We Are Legion (We Are Bob)
Book 4: Chapter 25: Crossover

Bob

September 2334

Nirvana River System

Six days later, we were in the Garack segment. I’d caught up with Hugh, and both of our mannies were wedged up under the hull of one of the Crew boats.

I sat in my La-Z-Boy while Hugh lay flopped in the beanbag chair.

“We’ve been surprisingly lucky the last week,” Hugh said. “But now we have to use the transfer river to get over to the Arcadia. They know we’re on the Nirvana, or at least we were recently. They know we are or at least might be heading for Garack’s Spine—”

“Thanks to me labelling the box at one point. Brilliant move.”

“Twenty-twenty, hindsight is,” Hugh said with a shrug. “And anyway, I think the reason these boats came here is specifically because they know our destination and are setting up blockades. And we got a free ride out of it. So it’s not all downside.”

“Except for the part about them setting up a blockade.”

“Hmmph. No plan is perfect.” Hugh thought for a moment. “Overland?”

“Ninety-odd miles of hiking? With no guarantee they aren’t watching for that as well? No thanks. We have a better chance in the water.”

“Okay, if we’re going to be going the watery route, let’s stop in the last town and beef up our waterproofing. A couple more layers of vellum, maybe an extra coat of waterproofing on the inside of your backpack, check the seams, stuff like that.”

I nodded. “Sounds good. And as long as one of us stays with the matrix out of town, it’s a low-risk activity. They can’t be vetting every single purchase in town, even if they had reason to believe this might be a concern for us.”

Hugh twitched but didn’t respond. By this point, our mutual avoidance of The Subject That Shall Not Be Uttered was well established. But I could see he didn’t entirely agree.

Getting to town wasn’t a huge problem. The Crew boats anchored just outside of the last town before the transfer tributary. We waited for dark, then dropped off the underside of the boat and sculled silently to shore, just upstream of the docks. I didn’t want us to be seen going into town, as it was virtually certain there would be surveillance.

We found some dense trees and climbed up into the foliage until we were out of sight. Hugh did a quick inspection of the backpack and matrix. “All good, although the backpack is definitely showing the strain. Some pitch on the inside will help a lot with that, though.”

I nodded and reviewed the list Hugh had given me. While it would have made more sense for Hugh to go shopping for those items, I was far more experienced with the tactics that Crew and the Resistance were using and would be at least a little more likely to detect them.

I wandered into town, casual and carefree, and ambled about for an hour, projecting nothing to see here from every follicle. Crew didn’t wear any kind of special uniform, of course, but there did appear to be a lot of Quinlans standing around looking alert. I received several concentrated once-overs as well, but new face, generic backpack, and no large cubical cargo meant they lost interest quickly.

I found the correct store per Hugh’s instructions, but a glance at the two large alert Quinlans hanging around the entrance convinced me to walk on by. So they had made the connection. Or someone had. ℝ𝖆ƝꝋＢЁ𝘴

“The store is being watched,” I said over the intercom.

“I guess I was half expecting that,” Hugh replied. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

“Break in after dark?”

“I think that would raise a big ol’ red flag. Weather sealing supplies aren’t generally high on the smash-and-grab list.”

I frowned in thought, watching the store out of the corner of my eye. “I wonder how dedicated those guys are. Do they show up first thing in the morning, and stay until close?”

“Good question. I guess you’ll have to do a stake-out.”

I went into a nearby shop and asked casually what time they normally closed. It was a reasonable assumption that everyone would have more or less the same schedule. I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to spend it walking around and getting the lay of the land.

I was back just before closing. The last customer walked out of the supply shop, and I could see through the window the proprietor starting to put things away. The two large loiterers glanced at each other, shrugged, and walked off.

Perfect.

As soon as they were around a corner, I rushed into the shop, gasping for breath. “Made it,” I said. “I thought I was going to be too late.”

The proprietor was more amused than anything else, fortunately. I’ve had too much experience with salescritters who won’t even talk to you one second after closing, but then those were staff, not the owners of the business.

“What can I help you with?” he said. I gave him a list and he happily produced the items. A quick exchange of coinage, and I was out the door.

“Got the goods. Heading back.”

“You’re a real felon,” Hugh replied with a chuckle.

As we worked on the backpack and matrix, we discussed our options.

“They can’t set up a blockade on the transfer tributary,” Hugh said, “at least not once it gets rough. You can’t maintain station, and you certainly can’t stop boats and inspect them in that kind of water.”

“So …”

“A hike overland, then into the water just past whatever checkpoint they’ve set up.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” I said, and Hugh beamed. “Just like getting the weatherproofing supplies did.” His face fell. I continued, “I’m sure they’ll think of that. So what countermoves will they use?”

“Aerial surveillance,” he replied. “That’s the only option I can think of.”

“And they can’t cover ninety miles of tributary, so they’ll be watching somewhere in the middle third or so,” I added. “So we need to be under a boat by that point.”

“Wait for a catamaran to come by, and climb aboard after inspection? That sounds like a good idea. Mostly.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Objection?”

“It’s pretty rough in the changeover. I’m not sure we could hold on under the hull. And the downside of losing our grip would be significant.”

He was right. “Alternatives?”

Hugh hesitated. “Bob, the really rough patch, where the storm surge is significant, is only about ten miles long. And it’s about two thirds of the way around. Why don’t we float as long as we can, then walk the bad stretch?”

“A ten-mile hike?” I considered. We wouldn’t be lugging the storage box. Bender would be in the backpack. “I think that’ll work, as long as it’s at night.”

We did some quick tests of the backpack in a local stream, with several spiders on board to alert us of any leaks. The backpack held, but we weren’t willing to push our luck by submerging to any depth.

As soon as it was dark, we made our way to the river and pushed off. The transfer tributary, called the Scrubber by the locals, was less than a mile downstream. We kept close to shore, hoping that the complex shoreline and shallow-water vegetation would make it difficult for any aerial observer. Or alternatively, that they’d be watching farther out.

As we approached the Scrubber, we could see that a flotilla was set up, blocking the entrance. Quickly, we went ashore and started marching directly uphill. I didn’t want to just follow the shore on land, as there would almost certainly be a land-based component to the blockade. I had to trust Quinlans’ dislike of long hikes to ensure that we could go around everyone.

I almost miscalculated it, though. Turns out I don’t like hiking either, and made the decision to turn eastward just a little too early. Only the sound of voices raised in argument stopped us before we blithely walked into a guard post.

We froze, glanced at each other, then edged into the bushes. The voices rose and fell in volume and emotion. It sounded like a difference of opinion about some obscure rule of a popular dice game. The guards were apparently handling the boredom with a bit of gambling.

Hugh grinned but said nothing, and we changed our heading to go farther uphill.

It was two bedraggled, waterlogged, and cranky Quinlan mannies who dragged their butts out of the water at the other end of the Scrubber. “I am never going in water again as long as I live,” I said into the air.

“As a chemical substance, it is vastly overrated,” Hugh agreed. “Let’s find a place to camp and get out of these wet mannies.”

It wasn’t that we were physically tired. That wasn’t an issue with mannies. But the constant running, and the pounding we’d taken from even the milder stretches of river, were mentally taxing. Even a post-human computer could finally have had enough.

We set up a nest, made sure we were not visible, and popped back into VR.