Heaven's River

by Dennis E. Taylor

  “I’ve got a fleet of drones doing nothing but scanning for carcasses. Between the Svalbard Library and our efforts, we've probably got complete DNA for 80% of species, not counting insects.”

  “Hmm. I get that those are harder, but when I museums and universities? They've always had huge bug collections.”

  “Yeah, working on that angle too.” Charles gazed at me for a few mils, head cocked slightly. “So getting back on topic, Bill. I gotta say, you seem sort of morose these days. Is that the Starfleet thing? Or something else?”

  “Starfleet's part of it. I guess I'm just disappointed with the way things are evolving. We had a pretty good thing going for a while. Everyone was pulling in the same direction. Humanity was finally getting their collective shit together. And post-scarcity utopian civilization was looking like an achievable goal. Even a couple of alien species to make the UFS title something other than ironic. Now, pfft, gone.”

  Charles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don't think it's gone, Bill. But things going cycles, you know? We all pulled together for the war against the Others, and that felt good. Now everyone's doing their own thing. The trouble with being immortal is you’re living long enough now to see these things come and go. Just wait 100 years or so, and I bet it'll come around again.”

  I laughed, then stood and put my cup down on a side table. “Yeah, you're right. I guess I need to get some of that perspective.” I gestured to the image of Earth with my chin. “There’s a good chance we'll have the tensor field printers perfected by the time you're ready to repopulate the planet. Then we’ll be able to literally print living cells.”

  “Good. I'd like to see it brought back to the way it was before.”

  “We’d all like that, Charles. See ya.”

  22. Another Close Call

  Bob

  September 2334

  Six Hills

  They placed me in an actual cell with two buckets and a mattress on the floor. One bucket contained water, the other was empty except for some stains from previous occupants that left little doubt about the intended use. Yech.

  The bars were something that resembled bamboo, and they felt solid. They were also embedded firmly into the floor and ceiling. A small window high on the wall let air and light in. There were two cells against one wall of the room, with a door on the opposite wall that led to the rest of the station.

  The cop took my backpack after inventorying the contents and giving me a receipt, which he placed in the backpack. I wasn't sure if that was deliberate irony, but commenting wouldn't accomplish anything except possibly pissing them off, so I kept the cork in it.

  After announcing the dinner would be a dusk, they left me to my own devices, which normally would be just an expression, except you know, Bob. I had no spiders left, my last spider being in the crate with Bender, but I did have a couple of fleas. They might or might not be able to cut the bamboo without starting a fire. I would just have to take a chance. I'd have loved to do a little spying and get the lay of the land, jail wise, but fleas didn't have sufficient audiovisual capability.

  While the fleas examined the structure of the bars I sat down and engaged in a good old-fashioned panic attack. Bender was sailing off with the Clipper with a postal address in Three Circles. Some unlucky recipient was going to get a facefull of angry spider instead of whatever was in the box that the cops currently had in their possession. Either the recipient would report the issue to the authorities, in which case Bender would be back in the hands of either the Resistance or the Administrator, or the recipient would try to break down the cube for metal. Whether or not they were ultimately successful, Bender wouldn't survive the treatment.

  I looked out the window to see the sky fading to dusk. The Clipper would've left by now. They’d get out to the middle of the river before dusk, and sail all night, putting on up to 100 miles per day. Sailing in Heaven's River was an almost mindless activity, since you always have the current on your side. The wind tended to be north-south due to residual Coriolis forces, so boats could use a beam reach to travel even faster than the river current. I wasn't sure if my Manny could overtake them, even swimming flat-out.

  The fleas reported in. The bars were embedded in holes in the ceiling and floor sills, 4 inches deep at each end. There was about an inch of free play at the top, no doubt to allow for expansion. I tested the bars, attempting to bend them in various directions. No joy. There was no chance I'd be able to pull them out of their settings.

