They slapped manacles on me. Quinlan manacles were interesting, they attached to all four limbs, and they included a device in the center that would open like a parachute if I dove into the water and tried to swim away. Quite ingenious. I spent several seconds inspecting it. Probably too intently. The group leader waved a pig sticker in my face and said something in a sharp voice. I realized that I haven't been paying attention, a consequence of not actually being in personal danger. I guess. I’d have to do better. I couldn't afford to have them take the Manny apart, and I didn't want them to get the idea I wasn't a flesh and blood Quinlan. I rewound and played back her comment in frame-jack.
“I’m not seeing any of the super-Quinlan stuff our up-river correspondence reported. I guess maybe they're just incompetent.”
Her crew laughed at her comment, then went quiet as she raised a hand. This one was tough, and they knew it. I resolved to act properly intimidated as she leaned in close. “You give us any trouble, moochin, and I’ll carve your flaps off.” That was a real threat. A Quinlan with their arm flaps missing would never be able to swim properly again. It would be kind of like the medieval practice of cutting off a hand.
I wasn't sure if it was a realistic threat or just bravado, but I wasn’t going to push it. After all, technically, this is what I'd wanted. What we'd wanted. Okay, what Bridget had wanted. The crew was busy at the moment, chivvying their Mannies back into the river. It hadn't taken us long to realize that the losers would be going for the rest of our group, just have something to show their bosses.
My captors grabbed me under my arms and started hustling me along. I looked around but couldn't spot any of the other groups of pursuers. I received a slap on the back of the head from one of the crew, a wizened character that for some reason reminded me of Popeye.
“Keep your head down,” he growled.
I almost decked him, but reminded myself he yet again that this was according to plan.
“Can you identify which group caught you?” That was Garfield.
“Yeah,” I replied. “The sword critter group.”
“We think our Mannies are being stalked by the pistol critters, now,” Bridget reported.
“I’ve got one of the small roamers,” Garfield said. I'm trying to keep Bob's group in sight.”
“It would've been nice if we could have been stocked with drones, you know.”
“No room,” I replied. “I thought about it, believe me.”
I received another slap on the head from Popeye for no reason that I could see. I decided that in the fullness of time I'd be returning the attention with interest.
In short order. We entered a non-descript building. Two flights up and we were in a surprisingly spacious apartment.
“I like what you've done with the pla-”
I was driven back a step as Popeye planted the butt of his sword into my midsection. Based on Quinlan anatomy, it should have had exactly the same effect on a Quinlan as it would on a human. Or a Deltan. Or a Pav. … interesting.
I shelved that thought for the wee small hours, and turned to Popeye. I hadn't folded in the expected manner, and there definitely hadn’t been an ‘oof’. That wasn't lost on him, as his face was showing a bit of the Quinlan equivalent of widening eyes.
I glared at him. “Do that again, and all the spinach in the world won't protect you.”
His fear was replaced with bemusement. I doubt that spinach had translated well, but he certainly understood the threat. He raised his pig sticker to give me another whack, and the boss-lady said his name sharply. I instructed the translator to associate him with Popeye in the future.
Popeye lowered the sword but gave me an evil grin. “Any time, moochin.”
Boss lady pointed me at a chair. As I sat, one of the crew unlatched my leg and ran the medical through a gap in the furniture, then re-manacled me. It seemed amateurish. Even at Quinlan strength, I could probably smash the chair and free myself. But maybe the point was to just slow me down. The manacles themselves appeared to be some form of dense wood, metal being at a premium in Heaven's River, connected by a tightly braided rope. I estimated that I could just about break them if I needed to.
I turned away from my captors and opened my mouth. A couple of flea-sized roamers popped out and started climbing down my fur, with orders to strategically weaken my bindings, just in case.
Boss lady came over, pulled a chair around, and sat in front of me. I quickly ordered my fleas to continue their journey under my fur. While it was unlikely that she’d try to groom me, I couldn't afford to have her get a close look at my passengers.
“So. What do we call you?”
Well that was a good deal more friendly than I’d expected. “Bob. And you?”
“You can call me Freda.” The translation software automatically assigned a random human equivalent to whatever she actually said. “So now, Bob. Why don't you tell me about you and your friends?”
I had a pretty good idea how this was going to play out, but I decided I might as well follow the script. “My friends and I have all recently reached adulthood, and we decided to embark on a sabbatical to
