We Are Legion (We Are Bob)
Book 4: Chapter 12: Halep’s Ending

Bob

July 2334

Heaven’s River

There was a subtle vibration through the floor, followed a few moments later by one set of doors opening.

“The train for Halep’s Ending has arrived,” the voice said in my ear. “The train will be leaving in one hundred twelve seconds.”

I walked through the open doorway. A short airlock section ended in another set of doors, which opened into what was presumably my train. Certainly it had that long, tubelike train shape. There were no windows, but there were rows of comfortable-looking seats. I glanced over my shoulder and realized that the row of doors at the end of the platform connected to matching doors on the train, with two sets of doors leading into each car. Very much like a subway. All in all, it seemed very civilized. I studied the area at the back of the car and realized it held a washroom (the same sign on the door was used in every town in Heaven’s River) and a small vendor kiosk. There was a sign on the shuttered window that said, The snack bar is closed until further notice.

I was staring at the sign in a state of slightly disbelieving amusement when the train voice said, “Please be seated. Doors will close in eleven seconds. Acceleration will last three hundred thirty-six seconds. After that point, passengers may move around the train.”

I took the nearest seat and settled back. It was comfortable and included accommodation for the Quinlan tail. There were some controls on the armrest and speakers in the headrest. Quinlans travelled in style. But in principle, a passenger might have to travel up to a half-billion miles in Heaven’s River. How would that work?

“Excuse me, train voice?”

“How long to Halep’s Ending?”

“Three-thousand eight-hundred fourteen miles.”

“No—” Okay, granted I’d phrased that wrong. “How much time will this trip to Halep’s Ending take?”

“Approximately six-thousand two-hundred forty-four seconds, including acceleration and deceleration.”

About twenty-two hundred miles per hour. At that speed, it would take a lifetime to travel around the topopolis.

“What is the longest trip one could take, in terms of distance?”

“The edge of the observable universe is approximately forty-five-point-seven billion light-years away.”

Sigh. “What is the longest trip one could take on the Heaven’s River train system, in terms of distance?”

“A trip to Grendel, which is opposite this point on Heaven’s River, would be approximately four-hundred-ninety-nine million, seven-hundred-and-twenty-thousand miles.”

“How long would that trip take on this train?”

“You would not take that trip on this train.”

Grrrrr. “How would I take that trip?”

“You would take an express train equipped with staterooms and sleeping berths.”

“And how long would the trip take?”

“Approximately twelve days.”

“The express trains travel faster?”

“Express trains travel on the high-speed trunks and achieve a maximum velocity of five-hundred twenty-seven miles per second.”

Interestingly precise speed. I did a quick calculation and realized that such a speed would result in one standard Quinlan G of pseudo-gravity as the train travelled around the topopolis. Except the train would also be corkscrewing counter to the rotation of the habitat, which explained the helical track that Professor Gilligan had described. ṝаＮՕ𝔟Ê𝓢

Anyway, at the moment I was on a local run, which would operate at much lower speeds. Well, I had a couple of hours with nothing to do. “Which direction is Halep’s Ending?”

“It is in front of us.”

I bit back an expletive. “Which direction is Halep’s Ending relative to Garack’s Spine?”

“It is sunward.”

I had to think about that for a moment, and check the translation specs. Sunward meant the direction that the artificial sun moved, so west according to our conventions.

“Can you tell me about the area around Halep’s Ending?”

“Specifics are not available. There is an information kiosk at the station that can provide local details.”

Uh-huh. Except it was probably closed. Until further notice. Sadly, the train voice probably only had information directly related to trains and train schedules. And asking all kinds of weird questions might get me flagged.

“Can you inform me when we’re close to arrival?”

“I will set a wake-up call for two-hundred twenty-four seconds before deceleration. Is that acceptable?”

“Uh, yes. Thank you.”

Meanwhile, I would put the manny on standby and have a “nap,” which would allow me to get some work done.

“They really had this stuff all worked out, didn’t they?” Will said. “Steven pointed out the helical layout of the express tubes. He even suggested why they exist. The helical track exactly cancels out the rotation of the megastructure as the train travels through it. And the speed of the train around the long radius is calibrated to replace the lost artificial gravity of the shell rotation. Nice.”

I grinned at Will’s reaction. That response was one I’d normally expect more from Bill. But as always, Bob is Bob. “Yup. So I’ll be at Halep’s Ending soon, and I’ll head for the nearest mountains. If the segments are reasonably standardized, and there’s no reason to think otherwise, the entrance shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“The question, though, is whether Natasha’s pass-card will work four thousand miles away.”

“And whether I dare try it and risk alarms going off.”

We were interrupted by the train voice, playing into my VR through the manny link. “We are approaching your destination.”

Will levered himself out of the beanbag chair. “I guess that’s your curtain call.” He waved and popped out.

I entered the manny and blinked my eyes, feigning waking up. “Thank you. Is there anyone else on the train?”

“Not at this time.”

“What does the train do if there are no passengers requiring transport?”

“The train will remain at the last stop until called.”

Interesting. So unless someone in Halep’s Ending needs a train, I might have a getaway vehicle waiting for me.

My ruminations were interrupted as my seat began to rotate in place. I glanced around to see that all the seats were doing the same. It answered a question that had been in the back of my mind about how deceleration would be handled.

I wondered what acceleration and deceleration would be like in one of the express trains. Probably a lot longer. It seemed likely that they had acceleration couches separate from the berths and staterooms.

The train came to a stop and the doors swooshed open. The train voice said, “May you travel with Mother’s blessing.”

I didn’t know what the proper response was, so I just said, “Thank you.”

