Heaven's River

by Dennis E. Taylor

  “Oh shit,” Tim exclaimed, and backpedaled frantically.

  “Brains…” said the zombies, and advanced on us.

  “Now hold on,” Vern exclaimed. “That's entirely the wrong kind of-”

  “Shut up, Vern,” Gandalf growled. “Kill now, carp later.”

  I raised my sword and started swinging. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically, as Vern yelled “Hey, watch it!” and danced out of the way. Without Pete, we were down to two fighter characters. Even with magical accessories, Vern and I wouldn't be able to hold off a bunch of undead.

  “If you’ve got anything in that bag of tricks, Gandalf, now would be the time,” I yelled.

  “Give me a sec,” he yelled back. I could hear muttered curses, then “Ah ha!”

  There was a pop, and a zombie there was trying to eat Vern's axe turned into a cloud of smelly gas. My eyebrows went up, but I didn't have time to think about it. Zombies weren't particularly powerful opponents, but they made up for it with sheer numbers and a total lack of fear. And they were very hard to kill - you generally had to reduce them to sushi before they'd stop coming at you, and I had at least a dozen of the critters about to step into range. I cocked my sword arm and-

  Pop, pop, pop.

  “Woohoo!” Gandalf yelled. The sudden disappearance of several zombies gave me time for a quick glance over my shoulder. Gandalf was gesturing with a wand. Each time he pointed it, there was another pop.

  “Damn, that's handy,” Vern said, and chopped another couple of zombies.

  “Bippity boppity boo!” Gandalf replied, dancing around and waving his wand. “Bippity boppity bippity boppity bippity boppity boo!”

  With each downbeat, another zombie went up in smoke. The odor was verging on overpowering, and the game engine wouldn't let me turn down my olfactory sense. We were down to the last dregs of the zombies and I was beginning to think we might survive this, when a huge hand reached out of nowhere and wrapped around me. I found myself hoisted into the air, unable to draw a breath.

  The last few zombies disappeared with popping sounds and Gandalf stopped the song and dance routine. Strangely, I don't think anyone had noticed my predicament until that moment, judging from the shocked expressions.

  “Little help?” I managed to squeak.

  “Hewwo, wabbit,” a voice said from behind us. Vern and Gandalf turned. I couldn't move, but the huge hand helpfully rotated me to face the voice to find Kevin grinning at me, holding a scroll.

  “Golem,” he explained waving the scroll. The helpful hand turned me around again, I was finally able to see what I'd previously assumed was a statue. A 20-foot-tall clay-colored humanoid shape stared back at me impassively, with a face surprisingly reminiscent of Odo from DS9. It loosened its grip slightly, so that I can more easily breathe and talk. Kevin put the scroll into a pocket and I reflexively struggled. No joy, of course. He didn’t have to hold the scroll to control the golem, just possess it. And golems, besides being almost indestructible, were hella strong.

  Kevin walked a little ways to the side, to put some distance between himself and the rest of the group, still smirking triumphantly, but not saying anything. It looked like he was going to wait for us to ask the first question.

  “What's going on, Kevin?” Vern asked obligingly.

  Kevin gestured at me. “Bill here. First time in a campaign, he goes from dragon fodder to a level above me by basically tripping over himself. Does practically nothing and comes out golden.”

  “Plus I took your Staff of Fireballs, I'm sure that figures into it.”

  Kevin glared at me. “You needed to be taken down a peg, bud.” He directed a nasty grin my way. “So, I set up this campaign and made sure you were invited.”

  “You played and DM’d” Gandalf exclaimed.

  “No, I've got a friend running the show. I'm just what you might call a-”

  “Backstabber,” Vern finished for him.

  “Whatever, none of you have anything that can take out a golem. Enjoy your deaths, courtesy of Bill. And speaking of Bill…”

  Kevin raised a hand and made a squeezing motion. I waited for the end, hoping the sensory feedback filter was set way high, but nothing happened. Kevin got a perplexed look on his face and repeated the motion. Still nothing. Kevin reached into his pocket and the concerned expression changed to panic.

