Heaven's River

by Dennis E. Taylor

  She waved a hand at the house. “We are told we will be able to talk to a higher-up here.”

  “I'm looking forward to it.”

  She gave me an arched look. “Understand Bob, you may not come out of here alive if we don't like your answers.”

  “I may not have the answers you want, Freda. You really need to get over the idea that I'm some kind of player in whatever politics you’ve got going on here.”

  “If you can convince them, you might just see the sunset.”

  She ushered me through the front door under the disdainful gaze of the Quinlan version of Jeeves. He gestured for us to follow him and brought us to a back room with floor-to-ceiling books.

  “A library!” I exclaimed, and Freda turned a quizzical eye on me.

  “You and your friends said may have a thing for books. I’m hoping I can find out why today.”

  “You'll be staying?

  “Hope so. We’re a little tired of being kept in the dark.”

  She gestured to a seat, and I sat.

  Once again, I was chained to the furniture. Hopefully the goons wouldn’t notice that my fleas had once again wreaked havoc on the integrity of my bonds. A door opened at the other end of the library, and a Quinlan walked in. This was the homeowner, to judge from the quaffing and decorations. She gave me the up-and-down glance, plainly relegating me to the status of pond scum, then made an imperious gesture to someone behind her.

  Two Quinlans came forward, carrying what looked, for all the world, like one of those antique Motorola radios - a table model with a wooden case and big knobs. This was getting more and more curious. For a species that supposedly didn't have anything beyond the steam era, they sure seemed to have a lot of tech. It would seem the administrator didn't have as much of an iron grip as they thought.

  They placed the radio in front of me and one of the attendants started fiddling with dials. In seconds, a Quinlan voice sounded from the speaker.

  “Ready here.”

  Freda stepped forward, looking weirdly nervous. “Madame Kahoina, we have the unknown agent here, captured at great risk to ourselves. As discussed, we want-”

  The Empress flicked a hand. Barely a movement, but Freda was silenced.

  “You will be paid well for your risks and pain,” she said, glancing at Popeye. “However, our organization continues to exist only because we pay attention to need-to-know.”

  The Empress nodded toward Jeeves. “My man will take care of payment, and can provide nourishment if you are fatigued from your travels.”

  When she ended her mini-speech, it was obvious she was done. Some kind of body language, perhaps, that said, ‘You’re dismissed.’

  Freda frowned and opened her mouth, but one of her group put a hand on her arm. Thinking better of it, Freda gave a nod - well short of a bow, and probably a calculated slight, from the slight widening of nostrils and narrowing of eyes on the Empress's face - and the group turned and followed Jeeves out of the room.

  The Empress gave me another up and down scan, followed by a silent down-the-nose look. It probably would've put most people in their place, but she was playing against a computer running an android. No body language except what I chose to display, and at the moment I was playing poker. Evidently, she realized the standoff was not to her advantage. She addressed the Motorola.

  “This is one of the four persons who have led us on such an interesting chase through several cities. This one in particular picked up one of our agents with one hand and threw him against a wall.”

  “Thank you, Natasha,” the Motorola said. I had to stifle a chuckle. The translator program randomly assigned human names whenever a new native name was used, and the other way around, but occasionally the choice was bang on. She looked like a Natasha. “What shall I call you?” said Motorola.

  “I'm Bob,” I replied.

  “Hello, Bob. I am Motorola.” Again, I had to suppress a snicker. I could, as I had in this case, override the default selections. Of course, the locals would only hear the local Quinlan versions of names.

  “Okay. And this is standard practice for visitors to your city?”

  “Let’s not dance around, all right? I've read all the witness accounts and transcripts. You and your friends have some kind of knowledge or tech that give you an edge. We were sure you were Crew, and we were going to take you down, but you kept getting away. Now I'm not so sure.”

  The way it had said ‘Crew’ meant something. “By ‘Crew’ you, you mean Quinlans who work for the Administrator?”

