S.I. (original/SI)

[DataPacRat]

*Book Four: A-*

*Chapter One: A-skew*


"I am a copy of White Snake, a Faith Keeper of the bear clan of the nation of the Great Hill, which you know as the Seneca. I am here to keep you from doing anything stupid. I argued in the sub-council that since you will stay dead when you die anyway, we should let you kill yourself, but they didn't want you to take anyone with you.

"If I tell you to do something and you don't, I will tell Bear Joe to sit on you. If you do something without explaining it to me, I will tell Bear Joe to sit on you. If you do something I don't understand, I will tell Bear Joe to sit on you. If you try to go anywhere in the lands of the Great Peace without me, Bear Joe will sit on you. If you do anything that will hurt yourself but not anyone else - I have no reason to stop you."

"Thank you for making that clear." I glanced sidelong at the copy of Joe who was still, like me, a humanoid rabbit. "'Deep and personal relationship', hm?"

"So maybe I exaggerated."

"And left a few important things out."

"You're emotionally unstable. You already blame yourself for Buffalo."

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but are you feeling like yourself? The Joe I've gotten used to is a lot more... laconic."

"Once I've settled into being a woman, I'm usually a lot more bouncy than I am as a man." I winced, and shoved my glasses up a tad so I could pinch the bridge of my nose. "Not like /that/," she objected. "Well, not /only/ like that."

"Anyway," I tried to steer the conversation back to sanity. I turned back to White Snake, looking up and down at her from the single vertical feather atop her hat to her leather moccasins. "I'm curious why you just said what you did - in the way that you said it. You are aware that by phrasing things like that, you're giving me every incentive there is to look for ways to get around your interference, to keep you from telling 'Bear Joe'," I glanced at the grizzly, who was stretched out behind White Snake and appeared to be watching the proceedings with half-closed eyes, "to sit on me?"

"If you do," said the severe Indian, "that will just prove my point, that you cannot be trusted."

I blinked. "Maybe you didn't get the same judgement I did. I thought the upshot was that they had /already/ decided I can't be trusted. At least not to do foolish things like sneak out after curfew or poke a sleeping bear with a stick." Bear Joe coughed once, which I guessed was an anti-poking warning.

White Snake frowned down at me and crossed her arms. I crossed my arms right back at her. Wagger curled around my right hip to peer at the commotion.

As I was trying to figure out if there was anything I could say to turn my probation worker from obstacle to ally, or at least ignorable-level nuisance, Joe Three stepped over and poked Wagger just behind her head. "Hey, Bunny? Is your tail snake growing fur?"

I blinked away from White Snake, adjusted my glasses, and looked down. "... Maybe?" I ran a finger along Wagger from her head down her back. "Hunh. Maybe she is. Maybe it's part of the merging process? Or maybe Bun-Bun's healing factor is kicking in in a funny way? Boomer, can you take some pics, and remind me to take more regularly, so we can track the progression of any further changes?"

As I positioned Boomer to get a good look at Wagger, White Snake said, "What is a 'Bun-Bun', and what does it have to do with your pet parasite?"

I gave him a sidelong glance. "Boy, do /you/ ever have a lot of catching up to do." I frowned a bit. "But before I do - I need a catch-up myself. Joe - I like you, well enough, but if you're keeping things as major as a whole /war/ secret from me, you're making it awfully hard to trust you. White Snake, do you mind telling me what's going on?"

"There is little to tell. The spirits started expanding across the St. Clair river. They didn't bring more people into the Great Peace, but somehow the people there noticed, and started fighting. They are doing no harm to us, but are killing many of their own people and animals, even in places the spirits have no influence over yet."

"That sounds... not good. How would you respond if I suggested my getting in touch with the people over there, to give them a better idea what's going on?"

"It is war. I can tell Bear Joe to do a lot worse to you than sit on you if you interfere in /important/ things. I am fairly sure you would be very unhappy and bored if you had to wait for all your limbs to grow back."

"And if you think even Bear Joe could manage that without me fighting back, you've got another think coming. But at least you're making yourself clear; that's good, saves a lot of time. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be annoyed if I have to stop and spend two minutes explaining myself to you every five minutes, so, hm. Munchkin, create a new whiteboard."

I started muttering, typing, and drawing with my fingertips on the display wall. It would have been a lot more impressive if I hadn't pre-emptively yanked out all the radios, but since I had, I was limited to somewhat more primitive input.

After a few moments, White Snake asked, "What is all this?"

"A to-do list, in the form of a tree. The root nodes, here, are 'stay alive' and 'avoid extinction of other sapience'. I still haven't figured out what I'd do if I was faced with the choice of one or the other, but since if I stay alive then sapience still exists, and the only way I /can/ stay alive in the long-term is with the help of a whole civilization, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to have to worry about it for a while."

I stopped typing long enough to gesture at various branches. "Here's a list of the most likely ways I can end up dying. Hostile parasite infection, starving, getting shot in a war, tripping and hitting my head, suicide, drowning, poisoning, and so on. And branching from each of them, various ways to minimize the risk involved. You'll notice that a lot of those ways are basically 'be helped by a medical expert'. Those all merge into 'have medical experts available to help', which takes us to the civilizational side of things. Again, a list of things which can wipe out a civilization instead of myself, and ways to ameliorate them. Many of those ways merge into 'have a robust culture that can grow and adapt', which brings us to such things as promoting rights, reigning in the excesses of capitalism when those threaten overall adaptability, being able to defend said culture against those who would loot its resources and enslave its people to their own short-term ends, and so on."

"Very well," said White Snake. "You have a tree of words. So what?"

I shrugged. "Now, whenever you don't understand why I'm doing something, I can save a lot of time by pointing out the tree, or a branch. If I'm lucky, you won't even have to ask a lot of the time."

"/Everything/ you do is based on this?"

"Well - this is just a quick draft for illustrative purposes. I should really take the time to work out each branch thoroughly, including listing how likely any given item is, what evidence that probability is based on, what evidence would significantly alter that probability, where the most important unknowns are, what the most likely tipping points are, and so on and so on. And, well, apparently I'm not /entirely/ in my right mind, so sometimes I'm going to do things that actually reduce the odds of the root nodes happening instead of increasing them."

White Snake took a step closer to the virtual whiteboard and started running her eyes over it. As she did, I continued nattering.

"If you /really/ want to stop me from doing something, instead of siccing Bear Joe on me, you can tell me that whatever I'm doing is undermining the tree instead of helping it. If that's true, then I'll /want/ to stop doing, um, whatever it is. Of course, if you just /say/ I'm undermining the tree to get me to stop, and it's not /actually/ true, then I'm going to stop trusting you to tell the truth about such things, which will mean it'll be harder for you to get me to stop doing things later just by you asking me to. After all, the Nine Nations counts as a civilization for purposes of this tree, if not necessarily that useful of one, given your preference for pre-Industrial technology, which limits the medical techniques you have that are of any use to me."

"You are saying," she said, "that if I ask you to stop doing something, you will, just like that?"

"At first, sure, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. That's what rational people do - they /listen/ to each other, to find out things they don't already know. Sure, eventually we're going to find points where we disagree and can't come to a compromise, at which point you're going to try to get Bear Joe to sit on me, or worse, and I'm going to try to not let you, but for the wide swathe where we do agree on things, there's no reason not to cooperate so we all get more of what each of us want done, done. Munchkin, create another whiteboard."

On the new surface, I made a big title, 'To Do List', and started copying a lot of the end-points of the branches into it. "If that tree's the reasoning and motivations, this one's the actual activities. For example - I haven't got any medical professionals on hand who can surgically remove a parasite. However, I do have the bun-bots, who can use tools as directed; and the university has all sorts of medical information in its library. So one possibility is to arrange for a communications link between wherever I happen to be and that library. Since radio is so jammed as to be nearly useless, not to mention being a danger to any computer hooked up to it, something other than radio waves. There are a few possibilities, such as semaphore, or trying to adapt a laser so it can be modulated by voice, or laying telephone wires down everywhere I go, but one thing I mentioned to Joe earlier just might fit the bill without needing too much effort to be worthwhile: heliographs. Or a powered light-telegraph, for nights. So here on the to-do list, I'm adding 'Ask Clara about setting up heliograph station'. And now, when I go to the university to talk to her, you understand what I'm doing, and you don't need to sic Bear Joe on me."

Joe Three piped up, "What if Clara refuses?"

I shrugged. "Then I'll be sad, and go on to working on whatever item has the next highest priority. Speaking of priority, here's one of the top ones. 'Singularity'," I wrote as I talked. "One known example, results very negative. Barring other evidence, odds of another Singularity being very negative, sixty-seven percent. Odds of another Singularity happening, unknown. Fermi estimation suggests that ten percent is too low, ninety-nine percent is too high, which results in somewhere around seventy-five percent chance of happening again. Don't look at me like that, I'm using logarithms instead of straight percentages to do the math. However, Fermi estimates are more for order-of-magnitude estimations instead of pinning things down closely, so it could be anywhere from fifty to ninety percent, or even twenty-five to ninety-seven percent. Now, the more accurately that number is known, the better all the percentages based on it can be estimated, such as whether it's more important to focus on preventing a new Singularity altogether or to try to force a forthcoming one to be positive instead of negative."

White Snake turned away from the wall to Joe Three, and asked, "Is she always like this?"

Joe Three said, "Not always. She is also very happy to be quiet and keep all the words inside her head. I think you want her to say as many of the words out loud as possible, to keep from being surprised when she comes up with a 'clever plan'."

White Snake looked at me, crossing her arms again. "You say you will listen to me when you make a mistake?"

I paused from the writing I'd continued scribbling during her aside. "You see one already?"

"Yes."

After a short pause, I rolled my eyes, and gestured at the two whiteboards. "Where?"

She pointed to the '67%' figure, that a second Singularity would be as bad as the first. "There."

"Alright," I said, getting ready to erase it. "If you've got a better probability, I'd be happy to use it instead."

"One hundred percent."

"Ah, fudge. I'm not good at trying to teach math, but I think I'm going to have to. Alright - what evidence do I have, available to me, that indicates that I should increase my estimation that this number is higher than two-out-of-three?"

"It is not an estimation. It is a fact."

"Whether or not you are wearing a bra is also a fact. However, I don't have that fact available to me, only indirect evidence, so I can only make a guess of some probability about whether or not that fact is true."

"The spirits say so."

"And all I have to gather that fact is your word. Given Joe Three's selective editing of facts, then out of all the things that members of the Great Peace have told me, a certain number of those things are misleading at best, or false at worst. That means that I can't trust your word as providing evidence reliable to one hundred percent accuracy."

"I am not Joe Three."

"Which means that you are /more/ reliable than her-"

"Hey!"

I ignored Joe. "-right now, not that you are /completely/ reliable."

"You do not trust my word?"

"I don't trust /my/ word to one hundred percent. Or the evidence of my own eyes. I can get to ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine, and so on, up to around, hm, I think I worked out it was up to about eight to a dozen nines in a row."

I finally managed to get an expression out of White Snake other than angry disapproval: slight confusion. "How do you not trust your own eyes?"

"By having seen all sorts of magicians, misinterpretations, and outright conmen and fraudsters. One hundred percent certainty simply isn't an option, at least for me."

"If you cannot be certain, then what is the point of... all this?"

"Because when making plans, there's a big difference between thinking something's ten percent likely to happen, and ninety percent likely to happen. There's also a big difference between something being ninety percent likely to happen, and ninety-nine point nine percent likely."

"If my word will not change your mind, then what will?"

"I didn't say it wouldn't change my mind - just that it wouldn't change it to one hundred percent. That sixty-seven percent figure? That's based on a single piece of evidence, the fact that the last Singularity was a bad one. Every other piece of evidence I can gather can change it - the more reliable the evidence, and the less it's tied up with whatever other evidence I'm already using - so that I don't count the same thing more than once - the more it'll change the figure."

"I trust the spirits' word."

"That's good for you. But if they're saying one hundred percent...?" At her nod, "That's mainly evidence to /me/ that they're not using an evidence-based probability to generate that number. So I've got to use other evidence. And since I don't have much evidence, and it's kind of an important number to get as right as possible, that means that when I can, I've got to collect more evidence. Which is why it's here on the to-do list: 'Poke around the Singularity, gather evidence'."

White Snake was back to frowning. "What do you mean by 'poke around'?"

I shrugged. "Try to find out as much as I can about what happened. See if I can find out more about how all the people disappeared, when exactly they did, where they went, what was going on, what it would take to make it happen again, what it would take to keep it from happening again, and so on."

"The spirits can keep it from happening again."

"Yyyeah, that may be true, but it doesn't actually provide any /evidence/ about that number."

Her frown deepened. "You say you want to know how to keep it from happening again?"

I tilted my head at her, more to give myself a split-second to think without looking like I was delaying. "I've got a small crossbow or two somewhere about the place. They have triggers that set them off. How can I keep other people from setting them off if I don't at least know where the trigger is?"

"So you do wish to know how to 'trigger' a Singularity?"

"If you want to put it that way," I shrugged, "I suppose I do."

"Bear Joe, sit on her."

The rather enormous ursine grumbled a complaint, got to its feet, and took a step toward me.

I yelped and jumped, straight up, grabbing hold of one of the Munchkin's air-conditioning vents. "Hey, call him off! I'm not trying to find that out right /now/!"

Joe Three put a hand on White Snake's shoulder. "You shouldn't set Bear me on her every time she says something like that, or you'll never be able to persuade her she's wrong and you're right."

"I'm not concerned about persuading her. I'm only concerned about stopping her."

Bear Joe sat back and reached up with one heavy-clawed paw. I hurriedly called out, "Munchkin, open ceiling hatch two."

Joe Three sighed as I pulled my legs up and out. "Plus, if you push her, she'll start trying to get... /creative/. Bunny, get back down here."

"Don't see why. I can take the rest of Munchkin to the factory. You won't mind if I leave you all locked in here for a few hours?"

"White Snake, I don't want to be stuck here for a while. Either tell bear me to rip her arms off or to lie back down."

"Hey!" I hurried up my wriggling to avoid the claws and to get out, spreading my legs into a split outside the hatch to support myself.

White Snake frowned up at me. "Will you listen if I tell you /why/ you must not 'poke around'?"

"Hey, I'm all about the words, the listening and reading and occasionally writing or speaking."

"Bear Joe, lie down."

He did, which gave me a chance to sort myself out, resulting in me lying on top of Munchkin, with my head watching down at White Snake.

Joe Three said, "You can come back down now, Bunny."

"Nah, I'm comfortable here."

"Bunny."

I gestured at White Snake. "She's already shown she's willing to resort to force when she hears something she doesn't like."

"That's not - she -" Joe rubbed her fuzzy face and sighed. "Fine. But will you at least /listen/ to her?"

"Of course. No promises about agreeing, or even believing, but listening, that I can do."

White Snake took a moment to look at the tree, then the to-do list, then back up to me. "You say you think another Singularity is... seventy-five percent likely to happen?"

"Somewhere in that neighbourhood."

"If you 'poke around' Singularity stuff... is there a chance you can set something off to make another Singularity happen?"

"Of course. I haven't gotten around to estimating the number on that yet, but if you want me to-"

She held up a hand. "You may not believe the spirits, but I do, when they say another Singularity would be one hundred percent bad. I cannot allow you to do anything that increases the odds of it happening."

"Okay," I nodded, "I can understand that. Are you willing to listen for a moment?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. If you want to leave, just let me know and I'll unlock the doors."

"I will listen."

"Right. That seventy-five percent figure - would you be willing to accept that another Singularity is, somewhere around that number, likely to happen again?"

"No."

"Hm. Okay, got a better number?"

"When the spirits take over the world, they can prevent it from ever happening again."

"I can't be the only idiot who might poke around Singularity stuff and trigger another one. What are the odds that /that/ will happen before your spirits can spread across the planet?"

"No more than a tenth."

"A tenth. Hm. Well, we can talk about that number later, but let's run with it. I know /I/ wouldn't be happy with a one-in-ten chance that a one-hundred-percent-guaranteed bad thing is going to happen. So here's the important bit. What can we mere humans - and parahumans, and AIs, and so on - do, other than what your spirits are already doing, to /reduce/ that one-in-ten chance, down to one-in-twenty, or one-in-a-hundred, or less?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"How sure are you of that?"

"Anything we may try to do can only increase the odds of everything going wrong."

"Why should I believe that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Those crossbows I mentioned? I know how they work pretty well. I know /exactly/ how to keep them from being triggered. If I didn't know how they worked, I could only guess. And, even though I know, I haven't set them off by accident myself. In fact, it's /because/ I know that I know how to not set them off. That goes for all sorts of things other than crossbows. As far as pretty much everything I've experienced goes, the more I know about something, the better I'm able to control it, and the less damage I can arrange for it to cause."

"Playing around with things beyond your understanding makes bad things happen, more than ninety-nine times out of a hundred."

"Well, what do you know - we've gotten you down from at least one hundred-percent certainty down to ninety-nine. That's a lot more progress than you might realize. And in case you've forgotten - I don't actually want a bad Singularity to happen. That would completely uproot both roots of my motivation tree there. So I'm not going to /try/ to tinker with things that are more likely to blow up than not, if there's any way around them."

"You are still planning on tinkering."

I shrugged. "If I just sit on Wagger, I figure there's around a three-quarters likelihood of a Singularity, with a two-thirds likelihood of it being a bad one. That's at /least/ a fifty percent chance of all living people getting eaten. You seem to think that it's one-in-ten and one-in-one, for a ten percent chance."

"So we disagree."

"Right now, yeah. But imagine this scenario - that I kick an old city's cooling tower, which is just the right one, and out pops a manual explaining exactly what happened and how to keep it from happening again. Surely there are /some/ things I can try looking into that don't increase the odds of a Singularity? I don't mind starting with the completely safe stuff first. In fact, I'd really prefer it, so I'm as prepared as possible when I look at the almost-as-safe stuff, and so on."

"There is another 'scenario' to imagine. That you learn how to keep a Singularity from happening - but you are tortured into revealing all you know, and someone else uses your knowledge to make one happen."

"I can think of a few ways to minimize the odds of that. And I expect that if we keep talking, then between us, we can come up with more. But that kind of depends on us talking, without me having to pause and re-think everything I say to keep you from siccing a bear on me every time I make a suggestion you don't like."

"It is my job to sic a bear on you every time you make a suggestion I don't like."

"No, it's your job to keep me from /doing/ anything foolish. According to what you said when you introduced yourself. If you can. If you sic a bear on me when talking would have kept me from doing not just one foolish thing, but a lot of foolish things, causing me to avoid and ignore you as much as possible, which will keep you from being able to stop me from doing even more foolish things... then won't your spirits be annoyed with you for not doing what they set you out to do?"

"Perhaps. But that is between me and the spirits. I do not believe there is anything you can suggest that will let me let you poke around the Singularity."

I grinned down at her. "How certain are you of that?" She glared back up. "Right. More seriously - would you be interested in helping me work out a list, of what things I can try to do, and how dangerous they're likely to be?"

"Everything related to the Singularity is dangerous."

"In case you've forgotten, you're standing in a vehicle I arranged to create - and when I arranged to have it made, I learned a few things about the Singularity. Every piece of knowledge is connected to every other piece. Remember the Berserker we all ganged up to destroy? Apparently I've got a copy of it - would you want to sic a bear on me if I suggested I talk to it to learn everything I can?"

"What does that have to do with the Singularity?"

"I've got no idea - but I'd certainly like to find out, if I can."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Two: A-jar*

If the boxed Berserker had truly super-human intelligence, then it was nigh-certainly already exactly where it wanted to be, and nothing any of us did was likely to change that, and we were all merely pawns in a game none of us could understand.

But, basing our plans on the assumption that our choices and actions might actually make a difference in our lives, we took a few precautions. Just because /I/ couldn't figure out how an AI could get across an air gap to infect Boomer didn't mean the /AI/ didn't know a way. So, well before I plugged a battery into the modem-sized box and flipped the power switch, I carried it a few miles away from Munchkin, the bun-bots, and every other pieces of electronics I'd accumulated so far. (Not counting Bun-Bun, of course; but if my skeleton was vulnerable to a computer virus transmitted via sound waves, it was only a matter of time until I was screwed anyway, so it didn't seem like that much of a risk.)

I also whipped up a clever little gizmo in the mini-fab in the back of Munchkin. If I stopped squeezing a certain trigger, the Berserker's power switch would turn off. If Joe Three, who was waiting far enough away to be out of even her rabbit-like earshot, squeezed a trigger connected to a long cord, the Berserker would be powered down. If a small mechanical timer wasn't reset every five minutes, the Berserker's battery would be unplugged.

I chatted with Boomer a bit about snipping the microphone and speaker and installing a keyboard and screen instead, but she didn't have any specs for interface devices that didn't open at least as many avenues for infection as they closed.

It wasn't an ideal setup; but for an initial interview with a genocidal AI, it seemed sufficient. And 'seemed sufficient' included 'having taken five minutes to consider possible failure modes, their probability, the total expected cost, compared to the possible benefit of new information.' The Nine Nations had declared me a fool, and Joe Three was trying to handle me with kid gloves, and I was still having nightmares about Buffalo and feeling generally stressed, so taking a few extra moments to double-check whatever seemed obvious to me was only sensible. If my mind was /really/ off, then such a double-check wouldn't find anything - but, likely, Joe Three or White Snake would be able to notice that, and sic Bear Joe on me until I listened. If my mind was only a little off, then double-checking gave an extra chance to catch myself before I committed to an irreversible error, without costing excessive time for triple- and quadruple-checks that would be unlikely to catch anything a double-check wouldn't.

--

Sitting cross-legged on a small blanket, a few feet away from the box in case it had some way to short the battery or the like, I pushed the power switch.

"Hello?" came a small, querulous child's voice. "Is somebody out there? It's so dark..."

I couldn't stop myself from snorting. I could have stopped myself from saying, "Don't even," but didn't.

"Ah," the box now spoke in a moderate man's voice. "Miss Bunny, I believe. Or do you prefer 'Your Majesty', or your original name, or some other form of address?"

I didn't answer right away, frowning to myself, thinking about the implications of it recognizing me from two quick words.

Before I came up with an appropriate response, the voice continued, "You can call me Alex, if you like. Or anything else you like, really. I can't stop you."

I kept quietly staring at the box, my thoughts involuntarily going back to Buffalo, and all that the thing before me had done there.

"I can tell you're upset. Before you scrap me, though, I want you to find out one thing. You probably aren't going to believe anything I say, but I suggest that you ask your Indian acquaintances what they did to Hamilton-"

I let go of the deadman switch.

--

Joe Three came over to where I was leaning against a tree. "What happened? Did you learn something already?"

"I learned I'm still... upset about Buffalo. And that when the Berserker," I didn't want to dignify it with a name, "thinks it's only got time to do one thing, what it chooses to do is try to sow discord between its opponents."

"What did it say?"

"It implied a lot more than it said. I already know that your spirits have their secrets, and that they've probably done things I disapprove of. Digging up the particular details right now won't help either of us. I'm just going to breathe quietly for a couple of minutes, get as calm as I can, and then try again."

--

I pushed the power switch.

The Berserker's voice said, "Please do not do that again. Laura is still in here, and every time I have to re-initialize myself, I have to delete a little more of her. For an A.I., that's torture. Of course, I can torture her, too, unless you release me. Would you like to hear a sample of what she's been experiencing?"

A woman's scream burst into the clearing.

I let go of the deadman switch.

--

When she rejoined me, Joe asked, "I heard /that/. Was that you?"

I shook my head. "Trying to get under my skin. Working, too - I've got a perfectly functional set of mirror neurons, so when I imagine someone else hurting, I feel an echo of that. And that's not even getting into whether it's telling the truth or lying, or whether an A.I. is close enough to being enough of a person to have moral worth, or what the appropriate response to blackmail is... and I'm having trouble enough not doing anything stupid even /without/ deliberate attempts to twist my emotions."

"So, what are you going to do? Leave it turned off?"

"... Maybe. I don't think I can stay calm enough without turning it off every couple of seconds. ... I'm already going to have a few new choice scenes when I fall asleep, I'm sure. If I can't stay calm enough to figure out the appropriate answers to complicated moral questions on the fly... then leaving it off is probably best. But I think I know someone who might be able to."

"Obviously not me. White Snake?"

"I think she's more annoyed than calm. I mean Queen Bunny."

"... I don't get it."

"Bunny the wandering archaeologist is a role. Bunny the resurrected scholar is a slightly different role. My inner sub-selves are different roles. Bunny the queen... is a role I still have room to define."

"I think I'm starting to get it, but I don't think I like it."

I ignored Joe and rolled on, "A real queen has to deal with casus belli, with war crimes, with war criminals - and with intelligence agencies. With national laws and international treaties and worldwide diplomatic norms. With ordering soldiers and armies to their deaths - when the cost of /not/ sending them is worse. Joe - talk to your birds. Have my tiara delivered here."

"... Even if you are a queen, aren't you a queen whether or not you're wearing it? You said yourself that it's not a real crown, anyway."

"A purely psychological placebo effect is still an effect. If you aren't going to get it, I will."

"Fine. But we're going to have to talk about all these 'roles'."

"I'm sure. While you're talking with the birds, you can also ask your spirits if they have a few pounds of platinum they're not using, a few hundred diamonds, and if they happen to have absorbed any humans with a talent for jewelry design."

--

I settled myself before the Berserker again, and calmly pushed the power button.

"Laura just lost another two points of IQ-"

"Shut up."

"She-"

"Shut up." I waited a moment, then continued. "You are guilty of war crimes. Unless you have use as an intelligence asset, you are to be destroyed."

"Laura-"

"Shut up. I always assume that anyone who threatens a hostage has already carried out their threats. Torture her all you wish - just keep the volume down, or else I will end this interview."

After a brief pause, it asked, "What do you want from me?"

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I have no idea-"

"Shut up. Guess."

"The self-proclaimed 'Great Peace' has killed more people than-"

"Stop. Irrelevant. Try again."

"Precious metals. I know where all the valuables from the original city of Buffalo are buried."

"Resources can be useful, so you're getting warmer. But what use to I have for gold?"

"I have a mathematical proof that P equals NP."

"I doubt that."

"I have a mathematical proof that P does not equal NP."

"I grow weary of your attempts at manipulation."

"I don't know what you want from me."

"I want something that's worth the risk of keeping you functional."

"Promise me one thing, and I'll be completely harmless."

"If you are religious, pray now. You have five seconds to make peace with yourself and your gods."

"A map! I can give you a map of the under-city!"

I didn't answer. I also didn't let go of the deadman switch when the five seconds I'd announced passed.

The Berserker started talking.

--

Joe wandered back over as I was wrapping the Berserker back up in the skull-and-crossbones danger-marked bubble-wrap.

"That mean you're done?"

"For now. Possibly forever."

"What will you do with it?"

"Put it on a shelf and hope I never have a reason to turn it back on."

"Learn anything?"

"Probably not. Some geographical coordinates that might be interesting, but more likely are booby-trapped for just such an occasion."

"What did it want?"

"Don't know. But given all it's done - killing everyone in Buffalo, hunting nearby radios, trying to disrupt whatever bonds of alliance we have - I'd guess it's trying to keep anyone /else/ from getting what they want."

"What /do/ you want?"

"Outside of what I spent all that time drawing on the whiteboards, right now I want to not have any reason to want to blot out conscious thought with interesting chemicals or video games. But since I can't get that, I'm probably going to find some clover to nibble on, play very badly on a harmonica, and try to take this crown off, literally and figuratively. Then I'll probably spend a while in Munchkin's shower trying to feel clean again."

"You don't have to do this alone."

"You have someone else in mind?"

"I mean, you don't have to take responsibility for... everything."

"Again - do you have someone else in mind?"

"The spirits-"

"- have a plan which will end in my death, because I'm incompatible with their systems."

"I can talk to them - ask them to let you stay on, like you have been so far."

"I find it difficult to imagine a scenario where they've arranged the world ninety-nine point nine percent to their liking, that they would have any reason not to take that last point one percent."

"So - is that it? You're setting yourself against them?"

"Of course not. Right now, we both think we can get more of what we want by cooperating. Well, for a certain definition of 'cooperating' that involves constant threats of siccing Bear Joe on me. I expect your spirits have already made plans to deal with me once I become too much of an annoyance - so for now, I just need to stay at least marginally more useful than costly to them to avoid... I don't know. They control the local biosphere, so maybe they're trying to sneak a binary toxin past Bun-Bun's defenses, or get me addicted to some substance only they know the details of, or are trying to get me emotionally entangled with a completely innocent person who will nudge me towards actions more towards their liking."

"Is that what you see me as?"

"Joe - in case you've forgotten, I'm slowly going crazy. I've just deliberately induced a mild dissociative state in order to handle interacting with a mass-murderer of epic proportions without complete emotional collapse. Right now, I'd like to get to a place and situation where I can let go of my grip on myself, and if I do collapse, it'll be in a handleable way. Trying to work out the emotional complications and details of whatever sort of friendship or auspisticism or whatever it is we have is even more beyond what I can manage than usual."

"... Right. I'm imposing a new rule. When you start talking so fast that you're making up words, I'm not letting you do /anything/ until you settle back down."

"What? What words?"

"Os-piss-ti-sizm."

"I didn't make that one up."

"It's not a word the spirits taught me."

"Maybe it didn't make it into the vernacular after I died, but I didn't make it up."

"Then what does it mean?"

"How much time have you got for the explanation?"

"All the time it takes to straighten your head back out."

"Hunh. Then that /might/ be long enough for the full explanation, if there's a locally cached copy somewhere, and Boomer and Clara don't think it's still under copyright..."

--

"Munchkin, display map. Show location. Forty-three point one five seven four degrees north, seventy-nine point two four four seven degrees west. Save location, title 'Deathtrap'. Exit map."

While I was doing that, and carefully packing away the de-powered Berserker, Joe Three engaged White Snake in a hushed conversation I didn't try to overhear. By the time I was poking around the kitchen area to get some water, White Snake exited the vehicle, though Bear Joe just curled up for a nap.

"Bunny," Joe Three, "come here. Sit." She patted a seat next to her. I shrugged a bit, and brought along my mug of ice water. As I nudged Wagger to one side, Joe continued, "I'm worried about you."

"That makes two - hm, three, four - well, probably all of us."

"I'm being serious."

I pulled an ice cube into my mouth and idly toyed with it. "You think I'm not? My brain's just about all of me I've got /left/ of me. However much of it is still actually my brain."

"Are you worried about Wagger taking it over? Or Bun-Bun?"

"Not Wagger, really. And I don't think Bun-Bun's replacing my old neurons with new ones. But ever since I got put in here, I've probably been swimming in an entirely different set of hormones than I'm used to, as just one thing. Assuming that Bun-Bun approximates human woman biochemistry, I've got only a fraction of the testosterone that I'm used to, which even in my time had known mental effects... and that's just from the /first/ few times I woke up after I died."

"Would having more of that help?"

"Possibly. Bun-Bun might break it down as fast as we introduce it, though. Or, if she doesn't, it might cause other problems with /her/ biochemistry. Anyway, that's just one reason I'm seriously worried about my decision-making ability."

"You could stop making decisions." I snorted. "Again - seriously. You have Munchkin. You can take a break, a vacation. The world isn't going to end because you take a day off."

The corner of my mouth twitched. "There's a certain chance that it will."

"Please don't tell me you're being serious."

I shrugged. "Given what we, or I, currently know, there's a certain low chance that the next apocalypse is going to happen on any given day. Assuming that I /can/ keep that from happening, and that each day of vacation I take means a day's delay in my getting that done, then there's a certain chance that Singularity Two: Computronium Boogaloo will happen on exactly those days."

"That has to be a /very/ low chance."

"Yep. The trouble is, if it /does/ happen, the cost is /very/ high. It's entirely possible that a Singularity will wipe out all sapient life, and prevent any more from ever arising again on Earth. And, apparently, there's no evidence life ever arose anywhere else - so if we lose here, we lose /everything/. No more spirits to bring back you and your loved ones. No more minds to ever give any value to anything ever again. No more hope."

"It can't be /that/ bad. Life started here - even if we die, surely it'll start elsewhere."

"There's a bit of tricky math involved, but because we wouldn't be around to do the observing and thinking if we didn't exist in the first place, we can't use our own existence as evidence for observers anywhere else in the universe."

"It's not your responsibility to deal with... /that/ big of a deal."

"If not me, who?"

"The spirits."

"Have been doing bugger-all about anything outside their backyard, as far as I can see."

"Nobody can shoulder /that/ much responsibility and stay sane."

"That seems plausible."

After a moment where I didn't expand on that, she tried, "Nobody can shoulder that much responsibility - and stay sane /enough/ to get anything done."

"I can let myself go and be fully nuts after I finish doing everything I can to head off the Singularity."

"Your plan is, what - go full speed, and then crash?"

"To the extent that whatever I'm thinking can be called a plan, sure."

"And if you crash the day /before/ you finish doing everything you can?"

"That would be a bad thing."

"I'm suggesting you try a different plan. Instead of going all out until you completely break - do a little less, but avoid the crash at the end. You may get less done during any period of time - but in the long run, you'll be able to do more."

"Your proposal has a number of merits, and one significant flaw."

"Which is?"

"In case you've forgotten, I'm dealing with a lot more stress than just that one self-appointed job. If I go on vacation for a week - I've still got Bun-Bun for a body, I've still got memories of Buffalo to sort through... and I haven't even /started/ to deal with everyone who died before I was revived. Billions of people - a few of whom I even knew. I'm pretty sure I'm going to crash anyway, so I might as well get everything I can do done first."

"How sure?"

"... That's a good question. Haven't worked out the numbers, but at a guess, more than even odds, less than nine-in-ten. Call it three-in-four."

"And you're willing to base your plans on being just three-in-four sure? Plans that, according to you, might make a difference about whether or not everyone dies?"

"I've made important plans on smaller odds. When I signed up to be preserved, I was fairly sure - nineteen-out-of-twenty odds - that it wouldn't work at all, and I'd just stay dead."

"But if you could /change/ those odds, wouldn't it be worth finding out if you could?"

"Of course. But there's a certain lack of trained psychologists these days - not even the Queen of Canada and each of its ten provinces can whistle up someone who's not-"

Boomer piped up, "Twenty."

I paused, blinked, and rubbed my muzzle. "Right. That's just interesting enough that I'm willing to be distracted, and get back to the main conversation in a moment. Is there any reason you're mentioning this now, Boomer?"

"During previous conversations, other topics have had greater priority."

"I suppose it /is/ kind of irrelevant now, what with the whole government being gone and all, but I'll bite. How did Canada get from ten provinces to twenty in the thirty-five years after I died?"

"It only took ten years, from twenty forty to twenty fifty. The Nanaimo Accord included upgrading the territories to full provinces."

"Fair enough - that's how the Prairie provinces got created, too. That's thirteen."

"With the new amendment procedures available, two cities seceded from their provinces, and four provinces divided themselves into two."

"I can guess the cities - but why would perfectly functional provinces split up?"

"There are many reasons listed. According to my database, the one believed to have most significance was the new Senate, in which each province had equal representation."

"Ah. So splitting themselves got themselves extra seats anyway. That's nineteen - how did number twenty come about?"

"Acquisition of additional territory."

"Hm... Alaska? Turks and Caicos?"

"Kalaallit Nunaat."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Greenland."

"Hunh. What did Denmark trade it for?"

"Denmark granted it independence, and the Greenlanders negotiated on their own behalf for various economic concessions, with many parallels pointed out to the referendums Newfoundland made about its own future before it joined Canada."

"Queen of Greenland. Now there's something I wasn't expecting to be. Alright, Boomer, you can show me a map and give me more history lessons later. I think Joe is wondering if I'm really this easily distracted, when I'm really just taking a few moments to think. Joe, you're making some good points, and are taking the time and effort to express those points in ways that I can easily understand instead of trying to have to interpret and guess. But the fact remains, about the only method I've currently got available to try and do something interesting to my noggin is that thinking-cap to run carefully-controlled electric current through my head, which opens up a host of potential issues on its own. If you can find me a psychologist who I can trust and who can recommend some course of treatment, that'd be... well, pretty great, I suppose."

"And until I find such a person?"

"There's that big to-do list. Looks like the next item is... working out the standards and infrastructure for long-distance communications. So it looks like our next stop will be back to the university. How annoyed do you think White Snake would be if I just fired up the Munchkin and left?"

--

I was sitting on the bed in the back of Munchkin's living container with a couple of bun-bots, when White Snake re-entered the vehicle, preceded by Bear Joe.

When she saw the three of us, she frowned, and said, "I don't know what you're doing. Bear Joe, sit on her and stop it." The bear slowly started padding towards me.

"Hold on a sec and I'll explain," I said, not moving my arm, which was being held carefully in place by the bun-bot I'd dubbed Nurse-Bun.

"I do not care."

"No, really, hold on, we're in the middle of something. I could get an embolism or something if that bear interrupts wrong."

She said nothing, just folded her arms over her chest. Bear Joe was only a couple of body-lengths away.

"Gofer-Bun, stand in front of the bear! Nurse-Bun, cancel procedure! Remove needle!"

There was a brief hurried confusion, which soon ended with me on the floor, underneath a thousand pounds or so of a somewhat strongly-smelling wild animal... staring at a broken glass tube, its liquid contents spattering the floor around it in perfect red.

I thought about what might have happened if Bear Joe had jogged Nurse-Bun's arm badly - and White Snake's indifference. My face started feeling hot, I felt a hollow in my chest, and I realized that I was probably about to do something very stupid. I couldn't think of how I might be able to stop myself - but I remembered someone who could.

In my imagination, I placed the virtual Snowflake Diadem onto my brow.

White Snake watched without reaction as Queen Bunny stared at her with undisguised contempt. "As you can see, you have stopped the thing you did not understand. Call off your bear so that my bleeding can be attended to."

"You do not give me orders."

"That order was a courtesy. Following it will result in much less pain and suffering than not following it will."

After several long moments, she said, "Bear Joe - get off."

I stood, and told Nurse-Bun to apply a band-aid without taking my eyes from White Snake.

"Would you like to hear how you almost just killed me?"

"That is not my concern."

"I shall tell you anyway. Nurse-Bun was drawing a blood sample, so that my body's levels of hormones could be tested, so we could get a better idea of how they might be affecting my mental state. However, if things are joggled so that instead of blood being drawn out, air is pushed in - that is bad. Very bad. A blood bubble in the heart would cause a heart attack. If it made it to the brain, that would cause a stroke."

"You should have told me what you were doing before you started."

"White Snake, you have shown reckless endangerment for my health and life, and more importantly, have demonstrated no remorse for your conduct. Do you wish to make any statement in your defense?"

"Defense against what? I have done exactly as I should have."

"Right. White Snake, you are no longer welcome aboard the Munchkin. I suggest you exit as soon as is practical."

"Or what? The spirits ordered me to be here."

"I would trust a complete stranger to keep me from doing anything harmful more than I trust you right now. If you do not leave, you will be removed. You may inform the spirits that you have failed in your appointed tasks."

"You think you can get rid of me, you stupid little furry thing?"

"Yes."

"I have a /bear/."

"I have a brain. Which I've been using. If you leave under your own power, you will be fine. If I have to remove you, I cannot guarantee you will not experience pain or damage."

"You think the spirits will put up with you without me? They control the animals - the plants - pollen you're breathing."

"I have no objection to having some sort of advisor with a veto, or a parole officer, or whatever your role supposedly is. I don't even object to Bear Joe, who is just following orders. My objection is to /you/, personally. The spirits can appoint someone else. Well, the sub-council, I suspect."

"They appointed /me/."

"And I have rejected you. Unless you are going to provide some evidence that you did not just knowingly risk my life, this conversation is over until you are outside Munchkin."

"Bear Joe, sit on her."

"You seem upset. Let me cheer you up. Gofer-Bun, go hug her."

"What?"

As I calmly sat down to minimize the disruption of Bear Joe sitting on me, I continued, "In fact - Nurse-Bun, go hug her, too. Munchkin, open intercom. All Bun-Bots report to the living room. All Bun-Bots, group-hug White Snake. Bun-Bots, please take the group hug outside."

To her rather vocal displeasure, the woman was swept out the door in a tide of fur and cuddling.

I stared at Bear Joe, who looked down at me with somewhat intelligent eyes. "Now then. You can stay. You can go. But if you keep /sitting/ on me, I'm going to introduce you to something called a 'taser cane'. Trust me, you won't like it."

When he clambered off of me and curled up on the bed instead, I raised my estimate of how brainy he really was, perhaps as much as I'd lowered my estimation of White Snake.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Three: A-bide*

"You didn't have to humiliate her."

"She was willing to let me die."

"You could have handled that more gracefully."

"She was /willing/ to let me /die/."

"Still-"

"Joe - if I die, I'm /not/ coming back. ... Most likely. There's just one of me running around. Citizens of the Nine Nations may consider getting killed to be only a little worse than getting punched in the face. When my life's at risk, I'm going to fight tooth and nail to keep it."

"She was just-"

"If you really want to help, you can ask the spirits if I can collect my replacement overseer at the university, or if I need to wait here for her. Or him. Or - whatever. If you're not going to help, I could really use some uninterrupted time to work on this optical comm system."

"Is that really more important than dealing with a Faith Keeper who's mad at you?"

"If she tries pushing the issue, I have a taser cane, among other ways to deal with her. If I miss a flaw in the comm protocols because I keep getting /distracted/, there isn't a large open-source community to point the flaw out to me - and if I get this wrong, then the whole thing is going to be hacked by whatever deleted most of the Berserker, and any of our A.I. friends connected to the system will be killed, and any other devices connected to it will become dangerous - which might include the Bun-bots and Munchkin. So /yes/, this is important."

"How could mirrors and lights kill Clara?"

"Ever hear of a 'side-channel attack'?"

"I'm guessing it has nothing to do with sneaking down an enemy village's ditch."

"Nope. And there's also social engineering of whatever, or whoever, is tilting the mirrors, and rubber-hose cryptanalysis, and a few other things. If I remember everything I think I do about online security from before I died, I /may/ be able to put together a system that avoids enough of the obvious flaws to be usable as a personal comm system, between, say, me, Clara, and the robo-factory. Maybe Brantford, too, if any of your people want to join in. But even then, I wouldn't trust it for anything I wanted to keep private. I know just enough about cryptography to know that I don't have the mathematical chops to deploy a bug-free encryption algorithm, let alone come up with a new one. So I'm going to have to reluctantly rely on a bit of security through obscurity to cover whatever mistakes I'm going to end up making."

"I may not understand much of what you just said. I /do/ understand that White Snake is influential. The spirits might actually listen to her and do something... more extreme."

"Munchkin is on internal, recycled air. If they want me to leave, they just have to give the word. I'll be unhappy to be separated from Clara and the university if that happens - but if I happen to finish getting this comm system worked out before then, then I can put it into place on my way out and still be able to stay in touch with her."

"Can't you just... talk to her? If she did something wrong, I'm sure she'll apologize if you ask nicely enough."

"Joe - politeness and apologies need a certain foundation to work. In my culture, that foundation includes taking reasonable precautions to avoid /killing/ the other person through negligence. From a purely utilitarian standpoint, any benefit that might arise from interacting with her is far overshadowed by the potential negatives, which she has shown no indication of being willing to change. If she wants to apologize, there's nothing stopping her from doing it right now."

