Heaven's River

by Dennis E. Taylor

  When the preparations were all done, I climbed the tree and retrieved Bender. I removed the matrix from my much-maligned backpack, then placed it carefully in the trunk, making sure the organics were packed densely enough to not shift. I spit out my one remaining spider and put it in the trunk with the matrix. The spider was my insurance policy. It would make some modifications to the trunk to make it harder to open or steal, and if worse came to worse, some thief was going to get a face full of plasma cutter.

  The backpack wasn't looking good. The cube had stretched it, and I couldn't be sure that it wouldn’t spring back into normal shape. If not, I would stand out, even without the matrix. I sighed, shook the backpack a few times, then put it on. I’d stand out more without one at all.

  One last item to take care of.

  “Hugh, you got a second?”

  “Sure, what's up?”

  “I'm about to apply to be a deckhand. Anything I need to know? Is there a guild or union?”

  “No, not like what you mean. There's a guild, but it's mostly just for arbitration and setting rates, and you’re in it automatically if you work on a ship.”

  “So there isn’t a problem with treatment of laborers?”

  “These are Quinlans, Bob. They can live off the land. If someone started beating the deck hands, they’d just all swim away - if they didn't outright disembowel the miscreant. Have you met Quinlans?”

  “Hmm, fair point. So they’re cantankerous, mobile, can find food anywhere, and can sleep anywhere.”

  “Uh-huh. Kind of hard to develop an oppressed underclass in those circumstances.”

  “What's the pay?”

  “A half-iron per day. If someone tries to offer you below that, snarl and walk away.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks.”

  That was better than expected. Hugh had gotten a job right away, so I didn’t really expect a problem, but any Bob would tell you that Murphy was a bitch.

  I arrived at the riverfront, trunk slung over my shoulder, and headed for the docks. There were several boats tied up, but only one had any activity. Some pallets were being unloaded, and there was also some cargo waiting to be brought on board. It looked like my best bet, if only because the other two boats appear to be deserted.

  Still, I examined the two deserted vessels, frowning. They weren't empty - there were some pallets and boxes and bales. But it was odd that no one was about. However, Quinlan deck hands were swarming over the third boat, practically sprinting from job to job. I noted in passing that they weren't wearing the almost ubiquitous Quinlan backpacks, although one Quinlan who was standing around screaming orders and invective in almost equal amounts was wearing what appeared to be a vest with pockets. The Quinlan with the vest paused and spoke to me, guessing what was on my mind.

  “Part of the shipment’s late. We got lucky. We were here first, and signed for what was waiting. You looking for work.”

  “I am. You hiring?”

  She gestured at the boxes on the dock. “That cargo isn't going to load itself. Although the lazy sods I already pay for no reason seem to be hoping it will.”

  The Quinlans unloading the boat replied with pro forma insults and one Quinlan middle-finger equivalent. It seemed good natured though.

  “Say the word, and I'll start hauling.”

  “You got it. Get to work.”

  Well, that was easier than I had any right to expect. There was no need to ask where they were going: boats almost always went downstream, unless they were very local, and on this river segment, downstream was east toward, the Garrick's Spine segment.

  “Can I drop off my trunk?”

  She gestured to a corner of the boat, attention already on to the next problem. I dropped off the trunk, and after a moment's thought, took off my backpack as well.

  Being a deckhand on a Quinlan boat was very much a strong-back weak-mind kind of thing. Pick up box here, put box down there. Rinse, repeat. My Manny was much stronger than a native, and I didn't get tired, but overheating could be an issue, so I didn't push it. Every once in a while, the entire crew would take a fiver in the water to cool off, which told me I wasn't the only one with that problem.

  The work was accomplished with the minimum of conversation. We’d keep working until all the cargo was moved, so malingering of any kind was pointless. Everyone just wanted to get it done.

