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 who 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