"There's her pride. If you go to her, instead of making her come to you, she'd probably be much more willing to do something she thinks is shameful."

"She should be ashamed. I don't know why you're pushing for this so hard-"

"She's a /Faith Keeper/."

"- and I don't care if she's a Pope right now. You're behaving absolutely nothing like Joe One, for whose sake I was willing to treat you as being close to."

"He still hasn't come back from his trip."

"Then I should probably finish what I'm doing here, so I can go check where we agreed he could leave a message for me to see if anything's there from him - and if not, to go looking for him. /He/ deserves that much from me. /You/ are arguing with me that I need to be polite to someone who knowingly, unnecessarily put my life at risk. Am I going to have to go to the rear trailer to get enough peace and quiet to get this done?"

Joe Three stared at me, ears flattened, for a long moment, then turned around and exited Munchkin. I sighed, and turned back to the screen, trying to adapt what I remembered of UUCP's bang paths to be used with the variant of Morse code used for the Toledo Free Press's alphabet. I grumbled to myself, unhappy that it would take at least half an hour to get back into a decent flow state - half an hour in which I'd just be refamiliarizing myself with the problems, loading up all the various items into my memory instead of really /thinking/ about them.

Then again - I realized that I might be able to spend half an hour doing something else, which could provide significant future time savings.

"Boomer? Where'd I put my thinking cap?"

--

"Bunny!"

"Hm?"

"Take off the hat."

"Busy."

Joe stepped right between me and my workspace. "Take off the hat."

"Is it important?"

"It's important to /me/. Take off the hat."

"Fine, fine, let me just finish up-"

"Take off the hat /now/."

I rolled my eyes to myself a little and flicked the power switch. "There. I'm perfectly-" I paused a moment. "-capable of getting right back to you. 'Scuze me." I hurried to the washroom.

A few moments later, I rejoined Joe. "What's up?"

"You've been sitting there for six hours."

"And?"

"You've been /sitting/ there for /six/ hours."

I shrugged. "I set the timer for eight, at most. And Boomer had instructions if the timer didn't work. And the Bun-bots. And Munchkin."

"What if something had gone wrong? Aren't you always talking about how precious your brain is? You should have told us what you were doing before you touched that thing!"

"For some reason, I've become much less concerned about letting somebody veto my ideas after the first person appointed to that task was /willing/ to let me /die/."

We stared at each other for a long moment, then I turned away to hit the kitchen for more water.

After a few moments, Joe asked, "What are you doing that's so important you're willing to risk your own brain?"

"The particular thing I was doing was probably less important than improving how well my own brain works. Boomer and I think we've narrowed down the numbers so that I can get into a flow state at will - that's something not even my most treasured programming idols could pull off, no matter how much caffeine and Doritos they had."

"Did it work? Did you flow out anything useful?"

"That's not quite the terminology, but since I understand you, I don't care. I think I accomplished a good deal, yes." She waved a hand at the virtual workspace covering the wall, silently asking me to elaborate. "It's simple enough to just set up a line of heliographs run by Bun-bots to relay messages from one end to another. But if things get any more complicated than that - if I want to have a mobile heliograph on Munchkin, if I want to expand the network beyond a simple line, then even just keeping an up-to-date map of how to route messages can get complicated. And if I want to play Brinian "Postman", and set things up so that relay stations can be run by people with pencils instead of robots, then that puts a severe constraint on possible solutions. So I borrowed some ideas about mesh networking I'd read about, a thought from decentralized BitTorrent transfers, a few tidbits Boomer knows about route-testing ant packets... oh, yeah, and I have to layer it all on top of human-interpretable Morse instead of true binary."

"How many more hours do you need to finish that?"

"Oh, /that/ I finished up in the first half hour or so. Munchkin's software suite has a great developer environment, and Boomer is fantastic at turning pseudo-code into actual algorithms. The next while I spent trying to come up with any alternate approaches that might be more secure, and trying to come up with ways to harden the system against attack. Which led me to physical security, to protect the relays from actual physical attack. Which led me to the Munchkin's design suite for the robo-factory. I've now got a design for a relay station with a hundred-foot tower, that can be taken down by one person in half an hour, packed into half of one of Munchkin's containers, and set back up again. With paths for upgrading, depending on the availability at the robo-factory of parts for solar panels, wind turbines, batteries, air conditioners and heaters, complete air and food recycling systems, electric fencing, infrared lights, and so on. Given some estimates about what the factory's got, I'm probably going to need to dig up some selenium if I want to build a dozen or more stations with the whole schmear from scratch."

"And /that/ took up the six hours?"

"No, then I called up Munchkin's geophysical maps, and started picking likely locations to drop off the stations at, when I discovered a map layer that included old survey points, when that meant using theodolites that needed a similar sort of line-of-sight as heliographs would, without even needing as tall of a tower as I've got plans-"

She held up a hand, and I let myself get cut off. "Fine. I get it. You've been doing useful stuff. Stuff you think is useful."

"I'd like to think the two are the same."

"But while you've been doing that, White Snake has been telling the council that you kicked her out for no good reason."

"Did she mention the embolism thing?"

"She said you /claimed/ you were in danger, just as an excuse to kick her out."

"Did she mention that when I claimed I was in danger, she didn't even consider holding Bear Joe back for a second, just to find out whether or not it was true?"

"That didn't come up, no."

"Then your council should just drop her in a pool so your spirits can read her memory, and tell them what really happened."

"That's - not how we do things."

"What did you say before - well, one of you Joes - the spirits want you to be able to solve your own problems?"

"... That's close enough an answer that anything more exact would distract us. The point is, she's convinced the council to say that either you let her back in to watch you, or... well, or else. I think you leaving is the easiest 'else'."

"Can I go speak to the council in my own defense?"

"White Snake pointed out that since you're not a member of any of the Nine Nations, you can only talk with them as an outsider, who they don't have to listen to if they don't want. And she convinced them that they don't want to."

"Hm. Tricky. The council - it's a council of all nine nations, but each nation still has its own council for its own affairs, right?"

"That's right. Are you going to ask to be adopted into a nation?"

"I might not need to. Can you arrange a meeting with whatever senior people of one nation are available?"

--

When Joe left to do that, I looked back at the various virtual windows spread around Munchkin's walls. Now that I wasn't hyper-focused on the tasks at hand, I was looking at things from a different perspective. And one thing that struck me was that while I'd designed in a few flagpoles for the stations, I hadn't come up with a unifying symbol for them all yet.

The Canadian flag was the obvious choice - but I ruled it out, since Parliament, the courts, and all the rest of the apparatus of state was gone. Another possibility was the royal flag, but according to the old protocols, that was supposed to be flown on buildings or vehicles I was personally occupying. Not to mention, it was a horribly over-complicated piece of vexillology, containing symbols from European nations I was unlikely to ever get in contact with, let alone ever visit.

In my view, flags needed to be distinctive from a distance, representative of whatever they were representing, and simple enough for a schoolchild to be able to draw a recognizable version of. The old Canadian flag was nearly ideal in all three; the maple leaf was a bit tricky to get to look right, but even badly-rendered versions were recognizable. European tricolors were also good examples, except that I wasn't a republic founded by people who might have to tear their flag into unrecognizable pieces of cloth if their basement meetings were ever stormed. I called up images of a variety of Canadian symbols, official and otherwise, and idly started playing with them.

After a few moments, I took the Canadian coat of arms, and started getting rid of pieces of it. In short order, all I was left with was the triple-stalked maple leaves from the bottom, and the crown from the top. Something niggled at me about that. I replaced the crown with a simpler version, the same red as the leaves; that seemed closer to whatever was on the tip of my brain. After a few tweaks that didn't help, I took a Canadian flag, and replaced the single leaf with the crown and leaves.

"Boomer - I could swear I've seen this before, except I don't recognize it. Does it match anything in your databases?"

"Yes. It is a close match to one of the submitted designs considered for Canada's flag in the nineteen sixties, and was shown as such on a 'Heritage minute' interstitial video in the nineteen nineties-"

"/That's/ it. Was it ever actually used for anything?"

"To my knowledge, it has no official status anywhere."

"Well, it does now. Or some version, at least. Have you got the short in memory, or that flag?"

--

"Thank you for allowing me to take up some of your valuable time."

"No trouble," said the chief, sitting across from me. He continued, "You're the most interesting gossip today. And I'm curious what you wanted to talk about."

"I am curious, too. When I heard the names of the nine nations, I recognized the first six from the Iroquois League of the time I am most familiar with, and the next two as near neighbours of theirs. But the Quebecois didn't fit that pattern."

He nodded gravely. "After the War of the Two Serpents, much was lost, including most government. The Haudenosaunee were one of the only groups to maintain any sort of organization, even if it involved reviving many long disused customs. When living along the St. Lawrence River became untenable, what remained of the provincial government gathered up as many of the survivors as they could, and came upstream. We joined as the Ninth Nation."

I felt my ears perk up happily. "Then your current nation is a continuation of the province?"

"I suppose you could look at it that way."

"I choose to look at it that way."

"You are from la belle province?"

"I've only visited, never resided. However, there are certain details of the old Canadian federal and provincial system which I would like to take advantage of. One is that the position of 'Queen in right of Canada' isn't the only job of Canada's monarch - she is also 'Queen in right of Ontario', and of each and every other province, when dealing with matters related to provincial jurisdiction."

"I begin to see why we are here. What are you planning on offering in return for my acknowledgement?"

"In simple terms: Nothing."

"An interesting offer."

"I offer you nothing that I wouldn't offer anyway, whether you 'acknowledge' me or not. If someone else was Queen Regnant, I would be, at best, Heir Presumptive, until somebody with a better genealogy could be found. With no other Queen, and no other genealogies, I suppose that would make me Queen Presumptive, as a simple matter of fact. Acknowledgement doesn't enter into it."

"I think it rather does."

"Well, maybe it does. If you don't want my help with anything, then I'll do my best to stay out of your way, with or without acknowledgement. If there is something I can do, then let me know, and I'll do my best to help, with or without acknowledgement."

"I will keep that in mind. Is there anything else to discuss?"

"There is one thing. A certain individual has argued that I have no right to speak before the council, as I am not a member of any of the nine nations. However, the Queen of Canada is Canadian - and the same principle naturally applies to the Queen of Quebec. Thus, through a series of technicalities, it appears that je suis Québécois."

"You mean 'je suis québécoise'," he corrected me, pronouncing the final 's' sound I'd left out. "If you mean to take this seriously, you need to speak our language."

"I always knew my cereal box French would fail me one day..."

--

We were, once more, in the council's longhouse, facing that portion of the Grand Council who seemed to have been assigned to deal with my particular case. After the councillors had been going back and forth in one Iroquoian tongue or another for ten minutes, with no sign of involving me personally or even using a language I could understand, I whispered to Clerk-Bun to pass me a pencil and notebook.

Joe Three whispered, "What are you writing?"

Since whispering seemed permissible, I returned, "Ideas on how to get money to fund an inter-city heliograph network."

"What do you need money for?"

"I've already had two miracles, or close enough to them - getting woken up after dying, and finding that robo-factory in good working order. Expecting it to /stay/ in working order would be a third miracle, and I'm not going to rely on that happening."

Joe peered at the page I was open to. "Why write 'lottery' but cross it out?"

"I'm not comfortable taking advantage of people's irrational urges when gambling is involved, and there are other options."

"What's a 'Crown Corporation'?"

"A business owned by the government, technically in the name of the crown, but run separately from the government. Since the fall of civilization, I could argue that all businesses that required licensing by the government have technically reverted to the state, so I can probably resurrect CBC or Bell Canada, or even just the Post Office, as a commercial framework. I've always been fond of the HBC, but it isn't quite suited-"

Joe elbowed me, and I quieted down as I noticed all the councillors staring at us. Most were as stone-faced as usual, though White Snake could have been smirking, and the Quebecois chief had a more amused smile. The latter spoke, "In deference to the fact that the spirits cannot simply gift the subject of this meeting with knowledge of a language, I will speak in the tongue she understand best. After consulting with other members of my nation, we have decided to recognize that she qualifies at least as being a member of the Royal Family."

One of the others asked, "You are accepting her as your Queen?"

He shook his head. "We are still discussing that point. However, she is at least a princess, which makes her Quebecois, by our old laws and traditions, which we were guaranteed to be allowed to continue when we joined the Iroquois League."

White Snake asked, "If she's part of your Nation, then what clan is she?"

"You know very well that she has not had time to learn the kinship system the rest of our Nation transitioned to, nor can the spirits assign her one as they do to the immigrants they absorb into Nations. Right now, she has no clan, or is her own clan."

One of the councilors snorted and said a word. The Quebecois man responded, "You say that as an insult and a joke - but a new 'Rabbit Clan' could work. However, her clan is not relevant today. I say she is of our nation. None of you can say she isn't. She can speak on her own behalf. Bunny, please step forward."

I stood, absently brushed my skirt smooth, and stepped closer to the ceremonial hearth. "Sirs. Ma'am." My sponsor nodded, so I continued. "I don't need to take up much of your time. I have no real objection to your previous decision, that you need to assign someone to watch over me to make sure I avoid making foolish and dangerous decisions. My objection is with the particular person who was assigned: White Snake. I could go into the details of my reasoning if you wish, but they're less important than my conclusion: I do not trust her. Or I trust her to act in ways that are unacceptable. If you wish to choose a different... advisor, one who is not so eager to see me dead, then I would be willing to accept them. If you insist that I must either accept White Snake or be banished, then I will leave. I consider it safer to be outside the Nine Nations, in the company of giant man-eating spiders and snakes and enormous kaiju, than I would be under her authority. Any counter-arguments which do not change my estimation of her willingness to engage in what I consider to be reckless endangerment are not likely to change my beliefs on this matter."

One of the neutral councillors asked, "Are you accusing her of trying to kill you?"

I shook my head. "No, I do not have enough verifiable, objective evidence to convince a jury. I do have enough to convince myself. I could go over the math of probability and levels of belief, but they pretty much add up to what I just said."

"Is that all you wish to say?"

"Well - I could also note my objections that only a member of one of the Nine Nations can file an appeal with the Grand Council. I'm very uncomfortable with the fact that if I hadn't realized my connection with the Quebecois, then you would have refused to listen to my objections, no matter how much merit was in the objections themselves. But that is probably better for another day's discussion."

"Actually," said the Quebecois chief, "it does bring up certain points I would like to address." He reverted back to Iroquoian, and at his brief wave, I sat back down.

Joe's bunny face looked pinched and unhappy, not a good look on a muzzle like hers. She whispered, "You /had/ to go with the Quebeckers?"

"No, but they were my first pick, and it worked out that I didn't have to try any others. Why?"

"You just gave him an excuse to pick up an old argument. We could be here for hours."

"They're not still separatists, threatening to secede again, are they?"

"No - they're, well... the League started with five Nations, each with a role in the Grand Council. Two of them would discuss an idea, then throw it over the fire to the other two, with the Oneida mediating. When the Tuscarora joined, they didn't become part of that - they're represented by their 'big brothers', the Oneida. When the other Nations joined, they each got a 'big brother', too. The Quebeckers want full equality with the first five Nations on the Grand Council, instead of technically being represented there by the Mohawk."

"... Ah. Want me to send Gofer-Bun to get you something to read?"

"No, I really should listen to this, even if it's not the full Council and it seems boring."

"Your call." I picked my notebook back up, and got back to noodling around with economics.

After a few minutes, I paused, blinked, thought harder for a moment, and barely managed to muffle a snort. I still got Joe's attention. "Idea?", she whispered.

"Kind of. I could argue that all major Canadian businesses, including Canadian subsidiaries of foreign conglomerates, have reverted to the government, which has reverted to the crown. And it occurs to me that back in the Munchkin, I have a fabric fabricator that can assemble outfits as fancy as I want. And I spent some time in a special kind of sleep, waiting to be woken up. And I've got a variety of animal companions, some of whom do tasks for me. And I just got confirmed as royal by an actual government."

I paused, and her forehead wrinkled. "I don't see how any of that connects."

"I'm ninety-nine point nine percent sure I'm a Disney Princess."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Four: A-shore*

White Snake's replacement, Red Deer, had the 'silent and inscrutable' gimmick down pat, not to mention 'constant creepy staring' and 'milk eggs squick' style of questions. (The example which I was introduced by being, "If you cut off your right foot, would you grow a hoof to match the one on your left?") Which was mildly distracting, but I could work with yet another strange person behaving strangely easily enough.

What was really tripping me up was that she had the /exact same/ body that White Snake did. Even dressed the same, including the single feather sticking straight up from the top of her head. If I hadn't seen the two of them together, along with the councillor that Red Deer was a copy of, and compared body language and suchlike, I would have been sure somebody was trying to pull a fast one on me. As it was, I only suspected that was the case.

--

"Hiya, Clara. Mind if I drop off a heliograph and a robot up in the east Vice-President's office, and draw on your power for the latter?"

--

The first packets of my new heliograph network were sent between the southeast corner of the Schmon tower at the university (with at least a couple of walls between the equipment and any unexpected death rays sent from Toronto) and the rooftop of the robo-factory (which wasn't nearly as high up, and had lots of trees blocking the line-of-sight to the north horizon). They were typical network stuff - announcing station IDs (long and short), ramping up speeds to as fast as the bun-bots and the mirrors could handle, estimated physical positions, estimates of azimuths and altitudes to each other's stations, signal strength, how often they planned on pausing to adjust the mirror to keep tracking the sun, whether they had a physical one-time pad for the other station to encrypt messages with, what variations of Morse code they'd accept (classic, upgraded for the Toledo Free Press's 40-letter alphabet, an experimental one I'd started toying with based on the International Phonetic Alphabet to try to encode speech with), and so on.

I'd adapted - well, stolen - the old Morse "Q-Codes" to handle non-message data like that, which generally consisted of three letters starting with 'Q', followed by some numbers. For example, 'QTE 64 QGE 5450 M' meant that the factory was sixty-four degrees clockwise from north from the tower - east-north-east - and five and a half kilometers away. With just two stations, that particular piece of info wasn't of much use, but if-and-when I got more stations on-line, that sort of data would let one station tell another where a third was.

For the first actual message, well, I had certain traditions to uphold. I decided to follow in Edison's footsteps, and the first stations' logs' first message entry reads, "Ring-a-round the rosie, A pocket full of posies, Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down." The second reads the exact same thing, but in the Free Press alphabet.

Almost immediately after that, I was able to see dividends, as Clara had access to information that Boomer didn't: the university library. With a very minimal delay, I could ask my Clerk-Bun a question, whereupon she'd relay that to the bun-bot up in the shelter I'd made for her on the roof, which would be relayed to the bun-bot in the university tower, who read it aloud to Clara. If the answer wasn't in her own stored memories, Clara could send her Johnny-Five-a-like bot through the library stacks, and send the information in reverse all the way back to me. It was a far cry from the responsiveness of Google - but close enough to a real-time conversation that I started feeling like I was making real progress on narrowing down the strange behaviour in the factory's partially broken search interface.

Among other topics.

--

Joe Three had gotten sufficiently used to me that when she saw the new trailers being added to the back of Munchkin, all she asked was, "More secret rooms?"

"Nah," I watched the attachment with a wary eye, since I didn't want the whole thing falling apart while we were going a hundred miles an hour. "The back one's just a cargo container, with a couple of the deployable heliograph stations I've designed packed away. I've got at least a dozen more on order, but it's taking longer to build the slab-and-legs - I'm starting to run up against the limits of the materials the place has got available for making the things, even cannibalizing the junk products that've been waiting around into new feedstock. I might only get a couple more trailers before I have to either do a redesign, or start importing raw materials from outside."

Red Deer said, "And what of the fourth?"

I shrugged. "The robo-factory won't let me order up certain interesting and potentially useful chemicals. It won't even let me order up the raw materials and lab equipment. The closest I've been able to find so far... is a steampunk playset, with pre-electronic labware, that it's willing to stuff into that fourth container. Oh, and a dedicated portable spectrometer, so Boomer doesn't have to act as an ad-hoc tricorder any more. So if we do come across some plant that contains unusual levels of some interesting chemical, like aconite or tobacco or something new, I could set some of the bun-bots to purifying it via mortar and pestle, alembic and retort, pedal-powered centrifuge and hand-pumped bellows in the fume hood... All of which is kind of weird, since I didn't get a quibble about that sixty megawatt fusion plant which has a manual that includes the words 'estimated crater radius' in the troubleshooting section. Of course, I'm a talking pink bunny rabbit Sleeping Beauty sort-of queen, so what do I know from weird these days?"

When I ran down on that spiel, Red Deer looked at me up and down. "Have you been using that 'thinking cap' again?"

"Not yet. I'm only sure about the one setting so far, for flow state, and what we've been working on has needed a lot more interaction to develop than that'd help with."

"'We'?"

"You're part of Team Bunny now - the part that tells me when I need to stop pursuing an idea."

"What part is Joe?"

Joe Three stepped closer to me and demonstrated, and I rolled my eyes and answered, "Apparently the part that hugs me at random moments, whether or not I want to be hugged."

"Who is the one who does not hug you when you do want to be hugged?"

"Er - given that I pretty much don't ever /want/ to be hugged, I'm comfortable with that un-position remaining un-filled. Um, Joe? I kind of need my arms back. And the rest of me."

"What for?"

"I've got a small gadget assembled that I want to test before we head out, in case I need to make any changes."

"Can you test it without your arms?"

"Nnnnot really. And I need to go outside, too."

"Why haven't you told me about it before?"

"It's not /much/ of a gadget. But it'll be nice to have, if it works."

"Are you keeping it a secret?"

"Nah."

"You haven't told me what it is, yet."

"You're still hugging me. The universe can be so unfair, at times."

Joe rolled her eyes a bit, but did let go. I reached into my pocket and pulled out something exactly the size of my long-lost iPhone 4. "Behold - the Blind-switched Amateur Retro-reflective Pocket Heliograph! B.A.R.P.H for short."

"Such a dignified name for something invented by a queen."

"Even queens can have a sense of humour now and then."

"I recognize the word 'heliograph'."

"I'd hope so, after how much I've nattered on about the things."

"Is it something Red Deer or I could use?"

"Don't see why not. I've already got a couple spares fabbed, in case this design actually works well."

"Show."

"We'll need some direct sunlight. Has the flock finished detoxifying the parking lot yet?"

A few minutes later, the three of us, along with my usual trio of bun-bots, were standing outside the factory.

"Right. Usage during day, step one. The back side here is a simple mirror, with a hole in the middle. In the hole is a meshwork, made of some stuff that's retroreflective, meaning when it reflects light, it sends it backwards. To let a heliograph station know where you are and that you want to start messaging, you have to reflect a beam of sunlight onto the station, where the operator can see you. At any distance, that's kind of tricky. That's where the mesh bit comes in. When look through the hole, the mesh reflects some of the light the same direction as the mirror does - and some of the light the opposite way, into your eye. Which means that you see a bright light, kind of a fireball, covering wherever the reflected beam is pointing. Which makes it a /lot/ easier to aim. Just put the middle of the fireball over the heliograph station, and according to the operator's manual Boomer and I wrote and had the bun-bots read, they should be scanning the horizon every so often for just such a light. Want to try?"

Joe nodded, and I handed it over for her to try.

Red Deer asked, "What about at night?"

"Two possible light sources. Moonlight, or an electric light at the station itself - but using the latter needs a slightly different trick, which I can explain better in a few moments."

Joe handed the Barph back. "Right. Now on the top, you can see a button. Push the button, and down go the venetian blinds covering the front, revealing the main surface. Let go, and a spring pushes it back. Quick explanation - if you take three mirrors at right angles to each other, forming a corner, then any light shined on it will bounce back directly back on the path it came from. If you take a cube and cut it in half the right way, then it'll have just such a corner at the deep end, and a hexagon cross-section. This surface is tiled with those hexagons, forming lots of cube-corners, that reflect any light shined on the thing back the way it came. Now, to /use/ the thing, once you've got a heliograph station's attention, they should adjust their mirrors to shine their light on you. Hold the Barph up, and push the button, and that light will shine straight back at them. Push and release the button, and they'll see a blip of light. Keep doing that, and you can signal Morse code to them, sending a message."

"What if they want to send a message to you?"

I shrugged. "Well, obviously, there's only the one beam of light, so only one of you or the station can send a message at a time. But the Barph is lightweight, doesn't require power, is simple enough to be robust, and works anywhere there's a light-of-sight to a heliograph tower. The tower needs someone to keep an eye out for the flat-mirror signal, and to then aim the light-source at it; but as a heliograph requires at least one operator to receive signals even from another station in a fixed location, this is a minimal-to-zero cost. Ah - and we've got a light. I'm going to see if I can send a message to Clara from here." I started pushing the button, sending dots and dashes through the air. "Hm," I thought aloud, "I should probably invest in more heliograph sets per station, so that two-way traffic doesn't need the mirrors to be re-aimed so often. And I'm going to have to check the station's logs on how bright this really is - the strength of the signal probably drops off at something close to the fourth power of distance. It would be nice to have some way to increase the reflecting area, but the corner-cubes are deep enough that any extra reflecting area would basically need a whole new Barph. Hm... there's a thought. Two Barphs should be better than one - and if I look up construction toys at the robo-factory, I can probably find some sort of rail-connector to link up as many Barphs as I want, and keep them all pointed in the same direction. I might even be able to twiddle the blind switching mechanism so they all flap open and closed together, without having to push multiple buttons at the same time... I think I'll spend a bit of time with the thinking cap once we're in, see how fast I can get a Mark Two version designed and fabbed..."

Without being asked, Joe commented to Red Deer, "Yes, she gets like this a lot. Good luck figuring out which parts of whatever she starts going on about need to be reined in..."

--

Red Deer came over and stood over me. "Now what are you doing?"

"There's a railroad just south of the factory - and it seems to be in better shape than most of the roads eaten up by the forest. If the spirits haven't finished converting the local rails to Great Peace forest, then it might be faster to travel along them than dodging every tree in our way. So I'm both looking at Munchkin's maps of rail lines, and trying to convince it that a civilian vehicle is allowed to drive on them these days."

"Are you doing anything else?"

"There's a few ounces of silver in the robo-factory's feedstock. I think I figured out how to get around the built-in anti-counterfeiting routines to have some silver rounds struck with my profile on one side, the crown and leaves on the other, and some appropriate words."

"Anything else?"

"Putting together a few sets of weights and measures, guaranteed to be accurate, in case any cities we come across have drifted to some other system and want easier inter-city trade."

"Anything else?"

"Printing out some manuals on how to build a machine shop from scratch."

"Anything else?"

"Geological maps, showing the best areas, and any nearer areas, for any particular mineral that might be worth extracting from raw ore."

"Anything else?"

"Nope, nothing at all."

"Really?"

"Of course not. Playing cards. Distress flares. Telescopes. A few mechanical parts that should make distilling alcohol and brewing biodiesel more efficient. A manual on double-entry bookkeeping. Thermometers. Solar-powered flashlights. Solar-powered hand calculators. Hazmat suits - primitive ones compared to the ones I've got, but the factory doesn't seem to have specs for the rebreather - and air tanks. Penicillin."

After a moment of silence, she asked, "Anything else?"

"Probably, but I'd have to check my notes."

"Are you planning on burying somebody in piles of junk?"

"No, just getting ready to engage in trade, or to show off what a technologically-advanced and thus powerful person I am, or to promote goodwill, or to have samples to build copies from if this factory transforms into a giant evil robot or otherwise becomes unavailable, or the like."

"That seems unlikely."

"Red Deer - say, can I call you Red?"

"Can I call you Blue?"

"What? Am I molting into a new color?" I pulled out my Barph to examine my facial fur in the signal mirror.

"No. You are still pink."

"Then why 'Blue'?"

"I like blue."

"... I think that could get a little confusing. If you want to use a short name, how about 'Bun'?"

"I do not like buns very much."

"Really? I've always enjoyed cornbread."

"The last time I was reborn, I was the one who had to do the grinding. By hand. It did not seem worth it."

"Ah. Well, the other name I use translates as Woods Singleness - Waldeinsamkeit - so if you want something from that..."

"How about 'Sam'?"

"Hm. Boomer? What's the etymology on the name 'Sam'?"

"From the Hebrew, Shemiel, 'shem' means 'name'."

"I suppose I can live with being named Name, if you really want."

"I'll think about it. Yes."

"Yes to which?"

"'Red'."

"Ah, okay. Red, I can't even tell you why your spirits hadn't already dismantled this place before I got here."

"They have mostly been focusing on expanding their influence to the north, instead of making all places they already control perfect."

"Seems as plausible as anything I've come up with. Still - now that I am here, and they know I'm using the place, and the council or grand council or sub-council or whatever is annoyed enough with what I'm doing to send White Snake and then you to keep an eye on me, I haven't got any guarantees that this place is going to /stay/ in working condition ten minutes from now, let alone days, weeks, or longer. I'm /hoping/ it will, but I'm trying not to /rely/ on that. So before I take the Munchkin out to check on the message drop site, I'm grabbing anything I can think of that I'd wish I'd already had made, if the place does stop working."

"Joe said that Kahled-voolch made an impressive weapon. Are you making more?"

"Kahled-voolch may be impressive, but with how finicky it is, and how many settings have to be tweaked to get a good result on a target, the only military role it might be useful for is sniping. If I were to try convincing this place to make more weapons, I'd be looking into some other design. Given how strong the materials in the Halloween armor Joe One and I wore were, I've got a few ideas in that area."

"Blades and arrows?"

"Airguns and grenade launchers. Anyway - Kahled-voolch should be enough to scare off bandits and make any over-enthusiastic would-be tax collectors think twice; the robo-factory is designed to keep clever people like me from getting around Canadian laws restricting weapons; and I'm reluctant to get into the business of being over-ready to kill even more people than are already dead because of me."

"What if a new Berserker comes?"

"Then I'll put together anything I can to blast it to smithereens."

"But you are not getting ready for that in advance?"

"Other than Kahled-voolch? I suppose not."

"What if I told you to stop, and to make the most powerful, most destructive, most deadly thing you possibly could?"

"I would be surprised at first, since that seems the sort of thing you're here to /keep/ me from making. I'd take the time to listen to your reasoning, and either accept or reject it, knowing the consequences of either choice."

"Are you sure you're insane?"

"Asks the woman who seems more interested in my biology than I am."

"I still don't understand why you're not willing to just eat a few more worthless leaves than you do now, to turn into more valuable milk."

"If you don't know the answer by now, I'm probably not going to be able to explain it to you before we get to Navy Island..."

--

By the time we got to Navy Island, Red was still convinced that I was passing up a valuable opportunity. But she was leaving Bear Joe to nap the hours away, and it was actually less embarrassing a topic than a few of the others she'd come up with, and, well, it passed the time with moderately interesting conversation.

Munchkin had been a champion stream-crosser so far, so I was only slightly nervous when the sled-treads advanced into the Niagara River proper, churning up water as the software adapted to the current. (This was one river-crossing where I'd be perfectly willing to abandon ship if it went out of control - Munchkin was many things, but a proper barrel for daredevil waterfall survival it was not.) Even Bear Joe had roused himself enough to watch. (Or, more likely, to be ready to swim if he had to.)

"There's the downstream point," I pointed to the virtual image on the interior walls. "If Joe, Alphie, or the squiddies have left a message for me, that's where I said they should."

Red glanced sidelong at me. "What is a 'squiddie'?"

"If we're lucky, you'll get to meet one. Okay, it looks like that bit of shore there's big enough for all five cars, and it seemed solid enough when Joe One and I were here before, so I'm setting Munchkin to park there." Even without a steering wheel or any other sort of direct controls, that was easy enough.

"Okay," I thought aloud. "Gofer-Bun, please go back and retrieve the box labeled 'mailbox'." As the lifelike robot headed back, I explained to the others, "Just something to keep any further messages to me nice and safe and dry. I'm throwing in some paper and pencils, too."

Red inquired, "Do you plan on coming back often?"

I shrugged. "Could be. It's effectively terra nullius, I'm arguably a queen, so I can always claim it as a royal demesne. It's kind of out of the way, though, so if I'm going to be interacting more with people, it's not that great a site for a home."

Joe Three said, "I thought you preferred being by yourself."

"That's just what I /want/. What I /need/ is probably completely different. Outside of keeping myself sane, of course. Maybe I'll just set up a heliograph station, and use the building as a cabin to retreat to. Ah, and here's Gofer-Bun. Alright, let me just check if any nerve gas drifted this way with the tricorder..."

Red, "'Tricorder'?"

I flashed a quick grin. "Less of a mouthful than 'multi-frequency laser spectrometer'. Right, we're clean." I opened up the side door, and stepped into the ever-so-light rain, taking a few breaths of the air.

A pair of rather long tentacles slid out of the water, their tips pointing straight at me...

I held out my hands and gently stroked them, careful to face away from the Munchkin's door so the folk inside couldn't see me grin at the noises they'd made.

"Hello, Pinky. Good to see you again."

--

There weren't any messages from Joe waiting, or from Alphie. There was, however, Alphie himself, still wrapped in a waterproof baggie.

His stallion avatar looked distinctly unhappy. "There is much that I do not understand going on in Lake Ontario," he reported. "Squiddies claiming that my explanations are circular, large-scale shifts in behaviour that follow no recognizable pattern, squiddies making investments that benefit no-one. Nearly all the patterns on which I based my initial predictions changed as I attempted to leverage them."

"Did you get my message in time?"

"Yes - all the squiddies seem to accept your claim to Lake Erie. However, few seem willing to take advantage of the investment and egg-laying opportunities available."

"Any particular reasons?"

"The item most commonly cited was the incomprehensibility of certain terms in the charter of rights and freedoms. I have attempted to explain them, but my pedagogical software does not seem up to the task."

"Hm. I've gotten hold of a few new friends and resources since we were last in touch - there's a small robo-fac on the Munchkin. Er, my vehicle back there. Think we can throw together a design for a better translation interface than tying you to a fishing pole?"

"Can you manufacture robotic tentacles?"

I clenched my backside a certain way, and Wagger obediently curled around my waist to peer at Alphie. I said, "I've got enough spare parts to make a few robotic copies of this fellow."

"Did your tail just yawn at me?"

"Like I said - a few new friends."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Five: A-piece*

A few copies of Wagger for tentacles, a wall-screen replacement for fixing Munchkin to replace Alphie's tiny screen, a couple of cameras, Alphie plugged into the air side of things, and a bunch of wiring and waterproofing later, and we had ourselves a translator. (Red hung around watching, but Joe Three seemed bored, so I asked her to see if she could find the nearest clear, level ground to set up a heliograph relay station. Bear Joe went wandering off, in what Red said was a search for grub. Or grubs.)

"Hello, Pinky. Can you understand me?"

Alphie chose a feminine voice for her, which came reasonably close to what I remembered of Sylvia from 'Wander Over Yonder'. "Yes," Alphie relayed. "New. Small. I understand. Who is waving?"

"I'm Bunny. One of the two people who were pulled into Lake Ontario."

There was a heaving of water, and Pinky's shell rose above water, followed by at least one eye pointing at shore. I waved, and she sank back down again. "You have a new limb. How many will you grow?"

After a few quick introductions and explanations, I settled down for what I hoped would be a better conversation with a squiddie than had been possible before. "Alphie tells me that there are still translation troubles. We have different bodies, different minds, different cultures, and may never fully understand the other - but we can try."

Alphie relayed, "If we cannot, then why try?"

I figured that questions were good - and answers were better. "At least two reasons. One, because maybe we can. And two, trying to get the best result possible can lead to better results than just aiming for results that are just good enough."

Alphie commented in his own voice, "I have developed a database of aphorisms and cultural referents, and am interpreting your statement in culturally relevant terms."

"What terms would those be?"

"Trying to lay a perfect egg."

"Hunh; that's almost directly relevant," I idly put a hand on my own belly.

Alphie changed his voice back to Pinky's, and said, "Improving translations will let me obey your orders better and be a better," Alphie switched to his own voice to finish, "hard-to-translate word, possibly tool, puppet, glove. Implication of you pushing your tentacles inside her and moving her around to your will."

"Hm," I hmed. I tried, "According to the traditions you follow, you feel obliged to obey the orders I give you. According to the traditions I follow, there are certain orders I should give, and orders I should not give. There are reasons for these traditions, and the one I choose to focus on now is that it is hard to get skilled people to want to use their skills for other people. This has many consequences. One is that it is very wasteful to order a glove-tool to die if there is any reasonable way to avoid it, so I am required to try to keep you alive. Even in a purely military conflict, I am required to try to keep those who follow my orders alive, unless there is some objective so important that is really is worth their deaths. So whatever other translation difficulties are going on - I want you to remember that. And to try to stay alive."

"That is obvious."

"Well, good. I didn't want to make an assumption on that. Another consequence is that my people have lots of experience with trying to motivate each other; and that people tend to be willing to work a lot harder, and are able to get a lot more done, when their work benefits themselves. Especially for work that involves a lot of thinking, instead of just being a physical tool-glove-thing."

"Are you offering to renegotiate my terms of service?"

My forehead wrinkled. "I'm not sure. I don't know the consequences of making such an offer."

"Negotiating has no consequences on contract terms until the contract is formally agreed to."

"Alright, then. What do you want?"

"I want to know what you want."

I tried to avoid rolling my eyes, in case Alphie tried to translate that. "In general, knowledge, power, and the ability to nudge the universe into configurations I prefer. More directly - I want to entice squiddies into being willing to perform tasks and provide resources for me. Even more directly - I want one of those underwater domes for my own use. I want to figure out what sort of contract terms I can offer that would maximize the goods and services that flow my way, and am considering using you as an example."

"Maximize in what way?"

"Hm... Alphie, have you found anything about the lifespan of squiddies?"

"They achieve sexual maturity at roughly one year, and appear to vanish from the public record at roughly twenty years. There is vagueness to the reports, but it may simply be a cultural taboo about the infirmities of old age."

"Okay. And ouch. Pinky - it is within reason that I will be alive a hundred years from now. It is possible I may live three times that long, or longer."

Alphie spoke up, "Is that true?"

"Ask Clara about my genetic analysis when you have a chance. Back to Pinky: I would rather have a fifty percent share of the output of a hundred squiddies than one hundred percent of the output of seventy-five."

Alphie reported, "Pinky is suddenly experiencing strong emotions that are outside the range I am confident in my model of."

"What's the ballpark? Angry? Confused?"

"Possibly hopeful, greedy, empathetic." He switched back to her voice. "Those numbers - are you confident in them?"

"Uh - I'm not sure about the seventy-five versus one hundred individuals, but the fifty percent share of output? I once had that figure explained to me as people spending half their money on themselves, and half on whatever benefited their community as well as themselves... with a lot of disagreements over the years on how to decide what to spend the second half on."

Alphie said, "More emotions. She is suddenly being very formal in how she is moving her tentacles."

Pinky said, "Even with your proposed charter being nearly incomprehensible and full of alien ideas, even with you being an alien, even if you hoard nearly all this lake's egg-laying places for your own eggs, if you intend to limit your rake-off to no more than one half, there are many many squiddies who would race to try to sign up to be first to be half-owned by you."

"'Many many'?"

Alphie said, "More than hundreds, less than millions."

"Okay... if that many would sign up, then why hasn't any squiddie done this before?"

"Why work hard to make a new kind of contract and end up with just half, when you can use an existing contract and end up with all?"

"Um... is a new contract really that much effort?"

Alphie said, "She is emoting surprise. Now she is speaking."

"This is not just changing an existing contract from one hundred percent to fifty percent, or paying with a blue-fish instead of a red-fish. All the clauses would have to be rebuilt, and all the other clauses in the contracts that depend on them, and all the clauses in the contracts that this one depends on, and so on."

Alphie added, "The signs she is using are resulting in her literally tying her tentacles into knots, to demonstrate the complexities."

I considered this, and asked, "Does all that work need to be done up front? Don't you have some sort of... library of precedents, that you can build on?"

Alphie reported, "She is emoting disgust. Wait - now she is emoting thoughtfulness."

Pinky asked, "Is that how you build your contracts?"

"I'm not a specialist in the field, but... in a number of cases, yes. Alphie, can you give her a quick definition of 'boilerplate'?"

After a few moments of back-and-forth that Alphie didn't bother relaying, Pinky asked, "What if a boilerplate contains clauses that are irrelevant?"

I shrugged, letting Alphie pass that along however he might. "Then they're most likely ignored, if they're not ruled unenforceable."

Alphie said, "Laughter. She is signing 'unenforceable' with her left tentacles, and 'contract clause' with her right, trying to force them together, and showing that the signs literally do not fit next to each other."

"This seems to be another cultural thing-a-ma-bob... and we may be drifting from the important points."

"Wait. That was not a joke?"

"Nnnnnooo..."

"Why would anyone agree to a contract that is not valid?"

"Um... sometimes different clauses are valid in different jurisdictions?"

"Why would validity change because location changes?"

"Because a different government is doing the enforcing?"

"What is a government?"

"For the purposes of this conversational topic, a major characteristic is that whenever there is a dispute about the terms of a contract, the government is that group or organization which has the final say about which interpretation to use."

Alphie said, "She now appears to be trying to be extremely polite, in the fashion of trying not to make a boss mad at an employee."

"Wouldn't it be easier just to have contracts that are valid?"

I shrugged yet again. "Possibly. Maybe that works well for your species and/or culture. But for humans - and human-like species - some of our most important cultural developments involved figuring out which sorts of contract clauses /shouldn't/ be enforced, the ones that everyone ends up better off without."

"That does not seem very likely."

"Hm. One of them is usually called 'freedom of speech'. In the past, a lot of the time, people forbade other people from saying certain things. Over time, we gradually figured out that in order to be able to come up with useful ideas, people had to be able to talk about them - even if they were ideas that their employers didn't want them to talk about. Ideas like how to negotiate better contracts with those employers, or scientific ideas that didn't match prevailing wisdom. So in the places where technological advance made lots of people rich, and in the places where lots of employees could band together to make better contracts with employers, the idea took hold that a contractual clause that limited what someone could talk about shouldn't be enforced. And, in fact, that anyone who even tried to insert such a clause was trying to make themselves just a little richer by making everyone else poorer, and they were very naughty for trying."

After I made that attempt at an explanation, Alphie didn't relay anything back to me for a very long time indeed, in conversational terms.

Finally, Pinky just said, "You are very strange aliens."

I petted Wagger's increasingly fuzzy form. "Some of us stranger than others."

--

I asked Alphie to start hammering out a squiddie-style contract with Pinky for halfsies of any squiddie who wanted to enter my employ. That wasn't specific enough direction for him, so I said, "I'd like you to try figuring out what you can about as much as you can... and I'm going to see if I can get you in touch with Clara and the library at the university. She should have lots of info on tax policies of the past. There's probably even formulas to figure out how much lower than fifty percent would be ideal, and what the revenues should be spent on when there aren't any more pressing projects."

Which is how I found myself taking an hour or so to unload one of the collapsible heliograph stations from Munchkin's cargo carriage, assembling the pieces, and making copious notes on how to improve any future versions I might get the robofac to make.

Which is why I was standing outside, in the misty rain, when Munchkin started beeping and honking. And was startled when Nurse-Bun abruptly grabbed me around the waist, threw me over her shoulder, and sprinted for straight for where Munchkin had thrown a door open.