  However, I can rotate the bars. Which meant they weren't cemented or nailed in. I had the fleas pull out their plasma cutters and do a test cutting in the bottom setting. There is some smoke and a burning smell but no actual flames. Good. They’d have to work slowly to keep the smoke and odor to a minimum, which would drive me crazy, but this wasn't the time to get caught because of impatience. And of course the cops picked this very moment to deliver dinner. Oh, look, fish! Yum.

  The cop sniffed the air and got a concerned expression. I shrugged and pointed at the window. “Yeah, you should smell it from in here. I think someone's burning garbage.”

  He glanced at the window, shrugged, and opened the cell door long enough to hand me the bowl. I briefly considered jumping them. I could've taken them on, and easily, but I had no idea how many more cops were waiting in the general staff area. On the other hand, now that dinner was delivered. I very likely had total privacy until morning.

  The fleas cut a crenellation pattern on one of the bars, just below the sill level. Seated one way, the bar would sit normally. Turned 60°, the bar would sit 3 inches higher. I then had the fleas go into the top sill and cut the bar down to just above sill level. They dropped pieces into the hollow interior of the bar as they cut it down now. Now I had a bar that I could pull out with just a slight bend then put back in the sill and rotate to make it appear to be solidly seated.

  For phase 2, I started modifying my appearance to match the cop who escorted me here. Hopefully he was day shift and would've gone home by the time I was ready to bust out, and if someone spotted me it would notice that I wasn't wearing the police accoutrements.

  Oh, who was I kidding. This wasn't a plan, it was a desperation move. Most likely I'd end up having to fight my way out and play the lead in a chase to the river. I recalled the fleas, swallowed them, and twisted the bar. As expected, it came out easily, leaving me a tight but passable gap to squeeze through. I replaced the bar behind me, then crept to the door and put my ear to it.

  The general office area on the other side of the door had a couple of desks, a front counter, and some back rooms. There have been four cops, including my escort, when I was incarcerated, but now it was night. And I hoped the night shift would be smaller. Maybe even a single person. I cracked the door and slowly pulled it open, peering through the gap. I had about a 30° view of the office area. Empty.

  Oddly, that was more worrying than reassuring. There would certainly be at least one person, and I have no idea where that person was. I quickly pulled the door open a little further and stuck my head out for a fraction of a second and took a panoramic snapshot. As I began carefully pushing the door closed, I took the time to examine the image. Two cops. Damn.

  But in one of those Murphy moments, the door that had moved so silently for me when I opened it quickly, squeaked as I slowly closed it.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” I muttered.

  A voice from the office said, “What was that?”

  And another replied, “It came from the cells.”

  Then the first voice again. “I’ll check if there's a problem.”

  Great. They'd undoubtedly turn to look at the door, so I couldn’t move in any further. In particular, I couldn't re-latch it. I left the door slightly ajar and moved to stand behind it - standard cliché move, but I knew I could react faster than the cop.

  He came into the room cautiously, but the kind of caution where you don't actually believe you’re in danger. His loss, my gain. As soon as he w
as past the door, I swatted him on the side of the head. By this point, I'd swatted so many Quinlans that I have the strike finally calibrated. I caught him as he crumpled. If I'd had the time I would've modified my features to match his, but I only had a few seconds before the second cop would get suspicious and come in with short sword drawn.

  I pulled the door open, careful not to show my face, and said using the unconscious cop’s voice from a few seconds ago.

  “There's a problem.”

  The other cop came into the room and bam, down he went.

  It was the work of a few moments to take the keys, place both cops in the cell, and lock them up. Hopefully they wouldn't test the bars, or they'd be out of jail quickly, but I simply didn't have time to tie up all the loose ends. I had to be gone before they regained their senses, as they might start up a hue and cry that would bring help in short order.

  Placing the keys on one of the desks, I grabbed my backpack from where I'd seen the cop store it and sauntered out of the constabulary as nonchalant as you please, not quite whistling a jaunty tune. As soon as I was around the corner. I cut in the afterburners and made for the river.