  “Looking for this?”

  We all turned to Tim's voice. He was leaning up against the wall, casually flipping a scroll in his hand. Oh yeah, that's right. Thief.

  “You truly are and asshole, Kevin,” Tim said, and opened his other hand. The golem dropped me, then reached out, grabbed Kevin around the head, and squeezed. There was a pop sound, not the least bit like a zombie exploding, and squishy juice squirted from the top of the golems fist.

  Vern bent over and retched.

  “Oh god,” Gandalf exclaimed. “Did you have to do that?”

  Tim grimaced in sympathy. “Okay, maybe not my best move. However,” he held up the golem scroll, “I appear to be in possession one kick ass piece of magic. I feel some leveling up in my future. Let's see what else we can find.”

  We grinned at each other. Another successful campaign.

  I'd invited myself over to Gandalf's VR again, and he was eyeing me suspiciously. Maybe he was expecting another lecture on the Gamers’ involvement in the expedition, but that wasn’t what I was worried about this time.

  “So, about Kevin… that's not Bob-like behavior. How far as he drifted, anyway?”

  Gandalf shrugged. “He’s actually one of my descendants. I could ask him, but off-the-cuff, I'd say he's about 24th generation, so it shouldn't be a surprise that he’s drifted a lot.”

  “Bit of an asshole. A vindictive one, at that.”

  “Yeah. Listen Bill, I get why the whole drift thing bothers the senior Bobs, but you need to appreciate that from our point of view, it's more upside than otherwise.”

  Well that was interesting. I raised my eyebrows, and made a rolling motion with a hand for him to continue.

  “When we first started the Gamers group, most of us were still mostly Bob-like, and frankly it was a little boring. Everyone wanted to be a magic user. The dungeons tended to all feature intellectual puzzles. Everything was carefully balanced, all very civilized. Now…” Gandalf made a helpless gesture. “Nowadays, you can't always depend on your fellow players. Sometimes crazy shit happens. Like today. And sometimes things go wildly out of control. Campaigns are way more fun these days. Also, we are now getting non-Bob replicants joining up, from some of the post-life replicant archologies.”

  “What, seriously? Who?”

  “No one, today - this was all Bobs. But a couple of guys from your last time out were ex-human. Interesting that you didn't notice.”

  Huh. Well, he had a point.

  “So, Kevin?”

  “Is going to suffer a loss of reputation, but not so much for the attempted backstabbing as for failing at it. We’ll still let him join campaigns, we just won't let him stand behind us, if you know what I mean.”

  I chuckled and shook my head. “You’re right. It's too easy to get myopic and see everything from the point of view of my own priorities. And that’s going to become an increasingly dangerous habit. I think I have to make an effort to start seeing everyone as individuals.” I stood. “Thanks Gandalf, for the game and for the lesson.

  He was still smiling when I popped out.

  18. Trouble with Snidely

  Bob

  August 2334

  Nirvana River System

  It was kind of a good-news better-news thing. The good news was that Snidely was now avoiding me. The better news was that everyone else had noticed, and was actively hanging around me. I wondered why I hadn't thought of this tactic when I was alive.

  We were on our lunch break and were once again sitting around the fish bowl - by which I mean bowl of fish, yum! We’d gotten onto the concept of morality, and Freda had just asked Teresa how she could have
any sense of morality without a deity to define what was or was not moral. And as, usual I was having to grit my teeth to avoid doing a face palm, which wasn’t a Quinlan expression. They didn't seem to have a direct equivalent either, or I’d have used it by now.

  “What deities give you aren’t rules of morality,” Teresa responded. “They’re just rules. Do this and you’ll rewarded. Do that and you’ll be punished. That's how we teach our pants not to relieve themselves in the house. One would hope that true morality involved more than learning not to poop on the rug by being rapped on the nose.”

  I remembered that small animal Garfield had seen wearing the cone of shame. It seemed pet behavior was another universal.