  “That’s right. It's interesting. You either have even less knowledge of the way things are than the average Quinlan, or you are very very good with the cover story. Which is it?”

  “It's the former. Honestly, I considered the possibility that your group was with the Administrator, but that's seeming less likely.” I gestured toward the radio. “This, in particular, doesn't look like something the boss of Heaven's River would have to settle for. I have to assume the guys with guns were Administrator Crew, because you all didn't all seem to be getting along.”

  After a moment of silence Motorola said, “Interesting that you know about the level of technology displayed by this device. And about guns. Even most of the Resistance haven't ever seen one.”

  Oops.

  “We have a fascinating problem here, Bob.” It continued. “My compatriots want to just skip the talking and just peel you with a knife until we get something we can use. On the other hand, that didn't turn out well for Popeye, based on Freda's report. It's been suggested that we just kill you and remove the risk. What can you offer me as an alternative?”

  I spent a moment to be amused. Motorola was being very civil, but the subtext was that it wanted information, or something, and was trying to figure out the most effective way to get it. For now, a polite discussion. Later possibly, pain and screaming and blood. And possibly a thermite detonation, I’d bet that would mess up Natasha's hardwood floors.

  Well, I wasn't really averse to some form of cooperation. I just had to figure out what they needed, what they wanted, and what a good exchange rate would be.

  “Look, Motorola, I don't understand the politics well enough to know what's going on, or what you might consider of value, either as information or goods. I mean, I have money, but I'm sure one of Natasha's place settings is worth more than what's in my pockets.”

  A snort drifted over from the chaise on which Natasha was sitting.

  “We've already examined the contents of your backpack,” Motorola replied. “There's nothing in there we are interested in. Although, I think the long knife is from one of our agents, and on that subject, you and your group appear to be elite athletes, based on the descriptions of your escapes.”

  “No doubt highly exaggerated. And you have to take into account the fact that we were being chased by persons unknown, waving sharp objects. Fear lends wings, and all that.”

  “Wings?”

  I thought for a moment. The translation routine had converted the partial aphorism literally, and while Quinlans knew about wings, there being a local equivalent to birds, their aphorisms generally involved swimming. It appeared the incomplete translation job at the beginning of the expedition was going to come back to bite me. It wasn't a big deal, in the grand scheme of things, but it was another reason for Motorola to wonder about me. I decided that trying to excuse or explain it would just dig me in deeper. Better to move on.

  “Look, maybe if you could tell me what your angle is, I could come up with something that would be of value to you.”

  Natasha shifted in her chair and turned her head toward me. She'd stayed out of the conversation until now, but apparently I'd crossed some kind of line.

  “You seem to have forgotten who is interrogating whom. In this scenario, we ask, you answer.”

  “So ask,” I said. “So far that hasn't gone you anywhere though. I'd like to be cooperative, but I don't know what you're looking for.”

  “We want to know w
ho you work for, where your loyalties lie, what your goals are, and what assets you have or have access to. Is that clear enough.”

  I glanced over at Motorola, who hadn't uttered a peep during this exchange. “Okay. I don't work for anyone. My loyalty is to my friends. My goal is to find one of my friends. And my assets are all in my backpack.”

  Natasha eyed me silently for several seconds, then picked up a small bell and jingled it. Jeeves stepped into the room and she said to him, “Bring in Philip.” Jeeves bowed and left.

  Natasha turned to me. “Philip is an expert with sharp objects and their uses. A few minutes of his attentions, and your memory should improve.”

  “Natasha, this is not-”

  “Enough, Motorola. You're taking too long, and your particular expertise doesn't appear to have any bearing on the specifics of the situation. I think we'll try my way. Perhaps later our friend will listen more carefully to your questions.”

  There was no response from the radio. I surreptitiously twisted on my manacles and felt a satisfying looseness to them.

