Heaven's River

by Dennis E. Taylor

  “Meanwhile, this.” I waved a sheet that I've been holding. “I was checking your list of outages. They’re all units that I updated a few days ago, because they still had the original keys. Someone recorded my session, saved the new keys, then used them to corrupt those stations.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I fell for a classic piece of social engineering. Got scared into doing exactly what they wanted, and they were ready for it. Wow.”

  “That's very sophisticated. Almost more than I'm willing to accept from these guys. They seem more like a bunch of goofs than manipulative geniuses.”

  “Well, reality trumps expectations, I guess. Also,” I picked up another sheet, “the Starfleet ultimatum. I think Lenny was intending to deliver this at the moot, but I cut him off before he could get to it.” I held up the page and made a show of examining it, although I already knew the contents. “They offer to restore all communications and functionality, as long as we agree to stop interfering with indigenous species.”

  “So, blackmail.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Any takers so far?”

  I snorted. They badly misjudged the Bobiverse, Gar. I think whoever was the common ancestor of Starfleet had already drifted away from Bob-hood and didn't realize it. He thought we'd behave like he would have.”

  “Fail. Weird though, that they were good enough to social engineer you, but not good enough to foresee the general reaction.”

  I ignored Garfield's return to that theme. “What about physical location? Is Starfleet located anywhere in particular?”

  “Generally speaking, they’re up toward the Perseus transit, but if you mean are they all conveniently clumped together, no. Are you seriously thinking about physical combat?

  “I'm not putting anything beyond discussion at this point. As I said in the moot, these guys aren't Bobs. They don't think like Bobs, they don't act like Bobs.”

  Garfield sighed heavily.

  “Wonderful.”

  31. Strategies

  Bob

  July 2334

  Outskirts, Eta Leporos

  We sat around my VR library, drinks in hand, all contemplating the future. Garfield, Hugh, Bill, and Bridget were represented in video windows, rather than actually being here. Fairly low-res, too. Not quite Minecraft, but certainly below movie-level quality. My temporary relay station was just about maxed out with this meeting. Bridget was staring into space, silently nursing her drink, and no one had been willing to break into her private contemplation.

  Abruptly, she sat forward. “I admit I'm getting into metaphysical speculation here, but what if there was only one me around. What if I was taken offline, backed up, and the backup was restored there. And later, the process was reversed and the backup from here was loaded into my original matrix.”

  Hugh stared at Bridget in apparent surprise. “Closest continuer. The idea being that there will only ever be one Bridget, so you have continuity.”

  “In the same way that Star Trek characters had it when they got transported around,” Garfield replied.

  “You guys have really got to let go of Star Trek,” Bridget commented. “Although in this case it is sort of relevant. They were disassembled, right?

  I waggled a hand, so so. “There were some attempts to soften it. Like that Berkeley episode, where he found the crew trapped in the matter stream.”

  “But then the Thomas Riker episode simply created a new Riker,” Garfield replied. “Obviously, that’s incompatible with the concept of a unique soul.”

  Bridget made a face and sat back, shaking her head as we gathered steam.

  Hugh said, “Unless the process duplicates the soul as well.”

  “It's just quantum states,” Garfield interjected.

  “But where does the soul of a newborn come from?” I asked. “They can be created, assuming they exist, so-”

  “My god,” Bridget exclaimed. All conversation cut off. “I'm sorry I brought it up.” She crossed her arms and looked away, body language projecting anger.

  An awkward silence reigned for a millisecond or two before Garfield muttered, “It's still just quantum states,”

  “Yes, but you could have-” I chopped off my comment as Bridget's glare threatened to peel paint off my hull in real. “Okay, fine. Can we move on then?”

  No one said anything so I continued. “We have a foursome again, at least in principle, until comms are all back up. All you guys can do is monitor, but it should help a bit. I've been observing several locations using roamers and forwarding the recordings to Hugh for analysis. A little real-time eyeballing might catch something sooner.”