  When the last box of been loaded, we parked our butts on the edge of the boat, while the Quinlan in the vest - who turned out to be the captain - argued over the paperwork with the dock master.

  “Welcome to the Hurricane,” one of the deckhands said.

  “I'm Orrick, this is Ted, and this is Freda.”

  I was momentarily taken aback, and looked closely at Freda. No, definitely not the same person. Same Quinlan name, though, which the translation software converted to the same English name.

  “Enochi,” I replied. “Enochi Fungi.”

  Orrick look mildly surprised. “Uh, a family name? And your deckhanding?”

  “We’re are an old family,” I told him. “But we were never wealthy. My mother always told me ‘we've earned that name and you'll damned well use it.’ ‘Yes, mom.’”

  That got chuckles, but I wasn't sure if my momentary flippancy hadn't set me up for trouble. I’d forgotten the family names were little short of hereditary titles in Quinlan society. Had I just painted myself as a target? Well, I’d have to roll with it.

  “We also had a paying passenger,” Ted volunteered. “He’s out shopping. Captain Lisa told him to be back before midday or he would have to find another ride. He's cutting it pretty close.”

  “He also has a last name,” Freda added, “as he reminds us constantly. I've come close to opening his throat a couple of times, but the captain says we have to be polite to the paying passengers.” She made a face to indicate her opinion of the command.

  Captain Lisa finished haranguing the dock master, and the two exchanged signatures. She marched up the ramp and glared around.

  “His highness not here? Oh well. He paid in advance. Let's haul ass, people. We need to hit Melon Patch by nightfall.”

  We jumped up and started releasing lines and pulling up boarding ramps. There wasn’t much to it, but I made a point of taking orders from the others without complaint or trying to improvise. Just as we were at the point of pushing away from the dock and raising sail, a fat Quinlan came puffing, yelling, and waving one arm. The other arm was holding onto a trunk - not unlike mine, except much newer looking.

  Quinlans were fat by nature, resembling beavers more than otters in that respect, but this individual was fat even by Quinlan standards. And out of shape, to judge from the panting and gasping.

  The captain growled under her breath, but motioned us to lower one gangplank. The Quinlan put his trunk down and trudged up the ramp, still trying to catch his breath. As he passed the captain, I heard him say, “Have someone retrieve the trunk, please.”

  The captain gave him a sour look, but motioned to me. I had a strong urge to ‘accidentally’ drop it into the water, but I was in a uniquely bad position to get into a game of tit for tat, so I played it straight, bringing the trunk on board and depositing it with the other miscellaneous items, including my trunk. But I gave the translation software specific instructions for converting his name.

  “So who is he?” I asked.

  “Snidely Whiplash. His family is big in the wine business, as near as I can tell. He's just an entitlement welp, though.”

  The beverage wasn't exactly wine, but it was the results of fermenting some local fruit, and as with most alcohol, it was big business. I was no stranger to snot-nosed kids who thought their parents’ success made them a big deal. This voyage might end up being more difficult than anticipated.

  With our passenger safely - if obnoxiously - aboard, we cast off. Ted and Freda pulled up the sail and we wallowed majestically out of port. The Hurricane was basically a barge with a sale and it had all the racing feel appropriate to the desig
n. I began to wonder if we'd make it to the end of the segment. Speaking of which…

  “Hey Orrick does the Hurricane jump segments?

  “If we've got the cargo to justify it. Otherwise, we circle into the Arcadia River and head back to the other end. Lisa’s not one of these big-time operations with a set route. If you were to get on the Galway, they never leave this segment. Just up and down each river, circling the world. It’s not a terrible life. If you want to head into the next segment, you can get off at High Peak. There will usually be a boat going through within a day or two. The Hamilton jumps segments, I think they’ll go three or four segments sometimes. Again though, depends on cargo.”

  “Have people around here ever named any of the segments?”

  Orrick shook his head. “It’s bad luck. You name your segment, you start to identify with it. Almost like a nation. Then you start to talk about borders and armies. And the next thing you know, you’ve been Scattered as punishment.”

