Heaven's River

by Dennis E. Taylor

  “Odd,” Hobart frowned. “They’ve had control of the autofactory for two days now. Shouldn’t they have able to construct a least a few of your busters by now?”

  “Yes, commander, and they should've launched-”

  “Bogeys detected,” Miller interjected.

  “That's more like it,” Hobart tapped his emblem. “Details, please.”

  “Busters, from the look of it. 20, straight attack vector, no subtlety.”

  Hobart gave me a perplexed look. “You gents tend to be tricky as a rule, but that sounds like the maximum they could've built in the available time. Any chance there’s a fake of some kind?”

  “I don't see how, commander. You're right about the numbers, this looks more like a last-ditch effort or a simple act of defiance. I'd have waited longer to get our forces closer together.”

  “Amateurs,” Hobart muttered.

  Miller's voice supplied updates every few seconds in a flat unemotional tone.

  “Units engaging. First wave enemy casualties 50%. Second wave engaging. Second wave through, only two enemy units still extant. Deploying spikes. Field is now clear.”

  Well, that was it. Unless Starfleet had a Kree battleship up their sleeve, we had a clear path to the target. “Last chance, commander. We might still save the autofactory.”

  He shook his head. “Not worth it. Too much risk of buried malware. Even your Skippies couldn't guarantee a total cleansing. We’ll rebuild.

  And the fact that it was the autofactory technically owned by the Bobiverse was undoubtedly a factor. I wondered if they’d have been so quick to write it off if it had been the New Home-owned equipment.

  At that moment a harsh buzzer sound shattered the silence and Miller's voice announced, “Space station detonation, not our action. Appears to be a self-destruct.”

  “Crap,” I said. I turned to the commander “We’ll examine the logs, and maybe we'll learn enough to avoid this next time. Your backup ready?”

  He shook his head. “24 hours from go-live. We didn't feel we can wait. We have individual small SCUT units with the necessary range, as I'm sure you do, but not enough to maintain full connectivity. We’re essentially isolated from the rest of the UFS for a day.” Hobart gave a humorless perfunctory smile. “No big deal from a practical point of view, but you know the big heads will have a collective fit. Can't block commerce, and all at tripe.”

  “Yep.” I rolled my eyes. “That's okay commander, I think we’re already at max doghouse. This won't add anything.”

  Commander Hobart gave me a nod, then turned away and began giving orders to Miller. I took that as my cue and headed for the exit.

  I normally kept this Manny at the New Home capital, a convenient location for interacting with the government or catching transit if I needed to go into town. However, knowing how this engagement might end, I decided to plan for getting the Manny off planet. Howard warned me that the very human tendency to want a scapegoat was making life uncomfortable for in-system Bobs everywhere.

  My assets, those that were liquid, anyway, had already been transferred via intersystem banking, in transactions that couldn't be unwound. My physical assets were already heading out to the Oort by various paths. Once I reached my base there, I could work out my next step.

  As soon as I stepped out of the building, one of my cargo drones landed in front of me. Without breaking stride, I loaded myself in and ordered the drone to take off. I figured I had half an hour at the most before the government - the big heads, as local slang called them - confiscated or nationalized or whatever euphemism you used for grabbed - my assets.

  It was funny, but ever since the war of independence on Poseidon, there had been an unspoken agreement in the Bobiverse to not publish or otherwise publicize the existence of or plans for SUDDAR cloaking. I guess the mutual distrust had already been sown before Starfleet started inflating it. Or maybe their attitude was born of that distrust. The bottom line though was that once I got my equipment off planet, they had no chance of finding it.

  It turned out I'd been a bit of a pessimist. It took almost 3 hours before an executive order was issued to secure all Bobiverse in-system assets, pending any assignment of legal liability. The order came with instructions for immediate action by the military and financial sector. It would take the suits most of the day to unwind the various blinds and dummy corps I’d set up in the last couple of days, at which point they'd find nothing but lint.

