We Are Legion (We Are Bob)
Book 4: Chapter 16: Still Trying

Bob

July 2334

Nirvana River System

I found myself surreptitiously reaching for my face again and consciously brought my arm back down. I had disguised myself once more, this time using a random passerby as my model. To avoid a “twins” issue, I’d tweaked the appearance a little. If I ran into my model, he might think he’d discovered a long-lost brother, but nothing more.

After much soul searching, I’d reluctantly left Bender tied up in the tree. No Quinlan was going to climb that high, not even with a gun pointed to their head. Wildlife tended to be small and not overly curious if something didn’t smell like food. Bender was probably okay, but I was still terrified that something might happen and I’d have no way of ever finding him.

But I had to make a clean break from Bob running around with Bender on his back to random guy going on a trip. And the best way to do that was to never allow anyone to see anything that would link us.

So Enoki Funguy, social gadfly and otter-about-town, was going to book a cruise on a local luxury vessel. Or, more factually, I was going to try to work my way across seven segments disguised as Random Guy. But, and this was the good part, I would have luggage.

I glanced up at the sign over my destination: Happy Al’s Storage and Trunks. Well, that’s not quite what it said, but metaphorically it wasn’t far off. Quinlans didn’t go in for Samsonite luggage, but they did have occasional need for rigid boxes of the locking variety. Some of the items on display very much resembled old-fashioned steamer trunks, except without the metal strapping. That would have cost more than I was worth. But wood and leather could do a pretty good job, if worked properly.

Happy Al—who, it turned out, went by the name of Steve—greeted me effusively as I walked in the door. I guessed that business had been slow and Steve was bored to the point of suicide. That could work for me.

“I’m looking for one of those”—I pointed to a steamer trunk—“about this size.” I held my hands apart to illustrate. I wanted a trunk that would be bulky enough that someone couldn’t grab it and run away, but small enough for me to carry. “And with a security loop like the one in the window.”

Steve straightened. “Sir, all of our trunks have security loops. And locks. We carry only the best stock.”

Erm, on the one hand, that was good. On the other hand, it sounded expensive. But this part of my plan had very little wiggle room.

Steve made for the back of the shop and returned in seconds with a trunk that was just about perfect. I gave it a brief once-over, including opening it to check the interior. This was as close to exactly right as I was going to get.

“How much?”

“Eight irons, four coppers.”

Ouch. I let surprise show on my face, and didn’t move for a two-count. “That’s … uh …”

Steve became chagrined, realizing he’d overreached. “That is, of course, retail. However, it’s a slow day, so …”

I took the hint. “I have seven irons, six coppers.” I opened my hand to show him. “That’s all I have in the world. And I do need this item.”

Steve looked briefly relieved, then managed to suppress it. Apparently that was still above cost. “That will be acceptable.”

I handed him the money and took the trunk. It was a good thing he hadn’t dug in his heels. I might have spit up my remaining two irons just to see his expression.

The trunk had a nice lock on it, made of whatever insanely hard wood they used instead of metal. It could probably be forced by a determined thief, but the point was to not attract the attention of thieves in the first place. To that end, as soon as I was back to my tree, I started rubbing dirt on it to take the shine off. A few minutes’ attention got me a suitably grubby and time-worn trunk. Next, I harvested some dry grasses for cushioning and lined the inside.

When the preparations were all done, I climbed the tree and retrieved Bender. I removed the matrix from my much-maligned backpack, then placed it carefully in the trunk, making sure the organics were packed densely enough to not shift.

I spit out my one remaining spider and put it in the trunk with the matrix. The spider was my insurance policy. It would make some modifications to the trunk to make it harder to open or steal. And if worse came to worse, some thief was going to get a face-full of plasma cutter.

The backpack wasn’t looking good. The cube had stretched it, and I couldn’t be sure that it would spring back into normal shape. If not, I would stand out even without the matrix. I sighed, shook the backpack a few times, then put it on. I’d stand out more without one at all.

One last item to take care of.

“Hugh, you got a sec?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I’m about to apply to be a deckhand. Anything I need to know? Is there a guild or union?”

“No, not like what you mean. There’s a guild, but it’s mostly just for arbitration and setting rates. And you’re in it automatically if you work on a ship.” ɌÀ₦οᛒЁs

“So there isn’t a problem with treatment of laborers?”

“These are Quinlans, Bob. They can live off the land. If someone started beating the deckhands, they’d just all swim away. If they didn’t outright disembowel the miscreant. Have you met Quinlans?”