This station was identical to the last one, so leaving was almost like playing the video in reverse. Except, as expected, the art was different. And naturally my mind went there. A billion miles of topopolis is a hundred million transit stations—no, scratch that, four hundred million, if they followed each of the four rivers. Either the Quinlans produced alot of art, or there would be duplications. I wondered for a moment if there was an art mill somewhere, with Quinlans churning out statues and paintings.

I headed for the same side door, which only required pushing on a latch bar from this side. And just like that, I was out in the weather.

Specifically, it was raining. Not a lashing, raging storm. We hadn’t seen any of that kind of out-of-control, cage-match stuff the whole time we’d been here. My theory was that it would cause undue erosion and therefore extra work for the maintenance critters. And anyway, I figured weather in an artificial environment would tend to be mild, predictable, and controlled.

Still, I was getting rained on, which wouldn’t bother a Quinlan but irked my human-raised brain. And I wouldn’t be able to smell a stream in this mess. Sulking loudly, I marched off toward the town in the near distance.

It was interesting that all the transit stations were outside of towns. And it wasn’t like the towns or the stations had been moved. The towns were on the best possible spot on the river, so that was doubtless where they were supposed to be. The stations … well, how would you move them?

Perhaps this was a Quinlan psychological thing. They couldn’t be like humans in everything. Maybe they didn’t like transit stations up in their face or something. It was just one of many, many questions that we were accumulating, and might or might not get answers to, someday.

It was very late in the day and was beginning to get dark. I probably wasn’t in danger from the local wildlife, but I would have to stop moving if I wanted to avoid their attentions. A bed in town sounded best. I dropped to all fours and put on some speed.

Renting a room was an experience. I was beginning to get a hint of why Bridget had decided on a sabbat as our cover. Sabbats were common, and there was a whole section of the economy dedicated to servicing that particular market segment. Single travelers, though, not so much. I had to try three hotels before I found a vacancy.

I’d tweaked my features slightly, preferring to mix it up rather than constantly walk around with the same face.

I was up early the next morning. Not bothering with breakfast or the accompanying breakfast beer (yech!), I headed straight for the river. The mountains were only a few miles away, and swimming would get me there much faster than a land approach.

I decided to deliberately overshoot the estimated location of the entrance, preferring to approach it from behind in case there were surveillance cameras. Again, I had to assume that the habitat had been set up with normal levels of civilian security in mind, rather than a military defensive strategy. Cameras would probably be limited to surveilling the road up to the gate.

Assuming I wasn’t all wet with my deductions, then the habitat would have been originally designed not to hide the entrance from the populace, but to hide it from view—to maintain the illusion. Also, the entrance wouldn’t be too hard to get to for staff. That would put it as close as possible to the river, consistent with the rising land providing space for an underground maintenance complex, because Quinlans.

It would also almost certainly have at least some kind of basic security, so I wouldn’t be able to just walk up and turn the handle. But that’s what roamers were for, right?

I swam upstream until I was at the point where arable land ended and pseudo-rock started. Up close, I could tell the material of the mountains was clearly not natural rock. In fact, it had somewhat the consistency of volcanic pumice, probably an engineered version. And probably lightweight, since that would matter in the rotating shell. The coloration was artificial and designed to resemble random terrain from a distance.

Then I floated slowly downstream, hugging the shore, examining the rock, looking for … something. And lo and behold, I found something.

Pumice is hard, but it’s light because it’s mostly air bubbles. And it wears. I don’t know how many generations of Quinlans had been using this particular path to the water, but it was enough to have worn it smooth. I grinned to myself and climbed out of the water. Success!

Well, probably success. One additional concern would be whether or not the Resistance had set up surveillance of the entrance. They might or might not allocate someone to the task. They might or might not use electronic means. Of course, too much of that might tip off the Administrator, so they might stay as low-tech as possible.

In my mind, Vizzini started gibbering. I was going around in circles again. “Inconceivable,” I muttered. At some point you had to pick.

I decided on boldness. I spit out all my spiders and directed them to examine the area around and in front of me as I advanced. Within a minute, the trail terminated at a blank wall, no cameras in evidence. I thought of the Mines of Moria and muttered “friend,” with a grin. No effect, of course. Tolkien had no power here.

Roamers did, though. I ordered the spiders to do a close-in survey and released my fleas as well. My devices would find everything there was to be found, and meanwhile I would get some sun.

It was late afternoon and the sun was disappearing behind the mountains, creating a premature local dusk, when one of my fleas reported a find. A small design glitch had caused a stress fracture where the pumice layer was only an inch or so deep over the underlying structure. The flea had found a ventilation tube and was asking permission to cut into it.

I granted permission and sent the other fleas in to help.

The thing about security doors is that, no matter how much electronics you add, in the end there’s a latch connected to a mechanical linkage actuated by a magnet or motor, powered by electricity, which is controlled by a switch. And the roamer design included the capability to act as a conductor if necessary, without frying the unit. Very handy for circuit testing and repair. And for espionage, as it turns out.

My devices also found a sensor that would report the opening and closing of the door. That was a simple fix. One of the fleas jammed the sensor for the duration by simply welding the moving part.

The door opened.

However, without the sensor operating, the lights didn’t come on, so I was looking at a dim corridor which would turn pitch black once the door closed. Infrared vision would help some, but I’d still have to go slow. As soon as I started walking, though, lights came on. Motion sensors. Hopefully all they did was control the lighting. With a sigh, I accepted that I simply wasn’t going to be able to plan for and control everything. As usual, winging it would form a large percentage of my strategy.