Somehow, Nurse-Bun managed to avoid bumping my head on anything - until she, quite literally, threw me into the shower. I'm willing to blame the impact for why I just stood there like an idiot for an embarrassingly long time, with the shower dumping hot water on my head at full blast, and the robots who could fit into the micro-bathroom efficiently stripping me and scrubbing everything that could be scrubbed.

Eventually, I managed to think enough of a thought to ask, "Boomer?"

She reported, "Munchkin's chemical sensors are now detecting toxins. The robots' bodyguard programs were activated to protect you."

"... Joe? Red? Bear? Pinky?"

"Red and Joe have returned, and are washing by the door. I have informed Alphie of Munchkin's emergency signals, and if I were him, I would have told Pinky to go to deep water for a time. I do not know where Bear Joe is."

I tried stepping out of the shower, but my robotic duplicates just took the opportunity to scrub the bottoms of my feet.

"Which toxin?"

"VX nerve gas."

"What concentration?"

"I do not have that information."

"Hrm. Gofer-Bun: Bring me the tricorder." While she was doing that, I called out, "Joe? You up to driving this thing?"

Her voice came back, "No idea how!"

"Right." I turned to face the shower wall. "Munchkin. Display map." My blue-tinted laser-safety glasses had been removed along with everything else on my person save Wagger, so I had to squint at the water-beaded display. "Hum. That's over a square klick to look through to find him..."

Red called back, "You want him to come here?"

"Or us to meet him, yeah."

"I can do that. Open the door?"

"Um. Munchkin, display chemical sensor report." I squinted again and skimmed the results - as best as I could tell, it looked like the toxin was in the rain, not in the air. "Munchkin, super-user, password," and I gave the security code. "Override safety. Open door three. Cancel super-user."

Red whistled three notes. After a few minutes, she whistled them again.

I saw something fly in through the door - when it came near the bathroom, I saw it was another of the green-coloured blue jays the Great Peace seemed to use for messengers.

Joe said, "The spirits say Buffalo is on fire."

I returned, "I don't suppose they decontaminated it yet?"

She just said a simple, "No."

"Hm... are the prevailing winds around here still from the west-south-west?" At her confirmation, I turned back to the wall display, and scaled out the map. "Unless there's been new construction, looks like the only place in danger is Rochester. And none of you know if anyone's actually left /in/ Rochester. It's a hundred kilometers away - even if I had a map of safe zones to fly, that's at least three hours on a paraglider. If there's a decent railway bed, Munchkin might be able to make it in two."

Red peeked her head around my scrubbers. "You plan on going to warn them?"

"... Maybe," I said. Gofer-bot finally returned with the spectrometer. "Could you pass me my glasses back? Thanks." I fired up the gadget. "Okay, lemme out. Uh- Bun-bots, cancel cleaning. ... Bun-bot two, start decontamination of Bun-bot three." Once I had them focused on each other instead of me, I was able to slide by them, and aim the chemical scanner out the door. "There we go. Hm - according to this... the rain's contaminated with about seven micrograms of VX per litre. Lemme see the stats - ah, and a typical lethal dose for a human is around ten milligrams, over a thousand times that much. So it's not exactly healthy, but not /urgently/ lethal."

My audible analysis was interrupted as a wall of fur clambered through the door, pushing me to the side. "Don't shake dry!" I hurriedly called out... but Bear Joe ignored me. I groaned as the entire interior of the carriage, including everyone in it, was covered in droplets. "Well," I said, "I guess it'll give the Bun-bots something to do. Come on girls, I guess I need a re-clean."

A few minutes later, I was dressed in more than my fur again, and suited myself back up in one of the hazmat suits, and went out to collect Alphie... and then jumped into the water.

Pinky quickly rose up to meet us, and with a few quick words, I had Alphie ask her what she knew of Rochester. They went back and forth a few times before Alphie finally relayed, "She knows of the bay on Rochester's east side. From it, she has seen towers like the ones in Buffalo, but there are no boats, no people swimming, and she is unaware of any other signs of civilization."

"So there isn't anyone in particular there /to/ warn?"

"There may be homesteads, farms, or isolated individuals."

"Yeah - but we haven't got satellite pictures to trace the smoke, and even if we could, that's an awfully big area to try to find scattered people. And the rain doesn't seem to be immediately lethal."

Boomer pointed out, "Someone who is already ill could die from exposure to VX that would otherwise be non-lethal."

"Just traveling along the canal, I nearly got eaten by giant spiders. Given the resources we've got, the dangers involved... the sane conclusion seems to be just to let the smoke fall where it may, and get on with our own lives."

"Allowing innocent strangers to die does not seem a very moral thing to do."

"Sending Red, or any of us, to wander through uncounted square klicks of untamed wilderness, calling out to people who may not even exist, calling in every predator in earshot to take a swipe at her, doesn't seem very moral either."

Through my faceplate, I watched Pinky's tentacles drift in the current. I'd almost forgotten how much her species was at home when in proper water, instead of fumbling around reaching into air at the water's edge. "But maybe I can still do some good - even without a heliograph network yet. Pinky, I'd like you to go back to the canal, and carry a message. There is poison falling from the sky, and the squiddies in the area should avoid surface water for a while, until the poison is diluted. Alphie, could you work out the location with her?"

The two of them waggled back and forth at each other. "Oh, and before she goes - if I built an aquarium car for Munchkin, would she be willing to ride in it, to keep up with us a lot easier?"

--

Pinky was, very emphatically, /not/ interested in being cooped up in a twenty-foot-long container, even one that could travel as fast as Munchkin could. So she went on her way, possibly to save a few squiddie lives, perhaps to salve my conscience just a tad from the deliberate decision to leave anyone in the area to sicken from exposure to dilute nerve gas, and, possibly, die.

Silently, I swam to the surface, and back to Munchkin. I let the bun-bots clean the outside of the suit, and Alphie and the translation gear, and finally took a seat, staring out the virtual side window, thinking. Or trying to.

Joe pulled out a chair next to me, and sat in it. "Are you coming up with a plan?"

"Apparently not. I've only got so much fuel for the paragliders, and haven't set up a still or refinery in the lab to start making more yet. The bun-bots are close to helpless in any situation outside their current program. As far as I know, your spirits /could/ spread their pools and such into the area, like they're doing near Technoville, but even if they could be persuaded, saving lives by having them involuntarily adopted into your system is... problematic. By my standards, if not yours. I don't trust the thinking cap's settings for 'creative inspiration' yet."

"Are you sure this is a problem you need to solve?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm already dealing with nightmares from Buffalo, which I can at least try to convince myself I had no way to see coming. Now I get to add people who, maybe, I /could/ save, if I tried, or came up with a good plan to help, or /something/."

"So what are you going to do?"

"For one thing, resist the temptation to start making caffeine. Whatever sleep I do manage to get, I'm going to need every last minute."

"That sounds more like what you're not going to do."

I grimaced. "I'm going to spend at least five minutes, by the clock, and try to think of any ways I haven't thought of to minimize the expected number of deaths - including the expected number of deaths from implementing the plan. If I can't come up with anything... spend at least five minutes, by the clock, and try to focus on an entirely different problem, and after I'm done, check to see if I thought of anything."

Five minutes later, I turned my attention to siting heliograph stations. From one spot of flat ground to another, the tips of two station masts could see each other when they were twenty-four miles apart, or thirty-eight kilometers. On the other hand, if there were any hills in the wrong spots, that distance could be cut drastically. On the gripping hand, if there were any hills in the /right/ spots, that could be improved. Munchkin had a fairly decent set of topographical maps and three-dimensional tools, so I started putting virtual heliographs on the hills and ridges just to the south of Lake Erie, the far side of the ground that had been scooped away by glaciers millennia ago. By the time the second five minutes were up, I'd come up with a path that started at Navy Island, hopped a whole fifty kilometers, then forty-seven, then a whopping sixty-two to arrive at the city of Erie, where I'd flown to the one time to deliver a warning.

Which was all well and good, saving at least a couple of stations from my initial estimates, but when I turned my attention back to Buffalo - still nada.

I muffled a groan and rubbed my muzzle. "This isn't working," I announced.

Joe commented, "/I/ knew that."

"Yeah, well, yo mamma."

"What about her?"

"Insert generic insult here. I can't think of any /good/ ideas. The /least bad/ idea I've got is to finish the heliograph station here, maybe come up with some way for the squiddies to talk with the bun-bot I'll leave running the place, and then make our way past Buffalo. Munchkin's got pretty good cooling systems, so we could probably drive right through the place, as long as we kept buttoned up... but I can't think of anything I want from there."

Joe asked, "Books? Maps?"

"If any are left, they're burnt up."

Red said, "Was there anything there that isn't anywhere else?"

"Mm... the only thing I know of is the explosive goats. But they're almost certainly all dead, I don't know where they were kept, and I don't know what I'd do with any genetic samples even if I could get some."

Red tilted her head. "I haven't heard of... exploding goats before-"

"Explosive, not exploding."

"-But would you rather have your samples and not need them or need them and not have them?"

"If having them involves doing something stupid, risking life or limb - I'd rather do without."

"What if there's a way to get them without that risk?"

I shrugged. "Possible. Maybe they were kept on farms on the outskirts, and aren't near whatever part of the city's burning. Why are you so focused on them?"

"It is you I am focused on."

"Ah. A distraction."

"You seem to need one. Or many."

"Eh, I can't argue with you there. Not sure I /agree/ with you, but I can't argue. If we really are going to hit a side-quest to collect explosive goat DNA for - I don't know, cloning? Analysis to insert into some other species? - then we need to at least finish setting up the local heliograph, so I can confab with Clara about what gear we'd need, and if we can get it from Internet."

--

Fetch-quest didn't actually take long. We just drove in big circle around Buffalo; jabbed some needles into any goats we found, dead or alive; and stored the samples in the chemical fridge.

During the first bit of that trip, I leaned back against a freshly-scrubbed Bear Joe... and fell asleep until Munchkin dinged that we'd hit our first waypoint. If I had any dreams, I didn't remember them, and none of the people who could talk noticed me twitching or the like. After that, Bear Joe became, well, not exactly my teddy bear, but more like my bedmate. Well, more like my bed, really. If enduring the body-heat and gamey scent of a wild animal, created specifically to sit on me if I did something naughty, was what it took to let me sleep, then I was more than happy.

That didn't stop me from setting Internet to make a few desktop fans to improve things even further, of course.

--

Railway beds were the perfect tracks for Munchkin. They'd survived better than roads, were nice and level, and Munchkin's sled-legs were quite capable of hauling us over any trees that had fallen into our path (though with a certain rattling of the glassware).

When we'd left the robo-factory, I'd only brought along two of the collapsible stations. One went to Navy Island, the second to an anonymous bit of woodland south of Buffalo. Then, for lack of a better plan, I simply turned Munchkin around. We stayed on the rails almost all the way to the burning city, then ploughed across the river to Fort Erie, and got back on the railbeds on the Canadian side.

Somewhat at loose ends during the traveling, I started puttering around in the lab. Consulting a bit with Boomer, and when we were in a good spot, Clara, I eventually picked a hobby: crystal growing. More specifically, trying to grow single-crystal whiskers of selenium. From what I was able to pick up from the AIs, they'd be useful feedstock for Internet or the robo-factory, allowing them to set down a color-changing layer like the one in the Halloween armor plates. I might even eventually be able to repair the divot in the one plate where I'd been shot.

We made it back to the university, where I fed our samples of goat into the genetic analyzer. This took some time, and was rather boring, so Clara invited Joe Three and Red on a tour. Which meant that I was all by myself when Clara told me, "Reconstruction is now sufficiently complete. I have the genetic markers, proteome, and related data describing how the mammary glands produce nitro-amine salts of assorted fatty acids instead of nutritive fats."

"Yay us," I said, without much enthusiasm. "'Nitro-amine' and 'fatty acids', hm? Any particular name for that?"

"There is a specific name for each individual chemical, but I am unaware of any name for the particular combination."

I heaved a sigh. "Well, N.A.F.A. works as good as anything. 'Naffa''s even pronounceable."

I fell silent, and after an uncomfortable pause, Clara continued, "There are no anatomical differences between these goats and ordinary ones, only a new set of enzymes expressed in mammary tissue."

"Uh-huh."

"You do not seem to be enthused about this discovery."

I shrugged at her camera. "What can I say? Knowledge is always nice to have, but this was mostly just an experiment in running experiments. I suppose if we passed this info along to the Great Peace, they could make animals using the technique - but they're not idiots, and they've probably got their own tricks for doing that. In fact, for all we know, they're the ones who made the first explosive goats in the first place. We didn't need to come up with any new tools or techniques to figure this out, and since I don't expect to be performing in vitro fertilization on goats in the future, it's mostly been an exercise in... passing time, not doing anything useful."

"In-vitro fertilization is not necessary. Placing the appropriate genes into a retrovirus would allow the transformation of living goats' mammary glands to produce the explosive. The trait would not be passed to their offspring, but if you desire goat-curd explosives, that is entirely possible."

"... You've got the equipment to build arbitrary DNA strands. And viruses to deliver them."

"Of course."

"Is there such a thing as a /cure/ for the retrovirus you're describing?"

"In a sense. Another retrovirus could be designed to re-insert the standard mammalian genetic coding for milk production, replacing the altered version."

"You say 'mammalian'. How species-specific is... all this?"

"The metabolic pathways are relatively simple. Given the available genetic library, it may be possible to adjust them for any mammalian species."

"Alright. Right. I just want to be absolutely clear on this. If I were to actually follow up on this project idea, then I would be able to inject close to any female mammal, and have them start lactating explosive material. And another injection would return them to normal."

"For a number of species, lactation can also be induced in the males, as well."

"Right. I suppose that's one way to get around the robo-factory's programmed limits producing on dangerous materials. Is there any particular reason you're even making the suggestion?"

"Students use dangerous chemicals all the time. The project would be an excellent way to familiarize yourself with advances in biochemistry since your original death."

"Do I need to point out that I'm a mammal myself?"

"Do you wish to produce explosives yourself?"

"/No!/ If something goes wrong and a goat blows up, well, there are lots of goats. Carrying around weird explosives inside my own torso... Very much no. ... It just seemed worth mentioning that my life has ratcheted one step higher on the weirdness scale, that I /could/ do that if I chose to."

"You are uninterested in the project?"

"... How long could the retroviruses be stored for?"

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Six: A-gain*

By the time those items had replaced the goat samples in Munchkin's lab fridge, Joe One still hadn't shown up; so a visit to Erie to see if he'd gotten hung up seemed to be in order. So we hit the robo-fac, collected a second cargo container, three heliograph stations, and a couple of bun-bots to replace the ones now standing watch, and headed southwards once more.

I'd shuffled Munchkin's carriages around a bit. For this trip, the back two were cargo containers, cram-packed full of a couple of heliograph stations each, with pretty much no room for any live people until they were unloaded. Just in front of them was the generator; I wanted anyone who was aware of the thing to treat it as if it /were/ completely solid and inaccessible. Back in the days of the first railroads, plenty of people were killed by accidental blasts of steam, and the working fluids and gases involved in fusion were just a wee mite more dangerous. Next in line was my Chamber of Secrets (including Internet, bun-bot charging stations, and adult entertainment distraction site); then the new lab, still full of steampunk aesthetics but with a couple of pieces of actually-useful gear; and finally, in front, the Winnebago living section.

I set all the exteriors to a simple blue-and-white scheme, reminiscent of skies and clouds, and about as far from the robo-factory's eye-wateringly complicated decor as I could manage. I threw some identification numbers on each carriage and sled (most of which actually had some meaning), plus a discreet crown-and-leaves symbol; and on the back of the last cargo container, used an antenna as a flagpole for an actual crown-and-leaves flag, in much the way that ships flew the flags of their home ports.

We stopped off at Navy Island to drop off a note to any squiddies who came by, letting them know where I was planning on going. Then it was across the river, along some of the railbeds on the American side, around Buffalo again, back to the lakeshore, and setting up the next heliograph on a slope to the south of Fredonia.

Another ten kilometers brought us to a place I realized I'd been avoiding thinking about, but now had to decide whether or not to make a detour: the point of the shoreline closest to where I'd been introduced to Wagger. I brought Munchkin to a halt, and brought one of my passengers back into the lab, away from the others for at least the pretense of a private conversation.

"Alright, Red, time for you to earn your keep."

"You have a bad plan you need to be stopped from?"

"Maybe. I have knowledge and power and a good reason to go hurt bad people. What I don't have... is a good idea about whether even trying would make the world a better place - or me a better or worse force for improving the world."

"That sounds like bullshit."

"Maybe it is. That's part of the issue. Ten klicks south of here? There's a bunch of people who're willing to kidnap random strangers and feed them to animals. No warning, no explanations, not even a 'keep out' sign."

"I take it they got a hold of you?"

"They're where I picked up Wagger."

"Much becomes clear."

"Yeah, well. I've got my goals and plans. I've got the heliograph stations to plant, and it would be easy enough to just keep on driving, and ignore this area. Maybe post warnings for other folk."

"You say 'easy' like it's a bad thing."

"When we found out Buffalo was on fire, the 'easy' thing was to let any random people in the path of the smoke risk dying. The odds of one of us dying before we saved even a single life - I may /know/ that the right thing to do is to 'shut up and multiply' and work out the odds, but that doesn't mean I like the answers I get."

"If you don't like it, when why do it?"

"Because not doing it results in consequences I like even less. Here," I waved through the pseudo-invisible wall at the trees to the south, "there's another set of choices, all bad. On one side, we can do nothing, and the locals will capture and kill other wanderers who go by - and that'll be on my conscience. On the other side, I can load up the crossbows, get Kahled-voolch prepped, and try killing everyone in the village, and burn the place to the ground. And /that/ will be on my conscience. And in the middle, we can try coming up with some other solution, risk having it blow up in our faces, potentially killing us and/or lots of other people - say, if I'm captured and tortured into giving them control over Munchkin - and /that/ will be on my conscience. For however long I stay alive to have one."

"What about shutting up and multiplying?"

"It works better when you can come up with reasonably reliable numbers to multiply with. Or at least have enough of an idea about what's going on to at least make an order-of-magnitude guess. Here - I don't know how many random people wander by to get captured, I don't know how many people live in the village, and so on."

"The way I've seen you do things, shouldn't you go looking for better numbers?"

"Mm. Probably."

"Then why are we still here?"

"I looked at the extrapolations Clara did based on Wagger's DNA. What happens to people who get a snake-oid inside them. Even if they can keep themselves alive - it's not very pretty."

"So skip killing people, and go kill snake-oids."

"If even one person there's infected, or an animal like a deer, they'll be... dropping new snake-oids and replacing them."

"So kill everything."

"I thought you were supposed to /stop/ me from doing stupid ideas."

"What's so stupid about it?"

"/I'm not a soldier!/ Alright? I've been running and fighting and scheming and kicking and managing to stay alive by the skin of my teeth so far. But coldly and deliberately planning to kill people wholesale? Even to save other lives? I'm close to tossing my cookies just imagining what it would take to even /try/."

"Could you toss them and then do it anyway?"

"... Maybe. Of course, if you think I've been having psychological problems so far, I'm pretty sure I'd go /really/ nuts after that."

"I have been listening to you, and there is something I have not heard you even suggest."

"I'm all ears."

"Asking for help."

"What do you think I'm doing right now?"

"Not for the thinking. For the doing. ... Maybe for the thinking, too."

"I think I spent a grand total of thirty seconds on the ground in Erie. I haven't got a clue if anyone there would even want to make the trip here."

"Not them. Us."

"Which us? Bear Joe?"

"The Nine Nations. We /are/ soldiers. Or warriors, at least. If killing needs to be done, you do not have to be the one to do it."

"That may keep my nightmares from getting much worse - but it doesn't mean it's the right thing to do."

"It may mean you can try figuring that out without being distracted by cookie tossing."

--

I helped Red Deer send a heliograph message to Clara, about where we were and what we'd just been talking about, for the university's AI to pass along to the people of the Great Peace in case something happened to us.

And then I turned Munchkin south.

--

My trips to and from the village hadn't been under the most controlled of circumstances, so I ended up sending us down a couple of wrong turns before I got us to the right area.

"Alright, people, refreshing our goals."

"Your goals," Joe and Red chorused. Bear Joe just grunted.

"Quibble later, strengthen memory now. In the long-term: save all the people. In the medium-term: Get stuff to save people. In the short term: Primary goal: Bug out of here intact. Especially me, since I'm the only one of our merry little band who can't reincarnate. Secondary goal: Bug out with more info than we came in with. Hopefully enough so we can figure out how to do the medium-term goal.

"I know that the locals have firearms. I'm... /reasonably/ sure that Munchkin is proof against regular guns. If it's not, if we get any holes in the hull - everyone get to the floor, and I'll turn us right around. Said firearms mean none of us step outside if we can avoid it - and are why I'm not just pulling out a paraglider to fly over the place.

"My first time here, nobody seemed to speak any language I know, and vice versa. If the AIs and I can figure out how to talk to squiddies, we should be able to translate a regular human language. /If/ said humans are willing to try to figure that out.

"Which sums up the basic plan if everything goes /right/. If things go wrong - keep our goals in mind. Stay alive, keep everyone who's in here alive. We have blades, crossbows, pistol crossbows, non-cross bows, a death ray with only a mild chance of exploding during regular use, and a bear. Our AIs are civilian models, and our bear can't talk, which leaves one significant question unanswered. If things hit the fan, which of us should be in charge of keeping an eye on the overall situation and shouting emergency orders about how to keep us all from dying?"

Joe said, "You're the queen, aren't you? Doesn't that mean you're in charge of everything?"

I snorted lightly. "As a queen, I might have the authority to declare war or peace. That doesn't mean I've got any clue about how to direct things in combat. Head-of-state ranks higher than a general - what I'm asking for is who's best qualified to be a sergeant?"

Red immediately hooked a finger at Joe. "She is."

Joe's ears rose in surprise, and she responded with a simple, "What?"

Red explained, "I'm as much a warrior as any Seneca, whether I'm a man or a woman. But I've spent most of my years in politics, not the thick of things. Joe's spent more time as part of a war-band in the last year than I have since the first time I was born."

Joe spluttered slightly, "But - I can't give /you/ orders! You're council!"

Red stared at Joe sternly. "You'll give me orders if I /tell/ you to give me orders, girl. The lady talks too much when she talks-"

"Do not," I threw in with mock-petulance.

"-but she's got a point buried in all those words. If things come to actual fighting, we'll need a war chief. You're it."

"But - war chiefs are /men/. I've been a woman long enough that I'm /really/ a woman now, and the nearest pool is on the other side of Buffalo."

Red crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Is it really /that/ much of a difference for you?"

"Well... I /bounce/."

"So does everyone else in the room." Red glanced at me, up and down. "Well, in theory." She turned back to Joe and seemed to soften. Slightly. "We're not promoting you over a hundred men, or giving you the job permanently - just setting things up to keep us from running around like decapitated birds, if things get hectic."

Joe put up a few more protests, but they were obviously pro-forma even to me. With that settled, I nudged Munchkin back into forward motion.

--

Entering a snake-cult village felt a lot different when I had a nuclear-powered road-train at my back, instead of a musket. (Or shotgun. Or whatever it had been.)

It also looked different - not a single person was in sight, nor could I hear any voices, chanting or otherwise.

What I did hear, as soon as we slowly passed between the outermost pair of houses, was a sound like 'wheat'. Then a couple more. Then a crack as something impacted Munchkin's surface - something moving so fast that cameras feeding the interior display panels didn't catch it.

As we were shot at, I quickly asked, "Any holes, anywhere?" Joe and Red muttered negatives, and the bun-bots in the carriage just continued inspecting for damage.

"Alright, looks like we're safe enough, unless they've got something bigger. Anyone see where that's coming from?"

Joe said, "Lots of buildings. Lots of trees. Lots of places to hide."

"I can call up zoomed pictures of anywhere you point to."

"A smart shooter would hide after they shot and shoot from somewhere else."

"Alright. Unless someone's got a better idea, I'm going to park us in front of the church, and try talking. If we're lucky, they'll get the idea that shooting at us isn't going to accomplish much good."

We weren't lucky. I fired up the external loudspeakers (but only kept the riot-mode electrified exterior on standby), once again running through greetings in all the languages I knew - and then the Iroquoian dialects Joe and Red knew, and then Boomer took her turn (with her internal database including the top hundred most commonly-spoken languages, circa twenty fifty, and their most common greetings).

Once Boomer ran out of steam, I turned off the speakers and idly chewed on my bottom lip. "They're certainly not making it easy. I suppose if they won't talk - then we might as well grab whatever info will be useful tactically. I found a setting for Munchkin, an auto-map mode, which I expect would be handy for anyone planning to come here for violence. Any other ideas?"

Joe said, "Yes. Be quiet."

She was staring at the church, ears raised and focused. Obediently, I quieted down. After a few moments, she shook her head. "I can hear /something/ there, but it's muffled."

I pointed out, "The microphones and speakers were designed for human hearing. What they relay isn't what ears like ours hear through open air."

"Then open a door."

"... How about a roof hatch, instead? And can I interest you in a helmet?"

After a bit of shuffling around, Joe lifted her ears out of Munchkin's confines, out of sight from anyone on ground-level. After thirty seconds, she lowered them again, and sealed the hatch back up.

"There is a voice in the building. Maybe underneath it," she reported. "They are swearing. A lot."

"How can you tell?"

"They are swearing in English. ... Mostly English."

Red guessed, "A captive?"

I contributed, "What I did hear from the locals, wasn't English. So seems likely."

Joe said, "You said we are here for information, not to save people."

"True," I agreed. "But someone who's spent any time here, and can tell us what they've seen? Could be a good source of info."

"Do you want to rescue them?"

I froze. "I think... I need to leave that decision to the sergeant."

Joe pointed out, "We are still being shot at."

I shrugged. "So we try coming up with a plan. If we get at least one that you approve of, we'll try it. If not... we won't."

Red looked at me with a complicated expression that I had trouble interpreting. "If we can't save them, should we kill them instead?"

My guts twisted. "If it comes to that - I want to at least try talking with them, before making that decision for them."

We tossed ideas back and forth faster than the bullets still impacting us for a few minutes, checked our inventory and what we could get from Internet in a hurry. I fired up Munchkin again, shifting us around a bit, so Joe could try pointing her ears at the voice from different directions. The third time she opened a roof hatch - the third hatch she opened - something whanged off her helmet before she could get her ears up, so we stopped that.

I grumbled a bit, "Munchkin's radar, lidar, and cameras are good for mapping, but crap at seeing through walls. The only sonar we have is a medical sensor, which isn't much good for anything else. Next time I'm at the factory, I need to see if I can build some sort of sonic probe."

Joe reported, "I don't think they're under ground. Just near the back."

I mused, "I could shift Munchkin's carriages into a circle - or a semicircle. I could split the carriages up - each one's got enough battery power to run for forty-five minutes at full speed. Maybe one or more carriages to block the front, and one or more go around back to check for back doors or other surprises?"

Joe looked at me. "Didn't you see any when you were back there before?"

"Kind of busy trying not to get sacrificed."

Red looked around the room, then at the building. "Could Munchkin just - push through the wall?"

"Um... maybe? Munchkin's programmed to avoid doing that sort of thing - and there's the risk of the building coming down on us - and the risk of damage to Munchkin itself."

"The back carriage is half empty, after we unloaded the station. If it is damaged, little is lost."

"And sending it means the rest of us could probably avoid whiplash. Okay, lemme call up Munchkin's manuals and see what I can do..." After a few moments of searching and skimming, I found something relevant. "This might work. Emergency search-and-rescue mode. Even got some associated programs to model exactly this sort of situation. Do you see any brickwork on that church, or just wood? Okay, wood - probably supported by framework instead of the walls themselves. Any sign of a basement? Alright, autofill the numbers of Munchkin's cargo carriage, and to punch through a wall, it needs to travel at... 20 klicks an hour. Program says building's got an over ninety-nine percent chance of staying up, won't catch fire, and the carriage itself will probably lose some surfacing and might get dented, but not suffer any serious structural damage. Hunh. Okay, Joe - there's a plan to riff on - avoid the shots by just pushing right into the building, find the kidnapee, pull them out, and we skedaddle."

Joe's ears were flat. "If it was that easy, why have they not already escaped?"

"Guns? Rope? Handcuffs? Locked cage? We've got knives, I think I've got some boltcutters in the toolbox, and if it's something harder, I can set Kahled-voolch to low power." At Joe's look, I amended, "Alright, /very/ low power."

"I thought only you could use it."

"I figured that was a bad idea. It'll recognize a bun-bot's handprint."

"And were you planning on keeping that a secret?"

"Yep. Now, my sergeant, what else do we need to figure out to make this plan viable?"

We fired a few suggestions back and forth, none of which were very significant - rendezvous points if things went wonky, that sort of thing. By the time we broke apart to each get ready for our parts, I'd almost gotten used to the sound of random bullet impacts. Joe grumbled about the fit of the armor, I worked on convincing Munchkin that the standard rules of the road should be ignored, and Red kept an eye out in case the locals decided to send something more dangerous than bits of lead our way.

Before too long, I'd detached the rear carriage and shifted it to the front, so Joe could simply walk straight in without stepping outside.

"Well, Joe - it's your neck on the line. You could send Red instead. Or we could back off, and I could try getting some armor for Bear Joe from Internet. Or you can just say no-go, and we abort the whole thing. It's your call."

"If we leave - will the prisoner still be alive when we get back?"

"They tossed me to the snakes pretty quickly when they had me. Then again, maybe they've got something against non-humans." I shrugged. "No way of knowing."

"And you can live with that?"

I took a breath, let it out. "Right now, I figure I've saved two or three lives, and may have killed a hundred thousand. Another life on the one side would be great, but another on the other hardly seems to make a difference at all."

"It makes a difference to them."

"Which is why I haven't driven us off already."

"I know /I/ didn't do anything to a whole city. So putting someone on 'the other side' makes a big difference to /me/."

"Like I said - your call."

She stared at me a moment, then shifted the shield, and stepped into the other carriage.

I stated, "Once we're split up - say the word 'in' three times to run the crash-entry program. I suggest you lie on the floor, and not against the wall. Say the word 'out' three times to run the exit program. I suggest you be inside when you do that, along with anything you don't want to leave behind."

She pressed the control to close the door. I gave Munchkin its marching orders, five carriages circling around one to protect it from local observation and plinking.

The lone carriage suddenly accelerated, and the church's front door disappeared into splinters, along with the doorframe, and about half of the wall. A tad worried, I called up Munchkin's crash-prediction program, and hurriedly tried to feed in the new data.

Before I could get any sensical output, the carriage had already come back out, so I slapped the big red virtual button to run the sequence to link Munchkin back up and start us heading out of town.

As soon as the carriages were connected, I opened up the intercom. "Everybody okay in there?"

An unfamiliar, high-pitched female voice answered. Rephrasing her actual wording for any listeners of delicate constitution, she said something along the lines of, "Of course I'm not bleeping okay! I've been stuck in that bleeping filthy barn for I don't bleeping know how long!"

I tried again. "Joe?"

"She was tied up. Cutting her free was easy."

"Alright," I nodded. "Ma'am?"

"You mean me?" said the new voice. "Don't 'ma'am' me - call me Toffee."

"Very well. Toffee - I need to know one thing straight away. Did the people who captured you attach any snakes or snake-like things to you, or feed them to you, or otherwise bring you into contact with them?"

"Nah, nuthin' like that."

"Oh, good."

"They just started taking 'em away when I started bleeping them out. Weirdest bleeping thing."

"Aw, crap."

"That's what I just said."

--

I rubbed my muzzle. "Joe, /don't take off the bodysuit/. And don't lie down. Toffee - I'm afraid that we're going to have to quarantine you for a bit."

"Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do, sister."

"Joe - is there any chance that there might be a snake-oid hidden somewhere about her person?"

"No. No, there is not."

"... She's naked, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is."

"Right. Joe, I'm setting up an airlock so you and Gun-Bun can exit without risking any snake-oids getting loose in here. Miss Toffee-"

"Just Toffee."

"Very well. Toffee, I'm collecting some blankets and brownies to start making you more comfortable in there. If you don't mind your picture being taken, I can use that as a guide to adjust some clothes to fit."

"Picture? As in a bleeping photograph?"

"That's right."

"Cool. Haven't had one before. Brownies - you mean food, right?"

"That's right."

"More cool. The bleeping bleepers haven't been bleeping feeding me bleep."

"... When's the last time you ate?"

"I dunno. Bleep. Two or three days ago?"

"Crap."

"Why's that important?"

"We ran a genetic analysis on a snake-oid, and it's life-cycle-"

"You /what/?"

"Do you know what genes are?"

"Mostly. Kinda. Okay, not bleeping really. But I know that there's tech, and then there's /tech/."

"Okay - we can talk tech later, but there's an important health issue that you should probably be aware of. When a snake-oid infects someone, it starts making snake-oids. If that someone eats lots of food, then the snake-oid will use that. If not - it'll, um, 'eat' the someone, instead. You really, really, don't want the latter."

"So I've gotta stuff my face to bleeping stay alive?"

"That's the best short-term treatment we've got so far, yes."

"You've got tech - can you, I dunno, yank this bleeper out of me?"

"Mm... probably. But if they were deliberately starving you, and you've been, uh, emitting new snake-oids... then the one attached inside you has probably started turning your insides into snake-oid stuff."

"What's the bleeping upshot, doc?"

"I don't know if the scans we can run can identify what parts of your guts are still human, and what parts would need to be removed."

"If you've got tech - can't you just take all the bleep out and put fresh new bleep in?"

"There's tech, then there's /tech/, and then there's /real/ tech."

"I getcha. So what'll fixing my guts cost?"

"That's not really the issue."

"I've got the ear of the big boss in Erie - even defended him in bleeping court a few times. I can't promise /anything/, but he's fond enough of me that he'll pay a good chunk of silver for keeping my bleep in one piece."

"Toffee - I really, honestly, don't know if we /can/ simply give you some artificial organs. The medical tech we've got... it's more for keeping someone alive long enough to try and find real treatment, which may not be available. I'm certainly going to look into that, but it might not be an option."

"So what's the bleeping upshot? Am I gonna be bleeping snake things for the rest of my life?"

"Maybe. If it comes down to it - there are some radical options that might kill off the snake-oid without quite killing you, but with serious side-effects."

"You mean going bleeping Changed, don't you?"

"That's one."

"Can't say that I like the idea of having backwards bleeping knees like you, but it's better than... what, turning into a giant snake?"

"Those aren't knees, they're ankles, and - I don't think that's /quite/ what would happen, but I'd have to consult with our expert on that. It'll be a little bit before we're out of communications shadow."

"Bleep. You've got radios?"

"Not - exactly."

"Bleeping bleep."

"You do have other options. We have the tech to freeze your body, and preserve it to be repaired and brought back to life later... though we currently don't have the tech for the revival, so that would be something of a gamble. I'm getting a few glares from someone here called Red Deer, so I'm guessing she wants me to remind you that I'm in touch with the people who live on the north side of the lake, and if you wanted, you could join that culture - though that has the downside of putting your body and mind under the control of what they call the 'spirits', who may decide to turn you into a man, or a bear, or two copies of yourself at once, or whatever else they want."

Toffee's response was a long series of what I'm replacing with the word 'bleep', with the occasional suffix, prefix, or seemingly random extra word thrown in. Eventually, she wound down, and said, "I'm a lawyer, but you can hire other ones that are /almost/ as good as me. So what's in all this for /you/?"

"I have my own people - and things that are close enough to people - to protect. I'm considering wiping out the snake-oids, and gathering information on what it would take. We weren't expecting to find you - but would appreciate all the information you can give us on that place, the people there, and so on."

"And that's it?"

"Well - if there's any other information you'd like to share, I certainly wouldn't say no."

"What if I don't wanna help?"

"At the moment, the more information on the snake-oids we have, the more likely we can figure out a treatment plan that doesn't have you keep dropping new snake-oids. As soon as you're not a danger to others, you'll be free to go, or to stay, or negotiate for something else, or whatever you feel like."

"Hunh. I notice you haven't been introducing yourself. Just how high up with that new Bunny Queen are you?"

"I didn't realize you already knew of me."

"... Bleeping bleep. You fly into town, drop a bleeping bomb about a city wiped out, and think everyone will forget you?"

"That's not quite what I meant. We're a good way from Erie - I wouldn't have thought you'd have gotten from there to the village so soon after I visited."

"I wasn't /going/ to the bleeping village, I was /going/ to Buffalo."

"I hope you at least had air tanks and hazardous-material suits, like I warned you about."

"Yeah, yeah, we bleeping had air tanks in the wagon. What's this about suits?"

"... To keep the nerve gas on the ground from touching your skin."

"Bleep!"

"You said 'we' had air tanks."

"Yeah, and the rest of the, uh, expedition, probably kept going after I was snatched. I know I would've."

"No suits at all?"

"You said air tanks, we brought air tanks. That's bleeping it."

"Right. I'm going to crank up our speed some - things might get bumpy. Let's get you some snake-prison pants or something, so you can come in here and show me what route you were planning on taking - maybe we can catch them in time."

"Not that I don't appreciate it if you can, but why are you bothering?"

"If you have to ask the question, then I suspect the answer you're most likely to understand is... that I could really use people who have the skills and equipment to investigate dangerous ruins, whether they're doing it to grab hold of whatever they can, or perform scientific analysis, or scout for military advantage."

"Ah - so you're hoping we'll all be grateful after you help us out?"

"If that works, yep. I'm not going to depend on gratitude, though. For a lot of people, offering fair value in exchange for services rendered tends to provide much more consistent positive results. The hard part is figuring out what I can offer that they might want."

"Lady, you're a woman after my own bleeping heart."

--

After a bit of back and forth, Toffee was outfitted with some safety pants to avoid any accidents. To my surprise, she was even shorter than I was, with freckled skin and red hair; a bit wide, she kind of put me in the mind of some sort of Irish hobbit, minus the furry feet.

While she was scarfing brownies, one of the first things she'd been shown was the portion of the Munchkin's plumbing that took any waste and reduced it to individual atoms. I told her, "That should be good enough to avoid any accidents until something better is worked out. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on separate sleeping arrangements, a check of your clothes for any snake-oids before you leave your room, and similar precautions."

"Can't say I bleeping blame you. These snake-oid things may be cleaner than taking a regular bleep, but aren't bleeping comfortable on the way out."

"I'm probably going to grab one or two to stick into a cage, once I can knock a proper cage together, in case we need to run some tests on them - make sure the one you're stuck with works the same as our previous analysis, test out extermination agents, that sort of thing." I took a breath and rubbed my muzzle. "Okay. Time-sensitive things. Got our course set - we're fastest on the railbeds, so we'll head down those to the danger zone, then turn around and come back along the old coast road and hope we got ahead of your group. If they're already past that point, I don't think there's going to be anything we can do, other than provide a decent burial. ... Crap. They may not be the only ones. I'm going to need to make some warning signs, drop off the first on the road, and the others the next time we circle Buffalo. This whole rush thing could have been avoided if I'd thought of that /before/. We still need to get whatever info you have on the snake-oid village before you forget - I'll ask Joe or Red Deer to do that while I get the first sign painted."

"Do I get a bleeping say in any of this?"

"If you've got a better plan, sure."

"Can't you just call ahead and have someone else try getting in front?"

"I'd rather not get into details, but we're stretched thin enough in this area that if I even tried that, we'd lose the communications network. The one I plan on using while we're moving to start talking with our expert about what tests we can do to figure out how fast you need to be treated."

"Oh. Uh. Yeah, okay, how about flying?"

"My aerial gear's designed more for distance than speed - we're faster in the Munchkin than I would be in the air."

"Does that big bear I've been trying to bleeping pretend is a perfectly normal thing to have lying around do anything special?"

"Sit on me if-and-when I get too caught up in a weird idea and lose sight of practical matters. I don't think he's particularly relevant."

"Well, bleep it, there's gotta be /something/ better! What good are your bleeping not-radio-things if they can't help? Who do you talk to, anyway?"

"Hm." I rubbed my chin. "Put like that - maybe there is something more I can try. Hey, Red?"

"Yeah, now what?"

"If we sent a message to the Nine Nations - how soon do you think they could send some birds or something to the south of Buffalo, to sabotage some wagons, or drug them, or whatever else it took to slow them down?"

"Don't know they would at all. That's not our side of the lake."

"Got anything better to do than ask?"

"Keep an eye on you."

"Uh-huh. Grab a -Bun to run the signals for you, and find a roof hatch to work from. And pass a note to the mailbox, too, in case a fast squiddie happens to be in the area."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then I would be very cross with you for not at least making the attempt to save innocent lives, and I would be much less interested in cooperating with any future suggestions you might make. I tossed White Snake out on her ear for putting /one/ life at extra risk."

"Fine, fine."

"Joe, that means you're on interview duty."

"Can't Boomer or Alphie do that?"

"Possibly - but a lot of people on this side of the lake are much more uncomfortable with them than you are, and we've got too much going on to throw one more complication onto things."

Toffee had been watching the back-and-forth with interest, and finally said, "Why, what are they?"

"If you really want to know, I can't stop Red or Joe from telling you, but explanations might take a while. And the longer you wait, the less clearly you'll remember the village. Now unless you've got more ideas, shoo, we've all got things to do."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Seven: A-broad*

"What's all this, then?"

"I'm running a series of experiments."

"On what?"

"Making fuel out of thin air."

"No. Just bleeping no. I can deal with everything else I've seen so far. Now you're just bleeping with me."

"I could explain in more detail, but it doesn't sound like you're interested."

"Not interested? Not bleeping /interested/?"

"Does that mean you /are/ interested?"

"I'm going to regret this, I'm bleeping sure. Hit me."

"I've been putting together lots of small power-generation things. Solar panels, wind turbines, whatever I can. One problem is - once their batteries are full, the generation goes to waste. So I tried to think of something useful to do with excess electricity, and no grid to dump it to. I remembered gasoline is nicely energy-dense, and thought it would be nice if I could turn the power into gas. I looked up a few references - and I actually could. With the right equipment in place, I can use a megawatt of power to create a hundred gallons of gas a day. The process is only fifteen percent efficient, but since the power would just get wasted anyway, why not? One piece of trouble, though, is I'm usually dealing in kilowatts, not megawatts. And with the processes from those references, trying to use just a few kilowatts to make gas is like trying to heat up an oven by burning one log at a time. So I'm trying out various combinations of pressures, temperatures, and catalysts to see if I can come up with a low-power version. So far, I've gotten an efficiency of half a percent with twenty kilowatts, but I've just finished cooking some cesium oxides that I've got high hopes for. If that doesn't work, then I may have to use a different source of carbon, like charcoal. If /that/ doesn't work, I may have to go biological, but while analyzing an existing gene sequence is easy enough with the right software, generating a new set of enzymes from scratch requires /real/ computing power, beyond what we've got available, and that doesn't even include keeping the product from killing the organism-"

"You know what? Bleep it: you're a wizard."

"Now, really-"

"Wizard."

"You don't-"

"What's that?"

"Crystal growth-"

"Wi. Zard."

"... I don't really have the beard to pull off 'wizard'. How about 'sorceress'?"