“Mmm. Fair point. So they’re cantankerous, mobile, can find food anywhere, and can sleep anywhere.”

“Uh-huh. Kind of hard to develop an oppressed underclass in those circumstances.”

“What’s the pay?”

“A half-iron per day. If someone tries to offer you below that, snarl and walk away.”

“Gotcha. Thanks.”

That was better than expected. Hugh had gotten a job right away, so I hadn’t really expected a problem, but any Bob would tell you that Murphy was a bitch.

I arrived at the riverfront, trunk slung over my shoulder, and headed for the docks. There were several boats tied up, but only one had any activity. Some pallets were being unloaded, and there was also some cargo waiting to be brought on board. It looked like my best bet, if only because the other two boats appeared to be deserted.

Still, I examined the two deserted vessels, frowning. They weren’t empty—there were some palleted boxes and bales—but it was odd that no one was about. However, Quinlan deckhands were swarming over the third boat, practically sprinting from job to job. I noted in passing that they weren’t wearing the almost ubiquitous Quinlan backpacks, although one Quinlan who was standing around screaming orders and invective in almost equal amounts was wearing what appeared to be a vest with pockets.

The Quinlan with the vest paused and spoke to me, guessing what was on my mind. “Part of the shipment’s late. We got lucky. We were here first, and signed for what was waiting. You looking for work?”

“I am. You hiring?”

She gestured at the boxes on the dock. “That fehg isn’t going to load itself. Although the lazy sots I already pay for no reason seem to be hoping it will.”

The Quinlans unloading the boat replied with pro forma insults and one Quinlan middle-finger equivalent. It seemed good-natured, though.

“Say the word and I’ll start hauling.”

“You got it. Get to work.”

Well, that was easier than I had any right to expect. There was no need to ask where they were going. Boats almost always went downstream unless they were very local, and on this river segment, downstream was east, toward the Garack’s Spine segment. “Can I drop off my trunk?”

She gestured to a corner of the boat, attention already on the next problem. I dropped off the trunk, and after a moment’s thought, took off my backpack as well.

Being a deckhand on a Quinlan boat was very much a strong back, weak mind kind of thing. Pick up box here, put box down there. Rinse, repeat. My manny was much stronger than a native, and I didn’t get tired, but overheating could be an issue, so I didn’t push it. Every once in a while the entire crew would take a fiver in the water to cool off, which told me I wasn’t the only one with that problem.

The work was accomplished with the minimum of conversation. We’d keep working until all the cargo was moved, so malingering of any kind was pointless. Everyone just wanted to get it done.

When the last box had been loaded, we parked our butts on the edge of the boat while the Quinlan in the vest, who turned out to be the captain, argued over the paperwork with the dockmaster.

“Welcome to the Hurricane,” one of the deckhands said. “I’m Oric. This is Ted, and this is Frieda.”

I was momentarily taken aback, and looked closely at Frieda. No, definitely not the same person. Same Quinlan name, though, which the translation software converted to the same English name.

“Enoki,” I replied. “Enoki Funguy.”

Oric looked mildly surprised. “A family name? And you’re deckhanding?”

“We are an old family,” I told him. “But we were never wealthy. My mother always told me, We’ve earned that name and you’ll damned well use it. Yes, mom.”

That got chuckles, but I wasn’t sure if my momentary flippancy hadn’t set me up for trouble. I’d forgotten that family names were little short of hereditary titles in Quinlan society. Had I just painted myself as a target? Well, I’d have to roll with it.

“We also have a paying passenger,” Ted volunteered. “He’s off shopping. Captain Lisa told him to be back before midday or he would have to find another ride. He’s cutting it pretty close.”

“He also has a last name,” Frieda added. “As he reminds us constantly. I’ve come close to opening his throat a couple of times. But the captain says we have to be polite to the paying passengers.” She made a face to indicate her opinion of the command.

Captain Lisa finished haranguing the dockmaster, and the two exchanged signatures. She marched up the ramp and glared around. “His highness not here? Oh well. He paid in advance. Let’s haul ass, people. We need to hit Melon Patch by nightfall.”

We jumped up and started releasing lines and pulling up boarding ramps. There wasn’t much to it, but I made a point of taking orders from the others without complaint or trying to improvise. Just as we were at the point of pushing away from the dock and raising sail, a fat Quinlan came puffing, yelling and waving one arm. The other arm was holding on to a trunk not unlike mine, except much newer looking.

Quinlans were fat by nature, resembling beavers more than otters in that respect. But this individual was fat even by Quinlan standards. And out of shape, to judge from the panting and gasping.

