“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