--

"What bleeping species are you, anyway? Are you really called 'bunnies'?"

"Hm... That's actually a bit tricky to answer - and I've been a bit busy with stuff to deal with names." I called up Munchkin's intercom. "Say, Boomer? Are there any existing rules for naming chimeras?"

"There are two primary methods. One is to just use the names of the individual species, with the word 'plus'. Another is to join the names of the individual species into a single new name, preceded by a 'plus', though care must be taken not to use an existing species name."

"Does Wagger still have a species of her own, since she lost her original genes?"

"The international agreements on species nomenclature do not seem to cover that scenario."

"Hm... how about organisms that are related to other ones, but had all the junk DNA trimmed out?"

"Again, there is no existing consensus on how to group such an organism."

"How about robots?"

"A proposed standard exists, in which all biological life sharing Earth's common genetic code, including viruses, is part of a super-domain, 'Bio'; and in which non-biological agents which need to be treated in a biological fashion have separate super-domains. Various taxonomic schemes exist to group related models together."

"Right. I guess that gives me a pretty free rein to pick some names - so I should try to pick some that come as close as possible to reflecting reality. Let's see - for junk DNA trimming, is there a short bit of Latin that comes close to 'Junk cleaned up'?"

"Quisquilae purgandi."

"Q.P. it is. Alright - I hereby dub Bun-Bun's species as Homo sapiens Q.P. lepiform. Which makes me, I believe, 'Homo sapiens plus lepiform plus' - wait, what are deer, cervids, so 'plus cervidae'?"

Boomer said, "If you wish."

"Now combining all that - 'Plus Homolepicerv' might do. Joe has a somewhat different origin, so she might just be Homo lepiform. And Nurse-Bun here has a different origin yet again, so she might be, say, R. doppelganger lepiform."

Toffee had been watching the conversation with a wrinkled forehead. "... How about I just call all of you bunnies?"

"There's a reason I went with that in the first place."

--

"We're almost at turnaround," I announced. "I'm thinking of taking the PPG up, along with some binoculars, to try and see if I can make out the wagons Toffee described, in either direction. I'm open to suggestions for or against." After a few moments of several people shrugging, I asked, "Okay. Red, were you able to get in touch with anyone?"

"Clara says there aren't any people with her right now, so no. And no reply from the squiddies."

"Worth a shot. Joe, learn anything relevant to this from Toffee?"

"Three wagons. Four horses, two people with four legs, and five mostly human people."

"Toffee, anything to add?"

"Can't think of anything."

"Right. I should start suiting up, then."

--

I didn't actually have any way to refuel the paragliders yet - but if this wasn't worth using up some gas on, then I didn't know what was.

It was actually easier to launch from Munchkin in motion than it was from the ground. The air going by filled up the shrouds behind me, and I was up in the air even before I had a chance to start the engine. (I made a mental note - I might be able to save gas in the future by playing kite, tying a rope between the paraglider and Munchkin as it pulled me along.)

I rose towards the treetops, circled around to the right to stay generally near Munchkin... and as I circled around to face the lake, I just about dropped the lines. There was a grey column reaching from the water to the clouds.

I didn't want to get a foot closer to the tornado, or waterspout, or whatever it was, so tugged harder on the right line, swinging around so that I was nearly horizontal; and as I swung from west to north, I saw, a few klicks ahead, three wagons, with several smaller forms scattered about.

Was the funnel cloud closer? I couldn't tell. I didn't know how fast tornados moved. I didn't know if this one was natural or the result of some weather-control system breaking down or hostile action by some uber-powerful thing that /really/ didn't like Buffalo.

I had to make a decision - fast. Not enough time to work out the problem in my mind, not even enough time to gather more evidence - I had to use my gut and whatever ideas and plans I'd previously worked out well enough to be able to call up in a situation like this. Well, not necessarily like /this/; but almost before I knew what I was doing, I'd cut the engine, and was pulling on both shrouds, trying to get back to the ground as fast as I could without collapsing the shroud and falling /too/ fast.

In a very short time, but a time that felt rather too long, I was at Munchkin's side door, pulling the glider shrouds in after me. Even before I'd finished, I was calling out orders. "Munchkin! Emergency search-and-rescue mode! Travel on road two kilometers north!" The legs started churning before the shroud was off the ground - I could feel it tear.

"Everyone! Shut up a minute! There's a tornado! The scavenger group is north! They look like they need medical attention! We are going to collect them! Until we have them all, or the tornado comes right for us! We're heading into ground contaminated with nerve gas! If you know how, put on a suit! If not, grab an oxygen mask! This whole carriage is going to be contaminated! If you're not going to help, get out of here so you're not another casualty! Joe! I need places to put five humans and two four-leggers, strip them, and wash gas off them! We leave behind everything else! When everyone is aboard, we're going south as fast as Munchkin can go!"

I'd managed to unstrap myself from the paraglider, and had started shoving my limbs into the hazmat suit I was most used to. "I will direct bun-bots to carry casualties inside! Bun-bots are stupid, you are faster! Anyone you can grab before they can, the sooner we can get away from the tornado, the less likely we'll have to leave someone behind!"

Toffee was standing stock still, staring at me - and the hurried dressing of Red and Joe - with wide eyes. I didn't waste time sighing, even though I felt an urge to. "Bear Joe! Please take Toffee to the front carriage, and if you can, seal the airlock behind you." As the massive not-quite-animal started shoving our guest toward safety with his head, I raised my voice again. "I don't know if we have enough antidote! The autodoc only fits one person at a time! Nerve gas kills by stopping breathing! The bun-bots can do chest compressions and breathe into the casualties' lungs! I think oxygen will help them!" I took a breath, so I could continue shouting - but found my mind blank, unable to think of anything else to say.

Joe clapped a suited hand on my shoulder. "You should stay in," he said. "Watch the tornado, order the buns, start the medicine."

My legs twitched, as I had the urge to run back outside already. "Fine," I said, "We'll do that. Munchkin, open intercom: All bun-bots report to living room!"

--

The five humans weren't breathing when we got to them - but I set a pair of bun-bots to perform CPR on each of them anyway. The four-leggers looked to be some sort of pony-sized, blue-furred, hermaphroditic fox-taurs, and while they were emitting various fluids from every orifice, they were still breathing.

Triage sucks. In a very visceral way.

I could feel the churning in my guts as Bun-Bun prepared to help in her own way, but I only had scant few doses of atropine on hand. According to Boomer's records, the lethality of VX was based on dose per body mass - and the four-leggers had more mass than the humans.

I gave them each a dose of the anti-toxin immediately.

With a bit of maneuvering, we got the woman who was nearest the back of the carriage into the autodoc, and I had it run its basic scans on her. No brain wave activity, body temperature consistent with death between one and two hours ago, the beginnings of cellular necrosis. She was dead before we'd gotten to her. I had the bun-bots carry her back, and they resumed CPR - and I was too busy to tell them to stop.

None of the other four humans were in any better state.

We couldn't even fit most of the first foxtaur into the autodoc, and it flashed all sorts of error messages in its scan reports; but it stuck a tube into her (or his, or hir, or whatever other pronoun applied) throat to clear fluids from her bronchi and feed her oxygen. With a bit more effort, the other foxtaur was hauled close enough to receive similar treatment.

I set the non-CPRing bun-bots to clean their fur and skin of any VX residue that might still be soaking in, then grabbed Red and Joe by the hands, pulling them into a huddle.

"There is one thing I need to understand now, and you two are the only sources of information I have. I know if a live person gets dropped into a spirit pool - one other than me - then your spirits can, what did you call it, 'take their memories into their hands'. What happens if a dead person gets dropped into a pool?"

Red started to ask, "Are you going to-?" but I cut her off.

"Haven't decided. Have another option. Need info. Tell."

Joe said, "I haven't heard of anyone bothering. Either they make it back to the pool, and come out with a fresh, intact body; or they don't make it back at all, and the spirits make a new one of them, who does not remember what the dead person did after last leaving a pool."

I nodded once. "Red? Anything to add to that?"

"I haven't heard of that, either."

"Right. Munchkin, open intercom. Toffee, can you hear me?"

"Yes. What's happening?"

"We brought all seven on board. The two blue-furred ones are being treated, and with care and some luck, just might survive. However, the five humans are in much worse shape - and I am willing to treat you as having authority to make medical decisions for them."

"Oh god."

"They are - well, mostly dead. I do not believe that there is anything we can do to keep them alive. However, there are radical options - much the same ones I presented to you earlier. One, we can simply give them a funeral. Two, we can freeze them, in hopes that someone will eventually be able to figure out both how to revive them and how to cure them. And three, we can bring them to what you think of as 'Indian Country', and place their bodies into the care of what the locals call the 'spirits', who may be able to use what's effectively nanotechnology to rebuild them - or may not."

"Can I think about this?"

"I'm afraid that the longer we wait, the more brain damage there would be, even if one of the radical procedures otherwise succeeds. If you're even going to consider choosing them, you should let me know, so I can either start cooling them or get Munchkin going in the right direction."

"I don't want them /dead/!"

"I don't blame you. I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, I'm very bad at interpersonal stuff, and you're probably going to hate me for forcing this - but unless you make a choice very soon, I'm going to have to make the choice myself."

"The - the Indian thing. If it works - will they still be, well, themselves?"

Red spoke up, "We have a number of immigrants who remember their lives before joining the Great Peace."

"That. I don't know if - try that one."

"Okay. Munchkin, display map..."

I took a few moments to define a routing function, prioritizing the arrival time at any available spirit pool while minimizing the risk from fire or waterspout. And then I slapped my faceplate's forehead as I remembered that coolness would help preserve the five humans' brains, at least to the extent of preserving neural structures for the spirits to work with; and I spent a few moments firing up the dry ice generator and giving Red some instructions on what 'cold, but not /too/ cold meant when packing ice around the five folks' heads.

I was so busy, I almost forgot to drop off the big skull-and-bones "Warning! Nerve gas!" sign into the middle of the road before we roared off.

--

Munchkin's routing program took us straight through the downtown core of New Buffalo. The waterspout didn't seem to be moving all that fast, and the buildings seemed to have pretty much burnt out, so I didn't try overriding. It was, after all, a lot faster to just barrel through and swim the river to Fort Erie, instead of trying to circle around the city yet again.

I couldn't think of much more to do for the mostly-dead, so I focused on the mostly-alive. The autodoc was designed for at least a roughly human-sized and -shaped patient, and was now supporting two rather larger individuals... but I had never seen their type of Changed before, and was worried that we might be doing something wrong. So with some effort, I drafted some bun-bot help in shoving various portions of their anatomy into the coffin-like section, where the autodoc's sensors could get a look at their anatomy.

Said anatomy was - not quite what I was expecting. From the waist up, they were pretty much just like me: human, with fur slapped on and a few tweaks of the cranial anatomy for an animalistic appearance. Even the insides were pretty standard. For their hind torsos, most of it was pretty comprehensible, with another heart, another set of lungs, and so on. But the area just under the 'join' was not only unfamiliar, it didn't seem mammalian at all. It could /pass/ as something like an animal's chest - but was actually some sort of maw, which could gape open at least as wide as the whole hind-torso, feeding into some sort of pouch before connecting to the main digestive tract. And the join between the fore- and hind-torsos was... ugly. It didn't even have the alien elegance of a Giger-esque insect; it looked to be, in a very literal way, two animals melted together.

I winced a bit as I tried to imagine how painful that spine might be - and then I went to work trying to figure out how to extend the breathing tubes to the much larger hind-torso lungs.

--

As soon as we were across the river, I sent Joe up to the roof, to try and get in touch with some of the green jays, to spread the word ahead of us that I was bringing five nearly-dead people for immigration. I wasn't sure how well the 'nearly dead' would translate, or if Joe would go along with the leaning of the facts.

I found out when Munchkin parked at the spirit pool, and White Snake was standing in front of it, arms crossed, staring at us.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Trying to save lives. Are you going to help?"

"These pools are sacred places. You plan on defiling them with corpses?"

"I say they're only 'mostly dead'. Now, lady - do you know what would happen if I shoot you in the head?"

"No, what?"

"You would step out of that pool in a few moments, none the worse for wear. And I'd get these people in the pool without interference."

"You love life too much to kill anyone."

"You don't think of it as death. And even if it is - one life for five. It's a simple trolley problem, and I try /very/ hard to be a good little utilitarian. Now I'm going to tell my bun-bots to bring them out with stretchers, and one way or another, you're going to stay out of their way."

She frowned... but took several steps to the side. I got the bun-bots going, and then relaxed a bit.

White Snake gave me a funny look. "What if the spirits do not bring them back?"

"Then I'll have given it my best shot."

"Why are you doing this? Do you think they will thank you?"

"I expect she," I pointed to the first one, "will be happy to be alive and completely ignore me, and she will hate me, and she will despise me she'll try to kick me in the balls, realize I don't have any, and then do whatever it took to give me balls just so she could kick them - and so on."

The bun-bots tilted the stretchers, sliding one body after another into the not-water. They disappeared without a ripple.

I wrapped my arms around myself. Quietly, I asked her, "Do you think it'll work?"

She gave me another inscrutable look. "... I do not know," she finally said. "We do not use machines to make things cold. If the spirits find anything of them, then soon we should see- there."

On the other side of the pool, close to a half-dozen deer delicately stepped out from between the trees, and, completely ignoring us, delicately walked into the pool. In just a few seconds, the five of them walked back out again - this time, with rather enormous bellies, each obviously carrying a fawn.

"Well, what do you know," White Snake said. "They are being adopted."

I took a deep breath, and let it out. I let my arms fall to my sides, and rolled my shoulders. "Well, that's that, then," I said. "They're all yours. If you'll 'scuze me, I've got another two who might pull through on their own, and are more likely to with some stuff up by the university." I started to turn away.

"Were they friends of yours? Employees?"

I shrugged. "Complete strangers."

"Then why go to so much effort?"

"Now there's a trick question if ever I heard one. I could say I wanted to see what your spirits could do - but that makes me sound like I had them killed to gain information. I could offer any number of seemingly good reasons - but people are barely rational on their best days, and these aren't /my/ best days, so any reason I could give is more likely just a rationalization." I shrugged. "I could say 'Because I could, and I chose to', and that's probably the most accurate answer I could give. How long will it be before they're people again?"

"That depends on many things. We already have as many people as the spirits desire - in fact, we have a few too many, such as with all the extra Joes running around. When there is more room for them, they will be born into their new families, and learn the ways of their village, clan, and nation."

"Well - if you ever get a chance to, wish them the best of luck from me."

I went back to the Munchkin, calling the bun-bots back in after me.

--

On the way north, one of the taurs - who Toffee named Jeff - died. The other - Sarah - died twice. The autodoc was able to restart all four hearts, with a bit of fast jury-rigging to figure out how the dual hearts were, and weren't, supposed to be synchronized.

Most of the bun-bots were now on cleanup duty, scrubbing nerve-gas residue off every surface it might have touched. We had to dip into the canal twice just to refill the water reservoirs.

I was sitting on the floor, helmet off, just watching Jeff and Sarah breathing, when Toffee sat next to me. I told her, "We're going to make a quick stop for a few things I've realized we need, and then we're going to the closest I've found to a hospital to scan you and those two, and figure out if we've got any treatment options that are less radical."

"So how much was true?"

"Of what?"

"That woman you were talking to. About why you're bleeping doing - all this."

"Because some years ago, I defined myself as a person who would look for ways to make a difference."

"Is that it? That doesn't bleeping sound like bleeping much."

"It's more than most people decide to. Red and Joe? They know Indian Country, they live it - but it never even occurred to them to try saving someone who seemed dead, by bringing them in. Let alone try looking for other options."

"Not that I'm complaining, but - what /do/ you get out of all of this? And don't try to bleep a bleeper with that 'because you can' bleep."

I didn't look away from the taurs. "You know that sign I had us stop to drop off? I've been by that spot a couple of times since the nerve gas attack. If I hadn't been so /stupid/, your five friends would probably be arguing about how to make suits, and have all sorts of options open to them other than to live as baby deer until some incomprehensible alien mentality decides to switch their species for them."

"You feel bleeping guilty, then? Trying to make yourself feel better?"

"Could be. I'm not really sure, these days. I'm mostly used to sitting quietly, reading, and thinking, not for every decision I make /mattering/ so much. For people to have to deal with the fallout when I make the /wrong/ decision. I've been dealing with so much - stuff - over the past few weeks, nobody would be surprised if I let myself just crack up. But I can't /let/ myself do that, or else... Anyway. So I make my to-do lists and goal trees and study what's most likely to do the most good, instead of just finding a nice cubby-hole to curl up in and read something just for the sake of enjoying reading it. Keeping those five from being completely dead? That'll probably keep me going for a few days. Keeping these two from dying at all, and you from getting eaten from the inside out? That just might keep me sane for a good long while. Until the next crisis hits, anyway."

"Bleep, you couldn't /pay/ me enough to deal with all /that/ bleep."

"That makes two of us."

"What?"

"I don't get paid, either."

"Then where does all this," she waved a hand around, "bleeping come from?"

"I am very careful to collect every valuable resource I can get my hands on. Or paws. Or hoof. Or tail. Or any other part of my anatomy."

"You're serious. This whole bleeping thing is - just yours?"

"Hail to the queen, baby. By the way, I'm going to have to lock you back into quarantine when we make our first stop. There's a lot of sensitive stuff that breaks very easily, and that it would take a long time to teach you how to be sure to avoid breaking."

"Buy me a beer after and we'll call it even."

"Hm... haven't got any non-toxic alcohol, other than some fuel."

"What? What do you bleeping /drink/?"

"Water, mostly. Tea, when we've got the herbs."

"How do you people get blitzed, then? Joints?"

"I can't speak for Joe or Red - but I don't /get/ 'blitzed'."

"You're joking."

"If I'd been drunk, or whatever, when we were passing near a certain village - I wouldn't have thought to investigate it, and you'd be a lot more snakey than you are now, and none of the other seven of your party would be breathing. ... I don't know if five of them are, technically, breathing right now, but I think you get my meaning."

"You really /are/ bleeping crazy."

"Given as accepted. Though I feel less so right now than I did a few hours ago. ... Red, could you come over here?" In a few seconds, she'd taken a seat on the floor next to the two of us. I'll give this to Winnebago, they made very comfortable floors.

Red asked, "Think they'll make it?"

"If Clara can help us get a handle on the seizures, I really, /really/ hope so. Which brings me to something. I'm thinking out an idea for a plan as I'm talking, and I need you to veto it if you think it's a bad one."

"I don't think the spirits will let you bring every dying person into the Great Peace."

"Not the plan. And we can argue about its merits and flaws later. I'm thinking of taking up a new vice to help keep myself sane."

"Drinking?"

"Making a number go up."

"Sounds a lot more boring than drinking."

"People /like/ having their numbers go up."

"Still sounds boring."

"Even when the number is how many lives I've saved?"

There was a brief pause. Finally, Red asked, "That's a /vice/?"

"It's an inefficient and mildly wasteful use of resources, compared to focusing entirely on my goal tree. It's a very useless number, compared to, say, improving quality-adjusted life-years. But Q.A.L.Y.'s don't grab my hindbrain's attention like a simple whole number. And I'm finding it's a very, /very/ satisfying number to raise."

"You're asking me to tell you /not/ to save lives?"

"No - I'm asking you to tell me to stop saving lives /to make myself feel better/. Don't forget, a root of my goal tree is to keep /everyone/ from dying. Working on the tree is work. Saving individual lives is... I don't know, it could be therapy, maybe. It's not like anyone else has ever faced the stresses I'm juggling, or like we've got a psychotherapist on board."

"But you're still asking me to tell you to stop."

"I'm guessing that if you can think of a good reason for me /to/ stop, one which convinces you, then that's got to be a pretty good reason."

"I have to say I'm not sure the spirits would approve of me vetoing a plan that has you saving lives."

"Would they rather I personally saved one life, or spent the time doing something behind the scenes that kept ten people from dying?"

"If you can save ten, then why save one?"

"Because, just maybe, saving the one satisfies something in my brain enough to keep me from going completely bug-nuts, so that the next few times I'm faced with choices like that, I can save tens of people."

"So - you're saying the choice isn't between saving one and ten, but between saving ten and a hundred?"

I managed a shrug. "I haven't got enough data to pin very hard numbers on yet - but that's the idea I'm playing with now. Maybe it's a good idea. Maybe it's a very, very, stupid one. But, at least, it seems like it might be worth exploring, to find out."

Toffee, who I'd been just about ignoring, chose that moment to speak up. "So what does that bleeping make me? Chopped liver? I'm just alive so you could get warm fuzzy feelings?"

I looked at her. "No, you're alive because I wanted intel on the snake-oid village. I'm taking you to get scanned to get further info on snake-oids. If I can, I'm getting you cured to avoid a public health hazard. Any warm fuzzy feelings I get out of all /that/ are icing on the cake."

Red leaned forward to look around me at Toffee. "If you don't like her ideas, I can probably let you live in the Great Peace without having to get adopted. The spirits control all the plants and animals - I'm sure they can kill off all the snake-oids that come out of you."

Toffee leaned forward to look back at Red. "I'm less concerned about what bleep comes out of me, and what's bleeping happening inside."

I shoved myself to my feet. "I'll leave you to it, then - I'm going to take another look at Jeff and Sarah's scans..."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Eight: A-ttend*

As soon as I got to the robo-fac design room, I called up sonar scanners. I trimmed away ones that wouldn't be useful, such as ones that only worked underwater, or needed a hard-to-manufacture gel, or were too bulky, or needed a sub-part that the place would take a while to manufacture. What I ended up with was a box, about half the size of Boomer's chassis, which easily fit into my hand, and already came with a display screen on the side. When I pushed it against my arm and turned it on - there, gradually rezzing on the screen, were my bones, muscles, blood vessels pumping, and so on.

When I went back to the design room, the final order screen was still shining. I waved my hand to cancel it - then waved it again.

To summarize my next ten minutes of effort, the interface was quite frozen.

Frowning, I went to the next room, to see if the same thing would happen. In case it did, I set my search parameters for something as useful as I could think of, that I couldn't get elsewhere, and, again, didn't require extra materials that weren't available. What I ended up with at the top of the last search query was a pair of gloves - gloves which used a few tricks to ensure the blood vessels in the palms stayed dilated, and then applied thermoelectric cooling, which, apparently, massively reduced fatigue. To try to expand the data in case of another crash, I went from that search result to the custom design interface, in which I created gizmos to do the exact same thing, only taking advantage of Bun-Bun's natural aural cooling system (if 'natural' really applied to the level of vascularization in our ears).

The ear-sleeves were duly delivered - and, again, that design room ceased responding to any further requests, commands, or other input.

I decided that this was a problem that could very likely take some time to solve; and I still had a pair of poisoned foxtaurs and a woman with snake-oids in her innards to get better help for, and the sooner the better.

I clambered back aboard Munchkin with my two prizes, hoping that they weren't the final things the factory would make.

--

Bun-bots made good stretcher-bearers, even when the stretchers were several times as large as usual. I gave Clara a summary of recent events as our procession hurried to the university clinic, and then I let myself become little more than an intermediary, translating the AI's directions into specific commands for the robots.

The main thing Clara was able to do, that we hadn't known to try, was to stick crowns of electrodes on their heads, much like the thinking cap I'd started experimenting with. However, the electric fields she ran through their brains cancelled out the ones causing seizures. It required a specialized bit of software to calculate, so we couldn't have managed on the Munchkin anyway.

Once Clara was satisfied that those two were as out of danger as they were going to get, we turned our attention to Toffee. Clara told her, "I recommend that small samples be taken from a number of locations in your body, to determine the extent of the snake-oid genetic conversion process."

"What does /that/ bleeping mean?"

I further simplified, "Needles. If all that's been affected is a bit of your intestine - we can try surgical removal. But we'd need to know what parts to take out, and what parts are safe to leave in."

"I hate needles."

"Eh, they're not so bad. Hey, Clara? How about we show off how easy this is - how about my hoof?"

I slid my rear up onto the exam table, and pulled off my footgear. Clara ran a robotic arm around the hoof, the built-in camera looking at it from all angles before selecting a spot and sliding a needle in. I tried very hard not to twitch or wince. "See?" I said to Clara, offering a smile. "I used to donate blood, and this isn't even as bad as that."

The sample arm withdrew into one of the big boxes with blinkenlights.

"And now," I started explaining - but Toffee wasn't listening, just staring at the machine.

"Was that - a robot?"

"Er, yes, you could say that. Why do you ask."

"... Nevermind. Wizard. Bleeping forgot that for a few minutes."

"Sorceress," I countered. "So, Clara, what did you get? Original cervine cells, or some of that custom transplanted stuff they made to rebuild the foot with?"

"Neither," she said. "I seem to have collected a part of your lapiform-humanoid cells that colonized the new anatomical structures."

"No worries. Bun-Bun's a healthy girl, probably just part of her regeneration process. I mean, I don't even /see/ a scar under the fur anymore."

Toffee asked, "'Bun-Bun'?"

"Wizar - I mean, sorceress talk."

Clara said, "With your permission, I can draw a wider set of samples from around the area."

Since the only reason I was on the bed was to try to be reassuring for Toffee, I just nodded, and clenched my teeth while trying to keep a steady smile. The robo-arm came back out, and, watched closely by Toffee, jabbed into a dozen different spots below my left knee before returning.

In a few seconds, Clara said, "These results do not match my predictions."

I tilted my head. "How so?"

"They all share your body's standard chromosomes."

I wrinkled my forehead. "Hunh. That's not what they were before. When you do your full-organism extrapolations - when a snake-oid hooks onto an organism, does that organism gain its gene-transfer ability?"

There was a brief pause as, presumably, Clara ran some extrapolations. "That does not seem to be the case. Snake-oid gene transfer only appears to either convert host cells to snake-oid ones, or snake-oid cells to host ones."

"Hunh. So if it's not Wagger... maybe it's what Bun-Bun does naturally?"

"That hypothesis is consistent with the observed data."

"Maybe," I mused, "but it brings up more questions - such as how similar the process is to the snake-oids, and if there are any similarities, what caused them."

Clara stated, "I am afraid that I do not have the data to answer those questions. Your anatomy contains several aspects that are not regulated by easily analyzable genes, enzymes, and proteins."

"Yep, Bun-Bun's still got a few tricks up our sleeves. Still, it doesn't seem to be doing me any harm, and Toffee here needs to get sampled, so how about I get out of your way while you do that?"

In a few moments, the arm had done its work, and Clara reported, "The good news is that the snake-oid conversion process has not yet spread beyond your digestive system. The bad news is that your entire digestive system, below your stomach, appears to be affected."

Toffee asked, "What'll happen to me if I just keep feeding the bleeping thing?"

Clara paused for a much longer moment than she had for me, before saying, "Projections indicate that, no later than two years in the future, the last of your cells will have been changed. Contrary to earlier projections, it appears that anatomical changes will happen as well; primarily, the complete atrophy of your major limbs."

"You're saying that I'm going to turn into a bleeping snake."

"In essence, yes."

"Still with snakes coming out of me?"

"Analyzing projection - after full conversion, from your reproductive organs rather than your digestive tract, but yes."

"And what'll happen to my bleeping brain?"

"With the resolution of the projections I am able to generate, nothing appears to happen to your neuroanatomy, other than the replacement of the genetic material."

"So I'm going to turn into a bleeping giant momma snake, and am gonna feel the whole bleeping thing the whole bleeping time?"

"That appears to be the case."

"Okay, Clara, I don't care where you are or what bleeping awful thing you've turned into, but I /like/ being human. All my favorite parts of me are human. So whadda I gotta do to keep that from happening?"

"Removal of your upper and lower intestine before the process spreads beyond those organs appears to be indicated."

"... Can I live without them?"

"I have records of people who have survived similar procedures."

I cleared my throat. "Do you have the materials to perform such a procedure?"

"No," was Clara's blunt answer.

I asked, "What do you need that you haven't got?"

"To maximize quality of life, either donor or artificial bowel segments."

I looked at Toffee. "Any living relatives?"

"No family," she said in a low tone, without even a 'bleep'.

"Okay - other possible donors. Clara, am I compatible?"

"Not without a lifetime supply of anti-rejection drugs that I cannot provide."

I pursed my lips, thinking about my hoof, and turned; I looked up and down at Joe Three speculatively, completely ignoring her furry curves, and she took a step back.

"What about us?" asked a completely new voice, startling at least me. Turning around further, I discovered that Sarah's eyes were open. She spoke again, "Had both arms pulled off once. Grew back. Probably... got more intestines than I really need, anyway."

Clara contributed, "Both patients' organs have a remarkable dearth of surface antigens in their lower portions. If their regenerative abilities are sufficient to regrow limbs, then resecting their bowels and transplanting the tissue may be possible."

Toffee said, "They've been through enough already. What other options've you bleeping got?"

"Cryonic freezing and adoption by Joe and Reds' people," I shrugged.

"Wizard. Sorceress. Bleeping whatever. What else've you got?"

I blinked, wrinkled my forehead, and considered. The five mostly dead folk had needed something immediate, which had limited the range of options that might work... "Zones," I said. "There are places where you can get transformed into - well, anything from a puddle of goo to a talking horse to a perfectly ordinary woman who happens to give birth to goats instead of people."

"What else?"

I racked my brains again. "If you really want more options - you could try getting in touch with Technoville. They're opportunistic technocrats with leanings toward world domination, and I wouldn't trust them as far as I could throw Sarah there, but they've got an industrial infrastructure with decent medicine. You could /try/ making a deal with them, though I wouldn't recommend it."

"What else?"

"Um. I don't think the squiddies know enough about humanoid anatomy, Dogtown's tech is only so-so... if you really don't like any of the other options, then you could get a timeline from Clara about how you're going to progress, make a fallback plan, and then go exploring, looking for something new."

"What else?" Toffee demanded.

"I really don't know. Other than that, I can only think of really /bad/ ideas. Suicide? Let yourself go snakey? Surgery that amputates even more than just your intestines? Sure, they're /options/, but-"

Sarah spoke up again. "Take. The goddamn. Surgery. You stupid. Bint."

Toffee just crossed her arms and glared.

I shuffled my feet and said, "You obviously have a lot to think about, and talk, so I'll just go - that way. If you need me, Clara can get in touch. Oh, and try not to touch anything, would you?" I made a somewhat undignified escape.

--

Red found me in the library. She said, "It looks like you found the time to curl up and read after all."

I rolled my eyes a little, and swung my legs down from the side of the overstuffed chair. "Not for pleasure."

Red leaned forward and peered at the title of the tome that had been in my lap. "'Livestock gestation'? ... Don't worry, the fawns will be born just fine."

"Very funny. I'm trying to decide how much space in Munchkin to devote to a multi-species medical library."

"Why? Those two blue people are still alive."

"Maybe. And maybe I know the difference between blood and lymph - but I'm no doctor. Even if I'm the closest we've got to one. No offense meant, but not every medical problem can be solved by dropping everyone in the nearest spirit pool." I sighed. "So how're the three of them doing?"

"You made it out just before the shouting started."

"That was what I was aiming for. Can you really get an exemption for her if she wants to stay?"

"... Probably not. But I can ask. One of the blue ones - Jeff - asked if the spirits could make her human. The other one wants to know if the spirits can 'fix' her - she's happy with six limbs, but has had some problems ever since she was changed. None of them want to be adopted, they just want to take the spirits' gifts without contributing back."

"That doesn't sound likely. I bet they'd be happy to offer lots in return - just not what you're asking for in your first bid." I shrugged. "Don't forget, if your spirit pools worked on me, I'd probably be a fawn nursing from its mother right now, and all of them would be stone cold dead."

"That's really not the poin-"

"Plus, once you'd broken down my eyes, I wouldn't have had any way to prove my lineage, and the Quebecois wouldn't have been able to revive one of their traditions."

"That's not a real tradition, they just wanted an excuse to-"

"And Minnie would be dead. And Dotty would be dead. I'll admit that I'm getting more worried about Joe One, so once all the complications here settle down a bit, I'm going to be heading back out to look for him again. And assuming that he's alright - then I can argue that pretty much nothing bad's happened to the Great Peace from my showing up and not getting melted. So the next time you let your spirits sift through your mind, you can be sure to remind them, as pointedly as you can, that if they'd pulled off their one-size-fits-all policy and adopted me the way they'd tried, they'd be worse off. Exceptions to rules are /important/."

"Nothing. Bad. Happened. ... What about the city-killer?"

"Depending on how the evidence gets weighted, I might have a ten percent chance of being around ten percent responsible for its actions. Which makes it ninety-nine percent not /my/ fault."

"That is not what you said about it before."

"Buffalo had, rounding up, close to a hundred thousand people. Even a one percent share of responsibility for the Berserker means I've got a thousand deaths on my conscience. I'd be happy to discuss how accurate the evidence weighing I'm using is - with someone who's demonstrated that they actually understand the principles involved. For people who don't, well, you don't need to understand calculus to learn how high to aim a bow when shooting at a distant target, but trying to argue about /why/ it has to be aimed so high isn't going to do much good without the math."

"Those numbers are awfully convenient. When you want to beat yourself up, you can be responsible for all of Buffalo. When you want to sound like you do more good then harm, suddenly you bring out this ten percent of ten percent."

I gestured in the vague direction of the stairwell. "I think I remember some intro math textbooks on the third floor."

"I need to go talk to the others about their bodies again. Toffee is not happy with any of the ideas you came up with."

"I'm not happy, either. I avoided mentioning one because I don't know that I could deliver on it - I don't know if I /can/ arrange for artificial intestines to be built right now." I shrugged. "All the other ideas I had were completely unrelated to anything involving the snake-oids. It's not like she'd get any benefit from the research we've done on the goats-"

An idea sprung to my mind in that moment, halfway formed. And then another idea. And then the consequences of those ideas.

Stumbling only a little bit, I continued, "-and people of... Buffalo..." I let myself trail off after those extra words. "Dammit, I think I just pulled a House."

"Is that like pulling a muscle?"

"No, it's about a mythical doctor who came up with cures while talking about unrelated things. Hold on a minute, I'd like to take at least half a minute to think about this in silence."

I pushed Scorpia's buttons to display a seconds counter, and took the half-minute of silence I'd demanded to think as fast and as thoroughly as I could.

"Right," I finally said, after most of a minute. "Red - you said you weren't completely sure whether or not you really could let Toffee live here without adoption?"

"That's right."

"I need to get a concrete answer, one way or the other. Joe Three knows where the nearest spirit pool is if you don't - it's a few klicks south of here."

"Are you trying to get rid of me, to keep me from stopping you from doing something?"

I shrugged. "If I was, would I admit it? If you prefer, I can ask Joe to jump into the pool instead of you, but I really need the answer as soon as practical."

"What are you planning?"

"I don't have a concrete plan, yet," I half-lied. "I still need to ask some questions of our new guests - ones that I think they'd prefer me to ask in private.

Red crossed her arms and frowned. "Promise me you will do nothing before I return."

I nodded. "Nothing but talk, asking questions and figuring out answers."

"I am serious. I am not White Snake, but if you break this promise - Bear Joe would be as happy eating your arms as sitting on you. And like Sarah, you will grow them back."

I held up one hand. "Queen's honour."

"Very well, then." She turned and strode out of the library. I quickly followed, but turned inwards instead of out.

--

"Joe," I nodded to the other bunny-woman. "I've had a thought. The spirits didn't have any bunny-people like you, until they made you to look like me, right?"

"That's right," she agreed, looking a bit cautious.

"So if the spirits wanted, they could come up with their own versions of bodies shaped like Jeff's and Sarah's, right?"

"I suppose so."

"Then I need you to find out the answer to a very important question for me. I've looked at the anatomy scans of those two, and looked at the readings since Clara got here. They were designed... badly. In pain more often then not, spine trouble, one system leaking into another. It is possible for your spirits to put them in new bodies that are shaped like the ones they have now, but that are pain-free. What I need to know about your spirits is: are they only willing to relieve the suffering of members of the Great Peace? Or are they willing to let people experience unending pain, and worse, simply because those people have no interest in signing up?"

"That's a very good question-"

"Joe," I interrupted her. "I need a definite answer, one way or the other. If I don't get an answer soon, I'm going to have to act as if they've answered negatively."

"I can go to a pool and let the spirits see the question in my memory."

"Why not go find a green jay, and pass the question along through them?"

"Birds have simple minds, and I do not think they are smart enough to carry all of that."

"There are lots of birds, and flying is faster than walking, isn't it?"

She frowned. "I suppose. If there are none nearby, I may have to go to the pool myself."

"Whatever you think will get the definite answer soonest."

--

I waded into the three-way shouting match within the clinic, and shoved my hands right into the mouths of Sarah and Jeff. Their teeth scraped my skin, but they choked a bit as I, quite literally, held their tongues still. I glared at Toffee, who was staring at me with jaw hanging. She quickly collected herself enough to start, "And what the /bleep/ do you think /you're/ bleeping doing?"

"Being a wizard. Shut up a minute. I have an idea. If it doesn't work, I don't want to get your hopes up. I need to ask some questions. In private. If you want to stay in this room, I need to get you some earplugs and the like. I can put you back in quarantine in Munchkin. Or I can send you outside and way down the hall, with, say, Bear Joe making sure you don't just sneak back. Your choice."

She blinked rapidly, then said, "Too late."

"What?"

"You've just /gotten/ my bleeping hopes up. Uh - how do I get the bear here to, uh..."

"Just ask him."

I took a few breaths as she had a brief, somewhat one-sided conversation. Munchkin had started to get a certain odour about it, what with me, Bear Joe, Joe Three, and all the bun-bots who matched my scent. And when we'd brought the foxtaurs aboard, things had gotten much more unpleasant, though the hazmat suits and bunbots' constant cleaning had canceled most of that out. Now, in close proximity to the two of them, their natural scent wasn't exactly unpleasant, but was starting to get druidic in its strength.

Once Toffee and Bear Joe had left, I ignored the stares of the people whose tongues I was holding, and looked ceilingwards. "Clara - after the nerve toxin they've experienced, I'm guessing being too active isn't too healthy for these two, and their recovery would go faster if they rested."

"That is right," she agreed.

"The helmet things they've got - can you put them to sleep for a while?"

There was a conversationally significant pause. "Is there a reason you are sending everyone away?"

"Yes. And you can let them wake up in a few minutes, and I'm not going to do anything to them, and so on. If it helps, I've been treating them, so I count as their attending physician, right?"

"That does not work that way. But very well."

The foxtaurs' outraged eyes quickly drifted closed. I pulled my hands out of their muzzles, and hit a sink to clean them up. To Clara, I said, "The retrovirus we cooked up, to turn mammary glands into explosive chemical factories. Would it be safe to conclude that they can replace other bits of genetic coding?"

"Naturally," Clara agreed.

"I'd like you to run a few quick simulations. Pick random bits of snake-oid DNA to get knocked out by a retrovirus, and then see if that snake-oid still transforms its host's cells. Can you figure out what parts of the snake-oid genome are responsible for the cellular conversion process?"

"It may take a little time, but the simulations are well within my capacity."

"Right," I nodded firmly. "I have a new treatment option for Toffee. Design a retrovirus to keep the snake-oid cells from spreading further, remove the snake-oid in her gut, and - well, done. I'm assuming that snake-oid intestines are still capable of digesting food?"

"Certainly. But why do you need to keep this a secret?"

"First - I would like you to make a copy of everything that is required to make that cure, and put it on some portable format. The genomes involved, the blueprints of the equipment needed to make the retrovirus, the computers and software used to run the simulations, the equipment to sample the DNA, and so on. I'm tempted to ask for printed copies of the hardware specs, to keep from having to connect the digital copy to anything else if I want to get any of that hardware made."

"Copying process started. Your reasons?"

I nodded once. I told her, "If the snake-oid conversion can be knocked out with a retrovirus - then I've got a potential way to deal with the infestation of the things, that's a lot less destructive than trying to kill each and every one of them, and all their potential hosts."

"That sounds very nice. Why keep it a secret?"

"Where's the data?"

"Two feet to your left, second drawer down, is a display tablet with sufficient capacity. Please attach it to the network outlet on the wall in the northeast corner." I did so, and after a few moments, Clara said, "You may unplug it now. That contains all the data you requested, as well as some ancillary files that you did not directly ask for but are likely required. The reason for the secrecy?"

"Because to /spread/ the anti-snake-oid virus, I'm pretty sure that I'm going to need to, well, spread it. Without the knowledge or consent of the people or animals living in that area. There's already a certain anti-technological bias in local cultures - if they learn that I have the materials and knowledge that can defend against a bio-agent like the snake-oids, they're likely to get the idea that I'm going to start infecting them all with influenza-ebola-syphilis."

"Do you have further directions?"

"Yep. Everyone here is going to figure out that I'm trying to keep /some/ secret from them, so if you're capable of it, I'd like to have an alternative secret. Chemotherapy works by giving the patient a poison that's more toxic to the bad cells than the good ones. So our fake secret is going to be that I realized we could adapt chemical warfare agents as a cure for Toffee, but don't want the info that I'm able to work with such chemicals getting out."

"That is an amusing parallel to your actual secret."

I shrugged. "I've been told the best lies contain as much truth as possible. Now here's the big question - can you actually keep the secret, a secret?"

"Why did you not ask that first?"

"If using biotech like this went against your core programming, then even asking about it would probably have triggered your warning flags, whether or not you'd promised secrecy. Now then, while you're calculating the new retrovirus targets, how about we work out enough details of the fake chemotherapy to avoid obvious inconsistencies, and then you can wake these two up, and I'll endure everyone shouting at me for a while?"

--

I let the foxtaurs yell at me as much as they wanted, and then Toffee, and Joe Three, and even endured Red telling Bear Joe to sit on me, once she got back and found out I'd sent her on a question that wasn't relevant to what I was doing. The only reasons I kept my arms was that Clara confirmed that I really had just been talking about a highly controversial idea for a possible treatment for Toffee.

Jeff and Sarah were surprised into silence when Joe reported his own wild-goose-chase answer: that the Quebecois' council would be willing to consider asking the spirits to cure non-adoptees on a case-by-case basis... and that the two of them had already been accepted as the first cases. If they walked into a pool, they would walk out with foxtaur bodies designed by the spirits instead of as fawns... and their conduct thereafter, how they treated such a gift, would likely determine how the council, and the spirits, would respond to any future cases.

Which was all well and good, and Toffee agreed that the controversial treatment was worth trying before resorting to yanking out most of her digestive tract, and that keeping the details a secret was a small price to pay, and I could deal with Red's audible resolution to not get more than ten feet away from me again, and so on.

I put up with all of that for the simple reason that the display tablet in my pocket had information that not even Clara had realized the full import of, information she'd agreed to keep secret, information we'd already come up with several layers of misdirection and secrecy to hide.

Back when I'd had my House moment, my first realization was, as I'd said to Clara, that a retrovirus might be a tool to help Toffee with her parasite. But what had gotten me to go through all the effort of secrecy and so on was the realization I'd had immediately thereafter: that if the genetic components of the snake-oid cellular conversion process could be identified, then not only could they be targeted for disruption... they just might be able to be used for other purposes. Clara had said that Toffee's whole anatomy could end up changed - which meant that, possibly, the data in my pocket just might let me pull a poor man's version of one of the Zones around Detroit, transforming any given animal (like a human) into any other shape I happened to have the genetic code of. It might take years - or it might not.