The captain growled under her breath but motioned us to lower one gangplank. The Quinlan put his trunk down, and trudged up the ramp, still trying to catch his breath. As he passed the captain, I heard him say, “Have someone retrieve the trunk, please.” The captain gave him a sour look but motioned to me.

I had a strong urge to accidentally drop it into the water, but I was in a uniquely bad position to get into a game of tit-for-tat. So I played it straight, bringing the trunk on board and depositing it with the other miscellaneous items, including my trunk. But I gave the translation software specific instructions for converting his name.

“So who is he?” I asked Ted.

“Snidely Whiplash. His family is big in the wine business. As near as I can tell, he’s just an entitled whelp, though.”

The beverage wasn’t exactly wine, but it was the result of fermenting some local fruit. And as with most alcohol, it was big business. I was no stranger to snot-nosed kids who thought their parents’ success made them a big deal. This voyage might end up being more difficult than anticipated.

With our passenger safely, if obnoxiously, aboard, we cast off. Ted and Frieda pulled up the sail and we wallowed majestically out of port. The Hurricane was basically a barge with a sail, and it had all the racing feel appropriate to the design. I began to wonder if we’d make it to the end of the segment. Speaking of which …

“Hey, Oric. Does the Hurricane jump segments?”

“If we’ve got the cargo to justify it. Otherwise we circle into the Arcadia River and head back to the other end. Lisa’s not one of these big-time operations with a set route. If you were to get on the Galway, they never leave this segment—just up and down each river, circling the world. It’s not a terrible life. If you want to head into the next segment, you can get off at High Peak. There will usually be a boat going through within a day or two. The Hamilton jumps segments—I think they’ll go three or four segments sometimes. Again, though, depends on cargo.”

“Have people around here ever named any of the segments?”

Oric shook his head. “It’s bad luck. You name your segment, you start to identify with it, almost like a nation; then you start to talk about borders and armies, and the next thing you know, you’ve been scattered as punishment.”

Frieda, having finished with the sails, had joined the group. “It’s not punishment, it’s—”

“Yes, I’ve heard your doctrine before, Frieda. It’s not for us to judge the Administrator.”

“I’m not judging, Oric, I’m discussing their motivation. And it does make a difference. Punishments escalate. Guidance doesn’t.”

We were interrupted by a snort from midships. “You yokels and your legends about gods and demons. It is to laugh.”

Frieda glared at Snidely, which didn’t dent the supercilious expression on his face in the slightest. “Legends? Are you defective? The Administrator is as much a fact of life as the weather. Or do you think rain is a myth, too?”

“Sure, he is. He makes the grass grow, lifts the little birds into the air, and makes the sun rise in the morning.”

I stared in disbelief. This buffoon apparently believed that Heaven’s River was a natural environment. I opened my mouth to correct him, then was overcome by the sheer irony of the situation. I was about to explain to an atheist that God was real. I wanted to face-palm, but that would create questions. Best let the regulars take it.

Oric and Frieda formed an unsteady alliance, arguing against Snidely’s amused intransigence. He was a classic case of Dunning-Kruger—so entrenched and confident in his ignorance that he didn’t even realize how much he didn’t know. I let the argument drone on in the background while I watched the shoreline drift by. As enjoyable as the days on the river with my friends had been, there was a lot to be said for the sailor lifestyle as well.

The argument had escalated to the point where it attracted the captain’s attention, though. “Enough!” she yelled. “There’s decks to be cleaned, the bilge needs pumping, the cargo still hasn’t been tarped, and the spinnaker still hasn’t been raised. Make yourselves useful!”

Well, that was that. And Snidely took this turn of events as a victory, to judge from the pleased expression on his face.

The next couple of days were uneventful. We got caught in a brief downpour, which elicited howls of complaint from Snidely. Why a creature that was designed for water should hate rain was beyond me. But then again, the family dog used to be on a first-name basis with every puddle and stream in our neighborhood but would feign death when we tried to bathe her. Go figure.

I continued to avoid interaction with Snidely. The other three seemed to be able to keep his attention. Oric and Frieda had called a truce over their minor doctrinal differences in order to form common cause against the infidel.

I was going to have to discuss this with Bridget. It seemed the Administrator was taking on the aspects of a formal belief system, complete with competing dogma. Against that was a version of atheism that didn’t so much pit science against religion as simply refuse to go along. I wondered what Snidely’s cosmology would look like, but having to talk to him would be too high a price to pay to find out.