  In short order. A Quinlan came in carrying something wrapped in a leather skin. He sat down and unrolled it on the coffee table beside my backpack, then smiled at me, doubtless looking for a reaction. It was the weirdest collection of knives and assorted implements I'd ever seen. Straight ones, curved ones, twisted ones… some of those items had to be there just for show. There couldn't possibly be an actual function for that one, for instance.

  I smiled innocently back at him. “My kitchen’s mostly pretty well-stocked, but I wouldn't mind the long twisty one. How much for that?”

  Philip smile faltered any half glanced over at Natasha before aborting the action. He picked up the implement in question and held it up, still determined to continue the performance. “This is for removing arm webbing. Would you like me to demonstrate?”

  I stared him straight in the eye. “Philip, the moment I think I'm in any real danger, this whole room, with everyone in it, will be reduced to toothpicks. It's an insurance policy. A dead man switch. We're kinda careful that way.”

  There was a silence in the room for several seconds, then Motorola said, “We don't like explodey stuff.”

  I stared at the radio, totally boggled. The translation routine had handled that perfectly, including the idiom. How the - no, wait a minute. That hadn't been translated. That was rendered in English. But how would a Quinlan or any denizens of Heaven's River know English? Unless…

  “… Bender?”

  There was a pause.

  “Bob?”

  Part 2: Peverse Instantiations

  1. Escape

  Bob

  July 2334

  Three Lagoons

  I stared, stunned, at the radio.

  “What. The. Hell.”

  “You can't be more surprised than me, Bob. Last time I saw you, you didn't have fur.”

  “Last time I saw you, you weren’t commanding an armed Resistance group of otters. I-”

  “What is this?” Natasha snarled. “What the language are you speaking? Speak, Quinlan, or this meeting is over.”

  I gave the radio an ‘ok’ hand gesture, which didn't particularly mean anything to a Quinlan, but would to Bender. It occurred to me that I didn't actually know if the radio had a video feed. Bender's comment about my current couture could've been an assumption based on me supposedly looking like a Quinlan.

  “Sorry your highness. Turns out your representative here speaks my home dialect.”

  “That didn't sound like any Quinlan I'm familiar with.”

  “Salty Seas Creole,” Bender interjected. “’Like two hounds mating’, is the normal description.

  Natasha had no answer, but I noticed that her face quirked in a suppressed smile. I decided I'd have to listen to some Salty Sea Creole at some point.

  Bender hurried to presses advantage. “It turns out that Bob is from a Salty Seas clan that got Scattered.”

  “And we've been trying to find more of us to group up with,” I added, hoping I hadn't just shot Bender in the foot.

  “How does this change anything?”

  “You know the legends about the Salty Seas people,” Bender replied. “Even allowing for a lot of exaggeration, they were fierce warriors and tough athletes. Now assume some exaggeration on the part of our agents, partly to excuse their own incompetence, and suddenly you have Quinlans who can fly.”

  “How did he throw Popeye across the room?”

  “We have a form of fighting where we use the opponent’s weight and momentum against him,” I volunteered. “Popeye was coming at me, I just redirected him toward the wall.” It was not quite a lie, and a pretty plausible description of jujitsu. Especially for someone who hadn't been there.

  “So he doesn't know anything, and we've revealed ourselves to him?”

  “You haven't revealed anything that isn't already part of rumor or legend in the general populace,” I said. “You aren’t nearly as secret as you think. Neither is the Administrator.” Wow, I was really racking up the lies. I hoped my karma meter wouldn't throw a sprocket.

  Natasha came over, grabbed a chair, and sat across from me. Philip screeched his chair over to give her some space. “So, what shall we do with you, Bob?” she asked. “The safest thing would be to dispose of you.”

  I nodded. “Hmm. Yep. Assuming you can, without me causing a lot of damage on the way out. And assuming my friends don't get wind of it come after you. And,” I held up a finger in a dramatic gesture, “assuming you really aren't any better than the Administrator and their minions. I mean, this whole thing about ‘fighting for the people’ and so forth, well, it could be just so much fertilizer.”