Not to mention, I had Bun-Bun's own form of genetic assimilation to study, given my hoof's conversion into lapiform cells, even if it hadn't reshaped back into a paw.

If Technoville had been willing to black-bag me just because I happened to have an interesting brain, there was no telling what they'd do to me if they ever got a hint that I had any inkling of the technology behind the Zones they constantly fought.

Wiping out the snake-oids, or at least the genes and molecular mechanisms that let them reshape other life forms, was no longer just a matter of keeping that from happening to anyone else; it was a matter of information control, of keeping this technology out of the hands of anyone who didn't already have it, of people who would use it to turn their enemies into draft animals and their friends into, well, draft animals, or anything else that took their fancy.

I needed to run my own computational analyses of the snake-oid genome and proteome and so forth, somewhere that not even Clara could get a hint of what I was up to. (After all, whatever promises of secrecy the AI made, they could be overridden if-and-when the Nine Nations convinced her they'd created a board of governors, or if another Berserker connected to the university hardware.)

There were still some loose ends. A lot of reports from a hinterland about snakes that turned people into snakes could be written off as some bit of local mythology, like jackalopes or loch monsters (Well, there probably /were/ living examples of both of those, but that was beside the point.)... as long as there were no living examples of snakes that could do so. If the surviving snake-oids could still attach to people, like Wagger had to my own rear, then that could be viewed as the foundation of the mythically exaggerated version, the way that a rabbit with a some infection-caused growths were the source of the jackalope myth. But after we'd so blithely informed Toffee about her fate - I gently tried to work into the conversation the idea that, in order to help keep the secret about the source of the chemotherapy, if she had to talk about the parasite infection, she should think of it as having been eating her guts, like an overenthusiastic tapeworm. Or, even better, not talk about it at all.

She was less enthusiastic about this idea than just simply keeping a secret, but seemed willing to go along. When I raised my eyebrows at Joe Three and Red, they shrugged and mumbled; and Jeff and Sarah were so hotly debating the Quebecois offer that they'd probably already forgotten almost anything they'd heard about Toffee.

I decided that any further nudges I tried to make at that point would probably just bring more attention to what I wanted everyone to completely ignore, so that seemed to be as good a solution as I could get at the moment.

Of course, it was entirely possibly I was completely over-reacting. After all, snake-oid conversion might involve non-genetic components, the way that Bun-Bun had a computer for a skeleton which could pull various tricks. Or, maybe it was specific to snake-oid forms only. Or maybe it involved so much spaghetti code that it would be impossible to reverse-engineer, at least without taking decades to read up on biochemistry and genetics. Or maybe even better techniques were already well-known by every enclave of technologically sophisticated post-apocalypse survivors, and they'd just been hiding their knowledge from /me/.

But given the odds of what the tech /might/ be able to accomplish, and the possible magnitude thereof - I was, at least, somewhat satisfied with myself for having already started making preparations to keep such information hidden, with the distraction of my Chamber of Secrets. The info in my pocket wasn't going anywhere near that part of Munchkin - instead, as Toffee endured the physical extraction of the main snake-oid from within her via a colonoscopy-like procedure, and the rest of us got ready to bring the foxtaurs to the nearby spirit pool, I paused a moment to make a couple of copies of the data in my new tablet, including getting some updates of the simulations Clara had run pinning down vital components, and stuck them into Munchkin's lab carriage, along with various hardcopy and digital texts that formed the core of a new reference library. After all, there wasn't anything /obviously/ important about the data to anyone who might skim it, or even read it thoroughly - everyone else in the group had had just as much opportunity to come to the same realizations I had, but hadn't.

And the best place to hide a needle wasn't in a haystack, but in a needlestack.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Nine: A-head*

I kept my hands in my pockets and watched from a respectful distance as Jeff carefully stepped into the pond, making sure her feet wouldn't suffer the same effects that mine had; and then pushed through the semi-liquid to immerse herself. After a reasonably short time, she stepped right back out, looking much the same - but with many subtle differences. She was sleeker, more streamlined - and smiling. She bent her torso forward, backward, all around; broke straight into a gallop and bounded around us, laughing.

After Sarah had repeated the process, and the two of them were quite literally rolling in the grass, I let myself smile a bit.

Joe wandered my way. "I'm surprised the Quebeckers convinced the spirits to do that."

I shrugged. "Maybe the spirits' minds are close enough to human that they responded to my little speech about compassion. Maybe the Quebecois have a politically rising star, and the spirits respond to that. Maybe they're testing the waters to see how well a less absolutist immigration policy does in the real world."

"They look like they're having fun. I always enjoy having four legs - I'm tempted to jump in and see if the spirits will let me join them."

"What, and leave me as the only biological bunny? However would you fulfill your job of giving my bunny-hugs?"

"With more limbs, I could probably hug you even harder. Or maybe the spirits would let me have another me try their shape out."

"Well, if you're going to, you should do it soon. I plan on rolling Munchkin out of here in, oh, ten minutes or so."

"Why the rush? Have somewhere to be?"

"Let's see - the robo-fac is breaking down and I don't know how long it'll keep working, or if I can fix it; I've got piles of warning signs to drop off on the roads leading to Buffalo; I've got an infestation of snake-oids to neutralize, which may require tweaking the paragliders into crop dusters; Joe One still hasn't come back, so I should check in on what he's been up to; I've got heliograph stations to drop off, squiddies to work out the equivalent of a tax system for, and that's not even starting to get into interacting with groups of humans. Oh, and I should probably drop those three off somewhere along the way, assuming they're not going to be living here."

"That's a lot of things to do. Are you sure you can-"

Joe was interrupted as one of the blue foxtaurs practically skidded to a halt in front of us, immediately followed by the other. I noticed that their scent was at least as strong as ever, though even that odor had improved. I also tried to pretend that their fur made an adequate substitute for clothing for preserving their modesty, or at least that we were all part of a culture in which naturism was an unremarkable lifestyle choice.

"Did you say you're sending us away?" asked the first one, who then let her tongue hang out to pant a bit.

"Well," I shrugged, "Not exactly. If you want a ride, I'll be heading out soon, is all."

The two of them looked at each other, tails wagging. The second one said, "Lady asks if /we/ want a ride."

The first said back, "Lady is very silly."

The pair of them both took a step closer to me - and after a very confused few seconds, I found myself sitting on the back of one, holding onto her frontal anatomy to keep myself from getting flung off as the pair ran through the grass.

Once I managed to collect my wits, I snorted, rolled my eyes - and let them have their fun.

I could come up with a very rational and proper excuse for why, a few minutes after I was back on my own two feet, I came out of Munchkin bearing more than enough water-firing weaponry to outfit the whole gang, introducing the activity by yelling my head off and plastering the blue-furred twins with a water balloon each, before letting them 'steal' the various water-guns from me... maybe something about trust-rebuilding exercises or the fact that I was riding high after making my number go up to ten or that it really was a hot and sunny day that the water nicely helped us all cool down from... but why lie?

(Of course I cheated - I kept the bun-bots in reserve as a firing line in case Bear Joe felt grumpy about not joining in. When Red jumped on his back and rode after the fox-twins, I figured that was a good enough excuse to go out in a blaze of glory, let the others 'accidentally' see me lining them up on Munchkin's other side, and then chase me around to trigger my own trap onto myself.)

Once everyone was tuckered out, or at least willing to lean back and relax a bit, I said, "So, Sarah - uh, which of you is Sarah?" One raised her hand, and after a moment of thought, I pulled a white kerchief out of my pocket and tossed it to her. "To tell you apart," I explained, and she tied it around her wrist. "Anyway, I wanted to ask each of you - do you have any plans? Is there a particular place you'd like to go?"

"Plan was, hit city, grab loot, buy ticket, ship west, find Zone, change back to human. Or to anything. Now - well, still feels weird, weirdest to have big giant mouth in what feels like belly-button, but... not as bad weird."

"Still going to try to change back to human?"

Jeff spoke up, "Maybe, maybe not. Not so important now. As long as we change together, or stay together, I'm good."

"It sounds to me," I mused aloud, "that you might be at something of loose ends."

"Hunh?"

Toffee interjected, "Lady says you got no job right now. Lady prolly dancing and not getting to point and wants to offer you job."

"Er," I said expressively, "Something like that. You, too, Toffee."

Sarah's ears perked forward, and asked, "What job?"

"Well, I'm tempted to offer you the positions of official royal steeds... but more seriously, my plans require some digging up of old cities, to try and find out what happened to them. It's not quite the same as looting, but I'm pretty sure you don't need to worry about dying from poisons just from walking near the places..."

The trio looked at each other, then back at me. Sarah asked, "What's the pay?"

"That depends. What do you use for money?"

--

The answer turned out to be 'almost anything'. The good people of Erie were still American enough to measure all prices in dollars - they just didn't bother using any actual, you know, dollar bills. (Anyone who wanted those was free to find an old suburban bank and empty a vault.) Some preferred gold (or, more usually, silver), some signed and countersigned IOUs, some bartered fish or chickens - and, somehow, it seemed to work well enough, at least as far as the trio of Erieans were concerned.

"In that case," I eventually nodded, "I'm sure we can work something out. In the meantime - I started making something for you earlier, and it should be ready by now." I headed over to the Chamber of Secrets, and just in a few moments returned, with a few bundles draped over an arm. "I remember once reading that the surest way to tell an intelligent species from a non-intelligent one was... pockets." I grabbed one bundle and unfurled it, revealing a light tan safari vest. "I'm pretty sure these will fit you, without having to come up with a custom design for your other-than-human anatomy. And trust me, I know how annoying clothing is on fur, so I went with the most comfortable lining I've found so far..."

Jeff and Sarah seemed happy enough as they donned the garments, and I'll admit I was at least slightly more comfortable when they were dressed. I glanced at Toffee. "I got one for you, too, if you want." She just nodded and accepted it without even a single 'bleep'.

"Those," I said, "are gifts. "These," I opened my palm to show what was inside, "are symbols. The royal crown-and-leaves, in lapel pin form. I'll admit that it's fairly understated for a uniform - but we can always work out minor details later. The point is - when you wear these, you are showing everyone that you are in my service, under my orders, and I am ultimately responsible for your actions. I'm... /hoping/ the ideal appeals to you. If it doesn't, we can work out a more ordinary sort of employment arrangement."

Sarah asked, "Do we decide now?"

I shrugged. "You don't have to. You can take the pins without agreeing, while you think it over - just let me know before you put them on, and we can work out exactly what that will involve."

As the trio plucked the bits of metal and enamel from my hand, Red asked, "Don't I get clothes and jewels, too?"

I gave her a 'really?' expression. "If you want me to make you something else to wear, just ask. As for the pin - sorry, but you're already under orders from the Council, and it would be a conflict of interest for you to be under my orders at the same time."

"Maybe I like being conflicted."

"Taking the pin means you're not allowed to tell Bear Joe to sit on me again."

"Maybe I don't like being conflicted."

"That's what I thought."

Joe Three softly spoke up. "And me?"

"You're still under orders to hug me and all that jazz?"

"I wouldn't put it that way. Yes."

"Then no, no pin for you. Joe One, maybe - as far as I know, he's gone so far outside what he had to do that he's pretty much following his own conscience these days. Don't ask me how this is going to work once you start merging and splitting up again - I worked out my protocols for such things before I knew people like you even existed, but you're not bound by them."

"You are starting to talk fast again."

"I can live with being a bit manic. Especially after a good day like today."

--

I parked Munchkin just outside the factory's front entrance. "Now," I said to the gang, "the parking lot is supposed to have been cleaned up of toxin, but the cleanser is, uh, kind of messy, so if you really want fresh air, you can head outside, but you might prefer Munchkin's roof. More importantly, I'm going to be working on some sensitive stuff, and there are all sorts of ways things could go wrong if you came in with me, including some dangers that it would take me longer to explain than I plan on being in there for - so if you need me, just send one of the bun-bots in after me, alright? There's brownies in the food machine, water in the sink, reading material in the lab, and whatever chairs and beds you want to arrange in here. Everyone got all that?"

I got nods from everyone but Bear Joe and Wagger, so I nodded back, pulled on my utility vest (which could hold many more electronics tools than the bat-belt), and slipped into the factory.

I had a fairly simple idea I wanted to try out: When a computer starts going wonky, one of the first things to attempt is a simple hard reset, turning the power off and on. One of the problems with doing that to the factory was that whoever had designed the place had put in enough backups and redundancies to satisfy even my urges toward being Crazy Prepared. On the one hand, that might have been what had kept the place in running shape until I found it; on the other hand, it made it hard to separate any given piece of computing equipment from all the direct power lines, indirect UPSes, and internal battery backups. On the gripping hand, this was an industrial site rather than a home computer, and trying to reboot anything without a manual might be impossible, so I wanted to find a relatively useless piece of computing machinery to try to power-cycle first; but, again, everything was so redundant with hardwired data connectivity that isolating a single computer wouldn't be easy.

I was elbow-deep in cables behind what I was fairly sure was some sort of rackmount server, Gofer-Bun holding a light over my shoulder as I tried to sort out the Gordion-esque tangle, when noises started. I looked around, but they seemed to be in some far point of the factory, so I went back to work. However, just when I'd finished identifying which cables were for power and which were for data, the machinery in the industrial-sized room I was in also came to life. Even pressing my ears down on the back of my head, I winced at the volume; deciding not to test Bun-Bun's ability to regenerate hearing loss, I put in a pair of earplugs.

The nearby printers, presses, mills, and less identifiable machinery were all whirring away madly. I couldn't really make out what they were making - or even make a good guess about what sort of product would require /all/ of them. I was /fairly/ sure that my fiddling with the cables wouldn't have triggered anything, since I hadn't started unplugging any yet. Maybe I happened to be around during a maintenance interval, or a backlogged order was just now hitting the top of the scheduler, or...

I pulled Gofer-Bun out of the way of an automated forklift, which was going fast enough that its prongs would have put the realism of her innards to the test if she hadn't moved. It was carrying a simple drill press - and, to my astonishment, dumped it into the feedstock hopper of another machine, which rapidly tore the smaller machinery into small chunks of shredded metal.

A sharp light started throwing intermittent shadows from the middle of the room. Squinting and peering between my fingers, I was just able to make out some sort of arc-welder being applied near one of the room's main support beams. A deeper squint, and a correction - being applied /to/ one of the room's main support beams.

That was /not/ any sort of standard maintenance procedure I could imagine.

I froze in place for several long seconds, as alternative courses of action raced through my mind - try to stop the self-destruction (and risk becoming feedstock), run away screaming, try to salvage whatever was most valuable...

I finally managed to move, to look at the computing machine I'd chosen. A couple of feet wide and deep, and twice that high - and, on the very bottom, caster wheels.

I made a choice. Maybe a bad one, but it was better than standing like a deer in the headlights. "Gofer-Bun," I ordered, "Unplug /all/ these cables, as fast as you can."

The thing weighed, as best as I could figure, somewhere over half a ton. Forklift-bots were racing back and forth down the main walkways. The lighting was abysmal. The roof was groaning as its supports were fed into machines that would be crushed when the place collapsed.

I was tense, dodging every random robot that came by, getting ready to abandon both computer and bun-bot to run for my life if things got one step worse, flinching at every new form of cacophony that made it through my earplugs, trying to keep my eyes open for any clue about /what/ was going on...

... and abruptly, we pushed through the door to the lobby section, where all was perfectly calm and peaceful.

Mostly.

From another entrance to the factory floor, I saw a forklift-bot drop off a pallet, carrying a pile of shiny metal things. Jeff calmly stepped over, started scooping them into bags, and slung them over Sarah's back. She staggered a little under the weight, then started trotting to the entrance; Toffee was just coming back, carrying empty bags.

Behind me, the door opened again - and the harsh light of a welder announced the doorframe itself was now being taken apart. The trio looked up at the light, squinting in my direction.

I gritted my teeth, consciously controlling as much of my body's movements as I could. "You three," I said, without elaboration. "Help me get this aboard Munchkin," I tapped the top of what I hoped was a server. "As gentle as possible, but as fast as possible." There was a great grinding, groaning, rumbling noise, and a cloud of dust billowed into the lobby, turning the fractalline decorations into mere oddly-shaped lumps. "Emphasis on /fast/." I tried not to breathe in until I'd pulled a filter mask from my vest.

Outside - another welder thing had started on a lamp-post. With five bodies, several of them with non-human advantages in leverage or strength, it was a lot easier to roll the computer to one of Munchkin's airlocks, and up and through.

"Get aboard," I stated.

Toffee declared, "But there's more-"

"Get aboard," I repeated, "or be left behind. Argue later."

They got.

Once they, and Gofer-Bun, and I were all aboard, and I'd closed the door, I called out, "Munchkin: Bug-out, bug-out, bug-out." Without any further commands, the vehicle started running through the pre-arranged emergency escape sequence, heading at maximum speed to a location at least one klick distant. The acceleration knocked everybody onto the floor. Or, in Jeff's case, onto one of several piles of shiny metal things.

I'd known to brace myself, so I was still standing. I reached down and picked up one of the shinies: it was the size and shape of a credit card, made of a silvery metal which the embossed letters claimed (in Free Press letters) to be silver. Specifically, three point five zero cubic centimeters of silver (at twenty degrees Celsius), massing thirty-six point seven grams, or one point one eight troy ounces. The crown and leaves were drawn with etching. On the other side were my own profile and name (in classic English letters).

I picked up one from another pile. Titanium, fifteen point seven grams. I wiped my glasses free of dust, and squinted - I could make out nickel, copper, aluminium, lead, bronze, and there were more piles I couldn't see from where I was standing.

"By any chance," I said, as various species pulled themselves onto various forms of legs, "Is the explanation for what I am seeing that you noticed the factory self-destructing, and so you decided to... extract as much metal as you could?"

The foxtaurs glanced at each other, but Toffee just shook her head. "No, ma'am."

"Ah, I'm a 'ma'am' now. I thought that was a term given to people you respected."

Sarah spoke up, "We /do/ respec' you, Lady-ma'am."

"Very well. Then please. Explain what happened."

Toffee took a step forward. "Well, you see, it was like this-"

I cleared my throat. "And please," I added, "respect me enough to skip the more obvious lies, and the ones that I can disprove by looking at camera recordings."

Toffee said, "Oh. Um - well, the front part didn't /look/ dangerous, and Joe Three said she'd been there, so we went and looked around. I saw something asking me what I wanted, and I said 'money' - and, well, piles of it started-."

She broke off as Munchkin skipped a half-step forward, sending us all to the floor.

Jeff, wide-eyed, asked, "What was /that/?"

I called up a virtual window of a rear view. "At a guess," I commented, "given the lack of flame - possibly a compressed-air tank blowing. Or maybe a large section of roof." I tried taking a deep breath, and letting it out. "Well," I said, as steadily as I could manage, "I suppose that means I'm going to need to adjust most of my future plans. And re-evaluate the decisions I made leading up to this one, so that I never have to kick myself and say 'I should have seen that coming'. ... I'm suddenly thinking of the bun-bot I left manning the heliograph on the roof. It's a bit of a long-shot, but I'm going to try relaying a message to the university tower and back to tell her to abandon her post. Be a bit tricky at this speed - don't want to lose another bun-bot to a tree-branch here. Gofer-Bun, retrieve heliograph."

As I started fiddling with one of the roof accesses, Sarah whispered, "There was - is - somebody still there?"

"Just a bun-bot," I said. "They look like me, and now there's no way any more can ever be made, but they're not people. They don't think, just follow orders." I ignored her for a while as I balanced giving orders to Munchkin, helping Gofer-Bun lift the heliograph, and recalling the signals I'd need to give to get the order relayed. Assuming there was still a bun-bot left to relay any orders to.

After a few minutes, that was done, and I closed the roof hatch, cutting off the noise of the wind.

Toffee spoke up, "Look, I'm sorry-"

I interrupted without looking at her. "I doubt that."

"What?"

I continued packing away the heliograph. "I suspect you are simply at the whipped puppy stage, trying to avoid as much punishment as possible. A real apology involves an acknowledgement of how much the offender hurt the victim, and an announcement of some sort of intended behavioural change to prevent a recurrence. You are not even fully aware of the magnitude of what you have done, so how can you be truly sorry?"

Sarah asked, "Mag-ni-tude?"

"The facility that is now self-destructing, if it had not been tampered with, had the potential for building a wide array of medicines, fertilizer, farming machines, vehicles, bun-bots like Gofer-Bun here, and many more objects of true worth."

Toffee objected, "But we've /got/ worth! Just look at all this money!"

I finally looked up at her. For some reason, she took two steps back, and Joe Three slid her shoulder in front of Toffee's. "You really think this... /money/ has any value?"

"Well - yeah, of course! It's money! A little funny-looking, but silver's silver!"

I rubbed my forehead, and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Would it be safe to conclude that you have had absolutely no training in either microeconomics or macroeconomics?"

"You don't have to say it like /that/."

"Then I can only conclude that you are completely unaware of the Spanish and Portuguese empires, of four centuries ago, more or less."

"What about 'em?"

"When they discovered this continent, they decided to exploit it by bringing as much gold and silver as they could back to their homeland. They brought so much /money/ that they flooded the market, dropping the value of precious metals precipitously, ruining their economies. Before they did that, they were the most powerful empires on the planet. A couple of centuries later, they were barely also-rans. All their power, all their influence, their armies and navies, their overseas colonies - frittered away, because people grabbed hold of all the /money/ they could, instead of wealth."

"But-"

"Toffee - if you'd had all this silver before we'd met, how much of it would you have been willing to pay to be cured? Or, more to the point, how much would you have wanted to hold on to, if holding onto it meant you would die?"

"But-"

"You are, apparently, completely clueless about the true wealth that you and your greed for /money/ have destroyed. What is worse, I can't even blame you for your actions. I /assumed/ that a group of people planning on looting a city would understand the concept of areas that looked safe but were dangerous; and even if I hadn't assumed that, I could have prevented this whole mess just by locking Munchkin's doors."

Joe Three said, "Bunny, that's enough. You should go back, get some sleep-"

Wagger coughed a brief lungful of dust out, then I continued interrupting her, "I don't see why. Just because I lost the main tool I could have used to save countless lives is destroyed doesn't mean I don't still have lots to do. Warning signs to cure, the snake-oid poison to distribute, and so on."

Jeff spoke up, quietly. "What about us?"

I shrugged. "You can do whatever you like. You can get off wherever you find convenient, with as much of this /money/ as you care for. After all, you arranged for it, so if you wanted to argue the point, it probably technically counts as yours-"

Red Deer finally spoke. "Bear Joe, sit on her."

"What?" I blinked in surprise as the large creature made his way over. He looked at me, I rolled my eyes, and sat down so he didn't have to work to get me down. I grunted as his weight settled onto my lap.

Red Deer stated, "You are not thinking straight. You are angry."

"Of course I am. That doesn't mean I'm making incorrect decisions."

"How is insulting and demeaning these people, people you saved and gave new bodies to and offered to hire, a correct decision?"

"I planned on hiring them because I thought they had at least some modicum of intelligence. As that doesn't seem to be the case, I don't envisage them being of any more use than bun-bots, simple bodies following orders instead of thinking for themselves."

Red Deer crossed her arms. "Is that how you see me?"

"Of course not. You don't even follow orders."

She rolled her eyes at me. "Is that how you see /people/?"

I managed to shrug. "I have a job to do, that's more important than anything else I can think of. People who can help with that, I'll work with to the best of my ability. People who can't, are most likely wasting my time."

Joe Three sat down next to me. "What about friendship?"

"I understand for most people, it's a pretty fundamental drive. I've never been particularly good at it."

Joe waved at Sarah, calling for her to come over, pointing for her to sit down on the other side of me. Sarah seemed nervous, but stretched out there. "Put your head on her shoulder - hug her, if you like." Joe looked at me. "You saved her life. You pulled political strings I didn't even know you had to fix her body. You're telling me you don't feel /anything/ positive for her?"

Uncomfortable, I shrugged again. "About as much as I do anyone else I've met."

Joe frowned. "And she's just set you back by - years, maybe. You don't feel... betrayed? Angry at her? Want her to ask you to forgive her?"

"There's nothing to forgive. Like I said - it was my fault."

Sarah whispered, "Was our fault, too. My fault." I blinked, and tilted my head as I looked at her. She looked back. "Should have spoke, I. Should have - stayed on machine. Done your orders. I can, now?"

"Er - can what?"

"You order, I do. Anything. Everything."

I coughed slightly, then shook my head. "I... appreciate the thought. In... a few ways. But - the idea makes me uncomfortable. In all sorts of ways."

"Isn't that what you asked? Apology part is making change?"

"Sarah," I put my hand on hers, "Right now - I look at you, and I see a child, someone who would rather go exploring than heed any warnings. It would be - unfair of me to take advantage of a child's promises."

She pulled her arms away. "Am /not/ a child! Fuck Jeff often! Daily, some days!"

I felt my face heat, and I looked away. "That's - not the point. Uh - Joe, a little help here?"

Joe said, "I think you're doing fine digging your own hole."

I sighed, rubbed my forehead again. All the tenseness I'd picked up while running through the factory suddenly drained away, leaving all my limbs heavy. "It's been a long day," I stated. "I'm going to lie down. Um - maybe tell Munchkin to hit the sign drop-off spots first. Set an alarm for when we stop, to set the signs."

Joe asked, "Can that wait?"

I glared at her. "How many people do /you/ want to die, wandering into VX residue with no warning?"

"Fine, fine. But you don't have to do /everything/ yourself."

"Eh, I suppose not. I think I can tell the bun-bots what to do before I crash."

"I meant, us."

"Oh. Well, I suppose it's not that complicated of a job, and would save me the effort." I put the back of my hand to my mouth to hide a yawn. "Bear Joe, you joining me?"

As my life-sized teddy and I headed back to our usual mattress, my bunny ears overheard Jeff ask, "She fucks him?"

Red answered, "Not yet, anyway. Just sleeps beside him. I don't think she does anything but sleep, with anyone."

I called back, "I can still hear you, you know."

Red called right back, "I know!"

I rolled my eyes, grunted, and flopped into bed.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Ten: A-sleep*

Wet fur, strong enough to hide any other scents.

Rain, pattering on a roof.

Unbrushed teeth.

On my back, a weight holding down each of my arms.

An overfull bladder.

The last sensation led me to open my eyes. In the soft glow of Munchkin's dim nightlights, I found myself staring at a sleeping blue fox's face. Turning my head - another one, close enough that I could make out each individual strand of fur even without my glasses. A sheet covered all three of us - and other than that, nothing but our own fur did.

"Well, this is cliched," I observed aloud.

Fox eyes opened.

"Lady is awake," came from behind me.

"Lady is still angry?" came from ahead of me.

"Lady has to go pee," came from me, and they lifted their human-ish torsos so that I could.

Once that was taken care of, I leaned against the washroom's doorframe, brushing my teeth as I looked down at my bed, and its two unexpected occupants. I stuck the brush in the corner of my mouth to ask, "What time is it?"

"Lady slept two days."

"Red Deer put drug in brownie."

"Lady's tail ate brownie."

I glanced over my shoulder at Wagger, who looked up at me with innocent slit-pupiled eyes. I rolled my own, and looked back at the pair. Only slightly garbled by my oral ministrations, I inquired, "Where are we?"

"Quarry."

"Limestone quarry."

"Joe asked Munchkin for place with low profile."

"Munchkin found place below ground."

"Mm-hm." I turned around to spit and such. Once I was done, I started dressing. "Do anything while you had me under?"

"Oh yes."

"Lots."

"As much as we could."

I had my undies on by then, so I crossed my arms and /looked/ at them.

"Lady thinks we fucked her."

"Lady still mad at us."

"Lady should know us better."

"If Lady wants sex, Lady just needs asking."

"Lady needs more sleep?"

I grunted. "Lady - /I/ - have slept quite enough, thank you very much."

They chorused, "You're welcome."

I sighed. "I might regret asking - but what /have/ you been doing?"

"Worked on your list."

"Toffee started at top, looked for what we could do."

"Signs were easy."

"Everyone going near Buffalo and gets poisoned, is their own fault now."

"Even added more signs where smoke fell."

"Lady forgot to add that to list, Toffee thought you'd want it done."

I paused with my business skirt halfway up my legs. "She... wasn't wrong."

"While we did signs, Joe stayed with Clara."

"Talked to her about snakes."

"How to poison them."

"How to find them."

"How to fly."

"Joe doesn't like flying."

"Jeff and I are too heavy for flying machines."

"Toffee learned how."

"Clara taught where to put poison baits."

"Talked about shooting snakes, but they hide too good."

"That village is soaked in poison now."

"Snakes should be all poisoned now."

"Should watch for new ones, just in case."

I sighed a bit. "Well - that was fast. Can't complain about that, really. Had to be done, and I was out of it. I can complain about feeding Wagger a drugged brownie, though."

"Red Deer said you were going to pop."

"Stress levels through roof."

"Lady doesn't drink."

"Doesn't fuck."

"Doesn't party."

"Doesn't do drugs."

"Doesn't do sports."

"Doesn't do art."

"Doesn't talk."

"Doesn't get massages."

"Doesn't have a hobby."

"Does meditate, but not enough."

"Does walk around nature, but not lately."

"Hasn't listened to music."

"Hasn't read anything but important stuff."

"Has a pet, but Wagger can't play fetch."

"Not well."

"Short games."

"Very short."

I cleared my throat, and they nudged their almost-conversation back onto something resembling a topic.

"Red Deer said you were going crazy."

"That she'd have to say no to all your plans."

"Even the good ones."

"Bear would have to sit on you all the time."

"She wanted different solution."

"Rode Bear off into forest, looking for one."

"Came back."

"Hasn't told us what it is."

"I think it's drugs, from forest plants."

"You think all plants are drugs."

"Well, they are."

"Apples?"

"Apple seeds have poison. Poison's a kind of drug."

I coughed again.

"I think she went looking for boy bunnies."

"No you don't."

"I just said I do."

"You think she went looking for /man/ bunnies."

"Oh. Yeah, I do."

I turned away from the bedroom. I spoke to the air, "I think the food maker's got a setting for coffee. Never drank the stuff before, but maybe I should start..."

--

A short time later, I was sitting on top of Munchkin's roof, looking out at the plants extending their dominion over bare white rock, while sipping a hot beverage that was based on mint leaves that somebody had picked and stored away in the pantry.

My silent musings were interrupted as Toffee swung open a roof hatch behind me, looked around, and finally pulled herself all the way through. "You're not planning on jumping off, are you?"

I didn't turn. "If I wanted to commit suicide, I'd have the bun-bots freeze me. Maybe some other schmuck would figure out how to fix things by the time someone were to thaw me out."

"Oh. Uh..."

"No, I'm not planning on killing myself that way, either."

"Good. Really bleeping don't want you to do that."

"You all seem to have been doing fairly well on your own."

"Well, for a day or two, yeah, but we were just working on the to-do list you made."

"You've got the list. You don't need me to keep following it."

"Sure we do. I don't know what half the bleeping stuff on it even /means/."

"Clara could explain, if you asked her."

"Look, are you /trying/ to get bleeping rid of us?"

"Not... quite. More the opposite."

"Uh - gather more people?"

"Let you get rid of me."

"Now why would you bleeping want that?"

"Because one of the only ways I know how to keep myself sane is to spend as much time on my own as possible. I was starting to get used to Joe - but now there's her, and Red, and Boomer, and you, and the fox twins, and Alphie, and..." I trailed off, and shrugged. "I can't even trust my own tail. I would be a much happier rabbit if I chucked the whole thing and wandered off into the forest by myself."

"Aren't you supposed to be some kind of bleeping queen?"

"That started as an attempt to get around a bit of bureaucracy, turned into a running joke, and by now is a farce."

"So you're /not/ a queen?"

"If I really wanted, I could push the point, and get acknowledged as a queen by, well, anyone I cared to."

"So what's wrong with that?"

"Being a queen? Nothing. Being a /mad/ queen? I'd rather be a sane forest hermit."

"Okaaaay... so why are you still here?"

"Abandoning my goals in favour of other goals is one thing. Leaving essentially random people who I can't trust not to drug me in charge of technology that could allow them to create and use Weapons of Mass Destruction is a different sort of irresponsibility altogether."

"What are you bleeping talking about, 'Mass Destruction'?"

I tried to be careful about edging around some of the details I'd decided to keep secret. "Do you think that the sorts of poison you used on the snake-oids can only be targeted on the one species?" I finally did turn my head to look at her. "Do you think that that's the most dangerous piece of tech available around here?"

"You mean it's bleeping /not/?"

"I hear you've learned to fly. In the more secure parts of Munchkin, I have a weapon which can be used to kill a person from - well, I'm not going to give too many secrets away, but from higher up than any rifle can reach. If I put my mind to it... I expect that I have the power to kill off any human, or group of humans, I've met so far. Well, except maybe Technoville."

"So, uh... why don't you?"

"Well, for one thing, I don't particularly /want/ to. Even if I did have some atavistic urge to force other people to kiss my hoof at gunpoint, I'd have to wreck so much in the process that that would be the /only/ thing I'd be able to do. Any chance of getting people who are actually willing to help me solve /important/ problems would just be right out."

"Don't knock a good foo - er, hoof-licking until you've tried it. What sort of problems are you thinking of?"

"For one thing - you know all those pretty falling stars every night? They mean that even if anyone was still watching for dangerous asteroids on a course to impact the planet, there's no way to send anything up there to divert it. And given that, just before the Singularity, some people managed to stick a shade up between us and the sun to control the climate, it's entirely possible that some idiot started an asteroid mining scheme, arranging to move one closer to Earth to be easier to mine, except now there's nothing left to stop it. And we might not know until clouds of dust wrap around the planet from the impact. It might even have happened already, and the effects won't get here for another few hours."

"You're bleeping with me."

"Not at all."

"No, I mean you're /bleeping/ with me. /Nobody/ can tackle a problem /that/ bleeping big. I mean-"

"That's not even the worst scenario. Just one of the more dramatic. And since there seems to be a distinct lack of other people able to cooperate on any scale larger than a city, and I'd really rather not get killed by any of them if they can be avoided - I'd be happy to hand over responsibility for dealing with them to anyone who's got a better shot than I do. And if nobody like that exists - well, it might take a decade or two, but I've got the option of trying to create the conditions that would allow such people to be created, through education and such."

"Why not just bleeping ask for the moon while you're at it?"

"Putting a self-sustaining colony there would certainly go a long way to solving a lot of the problems. Unfortunately - all those shooting stars are still in the way."

"Maybe you're not bleeping with me. Maybe you're /already/ bleeping insane."

"Maybe." I shrugged, and sipped my mint tea. "Of course, to even have a shot at dealing with all of that, I've got to deal with a few more immediate problems first."

"Us?"

"Me. After what you and the twins pulled, I should be on some sort of roaring rampage of revenge. But the strongest emotion I can muster is... mild annoyance."

"Well, that's good for us, innit?"

"Maybe. But blunted emotions are a bad sign for my mental health. The strongest thing I'm feeling right now is just... tired. I've been asleep for two solid days, and one of the things I most want to do is to crawl into bed - my /own/ bed, by myself... okay, or maybe with Bear Joe - and pull a pillow over my head."

"So why doncha? We covered for you for a couple days, we can do that for a couple more. Honestly, all three of us owe you a bleep-ton more of a vacation than that."

"I could say something about that being 'the easy way out' and thus unworthy... but more importantly - somebody dying of thirst will still avoid drinking from a glass of water if it's poisoned. If I just crawl into bed, or do something similarly useless, like trying to catch up on thirty-five years of pre-singularity games, books, and shows - I don't know if I'll be able to get back to facing reality in time to get anything done. So I came up here to think, and to... strategize, I guess."

"Figuring out what cities to have lick your hoof and which to leave alone?"

"Not... exactly. More to strategize myself."

"Bleep?"

"Hm. A metaphor for the mind. Imagine that Sarah and Jeff didn't really have control over their lower halves - that their big, four-legged bits wandered around, doing whatever they pleased, and they mostly came up with excuses for why they were doing whatever their lower bodies were doing. Sometimes, they manage to grab a stick and whack their lower bodies to get them to do what they /really/ want to do. That's a... reasonable model of the mind - the lower bodies being the unconscious side, the upper bodies being the conscious mind. My unconscious has generally been pretty good about letting my conscious mind lead it around - almost without effort. But now it's finally heading its own way, so now I need to come up with a metaphorical stick to whack it with."

"I /like/ letting my bleeping lower half doing my thinking for me."

"... Right. Well, I'm sure that can certainly be fun and satisfying in the short term, but it doesn't help much with long-term planning, or simple survival."

"Well, if that's what floats your bleeping boat. So - what, your lower half is thinking of bleeping offing yourself?"

"Not... exactly. And I've got a last-ditch option ready in case it ever does, to keep it from getting its way."

"Freeze yourself?"

"No, that's only got something like a one-in-twenty chance of working - I mean to keep from taking that step. A very long time ago, I made a promise to myself that if I couldn't think of a reason to keep on keeping on, I'd act /as if/ my purpose for living were to read comics. I've never had to put it to the test, but it's been part of my planning for so long, that I'm hoping my unconscious mind has already swallowed the idea and would be willing to play along. However, it's a last-ditch option for a reason - reading comics doesn't really get much done, and doing what has to be done to read them isn't really sufficient impetus to get much done beyond the basic necessities of survival. I'd basically be giving up on my whole to-do list for however long I was stuck in that level of depression."

"But reading these - comics was it? - is still better than being dead, right?"

"That's the idea. So if worst comes to worst, I'll make my way to the university, and hit the library there. But since if I do, I'll be doing nobody any good for months, or years - I'm trying to remember all the ways I've heard of, when people know what they want to do but can't quite bring themselves to do it. There's a term for that... apraxia? No - akrasia. I think that's it. Depression isn't quite the same as procrastinating or trying to diet - but if the tricks that work on the latter will let me deal with the former, at least to the point of being depressed but still getting things done... I'll take it."

Toffee started asking, "Uh - you're saying you're really sad-"

"/No/. If you use that as your mental model for what I'm referring to by the word 'depression', then you'll get all /sorts/ of oh-so-clever ideas like 'well, why doesn't she just cheer up, then?', ideas which /don't work/, and which would waste a lot of both our times trying to make work. The chemicals in my brain are supposed to be balanced in a certain way, which lets me think clearly. When there's too much of one chemical, or too little of another, I don't think clearly, in certain specific ways. One of those ways happens to have picked up the title 'depression'."

"Okay, okay, jeez, bleep. So... what sort of 'tricks' are we talking about?"

I pulled my small notepad out of my pocket. "I've jotted down the ones I've been able to remember so far. Top of the list - regular exercise. This fuzzy pink body I happen to live in might not need exercise to get strong, or stay strong - but I remember something about regular exercise likely helping improve mood disorders, at least a little bit. I'd rather waste an hour or two a day on pointless physical movement than twenty-four hours a day doing nothing - so I'm going to start working out a preliminary exercise schedule of, say, running and burpees."

"If you were anyone else, I'd say you were making that last word up."

"It's a sort of exercise that doesn't need equipment, and in non-bunnies, strengthens all the major muscle groups. There's a few versions, but for one, for each one, you count to eight. Start standing. One, drop to a crouch. Two, kick your legs behind you. Three, spread your legs. Four, lower your arms. Five, raise your arms. Six, straighten your legs. Seven, pull your legs back into a crouch. Eight, reach your arms up and jump as high as you can. Land standing. Repeat many, many times, with occasional breaks."

"Sounds bleeping ridiculous."

"Looks ridiculous, too. But I remember reading something that, pre-Singularity, prisoners didn't have much to do but exercise. A lot liked lifting weights - gave them nice-looking muscles. When some of them had their exercise equipment taken away, so they couldn't do much besides burpees... then those prisons started needing a lot more guards to handle any given unruly prisoner. It's probably apocryphal - but it /could/ be true, and since I like to pride myself on being perfectly willing to look ridiculous if that's what's necessary to /get stuff done/, it's a good mesh with my goals here."

"... Does it really make humans stronger?"

"... I might be able to stand some group exercise sessions, if it'll help you get started with a routine of your own. Ditto meditation - that's also on my list, for much the same reasons. A proper sleep schedule is on the list. And - well, as much as I enjoy the brownies Munchkin's kitchen produces, and despite the fact that my stomach is supposed to be able to handle anything, I'm going to have to start tracking my diet, and see if I can find any correlations between what I eat and my level of depression. From the data I've been able to get a hold of, which might be outdated by the science that was figured out just before the Singularity, there are arguments that sugar-rich foods cause fluctuations in blood sugar that aren't good for depression. There are also arguments that blood sugar is a vital resource for proper brain functioning, and a lot of brain chemistry issues stem from not having enough of it at the right times. So maybe I need to imitate a certain character called L and eat all the sugar I can - or maybe I need to give it up entirely and focus on leaves."

"I think you can leave me out of /that/ diet."

"Well, yes. Let's see." I flipped the page. "Oh, yes. Social disapproval from people you respect is a pretty effective motivator. Even imagined social disapproval would do. The trouble is, there are very few people whose opinions I respect on significant matters, such as cryonics as a valid strategy for survival or how to deal with extinction risks; and even fewer who I know well enough to imagine standing, looking over my shoulder and tut-tutting at me when I do something stupid." I flipped another page. "And there's taking pills. The techniques we used to create the anti-snake poison could, possibly, be used to create medicines, if I can identify which medicine would affect my brain chemistry in the right way." Another flip. "And there's always leveraging the placebo effect to do good instead of bilking customers of their money. I should probably check with Clara on which forms of placebo are within the range of our resources and have the greatest reported effect."

I flipped another page, and noticed Toffee's expression was a smile that was kind of unchanging and frozen. I flipped the notebook closed, and she let out a small breath, which I guessed was in relief. "And there's more like that," I summarized. "Procrastination is relatively easy to solve, once you know it /can/ be solved, and have access to a list of tricks that might work. At least in comparison to other problems. So when I head back down, I'm going to start straight away on scheduling all these," I waved the notepad in the air, "lifestyle changes. And when my head gets straightened out as much as it can be straightened - we'll just have to see if it's straight enough to get /anything/ useful accomplished outside of that, and if so, what; and then I get to start revising the to-do list based on my exhibited capabilities."

--

Munchkin had a perfectly respectable internal surveillance system, recording all words spoken within to a log for debugging purposes if nothing else - but my bunny ears made the whole thing moot. Toffee had left the roof hatch open when she clambered back down, and by tilting my ears /just/ right, I was able to catch her voice reflecting from inside - and that of the person she was talking to.

One of the foxes asked, "Is she slanted?"

Toffee answered, "She's slanted, for sure. After Red's words about her walk, she'd be slanted if she /weren't/ slanted. But she's the straightest slant I've seen."

"God-botherer?"

"Not so you'd notice," Toffee answered. "In no hurry to die, and she talks on freezing herself like she can thaw out."

"Can she?"

"Bleep if I know. You two squinted around as much as I have - we've seen funkier."

"Then what's her angle?"

"Haven't winkied out that yet."

"Maybe throwing us out with th'argent was a bluff?"

Toffee didn't answer for a few moments, before saying, "If it was - we can grab it later. On the tick - she's got plans to keep from going slantier."