We pulled into a town that Ted informed me was named Beetle Juice. No, I’m not kidding, nor did I tweak the translator. It turned out this town’s major industry was a form of liquor made from the excretions of some insect. First, blech! Second, it made me wonder, not for the first time, if there was some form of sense of humor involved, either from the Skippies or from the software itself. I decided to let the translation stand and assigned it to the beverage as well.

Beetle Juice was the last town on the Nirvana before the segment mountains. The captain would decide in the next day or two if we’d be continuing downriver or catching the transfer tributary to go back the other way. A lot would depend on what cargo we could get, and where it would be the most valuable.

It depended on paying passengers, too. If people were willing to pay to get to a particular destination, that would affect the captain’s decision. Which made me wonder where Snidely was going. If we weren’t going in the right direction for him, this would be goodbye. I tried to summon a tear and failed miserably.

As we got closer, I could see that there was considerable activity at the docks, and it didn’t seem to be all from the usual dock business. Four or five cargo ships were tied up, while their crews had what appeared to be loud, bellicose discussions with official-looking individuals wearing sashes and swords.

I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. It seemed unlikely that this had anything to do with me, but by this point any indication of cops made me as jumpy as a two-bit thief.

Captain Lisa hopped around on deck, yelling orders at us, trying to maneuver the Hurricane into a tight space along the dock. This also involved a shouting match with the dockhands, which just added to the general holiday atmosphere. But eventually, we were at dock and tied up properly.

Ted and I grabbed the gangplank and started maneuvering it onto the dock. Before it had even settled, a delegation of cops marched up the plank. Captain Lisa moved to intercept them.

“We are searching for a fugitive who may be taking transport downriver,” the sergeant said. “We will need to inspect your ship.”

“What, all our cargo? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how long it’ll take?”

The sergeant shook his head. “No, no, we’re concerned about one specific individual carrying what appears to be a funerary box in his backpack.”

Uh-oh. Chances that there were two such fugitives on a billion-mile-long megastructure? Pretty low. I tensed and started planning escape routes before I remembered that I no longer resembled Bob. And I was not wearing a backpack at the moment.

“We will also need to inspect personal luggage.”

Aw, shit.

“You will like hell!” Snidely exclaimed, striding up and sticking out his chest.

“And who might you be?” The cop glared at him and put a hand on his sword.

“I am Snidely Whiplash, of the Whiplash family. You’ve no doubt enjoyed our wine on many occasions. We can bring considerable pressure to bear if our family name is insulted.”

The cop was taken aback. No doubt dealing with powerful families, especially belligerent powerful families, was considerably above his pay grade.

After a moment the cop replied, “Yes sir, understood. Obviously, you would not be a suspect in any case. Your luggage is where?”

Snidely casually waved a hand in the direction of the miscellaneous pile. “See that it isn’t touched.”

As I followed Snidely’s hand wave, I got an idea. As casually as I could, I moved in the direction of the pile where our trunks were located. I began to untie the tarp covering the trunks and other small items. As I gathered it, I surreptitiously wiped off my trunk as much as I could. It still ended up looking more travel-worn than Snidely’s but not by much.

A couple of cops came over, evidently pleased with my cooperation, and started looking over the pile.

“Those are Mr. Whiplash’s trunks,” I said, pointing to the two items. “Everything else is just cargo.”

One of the cops nodded to me, and they began randomly opening boxes. “How many people aboard?” one said to me.

“Captain Lisa, Ted, Frieda, Oric, myself, and Mr. Whiplash. We’re all on deck.” I pointed to each individual as I named them.

“None matches the description,” the other cop said. “And this is just junk,” he added, waving at the boxes.

“I’m sure the captain would disagree,” I replied with a small smile.

The cop snorted and they moved back to the gangplank. One shook his head at the sergeant.

A few seconds of discussion with Captain Lisa, and the cops trooped away. Letting out a breath, I re-tarped the miscellaneous pile. As I straightened up after tying the last bight, I found Snidely gazing at me, a slight frown on his face. As casually as possible, I gave the tarp a tug and walked off to my next chore.

But any attention from anyone was bound to be a bad thing. I would have to keep an eye on His Bigness.

As it turned out, we would be crossing segments. Two passengers signed on, wanting to go in that direction. And the captain was able to subcontract on a shipment to Orchard Hill, just on the other side of the mountains. Subcontracting wasn’t as potentially profitable as hauling our own goods, but it was a no-risk payday. And a couple of paying passengers was just bonus.