I instructed my spiders to precede me down the corridor, walking along the walls and ceiling, and to warn me of upcoming booby traps, cameras, trip wires, acid pits, hordes of goblins and/or orcs, or pretty much anything not suitable for afternoon tea.

The corridor led to an elevator bank. Of course it did. Because nothing says “stealth” like taking the elevator down to the secret lair. Ding. Fourth floor: Evil geniuses, minions, laser weapons, and submarine platforms. Please watch your step.

On the other hand, this wasn’t a secret lair, at least not in the James Bond way. Security would be more corporate than military, relying more on access cards and sensors than guards and guns. This structure would have been built according to government specs, or building codes, or whatever it was that the Quinlans had. The building Bridget and I had investigated on Quin had an emergency staircase. Betcha this place did, too.

And, yes, there it was. But it was locked. I didn’t feel like forcing it, and in fact might not be able to. The construction seemed a little more solid than my previous experience, and it was probably alarmed. In went the fleas, and a few seconds later the alarm sensor was jammed and the door sprung open. I couldn’t leave it unlatched like that, but I could instruct the fleas to permanently disable the locking mechanism.

The emergency staircase was perma-lit, as such structures always are. The sociological and behavioral parallels between totally unrelated civilizations was a never-ending source of amazement to me. I wished for a moment we could find a couple more technological species so we’d have more samples to compare.

Which was all very interesting, but maybe I should concentrate on sneaking into the evil lair for now.

I took a moment to format a report and send it off to the group. It would hopefully help Hugh to zero in on the entrance if and when he got near the mountains.

I got to the next level down and sent a flea under the door for a quick peek. No one around. Excellent. Opening the door as quietly as possible, I stuck my head out and peered around, then stepped through.

From here on, there was no point in sneaking around. Nothing says intruder like acting furtive. Nope. I belonged here. In fact, I owned the place. I stood tall, stuck my chest out, and strutted down the hall with a bounce in my step, my spiders and fleas hurriedly hopping on board.

The place had a lived-in feel. The air wasn’t stale or musty, no dust, the lights were all functioning, everything was neatly in its place. That could just be good automated systems, but if that was the case, I was back to square one.

Bad news: This installation was probably huge, as it would serve many purposes relating to the care and maintenance of Heaven’s River. And the Resistance would probably be using a very small part of it.

Or maybe not. I might be about to go off on another Vizzini rant, but the Quinlans had good automation, as evinced by their outer space cleanup crews. Chances were that maintenance of Heaven’s River would be mostly automated as well. Otherwise the Administrator would have to let too many people into the inner circle. I couldn’t see a secret ruling cabal composed of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of janitors and plumbers working for long, let alone for generations. No, most of this installation would be related to Automation, Storage for and Maintenance of. The Quinlan-friendly areas would be few, mostly intended for supervisory purposes, and mostly near the elevators. That was the way humans would have done it, and I was pretty confident by this point that Quinlans and humans were very similar in a lot of ways.

I stopped and waited, but Vizzini didn’t seem inclined to offer up a counterpoint. Good.

And as it turned out, my neurotic arguments with myself were a good thing, because as I was standing there waiting for a counterargument, I heard a noise. Not much of one, in fact I couldn’t say exactly what I’d heard, even when I played it back.

It could be nothing. Or it could be people. I voted for people.

The fleas and spiders were getting a lot of use, and I was aware that some of them required some maintenance downtime. I might need all hands on deck if things got tense, so I swallowed all but one spider, who was still in good shape, and instructed it to move ahead of me and peek around corners. I still picked up the occasional noise, which was beginning to sound more like Quinlan voices as I zeroed in on the source.

“Hey, Bob, you got a sec?”

I almost jumped out of my fur. If there’d been a cybernetic version of a heart attack, I’d be having one.

“Not right now, Bill. I’m kinda busy sneaking into Dr. Evil’s hideout.”

“Oh, okay. Call me back when you have time.”

“Will do.”

I terminated the call, swallowed my metaphorical heart, and resumed following the spider. At the next corner, the voices abruptly became much clearer, and I could now hear occasional furniture noises—feet scraping on the floor, things banging together, stuff like that. I was probably very close. I didn’t want to rush in and stab everyone, and depending on numbers, I might not be able to—

“Hi, Bob. Where are you right now?”

Un-fucking-believable. I’d been dead for three hundred years and I was still getting phone calls. I gritted my teeth and took a calming breath before replying. “Hey, Hugh, I’m a little busy right now. Can I call you back?”

“Sure thing.”

I hung up—again—and searched for a Do Not Disturb button. And found one, of course. No Bob would design a comms system without one. I wondered why I’d failed to pick up on that before.

The spider went around the final corner and peeked through the door. The video feed showed four Quinlans sitting around a table, shuffling paper. By which I mean some were reading, some were writing, but everyone had paper and pens. It was almost homey in a way. I wondered about the low-tech process, but then maybe they were worried about the security of electronic systems. I had no way of knowing how far the Administrator’s reach really was.

Conversations were unhurried and mixed with long silences. The attendees didn’t appear to be depressed or anything. Just concentrating. It mostly consisted of remarks about segment numbers and member statuses and activities. I listened for a few moments, then decided I should find a place to hide. Surveillance seemed like a good idea, and that would be up the spout if one of them walked out and found me standing there.

I sent a freshly refurbished spider out to replace my current observer, then I went looking, as quietly as possible, for a hiding place.

I was in an office just around the corner, curled up under a desk. It wasn’t original or particularly imaginative, but it was good enough to hide me from anything short of a concerted search, and that would happen only if I screwed up and made my presence known. As an android, I could stay perfectly still, didn’t need to eat or go to the bathroom, and didn’t get stiff. On the other hand, I needed results.