  Freda, having finished with the sails, had joined the group. “It's not, punishment it's-”

  “Yes, I’ve heard your doctrine before, Freda. It's not for us to judge the Administrator.”

  “I'm not judging, Orrick. I'm discussing their motivation, and it does make a difference. Punishments escalate. Guidance doesn't.”

  We were interrupted by a snort from midship. “You yokels and your legends about gods and demons. It is to laugh.”

  Freda glared at Snidely, which didn't dent the supercilious expression on his face in the slightest. “Legends. Are you defective? The Administrator is as much a fact of life at the weather. Or do you think rain is a myth, too?

  “Sure he is. He makes the grass grow, lifts the little birds into the air, and makes the sun rise in the morning.”

  I stared in disbelief. This buffoon apparently believed that Heaven's River was a natural environment. I opened my mouth to correct him, then was overcome by the sheer irony of the situation. I was about to explain to an atheist, that god was real. I wanted to face-palm, but that would create questions. Best let the regulars take it.

  Orrick and Freda formed an unsteady alliance, arguing against Snidely's amused intransigence. He was a classic case of Dunning Kruger - so entrenched and confident in his ignorance that he didn't even realize how much he didn't know. I let the argument drone on in the background while I watched the shoreline drift by. As enjoyable as the days on the river with my friends had been, there was a lot to be said for the sailor lifestyle as well.

  The argument escalated to the point where it attracted the captain's attention though. “Enough!” she yelled. “There’s deck to be cleaned, the bilge needs pumping, the cargo still hasn't been tarped, and the spinnaker still hasn't been raised! Make yourselves useful!”

  Well, that was that. And Snidely took this turn of events as a victory, to judge from the pleased expression on his face.

  The next couple of days were uneventful. We got caught a brief downpour, which elicited howls of complaint from Snidely. Why a creature that was designed for water should hate rain was beyond me, but then again, the family dog used to be on a first-name basis with every puddle and stream in our neighborhood, but would feign death when we tried to bathe her. Go figure.

  I continued to avoid interaction with Snidely. The other three seemed to be able to keep his attention. Orrick and Freda had called a truce over there minor doctrinal differences in order to form common cause against the infidel. I was going to have to discuss this with Bridget. It seemed the Administrator was taking on the aspects of a formal belief system, complete with competing dogma. Against that was a version of atheism that didn't as much pit science against religion as simply refused to go along. I wondered what Snidely's cosmology would look like, but having to talk to him would be too high a price to pay to find out.

  We pulled into a town that Ted informed me was named Beetle Juice. No, I'm not kidding. Nor did I tweak the translator. It turned out this town's major industry was a form of liquor made from the excretions of some insect. First, blergh. Second, it made me wonder, not for the first time, if there was some form of sense of humor involved, either from the Skippies or from the software itself. I decided to let the translation stand, and assigned it to the beverage as well.

  Beetle Juice was the last town on the Nirvana before the segment mountains. The captain would decide in the next day or two if we'd be continuing down river, or catching the transfer tributary to go back the other way. A lot would depend on what cargo we could get and where it would be the most valuable. It depended on paying passengers, too - if people were willing to pay to get to a particular destination, that would affect the captain's decision. Which made me wonder where Snidely was going. If we weren’t going in the right direction for him, then this would be goodbye. I tried to summon a tear. And failed miserably.

  As we got closer, I could see that there was considerable activity at the docks, and it didn't seem to be all from the usual dock business. Four or five cargo ships were tied up while their crews had what appeared to be loud bellicose discussions with official-looking individuals wearing sashes and swords. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. It seemed unlikely that this had anything to do with me, but by this point, any indication of cops made me as jumpy as a two-bit thief.