  I took a quick glance at the boat still a dock to verify that the Clipper was gone, then dove into the river. The ideal depth for speed swimming was about a foot down. Not so close to the water’s surface that I caused cavitation, but close enough that the water I was displacing could easily bulge upward to get out of my way. I would have to surface every mile or so to look for the running lights of boats in the area, and I'd have to check out each one until I found the Clipper. The Manny could probably keep up a maximum pace for six hours before I’d have to stop to do a maintenance check. Chances were that the check would reveal nothing and I could continue on. Overheating wouldn't be a problem in the water, as long as all systems continued to operate properly. These and other thoughts echoed through my brain as I drove the Manny eastward.

  Another problem I would have trouble with would be explaining how I caught up with them. Not just caught up with them so fast, but caught up with them at all. A bio Quinlan wouldn't have been able to maintain the necessary pace. This stretch of the river was busy. I checked close to a half dozen boats before dawn. It didn't require much finesse, very few boats adhered to a standard design, and even boats built by the same shipyard would have incremental changes on every new build. If that wasn't enough, the sails were quite often individualized, although that wasn't much use at night. Once dawn broke, I could use telescopic vision to check boats from a greater distance. Very few required me to even change course, and finally I spotted the Clipper cruising along near dead center on the river. Now, how was I going to explain my reappearance?

  I swam parallel to the boat for a while, formulating and discarding increasingly wild scenarios. Then I had an idea. It wasn't a great idea. It wasn't even a good one. But it would get me on the boat. I looked around, gauging the traffic levels and the likelihood of my wake being spotted. For safety, I decided to swim slightly deeper for this sprint. I submerged and poured on the horses, passing the Clipper by dead reckoning a few hundred yards to port. When I estimated that I was far enough ahead of them I popped up onto the surface and began to float, otter style.

  While I waited, I adjusted my features so that I wasn't a close twin for the cop that it hauled Sam away. It would be just my luck for someone to remember the guy’s mug. Within minutes, the Clipper was bearing down on me. I waved, waited until I got an acknowledgment from someone on deck, then swam over and pooted on board, right in front of Ralph.

  “Hi,” I said in the cop’s voice that I'd used most recently. “I’m Wyatt. I’ve been swimming for days and I’m ready for a change of pace. I can pay for passage, or I can work if you have an opening.”

  “You're in luck,” he replied. “We lost a crew member back in Six Hills. Standard rate.” He examined me from several angles. “No luggage or anything?”

  “I travel light,” I said, patting my backpack.

  I settled back in the life of the Clipper, being careful to be a good worker, but not as good as Sam. I was also careful not to use people's names before I was introduced. I hadn’t engaged with this group all that much, so I didn't have a lot of subjects to remember to avoid. This time around, it was determined to be even less sociable. I tried to project affable loner whenever someone talk to me. Not impolite, by any means, but no attempt to keep the conversation going. I would try for neither likable nor unlikable, but forgettable.

  It turned out to be easier than expected. The days of arguing and debating with Teresa on the Hurricane had been idyllic, even with the stress of my situation, and the crew of this boat seemed flat and uninteresting by comparison. My package was in the same spot, wearing the same label, as verified by a brief conversation with my spider. I thought about finding a blank label and relabeling the box, but I knew that Ralph maintained a manifest and would notice if one destination disappeared and another mysteriously replaced it. Little Creek was in the next segment, and the Clipper would be turning around at the end of this one to head back up along the Arcadia River. That meant they would be offloading any postal items intended for a downstream destination at the last town in this segment, which was High Ridge. I was playing around with a number of scenarios for grabbing the box, either during offloading or afterward, but nothing it gelled yet.

  On my third day as Wyatt, we were eating lunch when Ralph pointed and said “More furls.”

  I turned to look, and sure enough, a couple of the small birds were hopping around on the cargo.

  “There must be food in one of those crates,” he continued. “I've never seen birds so interested in cargo, not even acrils. And those garbage scows would eat wood if nothing else was available.”