I sent all my spiders out to scout around the complex. It was a little bit of a risk, as they were big enough to be visible from yards away if they were moving, but otherwise the camouflage function would make them very difficult to pick out.

However, the Quinlans didn’t appear inclined to move around a lot, either. One had gone to find a restroom, and another had brought out snacks from a refrigerator, but that was it. I wondered to what extent the Resistance members actually belonged in this complex and to what extent they were just living in the corners like rats. Could the Administrator monitor activity in here? If so, why had he not taken steps to clean it out and reclaim it? If not, why weren’t the Resistance everywhere in here?

I got a partial answer almost right away, when one of the spiders blundered into a dormitory. Bunk beds lined the walls, some currently in use. The sleepers brought the confirmed population up to ten, although there were enough spaces for up to eighteen.

I had the spider do a visual sweep, then back out slowly.

A couple of spiders had found big industrial metal doors. I wondered if those led to all the automation and maintenance equipment, assuming I’d gotten it right. I hoped they hadn’t put Bender back there. If I had to go a-visiting, it would increase my risk dramatically. But it didn’t seem likely. The Resistance probably had a better grip on the space on this side of the doors.

I decided it was time to return some calls. The spiders could operate autonomously, and they’d squawk if there was an issue.

First, Bill.

“Hey, Bob. So what was all the excitement?”

“I’m in Resistance HQ, as near as I can tell. Sniffing around.”

“No sign of Bender yet?”

“Not yet. I’m still confident of our logic, but there’s always the possibility that we’re just dead-wrong and he’s somewhere else.”

“At the other end of the segment maybe?”

“I don’t see how. Halep’s Ending is only a few miles away, and that’s the name that Bender said they used a lot. The only other possibility is if there’s some other hideout in the area. So what were you calling about?”

“Just an update on the war against Starfleet. We’ve basically pushed them into a corner, network-wise. Most of the equipment they hacked has either been cleaned or destroyed and is being replaced. But here’s the funny thing …”

“Yes?”

“I’ve had conversations with members of Starfleet over the course of several confrontations and negotiations. Everyone I’ve talked to is as surprised and perplexed by the degree of infiltration as we are. They all give the same story—that this came completely out of the blue. They have no idea who actually did all the hacking.”

“Oh … hell. Bill, I wonder if we’re really clean right now. I mean, the Skippies are good, but so is whoever engineered this. What if this someone has as much processing power, or even more? Or what if it’s a faction within the Skippies playing both sides?” As I said that, I realized that I’d never consciously suspected the Skippies, but that I’d had misgivings. Otherwise why would I have put that monitor in the drones way back when?

“Way ahead of you. I resurrected an archived source version of my comms from before there were even any Skippies or Starfleet and did a diff, then recompiled, so I’m demonstrably clean. And your temporary relay has never been corrupted. This conversation, at least, is probably secure.”

“Good. You’ll have to get all the Bobs to do their own cleanup and re-establish encryption keys. It’s going to take a while.”

“All under control, Bob. I just wanted to let you know on the q.t.”

We exchanged a few other comments, then I signed off. There’d been something off about Hugh’s behavior since the beginning, but unless they were clairvoyant, I didn’t see how they could be planning for anything that was going on. Unless it really had nothing to do with the Quinlans. But then what?

Of course, it might not be the Skippies at all.

Well, my next call was to Hugh, and I’d be watching for any weirdness.

“Hugh here.”

“Hey, Hugh, it’s Bob. I finally have a few milliseconds to rub together. What were you calling me about?”

“Ah, well, we sailed into East Point early today and I cashed out. The captain offered me a bonus to stay—I guess I’m a good worker …” Hugh’s voice carried a bit of suppressed laughter. I could relate. Take our Bobbian obsessiveness, add in the strength and stamina of a manny, and the cargo was probably getting stacked with mathematical precision.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I’d read your latest blog entry, and I had an idea. I wondered if there would be a similar entrance on the downstream side of the mountains so that maintenance personnel could get in from either side of the gorge. It seemed like it would be a reasonable design. And I was right. So anyway, I’m in, and so far at least, there’s no one home at this location.”

“No one? At all?”

“At all. I’m thinking the Administrator relies primarily on automation.”

“Hrmph. Possibly the most lackadaisical despot I’ve ever heard of. Makes me wonder what the Resistance is actually resisting. Have they ever tried just going ahead and building a steam engine?”

“That’s rhetorical, right? You’ve met Quinlans who’ve been scattered.”

“Yeah, yeah. So you’ll let me know if you find anything?”

“Will do, boss. Out.”

Well, that wasn’t particularly weird. Maybe he was having a good day. Or maybe he was lying through his teeth. Great. Now paranoia had me going around in tight little circles. I was going to have to stick to what I could control and not worry about the rest. Somehow.

One of my spiders bleeped me. I pulled up its video window and almost did an actual double take. On a table, surrounded by jury-rigged electronics, sat a version 2 replicant matrix. It sat on a version 2 Heaven-vessel matrix cradle, making any possibility of convergent design a nonstarter. If that wasn’t enough, the English labels on some of the surfaces supplied the kill shot.

Bender.

He was still powered up. It was good to know that they hadn’t cut off communications by shutting him down, or worse.

Of more concern was the lack of any of the electronics necessary for maintaining a VR. That meant that Bender had been here for more than 130 years without a pseudo-physical reality. That hadn’t worked out well for Henry or for Medeiros. Yet Bender had seemed reasonably well-adjusted when I’d talked to him, which gave me hope.