The passengers, a very old Quinlan and her granddaughter, were heading back to the family home. Theresa was far too old to endure any kind of extended swim, so Belinda had swum upstream several hundred miles to take her home.

Quinlans had a strong reverence for the elderly, so the captain didn’t balk at all when we set up a comfortable area in the sun for Theresa. Even Snidely didn’t seem inclined to complain.

Belinda doted on her grandmother but wasn’t otherwise talkative. She was friendly, but she would never use two words when a gesture or a grunt would do. On the few occasions that she did have to speak full sentences, she seemed to be almost out of practice. Remembering Bridget’s comments about breeding away from tool-user intelligence, I wondered if this might be a sign of that. Or maybe she just wasn’t a talker.

Once they were settled in, we went through the by-now-routine frenetic running around that characterized leaving port. The cargo we’d taken on at Beetle Juice, which was mostly beetle juice (no surprise), was making the Hurricane wallow a little more than usual, so we were taking extra care to maintain a good, conservative trim.

Once the boat was in mid-river and running an easy reach, we were able to break for lunch. I jumped in with the other crew members, and we chased down some juicy fish. Yum. Unfortunately, given the close quarters, I had to be seen to be eating, sleeping, and so on, just like everyone else. So, fish for breakfast, fish for lunch … When I was done with the Bender rescue, I resolved that I would never go near fish again.

We brought up a dozen or so as well for the captain and passengers. I sat down with Theresa and Belinda, studiously ignoring Snidely who was snarfing back fish like he hadn’t been fed in weeks. The Pav would have approved of his table manners. My mother, not so much.

Belinda quietly removed the less desirable fish parts with a small, but doubtless expensive, knife and offered the fillets to her grandmother, who took them with a smile.

“Belinda’s not much for talking,” Theresa said to me. “I’ve watched you try to engage her in conversation.” She placed a fond hand on her descendant’s head. “Kids are getting less and less verbal, it seems.”

“I have a friend who commented that it’s less necessary in Heaven’s River, so intelligence is being gradually bred out.”

“With some help from the Administrator? I’ve heard that theory. Not impossible, but their manipulation would have to be very subtle—”

“Oh, in Father’s name, more yokel superstition,” said Snidely. “Save me from the uneducated.”

Theresa gave him a mild stare. “And what’s your educational background, Mr. Whiplash?”

“I have a master’s in business from the University of Peachland,” he replied haughtily. I checked the translator out of curiosity. That wasn’t bad. Close enough to retain the meaning anyway, although I doubted that a master’s had quite the same meaning as a human university degree.

“And you took classes at Peachland?” Theresa asked.

“Of course.”

“I taught courses at Peachland, Mr. Whiplash. Don’t talk down to me. I have several doctorates, in subjects much more relevant than How to Count Money for those who’ve had their life handed to them.”

Whoa. Snidely jerked back, and I imagined flames sparking at the end of his whiskers. As much as I disliked him, obvious glee wouldn’t be helpful, so I maintained a stone face as he stood stiffly.

“That would have been very handy, I suppose, before senility set in,” he said, showing his canines.

Belinda turned on him, snarled, and extended her claws. Snidely jumped back, surprised and alarmed by her reaction.

“You’re a small man with a small, shriveled soul, Mr. Whiplash,” Theresa said. “There is no bigger waste than a formal education given to someone incapable of using it. I have no doubt your whole life would disappear into your father’s accomplishments without leaving a ripple.”

Snidely glared at her for a moment, totally silenced, before stalking off.

“That went well,” I said.

Theresa chuckled. “And what about you, Mr. Funguy? You have a last name as well. Do you have anything to show for it?”

“Not really. My family earned the name long ago. Nowadays it’s mostly useful for keeping people like Snidely from patronizing me too much.”

“Do you believe, as Mr. Whiplash apparently does, that the world came about naturally?”

“Of course not,” I replied. “It’s a rotating structure, one hundred henn in radius, composed of segments each one thousand henn in length. The ratio is clearly artificial. The experiment to determine the rotational period is something we did in our first-year classes. It’s exactly what you’d need in order to generate .86 G.” I was taking a chance showing any scientific chops, but I wanted Theresa to approve of me. Not just because she appeared to have a ferocious intellect, but also because I might learn something useful. This could turn out to be the first truly useful encounter since we’d landed.

She nodded slowly. “Ah. An engineer? A frustrating occupation, I imagine. So much of what you know you could do is forbidden.”

“And what did you teach, Theresa?”

