthanc from the Peter Jackson movies, but with La-Z-Boy couches. “So what’s you're concern, Bill.”
“Honestly, Gandalf, you guys seemed to have bailed on the project before you finished.”
He frowned. “Interesting. Maybe we have different definitions of finished? Certainly the expedition has a long way to go, but I think we've done what we set out to do.”
“Ecological and sociological surveys aren’t complete. Language translation is mostly there, but still has some holes. We haven't even made a dent in mapping the topopolis, not to mention surveys of Quinn.”
Gandalf gave me a look of exaggerated patience. “A lot of that is Skippy responsibility. We've been helping, only because it was interesting for a while. Come on, Bill. What part of ‘volunteer’ aren't you grokking?”
“So as soon as it becomes less interesting, you bail?”
Gandalf thought for a moment. “Yep, pretty much.” He hesitated for a moment. Look, we’re still available for specific questions. But as far as further research is concerned, I think were tapping out. Bring us another interesting puzzle though, and we can talk. Okay?”
I sighed. Less and less Bob. “Fine. I got it.” I stood up. Put my character on reserves, okay? I'll probably be back.
He grinned and gave me a thumbs up as I popped out.
24. Interlude
Bob
July 2334
Virt
Hugh sat in a beanbag chair, nursing a coffee and staring into space. I’d forwarded our logs for the last few days, and he’d immediately invited himself over.
“Tranquilizer guns, huh?” He took a sip. “Interesting choice of weapon.”
“How so?”
“There’s many easier and less complex ways of taking out an opponent, starting with stabbing them and working up to a proper pistol with bullets.”
“Heaven's River isn’t a space station. You wouldn't have to worry about making a hole. The shell material wouldn't even notice a bullet, up to a considerably larger caliber.”
“Okay. Anything we can learn from that?”
“Assuming the gun was stolen, which is reasonable, the Administrator seems to want to be careful not to kill anyone.” He was silent for several moments more. “And the Scattering. I think you're right about the interpretation. Again, it would be easier to just kill people.”
“Is it significant?” Hugh opened his mouth several times to speak, then got a funny look. “Not sure. It could just be the Quinlans don't like killing each other. Except…”
“Yeah. Quinn. The planet.”
“Listen, Bob, you still have that spare Manny buried near the transit station. Have you thought about activating it and sending someone off, maybe upstream?”
I shook my head. “No, it's a spare, Hugh, in case we total one of ours. We need to stay a foursome.”
“Hm. Too bad. I'd like to be able to try one out.”
“There’s still the test units on Quinn. I understand Will and Howard have been playing around with them.”
“And breaking them, apparently,” Hugh replied. Then at the look on my face, he added, “Oh, you didn't know. Um, don't let Bridget find out.”
“Howard broke one?”
Hugh’s only reply was a grin. He put down his coffee cup and stood. “I got the scan done of Galen Town. Nothing unusual, right down to the limits of resolution that I had time for. In particular, no electronics or forbidden tech that I could find, which might mean the Resistance doesn't have it, or might mean they don't keep it in town.”
“What about the tranq guns?”
Hugh shrugged. “They don't register as electronics, so I'd have to specifically scan for them. And I just didn't have time, before the heatsink burned out. And for that same reason, random scanning is a non-starter. I had to retire a drone to get what I did, and I'll be shorthanded until I can fly in a replacement.” He held up a hand, “Talk later,” and popped out.
On a whim, since I had some time to spare, I decided to visit Will on Valhalla. Our last meeting had ended abruptly. As soon as I received an acknowledgment, I popped over. It took only a second to unrack my Manny, and I glanced around. Instead of Will sitting in a chair, I found a 2-foot roamer waving a leg at me. The roamer began walking, then paused. Significantly. Presumably it was giving me an impatient look or something, but because the devices were symmetrical it was really hard to tell.
The roamers hadn't changed that much in the 200 years since they'd been invented, at least not in principle. Lots of improvements had been made, like the Casimir power source, better materials, more compact electronics, and so on. But it was still an eight-legged general-purpose robot run by a moronic machine intelligence. I frowned and thought as I followed the device. Maybe the Skippies had the right idea. The creation of a practical AI, whether it was truly conscious are just zombie-level capable, would have a huge impact on society. Maybe even more than subspace theory and the accompanying technologies had.