  Natasha gave me a thin smile. “A very transparent attempt at manipulation, Bob.” She turned the radio. “What do you think, Motorola?”

  “He’s not our enemy. At worst, he's neutral.”

  “He knows who we are, though.”

  “I know who you are. Personally.” I interjected. “What am I going to do with that, run to the Administrator? Assuming I can even find them.”

  “Nevertheless…” Natasha became thoughtful for a moment, then grimaced in apparent distaste and turned to Philip. “Kill him. Make it quick.”

  Philip didn't hesitate. I think maybe I’d hurt his feelings earlier. He grabbed one of his larger implements of destruction and stabbed straight at where my heart should be.

  Computer reflexes or not, breaking the manacles slowed me down. I didn't want more damage to my wrists, so I had to avoid yanking on the chains with my full strength. Unfortunately, that meant I wasn't quite able to get out of the way of the knife. I twisted and watched in slow motion as the blade slashed across my chest, opening a long shallow cut in my skin. Fake blood spurted, then slowed as internal systems went into high alert.

  I grabbed Philip by the wrist and shoulder and helped him continue his journey in a straight line, ending against the wall. He bounced with the most satisfying thump, and fell to the ground. Quickly, I kicked my feet, breaking the last links holding me. Natasha pulled one of the tranquilizer guns and took aim. I spared a moment to wonder if she was a double agent. But no, more likely they liberated the gun from one of the Administrator’s minions at some point. All very interesting, but she was about to shoot me, which could be bad in so many ways. At minimum, when I didn't drop to the ground and drool on the carpet, my cover would be blown. At worst, the dart might hit a critical system. I wasn't invulnerable by any means.

  Everything slowed in my perception, as I frame-jacked as much as possible without losing the connection with my Manny. I watched the barrel of the gun and tried to calculate the trajectory as I moved to the side at maximum speed. Natasha's expression turned to surprise and panic, and she pulled the trigger. I could just make out the flechette as it passed to my left. She attempted to correct her aim and lead me, and I reversed direction. The second shot went past me on the right. I dove to the ground and slid into her legs, and she went down on
her face. I jumped up, grabbed the gun grabbed my backpack and stopped, looked at the Motorola - Bender.

  Ah, what the hell.

  I grabbed the radio, tucked it more or less under my arm, and made for the door. Just as I got there, the door opened to show Jeeves, his face finally registering something other than disdain. I straight-armed him with the backpack and ran over him as he toppled - right into a room full of Quinlans.

  The group who’d grabbed me in the first place looked up from their meal. Apparently, Jeeves had followed through on the offer of nourishment. A frozen moment of mutual inspection was broken as they all jumped to their feet, plates and food scattering in all directions. The cleaning staff would have their work cut out for them. But meanwhile, I had a backpack in one hand, a gun in the other, and an antique radio under an arm. This would severely limit my fighting ability. Time to take a cue from all those Jackie Chan movies.

  I hooked a footstool with a foot and flung it at one of the hench-critters, then tossed the radio to Frieda. I jumped at the third and knocked him over before he could react, then grabbed the radio back from Freda and bashed it into the face of the first. He fell over backward onto a side table, smashing it. Natasha was not going to be pleased.

  Freda took the opportunity to grab a convenient short sword and made to poke me with it. I parried with the radio, being careful to avoid having her stab straight into it. I needed the electronics in one piece. She stepped back and started edging toward the door. I wasn't sure if she was trying to get out and raise the alarm, or prevent me from leaving. Neither was good.

  I put the radio on the table, grabbed a couple of plates, and flung them at her, frisbee-style. One missed, the other struck her in the thigh, and I learned a new Quinlan swear word. Nope, several - must've heard a lot. But that was my chance. I grabbed the radio, then stopped. Lying in the wreckage of the side table was what looked, for all the world, like a security card. What would a pre-steam level society need… didn't matter. If there was one thing that years of adventure and D&D games had taught me, it was that anything and everything was useful, and should be taken. One problem: not enough hands, too much loot, and too many opponents.