  The military aspect was a more immediate concern. Two squadrons pulled away from the Lagrange naval bases, accelerating at military level g’s for my last known position and vector. Unfortunately for them, I'd already changed direction several times, so I was not only not at the projected position, I also didn't have a vector that was a radial to it. Space was alive with SUDDAR pings, all sliding silently past my cloak.

  It took only a minute for commander Hobart to come online. “Claude Johansson, you are under military arrest per executive order of the big- uh, of the New Home Counsel. Cease acceleration and surrender yourself for boarding.”

  I spared a moment to chuckled Hobart's almost faux pas, but of course to respond would be to show my position. The commander was doomed to a frustrating day of explaining to the big heads why he'd come up empty-handed. I formatted an email and fired it off to Bill, via my own SCUT-enabled relays. Not that he needed more headaches, but this was part of the big picture, and would probably be replicated in other systems. I received a reply within seconds. No, not mils. Seconds. He was that busy.

  “Thanks for the info, Claude. Sadly, you're probably right about other systems trying the same thing, but I'll give any potentially affected Bobs the heads up. Nice move with the financial assets, by the way.”

  I smiled, then sat back and stared into space. One way or another. I was probably finished in this system. Even if they decided they didn't need to sue me, I’d have a hard time arguing that I hadn’t heard the commander, and that all my chest moves were just normal business. Well, what the hell. I'd been stationary too long. Mario and his crew were finding interesting things out beyond the Others’ system. Maybe I'd join up and do my part to make known space a bigger place.

  8. The Search

  Bob

  July 2334

  Cedar Rapids

  Hugh had cleaned up the spare Manny and was on the road. I was glad to have him active in Heaven's River. The thing with cloning versus transporting and the whole ‘soul’ business was, I admit, freaky. I wondered if he decided to transport to Eta Leporos just to test it out for himself.

  I was in town, having arrived by land. A few casual conversations revealed that I was in a location that the translator handed off as Cedar Rapids. Local tree, of course. It was a prosperous town with a relatively large fleet of ships. It appeared that being the closest port to the mountains, and therefore the choke point for all goods coming from and going to the next segment of Heaven's River, was a good thing.

  There was another festival in full swing. I decided to wander around a little, see the sights, and get some of the flavor of the place. Hopefully without my friends around, I would be just one more face in the crowd. And I would make a point of not peeking into any carts. In rapid succession, I saw a square dance group, a terrific string quartet, and a vocal group. The Quinlans definitely had a good sense of music and rhythm. But nothing was going to compensate for the short limbs: they would never do ballet. Or even hip-hop.

  I decided it might be prudent to check for signs of the Resistance. I had come in over land and hadn’t gone anywhere near the docks, so presumably had bypassed any lookouts. As casually as any random Quinlan, I picked the closest tavern and got a table. This one was significantly upscale, having an actual outdoor patio where one could, eat, drink, and watch the world go by. However, a few minutes of watching made it clear that people seated there were not interested in socializing, so indoors it would be.

  I sidled up to the bar and ordered a beer and the local equivalent of a sandwich. It was
n’t actual bread, maybe more of a pita wrap, but it had variations that didn't involve fish in its many forms. That alone made it my favorite snack.

  In between bites. I started to talk up the barkeep. It was a slow day, so she was bored enough to put up with me. “Good lady, I am between residences at the moment. Could you recommend me a hotel or apartment overlooking the docks?”

  “Why in Mother’s name would you want to live near the docks?

  Um, think fast, Bob. “I'm an artist. Ships are my current subjective choice.”

  She cocked her head, then nodded, deciding I wasn't dangerous. Or suspicious. Or something. “My cousin Maurice is the landlord of the Oak and Bale luxury apartments. Tell him Melanie sent you, and he'll find you something to your liking.”

  And give you a kickback, no doubt. It was amazing just how much business was done in Heaven's River based on who knew a guy, but that was fine. It gave Melanie some motivation to help me out and rationalize away any oddness. She gave me directions and I thanked her and ordered another beer, just to be neighborly.