The roamer led me out of Will's home and down a long sequence of staircases, some constructed and some cut right out of the native stone. I was beginning to wonder if I'd misunderstood the roamer when we finally came to a flat area on the
south side of the promontory on which Will's home was built. Will stood and waved to me as the roamer did an about-face and headed back to the house. With no need to allow for humanoid limitations on the return trip, the roamer was going straight up the rockface. Show off.
“Hey Will, what have you got here?”
Will smiled and motioned to the miscellany of potted plants and plants in earthen rose. “Experimental garden. I’ve got Terran plants and native plants here and I'm testing for compatibility. We don't want any surprises when we start full on agriculture.”
I nodded slowly. “It's interesting that original Bob wasn't much of a gardener, but both you and Bill have turned into real plant specialists.”
“Terraforming puts a whole ‘nother spin on the problem, bud.” Will motioned toward a set of Adirondack chairs near the edge of the garden area. I sat and took a moment to admire the view. Will had picked a location for his home that overlooked a huge lake surrounded by low mountains. The tree line, or whatever it was, only extended about halfway up the distant slopes, probably due to the still-too-thin atmosphere.
Will followed my gaze and guessed the direction of my thoughts. “The tree line is moving up the slope by several feet per year right now, and it's accelerating. By the time it stabilizes, you'll be able to see plant life all the way to the top of these mountains. And by that point, humans will be living here without having to wear supplemental masks or live under a dome.”
We were silent for a few seconds while I admired the scenery. Will seem to be content with whatever pace I set.
Finally, I turned to him. “Last time I was here, we were talking about Starfleet. Mostly. But there’s Starfleet, the Borg, the Gamers, the Skippies…”
“And those are just the ones that have nicknames,” Will replied. “The Bobiverse is going in a lot of different directions, Bob. Literally and metaphorically. A lot of replicants have finally decided to take the Von Neumann probe job description seriously. For instance, we've actually got a couple of thousand Bobs that are actively heading away from human space. Some are stopping and building stations some are just accelerating.”
“Yeah.” I examined my hands. “It's just that have a bad feeling. The Bobiverse was a post-scarcity society for a while, and utopia. At least for most of us. But what happens to a post-scarcity society when part of the society wants power over the rest of that society?”
“I think you end up either a dystopia, or with two societies.”
“And the transition may or may not be orderly and peaceful.”
Will sighed. “Haven’t got an answer for you, bud. We’re just going to have to wait and see how far Starfleet is willing to push.”
I sat back and crossed my arms, glaring at the scenery without seeing it. It appeared utopia was an unstable state.
25. Trouble Follows
Bob
July 2334
Elbow
Another day, another town. Touring with a band could be so boring. According to Garfield anyway. He seemed to be on a rock star metaphor for some reason. We’d floated for a full day and eventually arrived at the town of Elbow. Yeah, Elbow. Didn't seem to be short for anything either. It was situated in a bend in the river though, so maybe that? We pulled our dripping butts up onto the dock and shook off - Quinlans did something very similar to dogs, to shed water - and moseyed into town.
Elbow seem to be larger than average, with a robust performing arts subculture. Or maybe there was a festival on. It seemed like every third person was either carrying a musical instrument or dressed up like a minstrel. Or maybe a clown. It could be hard to tell.
We saw at least two stages, with people performing on them, and one children's theater with a Muppets kind of a thing going on. No Kermit, that would've been freaky. But the lead character did have a Fozzie-ish kind of look. I stopped to watch and got an elbow in the ribs from Bridget.
Grumbling, I rejoined the group. Bridget button-holed a couple of people and asked about a library. The second individual gave us an unnerving once over before responding with directions.
“That was odd,” Bill said, as we continued on. “Are we underdressed or something?”
I looked down at my naked save-or-fur body. “Uh…” I grinned at the answering chuckle. “But I'm glad it's not just me that thought it was odd.”
We weren't in any particular hurry, now that Bridget had her goal in sight, so to speak, so we were able to stop and watch the shows. I asked a few questions and confirmed that there was in fact an annual festival going on. Something local. And I never got the gist of the reason for the celebration, but any reason for a party is a good reason.
The singing was surprisingly good. For all their resemblance to members of the weasel and rodent families, Quinlans had amazingly good voices and understood harmony. As for their dancing, ah… the less said the better. When your legs are that short you, can't really soar. I tried to be cosmopolitan and open-minded and appreciate the effort.
Nope, that was just a bridge too far.