Now, how to get him out? Let’s see, I’d travelled several miles through the river from Halep’s Ending, which I’d have to retrace on land, carrying a large, ungainly matrix the whole way; I’d have to take the train back to Garack’s Spine and hope I didn’t run into anyone, then I’d have to get picked up and flown out without getting blown up by the Administrator’s guardians; oh, and yes, I’d first have to get him out of the Resistance’s lair. And all of this without getting spotted by the Administrator, Crew, or the Resistance, while fending off questions from curious random Quinlans.

No sweat.

I had the spider look around the room while I called one of the others over to act as lookout. Once I was sure that I couldn’t be surprised by a Quinlan unexpectedly showing up, I sent the spider down to the matrix.

As with the emergency door, no matter how complex your electronics, eventually it has to interface with the physical world. In this case, you have to convert sound to electricity or electricity to sound. I quickly found the microphone and speaker used to interact with Bender, along with a camera that presumably gave a video input. Nearby was a twin of the Motorola box from my earlier incarceration. So, pretty low tech—they simply had Bender talk into the mic just like a live person. Made sense, I guess. That way they could monitor what he was saying and hearing.

From my point of view, though, it meant I could jack into the system without endangering Bender. A couple of minutes spent tracing wires, and the spider had wired itself into Bender’s comms.

“Bender?”

There was a short delay, then, “Bob?”

“Right here, buddy. More or less. How are you doing?”

“Pretty damned good right now. How are you talking to me?”

I took a few seconds to explain the situation, and Bender laughed. “Man, that is some mighty fine Rube Goldberg. I tip my hat to you.”

“Listen, how are you doing? I didn’t see your VR hardware …”

“Yeah, I get where you’re going. I’ve been frame-jacking myself down to my lowest rate whenever possible. For me, it’s been a couple of minutes since our last conversation, including dialogs with my captors. So I’m not going stir-crazy yet, although I really would love a coffee.”

“I hear that. So anyway, I’m trying to figure out how to get you out of here. I don’t know how much you know about where ‘here’ is, but the big problem is to get your matrix through four thousand miles of megastructure, underwater most of the way, without rusting or shorting you out or getting caught by, well, both sides, I guess.”

“You could take transit.”

I laughed. “I took transit to get here. And hopefully I’ll be taking the train back to Garack. But first I have to get back to the train station with you in tow.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“Yeah, I stole a security card that works on the train. How is it that a Resistance member has one of those, anyway?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last hundred years? They’ve had me figuring out the electronics and devising ways to hack things and hide them from the Administrator. This has included registering Resistance members on the Crew rolls.”

“Uh, as long as we’re on that subject, I’m still a bit unclear on the whole political situation here.”

“Okay, well, the Resistance has been operating almost since the day the Administrator took over. They were scientists, engineers, and technicians back then. Their descendants are still maintaining the fight, but educating each new generation has been spotty, so they’ve lost a lot as knowledge domains shrink. I’ve been helping with the gaps. In most cases, I don’t think the Administrator even realizes it’s been subverted.”

“What about real Crew? Do they use the trains?”

“A little bit. Most Crew is strictly local, used only for muscle when it’s necessary to interact with the population. They know even less than the Resistance. On the other hand, they’re paid better.” Bender chuckled. “There are, of course, people who belong to both groups. I’m sure the Administrator suspects this, which is why it keeps them in the dark as much as possible.”

“So is the Administrator a hereditary position? Or is it a committee? How do they stay trained from one generation to the next?”

There was silence for several seconds. “Jeez, Bob, I thought you knew. The Administrator isn’t a Quinlan. It’s an artificial intelligence.”

“What … the …” I seemed to be getting a lot of metaphorical gut-punches lately, and I quelled an urge to stand up and scream invective into the air. Suddenly the Skippies had a motive. “Bender, I have to phone Bill. Back in a few.”

Without waiting for a response, I composed a text. It would be easier to just lay it out and let Bill absorb that before responding. I fired off the message.

“Sorry about that. This is kind of important news. I had to let Bill know.”

“Wait, when will he get the message? Is he in this system?”

I laughed. “Instantaneous FTL communication, buddy. One of many things you’ll have to get used to.”

“Wow. That sure puts a different spin on the universe.”

At that moment, I got a response from Bill. “Explains a lot. Altering strategies as appropriate.”

So. I could probably get Bender back to our entrance location. I could probably do it without alerting Hugh. This was good. On the other hand, Hugh—oh, shit.

“Guppy, has Hugh interacted with the equipment in any way?”

[Hugh has given instructions for construction and deployment of stealth drones.]

“No other interactions?”

[None.]

Well, that was good. “Guppy, monitor all communications with Hugh. Disallow control of local maintenance or infrastructure systems, especially roamers. Confirm all orders from him with me before implementing.”

[Acknowledged.]

If Hugh had already subverted Guppy in some way, I was probably hooped. But I couldn’t see how he could alter firmware without some board-swapping and a full system restart. So for the moment, I would continue to act as if I was in control. And there would be an audit in my future.

And I couldn’t just stop interacting with Hugh. He was in charge of the local observation drones, and was the only other Bob who was in a position to run one of the Quinlan mannies. I would just have to be careful about what I asked of him.

“Bob? You still there?”

Oh. I guess I’d gone radio silent for a few moments. “Sorry, Bender. Just got a response from Bill, and now things are way more complicated. Not your problem, though, right now. Do you know how to get to the train station?”

“Nope. Sorry. I do know there’s one in this complex, though.”

In the complex? So I could have skipped Halep’s Ending entirely? Well, it made sense, although I wasn’t sure what destination I would have asked for.

In any case, I wasn’t going to just grab Bender and start running around at random. I guess I’d have to let the spiders finish mapping.