  I was going to played cagey this time around, so I decided not to ask too many questions at any one location. Moving on to another tavern, I engaged a random bar fly in conversation. “Say, I’ve got a cousin who is staying at the Oak and Bale apartments I haven't been able to find it. Can you help me out?”

  Marty McBarfly chuckled. “You must have been watching the ladies when you got here, my friend. You would have walked right by it as your left the docks.” He examined me up and down, speculatively. “Your cousin must be from the more affluent side of the family. The Oak and Bail is not cheap.”

  I laughed and tried to look embarrassed. I had a cover story ready, and as cover stories went, it wasn't bad. “Gramps is hoping Theodore can find me a spot was some future prospects. Things are slow and Helep's Ending.” I watched him closely to see if the name meant anything. No luck. “Theodore works at the library. Not that he needs the money. I could probably meet him there.”

  “Which one? Eye Lens, or Meat Hook?”

  Oops. “Uh, I confess I didn’t pay that much attention. It's the one closest to his home, though - he hates walking.”

  “Eye Lens, then.” He gave me directions. “I hope it works out well for you.” Marty looked woefully it is empty mug. Taking the hint, I signaled for another round, and Marty’s mood picked up.

  I had no intention of actually showing up at the library, any more than I intended to walk jauntily along the docks wearing a monocle swinging my walking stick and whistling Dixie. I needed to know if the Resistance was still after me. If they have this town covered as well, then I had to accept that I was always going to be on their radar.

  I took a place in the Oak and Bail - and it really was expensive. I calculated that I’d burn through my cash in three months. Not that I planned to be here that long, but it was still worrying. If I had to, I could sell the knives, but I had a feeling that I wouldn't be able to get retail for them.

  After another long day of what I suppose could be considered ‘spying’, I popped into my VR library to find Hugh sitting back and drinking a coffee. He raised the cup in salute as I plopped into my La-Z-Boy.

  “How goes the battle, oh great ancestor?”

  I snickered in response, but I felt the old Spidey Sense tingle. Hugh’s occasional attempts at bonhomie never really rang true. It wasn't an original Bob behavior, and the Skippies didn't strike me as having drifted into the glad-handing used-car-salesman domain. In movie terms, it was like he was leaning against the furniture and whistling while examining the ceiling. The question was, why?

  “I've been watching the docks for several days,” I replied. “There are a couple of guys who appear to spell each other, and they don't have an obvious function other than holding up walls, but that doesn't make them Resistance. And if they are, they’re not trying very hard.”

  “Probably just a general directive all the way up and down the segment to watch out for us.”

  “Well, you.”

  “Maybe. What are you doing?” Hugh pointed his finger at his chest. “I am now a deckhand working a trading vessel that circuits the entire segment using all four main river systems. At the moment, we’re working our way down the Arcadia River.”

  Huh. That actually wasn't a terrible idea. He’d blend in with the crew, he'd have a lot of opportunity to talk and listen, and he'd be in a new town pretty much every day.

  “Oh, and Bob,” I recognized the tone of trouble. I cocked my head trying to look as innocent as possible. “I wonder if you could clarify something for me. It took a couple of days of my crewmates chortling every time they addressed me before I consciously listened to the Quinlan translation of my name.”

  Innocent, straight face. I know nothing. “Well, of course, the translation routine randomly assigns Quinlan names as required, and associates them with a given English name.” Random. Yep.

  He paused again. “So the translator randomly, and completely by coincidence, assigned me the name Beer Can?”

  “Um, yeah, pretty much.” He stared at me and I stared back, holding the straight face as long as I could.

  Finally, I broke. I started laughing and couldn't stop. “Well, ‘Skippy’… you…” I could only squeeze out the occasional word between the guffaws.

  After a few moments, Hugh grinned and started to laugh himself.