Eventually the festivities petered out as we moved from the entertainment district into what I assumed must be the business district. And a quite deserted district at that, since everyone was probably back of the party.
“Say, guys,” Garfield said, as we turned the corner. “Um, I'm looking down that block,” he pointed, “and we've been there. I just did a mapping in my head, and that guy gave is really long-way-around directions. My Spidey Sense is jumping up and down and waving its arms right now.”
I turned, and sure enough, that was a familiar traffic island. My own Spidey Sense started dancing a Quinlan ballet in time to Garfield's. I turned around slowly, scanning the entire area.
“Bill? Bridget?”
“Nothing. And we’re about two blocks away from the library,” Bridget said. “Maybe he only knew the one way to get there. Or maybe he wanted us to see the sights. Look, I appreciate your concern, but it's closer to the library than the river so…”
“Right,” I replied. “But let's keep our guard up until we get there.”
We continued on our route, but without any of the previous sightseeing activity. Every sense was tuned, every reflex on hair-trigger. If someone had innocently popped out of the doorway at that point they might've met an unfortunate end.
Bridget halted abruptly and Bill almost walked into her. “What do you guys always call it? Spidey Sense?” She motioned to the square ahead of us were an ornately official building sported a large sign that translated as Sanctuary of the Written Word.
“What is it, Bridge?” There were a couple of people talking outside the door of the library, but I couldn't see anything else.
“I'm not sure. One of those guys there started to turn toward us, then aborted the move with a jerk like someone who’d just been told ‘don't look, you idiot’.”
We stood in one spot for several seconds, indecisive. Then Bill said, “So let's see what happens when we try to leave.”
With that, he wheeled and strode off. The rest of us looked at each other briefly, then turned and followed him.
And all hell broke loose.
There was a shout behind us, followed immediately by an answering call. Out of doorways and alleys, more than a dozen Quinlans emerged at full gallop. And I do mean gallop, they were on all fours. A much quicker mode of travel, and they were carrying swords in their mouths. Pirate style.
“Uh-oh. I don't think this is the welcome wagon. Time to be elsewhere.”
“Thanks Bob, for that insightful analysis,” Bridget said. “Now move your ass or get out of my way.”
Without waiting for me to make up my mind, she shot past me, heading for the dock. The direct way, too. Apparently, she'd checked Garfield's map. And no surprise the welcome wagon had thought we might do that. Six more Quinlans appeared in front of us, sporting either very large knives or short swords. I wasn't inclined to stop and take a measurement, and three of them had what appeared to be holstered pistols. Tranq guns? I jacked slightly
- not enough to lose connection with the Manny, but enough to have time for a conversation. The others synced automatically.
“How many?”
“I saw 6 in front and 12 behind. Some of the ones in front have tranq guns.”
“14 behind,” Garfield said, correcting Bridget's assessment.
“Big gap to the left, we could make for that.”
“This is well-planned hit, Bob, they left a big gap to a whole street by accident? I don't think so.”
Bill was right. “Good point, let's not go that way.”
“We're not going to go through them. Not with those pig stickers,” Garfield said.
“It may be time to loosen up on the no-impossible-moves rule. I don’t want to end up as sushi.” For Bridget, that was a significant concession. Or gift wrapped.
“Agreed,” Bill added. “Let's go through the 6 in front, full gonzo.”
I received three acks, and shifted my Manny and overdrive. Not that it turned into a transformer anything, but the internal power supply jacked up to full output, all internal nanites deployed for possible damage, and fake blood circulation was increased to handle the higher cooling requirements. There would need to be some maintenance done later.
The scene slowed in my visual field, and I took the time to estimate angles and distances. Garfield and Bridget had already picked lines that would take them either around or through the defensive ends, so I was going to have to go through the middle of the line. I glanced at Bill, who seem to have the same idea as me. We ran straight at the line accelerating as only a mechanical otter can, then went down on all fours as we came to just outside of weapon range. As expected, the Quinlans aimed their steady things downward at us. We leaped and sailed right over them.
Quinlans can jump, of course, but not like this. In Quinlan terms, this wasn't quite like doing a pole vault without the pole, but it would definitely be a record-breaking high jump. And long jump. And sprint. We hit the ground, just as Garfield and Bridget came around the ends of the line, having straight armed their opponents as they stopped to look up. They dropped to all fours, our afterburners cut in, and we disappeared down the street faster than they could possibly keep up with. A couple of pings off nearby walls led me to believe that at least one of them was now shooting at us as well.
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