“The point being?”
Stephen waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “First, it's virtually certain that your friends have been on camera, so to speak, and likely more than once. On the other hand, not every input can be given the same priority, so there's a good chance they haven't been noticed. Yet. But if the administration of Heaven's River is able to specifically identify the expedition members, and decides to do an overt search for them, it's only a matter of time. They can’t stay out of camera range, not even by going cross-country.”
“Huh.” I thought for a moment. “I'm not entirely sure if that's good or bad.” I stood. “Thanks Stephen. I'll update Bob on these items, and we'll see if we can work it to our advantage.”
“Any time, Will. Without my lectures, I'm at loose ends anyway. I hope the Bobiverse war is over soon. I'd like to be able to visit Heaven's River.”
“You and me both.”
3. Up the Creek
Bob
July 2334
Outside Three Lagoons
“So, the mountains?”
“That's right, Bob,” Will said. “According to the prof, they’re fake. I've asked the Skippies to get a closer scan of a mountain range just to get a general idea of the layout. There are no drones in your immediate neighborhood.”
“I know. Already went through that exercise. I'm working on it, but it's slow.”
“Right. Anyhow, when you get close, we can work out a strategy for getting you in.”
“Assuming there's any point. The Resistance seems to live under the nose of the Administrator, but I'm still skeptical. What makes you think the Resistance will be there?”
“Things like power requirements, access to resources, and access to the Administrator's domain, in order to be able to steal Bender in the first place. I talked to the Gamers about this, and they agree that the best way to hide the Resistance is right under the enemy's nose.”
“Maybe in D&D. Not sure about real life, but it's a place to start, I guess. First, though, I have to find Helep’s Ending.”
“True, which is where the monorail comes in, if the town turns out not to be close by.”
“Keep me updated.”
Will hung up and I reached for my coffee. I’d probably be spending a lot of time in real. Best to get my fix while I could.
I sat up and examined my surroundings. Nothing had been disturbed, and my Manny still had all its appendages. Excellent. I glanced up, got my bearings, collected my sentry, and headed for the small stream I'd avoided last time I was moving about. I noticed on the way that the radio was missing. So my pursuers had seen it. Which meant they'd been searching diligently. They might still be out there, in fact. I dropped to all fours, which I really should've done in the first place. Quinlans, like Pav, were more comfortable locomoting quadrapedally over any kind of distance. Only the Mannies design allowed me to overlook the inefficiency.
I prairie-dogged occasionally, keeping my head up for the minimum amount of time to get a 360 of the area, but saw no one. Eventually, I made it to the stream and slipped in. Swimming downstream is virtually effortless and I took the opportunity to relax. Only the occasional twitch of the tail or flick of an arm was necessary to maintain bearing, and the stream never got shallow enough or tight enough to present an issue. This being a manufactured environment, it was probably a design requirement for all streams.
And naturally, the Resistance would expect a Quinlan to take the stream down to the river, so I shouldn't have been surprised run smack into a net stretched across the deepest part. Cleverly braced asymmetrically, the net spun me as I was snagged, wrapping me neatly like a sausage. Immediately I felt a tug as someone started hauling the net to shore.
I strained against my bonds, but the cords were too strong, even for Manny strength. I couldn’t use my fleas - they'd be swept away by the current. Even my spider roamer might not be able to hold on. But what choice did I have? I spit out the spider and it began cutting the net, concentrating on the strands that were under tension, hauling me toward shore.
I almost made it. I had part of a leg free, and one whole arm. I would've loved to be able to pull the tranq gun, but it was in the main pouch of the backpack. Bad planning on my part.
I think the Resistance people must've decided they couldn't take any more chances with me. Before I was even properly beached, one of the waiting Quinlans waded into the water, drew his sword, and stabbed me in the leg. I screamed, and it wasn't all acting. I had the sense to turn the sensory filter up, but there is something about being stabbed that has a huge psychological component. It's a massive violation of personal autonomy. I hadn't felt that much fear since perhaps the moment of my death.
“Maybe that'll slow you down,” he growled, and I realized it was Popeye - all fresh from his recovery and presumably looking for payback. He raised the sword again, and a voice I recognized as Freda’s barked in order. Popeye snarled, but withdrew the sword and leaned forward.
“Just give me an excuse, and I'll finish the job.”
Then he made a mistake. Again. The guy just couldn't seem to learn. Popeye extended his sword so the point was up my nose and opened his mouth to taunt me some more. At that exact moment my roamer cut the last strand binding one arm. I reached out at android speed, grabbed the sword around the hilt in a palm and fingertip grip, and jammed it backward to strike under his chin. As he fell over with a howl, I threw the sword hilt first into the