  “I'm going to be a little busy with the comms thing,” Bill said. “Will is going to cover for me. He'll keep me up-to-date. If I miss a session.”

  Hugh grimaced. “I've already mentioned that I'd be willing to take that on.”

  “It’s okay, Hugh. Will is the official backup Bob, and he has the time, but you're welcome to the sessions as well, of course. After all, you are part of the team.”

  Bill nodded to Hugh, then popped out.

  Hugh leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. He appeared momentarily frustrated before his expression smoothed out. “On the surveillance front, there is some indication of an organization in Three Lagoons. Nothing obvious - it's not like people are openly talking about blowing things up - but similar patterns of conversation about similar subjects using similar circumlocutions says something is going on, and something that people want to keep quiet. I’ve tagged the speakers and facial recognition routines will alert us anytime they come in the camera range.”

  “Any idea how many organizations are involved?” Bridget said. “She'd seem to have gone back into her shell, and her abrupt comment took us by surprise. Even Hugh hesitated, mentally regrouping. “Very probably more than one. There are two distinct patterns of dialogue. My money's on two, although there could be three, or even four.”

  “Agreed,” Bridget replied. “We can at least come up with motivations for two potential groups: the Administrator and the Resistance.”

  Hugh nodded, his eyebrows going up. “Good analysis, and I agree. So do we continue to observe, or do we rattle the bushes to see what we flush out?”

  “We still don't have any indication of Bender's location,” I replied. “If we go all-in the here, we could lose any chance of finding him.”

  “Or greatly improve it,” Bridget said. “Look. If the group or groups have global communications, then we can at least potentially find out if he's anywhere on Heaven's River. If they don't, then blowing it here won't screw us in other towns.”

  “And a sequential search of a billion miles of megastructure is still a non-starter,” Garfield added. “Especially now that you're on your own, Bob. At least physically. I don't see how you can realistically continue the expedition the same way.”

  “I'm probably going to have to clone. I can make that decision when the new matrices are complete.”

  “Meanwhile, you are on your own.” Garfield shook his head. “I don't see you getting a lot done while waiting for the matrices. At least some bush rattling might give you something new to work on.”

  “Okay, I concede. Vote.”

  It appeared I would be rattling some bushes.

  32. Losing on Purpose

  Bob

  July 2334

  Three Lagoons

  Bushes, rattling of, process four. I had to admit, it wasn't really in my wheelhouse. We did have one simple tactic, based on previous experience: go out in public together. But without a full Midpoint station, that was out.

  Or was it?

  We only had to go along enough to make the association. The AMI controllers could handle an instruction like ‘follow Bob’. If there was a woodcutting of our images out there, it should trigger something.

  I sat in our surprisingly spacious hotel room, silently exchanging looks with the other three Mannies. The AMIs weren’t geniuses, but they can handle simple directives
, as long as they didn't have to talk. The others were dialed into their Mannies, well enough to be able to give them verbal commands and receive basic audiovisual input. Good enough for the current operation, but as an ongoing thing, it would be completely unworkable. I was certain I could feel the crew metaphorically standing over my shoulder, ready to kibitz. Nonsense, of course, but a hard feeling to shake.

  Finally, I got to my feet. “Wow, what a talkative bunch. Let’s get this done, shall we?”

  “Brains…” said Garfield's Manny.

  Taking their cue from me, the Mannies stood. I open the door and we trooped out, heads down, like a chain gang being led off to a day of hard labor. Bridget had suggested we should proceed toward the local library, pointing out quite reasonably that our pursuers would probably have staked it out, given our prior behavior. It wasn't a bad strategy, but I couldn't shake a certain lamb-to-the-slaughter vibe.

  As it turned out, I needn't have bothered my butt over it. Halfway to the library, Will said over the intercom, “You're being followed.”