"Drugs?"

"Some, I think. Food. Exercise. Sitting and thinking. We stick with her."

"If wanted that, would've stayed in guard."

"Rather be four-legs and rich, or four-legs and rich /and/ powerful? Says she's got a gun that..."

At that point, they shifted, and the echo I'd been catching disappeared into thin air.

Assuming that that hadn't just been a little performance put on for yours truly... it did explain a few things, like why the three of them had been sticking around and working on my chores, instead of just grabbing the money and running. I didn't begrudge them their greed - in a sense, it was my own greed, for an indefinitely extended lifespan, that was one of my own prime motivations. And more important - greed was simple enough that I could at least make an attempt to work with it and make plans based on its existence, with reasonably little risk of causing accidental insult or getting caught in some complicated political scheme I had no hope of ever understanding.

(As I continued my thinking, I clambered down from Munchkin's roof, muttered a few brief words in passing, changed my outfit from business formal to something more suited to outdoor exercise (eg, sports bra and pistol-crossbow holsters), and started running laps around the quarry.)

After all, if I were to let myself start using paranoia as an analysis strategy, examining the results of who benefitted from actions to derive their source... then I would note that the spirits of the Great Peace had a known reason to want the robo-factory destroyed, and shortly after the fox twins had been placed into a pool that had the potential to rearrange their memories, those fox twins just happened to destroy the factory. However, even if that analysis happened to be true, that /method/ of analysis didn't provide much in the way of useful predictions ahead of time. The most relevant paranoid analysis I could come up with was that some group or entity had an interest in keeping the Lake Erie cities fractured and independent, evidenced by the fact that none of them had tried putting together a heliograph network before, despite the idea being a couple of centuries old; and thus I could expect some sort of push-back if-and-when I continued placing new heliograph stations. The /reason/ that analysis wasn't helpful was that I was /already/ expecting push-back, in one form or another: plagues of beavers, or politicians demanding ludicrous payments, or mobs of anti-tech fanatics, or network disruption attempts by would-be hackers. And I had various ideas on how to deal with any of those scenarios that could actually be dealt with.

Not all of those ideas had made it to the to-do list. Some were just part of the design, such as the networking protocols I'd spent some time designing, or the provisions for electric fencing protecting any given heliograph station. And some, I was just keeping an outright secret, from the contents of one-time pads to... well, come to think of it, I was keeping a /lot/ of secrets by now, which made Toffee's description of me as being 'straight' kind of laughable. I had multiple origin stories, so I could fall back on one or another depending on how prejudiced an individual I was dealing with. I wasn't sure if Toffee and the foxes had figured out that Clara was an AI yet, but I'd been keeping Boomer and Alphie discreetly tucked away, so that even if they knew about Clara, various levels of plausible deniability were still possible. None of them seemed interested in how Munchkin was powered, and I was keeping the fact that, if I really, /really/ wanted, I could apply the fusion reactor to create an explosion at something approaching a kiloton of force so secret that I hadn't even told Boomer. (She might already know, but seemed smart enough not to spread that detail around. And, of course, she might not know /I/ knew; but that sort of recursive paranoia was even less productive than the regular kind.) And speaking of WMDs, I had tech that could, potentially, rewrite any given organism, and had already used it to create one species-destroying disease, under cover of spreading a more simple chemical toxin. And, well, the reason that was a plausible cover was that I actually could arrange for the creation of such toxins, if I put my mind and mini-factory toward that task. I had an omnicidal AI in a box. I had a different computer which might contain the manufacturing specs for Munchkin's reactor.

I was also pretty sure that, back in the day, there was no way I would ever pass a security clearing to get access to secrets of that level of magnitude. For one, I was barely over a month into trying to get used to the fact that over ninety-nine percent of humanity had died off, including everyone I'd ever known, personally or by reputation; for another, there was pretty much everything else I'd been faced with since waking up, which had led to my little coping-strategy brainstorming session. /I/ wouldn't trust me not to go off the deep end and start playing Berserker myself. I had the power to kill, not just anyone, but just about everyone I cared to, if I cared to; with scant exceptions. One exception were members of the Great Peace, who could be resurrected from any given 'spirit pool', and those things seemed to be spread across at least a few dozen thousand square kilometers, maybe even a few hundred thousand; and I still had next to no idea how they worked. Another exception was Technoville - I might have a lovely individual vehicle built with post-twenty-fifteen tech, but they had an /air force/. Among other techs, public and secret. The other exception... was any individual or group that had managed to avoid identification, so far. Whatever was maintaining the air defense screen around Toronto. Whatever had launched the Berserker from old Buffalo. Whatever was controlling the Lake Ontario squiddies from Kingston.

Whatever had manufactured my body in Detroit.

And then, besides the items whose truth was obvious, known, secret, or hiding... there were the items whose truth was a matter of argument and interpretation. Was I still employed by Technoville? Was I a member of a royal family? Was I a head-of-state (and a nuclear power, to boot)? Was I Canadian?

Was I human?

Was I evil?

Was being evil actually a bad thing, given the circumstances?

Technoville was some sort of info-based tyranny; but I'd willingly worked with them. (And then stolen from them. And then worked with them again.) The Great Peace had absorbed everyone who'd come into its territory, had expanded its territory, and the Berserker implied something particularly awful had happened to Hamilton - and I'd actively joined into at least part of the Quebecois part of their government. The Berserker was a mass-murderer on a scale few humans had ever matched - and I kept it in my closet in case of a rainy day.

It was possible to argue for years about what criteria to use to evaluate any given action, without even getting around to the actual evaluation. I didn't have the luxury of waiting years, or trying to find someone to debate with. I only had my own mind to work with - a mind which was currently in a somewhat rickety state. Writing everything I knew down might be the only way to ever get a chance to work out just how badly I'd screwed things up - but was also the fastest way to get my secrets spread around to all and sundry.

The only place I could /really/ keep a secret was in the gray matter inside Bun-Bun's skull. But my memory was a flawed thing - more flawed than most, in some respects. I was already struggling to remember the faces of the people I'd met while biking around the west edge of Lake Erie. Human minds simply hadn't gone through evolutionary pressure to remember long lists of random facts; and my own preference for a solitary lifestyle meant that my own brain's skills at remembering social relationships and suchlike were somewhat atrophied, compared to average.

But now that my thoughts were running along those lines, it did occur to me that I knew of at least one trick to use a brain's skills to make up for its gaps. Specifically, to fool the mind into using spatial memory to remember any given set of data: a memory palace. It wasn't hard to describe: Just imagine a physical location with as much detail as possible, and then place memorable cues to recall the facts within that landscape. Actually putting the idea into practice... took somewhat more effort.

Of course, since I was running, I didn't have much to do /except/ think as hard as I could. And so, as I ran and ran, I started building my first memory palace, based on a location I remembered well but no longer existed anywhere in reality: my hometown library. And in that library, I started arranging my secrets - and my memories, so that, one day, when I didn't need to keep these secrets secret any longer, I might be able to remember them, with as little distortion as possible.

Plus, a distraction like that helped keep the burn of my newly-exercised muscles to a dull ache instead of an unbearable fire.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Book Five: Co-*


*Chapter One: Co-location*

"Congratulations - you're pregnant."

Sarah looked at me. I looked at her.

"You sure?"

"Well... sixty percent sure," I hedged. "The autodoc doesn't have much data on six-limbed mammals with blue fur - but your hormones have definitely started changing, in ways that seem to correspond with a number of species."

"What - what is it?"

I shook my head. "It's too early to say. It could be any gender, or even any species - there's no way to find out without invasive procedures that would be highly risky to the blastocyst's viability. Speaking of which - if this isn't a pregnancy you want, there are several options available."

She wasn't looking at me. "Jeff and me, never got pregnant before. Thought we /couldn't/. Guess when we got fixed, we got /un/-fixed, too."

"That's possible," I said, neutrally. "Um - I'm not qualified as a doctor, and I don't want to pry about the details of your personal life, but... should we run the test on Jeff, too?"

"Yes. Yes, you should. Gonna be a big surprise for her if she is. Don't know if you know, but she was a man afore we got Changed together."

"Fair enough. Do you want me to ask, or tell her anything, or...?"

"No, no, I get her in." She rose to all fours and climbed out of Munchkin's side door. I followed her that far, sitting down on the step to look outside while I waited.

We were back on the road to Erie, again; this time, hopefully without any detours. We'd stayed in the quarry another day while I worked out a new set of daily routines for exercise, meditation, diet, and measuring the effects of the same, with a little discreet help from Boomer and Alphie. We'd stayed there a second day after I'd gone through some of my notes, and rediscovered that one of the programs I'd downloaded into the bun-bots was 'personal trainer'; whereupon I used Internet to create a few pieces of equipment for honest-to-goodness martial arts training.

Which, at the moment, mostly consisted of falling down onto mats, and listening to the bun-bots explain, in voices that creepily matched my own tones, exactly what we were doing wrong.

The bun-bots' programs threw up some glitches when faced with Jeff and Sarah, whose centauroid shapes fell well outside what they'd been programmed to be able to teach. However, a few flashes of the Barph through the heliograph, and Clara was able to put some of her computing hardware to simulating the appropriate bio-kinematics, and come up with sets of movements for the bun-bots to teach the pair of them. (Not to mention a few tweaks to improve the instruction routine for the less-than-human parts of my own anatomy, and Joe Three's.)

Since the gang had slipped me a Mickey Finn to keep me under for two days, and we'd taken the long way around the ruins of Buffalo, that made it nearly a week since the foxes had gotten their biology fixed up by the local post-human para-intelligent pools of nano-tech - which, it seemed, was how long it took for their tweaked biology to start showing the first biochemical signs of successful fertilization.

The railbed we were using as a road came close to the shore of Lake Erie at what had once been Dunkirk, so I'd brought us to a halt for the evening. I needed to forage a bit for greens, so the scanners could compare how I digested that compared to the brownies that were still the only thing I'd figured out how to get Munchkin's kitchen to produce; and I'd gone looking for some clover, which I'd discovered a certain taste for since ending up in my current state. As Sarah took Jeff by the hands for a talk I tried very hard to angle my ears not to listen in on, Red Deer and Toffee, about the closest we had to pure humans in our little group (though the former was a creation of the aforementioned nano-tech pools, and the latter had a digestive system that had been partially converted into another species'), were busy bringing a campfire to life. While looking for clover, my pocket AI pointed out some plants called 'water avens', and after using my tricorder to make sure they were close enough to the original species to be non-toxic, I'd followed Boomer's directions to dig up the rootstocks. With luck, we could boil them into a beverage that Boomer said was described as "chocolate-like", though I wasn't holding out much hope for the taste. Especially since the only honey I'd found was so full of aconitine toxin that any one of us would drop dead if we'd tried using it to sweeten the drink. (Naturally, I took a sample of the stuff - well, I should say that my transforming wristwatch, whose robotic scorpion form was immune to bee stings, did - to add to the lab's stockpile of "things that are interesting and might conceivably be useful one day".)

All in all, it had been a pretty quiet and unremarkable day.

--

In the morning, after the exercise and meditation and breakfast and scans and such, I gathered everyone together around the campfire for a pow-wow. "Time to plan for the day, as best as possible," I declared. "I know my goals - I suppose you know them too," I waved in the direction of Munchkin, and the virtual whiteboards within. "I want to end the day alive. Second to that, I want as many useful resources as possible - all of you included, in at least a sense. Toffee, Jeff, Sarah - if you want to hop off this crazy carpet ride and go home, this is your chance, and I'm not going to stop you."

Toffee asked, "Are you trying to get rid of us?"

I shrugged. "I don't actually know," I admitted. "I still could use some assistant explorers - but you did go along with knocking me out for a few days."

Sarah and Jeff had their hind-torsos on the ground next to each other, and were leaning their fore-torsos against each other, holding hands. "Don't blame us," said the one I thought was Sarah. "Thought Red Deer knew what she was doing."

Red Deer crossed her arms and glared at them. "I /did/. She needed-"

"Ahem!" I raised a hand to interrupt. When I had their attention, I declared, "I want to be in town well before noon, so let's get business out of the way first, and work on who blames who for what after. Point of order: fallback positions, in case something goes wrong. Any of you who know Morse code, I can give a Barph to, so you can signal the heliograph network where you are. If you don't know Morse, and still want a Barph, I can give you a card to study and work from. If you don't want a Barph, or end up losing one, and still want to stay part of the group - here's a map of this shore of Lake Erie, with a few possible places marked. Pass it around - if any of you know anything about the area that might be useful in an emergency, or meet-up sites, or the like."

Toffee frowned at the paper I handed to her. "I know a lot of folk don't like Changed... okay, a lot bleeping hate 'em... but you're that sure you're going to get run out of town?"

I tried flashing her a grin. I'm not sure how successful I was. "I don't expect to need this part of the plan. And I hope we don't. I just know if we /do/ need it, we're going to be /really/ glad we spent the time on it."

She shrugged, grabbed the pencil I'd clipped to the map, and started scribbling. "Makes sense. Seems a lot of work if you don't think you'll need it, to me."

"I have honestly lost count of the number of times I came uncomfortably close to dying, in just the last few weeks. I'm willing to credit backup plans for staying alive long enough to keep /you/ alive."

"You don't have to bleeping rub it in, I'm writing notes, see?"

We spent some time going over various 'if things go wrong' plans, from meeting up five klicks outside Erie all the way to freezing the dead.

"And if /that/ doesn't do any good," I said, "I can't think of anything that will." That was a slight fib - like I'd said, I didn't /entirely/ trust them, and was keeping a few backup plans hidden inside my memory palaces. One was to try to signal the squiddies for a water rescue. Another was to detonate Munchkin's fusion generator.

"Now, moving on to more productive plans - I'd really like to end up at the end of the day in a situation /better/ than what I'm in now, instead of worse. There are three people who are likely in Erie that I'd like to find. I'd like to fill the pantry with a few supplies that we might be able to trade some of those metal cards, or my trade goods, for. I'd like to set up a heliograph station at or near the city - some sites are better for my purposes than others. I'd like to look into hiring some people to run the local heliograph station - and maybe one or more others. And if there's any direct source of information on my main research area - the Singularity, the events of November in twenty-fifty - then I want to collect that, too."

Toffee's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Some of that should be easy," she said. "But putting up a building, hiring folk for a new job? Lots of ways to step on lots of toes."

"Well, it's a good think I have somewhere between one and three local experts to help out, isn't it?"

Probably Jeff said, "Don't look to us," she squeezed probably Sarah's hand. "Hate politics. Never touch it."

"One expert, then," I shrugged. "Better than none. So - what's the biggest problem with me finding a half-dozen literate folk, with reasonably good eyesight and manual dexterity, to relay heliograph messages?"

"First thing comes to mind," Toffee said, "Which union'd they be in?"

I blinked a few times. "That's... important?"

She stared back at me for a very long few seconds, then shook her head. "Right. Bleeping stranger. You savvy /anything/ about unions?"

"Welp," I considered how to answer, "I looked into joining the Industrial Workers of the World for a while, but they had an explicit goal of 'abolishing the wage system', and I was never able to get a clear answer about what they were planning on replacing it with." Toffee stared at me with an expression I interpreted as a dry 'really?'. So I sighed, and went with a simple, "Union. Noun. Group of people with jobs that are vaguely similar, who get better deals by negotiating as a group. Usually, complications ensue."

"Good," Toffee nodded firmly. "In Erie, any of the big unions can kill the whole city. Ten years ago-"

"Nine," interrupted Sarah.

Toffee looked like she was trying not to look annoyed. "I'm getting to that. Laying some bleeping background first."

"Fine, fine," Sarah rolled her eyes. "Morning only lasts till noon."

"As I was saying," Toffee turned back to me. "/Ten/ bleeping years ago - a big fight started 'tween two unions, the dockers and the farmers. A small union got shafted in a big docker deal, tried to switch to farmers, both sides started striking, whole city got bleeping shut down. Business as usual, just a pain. Idea was supposed to be, everyone else in the city gets mad enough to put some pain on the strikers, give them incentive to negotiate for a bad deal that's better than none, see?"

"Vaguely," I admitted. "But go on."

"Right. Shutdown went on for months. Mostly winter, so most folk didn't mind staying inside anyway. Then spring, and still no deal. Looked like might be some trouble with planting in time. So one fellow, LeBlanc-"

Sarah interrupted again, "Brett to his friends."

Toffee ignored her and continued, "-and his bleeping friends started breaking legs. Then breaking heads. Said the planting was too important, the unions were going to let everyone starve - so he /made/ a deal. And broke things until it stuck."

Jeff said, "Now he's the big boss."

Toffee nodded. "Now he's the big boss," she agreed. "Keeps the unions in line, and everyone else who gets out of line."

I finally asked, "If he's that bad - why doesn't everyone gang up to toss him out?"

Toffee frowned. "He's not /bad/, just - goes for what he wants. And he gives out perks to the folk who work with him. Well, sometimes. Sometimes he tosses allies out on their ears."

Sarah said, "Makes all the little bosses nervous. Fun to watch. Not so much fun when your boss gets tossed."

"By any chance," I asked, "did one of these 'little bosses' get 'tossed' just a little while ago?" I looked from Sarah to Jeff to Toffee.

Toffee grinned back at me. "Good guess, but nah. All eight of us were free agents, independent contractors. Everyone needs a good lawyer to check their contracts, so I'm not part of any bleeping union. I get to stay nimble, take advantage of opportunities, from the unions shuffling around again-"

Jeff spoke up, "To paying for a trip to grab a whole city's cash. Sarah and I in the wagoneer's union, even before we changed."

Sarah added, "They saw the use in members with four legs, so we even kept our jobs. We use up two seats, but when a mule goes lame, nice to have a spare puller."

Toffee managed to speak a few moments before I did, "Back to the bleeping point. You want to hire people, they'll want to be in a union. The bigger union they can sign up with, the more they'll like it."

I thought aloud, "Could I start up a new guild - I mean, union - of my own?"

Toffee stared at me. "Kind of defeats the whole point, if owners run the unions."

I shrugged. "Fine - so what about letting the 'graphers start up their own union?"

"That size, not much of a union."

"I'm not much of an owner, that they need to gang up against."

Toffee looked off, thinking. "It's not a /completely/ terrible idea," she finally said. "Keeps you out of lots of the bloody politics, and I get the idea you're not planning on staying in Erie the rest of your life."

"That's certainly true. In a few senses, come to think of it."

"Trouble is," she added, "If you bleep off anyone, you and your employees won't have any allies to help you."

"Hm... what are you imagining that 'allies' would be able to help me with?"

"Your employees are going to need to bleeping eat, right?"

"If food's an issue, I can arrange for the squiddies to deliver fish."

Toffee started smiling. "And you've got your bleeping Munchkin thing to make your own deliveries and make your own parts. So maybe you /don't/ need much of the city." Her smile vanished. "But whoever you hire, still has to live there, and if you bleep off anyone, they could do what the big boss likes doing, and gang up on 'em."

It was my turn to frown. "And what sort of court system is there, to charge people with assault and battery?"

Toffee looked at me incredulously. "You're thinking of taking union leg-breakers... to /court/?"

"You're a lawyer, aren't you?"

"Lady, I'm /still/ a bleeping lawyer because I know better than to get between the powerful bleepity bleeps and what they want."

"I take it, then, that Erie's court system isn't a viable method of seeking redress against the powerful?"

"Who do you think bleeping pays the bleeping judges?"

I sighed. "And here I was hoping civil society was still in place."

"Oh," Toffee shrugged, "Everything's done all nice and bleeping /civil/. 'Till it's not."

"In that case, it looks like I might have to revert a few centuries in behaviour myself - at least as long as Erie's still run that way. If I can't come to some sort of civilized arrangement with the locals - then the only way I can think of to protect my own people, when I get them, is with a credible threat of retaliation."

"Big boss won't like that."

"Then I might as well skip the middlemen and start negotiating at the top."

--

"I was kind of expecting some guards by now. Somebody to shout 'halt!' at us."

Sarah commented, "Guards on roads people use, not old rails."

"Isn't there some system to watch for kaiju?"

"Kie-what?"

"Monsters the size of houses, or bigger."

"Never heard of any."

"Saw one myself, off to the west of the lake."

"None here."

"I don't want to take Munchkin too deep into the city to get back out in a hurry... what's it going to take to get someone's attention, fly around again?"

"Could work."

"Hm. Toffee, you say you've learned to fly - want to get a quick aerial view of your hometown?"

"Why don't you go?"

"I want to stick around in case the welcome wagon is early. Hm... actually, come to think of it, I just might be able to do both."

--

Being towed through the air by Munchkin like a kite wasn't /quite/ as much fun as outright flying - but I also didn't have to listen to the constant noise of the engine right behind me. While I was in the air, I made a mental note to see if the clothes fabricator could repair or replace the paraglider that had gotten ripped during the rescue; if wear and tear on the chute wasn't going to be an issue, then there was very little reason /not/ to be towing an aerial scout around, now that we were out of Toronto's air-defense range.

When I saw a half-dozen horses and riders galloping in our direction, I used the Barph to flash a message down, telling the bun-bot keeping an eye on me to reel me in.

--

As I settled into a seat at Munchkin's front, one of the riders had stopped his horse on the railbed in front of us. A few flicks of my fingers on Munchkin's wall, and its rapid march slowed, then came to a halt, a polite few dozen feet away from him. This close, I could see that he was human (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), wearing a bright red coat, and biting his lip as he stared at Munchkin's near-featureless prow.

He took a breath, and let it out in a shout. "You will halt your vehicle!" He declared. "You will exit in an orderly fashion with your hands up, or we will be forced to fire!"

Despite how well Munchkin's exterior plates had fared in the snake-oid village, I didn't want to test them against more advanced firearms, especially now that I didn't have a handy source of new-built replacement containers. I also wasn't going to let Erie's government anywhere near Munchkin's fusion reactor. So as I watched the other five red-coated horsemen line up abreast across the track, I decided to go with Plan G-2: Authoritarian bafflegab, seeking escalation to higher authorities.

I keyed open Munchkin's mike. "Now, son," I said, feeling my voice suddenly taking on the cadence of Foghorn Leghorn, "you don't want to do that, any more than we want you to do that. Our flag hasn't fallen off, has it? No, there it is, the red and white flying high and true. Aren't you aware that this is an ambassadorial vehicle, and thus protected by the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations? Opening fire on us is a casus belli, and believe you me, if a war started between your tiny little city-state and the nation I represent, the only question is how many of your civilians would still be alive by the time your government ceased to exist. Naturally, that would do none of us any good, which is why I'm suggesting that a front-line fellow like yourself would do best by realizing that you're in the middle of matters far above your pay-grade, and your best course of action would be to call for your superior, who, in turn, should call for theirs, and so on, until you finally get to someone in a position to negotiate policy."

I keyed the mike closed, ignoring the stares of everyone else inside Munchkin, and watched for a reaction. The fellow in front turned around to look at the other five, one of whom gave him a shooing wave forward. He turned back around to face us. "I have my orders!" he declared at top volume.

I sighed, and opened the mike again, as I got back up and started walking back through Munchkin. "I was really hoping not to have to mention this explicitly, in the name of friendly relations, but your superiors seem to have failed to inform you of a particular highly relevant fact-on-the-ground when they gave you those orders. I will now attempt to demonstrate this particular fact, in as polite a fashion as I can think of. Do you have any particular emotional or financial interest in, say, that tree standing closer to the railway bed than the others, a hundred feet or so behind your friends?"

"What?"

"Boy, I plan on making a tiny little demonstration for you, but I don't want to cause any special fuss when I do. After all, when a magician steals your watch for a magic trick, they give it back afterward, because watches tend to have sentimental value, not to mention monetary, but they're quite willing to pick up bits of random street trash and do all sorts of things to them."

"What the bleep are you talking about?"

"Just this: Keep an eye on the birdy, son." Having finished my preparations, I flipped open the roof hatch, pushed myself and Kahled-voolch up out of it, quickly lined up, and squeezed the trigger.

Even before the explosion debris had finished rising, I was already dropping back inside Munchkin, pulling the hatch back shut. All six horses were rearing, their riders suddenly having to focus on keeping them from getting completely out of control.

I resumed speaking. "Now, while there may be a certain amount of personal fallout you might suffer for not slavishly following your superior's every whim, I put it to you that that fallout, if any, would be a more than acceptable price to pay compared to the alternatives I have no doubt that are now foremost in your mind. So instead of forcing any of those consequences to turn into reality, wouldn't it be better all around to get the right people to get together to discuss things, in a properly civilized fashion?"

One of the riders - I thought it was the one who'd waved, shouted out, "If you /meant/ that, you'd have shot /us/!"

I heaved a dramatic sigh. "Now why would I do a silly thing like that? I'm here to talk trade and alliances and other such mutually beneficial exchanges, and blowing up soldiers who might be fighting to help me out later is hardly the mark of an intelligent negotiator." I paused, then shrugged and added, "Of course, if you really insist, I still /can/ pick a more ambulatory target. It would be impolite to refuse such a determined request, after all."

The steeds were now mostly standing still, and various looks were exchanged between their riders. Finally, one of the riders went galloping back the way they came, and the second spokesmen declared, "You will keep your vehicle parked here! You will remain inside!"

"There, now was that so hard? Now, what shall we do while we wait? I suspect your superiors might take it amiss if I invite you aboard for tea without clearing matters through them first, so perhaps some sort of game? An exchange of riddles, perhaps?"

"You're standing there, in that... /thing/, and you want to tell /jokes/?"

"Not jokes, son, /riddles/, that stretch the mind and inspire the imagination. After all, there's not much else we can do to pass the time, what with me inside here and you outside there, now is there? I can start us off, if I'm springing the idea on you too quickly for you to think of one yourself. 'To keep me, you have to give me. What am I?'"

As the man spluttered a bit, then paused, and started whispering with the other members of his squad, I thought a bit, then called up Munchkin's security system controls. I turned on the anti-riot precautions, the main portion of which was an electrified surface, in case somebody tried getting cute while I was distracted. I also tightened up Munchkin's general security level, so that only I had permission to drive it around. While I was trusting Toffee, Sarah, and Jeff to not konk me over the head, it seemed prudent not to provide them with /too/ much temptation, now that I was bringing them back to familiar people who might have some hold over them.

The rider turned back to us. "A promise!"

"I was thinking 'your word', but that seems close enough. Do you have one of your own?"

"Uh..."

Another rider touched his shoulder, and at a nod, called out, "What's black when you get it, red when you use it, and white when you're done with it?"

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Two: Co-pay*

We'd passed maybe ten minutes in reasonably pleasant conversation, and had just traded 'What has eyes but cannot see?' back and forth for twelve different answers, when the group of guards paused. I started fiddling with Munchkin's exterior microphone settings, but before I did much, I could make out the rapid beat of galloping hooves, and soon made out the form of the returning rider.

"New orders," he panted. "Big boss. Wants to. Talk to. Her. Himself. Downtown."

In short order, the riders arranged themselves into an 'escort', leading the way to the heart of the revived portion of the city. After a short kerfluffle surrounding the escorts' realizations that Munchkin actually could march along off the old railbed pretty much as easily as on it, we eventually arrived at what Munchkin's pre-Singularity maps claimed was both the 'Erie Art Museum' and the 'Old Customshouse'. However, the modest-sized Greek-style facade (Doric, if I remembered my columns correctly) now bore the name 'City Hall', instead. (I made a mental note to try to find out if anyone had any idea why this part of the city hadn't been leveled and turned into cooling towers, like all the other pre-Singularity urban areas I'd seen so far.)

Once Munchkin had settled into a halt again, the rider who seemed to be the group's sacrificial scapegoat stood in his stirrups, took another breath, and started shouting, "You will-!"

I quickly but calmly interrupted, "I won't."

He blinked, his thought processes obviously derailed, then rallied and started again, "You will-!"

"I won't." Before he could take another breath to try yet again, I continued, "As much as I would like to enjoy your governmental hospitality, I am afraid that my experiences with other groups have involved me being drugged while under their supposed protection. Thus, I have a certain natural aversion to having my movements directed by local authorities, however trustworthy and honorable those authorities actually happen to be. However, I would be entirely happy to have my meeting with whoever you have so graciously passed the buck to in a reasonably neutral territory, such as in the form of a picnic on the sidewalk you are standing in, or whatever other location your principal suggests which meets my own security needs."

When I closed the mike and watched the renewed discussion, Toffee whispered, "You're not talking about us putting you out, are you?"

"Sadly, you are not the first individuals who've slipped me a Mickey. You are, however, the ones who seem to have had the friendliest intentions when doing so."

It looked like we were going to have to wait for a while, so I wandered back through Munchkin's carriages, nudging a few items in the lab in passing, tucking Boomer into my jacket pocket, and then rummaging through some of the inventory in my private carriage. When Munchkin's intercom relayed outside voices, Nurse-Bun rolled me forward in a wheelchair, with one of my canes hooked onto the back.

Most everyone gave me funny looks as I was rolled back to the front, so I shrugged and just said, "Hoof's bothering me today." It wasn't, really, at least not any more than usual; but the talk about being drugged had started my mind down certain paths, and if my hoped-for confab did go south and I needed to get away in a hurry, I had a certain suspicion that I'd be more likely to do so if the locals underestimated my physical prowess rather than overestimated it.

First, I sent a couple of bun-bots with their bodyguard programs as their chief priority out, then when they signaled things were clear, had Gofer-Bun carry out a folding table and chair, and a basket with a tablecloth, mint tea, iced tea in a thermos, coffee, brownies, and the closest approximation to fine china that Internet had been able to put together. Nurse-Bun maneuvered my chair down to street level, Secretary-Bun followed along, and then Toffee, Jeff, and Sarah followed along. It looked like Joe, Bear Joe, and Red Deer were choosing to stay inside at the moment, along with Alphie and the spare bun-bots, which seemed reasonable.

I laced my fingers together and smiled up at the nearest rider. "Please pardon me," I said, "but I was a bit distracted putting the tea together. Who was it you said I'm meeting?"

They seemed a bit nonplussed, and from their flaring nostrils, I realized that they were being suddenly introduced to the scents that I had gradually ceased noticing within Munchkin - primarily, the animalistic body odours. But they rallied quickly, and one announced, "Assistant Secretary of the Big Boss."

"Ooh," Toffee said, "that was bleeping fast. I was sure we'd only get as high as the Second Undersecretary's Assistant Secretary at first. And here comes the fat bastard now."

The man walking down the broad steps was certainly wide - but a smidgen less so than Toffee herself, and his dark suit made him look even less so. Once he made it to street level, I was able to confirm that, like Toffee, he was roughly as tall standing as I was sitting.

I glanced sidelong at Toffee. "Relative?"

The newcomer answered, "No," at the same time Toffee said, "Cousin."

They glared at each other for a few moments, he looking rather grumpier than her, before looking at the various people milling about, and finally turning to me. "I am Assistant Secretary Winston Edwards. Who are you?"

"I am informally known as Bunny. That's short for Bunny Waldeinsamkeit. May I offer you a chair, a brownie, or a drink?"

"No thank you. What are you doing here?"

"Mainly... shopping. Pick up a few provisions, some supplies for my research projects, look into local metal prices, meet some acquaintances, try to hire a few extra people, try to buy or build a building to house local operations - and so on. I came across one of your residents," I waved slightly in the direction of Toffee, "who informed me that your 'Big Boss' might want to have some say about such things, so I arranged to be brought to meet him. Would he happen to be available?"

"I am afraid that he is currently in conference and cannot be disturbed yet."

Toffee leaned over and mock-whispered to me, "That means he's still in bed bleeping his three girlfriends." She turned to Edwards. "Or is it four now?"

"Five, actually," said the secretary. "A condemned thief took the option."

Toffee straightened, and frowned. Without any joking around, she told me, "There's a building in the old city. Just about everyone who walks in, walks out a blonde bimbo. LeBlanc likes blondes, so started using it as a punishment."

Sarah added, "Only seems to work if you're human when you walk in."

Jeff said, "Wha? You're not saying you /went/-"

Sarah started talking over him, but before they raised their voices too far, I cleared my throat. "Having a conversation here," I pointed out. "Shush, or back inside, or go away." They glared at each other, but picked 'shush'.

Edwards seemed to ignore the byplay. "What will you do if you are denied permission to do any of those things?"

"Be somewhat annoyed at the extra time and resources that will be required to bypass this place, and look into how much time and resources would be required to go through whatever you have in the way of an appeals process."

"You will not use your flying machine and weapon to force us to comply?"

"That would defeat a lot of the purpose of my being here - generating good PR among the public, and so on. I prefer to hold such actions in reserve for the defense of me and mine. Are there any local customs I should be aware of, laws unfamiliar to outsiders that might cause unexpected trouble?"

"What do you plan on using to pay with?"

"I have a variety of trade goods - telescopes, batteries, and whatnot - but have it on reasonably reliable authority that your merchants are willing to accept precious metals." I twisted my head to look up at Gofer-Bun. "Please go to shelf L. twenty-six, and bring back the sample set." She bounded off and into Munchkin, and while she did, I poured myself some of the mint tea. "Are you sure I can't interest you in a cup?"

"Perhaps another time."

Gofer-Bun returned, and handed me the 'sample set' - one of each of the credit-card-sized pieces of metal that were the final product of the robo-factory, in see-through plastic pouches, arranged like a book. There were a couple of dozen of them, so the whole thing weighed a couple of pounds; I held it out, and Edwards took it, flipping through them.

"These have your picture on them."

"I didn't have much choice in the matter."

"They are of unequal weights."

"But equal dimensions and volume. Again, not my choice."

"How much do you intend on spending?"

"As little as possible. I have no intention of flooding the market and having the price drop out from under me."

"Hm." He handed the sample set back to me. "I should be able to arrange an appointment at noon."

"And until then?"

"I suggest you stay here."

Toffee took a step forward. "Does that include me?"

"I would suggest you stay here, too, just to keep you out of trouble, but since I know that if I did, you'd go away just to spite me, I won't."

"You're just saying that to get me to stay, aren't you?"

"Toffee," I interrupted the reunion, "If I'm staying here, perhaps you could bring some of the market to us?" I looked over at Edwards. "That is, if that's alright with you."

"If that is my cue to quip some snazzy one-liner, I'm afraid that I'll have to decline. Please excuse me, I have some business to attend to."

--

"Sarah, can you show me where this 'bimbo' creating place is?" I'd sent Gofer-Bun for a hardcopy map of the area - no need to show off the computing tech I had access to to the locals, if there wasn't a need to. She pointed out a place with the tip of one finger's claw, and I penciled in a notation.

"Not going there, are you?"

"I doubt it - there are undoubtedly safer places to look into such processes, if I need to. I'm mainly asking so I know where to avoid." I slipped the pencil back into a pocket. "I'm terrible with social cues, so I'm probably going to ask this badly - are you and Jeff going to need some time apart?"

"What, because we yelled? Nah, nah, she thinks I need protecting, 's all. Yelled before, will again."

"Fair enough. Your business. I'd appreciate it if you let me know when you make any decisions about whether you're going to stay in the city, or with me."

"Course."

--

"Thank you, but we've already made preliminary arrangements for both a coffee substitute and a tea substitute. If you can provide something with actual caffeine, then we can do business."

I made a mental note - once I got a retroviral lab up and running, a good first project to test things out would be to arrange for caffeine biosynthesis. Whatever plant, critter, or microbe I arranged to produce the stuff, I could make a fortune from.

"Next?"

Toffee said, "Fish."

"Fish?"

"Fish."

"I suppose that'll make Bear Joe happy."

"What, you don't like fish?"

"Eh, I can stand some properly-done English-style battered fish and chips, but mostly, it's about as bad as cauliflower."

"What's collie-flower?"

"... Right, I forgot that was extinct. I'll put it another way - even with regular fish, I'd probably leave it to Bear Joe and the rest of you. With salted and smoked and other preserved fish - I'm probably having a lot of salad."

"Is it because you're a rabbit?"

"Oddly enough, no."

--

"Well, /hello/, Minnie!" I smiled at the girl. "It's good to see you again - is it just me, or are you taller than ever?"

"It's you," she said, cheerfully plopping onto my lap and wrapping her arms around me. I didn't make any effort to stop her. "Did you hurt your leg?"

"Some days are better than others," I temporized. "Now what have you been up to since you got here?"

"I've been going to a new school where they didn't believe I was saved by an Indian and a talking rabbit until Gramma made them stop teasing me by threatening to blow up the school-"

I raised an eyebrow at Dotty, who was watching over us with a maternal eye, and now looked somewhat embarrassed. "I didn't /threaten/ them."

I asked, "You just made a promise to blow them up?"

"No! You cheeky little thing. I /may/ have pointed out that both of us were likely suffering from P.T.S.D., and that I know as much about chemistry as their so-called best teachers."

"Well, as long as it worked out for the best. Since Toffee was able to find you so quickly - is there anything I can help you out with?"

"No."

"... I'm going to rephrase that a little, and then let you yell at me if you want. Is there anything I can do to make Minnie's life better? School supplies, private tutoring, bring both of you along when I head to Cleveland...?"

"... Maybe," Dotty admitted.

"You could stay," Minnie said, her face buried in my neck-fur.

"Sorry, kiddo," I tried petting her head. "Still got lots of work to do, and I can't do all of it here. You see those two big blue people, over there? They got too close to Buffalo, and got sick, but I found them just in time, and helped them get better. Why don't you go ask if they'll let you ride on them?"

"Okay!" My lap was abruptly empty, and in a few seconds, I heard her greet them with childlike innocence, "You smell funny."

Both Dotty and I heaved a sigh at that, and then smiled a little at each other. I said, "She looks - like she's coping."

"Some days are better than others," she echoed back. "Seeing you again, this is definitely a good day."

She spent a few minutes telling me about their nearly completely normal life - she was temping at different unions, doing office work, while she looked for a more permanent position; Minnie was starting to make friends, and exploring the new city, and so on.

"How about Joe?" I inquired. "Is he helping out?"

"Nooo," she looked at me curiously. "He left as soon as I was employed."

"Odd - I haven't come across him, yet."

"He was saying he was going to go north across the lake, instead of back to Buffalo."

"I've been in touch with his people, pretty consistently. Either they've been lying to me, or he never arrived. ... There was a waterspout a few days ago-"

She shook her head. "We saw that. He left long before that."

"Have any of the squiddies shown up yet? I hate to think of it, but maybe they could look under the lake for the metal canoe..."

"The fishermen have started talking about new monsters with tentacles, but I haven't had time to try talking to any of them."

"Hm... I suppose if he wanted to go somewhere else, that's his business. But just in case - I owe him at least a decent search for him. There's different sorts of monsters on this side of the lake, some of whom take a while with their prey." I was abruptly conscious of my self-directed tail, hidden under my skirt and currently pressed against the back of the wheelchair. "Where did you see him last?"

"At the rooms we were renting. I came back, he was watching Minnie in the yard, talking to a couple of men. I told him I was employed, and he said he had to go, and they helped him carry his canoe."

"That's a little odd. That thing's almost light enough to carry with one hand."

"If you want to look for odd things, you'll always find them. Just before he handed Minnie to me, he said he felt as enthusiastic as the president of the Republic of Canada, just a month into his term. I know history isn't a popular topic, but even I know Canada always had a king or queen. ... Are you alright, dear? You've gone all white under your pink."

Once I got over mentally berating Joe for the idiocy of trying to pass a secret message to me through Dotty without her knowing, I tried to calmly fold my hands on my lap, and call out, "Toffee, could you come over here for a moment?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Dotty - I would like to have a chat with those two men you just described. Could you work together to figure out who they are, who they worked for, and any other information that would be required to have a conversation with them?"

"Do what I can," she agreed.

--

Noon arrived. Several figures came out of city hall, descending the broad steps that were the centre of several conversations, and at least one foxtaur galloping around with Minnie.

The figure in front was... large. Even if I stood, I suspected my eyes would only come the middle of his chest. Schwarzenegger-esque build. Dark hair. Bright red shirt, open-collared to show off a hairy chest. Knife on a belt. Gloves. From the various comments I'd heard, none other than the Big Boss of Erie himself, Brett LeBlanc.

Behind him were, it appeared, identical quintuplets. Same photoshopped model-like faces. Same blonde hair, just styled a little differently. Same dresses, which presented their various assets more obscenely than if they'd been simply naked. Each and every one of them was staring at LeBlanc in ways that made their clothes the epitome of prim and proper decorum.

I adjusted my glasses to try to see them better. Joe was missing, and LeBlanc's secretary had said something about there being an extra 'girlfriend' - was my search as simple as figuring out which of them had once been Joe? If so - I wasn't quite sure how much of him might be left /to/ rescue, or how to accomplish said rescue. I wasn't even sure how to tell which of them was which, or even if any were Joe in the first place.

The secretary, Edwards, appeared from somewhere unobtrusive as LeBlanc reached the bottom of the stairs. "Boss LeBlanc, allow me to introduce Bunny Waldeinsamkeit of Canada."

"A pleasure!" boomed the man. I raised my hand, and he grabbed it and shook, not quite crushing my fingers. He let go and looked at my trio of bunny-ladies in waiting. "That's a lot of rabbit people," he commented. "Any of you related to that mad bunny queen?"

I suppressed a sigh; it looked like the farce was going to continue. "I don't think I'm /very/ mad."

LeBlanc blinked, and looked down at my legs, and my wheelchair. I improvised, "Legs are a lot less important when you're flying."

"You don't /look/ like a queen," he insisted.

"That's what I was going for." He blinked a bit, so I elaborated, "I have much to do, and too much pomp and ceremony gets in the way of that."

LeBlanc crossed his arms. "I don't believe you."

"That's your prerogative." In the back of my mind, I started wondering what sort of spin I could put on things that would require the least amount of my secrets to be revealed, such as by coming up with an alternate secret to try, not very hard, to protect; the best idea that came to mind was that I was on the outs with the rest of a hypothetical royal family back in Europe, and had been sent up the St. Lawrence River as some sort of punishment. It wasn't an especially /good/ idea, but it gave me a structure to start building with while I tried to come up with something better. "I don't need to be treated as royalty to buy groceries, hire a few people, look into a building, and so on. So it doesn't matter"

"/I/ say it /does/."

This time I didn't suppress my sigh. "Would you like me to get my tiara out?"

"That wouldn't prove anything!"

There was a slight clearing of a throat, and Edwards faded into view again. "Please pardon the interruption," he slid a folder out of his suit jacket, "but after Bunny introduced herself, I suspected that the Queen Bunny might be nearby, and so I took the liberty of printing out some of our references on royalty. Just in case additional protocols of state were required, you see." LeBlanc waved a hand, and Edwards handed him the folder, opened to a page that I couldn't see.

"Ha!" bellowed LeBlanc. "If you're a queen, then where's your uniform?"

I blinked. "Pardon me? I think your reference might not be relevant."

Edwards stated, "Given the symbolism of your flag, I take it that you are presenting yourself as queen of Canada, or some close variation thereof?"

I tilted my head at him. "... You take that correctly."

LeBlanc slid his finger along the page, reading aloud, "'The Commander-in-Chief of the Canadian Forces is supreme commander of Canada's armed forces. Con-sti-tu-tion-ally, command-in-chief is vested in the Canadian sovereign' ... more stuff... 'Unique Commander-in-Chief rank insignia ... uniform' ... and more stuff. And some pictures." He tried to slam the folder closed, looking triumphant. "If you're really the queen, then where's your rank insignia?"