  Captain Lisa hopped around on deck yelling orders at us, trying to maneuver the Hurricane into a tight space along the dock. This also involved a shouting match with the dock hands, which just added to the general holiday atmosphere. But eventually, we were at dock and tied up properly.

  Ted and I grabbed the gangplank and started maneuvering it onto the dock. Before it had even settled a delegation of cops marched up the plank. Captain Lisa moved to intercept them.

  “We are searching for a fugitive who may be taking transport downriver,” the sergeant said. “We will need to inspect your ship.”

  “What? All our cargo, are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how long it'll take?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “No, no. We are concerned about one specific individual carrying what appears to be a funerary box in his backpack.”

  Uh-oh. Chances that there were two such fugitives on a billion-mile-long megastructure, pretty low. I tensed and started planning escape routes before I remembered that I no longer resemble Bob, and I was not wearing a backpack at the moment.

  “We will also need to inspect personal luggage.”

  Awwww… shit.

  “You will like hell,” Snidely exclaimed, striding up and sticking out his chest.

  “And who might you be,” the cop glared at him and put a hand on his sword.

  “I am Snidely Whiplash, of the Whiplash family. You’ve no doubt enjoyed our wine on many occasions. We can bring considerable pressure to bear if our family name is insulted.”

  The cop was taken aback. No doubt dealing with powerful families, especially belligerent powerful families, was considerably above his pay grade.

  After a moment the cop replied, “Yes sir, understood. Obviously, you would not be a suspect in any case. Your luggage is where?”

  Snidely casually waved a hand in the direction of the miscellaneous pile. “See that it isn’t touched.”

  As I followed Snidely's hand-wave, I got an idea. As casually as I could, I moved in the direction of the pile where our trunks were located. I began to untie the tarp covering the trunks and other small items. As I gathered it, I surreptitiously wiped off my trunk is much as I could. It still ended up looking more travel worn than Snidely's, but not by much.

  A couple of cops came over, evidently pleased with my cooperation, and started looking over the pile.

  “Those are Mr. Whiplash’s trunks,” I said, pointing to the two items. “Everything else is just cargo.”

  One of the cops nodded to me and they began randomly opening boxes. “How many people aboard?” one said to me. “Captain Lisa, Ted, Freda, Orrick, myself, and Mr. Whiplash. We’re all on deck.” I pointed to each individual as a named them.r />
  “None matches the description,” the other cop said. “And this is just junk,” he added, waving at the boxes.

  “I'm sure the captain would disagree,” I replied with a small smile.

  The cop snorted and they moved back to the gangplank. One shook his head at the sergeant. A few seconds of discussion with Captain Lisa and the cops trooped away. Letting out a breath, I re-tarped the miscellaneous pile. As I straightened up after tying the last bite, I found Snidely gazing at me, a slight frown on his face. As casually as possible, I gave the tarp a tug and walked off to my next chore. But any attention from anyone was bound to be a bad thing. I would have to keep an eye on His Bigness.

  As it turned out, we would be crossing segments. Two passengers signed on, wanting to go in that direction, and the captain was able to subcontract on a shipment to Orchard Hill, just on the other side of the mountains. Subcontracting wasn't as potentially profitable as hauling our own goods, but it was a no risk payday. And a couple of paying passengers was just bonus.

  The passengers, a very old Quinlan and her granddaughter, were heading back to the family home. Teresa was far too old to endure any kind of extended swim, so Belinda had swim upstream several hundred miles to take her home. Quinlans had a strong reverence for the elderly, so the captain didn't balk at all when we set up a comfortable area in the sun for Teresa. Even Snidely didn't seem inclined to complain.

  Belinda doted on her grandmother, but wasn't otherwise talkative. She was friendly, but she would never use two words when a gesture or a grunt would do. On the few occasions that she did have to speak full sentences, she seemed to be almost out of practice. Remembering Bridget's comments about breeding away from tool user intelligence, I wondered if this might be a sign of that. Or maybe she just wasn't a talker.