  “Well, good,” Bridget replied. “Maybe we can get somewhere with this mess.” She paused. “I see them. Two males, about 20 yards back.”

  “Uh, no,” Garfield said, bemused. “A male and female, paralleling us on the left.”

  I barely managed to avoid rolling my eyes. “Outstanding. I’ll give you this, Bridget, your plans work.”

  She didn't reply, but I imagined a slightest trace of a smile.

  “They're not together,” Will said. “There’s no coordination between them. Not bracketing you, not trying to keep the spacing even. If anything, I'd say one group is following the other group.”

  “Maybe we can use that when the time comes. For now though, let's just continue on, oblivious.”

  I demonstrated by slowing down to check out some of the wares in storefront displays. I was probably being a little obvious, but then maybe I wasn't being objective. I was getting that itchy feeling between the shoulder blades. I kept telling myself they didn't all have guns, but it wasn't as reassuring as I'd hoped. Even a thrown blade would certainly do some damage. Despite myself, I started rolling my eyes around to check in every direction. I quickly spotted the two groups of stalkers.

  Now came the risky part. While I was okay with getting nabbed, I couldn't take a chance on three unmanned Mannies being taken, with the inevitable questions it would raise. Fortunately, we'd scripted this. I turned and huddled with the Mannies. After a few seconds, the other three started back away we'd come at a deliberately casual pace. I, meanwhile, continued on, trying to project urgency from every follicle.

  “One group seemed like they were considering following the other Mannies, but then decided you were an easier target,” Bridget said. “Both groups are now on your tail.”

  I soon reached the library and sure enough, the Plaza was almost completely clear of people. I wondered how the Quinlans managed to do that without creating a spectacle. On earth, if someone had tried getting people to leave an area they'd end up with an audience twice. Here, people seemed to understand the concept of ‘go away’.

  Then, I said almost, right? A couple of groups of Quinlans around the periphery were making a laughable attempt to appear casual. Just standing around, not talking, while fingering something hidden by their backpacks. My mind immediately conjured up Gollum, wondering what they had in their pocketses.

  I stopped dead, swiveling only my very mobile Quinlan eyeballs, and that was the cue for the party to start. The two groups of Quinlans that had been waiting turned and made for me, pulling out the usual pig stickers. Before they could get 10 feet, one of our two groups of stalkers pulled out tranq pistols and started shooting. So much for no guns.

  The other stalker group immediately made for them, pig stickers in hand. The gun toting Quinlans appeared to be getting the upper hand, when yet another group ran into the plaza and jumped them. I stood in the center of the maelstrom, seemingly totally forgotten.

  “It's nice to be popular, isn’t it?” Garfield observed.

  “But maybe not conducive to a long life,” I replied. I'm having second thoughts. I vote for bugging out.”

  “Yup.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Move it.”

  Well, there was a consensus anyway. Reinforced by my already receding butt, I dropped to all fours and prepared to put on some speed. Immediately the feuding groups found their own consensus, which seem to consist of not letting me get away. Abandoning their battle, the still standing combatants turned as one, and made after me.

  “They have guns,” I said.

  “Some of them,” Bridget replied.

  “Definitely tranquilizer pistols,” Hugh said.

  “You’re sure because….?”

  “Victims didn't drop like they would from shock. It's more than out-stagger-fall thing.”

  Bridget gave that a moment's thought. “Okay. If you get shot by one of those things you should act appropriately.”

  “What, you still want me to get captured?” I didn’t try to disguise the surprise my voice. The others were silent for a moment, as I navigated a quick turn around the fountain.

  “Jury’s out at this point,” Bridget replied, “but we might find ourselves-”

  “Oof!” I grunted, as I was hit by a most professional feeling tackle. The defender had come around the other side of the fountain and taken me by surprise. When the rolling stop, I found myself looking up at a Quinlan. He seemed as surprised as me. We stared at each other for a second while I tried to decide if I wanted to be captured. Then the decision was taken away from me as some large number of Quinlan bodies piled on. I honestly doubt that I could've heaved them off, even going full Manny.