  Hugh hadn’t mentioned any birds acting unusual yet in his location. Maybe the search hadn't widened to that point yet, but the Administrator was definitely on full alert, judging from the activity here. I did a quick calculation, then contacted Hugh.

  “Hey Hugh, I think you should start seeing furls or other birds acting funny in the next two days or so.”

  “Because?”

  “Because the theoretical search perimeter will have expanded to your location by that point.”

  “Makes sense, but the Administrator probably will try something else soon, Bob. They're not going to just stick with random searches.”

  “Yeah. We’ll deal with that when we come to it, I guess.”

  And who knew what form that something else would take? With the fake birds still checking postal items, I couldn't pull any fast ones with labels. The Administrator was probably checking boxes against the postal manifests. Come to think of it…

  Uh-oh. My manner of leaving the Six Hills jailhouse would have been attention-getting to say the least. By now, they'd have opened the shipping crate and discovered its mundane contents. It wouldn't be much of a stretch to figure out that I had switched crates or labels. They’d be after the Clipper.

  Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, since the fastest form of transport for information or goods was a boat, but the Administrator, and for that matter the Resistance, had already long since proven that they weren't limited by what was available to the public. There would be a welcome party waiting at High Ridge, and they'd be armed to the teeth. Come to think of it, they didn't even have to wait at High Ridge, they could sail out from the next town and board us.

  Things had just gotten even more complicated.

  I had called an emergency expedition meeting, and Bill, Will, and Bridget were attending by video window. Hugh sat in the beanbag chair, as was becoming common. Bill stared into space, his coffee forgotten.

  “You could grab the box and slip over the side, as soon as it gets dark.”

  “And go where?” I replied. “Granted, the crates float, but I can’t pull it underwater. It's too buoyant, and it probably wouldn't be water-tight enough for that kind of treatment. If I just push it along the surface, it'll take forever and someon
e will notice. That's not normal behavior.”

  “And if he tries to go inland, it's likely that there will be surveillance birds. That's an obvious thing to watch for,” Bridget added.

  Will glanced in my direction before replying. “Bob's right about a boarding party being likely. That certainly what I would do. They don't seem to have anything like constitutional protections in Heaven's River: what a cop say they will do they can do.”

  Bridget nodded. “But they still have to tread carefully, because if they make the citizens mad, there will be a revolt. Quinlans appear to be very hard to intimidate, even by authority figures.”

  “So I can’t leave the boat, and I can't stay on the boat.” I frowned. “That does limit my choices.”

  Hugh grinned at me. “Oh, you can leave or stay no problem. It's Bender they're looking for.”

  “No, I think they want Bob too,” Bridget said. “He's part of the mystery, and not just because of his apparent superhuman abilities.”

  “And you can't just change the labels again.”

  “I don’t think it would matter anyway, Bill. At this point, my guess is they'll open every single crate. Like I said, it's what I’d do.”

  “What about hiding Bender somewhere else on the boat?” Bridget asked.

  Will shook his head. “If it was me, I’d do a thorough search. Even underwater. Even in the bilge, in case anyone was going to suggest that.”

  I sat forward. “That's it, then. Staying on the boat is out of the question. I'll have to take my chances with the wilderness or the river.”

  “I'd suggest wilderness,” Bridget replied. “You have more speed advantage there, and it is possible that the searchers won't consider it a likely alternative. Or at least they'll be reluctant to pursue it. Quinlans don't like being too far from water.”

  I nodded. It would appear I was going on a hike.

  I took the night watch for one of the other workers in return for a favor that I would never collect on. As soon as breathing sounds indicated that everyone was peacefully asleep, I snuck over to the postal pile. I'd ‘accidentally’ re-stacked everything earlier in the day so that my crate was easily accessible. Now I took it and slipped as silently as possible over the side. I balanced to create on my stomach and sculled away from the Clipper using only my tail to prevent any disturbance on the water’s surface. Thanks to the Quinlan design, I could easily watch where I was going, but I was reluctant to place the crate in the water, so the trip to shore took a solid hour.