  “Okay,” he finally said, “it was funny. Nicely done. But you do realize this means war.”

  I grinned back at him. “I guess you stuck with it, though.”

  “Yep. But I explained to my mates it was a nickname originally meant as a joke, but that ended up sticking.”

  I nodded in appreciation of the quick thinking. “Have you learned anything in your travels, though?”

  “Nothing momentous there's a general awareness of the existence of the Administrator and the Resistance, at least in the broadest terms. Many Quinlans are aware that they’re living in an artificial megastructure, and that they're being held at a specific technological level. For others, it's become somewhat mythologized, involving deities and demons and such. Either way, they mostly don't care.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The thing is, life is pretty good: no one starves, there are no wars - maybe the occasional inter-city skirmish over fishing territory - but it's about it. Medical knowledge is good, and sanitation is well understood so mortality is low. The truly huge predators that used to eat Quinlans are kept very low numbers. Most people die from incurable illnesses, old age, fights, or other misadventures. It would be hard to come up with a good argument that would convince the average Quinlan to get worked up about the situation.”

  Hugh looked like he was about to say more, than cut himself off. This just reinforced my growing suspicion that Hugh was holding out on me in some way, but whether it was significant or just some wacko theory that he wasn't ready to share...

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ve about exhausted my options in Cedar Rapids. No one has heard of Helep’s Ending, and unless I march through town carrying a sign announcing myself, I don't think I'm going to have any kind of run-in with either the Resistance or the Administrator. There’s a transit station a little way down river, so I think I'm going to go there and try to break in.”

  “You’re turning into a real juvenile delinquent,” Hugh said with a grin. “Well, have fun.”

  9. A Declaration of War

  Will

  July 2334

  UFS Council Session

  I was touring one of the new experimental open-air towns on Valhalla when I got a message on my heads-up. The UFS had just called an emergency session. That would've been significant news at any time, but right now with the Starfleet issue, it almost certainly meant trouble.

  The bios would take time to get to communicators, so I didn't feel the need to seat my Manny on the nearest surface and leave it. Instead, I turned up the horses and sprinted to a green space where I could find a bench to plant my butt on. With
in minutes, the Manny was seated in an Adirondack chair and I was in virt waiting for the session to start. While I waited, I read the prepared statement from the Pangaean Counsel.

  “At 8:30 yesterday standard time, the Pangaean Navy engaged with devices controlled by a faction of the Bobiverse, commonly referred to disparagingly as Starfleet. These devices were illegally cordoning our communication station with the stated intent of using it as a bargaining chip for extortion against our government.

  “Our forces carried the battle, but the enemy, possibly in a fit of pique, destroyed the hostage systems. In addition, our attempts to recover control of the Pangaea system autofactories were met with the same response. We are now in the precarious situation of having lost half our manufacturing capability, and virtually all our communications with the rest of the UFS.

  “There is no acceptable justification for these actions. Accordingly, the Pangaean Counsel has declared war against the group known as Starfleet. To the extent possible, all Starfleet assets will be identified and confiscated. Commerce or communication with Starfleet operatives by Pangaea citizens will be considered illegal, and will be punishable under the War Measures Act.”

  The missive went on for several more paragraphs, but didn't add much to the central takeaway: Pangaea was officially at war.

  I pulled up some background documents to get details. The colony had tried to access the comms station and do a manual reset, and it had self-destructed. No one was killed, but there was significant damage to a couple of ships. The administration had then tried to do the same with their one Lagrange-based autofactory, and had been set upon by mining drones and roamers. Except for the order of the explosions, it was a virtual repeat of the New Home engagement.

  This was not good. Never mind the obvious issues, Starfleet had endangered human lives by blowing up stations. Even if they hadn’t actively pushed the button, just booby trapping them like that made Starfleet culpable. In their rush to sever ties with bios, they'd undertaken strategies that were just making the bios mad and ensuring more interaction - and not the good kind. These guys were really idiots. I mean seriously, common sense-challenged.