  They slapped manacles on me. Quinlan manacles were interesting, they attached to all four limbs, and they included a device in the center that would open like a parachute if I dove into the water and tried to swim away. Quite ingenious. I spent several seconds inspecting it. Probably too intently. The group leader waved a pig sticker in my face and said something in a sharp voice. I realized that I haven't been paying attention, a consequence of not actually being in personal danger. I guess. I’d have to do better. I couldn't afford to have them take the Manny apart, and I didn't want them to get the idea I wasn't a flesh and blood Quinlan. I rewound and played back her comment in frame-jack.

  “I’m not seeing any of the super-Quinlan stuff our up-river correspondence reported. I guess maybe they're just incompetent.”

  Her crew laughed at her comment, then went quiet as she raised a hand. This one was tough, and they knew it. I resolved to act properly intimidated as she leaned in close. “You give us any trouble, moochin, and I’ll carve your flaps off.” That was a real threat. A Quinlan with their arm flaps missing would never be able to swim properly again. It would be kind of like the medieval practice of cutting off a hand.

  I wasn't sure if it was a realistic threat or just bravado, but I wasn’t going to push it. After all, technically, this is what I'd wanted. What we'd wanted. Okay, what Bridget had wanted. The crew was busy at the moment, chivvying their Mannies back into the river. It hadn't taken us long to realize that the losers would be going for the rest of our group, just have something to show their bosses.

  My captors grabbed me under my arms and started hustling me along. I looked around but couldn't spot any of the other groups of pursuers. I received a slap on the back of the head from one of the crew, a wizened character that for some reason reminded me of Popeye.

  “Keep your head down,” he growled.

  I almost decked him, but reminded myself he yet again that this was according to plan.

  “Can you identify which group caught you?” That was Garfield.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “The sword critter group.”

  “We think our Mannies are being stalked by the pistol critters, now,” Bridget reported.

  “I’ve got one of the small roamers,” Garfield said. I'm trying to keep Bob's g
roup in sight.”

  “It would've been nice if we could have been stocked with drones, you know.”

  “No room,” I replied. “I thought about it, believe me.”

  I received another slap on the head from Popeye for no reason that I could see. I decided that in the fullness of time I'd be returning the attention with interest.

  In short order. We entered a non-descript building. Two flights up and we were in a surprisingly spacious apartment.

  “I like what you've done with the pla-”

  I was driven back a step as Popeye planted the butt of his sword into my midsection. Based on Quinlan anatomy, it should have had exactly the same effect on a Quinlan as it would on a human. Or a Deltan. Or a Pav. … interesting.

  I shelved that thought for the wee small hours, and turned to Popeye. I hadn't folded in the expected manner, and there definitely hadn’t been an ‘oof’. That wasn't lost on him, as his face was showing a bit of the Quinlan equivalent of widening eyes.

  I glared at him. “Do that again, and all the spinach in the world won't protect you.”

  His fear was replaced with bemusement. I doubt that spinach had translated well, but he certainly understood the threat. He raised his pig sticker to give me another whack, and the boss-lady said his name sharply. I instructed the translator to associate him with Popeye in the future.

  Popeye lowered the sword but gave me an evil grin. “Any time, moochin.”

  Boss lady pointed me at a chair. As I sat, one of the crew unlatched my leg and ran the medical through a gap in the furniture, then re-manacled me. It seemed amateurish. Even at Quinlan strength, I could probably smash the chair and free myself. But maybe the point was to just slow me down. The manacles themselves appeared to be some form of dense wood, metal being at a premium in Heaven's River, connected by a tightly braided rope. I estimated that I could just about break them if I needed to.

  I turned away from my captors and opened my mouth. A couple of flea-sized roamers popped out and started climbing down my fur, with orders to strategically weaken my bindings, just in case.