Six hours later, and there wasn’t anything even vaguely resembling a transit station.

“Ideas, Bender?”

“Sorry, Bob, I was offline when they brought me in. It could be any number of levels down—”

“Aw, hell!” I said, interrupting Bender. “I forgot about the elevator.”

“I guess you took the stairs, or you wouldn’t be here.”

I frowned. “How so?”

“Cameras on the elevators. The people onsite will know the moment an elevator is in use.”

“Can they override the elevators?”

“No, but they’ll be alerted and will be waiting when the doors open.”

“Great. So, stairs all the way. Bender, I don’t like this. I’m going to have to spend a godawful amount of time just looking around to find our escape route, with all the risk of being seen.”

“I got nothing, Bob. Sorry.”

“Okay. Do you have any more info on the trains? How often they run? Whether calling one will alert the Resistance? Stuff like that?”

Bender sighed. “Sorry, Bob. No info. I’m not trying to be difficult; like I said, I was offline.”

Going with my theory that Quinlans and humans designed things generally the same, I went all the way to the bottom level first. Nope. Turned out that’s where they kept all the pipes and valves and conduits. Which, it occurred to me, was probably the same as with human construction. Derp.

The next level up was a hit, though. A single long, antiseptic hallway, very similar to the transit station near Halep’s Ending, led to the boarding area with its ten doors. In this boarding area, though, there was a prominent button attached to the wall, clearly jury-rigged, with wires leading into a hole. That had probably been added by the Resistance, and probably bypassed the card readers, perhaps to allow people without cards to use the train. Ideally, I should press the button now, and have a train ready when I came back down with Bender. But did it alert the people upstairs when pressed? If so, I’d never get anywhere near Bender’s location.

Like it or not, I was going to have to commit to a strategy based on nothing but gut feelings. I couldn’t risk trying the call button now. I would have to take my chances and get back here with Bender before testing the system.

Now, could I get Bender’s matrix from his room to here without anyone noticing?

I headed back to Bender’s room, making sure to check for any Quinlans taking an unscheduled stroll. As soon as I was assured the coast was still clear, I recalled all my fleas and spiders. I wouldn’t get another chance to restock from the underwater mannies, so I was going to be especially careful with this set.

I sat down in front of Bender. “Good news, buddy: I found the train station. Bad news: we’ve still got a lot of unknowns and risk.”

“I don’t think we have a choice. Honestly, Bob, I don’t see myself staying sane if I’m stuck here forever. Even frame-jacking can only delay the inevitable. I think I’d rather go out in a dramatic chase scene, you know?”

I chuckled in response. “Okay, so, I’m just going to deactivate you, grab you, and run downstairs to the train station. How’s that sound?”

“What it lacks in elegance, it makes up for with wads of unearned optimism. Let’s do it.”

I walked over to the matrix, put my finger to the power button, and paused. “And Bender? If this all goes to hell, I’m glad I found you.”

“Me too, buddy. See you in the next life.”

I pressed the button and Bender powered down. The latches released smoothly, and I had his matrix under my arm.

The replicant matrix wasn’t a bunch of exposed circuitry, even in its first iteration back on Earth. There was a case of sorts, and even the connection bus had a flip-off cover. But like a hard drive from the good old days, if you put it in your backpack and smacked it on walls and dropped it on the floor, you could expect problems. So, no backpack ride.

The current iteration was a cube about eight inches on a side. Not too bulky, but pretty heavy. A Quinlan or a human would need to use both hands to carry it.

Feeling a rush of unearned optimism, I shifted the cube for comfort, turned the corner, and … ran right into a Quinlan.

Unbelievable. This twerp must have left the committee room right behind the spider that had been on surveillance. Why was he here? Maybe he’d intended to talk to Bender about something.

We stared at each other in shock for a frozen eternity. Then, just as his eyes moved toward the matrix under my arm, I punched him in the solar plexus.

That is really becoming a habit, I thought to myself. The Quinlan said oof and sank slowly to the floor, trying to draw a breath. Thank the universe for convergent physiology, at least he couldn’t yell out a warning.

Then from up the hall, “Matthew? You okay?”

Oh, for crying out loud. I’d never get the second—trank gun! I had a trank gun. I pulled it out of the pouch on the side of my backpack, levelled it at the second Quinlan who was just coming into view, and dropped him. Then I pointed down at my first victim—I hoped the close range wouldn’t create a problem—and put one into his butt. Amazingly, he found just enough breath to shriek in pain and very probably mortification.

“Matthew? Jeff? What—”

Oh, great balls of fire. I was just riling them up more. Time to make tracks. Fortunately they weren’t between me and the stairs, but I had to come into view to get there. As I turned the next corner and sprinted down the hall, I could hear cries of alarm behind me. Well, Bender, you wanted a chase scene. Wish granted.

I hit the stairway door at speed and sprinted down the steps, taking them three at a time—quite a feat for a Quinlan. My pursuers wouldn’t be able to match that. As I passed the second level down, I heard them come through the door above me. A quick calculation indicated I wouldn’t be able to get the door closed quickly enough to throw them off, which meant it would be a straight chase to the train platform. I was faster, pound for pound, but they would be able to run on all fours, not being burdened with a replicant matrix. In retrospect, maybe the backpack idea wasn’t so bad.

I hit the train floor, pushed through the stairway door, and made for the platform with every erg of power I could squeeze out of the internal power systems. I calculated I’d have about thirty seconds lead time when I got there. Sure hoped a train was waiting.