“Philosophy. Math. History.” She smiled sadly. “That last item is particularly frustrating. Even in my lifetime, I’ve watched people letting go of some of the more difficult aspects of Quinlan history, in favor of myth, belief in the Administrator as a supernatural deity of some kind, and just-so stories.”

Jackpot. Maybe I’d finally get a complete picture of the history of Heaven’s River. “So what do you think the Administrator—”

The captain’s voice cut through everything. “All right you lazy sots. This tub won’t steer itself. Are you going to leave that mess on the deck forever? Do I pay you to sun yourselves? Hop to it!”

I sighed. Lunch ten minutes was over.

The next day’s topic was life after death. Oric and Frieda, no surprise, had opinions that tended toward the mystical. Theresa, bless her heart, didn’t mock or condescend, but she did ask questions that they found very hard to handle. During a lull, while Oric and Frieda were regrouping, she turned to me. “You’ve been quiet, Enoki. Don’t have an opinion?”

I chuckled. “That’ll be the day. I guess the real problem is defining what you mean by life after death.”

“I would have thought it was self-explanatory.”

“The supernatural version, sure. Also unprovable, at least so far. But what about a more, erm, science-oriented version?” I launched into a highly abbreviated explanation of replication. When I was done, Oric and Frieda looked equal parts confused and appalled.

“That’s not the same,” Frieda exclaimed. “That’s just a copy of you.”

“But if original you isn’t around anymore, it sure beats the alternative,” I replied with a grin.

Theresa laughed. “And to anyone else, it might make no difference. If a copy of me loved to chase my grandchildren around and remembered everyone’s birthdays, how would you tell it wasn’t original me?”

“But it wouldn’t be!”

“There’s a postulate in information theory that information can’t be destroyed,” I said slowly. I was sticking my neck out; I knew it. I watched myself doing it and couldn’t stop. This might be well beyond what Quinlans had managed to retain. “And in philosophy, there’s something called a Closest Continuer, which according to some thought, actually would be you. Even if there was a gap.”

Theresa gave me a quizzical look. “I can get the definition of Closest Continuer from context, but I’d love to hear more about this bit about information theory.”

There were groans from the others. It appeared advanced physics was not a popular subject.

I was in my VR library, studying some of the blueprints of Heaven’s River produced from scans by the Skippies and Gamers, when I received an alert from my manny’s AMI.

Sentry roamer reports disturbance.

That meant someone or something was disturbing my trunk. I quickly entered my manny and climbed quietly to my feet. It was full night, and Ted was on watch. The ersatz starlight was enough to illuminate the shore if we got too close. But it generally wasn’t a problem, as the current and wind tended to keep the boat in the middle of the river. Ted would wake us up if some emergency navigation became necessary.

Meanwhile, we had a small lantern on bow and stern, just enough to mark our position for any other boats, but not enough to affect night-adapted eyes. Of course, that didn’t matter for a manny equipped with real night vision.

Someone had peeled back part of the tarp and was bent over the trunks. Someone with a, shall we say, extra-wide silhouette. I walked quietly up behind Snidely and whispered, “It’s locked, asshole.”

He jerked up and turned to face me. “Very well-locked, it would seem. Better than mine, which appears to be the same quality.”

Huh. He’d just out-and-out admitted he was trying to break into my trunk. Probably a punchline of some kind was coming. “Is there a point, Snidely? Other than that you’re a thief?”

He smirked back at me. “Well, Enoki, I happened to be watching when we pulled into Beetle Juice. It was very impressive how you managed to get them to not inspect your trunk.”

I frowned. “How so? They didn’t inspect either trunk.”

“But I ordered them not to inspect mine. You tricked them into thinking I had two trunks.”

“I didn’t do anything except pull off the tarp, Snidely. They made an assumption. Should I have begged them to please open my trunk? I notice you didn’t volunteer.”

“Very glib, Enoki. Tell you what, since it’s all so innocent, why don’t you open your trunk for me?”

“You first.”

“My trunk,” he said haughtily, “is not under suspicion.”

“Neither is mine, dumbass. Meanwhile, I found you trying to break into my property, which gives me the right to defend it. So here’s the thing.” I stepped up until my beak was right up against his. “If I catch you trying that or anything similar again, I will rip off your head and shit down your neck. We clear?”

Snidely stepped back, clearly not prepared for the level of implied violence I was projecting. “I will tell the captain you threatened me—”

“I will tell the captain you are a thief. I wonder which one of us will be tossed off the boat?”

He glared for a few more seconds, then turned and stalked off.

But I knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

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