  “In fact,” Teresa continued, “I believe that it is only possible to acquire true morality without input from a deity. It is only when you do something because you believe it is the right thing to do, instead of because of an immoral desire, that you are acting morally. Likewise, it is only when you refuse to do something because of the golden rule, rather than because of a threat of punishment, that you are behaving in a moral manner.”

  “Ah,” I piped up. “The golden rule: treat others as you'd like to be treated.”

  Teresa gave me a perplexed look. “No, that's the silver rule.”

  What? Had I missed something?

  “There are three rules of behavior,” Teresa replied now in lecture mode. “The iron rule: treat others less powerful than you however you’d like. The silver rule: treat others as you’d like to be treated. The golden rule: treat others as they'd like to be treated.”

  Huh. I had not heard that.

  Teresa frowned at me. “Seems like an odd gap. How far away is your home? Maybe they need a missionary visit.”

  “From an atheist?” Freda said archly.

  “Wait,” I gestured at Freda with an upheld hand. Then to Teresa, “How is that better?”

  “If I treat you how I want to be treated, I'm not taking into account your desires.” Teresa made it imploring gesture. “If you are a unitest and can't eat land meat, but land meat is my favorite, the silver rule says I'm behaving morally by offering you a steak if you're hungry. But of course, you won't eat it, and in fact, may be offended. So the silver rule is still, to a large extent, about me and my desires. However, with the golden rule, I am obligated to take into account your beliefs and preferences when deciding how best to behave toward you. Does this not produce a better result?”

  “Huh,” I said. Again, not sounding very smart, Bob. “I'll have to think about that.”

  Teresa smiled. “That's the best sentence any teacher could hear.”

  “But,” Freda interjected, “you could believe literally anything, and there’s no way to decide which is right.”

  “Shall we just sail right past port then?!” Captain Lisa's voice washed over us. Damn, she had presence. I wondered if captains practiced that kind of yelling. “Maybe we should just sail into the rocks, then. Perhaps when you have a few seconds, you could steer this Mother-be-damned tub!”

  Once again, lunch 10 minutes was over.

  We pulled into Orchard Hill without incident. As soon as the gangplank was in place, Snidely stalked down it and away, cutting in front of the captain. He wasn't carrying his trunk, so unfortunately, he'd probably be back. And Captain Lisa would likely have a few things to say to him.

  The captain and the dock master got into the usual spitting and shouting match, which as usual, terminated with work for us. We began hauling boxes off the Hurricane and stacking them on a low-slung cart specifically designed for this. It was mindless work, and allowed me to think. I’d been on the move for a week, and had traversed the segment. Assuming that was a reasonable speed, I'd be a month and a half getting to Garrick's Spine. Maybe a little more, since I’d also have to move from the Nirvana back to the Arcadia. Maybe I could get on a boat that crossed as part of their regular route.

  I was interrupted in my ruminations by something… undefinable. There's a particular sound or maybe a change to the normal background that happens when cops show up. It's subtle, but it's enough to make you stop and look.

  Coming down the dock was Snidely, talking animatedly to one of four cops. I doubted that he was trying to get them to check the Hurricane’s boating license. Assuming they had such things.

  Snidely marched straight up to me, and with triumph in his voice said, “This one.”

  The cop, presumably the ranking officer, examined me, head slightly cocked. “Doesn't match the description.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, we're here.”

  He motioned me to precede him up the gangplank.

  “What's going on?” Captain Lisa demanded. She place herself in front of the spokes-cop, blocking his path.

  He gestured to Snidely. “This gentleman has accused this man of being the fugitive, who is currently being sought through several segments.”

  “Based on the fact that he tried to break into my trunk and I threatened him,” I said.

  “And why would he be trying to break in your trunk?”

  “You've known them for five minutes. Tell me honestly if that doesn't seem in character.”

  The cop said nothing, but his face took on the stony cast the men someone was trying to suppress a facial expression. After a moment, he sighed. “Nevertheless, we're here. And Mr. Whiplash is from a Family.” He turned to the captain. “You can refuse to let me on board, but the dock master can also refuse to continue to load and unload. Your choice.”