There were yells behind me as my pursuers piled out of the stairwell, and a ping tinkle as a tranquilizer fléchette skipped a few times along the floor near me. Way out of range, but I shouldn’t be surprised they’d try. I hoped Bender’s case was strong enough to stop one of those things, just in case it came down to a shootout. And speaking of, I had no idea how many shots I had left.

Y’know, things never got like this when I used to write software.

I made it to the call button and jabbed it frantically. Though, if the design was anything like a human elevator button, this would just slow down the train’s arrival. And nothing was going to convince me otherwise.

The sounds of galloping Quinlans drifted down the long antiseptic corridor. My thirty seconds were almost up. I turned, drew my trank gun, and shot the lead Quinlan just as he came into range. He went down with a yelp and skidded to a stop on his face. The others hit the brakes and backpedaled frantically. Then two of them went up on hind legs and pulled guns of their own.

Just as I was stealing myself for a toe-to-toe shootout, there was a ding behind me and the sound of a door opening. I turned and jumped through the door, looking around for a button, a control panel, anything. A female voice said, “Destination?”

Oh, great. “Uh, Halep’s Ending.”

There was another ding and the door began sliding closed, just as a fléchette flew in and struck me in the arm.

“Ow, son of a bitch.”

“Is medical assistance required?”

“No, let’s go please.”

“Please have a seat. Acceleration will begin in eight seconds,” said the train.

Eep. I plunked myself on the nearest seat, placed Bender on my lap, and examined the wound. Small, neat hole, penetration about a half-inch … It was actually a nicely tuned weapon. Internal systems were already breaking down the fléchette and starting repairs.

There were no windows in the tube train, a view of a tube not being particularly inspiring. But it meant I wasn’t able to see my pursuers as I pulled away from the station. I imagine they’d call a train as well, but could they follow this one? Could they ask the train attendant to let them off at the same platform?

“Train voice, can I specify a destination to be the same as the train in front of us?”

“There is no train in front of us.”

I examined the ceiling briefly. “Can occupants of a train behind us ask to be let off at the same station as us, without specifying it by name?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“I do not understand that command.”

“Never mind. Thank you. How far behind us will the next train arrive?”

“It will arrive at the same location, not behind us.”

Grrrrr. “How many seconds after our arrival will the next train arrive?”

“There is a mandated interval of one hundred and twelve seconds between train departures and the next arrival.”

Oh, much better. “Thank you. No more questions.”

So I had just a shade under two minutes, that being the human translation of the Quinlan time unit vek, to get out of Dodge, or implement whatever strategy I came up with.

I’d asked to go to Halep’s Ending in a panic, but really I wanted to go to Garack’s Spine. But if I asked to go there, would they have a welcoming committee waiting? We’d already seen more than enough evidence that the Resistance’s communications were efficient and far-reaching. Could I pull a fast one?

“Train voice, can I change my destination choice before we arrive?”

“Yes, but it may still be necessary to stop at the original destination first, depending on traffic.”

“Can we leave without opening the doors?”

“Not if passengers are waiting.”

“Are passengers waiting?”

“Yes.”

Uh-oh.

Those would be either Resistance or, less likely, Crew. Neither group was likely to welcome me with open arms. Well, yes they would, but not for hugs.

I was going to have to put on some serious speed, which meant that Bender would have to go in the backpack. I just hoped that A) the matrix would fit, and B) I could tighten it down enough to prevent damage from jostling.

A frantic minute of fooling with the backpack resulted in a partial success. I was able to fit Bender in and tighten the straps, but I had to abandon most of the contents to make space and to prevent them banging around. So goodbye fléchette gun, extra knives, money …

In a moment of inspiration, I swallowed some coins. My artificial stomach could be turned off, preserving the coins intact. But I didn’t want to swallow too many and end up jingling when I moved.

The train began deceleration phase, and I looked around frantically. “Train voice, which door will be closest to one or the other edge of the platform?”

“The door three to your left, or the door six to your right.”

I dashed to my left, dropped to all fours, and went into a sprinter’s crouch. I had to hope I could clear the vestibule before they could get everyone over to my end.

The train pulled smoothly to a stop and the doors swooshed open. I immediately gave it all the gas I could, frame-jacking just enough to be able to evaluate the situation. I immediately evaluated that there were four Quinlans standing right in front of the door, holding a net. I changed direction slightly and barreled into one of the net holders, knocking him over backward. I launched off his forehead and galloped down the hallway. A quick glance backward, rolling my eyes instead of turning my head, revealed that there were enough Quinlans to cover all ten doors. That was a lot of personnel to bring to bear on very little notice. Where did they come from?

That was a question for another time. A much calmer time, filled with cups of coffee and purring cats. For now, I needed to amscray. I hit the emergency staircase door and began nearly flying up the stairs. I had to hope they wouldn’t be cover—

Two fléchettes hit me before I could react. Dammit. The gun-toting Quinlans stood in front of me, their eyes slowly getting wider as they realized that I was approaching way too fast, and I wasn’t slowing down. By this point, I’d pretty much perfected the run-them-down maneuver, and I didn’t even break stride. I noticed on the way past that the second one had his security card dangling from an attachment point on his backpack. I gave it a quick tug and with my already considerable momentum, it came off cleanly.

Chances were he’d notice, and report the card, but it was just a distraction. I still had Natasha’s card, and they probably hadn’t yet associated it with me.

At the top of the stairs, I stopped and changed my features to that of the card holder, or at least as close as I could manage in a few seconds and without a selfie. Then I pushed open the emergency door. Three Quinlans stood on guard, pistols in hand.

One said to me, “Rick. What’s up?”