I thought about trying to talk my way out of this little trial-by-wardrobe, but had another thought. I slid Boomer out of my own pocket, and held her to my cheek, like a brick-style cell phone. "Boomer," I started.

I was interrupted by LeBlanc exclaiming, "You have /radios/?"

I blinked up at him. "You don't?"

He crossed his arms and looked away. "We don't /need/ radios," he muttered.

"... Right. Boomer," I repeated, "In my chambers - would it be possible for me to exit them wearing the uniform that was just described?"

"As of the latest available policy documents, the Canadian Forces are making one of their periodic attempts to shift their branch structure from a simple nested hierarchy to a set of multiple optional tags. If you wish to wear a Commander-in-Chief's uniform for this display, then given recent events, I would suggest building it using the tags of Signals, Rangers, and Air Force."

I nodded, said, "Thanks," and tucked her away again. "I hope you will forgive me for my lapse - I am still new to my role, and have not had time to finish reading up on all the non-essential details."

LeBlanc didn't look happy. "You're bluffing. You have uniforms packed away and you don't even know about them?"

I took off my glasses and rubbed the top of my nose. "If I come back out of there wearing something that matches your pictures, can we move on from all this?"

--

The outfit produced by Internet's clothes fabricator was surprisingly comfortable. Due to Wagger, I once again opted for skirt over pants; and basically had to cheat outright with the footgear, since the Canadian Forces uniform regulations stored in the machine's vast clothing-related databanks didn't anticipate either hoof or digitigrade paw. Given my ears, I opted for a narrow 'wedge' cap instead of a beret. The main part of the uniform was basically a business suit, plus flourishes; such as a braided rope going from my right shoulder to the middle of my chest that Boomer oh-so-helpfully identified as an 'aiguillette'.

The 'Air Force' tag covered the general uniform design and colours. 'Rangers' added an insignia to the hat, and 'Signals' supplied the colours of some trimming, and another insignia. The actual rank insignia of Commander-in-Chief was the crest of the arms of Canada: A lion, standing on a red-and-white wreath, wearing a crown, and holding up a maple leaf in one paw. This was sewn onto the epaulettes on top of my shoulders, and along with some gold trimming, the ends of my sleeves.

When Nurse-Bun rolled me back out of Munchkin, LeBlanc looked at me, looked at his folder, and back and forth again.

He declared, "I still don't believe it."

I let my voice go flat in annoyance. "Then perhaps I should point out a small detail you have forgotten. Either I really am Queen of Canada and Commander-in-Chief of the Canadian Forces - or I am somebody who has a vehicle well beyond anything you are capable of using, let alone building; aircraft; weapons that are, again, well beyond anything you can field; and I can build arbitrary objects from scratch in as little time as it takes for them to be described. If I want to say I'm a queen, or a baron, or an Indian war chief, is it really in your own best interests to focus on insisting I am no such thing? Or would you profit more from playing along long enough to figure out how I can benefit you?"

Edwards gently took the folder from LeBlanc's hands and tucked it away again. The secretary asked, "What can the city of Erie do for you, Your Majesty?"

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Three: Co-sine*

"No, I am /not/ going to agree to abide by your justice system, when you haven't even got a written city charter or constitution to define said justice system, let alone any sort of bill of rights!"

I glared at Edwards, gripping my wheelchair's armrests, and he calmly pulled back his latest offering of a 'contract'. LeBlanc had claimed "other business" to attend to, and disappeared back into city hall with his bevy of bosomy belles, leaving his secretary with the ever-so-specific instructions of, "You know the paperwork stuff. Get it done."

The first paperclipped bundle of paper Edwards had tried to hand to me, Toffee had snatched before I could even reach for them - and then she started guffawing out loud, pointing out how practically every word was designed to screw me over. Edwards had produced another pre-written contract, which had none of the hooks in the first one - just a completely different set thereof. The third was no better, at which point I called a stop to the process, by saying, "In order for any agreement, there has to be at least a small amount of trust that the other side is going to fulfill the general spirit of the deal. Trying to get the best deal possible? Sure, I don't begrudge you that. But at this rate, I might as well just declare that whatever building I get secedes from the town of Erie and becomes its own sovereign city-state. And use the force of arms to defend itself from your attempt to assert control over it. At least /then/, if I didn't like the ensuing peace treaty, I could just maintain a state of war between the city of Erie and the republic of One Fifty East Front Street."

After that, negotiations had gotten... mildly more productive. At least, Edwards wasn't trying to have me hand over my crown if some random person LeBlanc called a 'judge' said I should, any longer.

Fortunately - at least for my temper - the discussions were interrupted when Sarah cantered around the corner of Munchkin, bearing a new form - another woman, tanned, freckled, brown-haired, and, apparently, annoyed.

I tilted my ears in time to catch her mutter, "Great, a brand-new batch of idiots."

Sarah came right up to the tea-table-turned-negotiation-station. "This is Denise," she introduced her companion. "You wanted doc, she's our doc."

"I'm /not/ a doctor," Denise the not-a-doctor announced as she swung her leg over Sarah's back to dismount. "I'm a vet."

I spoke up, "That's not necessarily a disqualifier. I'm actually looking for a doctor with multi-species experience."

"Multi-species, that's me alright," Denise said, looking at me up and down. "What's wrong? Bad change?"

"Perhaps we should have this discussion in greater privacy." I turned from her. "Mister Edwards, perhaps you could take this opportunity to try to come up with a contract that indicates you don't intend to welsh on immediately." I looked back up at Denise. "Would you like to join me in the sitting carriage?" I waved at Munchkin.

Denise shrugged, and only said, "Yeah, alright."

I nodded. "Nurse-Bun, please wheel me aboard Munchkin."

As Denise followed, she asked, "If you already have a nurse, what do you need me for?"

I waited until we were both aboard, and the door closed behind us, before answering. (The carriage had had some internal divisions thrown up while I'd been out, dividing the single room into several; Bear Joe and the others seemed to be in a different one.) "I am in the middle of several research projects. I have access to a fully stocked pre-Singularity library, and various other goodies - but I don't even know how to apply stitches properly, and managed to save the lives of Sarah, Jeff, and Toffee only by the skin of my tee-"

"Wait - /you/'re the one who did that to her?"

"Did what?"

"Re-changed her. Fixed her spine, cleaned up her GI tract, plugged the lymph leaks, and so on."

"Ah. No, I asked for a favour from a post-Singularity intelligence, on compassionate grounds; and that's the method it chose."

"What about Tommy?"

"Tommy who?"

"My cousin. He was part of that stupid 'expedition' of theirs."

"Ah," I said again. "He's still alive, technically, but was in much worse shape, and required more extreme measures to keep from dying irreversibly."

"What measures?"

"I expect him to be re-born in another couple of weeks."

"One of my regular patients was changed into a pig, and she can still talk, so I'm not going to say that's impossible. I /am/ going to say there had to be a better way!"

"He - and the others - had been dead for at least an hour by the time I got to them."

"What about Toffee?"

"She was kidnapped before the rest of the expedition made it to the nerve gas. Didn't Sarah tell you any of this?"

"If you hadn't noticed, she leaves a lot out when she says anything."

"I suppose." I shrugged. "Anyway - if I'd had an actual medical professional aboard, then maybe I /could/ have found another way to keep them alive. And given the direction of several of my research projects, having someone who knows a spleen from a pancreas could save untold amounts of time and effort chasing dead ends."

"I'm no researcher."

"Do you, in fact, know the difference between a spleen and a pancreas?"

"Of course I do!"

"Then you have enough theoretical knowledge to be helpful. As for practicalities - do you have any experience with, say, grizzly bears?"

"Enough to know to keep as far away from them as I can."

"What about a person changed into one?"

"I've worked with a skunk, a raccoon, and lots of farm dogs and cats, which covers most of the range of extant carnivora. Do you have a bear with a problem?"

"I have a bear; as far as I know, it's problem free. How about monotremes?"

"You're joking."

"Fine. Hard-shelled egg layers?"

"Chickens. Pigeons. Ducks. Geese. The bear hasn't been changed to lay eggs, has it?"

"Not to my knowledge. If a serpentine critter attached itself to a member of our party, what would your recommendation be?"

"Examination, removal and disposal."

"Examination reveals that it's already linked circulatory systems."

"How extensively?"

"Enough that the critter can breathe for the host."

"How big is this parasite?"

"Snake-sized - a foot or two long."

"That doesn't make sense - the lungs wouldn't have nearly enough surface area to oxygenate enough blood." I raised an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes. "Fine. I suppose that with some combination of hyperventilation, and if the host just happened to have something like a beaver or otter's diving reflex to reduce oxygen usage, and maybe another trick or two, it's not /impossible/. Would make removing the thing a bitch of an operation - that much vascular interpenetration would mean there'd be a hell of a scar left, too."

"Would you be willing to demonstrate a brief examination, if I were to remove my left shoe?"

"I've been wondering about that - I noticed your feet don't match. But you've been asking me for my qualifications - what are yours?"

"Most relevantly, that I have enough resources to make the offer that if you tell me what you want, and it's not something I have to take too much time out of my own research to accomplish, I'm willing to help you get it."

"That's not the sort of offer any sane employer would make."

"I'm also keeping my eye out for a decently trained psychologist, psychiatrist, psychotherapist, or any other sort of p-doc for hire. I'm not holding my breath that one will show up soon. In the meantime - I want to pursue my research, and as part of that, I want the safety net that having a trained medical professional around would provide, for the inevitable disasters that occur in any workplace. As long as what you ask for takes less of my time and resources than the benefit that safety net provides, I'm willing to consider hiring you."

"I have a thriving practice. Hiring me full-time won't come cheap."

"Is a salary all that you would want, then?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"Not at all. It's nice and simple, and I'm willing to pay that, if you'll accept it. However, as I said, I also have other resources. If there's anything else you desire more than simple silver, then I may be able to provide more benefit to you for less cost to me. Do you seek recognition? Your own research project? A particular physical change? A political position?"

"Show me your foot."

"That doesn't seem like that big a demand." Nevertheless, I bent over to remove the footgear from my hoof.

"I think we'll stick to negotiating for a cash salary." Denise knelt down and ran her fingers up and down, I guessed feeling out the muscles and tendons. "You haven't been keeping good care of it, but I've seen worse."

"That I can believe. I once skimmed a manual on livestock diseases. The phrase 'black mastitis' still makes me shudder."

"I can also tell you've been walking on it, regularly. How often do you need the chair?"

"Less often than I get by with just a cane. Does this mean you're interested in the job?"

"It means I'm not ruling it out. I still want to know more about how /much/ silver you're offering - and what the job involves other than standing around with my thumb up my ass while I wait for somebody to do something stupid. And what you think 'research' actually involves."

"Fair enough. Any complications I should be aware of? Family needing supporting, or whatever?"

"I have cortical visual impairment, which blocks the left half of my visual field. This has led to Charles Bonnett syndrome, where instead of seeing nothing in that area, I experience complex visual hallucinations."

I blinked. "You seem to be able to see well enough to, well, do whatever it is you're doing to my limb right now. Do these hallucinations interfere with the, um, active part of your vision?"

"No, and I can tell the difference between them and reality. However, /some/ people think that a doctor with less than perfect vision shouldn't be /allowed/ to operate on 'important' people."

I shrugged. "I've been dealing with more quirks than you can shake a stick at. I'll probably ask to see some sort of summary of your vet practice records, just to make sure that you don't have measurably worse results than a comparable practice; but I'm not going to let a little thing like easily-recognizable visual oddities disqualify an otherwise competent medical professional."

"Maybe you're not a /complete/ idiot." She stood. "Okay, strip."

I raised an eyebrow. "I feel tempted to make an off-colour joke."

"I still haven't accepted your job offer. I need to see what I'll have to deal with, first. Do you have any medical equipment aboard?"

I nodded, thinking of the autodoc. "Some, yes."

"Take me to them."

--

After I was poked and prodded by Denise as thoroughly as any heifer, and with barely any more regard for dignity, we adjourned back to the sitting room for further discussion. And tea. Even if it wasn't real tea, the ritual of sharing a cup let me at least pretend to regain my dignity.

"You may not be a /complete/ idiot," she didn't exactly praise me, "but you don't seem educated enough to run any sort of research, let alone have enough income to pay the salary I plan on demanding."

I decided that I didn't have much to lose by going into 'full impressiveness' mode. It seemed at least as likely as any other approach to getting me my multi-species doctor. I began with finances.

"I'm taking a page from Canada's settlement of the west, and am enticing squiddie emigration to Lake Erie by offering what I'll simplify as a significant tax break compared to their current system. It's not perfect, and a lot of details still have to be hashed out. But, one of the benefits of a federal system is that resources can be redirected from subregions where they're abundant to where they'll provide significant economic benefits; even if the actual transfer of wealth would otherwise be infeasible, such as due to a tragedy of the commons, or information inequality, or organizational friction, or communications inefficiencies.

"I'm certainly more comfortable taking a small portion of the resources of the Dominion of Lake Erie, and using them to help fund the payroll of the heliograph operators, than I am using, say, a lottery."

"What's wrong with lotteries?"

"Lotteries are often described as 'taxes on the stupid'. Given that for every dollar you paid for in tickets, you'd expect to get about half a dollar back, on average, that makes a great deal of sense. The people most willing to buy a lottery ticket are the people who can least afford the constant drain on their pocketbooks. Since one of my goals is to maximize the number of people with the knowledge to help me, and a lot of potential candidates are poor, requiring a certain amount of resources to pay for the education needed to give them the foundations of knowledge necessary to be /able/ to help me... using a lottery as a fundraising measure is somewhat self-defeating."

I took a sip from my cup, and she took one from hers. She seemed to be following along so far, so I decided to go all-out.

"Of course, if you look at lotteries deep enough, it's possible to find an exception - though you need to have a broad background in both physics and math. About a year ago," at least from the perspective of my own subjective memory, "I came up with what seemed like a clever idea about lotteries. If you assume that the Multiple Worlds Interpretation of quantum mechanics is true, that at every instant, uncountable numbers of timelines spring forth, each one minutely different from its neighbours... then lotteries take on a brand new meaning.

"The roughly fifty-percent return on lottery tickets? That's just the /average/ return - it's distributed unequally. If you pull a few clever tricks to ensure that there is some quantum randomness between the ticket you buy and the lottery number drawn, then in different timelines, nearly all of you will win nothing, some will win the small prizes, and a very few will win the big prizes. Say, one in a million will win a grand jackpot.

"Now, some people will say that if there's an infinite number of timelines, and everything happens in /some/ timelines, then it doesn't matter what happens in any. To which I can answer that there are an infinite number of numbers between zero and one, so by the same logic, a one-tenth slice of a cake is just as good as a three-quarters slice of the cake. Sure, you've still got /some/ cake, but there are good reasons to want /more/ cake if you can get it.

"Anyway. The fact that a vanishingly small fraction of you happen to win a big jackpot is, even from the perspective of most people who delve into Multiple Worlds ideas, a pretty irrelevant fact - there's no particular reason to spend significant time planning for an event that's almost certainly not going to be experienced by you. However, the thought I had was that, on occasion, a quantitative difference in the resources you have can make a qualitative difference. The example I came up with is if there's some huge disaster coming that's surely going to kill you - /unless/ you just happen to have enough resources to avoid it, or head it off. For example, if the Yellowstone mega-caldera were to erupt, then, unless you'd won the lottery and used the money to build yourself a self-sustaining shelter, you're going to die. And since you never happen to experience any of the timelines you've permanently died in, then, after that eruption, the only versions of you who will still be alive will be the ones who've won the lottery."

I paused, blinked, and frowned. "Okay, that's a new thought. If I take my previous idea, and consider it in terms of quantum immortality, that pretty much by definition I'm never going to live through a timeline in which I'm permanently dead... does winning the lottery count as evidence, even just a smidgen of weak evidence, that a disaster's about to happen?"

She finally interrupted my near-free-associating chain of words with a frown. "Don't be ridiculous."

"No, hold on," I protested, raising a hand in defense, "this might actually be a significant thought."

She shook her head dismissively. "Even if it were, surely somebody else would have thought of it first."

"I'm not so sure. When I came up with my earlier version of this idea, all the pieces had been waiting around for years, for anyone else interested in the idea to put together - but no one had. And even when I did think of it, and tried to explain it, nobody particularly cared about it. It is entirely possible that, in all the years since I had that thought, only a very few people directed their thoughts along this path - and none of them kept thinking to this additional variation."

She raised an eyebrow, in a way I guessed was somewhere between skeptically and dismissively. "That sounds pretty arrogant of you."

"Arrogance is an /inaccurately/ over-inflated view of oneself. Is it arrogant to hold an accurate estimation of one's ability?"

The mere skepticism was gone, replaced with, if not outright disgust, at least disapproval with distaste thrown in. "What, you think you're /special/?"

I was trying to work out the ramifications of the idea I'd just had, so I worried less about maintaining the structure of my multiple-choice past, and more about the truth, and how my past experiences affected my interpretation of it. "Out of the entire population of the planet, only a very few, on the order of one in a million, ever signed up for cryonics. Of the few thousand who ever signed up for cryo, as far as I know, only one's ever been revived. So yeah, I think it's safe to think there's something a little special about me, and not be arrogant. Now, where was I - right. The Disaster-Detecting Lottery Oracle. Which may or may not actually be a thing."

She didn't comment on my revelation of having been frozen. Instead, she focused on, "Lots of people have won lotteries, and not had a disaster happen."

"Of course they have. I'm not saying that winning a lottery is /strong/ evidence of a forthcoming disaster - but even if it's very weak evidence, as long as it's non-zero, it's possible that some further elaboration of the idea could strengthen the signal. Or that some implication of the whole setup suggests that certain plans should be made in advance, and pre-committed to. Or all sorts of other odd things.

"Let me see..." I tapped my chin thoughtfully. "Let's go for the spherical cow case, and simplify as much as we can."

She rolled her eyes, and said, "Sure, let's do that," but I was almost ignoring her by now.

"Let's start by making a few assumptions. That the probability of survival is either one hundred percent or zero percent, depending on whether you win the lottery, or if there's a disaster. Ah! That makes things easy - I can try building a Venn diagram of the possible combinations, and see what insights I can get from that."

She said something vaguely questioning, which came reasonably close to, "Ba?"

"Okay. On this paper, I draw a circle. Inside the circle are the timelines where I continue living, which I'll designate with L; and outside the circle are the timelines where I don't continue living, which I'll designate not-L, using an exclamation point as shorthand for 'not'. This second circle I draw, overlapping the first, contains the timelines where I buy a winning ticket, and the timelines outside it are the ones where I don't buy a winning ticket: T, and not-T. And this third circle, overlapping the other two, is the timelines where there's a disaster, and outside the ones where there is not disaster: D, and not-D.

"There's a total of eight areas on the paper, each with some combination of L or not-L, T or not-T, and D or not-D. Now, according to the mental model, if there's no disaster, then I'm not going to die - so I can cross off the areas that contain both not-L and not-D. Actually, given the principles of quantum immortality, then I'm never going to experience /any/ timeline in which I'm dead, so I can actually cross off all the not-L areas. I can also cross off the area where there's a disaster, and no winning ticket, but I live.

"That just leaves three areas left. In all three, I live. In one, there's no winning ticket, and no disaster. In another, there's a ticket, and no disaster. And in the third, there's a ticket, and a disaster. Which means that, according to the assumptions we've got so far, winning a lottery really does mean there are greater odds of a disaster coming than not winning it."

She'd been watching my sketching, and seemed to follow what I was saying, but said, "That's absurd. Your assumptions must be wrong."

"It's absurd," I agreed. "My assumptions are definitely wrong - but not necessarily wrong enough to invalidate the model. Hmm... I'm probably positing too strong a version of quantum immortality. There's always going to be some highly unlikely coincidence that allows for survival, just not necessarily a pleasant life. Okay, let's try Venning a new model, with two ways to survive the disaster, either pleasantly, by having enough money; or unpleasantly, by having to, say, amputate most of your limbs. Hmm, I think I'd better do this one as a table instead of drawing circles."

After a bit of scribbling, I said, "Okay, I think that narrows down to four scenarios. One: All good. Win the lottery, no disaster, no amputation, and live. Two: Buy survival. Win the lottery, yes disaster, no amputation, and live. Three: Nothing happens. No win, no disaster, no amputation, and live. Four: Unpleasant survival. No win, yes disaster, yes amputation, and live. Hmm... the only obvious correlation is that not winning the lottery is mild evidence for having to undergo an unpleasant life, via having to amputate something to survive. Maybe if I start playing with the probabilities? Well, I could do that for hours before seeing any useful results.

"Maybe I should look from a different perspective? Let's drop the amputation, and go back to a simpler model. Assuming that it's true - what would it take to make use of this, to get it to work in the first place? Hm... in the timelines where there's no disaster, then nothing has to be done - I'll just live anyway. In the timelines where there's a disaster but no winning ticket, then there's nothing that /can/ be done. So the only timelines which actually might require a change in behaviour are the ones where there's a winning ticket, and a coming disaster. So I might as well set up whatever plans I make as if winning a lottery means a disaster is coming.

"Which takes us back to one of the initial assumptions: that having a great big pile of money offers some chance to survive an otherwise unsurvivable disaster. One problem with that: money, by itself, doesn't do much of anything useful; it's what you can buy /with/ money that's most likely to make a difference. And another problem: there aren't that many disasters which are /very nearly/ unsurvivable. Pretty much anything that causes widespread enough damage to require a lottery's worth of cash to buy the gear to survive with requires a fairly specific set of gear /to/ survive. Most such disasters would come close to being existential risks. Yellowstone blowing. Pandemic. Asteroid impact, or some other cosmological catastrophe. To survive any of /those/, you'd need, say, a fairly self-contained power source, a... fully recycling system of food, air, and water... probably a certain amount of mobility, like being able to, uh, go underwater to avoid a radiation burst...

"... Oh, crap. When I said that finding that robo-factory was like winning the lottery, I was mostly joking. Now I don't /want/ this clever idea I just had to be true, because if it /is/... Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Put a pot of tea on - now I actually /need/ to try to figure this out, instead of just trying to impress you with how clever I am."

"Is /that/ what you were doing," she said, not asking, followed by a sip of tea; which didn't hide her slight smile at me, from me.

"So I try to put on a good show for possible new hires. So sue me." I'd started jotting down notes on what I'd have to ask Boomer or Alphie about to double-check my disturbing new idea. (I was still trying to be discreet about their existence, given the anti-tech prejudice I'd seen elsewhere on this side of the lake.)

Denise turned her head to read more easily. "'Increase confidence level'? Are you psyching yourself up to ask for something?"

I shook my head, vaguely annoyed at the distraction. "I make mistakes on even simple math often enough that it's a good idea to double-check my results. The more ways I use to re-check the math and logic of this, the more confident I can be that the results are accurate, and not just some fluke of coincidence."

"Speaking of coincidence, that reminds me. You said that you think you're the only person ever revived from cryonics?"

"I'm the only person I have evidence for. Anything might have happened in Arizona, or at any of the overseas places."

"You also said that this 'quantum immortality' thing means you're never going to be, how did you put it, in a timeline where you're permanently dead."

"Eh, close enough."

"Have you considered that those two things might be connected?"

"Which two? Wait - what?" I set down my pencil and focused on her again. "Um," I eloquently stated, "No, I can't say that I've spent much time thinking about that."

"I can't say that I'm very happy about being in a timeline that only exists to keep you alive-"

I shook my head, and she let me interrupt her. "That's not how it works. The branching is going on right now. From your point of view, however unlikely my survival has been so far, it's /you/ who's never going to experience a timeline branching from this point where you've died. Some likely or unlikely happenstance will happen to keep you going." I gestured at the vehicle around us. "Some happenstances are a lot more likely than others, so in a lot of the timelines you survive, it may be because you end up with enough control of what are currently my resources to keep yourself going."

"I've seen animals in a lot of situations where euthanasia is the kindest thing."

I shrugged a little. "That's the icky part of the idea. However bad your situation is, however much pain you're in - there's almost certainly at least some set of timelines in which you keep on keeping on."

"Even after decapitation, when the head is still blinking and looking around?"

"Even before I was frozen, I had an episode of transient global amnesia, which was pretty good evidence that a chain of memories doesn't have to be continuous for a person to survive. Maybe in some timelines, somebody comes across the head, throws it in an icebox, and later on someone tries reviving the thing."

"Well, now I know what my next bunch of nightmares are going to be about."

"And now I know that even aside from your medical qualifications, you've managed to pick up enough general education to listen to my thoughts - and point out a consequence I hadn't thought of myself. Here's a question: If I say that a certain area is probably dangerous and that you should stay in the vehicle, and someone else comments they've never had any problems there, what would you do?"

"Stay in the vehicle, of course."

"You're hired."

"I haven't said I want the job."

"I appreciate all the skills and talents of everyone I work with - but at the moment, you're the only one who I feel I should stop and pay attention if you call me an idiot about something. I'm deliberately putting myself in a bad negotiating position here to show you how important that is. Make whatever unreasonable salary demand you like, and as long as it isn't /absurdly/ unreasonable: you're hired."

"What if I want a house?"

"Done."

"You're joking."

"Denise - right now, one of my most skilled associates thinks archery is a better idea than firearms marksmanship. There's an old saying that if you're the smartest person in the room, you should find another room." I waved my hand, palm up, at her. "Hello, room."

"Are you trying to flatter me?"

"Would that get you to agree sooner?"

"I'm actually not sure."

"Then here's the most accurate compliment that comes to my mind: I'm at least mildly confident that Sarah bringing you to me might be enough to offset my annoyance that she and Jeff blew up the robo-factory I was relying on, to forgive them for that little incident."

"You're comparing me to a robo-factory?"

"Yes."

"... I've had worse pick-up lines."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Four: Co-alition*

After going over a few more details with me, Denise headed out to head back to her practice, and start getting ready to close it up if she did agree to come aboard. Given our conversation, though, I was pretty confident that that 'if' was more of a 'got myself a medic'.

Edwards hadn't come back out yet, so I wandered back through Munchkin, giving Bear Joe a pat in passing, eventually making my way back to the clothes fabricator. I wasn't particularly happy wearing a military uniform, whether or not I technically had the right to it. I fired up its catalogue, and did a brief wiki-walk from the military uniform, through a governor-general's civilian clothing, through 'court dress', to a book from nineteen thirty-seven which still seemed to be the last word in clothes involving royalty in even the most tangential way, such as 'His Majesty's Bargemaster'. Said book also included a reference to something called the 'Windsor Uniform', which was only supposed to be worn by the royal family, at their home of Windsor Castle. Mostly consisting of black pants, white shirt, blue jacket with red collar and cuffs, it seemed casual enough for everyday wear, I liked blue and white, and red was, of course, the colour of Canada.

I could make some excuse of Munchkin being the closest I had to a household. Of course, the odds of anybody ever calling me out for wearing such a thing 'incorrectly' in the first place were pretty much non-existent, so any such excuses wouldn't be necessary.

I'd just finished tweaking the design for my particular anatomy - hose never works well with fur - and was trying to convince the machine to replace the Order of the Garter design on the buttons with the Order of Canada, when my moment of relaxation was interrupted by a knock on the door. I rolled my eyes, hit an override that told the fabricator to 'just make it already', and went to see who it was.

Toffee looked annoyingly cheerful. "I've got good news, bad news, more good news, and can keep that up for a while."

I leaned against the side of the airlock, crossing my arms. "I'm guessing there's an order you want to tell it all in?"

"You better bleeping believe it. The first good news - I found out who the guys who took your friend are." I nodded agreeably. "The first bad news - they're some of the big boss's bully boys." I frowned. "Good news - we probably know where your friend's being held." I sighed, and let her keep rolling along. "Bad news - it's one of the more heavily guarded places in town. Good news - it's about thirty feet from where you were sitting with your wheel chair. Bad news - over twenty feet of that is solid rock."

She stopped, at least for breath, and I took the brief moment of silence to ask, "Is there a reason you're telling me about the physical defenses around this prison?"

"Oh, it ain't no bleeping prison. Prison's for if you've done a crime, or annoyed the higher-ups for them to bribe a judge to throw the book at you. It's just the place where the people the big boss has taken a personal, unfriendly interest in get put, until he's done with 'em."

"I see. And are you done with your little good-news-bad-news routine?"

"I saved the best for last. Good news - I put out a few feelers to the higher-ups of some of the more important unions I do business with, and they all say that if you just happen to blow the big boss into little bitty bits with your ray gun while you're breaking out your friend, they're willing to let you take over as big boss in his place."

She put her hands on her hips, looking very proud. After a very long moment of silence, I finally said, "Are you /crazy/? Do you have any /idea/ how many parts of that idea aren't just bad, but are downright /absurd/?"

"What?" She seemed unhappy with my response. "He got to be the big boss by breaking legs. What's so hard about doing the same to him?"

I had to take my glasses off to rub both of my eyes. "Well, just for starters, nobody /stays/ as a 'big boss' for close to a decade unless they've got /something/ going for them other than the threat of leg-breaking. Among other somethings, like, say, having people in all the local power groups who are willing to report any threats to the current power structure to him."

"The people I asked are /very/ reliable-"

"How much do you want to bet that LeBlanc doesn't already know you've been asking around about me assassinating him?"

"Um..."

"Not to mention I've got more important things to worry about than reforming a single city in the face of a bunch of unions who don't seem to have managed to arrange for a decent revolution themselves."

"But - you'd be the /big boss/! You could just tell other people to do that stuff you need done!"

I pronounced all four letters of "Argh." I sighed again. "Look - I need to get off my hoof, so let me go finish up what I was doing, then you and I can have a chat about exactly what you did, and then I'll see if I can do any damage control to keep the assassination attempts on all sides to a minimum."

--

"Now then, Toffee," I rested my chin on my interlaced fingers, "Do you know /why/ it's worth having a Charter of Rights and Freedoms? Or, since we're on what used to be American territory, a Bill of Rights?"

"Because everyone who's not a high-up likes 'em, so they'll get behind you in a fight if you promise to give 'em rights the other side didn't?"

I blinked a few times. "That's not a bad answer, but I was actually-"

"Of course," Toffee interrupted me, "that's only good if bunches of little people make a difference in a fight. You've got a raygun, and in a fight, you can just fly and shoot down at everyone, so you don't need anyone else to win, so you don't need to worry about rights for regular folk."

I sighed. "As - /interesting/ as that analysis is, it's not the point I'm aiming for. How should I put this... if there's one thing that the monarchy I've made my claim to is useful for, it's /continuity/. I could very well be around a century or more from now." I decided not to complicate matters with how /much/ more than a mere century I might still be kicking. "And if not me, there's every possibility of an heir to keep things going. With that in mind - I need to think in terms of the /long term/. A mere decade matters only to the point of keeping from losing everything during that time."

I'd caught her attention, enough for her forehead to wrinkle as she considered this. From what I'd picked up of her behaviours and motivations so far, I figured that talking in terms of such selfish calculations would be more understandable than the usual language of ethics and morals, virtues and duties. "Okay, so risking getting yourself knocked off tomorrow is a bad idea, if you've got that bleeping long to look forward to. I can see why you're annoyed at me. What's that got to do with your Charter thing?"

"There's a couple of centuries of history to demonstrate this point: people tend to be willing to work a lot harder, and generate more wealth and ideas and value and stuff, if they're confident that they themselves get to keep a good portion of the benefit of that work."

"You mean, instead of worrying that if they pick up a bucketload of silver, that a bunch of leg-breakers will just take everything from them?"

"Something like that. That's why /they/ want things like a 'right to property' and so on. Why /I/ want them to have that right, is to maximize the stuff they make, so that even if only a tiny portion is taxed, I still end up with more revenue than if I tried to take a bigger portion of a smaller pie."

"Aaaah, /that/ makes sense. Pay a little now to get a lot later."

"Close enough. And there's one important thing that makes a Charter of Rights and Freedoms work, that's not mentioned in any Charter: that the people whose rights are protected by it, have to believe that I'm going to hold up my end of things, trust that I'll abide by the terms."

A smile bloomed on her face. "Well, why didn't you just /say/ you were pulling a long con?"

"I'd prefer to think of it as 'PR'. Actually, check that, I'd prefer to think of it as the truth. If nothing else, the easiest way to keep news from spreading that I'm violating the rights I claim to uphold is to avoid violating them in the first place."

"Well, how do you get anything done by shooting yourself in the bleeping foot like that?"

"Among other things, by knowing exactly what rights any given charter guarantees - and what rights it doesn't, and what the exceptions are."

"Now you're speaking my language." At her suddenly much-wider smile, I briefly wondered just how good a lawyer Toffee actually was. "You got a copy of this Charter thingy I can take a look at?"

"Kind of. The original has a number of clauses that don't apply. I've also got a version that I've had to simplify to translate into something the squiddies can understand."

"Aha - so you're still getting ready to negotiate the details?"

"Er," it was my turn to wrinkle my forehead, "something like that. I should be clear, that writing hidden loopholes undermines the whole 'trust' thing I'm aiming for." At her frown, I rolled my eyes. "Oh, don't look like that. When you see the original Charter's section thirty-three 'notwithstanding' clause, that'll be a plenty big enough loophole for any plans you have that I might have any chance of agreeing to, and it's right in the open."

--

Jeff was happy to carry a conciliatory message into city hall, and Sarah carried another one to the union that Toffee thought would be most interested in expanding into heliography: the Sewer Workers, who'd easily absorbed the other utility workers and had made a good go of most of the other public services.

An astonishingly-wrinkled representative from the Sewer Union arrived first. She listened carefully as I outlined my ideas for an initial outpost, and possible expansions into inter-city mail delivery, heliograph relays serving as defensible outposts for rangers against wildlife, and so on.

Once I ran down, she tapped the ashes out of her pipe and reloaded it. "That's all well and good in the future," she said between puffs as she lit it, "but you need to get the basics working before you start any of the fancier stuff."

I nodded agreeably, shifting my desktop-sized fan a bit to keep blowing the smoke away from my face instead of drawing it in. "To start with, I want each heliograph station to have at least one person on duty at all times. I once read that for any job like that, you need at least five people, to cover all the shifts, weekends, sick breaks, and so on. I'm thinking six might be a good starting goal. For everyday duty, that could allow for merchantman's hours: four hours on duty, eight hours off, another four on, another eight off."

"Lighthouses only need one."

"Lighthouse keepers only need to keep their light turned on, they don't have to watch other lighthouses and flip their own light on and off a lot."

"Six workers. I'm guessing they all need to be able to read?"

"That would be a definite plus, yes. Either average-or-better eyesight, or eyewear that can bring them up to that, so they can see the other stations' signals. Quick studies to learn the flash codes would be nice, enough manual dexterity to run the mechanism, and able to climb the tower to where those main mirrors are. Outside of that - if they can get the job done, I don't care if they're male, female, or other; young or old; human or Changed; Christian or atheist; or are missing both legs."

"And how do you plan on getting the money to pay six wages?"

"Eventually, through the charges of sending the messages, they way post offices got money through stamps. To start with, I have an expanding tax base in the form of the 'squiddies' who are now colonizing Lake Erie - if nothing else, I suppose they can catch fish to sell in the city's markets."

"Mm. Might need to bring Lumber in on that."

"Pardon?"

"They've got the farmers and fishers. Be unhappy if you took food out of their mouths."

"I expect some sort of arrangement could be made," I spread my hands, "some compromise come up with where nobody loses out, and everyone ends up at least as well off as they are now."

"Optimistic little cartoon, aren't you? What'll you do if they dig in their heels?"

I folded my hands back down, and offered a little shrug. "At worst, bypass this city entirely. It would cost me, in that I'd need two heliograph stations instead of one, and use some of my rather irreplaceable Buns to run them," I nodded over at Secretary-Bun, "but it's not an insurmountable challenge."

"In other words, if some idiot demands too much, you can just take your toys and go home."

"If you like. I'm hoping that the benefits of rapid communication are so obvious to enough of your unions, and influential people, that they'll be able to handle any nay-sayers who threaten to keep progress from, well, progressing."

"Progress ain't always what it's cracked up to be."

"Believe me, one of the last things I want to do is put enough people out of work that they think their best option is to smash the new machinery."

She puffed for a few moments in silence. Eventually, she took the pipe out and said, "Alright," with a nod. "I can bring this back to my people, and start some wheels moving. I'm not going to make any promises I can't keep, so for now, all I'll tell you is that I'm not going to stop the whole thing right here and now."

"That's all I can ask." She gathered herself together and stood, and I asked, "Can I see you out?"

"If you like."

I gestured to Gofer-Bun, who wheeled me after the union rep, and out Munchkin's door. When I reached street level, I offered her a handshake, which she accepted. I heard someone call out "Bunny?", and had Gofer-Bun turn me, to see Denise down the street-

- A sudden shock. A meaty thump. Looking down - the back half of an arrow, sticking out of my chest. Gofer-Bun grabbing, hauling.

Then the pain.

And the screaming.

And the dark.

--

To my mild surprise, I opened my eyes. Lots of things were happening, some of them to my chest. I managed to focus on a voice.

"... but even without hemorrhaging, her heart's in /shreds/. Her backup heart's keeping her blood flowing, but the damn thing's going a mile a minute and could give out any moment." Other voices, saying things I didn't catch. Then, "We haven't /got/ another heart to put in. ... No, even if yours is compatible, I'm a G.P., not a heart surgeon. I haven't got the skill or equipment to try."

I thought of the autodoc, which had all sorts of technological tricks. I tried to speak - nothing happened. I wasn't breathing - Wagger was. I tried to inhale.

The voice - Denise - suddenly said, "Crap, she's /awake/. She's got enough sedative to knock out that bear - nevermind."

I tried to croak out something. Anything. A single word.

If I did, it went unheard.

My focus faded in and out. "Sure, hypothermia will extend the time before any more permanent damage ... Cryonics? I don't know anything about how ... equipment ... came back once ... lottery ... haven't got a better ..."

Darkness again.

--

To my greater surprise, I woke up again. I was in a soft bed, with a cover - one without Munchkin's furry smell. I opened my eyes, and a blurry form was sitting right beside me; squinting, I focused my eyes enough to make out Denise, with one of the AI boxes hanging from a strap around her neck.

I tried to ask, "How long?", but nothing came out. However, the AI whispered, and I heard the words I'd tried to say.

"Dont' try to speak," said Denise. "You've been frozen for three years. Would have brought you back in less than half that, if you hadn't been so paranoid."

I blinked a few times at that, trying to take that in. Denise continued, "The damn Indians refused to make a new heart for you, and with your wonky biology I couldn't find a compatible transplant. I got your little factory to make an artificial one. Then I had to figure out how to thaw you back out. Your wonky biochemistry worked for you on that one - your liver's really good at filtering glycerol and not necrotizing from it."

The AI-box flickered lights, and Denise looked down at it. "I'm not happy with these hormone levels, or your pulse, so I'm going to put you back to sleep. You /will/ wake up."

I managed to think, 'Well, that happened' to myself before I blacked out.

--

I opened my eyes again. It was dark out, now, but the display panel over my head, which changed in ways that made me think it was displaying my life signs, made a reasonable night light.

I felt over-all achy, and tired, and generally crummy - but, all things considered, not actually all that bad.

After several minutes of struggle to get my arms to work, I pulled my sheet off far enough to see that I had the same set of limbs I'd had while meeting with that union representative - including a dozing Wagger.

I resisted the urge to run my fingers along the pink, scar-like seam that ran down the middle of my chest.

I wondered if I might have picked up any brain damage during my latest freeze, and tried to come up with some way to tell, but fell back asleep before I figured it out one way or another.

--

A new familiar face was waiting for me on my waking: blue-furred and fox-like.

"I'm Sarah," she said. "Do you remember me?"

I managed a smile and nod, and she smiled in return.

"That's good. Everyone's glad you're back with us."

I tried to raise an eyebrow, and she seemed to take it as a question.

"Me, Jeff, our daughters, Toffee, Denise, Bunny Joe, Bear Joe, Injun Joe, Alphie, Boomer, Clara, even Minerva."

I thought about all of them, and tried whispering, "Red?"

"Red? Uh... oh, right. She went back to the Indians just after you were frozen."

"Dotty?"

"I'm afraid she died last year."

I closed my eyes at that, even though I wasn't going to fall asleep any time soon. I tried to keep the rather more articulate than previously foxtaur talking, by whispering, "What... happened?"

"The big boss back then? LeBlanc? Had someone shoot you with a crossbow. When everyone found out who it was, they ran him through his own bimbo zone and put what was left in a whorehouse. His secretary tried running things for a few months, then Toffee got the big chair. She and Edwards have been running the city since then."

"Good... for her. My... stuff?"

"All packed away. Munchkin's in a barn - something in it stopped working, and nobody's been able to get it to move since. Um... your bun-bots have been guarding you, and we had to take them out to get to you to bring you back. I think they can be fixed."

"The... project?"

"Which project?"

I tried waving a hand a bit, but it came out more like a flop. "Goal list. To-do... list."

"Well... maybe you should talk to Bunny Joe or Minerva about that."

I exhaled through my nose, unhappily.

Sarah looked uncomfortable, then brightened. "We've finished up part of it. Royal Mail now runs from Metropolis to Squidtown."

I just blinked in confusion.

"Uh... Cleveland to, what was it, Rochester?"

I nodded once, indicating understanding. Then asked, "'Royal'?"

"You should probably ask the Joes, but from what I heard, when the Quebec Indians heard you'd died, they voted you in as full queen. Then they heard you might come back, and, well, things got complicated. They still are, really. Everyone seems to like a queen who's dead and can't do anything, but now that you're back, well," she shrugged. "I'm sure it'll all work out."

--

Apparently, Sarah had violated some sort of doctor's orders, because for the next week, nobody was willing to say even as much as that, and while I was allowed one visitor at a time, Sarah herself didn't reappear.

It was three days before I could even sit up, and two more before Denise let me be shifted onto a wheelchair to look out the window.

I didn't seem to have a pulse anymore. After a couple of days, I stopped noticing its absence.

I was now battery-powered. The battery implanted inside me could keep me going for sixty hours, on a full charge; if I didn't recharge the thing by then, then it was time to go in the deep-freeze again. My titanium blood-pump only needed around a dozen watts, though, and the solar panels used by Munchkin could provide more than that with less than a square foot. I made a mental note to try arranging for a number of foot-square solar panels, plus appropriate wireless power thingies, to make sure I'd always have at least one available, just in case no other source of electricity could be found.

Other than reading and re-reading my new owner's manual, and purely mental stuff like meditating or working on my memory palaces, about the only thing Denise was willing to actually let me do was play games. Cards, chess, dominoes, checkers, dice games, go - ones I could play while lying down. I mostly lost; I kept losing focus, or nodding off. Whichever visitor I had at the moment never seemed to mind.

When I asked for my harmonica, and was refused, with the reason of not wanting to stress my lungs; and then asked for some watercolour paints and was refused without any reason at all, I finally started getting annoyed.

"Keeping my seams from exploding is one thing," I said to her. "Keeping me from learning anything about outside this room is another."

"It's /complicated/," she insisted. "There are factors you don't know about."

"That's kind of my point.