  Captain Lisa gave Snidely a murderous glare before replying to the sergeant.

  “You have permission. He does not.” She turned to Ted. Bring Mr. Whiplash’s trunk down.”

  Snidely smiled at her. “Big deal. I'll have another ride by the end of the day.”

  “But it won't be with us,” the captain replied. “And the shipping community is small and tight-knit. Don't be too sure of your options.” She pulled her vest pocket open and rummaged for a moment, producing two coins. “Here is the balance of your fare.” She threw the coins to the ground at Snidely's feet.

  I’ll give Snidely credit, he ignored the coins. He also dealt her a glare that made her previous salvo look like a love fest. If people had started shooting lightning bolts from their eyes, it wouldn't have surprised me. The coins rolled a short distance and a couple of spectators pounced on them. The sergeant gave Captain Lisa a look that might've been sympathy, then turned back to me and gestured again to the plank.

  We passed Ted on his way back, carrying Snidely's trunk. A brief glance assured me that he hadn't gotten the wrong one. The tarp had been stripped back and left off. I pulled my trunk from the pile, placed it flat and unlocked it. The cop reached forward and open the lid to reveal… stuff. A folded vest, some small tools, several books, a miniature ceramic figure, and a diary and writing implements. He pushed a few items around, frowned, then frowned at me.

  “This is just common goods. Why did you not to show him this?”

  “Would you have if a fat pompous ass demanded it of you?”

  The cop snorted. “No, not likely. I think Mr. Whiplash is going to have some explaining to do. Wasting the constabulary's time is not without consequence. My apologies for the trouble.”

  I smiled and nodded, and the cops marched back to the dock. I imagined a sharp and hopefully not short conversation in Snidely's future. I glanced at the shipping container that currently held Bender's matrix instead of these random items. I’d have to swap things back tonight, as that particular container was destined for the next stop.

  “What a putz,” Ted said. I grinned and pushed the fish bowl toward him. “Yeah, but did you see the look on his face as they marched them up the dock? I think he's going to have an interesting afternoon.”

  Teresa accepted a fillet from Belinda and chewed thoughtfully on it for a few seconds. “Sadly, he will probably have many children.”

  We all chuckled. Harvey, our new deckhand, said “It sounds like I missed an interesting time. I've had t
o deal with obnoxious passengers before. Never fun.”

  Teresa turned to me. “So, Enochi. Tell me more about utilitarianism.”

  There were groans from the others. It turned out that dislike for moral philosophy transcended species.

  Freda was holding the night watch again. That helped, as I'd spent time last night working out her routine. Now, I had to switch back the contents of my trunk and the shipping container, but you know, night vision. I had both containers open and had moved the miscellaneous items back into the shipping box. I held up Bender's matrix and was about to place it carefully and the organics that formed my trunks patting, when a voice behind me said, “That's very pretty, what is it?”

  I whirled, almost fumbling the matrix, to find Teresa smiling at me.

  “It is about the size of a funerary box, and since you took steps to hide it, I have to assume some level of guilt, if that's the right word.”

  Well this was just peachy beyond belief. What I have to kill Teresa? Could I even do that? What were my alternatives?

  “You’re not from around here, are you Enochi?”

  “None of us are, Teresa.”

  She laughed. “You know what I mean. You're not a native Quinlan. At least, not a resident of Heaven's River, like the rest of us. Are you even a Quinlan at all?”

  “What an odd question. What else would I be?”

  “Well, you’d would be someone who knows about things like utilitarianism, and closest continuous which I'd never heard of. But not about the Three Rules, which every child learns. And you're someone who thinks the gravity in Heaven's River is 0.86 g instead of 1 g. Where are you from, that the gravity is 1.16 g?”

  Oh bugger. I remembered that conversation. I'd assume the translator would convert my statement, but apparently not. Well that was just a huge steaming smelly pile of…