I bent over, put my hands on my thighs, faked deep heaving breaths, and tried to gasp a lot. “Got him.” Pant, pant. “Need help.” Gasp, pant. “Too strong.” And I waved in the direction of the stairs, while keeping my head down so they couldn’t see my face clearly.

Apparently my acting chops were pretty good, as the trio headed for the stairs, barely glancing at me. As soon as they were out of sight, I went out the maintenance door and made for the wilderness.

The good news was that I was free of my pursuers. The bad news was that I was stuck in the Halep’s Ending area. They were obviously monitoring the train stations, and would probably maintain a guard on them for the foreseeable future. They couldn’t cover four hundred million stations, of course, but they didn’t need to. Without the trains, I was limited to what I could reach on foot or by water. And not even the latter, since I couldn’t take a chance on getting Bender’s matrix wet. The backpack was under considerable strain with the cube stuffed into it. One popped seam and that would be it.

I could possibly book passage on a boat, but they didn’t have passenger lines as such. You paid for deck space on a cargo vessel, and you fed yourself by fishing when hungry. Someone would eventually notice that I wasn’t going in the water, and questions would be asked.

Plus, there would probably be a BOLO out for a Quinlan with a large, lumpy backpack.

I needed to stop reacting and form some kind of plan. I found a field of tall grass and waded in a few yards, then plunked myself down. A little back-and-forth with my butt and I had a nice nest, out of view of anyone happening by. Then I made a call.

“Hey, Hugh?”

“Hi, Bob. What’s up?”

“Things are very interesting right now. Listen, can you arrange a scan of the area around Halep’s Ending?”

“Sure. Where is Halep’s Ending?”

“It’s near my location.”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“I’m near—” Grrrr. “Never mind. I guess I didn’t think that through.”

“Sorry, Bob. Still not enough equipment in the air to do random scans.”

“Got it. Thanks anyway.”

That was mildly embarrassing. I suspected I was still suffering from a bit of panic mode. I needed to slow down, calm down, take stock.

I gazed up at the fake blue sky, filled with real clouds and the occasional flock of birds. Lying there in a field of grass, it would be easy to lose the moment, to imagine myself back in Minnesota on one of those bluebird summer days. Except for the large mountains, and the stays holding up the central cylinder. That kind of blew the illusion.

The stays …

Will’s professor friend had said they were used to access the central cylinder. Four stays, corresponding to the four rivers, ran up from the mountains. If I was to get onto one of the other rivers, the Resistance’s search radius would become untenable.

But could I? Would Natasha’s card have access to the elevators up to the central cylinder?

Bender had said that he’d spent the last hundred years giving the Resistance hacked access. And why stop with the trains or maintenance complexes?

It was that or skulk around the area until they gave up. Or try to get somewhere overland. Or take a possibly even bigger chance on a boat.

Screw it. I’d already gotten into the underground maintenance complex once, and escaped. I doubted they’d expect me to go back there first thing. I sent a quick email to Will, asking him for any details on the location and accessibility of the transport system up the cylinder stays, then set off, yet again, for the mountains.

At least I knew the way.

I peered through the bushes and glared at the single guard standing in front of the maintenance complex access door, trying to burn out his brain with my heat vision. Sadly, no heat vision. The guard stood relaxed, unaware of his brush with death.

I could attack him and knock him out, but would he stay out long enough for me to get in and get to the elevator? And what about surveillance cameras? I hadn’t found any around the entrance before. But they’d be on full alert now, and they’d only leave a single guard if that guard was being watched.

C’mon, Bob, James Bond could handle this.

I could dig my way into the corridor. But that would take forever, and would probably be noticed. I could kill the guard—no, not really. Knocking him out was contraindicated. Bribery was unlikely to work, even if I had something to offer. Distraction? Throw a rock over there, then wait until he investigated? Nah, too cliché for words. He’d probably turn in the opposite direction, expecting an attack.

At that moment, a file arrived from Will. I put it on my heads-up and examined the images. It was a SUDDAR scan from a segment boundary, showing the area at the base of the stay, with inked-in annotations in a non-Bob hand. Probably the professor. But the important thing was that there was just enough detail for me to be able to find the complex’s entrance to the transport system up the stays. If I could get in. And if all the segment boundary complexes were identical.

I was stymied for the moment, so I might as well do something. I settled for searching for any cameras. Out came the spiders. I also wanted to be ready to move at a moment’s notice if an opportunity presented itself. So out came the fleas, to infest the door mechanism again. And I moved as close to the door as I could get while remaining hidden.

It took very little time to find the camera. Hidden in some foliage, it had been set up to point at the guard’s back. So the guard was as much bait as anything. They expected him to be attacked. Nice.

And speaking of the guard, he seemed to be getting restless. Over several minutes, he glanced around, paced a bit, and scratched himself a few times. I hadn’t done anything, so I wasn’t sure what was—oh. Hydraulic pressure, leading to a call of nature. Heh. The guard had moseyed over to a nearby bush and was—holy moly, what was I doing color commentary for? The guard had moved away from the entrance! And he had his back to it. I ordered the fleas to unlock the door, and as quietly as I could, I pulled it and slipped in. A couple of my spiders scurried in behind me, but most of them were left outside, along with most of my fleas. I could wait for them to dig their way in, but while I was doing that, the guard’s shift could end and his replacement could come traipsing up the corridor. Ungood for sure.

Nope. I’d have to leave them. And hope I didn’t come to regret that.

This part of the infiltration was almost routine, including the stair door that I’d previously jimmied. I went down one floor, which Will’s plans indicated would lead me to the elevator up to the central cylinder. If there were security cameras, I would just have to hope that I looked enough like Natasha to fool them.

And then I’d find out how good a hacking job Bender had been doing.