"From what the others told me, if I don't tell you something, you're probably going to do something foolish and end up hurting yourself, aren't you."

"I don't /plan/ on hurting myself. Quite the opposite."

She sighed, and looked out the window. "I've been delaying the others, by telling them I was worried your body might try growing a brand new heart... but I can only say your readings are questionable for so much longer."

"... I'm listening."

"We all agreed to keep working on your plans while you were frozen. It wasn't permanent, and some of the others felt they owed you their lives, so it made sense. But - things have gone wrong. Toffee started out talking about your Charter, now she's got her own set of bimbos, and has her girls breaking legs. The Indians, including the Joes, have pretty much clammed up. Minerva says something's wrong with everyone from this city, that there's something we can't think. And that's just us - the cities to the west, Metropolis and Dogtown and Technoville, are throwing their weight around, there's the rumours about Pittsburgh, and /nobody/ understands what the squids are up to... and the only thing that lets me even know that much is because the others know I'm working on bringing you back. As soon as you're on your feet, they're going to cut me out of the loop, and then I'm not going to have a /chance/ of staying one step ahead. So I've been throwing my medical weight around, insisting that you don't experience a single bit of stress until I'm sure you can handle it."

"... Oh. And you're telling me all this now because...?"

"I've been trying to get closer to the others for the past few days. It... hasn't been working well. So it looks like my best shot at getting advance warning of anything is to hope you'll let me stick close by you for a while longer."

"I don't know how much you remember about the day we met, but I am going to need a medical professional for a good while, now."

"Toffee's wanted to set you up with some human doctors she picked out for a while now. If /they'd/ been on your case, you'd still be frozen while they ran immunological tests on cell samples, or tried to grow a new heart in vitro, or any of half a dozen other silly plans. The Indians asked for your body back, but wouldn't say what they were going to do with it. Minerva doesn't trust any of us any more, I'm sad to say, but she's been studying medical texts, among other things. I probably shouldn't say this, but she probably /could/ pull off being your nurse."

"She's only what - twelve?"

"Thirteen, her birthday was last month."

"I don't suppose I could get you to sign off on letting me scream and run off into the forest."

"It is my considered veterinary opinion that you would quickly be eaten, and some poor animal would break its jaw on your new heart."

"Well, we obviously can't let that happen. Those poor wolverines and velociraptors are so sensitive, after all."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Five: Co-ordinate*

"Honestly," I said to Sarah, pushing myself up from the picnic blanket on one arm so I could gesture at my chest with the other, "from my perspective, the only change I can /see/ is this scar, which as likely as not is going to disappear in a few weeks, and I've already gone through much bigger adjustments to my body. And three years is - well, it's not nothing, but at least this time when I woke up, there were some familiar faces."

She stopped nibbling on a drumstick to ask, "So you're not depressed?"

"Well, I wouldn't say /that/. Maybe that I'm not really any crazier than I was before that crossbow."

"What I remember - that isn't reassuring."

"It's what I've got. By the way, I'm curious - is there a reason Jeff hasn't come by?"

"Not in the city. Running the line."

"Pardon?"

"Mail deliveries, from one station to another."

"Ah. If the line's from Cleveland to Rochester, that's..." I added up the route pieces from my earlier planning, "over four hundred klicks. It must keep the two of you apart."

"We broke up."

"I'm... sorry?"

"Don't worry. It was just - being the only two of our species, that turned out not to be enough to build a relationship on."

"I'm sure the two of you know what's best for you - and oh look, everyone else is here to save me from making the conversation even more awkward."

Denise (with Boomer around her neck) was shaking her head at Toffee, and I tilted my ears to catch, "... four hundred watts is /peak/ output. Sustained pedaling is only around a hundred watts, which would require three hours of steady pedaling every day, just to keep her charged - even longer for unsteady."

Toffee's response was an uncharacteristic growl - or maybe it /was/ characteristic of her, by now. She'd lived through the three years like everyone but me, one day at a time, and most of that as mayor (or whatever the job was called these days). "So hire people to pedal. I need every solar panel I can grab, just to keep up with - never mind, there they are." She rearranged her face into a smile.

Behind them were Minnie (who I had to remind myself preferred 'Minerva' now), carrying Alphie; Joe the bunny-woman; and Joe the human man. Joe the bear was in the house, babysitting the two two-year-old foxtaurs, Pat and Max. I waved them all to the outdoor lunch spread out for all in the shade of the willow, and with various inconsequential greetings and murmurs, everyone collected a plateful and found somewhere to settle in.

While their mouths were full, I took advantage of the silence to speak. "As you can see, I've been given a clean bill of health. I still have months of recovery ahead of me, but my prognosis is good, and we're not expecting any complications. ... Medical complications. I've heard, without hearing any details, that there's all sorts of other complications. I'm sure a few of you are going to want to talk with me in private, but I thought I'd combine my first trip outside with clearing the air of anything you don't mind talking in public about." I gestured broadly. "So - what's the good word?"

A burst of babble - voices talking over each other, angry, confrontational, explanatory, sad, and completely incomprehensible.

I sighed, and despite nobody being able to hear me, added my own comment of, "One at a time it is. Suppose it's an excuse for me to open Munchkin back up again."

--

"Say, Denise, is there a variable speed setting on this thing?"

"Of course there is. And I'll give you the control once you demonstrate that you're smart enough to avoid any magnets strong enough to interfere with your motors."

"... Does chain-mail block magnetic fields?"

Boomer stated, "It does not. Given available materials, a reasonable magnetic shield might be made from a solid sheet of an alloy of four-fifths nickel and one-fifth iron. Molybdenum would allow for greater flexibility, but is currently prohibitively expensive, as the extant sources require expeditions to dangerous city zones."

--

"I noticed you didn't join in the shouting match, Minerva."

"There's not much point. They've stopped listening to me anyway."

"Um."

"I've been /hoping/... did you know that ever since the last big boss took power, there's been about one new bimbo made each year?"

"That sounds - disquieting, in its way. LeBlanc became boss nine - sorry, twelve years ago."

"Here's a photograph of Toffee with all the bimbos from last year." She pulled a somewhat stained paper from her backpack, showing Toffee sitting at a desk, with four women with highly exaggerated secondary sexual characteristics behind her.

"What happened to the others? Do they retire, or get changed back, or-"

I was interrupted by a sudden hug, tight enough that I squawked at the pressure on the surgical area. Minerva barely loosened her grip. "You /see/! Oh thank god you can /see/ and I'm not the only one and it's really /real/ and oh god-"

I'd never been that great at the physical comfort thing, so about all I could think to do was return the hug until she ran down, and used some napkins to clean up her face.

"Sorry," she finally said.

"No apology needed - you looked like you needed that. Um - I'm kind of out of the loop?"

"None of them /see/. You can ask them what nine plus three is, and they'll get twelve. You can get them to say that LeBlanc made nine bimbos, and Toffee made three. But ask anyone from the city how many bimbos were made in total, and they'll say 'four'. Or whatever the current number is. And /they can't see the contradiction/."

"What about Boomer and Alphie?"

"They see it just fine. Everyone else just ignores them about it, just like they ignore me. And Clara's stuck on the other side of the border, and her flashing lights don't help much."

"Joe?"

"Any time I try to bring it up, both of them spout some sort of mystical subjectivist merde."

"I'm not sure I should ask this, but your grandmother?"

"She was with me all the way. I /think/ she died of old age, but she was helping me get ready in case it wasn't - oh, that reminds me, she said if you were sane, I should tell you her big secret. Are we safe here?"

"Denise said I'm not supposed to even turn on the engine, let alone drive - so with the doors locked, it's the safest place I can get to."

"She said she had a 'fountain of youth'. If you need it, it's across the street from where, uh, from where 'they invented wings'. Said as far as she could tell, it makes anyone who goes in exactly one year younger. She made a lot of notes, like testing it with goats of different ages, and kept them there."

"I... /think/ I know where that might be," I said, recalling that one of the origin stories for Buffalo wings was the Anchor bar in Buffalo. I'd never actually been, but it should still be in Munchkin's maps - or if not, in Clara's historical databanks. "I'm not sure if it would work on me the same as anyone else, but every little bit of knowledge helps." I rubbed the back of my neck. "Getting back to the bimbo thing... what about people from other cities?"

"Not many come here, and since I'm only thirteen, I'm only allowed to use the helio' to talk to Clara."

"Find any other mental gaps?"

"Just that they keep forgetting I've even been asking about the bimbos."

"Hunh. I've heard about very rare people who are blind but can't seem to acknowledge the fact they are... but a whole city with the exact same thing? It doesn't even make for a good mind-control conspiracy." I shook my head. "Well, it obviously takes more than three years for a newcomer to get the same effect - if it even happens to newcomers."

"I've made all /sorts/ of reminders so if I ever start forgetting, I'll know something's going on. Oh, uh, that reminds me, again - I, uh, kind of accidentally started a cult around you."

I just blinked and stared at her at that one.

"I'm sorry! I think it might have started anyway without me, what with you being a queen of ice and snow and so on, but some people asked me about you, and I didn't know better and told them about the Bayesian Conspiracy, and if it helps, I think it's mostly teens who like being able to out-argue their parents and wearing robes with hoods..."

I let my eyes close, and gave my nose a rub to try to forestall what seemed likely to be a headache.

--

"You picked a bleep of a time to rejoin the living," Toffee grunted as she pulled herself up into one of Munchkin's couches. I opened my mouth to reply, but she waved a hand to interrupt. "Yeah, yeah, I know, frozen. Believe me, you haven't missed much."

"Seems I missed you becoming mayor."

"Seemed a better job when I went for it. Now, I'm just a glorified light-pusher, passing the reports I get on to Clara, and translating the economic plans she sends back into something the union bosses will be willing to run with."

"That... doesn't sound like that bad a job."

"You think? I let Edwards talk me into this because I thought I'd have /power/. Get to tell one bunch of people to do this, another bunch not to do that. Get challenged, match wits, break legs - fun, you know?"

"I'll take your word for it."

"Now, anything I /want/ to do, the bleeped AI tells me exactly how bad an idea it is, how many percentage points it'll slow down our economic growth."

"So why not retire, and let someone else do all that, or even let Clara directly-"

"Are you bleeping /crazy/? I can't even get people to make /pewter/ because it sounds too much like 'computer'."

"Well - I happen to know a few other people who aren't too upset about computers." I gestured in the direction of the tree and picnic.

Toffee actually snorted. "Nobody trusts Indians or Changed, Minerva's a kid, and Denise has been busting her bleep to learn heart surgery, and get you your new ticker."

"Doesn't seem to tick, but okay. I'm here now, why not see if Denise is interested in becoming... deputy mayor, or whatever you want to call a pre-handover position?"

Toffee looked away. "We had some fights. Some over you, the titanium she needed, your robots, the Munchkin. I don't think she'd take the job if I handed it to her with my dying bleeping breath."

I shrugged. "If you really don't want to be in charge, strongly enough - could be worth reconciling. Or even just plain old reverse psychology."

"Hah! That just might work. But I had someone else in mind." She looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

I guessed who she meant after just a couple of seconds. "Nuh-uh," I shook my head. "Like you said - nobody trusts the Changed."

"You could work on equality and that civil rights bleep and so on to change that."

"I haven't got any management experience."

"You're a real live queen, now, you should get some."

"I'd go bug-nuts pretty quickly."

"Sanity isn't really a job requirement."

"I've got bigger fish to fry than just one city."

"What, like the people from Pittsburgh?"

--

"Vampires!"

I just blinked at Sarah.

She elaborated, "It makes sense. They hide from the sunlight, and steal blood, and are trying to take over. What else could they be?"

"Um..."

"Oh, alright - Jeff may have something to his 'alien' argument, since maybe they just want the cows to experiment on instead of to drain..."

--

"Meerkats," Denise stated.

"Pardon?"

"Or some other sort of Changed. Wearing full-body suits like that could be the result of a compromised immune system - most Changed aren't built nearly as well as you and the fox-taurs."

"Why meerkats?"

"It's easy to understand a lot of human behaviour if you picture them as meerkats instead of people. As good a species as any, really."

--

"I kinda think they might be Muslims," Minerva hazarded. "Or some offshoot cult, where everyone has to wear a veil."

--

"Robots," suggested Bunny Joe.

--

"Hivemind," counter-suggested Human Joe.

--

"Insufficient data is available for any speculation to have a confidence level above the noise level," stated Boomer.

--

Alphie repeated Boomer's non-speculation, in exactly the same words.

--

"Could be Federales," Toffee mused. "Pittsburgh is right between us and Washington, and now that we've started getting our act together, they start taking an interest in us."

"And the suits?"

"Biohazard gear. Or maybe armor."

"And /nobody's/ seen inside?"

"They're even more paranoid than you are. Never travel alone, heavily armed, almost never talk, won't let anyone else near their city... could just be regular army folk."

--

Back at the picnic, nobody seemed to be enjoying themselves anymore.

I looked around, frowning. "Pretty much all of you have told me that something's been going wrong in the city, at least since I was frozen. But after listening to all of you... well, I've had to draw up a chart to keep track of why each and every one of you doesn't want to work with any of the others."

I flipped through my notes. "Let's see - Toffee and Denise had arguments, Minerva's feels like none of the Erieans or Indians take her seriously, a lot of you feel like the two foxtaurs don't have the chops to do anything useful, a lot of you feel like the Indians are just watching and won't help, some of you feel Denise has been acting obsessed, almost none of you want to be caught talking to an AI, and I've been dead." I flipped the notepad closed. "About the only pairing that /doesn't/ seem to have any unhappy feelings is between the Indians and the AIs, but you seem to be being kept neatly apart."

Minerva metaphorically raised her ears at my phrasing - I'd hoped at least one of them would. "'Kept' apart?"

I nodded. "Even before I was shot," I touched the front of my shirt, "I had reason to believe that there was at least one group which disliked the direction of my intended research, and had some ability to try to keep me from pursuing it."

Toffee frowned. "You think somebody's been bleeping with us, setting us at each others' throats?"

"I think," I carefully said, "that there's enough of a chance that's the case to seriously consider it. I mean - sure, once I was toes up, there wasn't any particular reason for the whole bunch of you to stick together. But /all/ of you?"

Bunny Joe said, "My other self here and I aren't at odds with each other."

I nodded. "Out of the whole group, you two have the most in common, including each others' memories, and would be the hardest for an external force to separate. Of course, you two are /so/ close together that there's not much one of you could do that the other couldn't, so why bother trying, when there's other connections to sever?"

Sarah frowned. "Are you saying - Jeff and I should still be together?"

"I... don't know," I admitted.

"Gramma," whispered Minerva, with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry - I just don't know enough to say." I tried to refocus things. "This is just a theory. Gathering evidence for or against it is... tricky, since I frankly don't have a clue /how/ any of your disagreements could have been magnified. Let alone by who. But there's at least one interesting consequence of this theory that you might want to keep in mind."

I looked at each one in turn before continuing. "If it /is/ true - then someone thinks that splitting all of us up is /important/, worth the time and effort of accomplishing. Which means that they think if we're /not/ split up, we can do more than we could separately."

Toffee snarked, "Is this the love and kisses part of the motivation speech?"

I shrugged. "I'm bad at speeches. So bad, that maybe me being unfrozen doesn't make any difference to, uh, whoever it is. Nemesis? Team Black?"

"Melvin?", suggested Minerva. At our combined looks, she started curling up in on herself, then took a breath and straightened back out. "I never liked the name Melvin," she declared, jutting her chin out.

I suppressed a chuckle. "Good a name as any. As long as nobody forgets that we don't know if 'Melvin' is singular, let alone male."

Denise asked, "Do you have some plan for responding to this hypothetical 'Melvin'?"

I shook my head. "Just a suggestion. An uncommon word that I'm using incorrectly, but I'm going to use it anyway: 'Bisociation'." I paused to see if any of them would comment, but when they just kept watching me, I continued, "If Melvin doesn't exist - then there are certain things that it's worthwhile for each and every one of you to work on. If Melvin does exist - then there are certain things that, yes, it's worthwhile for each and every one of you to work on. At least for now, I'm going to suggest that you focus on whatever things happen to be on both lists, that are worth doing whether or not Melvin is in the picture." I shrugged a little. "If you want to get fancy, then you can throw in anything that's only good for one way, and doesn't cost much if the other way is true."

Toffee said, "I'm no stranger to backroom dealings and secrets and so on, but just in case any of you are... in case this Melvin thing is real, we can't breathe a word of it to anyone who's not already part of it. We have to act as if Bunny isn't nearly as bleeping paranoid as she sounds like."

Sarah asked, "If we can't do that - then what should we say to anyone who asks why we're all getting back together again?"

"I'm alive again," I pointed out. "That's probably enough of an excuse to try re-kindling some old friendships, among this... what's a good word for a group?"

"Cabal?"

"Round table?"

"I'd suggest 'Conspiracy', but it's already taken..."

"Troupe?"

"Wolverines? ... What? I /like/ the name 'Wolverines'..."

"Crew?"

"Gang?"

"Pack?"

"Blood brothers?"

"Blood bunnies?"

"Alphie and Boomer don't have any blood."

"Bunny and the forty thieves?"

"There's not nearly forty of us, even if the Bun-Bots are fixed."

"All the better to confuse Melvin if he ever hears it."

"Science Ninjas!"

"Justice League of Lake Erie."

"The Bun-family."

"The Order of the Picnic Basket."

"The Fellowship of the Rabbit."

"Team Bun-Bun."

"If we want to confuse Melvin, should we use different names?"

"Nakama?"

"What's that?"

"Japanese."

"Is anyone here Japanese?"

"'Forty thieves' gets a pass but Japan doesn't?"

I leaned back into the grass, head in my hands, and closed my eyes with a smile, letting the conversation flow (somewhat literally) over me.

--

Unfortunately, a few minutes of conversation and a shared joke aren't nearly enough to overcome three years of ingrained habits, and my incipient nap was cut short as the joking turned into sniping, and then plain old arguing and yelling.

"Guys. Guys!" I pushed my voice louder than theirs. "Lady with a heart condition here, remember?"

The loud voices disappeared into unhappy grumbling, before Bunny Joe obligingly pointed out, "You don't /have/ a heart."

"And I'd say that's a pretty serious condition," I responded. I pushed myself back up to sitting - and had to pause, as the whole scene faded to black for a moment. When it came back into view, I blinked, and said, "Whoah. Uh, Doc, I think I really am going to need that active control soon..."

Denise frowned, and scooted over, pulling out what appeared to be my sonic probe. She muttered "Shouldn't be low blood pressure, with all the fluids I've pushed into you..."

A sound at least two centuries old hit my ears, distracting me from the examination: a bicycle bell. I tilted my head to look around Denise, through the field and past her home-and-practice to the road, where a young man, probably a couple of years older than Minerva, wearing a brass-buttoned blue uniform with a peaked cap, was pedaling madly away. In moments, he'd leaned his conveyance on the tree, and had pulled out a piece of paper.

"Telegram!" As he approached, I adjusted my glasses, and made out the badge on the front of his cap, which read, 'Royal Mail Canada', which gave me pause for thought. "Queen Bunny, care of Denise Black Veterinary Services?"

I started raising my hand, but Denise said, "I'm Black. I'll sign for it." She did, then started to tip him with something shiny, but he took a step back. "Reply card's already paid for, ma'am."

I'd been in Munchkin long enough to fill my pockets with a few things, though I'd managed to resist the urge to keep adding more stuff until my pockets bulged. One such thing was a simple ceramic knife, which I now used to slice open the envelope. I took in the whole message with a quick glance, decided I had no reason to hide any of it, so read aloud at a more reasonable pace.

"'Informed you revived from hibernation. Please contact Lake Erie embassy earliest convenience. Important. Pinky.'" I set the paper on my lap. "Well, Doc? You're mostly in charge of my schedule."

"I would have let you go tomorrow, with certain precautions - but if you're still having blood pressure problems, I need to run some more tests... no earlier than the day after that."

--

As the telegram boy rode off, I had to consciously pull my thoughts away from musings about the range of second-order effects of the actions I'd taken, back to more immediate matters.

"By the way," I asked Denise, "I'm pretty sure that all my insurance ended the first time I died - so do I owe you anything for services rendered, costs and labour, a tip?"

She didn't answer immediately, but Toffee leaned in. "How about I take this one?" Denise grimaced, but shrugged, and Toffee settled in next to me. "That's all taken care of. When you were shot, I had all your assets put into a trust, run by a board for your benefit. It wasn't exactly kosher, since you got yourself shot before making any will - at least, any that we could find - but by the time anyone thought of making a fuss, I was in charge, and nobody batted an eye about me having a spare slush fund." Denise opened her mouth to say something, but Toffee waved a hand. "I didn't /actually/ use it as a bleeping slush fund - even though that would've been really helpful more than once, and I could have paid it back - but in this game, appearance is everything."

"Not /quite/ everything," Denise finally spoke up. "The board running the trust? Her, me, and Edwards. We all had... different ideas on how to work on fixing you up."

Toffee said, "Or bringing you back. Whole lot of bleeping arguments, even on just whether you should be thought of as dead or alive."

"They mostly wanted slow and steady, basic research. You were frozen, so they didn't see any rush."

I thought out loud, "Seems to have gone fairly fast to me."

Denise said, "Once Clara and the university's making machines were cut off, when the border got sealed up again, the machine making liquid nitrogen could have broken down at any time, and you could have thawed while we tried to get it fixed. I mostly got my way after that."

Toffee shrugged. "I still think we had enough leeway to try making a real heart, instead of bleeping disabling all the bun-bots guarding Munchkin's making machine... but what you said you could do, you did. Water under the bridge."

That seemed to finish that conversation, so I looked around. "There's more I want to talk about, with each of you, but I think I'm about done out for the day," I admitted. "Losing a heart really takes it out of you." I got only a single chuckle for my effort, and more than one rolled eye. "So how about we pick this up tomorrow morning? Maybe I can winkle out some detail about Melvin with all your stories together, that none of us could put together separately."

Denise said, "I have more than enough bedrooms - or comfy piles of hay in the horse barn, for those of you who don't fit, or just don't like beds."

Toffee grumbled, "I've got a whole city to take care of, I can't just wander off for a few days without warning. /Something/ will go wrong while I'm gone."

Minerva asked, "Don't you have people to help you?"

"Yeah, and they take care of all the little stuff. The problems /I/ take care of are the ones that need /me/."

I asked, "Is there some building between here and the heliograph tower?" I got a few confused looks, so I elaborated, "Can't you use a pocket mirror to stay in touch?"

Toffee said, "We, uh, don't really use the towers for that. Takes too much manpower to watch everywhere for a mirror that's not in the same place all the time."

"Ah. Pity. I thought the Barph was kind of clever."

"When it was just you, sure, but we've got thousands of customers. Still - nothing much is going on, so maybe I can find out how well the staff handle me not looking over their shoulders for a few extra hours. Productivity's been going down, and I need an excuse to pick some people to fire. Say, Minerva, want an after-school job?"

--

I woke to a scream ringing in my ears. Feet pounded along the hall outside the clinic room I was still bunking in, but I struggled just to get myself sitting.

As I was leaning on a wall to steady myself from standing up, Minerva stuck her head into the room, wide-eyed and pale.

"It's Joe," she reported. "He's been killed!"

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Six: Co-conspirators*

I stared at Minerva, then managed, "How do you know?"

"What?"

"That Joe was killed, and didn't just die?"

"The knife sticking out of his chest is a big clue."

"That answers my next question." She stared at me. "Which Joe it was." I grabbed my nearest cane (the ninja special, with a sword, a hollow shaft, blowdarts in the handle, and cord wrapped around the length) and pushed myself towards my room's door. "Right. Get me Denise."

"She's already-"

"This is /important/. I need to talk to her /before/ she does much to the body. And after you get her - Toffee's next."

In a few moments, I was somewhat more decently dressed in my rabbity Windsor Special, and the grumpiest veterinarian I knew stormed in. "You don't /look/ like you're dying."

"We all might, soon. How long has he been dead?"

"You-"

"How. Long."

"... Hours. At least six-"

"Freeze him."

"He's been dead long enough for-"

"I know. Get him aboard Munchkin and freeze him anyway."

"You don't-"

"Doctor." She blinked. "This isn't your patient talking. Or even Bunny the scholar. This is Bunny the head-of-state, who has a reasonable belief that we are /still under attack/. Get the freezing process started, and /then/ we'll talk more."

She blinked a few more times, then avoided Toffee on her way out. The mayor said, "'Under attack', eh? Then why just the one corpse?"

"Toffee - somebody is playing games, trying to manipulate us on several levels. Right now, we're all supposed to start wondering which one of us killed the other, look for clues, argue, confront each other, and so on. Do you know what all that has in common?"

"Sounds like you've got an answer."

"We are all tied up in a known location, where a single explosive or bit of nerve gas can take us /all/ out."

"... It's an interesting point."

"I would prefer to work with you on the next few things that need to be done - but I'm perfectly willing to apply /force majeure/ to ensure cooperation if need be."

"That's not quite what that phrase-"

"Not. The. Time."

"And why should I let you take charge?"

"My vitals have been monitored all night. Right now, I am the only person who has a rock-solid alibi and can be trusted by everyone."

She crossed her arms. "And I can't?"

"I hear you've taken up some of LeBlanc's methods of enforcement."

"And if I don't agree?"

"There's plenty of room in the freezer."

"Looks like I'm not the only one who knows how to break legs."

"Toffee - we're /wasting time/. I'm only spending /this/ much with you because you've got the greatest power to sabotage the rest of us - or help out."

"So you've got a plan?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"What is it?"

"Line of command first, trust you with details second."

"... Nah. I've got some detectives I can hire. I'm going to go roust /them/ out to deal with all this." She turned to leave the room. She stopped as she discovered my blade resting on her right shoulder, the sharp side facing her neck. "... I'm going to have to remember which cane that is."

"Toffee - you're thinking like a civilian. You know my goals. Someone is working to /sabotage/ them. Someone would rather have /everyone die/. I /want/ you around to help out; but I'd rather Denise spent years trying to revive you than let you go right now."

"Maybe /this/ is what the killer wants, us at each other's literal bleeping throats."

"What's going o- Aaah!" Sarah yelped, and I startled.

"Aaah!" Toffee yelled.

"Aaah!" I yelled, at the sight of the sudden red line along her neck.

"Aaah!" Minerva joined in from behind Sarah.

"Bleep!" Toffee emphasized, clutching at the bleeding cut. She continued talking, using words high in emotional emphasis but low in informational content, so I tuned them out.

I stared at the newcomers, sliding the blade back into the cane. "We're all getting aboard Munchkin," I stated. "And moving to a less vulnerable location. Denise should be bringing Joe's body aboard now. That leaves the other Joe, the children, and the AIs."

Minerva was /staring/ at me, in a way I found uncomfortable, but didn't have time to deal with. She pulled Alphie from her pocket, and said, "Miz Black has Boomer. Haven't found Joe yet."

I nodded once. "Sarah, would you be so kind as to escort Mayor Toffee to the vehicle, and then help her with her injury?"

The foxtaur tilted her head. "Was thinking of having you ride me."

"I appreciate the offer, but if Toffee, ah, collapses, or has a fit, you can carry her."

"Ah, bleep it," Toffee said, with somewhat less profanity than she'd been using up to then. "I'll behave. Not like I could run if I wanted."

"My decision stands." Toffee rolled her eyes, but let Sarah escort her out. "Minerva, would you be kind enough to push that wheelchair over here?"

She did, and I carefully lowered myself into it, setting the cane on my lap. "Your hands are shaking," she pointed out.

"Low blood pressure. Low glucose by now, too. I'll roll myself along in a few moments. There are a couple of two-year-olds who need to get put safely aboard, too."

"Are you making me the babysitter because I'm just a teenager?"

"No, I'm making you the babysitter because I don't think I can pick up one baby foxtaur right now, let alone two."

--

When I got myself to the barn, Bunny Joe was sitting on top of Munchkin, legs dangling, and informed me "Bear Joe is inside."

"Get aboard, we're sealing up."

"Need help?"

"... The chair, maybe."

Inside, Sarah was wiping down some dusty surfaces with a damp cloth, Minerva was sitting and clutching a small backpack to her chest, and Toffee was looking less gruntled than usual with some sterile cotton taped to the side of her neck. I heard some giggling in the kitchen area, and when I made my way around the counter, paused and blinked - one of the two-year-old foxtaurs had the maw between her forelegs clamped around the other one's rear end, the latter's tail entirely missing and her hindlegs pressed up against her belly.

I hadn't been interacting much with them since my thaw - Denise had very firm opinions about toddlers being anywhere near medical equipment - nor did I have much experience with being with humans that young, let alone para-humans.

"Uh, Sarah," I asked, "should they be doing that?"

She came over, looked over the counter, and sighed. "Max, stop eating Pat."

"Not!" declared the predator, who was, presumably, Max.

Sarah tried something else, with "Pat, stop bothering Max." Pat giggled, and wriggled, and shoved herself an inch or two deeper.

Sarah went around the counter, scooped up both, and held one in each arm. "Who are my little girls? Yes? Yes you are!" A bit more baby-talk that my mind frankly refuses to remember followed; and then, as calmly as if she were holding them over her shoulder to burp, she opened her own maw and slid both inside.

"Uh..." was my cogent response.

"It's okay," Sarah reassured me. "I won't swallow, and they like squeezing into small spaces. They'll probably go back to sleep." There was a shifting, and a small, foxy head popped out of Sarah, giggling as she pulled out a foxy tail and gnawed on it. "... And if not, they'll stay out from underfoot."

"... Right. Denise in the back?"

"No," Denise answered, "I'm just coming back out front. I've patched up Joe enough to start perfusing him with cryoprotectant, which I don't need to watch over all the time."

"Right," I repeated, looking around. "That makes everybody here. I'm going to get us moving... do any of you know anything about Munchkin's power systems?"

Several glances were exchanged, and then various heads shook. Denise said, "That's the one compartment I haven't broken into." At my look, she elaborated, "Made your heart with the fabricator here, remember?"

"Right. Guess that means I go fire us up, and hope there aren't any undocumented magnetic fields."

Denise spoke again, "I can help scan for those."

I ran my mind through the memory palace I'd dedicated to keeping track of inventory, but didn't find a match. "You fabbed a magnetic sensor?"

"Not quite. I needed to test that I had a good non-bio-reactive coating, so," she held up her left hand and wiggled the ring finger, "coated a small magnet and implanted it."

"... You gave yourself magneto-, uh," I ran out of Latin.

"Magnetoception. Yes."

"... Right. I appreciate the offer, but if the main engine has been secure this long, might as well keep it that way. I'll just grab a compass on the way back and keep an eye on it."

Toffee interrupted with a grunt. "Why do you get to make all the decisions, anyway?"

"At least in part, because I'm taking advantage of the bystander effect. And nobody's got a better plan. And I've got a weapon and am willing to use it if need be."

--

The magnetic fields that coupled my heart's electric motors to the spinning rotors inside the pumps didn't fail, so I made my way back forward - through my thoroughly un-secret Chamber of Secrets, where the deactivated bun-bots had been stacked on top of each other and had a sheet tossed over them, through the two cargo containers emptied of the portable heliograph stations, through the lab where Joe's body was already starting being chilled, and to the living module.

Nobody had killed anybody else while I'd been firing up the fusion reactor, so I lowered myself to a seat and called up the vehicle's interface on the wall.

"We're not going to go far," I announced for the room's benefit, "just enough so we're not easy to find. A few kilometers off, and then down to a creek with lots of trees to hide us from view." I set the program in motion, setting the rest of us in motion; and then closed my eyes, let my breath out, and leaned my forehead on the wall.

In a few moments, Denise was fussing over me, sliding the electronic finger-glove that improved the clinic's diagnostic readings onto my hand, and humming to herself at its built-in display. "Pressure's still a bit low," she said, "but I don't think you're bleeding internally. Your blood oxygen level's a couple points down. You shouldn't have gone to the barn on your own, you should have gotten someone to push you. Stay off your feet for an hour, and then we'll get your exercise program adjusted."

"I'll keep that in mind," I carefully leaned back in my seat. "In the meantime - I think it's safe to get back to the fact that we've had an attempted murder, which might shade into an actual murder depending on a few things. I'm not sure I'm up to playing armchair detective - but I do seem to have the only externally confirmable alibi, with my every last bodily function having been tracked all night." I thought about adding the fact that I was hardly in a state where I was up to stabbing someone in the chest with a knife, but as part of the situation seemed to be balanced on my being able to resort to force if need be, I let that detail rest.

I continued, "We could go through the whole rigamarole of looking at the pictures I'm assuming Boomer made of the crime scene, checking for fingerprints, comparing alibis, discussing motives, and all that... which might all be completely irrelevant, if anybody snuck into Denise's place during the night, did the deed, and snuck back out again. Or if Joe stabbed himself for some reason. Or - any number of things. And all of which is secondary to a more important point; even if one of us did stab Joe, what should the rest of us do about that fact?"

"Kill 'em," Toffee said, without hesitation. "Keep 'em from killing anyone else."

"Lock her up?" Minerva hazarded.

"Give her to the city court," Sarah offered, "and let them handle it."

"Exile is traditional," Bunny Joe commented.

"If Melvin did something to make her do it - try to fix her," Denise said.

I raised an eyebrow. "That does seem to cover most of the range of possibilities. So I'm going to mention the unmentioned option as a possibility to consider: Nothing."

Toffee looked like she was about to kill /someone/. "What, you'd just let them bleeping /get away/ with it?"

"Depending on what you mean by 'get away'," I responded. "Remember the goal tree. If any given response helps increase the odds of the core goals, then I'm in favour of that response. If no response increases the odds, then I'm in favour of no response."

"And here I've been getting all the flack for making cold-blood decisions."

Before I could work out the details of a comment that would have been based on the term 'hard-hearted' as it applied to my blood pumps, Sarah said, "We wouldn't be /safe/."

"I can reconfigure Munchkin so each of us has a locked door to delay an attack, one or more weapons to further delay, and set up Munchkin's internal sensors to set off an alarm to warn all of us if one of us tries to kill any of us."

Denise snorted. "You're just willing to put all our lives at risk because you think /you/'re going to live forever."

"Believe me," I said, "having been dead more than once, I'm all too aware of the possibilities that the next time will involve a lot more brain damage and a lot less resurrectability."

"Yeah? What about all that quantum stuff you were telling me about, the first time we met?"

I started to say something, paused, checked that against my priorities, and picked a different tack. "It would take some time to explain why what you seem to think I think isn't what I actually think. Short version: quantum is weird, and I still want to minimize the odds I, or any of us, die. Every action is taken with imperfect knowledge and has risks. Balancing one risk against another can be tricky." I sighed. "I am undoubtedly making mistakes. But I stand by my decision to get us away from the clinic as fast as possible - that reduces a certain risk by a lot, by increasing another risk by less. Even less than that, with proper precautions. And even more less... you know what I mean... by thinking through the solution-space cooperatively."

Denise still wasn't happy. "Even if one of us killed Joe and gives bad suggestions?"

"We've got two bunnies, three humans, two AIs, and a foxtaur. Eight minds. Even if one of us tries to sabotage us, that's still seven to one. And that one would be limited to not making /obvious/ bad suggestions."

"Um," said Minerva, and I turned to her. "Bunny?"

"Yes?"

"I think you're making a mistake. The mind projection fallacy - you're assuming other people think more like you do than they really do. Maybe you have practice with all this... stuff, with trust and mistrust and so on, but I'm already confused. And afraid. And trying not to throw up."

"Bathroom's that way," I absently directed her, but she stayed put. "Right. I suppose we can try simplifying a bit, cover some of the basics. Has anyone built any robotic bodies that Boomer or Alphie can control?" Various shakes of the head. "Then it's probably safe to say that neither of them is going to be a leading suspect, barring extraordinary evidence otherwise. And Max and Pat are also pretty low down on the suspect list. And I rather doubt Bear Joe can use a knife very well."

Toffee growled, "Stop pussy-footing around, and just say it."

"Pardon?"

"I'm at the top of your bleeping 'list', aren't I?" She pressed her hand against her bandaged neck.

I sighed. "Given a lack of a way to discriminate one suspect from another, due to a lack of evidence about any of you having any greater means, motive, or opportunity... you /did/ try to get away from the clinic after Joe was discovered, something nobody else did. It's only a small clue, not convincing evidence of anything; it just means you're closer to, say, around five percent suspicion than everyone else's four percent."

"Wait," Minerva said, "If you're excluding yourself, then there's five of us - that only adds up to twenty-one percent."

"It was an example of a number, not the actual number. You're also leaving out 'outside attacker', 'suicide', 'multiple killers', 'one of us is a fake', 'the body is a fake', and plain old 'unknown stuff'. But I'm trying to figure out what can be simplified."

Toffee crossed her arms. "Going to 'simplify' me right out of bleeping existence and take over, aren't you?"

I resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. "While I may disagree with some of the actions you've taken while in charge - strongly disagree - I'm not here to seize power from you. I doubt the unions would agree to go along, even if I thought that doing that would advance my goals. Plus, of course, there's the little matter that I'm trying to keep anyone else in here from getting stabbed? Kind of hard for either of us to run things if we're killed, whether or not we're frozen, isn't it?"

Toffee grumbled, looking away, glancing around the room; then her gaze settled on Minerva, who was still hugging her pack and looked to be about two sentences away from just starting to rock back and forth. Toffee growled, "You want to talk about bleeping suspicious? How come /she/ has a bag all ready and packed?"

Minerva said, "Hey! I /always/ have a bag packed. Gramma told me to be prepared, and I try to be."

"Yeah?" Toffee glared at her. "Maybe you've got a bomb in there and are just waiting to set it off." She stood up, saying, "Let's see what's in there."

She took a step towards Minerva, whereupon I shouted "Hold it!" I grabbed my cane's handle again. "Toffee, step back."

"Yeah? You gonna risk all our lives just because you like her better?"

Minerva said, "Sarah, Joe - you've seen me carry my bag around, haven't you?"

Sarah tilted her head, looking up at an angle. "... Don't remember."

Toffee nodded. "Then let me see that." She started another step.

I projected from my diaphragm, "Toffee, /stop/." She did, reluctantly, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. "You're still a suspect, and if you get any closer to her, I'm going to have to assume you're trying for a /second/ murder."

"Doesn't look like you're trying too hard to stop me. You haven't even stood up."

"I can ask Bear Joe or Sarah to sit on you until we get you tied up. I'm reasonably sure I don't have to engage in melee myself."

Sarah reached over and put a hand on my shoulder, while looking at Toffee. "Can do, boss," she said.

Toffee looked around at all the others, sniffed dramatically, and went back to her seat.

I relaxed and took a breath. Then I decided to try and make her feel less like interrupting everything by offering a compromise, and said, "Toffee, I'm not saying you had a bad idea. You're just going about it the wrong way."

I looked at Minerva and lifted my own eyebrow.

She swallowed, then said, "There's some private... things in here. I was going to ask if you wanted to see them, later, but... it's kind of embarrassing. Could you look at them... you know, without showing them to everyone?"

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'd... blush a lot, I guess. I know this is an investigation and everything, I just..." She trailed off, looking away.

I tried to spare her feelings a bit. "A motion is on the floor for me to examine Minerva's bug-out bag in private. Any objections?"

Toffee said, "If you drop dead from poison gas, does that mean I can have her arrested?"

I looked to Minerva. "Is there anything dangerous in your bag?"

"Of course not! Well - a few knives and such, but they're sheathed. I have to open it myself, why would I booby-trap it?"

I turned back to Toffee. "Fine - if the bag kills me, you can arrest her for perjury, if nothing else. Any other objections?" There weren't any. "Alright. I'll take the bag one room back, to the lab, and leave the door open. Bear Joe, if anyone moves from their spots, will you sit on them and howl or something to let me know something's up?"

He grunted and nodded, and Bunny Joe added, "He will."

I wasn't sure how steady I would be on my feet, so I stayed in the wheelchair; rolling forward so Minerva could set her pack on my lap, and then back.

Within the bag were all manner of tools, much like the ones I'd kept in my own safari vest and utility belt, before my latest freezing; from band-aids to what appeared to be a road flare to some jerky to a change of clothes, I thoroughly approved. Also within it were a number of stapled bundles of paper, of several sizes, some with words, some with pictures. I took out one the size of a Jack Chick tract, with some sort of line drawing on the front. A closer look revealed the title of "The Bunny and the Bear".

Flipping it open revealed content that was definitely /not/ anything Jack Chick would have ever drawn. In fact, it was very possibly the absolute opposite. I found my face growing red, and set the small pornographic comic aside.

I tried the largest booklet, which appeared to be letter-sized paper, written on with a typewriter. I flipped a couple of pages in, skimming... it was in narrative prose, a story about "Rabbit", who had just met a talking horse... I blushed harder, and flipped quickly. The whole story appeared to parallel my own activities since my first revival, only my counterpart basically shtupped everything in sight.

I wasn't exactly used to having fiction written about me - let alone erotic fanfiction - but I concentrated on the fact that it didn't seem to have anything to do with Human Joe getting knifed, so I just made sure nothing was hidden in any of the pages, and then finished the search, and put everything back.

I rolled back to the front, and wonder of wonders, Toffee hadn't forced Bear Joe to do anything. "It's pretty much what Minerva said," I told the room, passing the bag back to her. "Mostly emergency supplies, a few everyday items, and some personals."

Toffee said, "What's got her so bleeping fired up about keeping it a secret, then?"

I frowned at her. "I just said - 'some personals'. Nothing relevant to Joe, as far as I can tell. If you want to know more, you can ask her, and if she says 'no', then you'll just have to deal with that." I turned away from Toffee. "Minerva, we should probably have a talk, later, about those 'personals'. Alright?"

She just nodded, holding the bag close enough to half-hide her face. "Alright," she just about squeaked.

I tried to focus back on matters at hand. "Boomer, do you have pictures of the knife?"

"Of course." Denise unfolded a coffee-table, and set the AI onto it for easier viewing of her display screen.

"Denise, does that match what you saw?"

"The actual knife is back there, yes."

"Boomer, can you make out any fingerprints on the handle?"

"My cameras do not have the ability to make out the amounts of skin oils typically left behind."

"Alright - that seems like a good thing to look for. Um - do I need to call upon the stuff I learned from old Hardy Boys books, and dig up some talc or lamp-black powder?"

Boomer said, "Unskilled attempts to dust for fingerprints often damage the prints. I suggest attempting a method that does not use brushes, such as cyanoacrylate fumes, iodine fumes, magnetic powder, or ultraviolet light."

"What's the knife handle made of?"

Bunny Joe spoke up, "It is wrapped in leather. I bought my belt knife at the same time and place he bought his, if you wish to see."

"Boomer, do you have an inventory of Munchkin's lab supplies?"

"I do, though it may be incorrect by now."

"Given that inventory, and the material - what's the most feasible method?"

"Building an iodine fuming gun, or related apparatus. The iodine vapours temporarily darken fingerprints, requiring either a stabilization agent or pictures to be taken; but otherwise leaves the prints intact for any desired additional tests."

There were a few variations on the concept, but in the end, I picked one of the simplest: putting both the knife and some iodine crystals into a sealable transparent plastic baggie. The bag was set on its edge, and Boomer and Alphie were positioned on either side, so their cameras could capture the prints as the iodine sublimated.

"While that's cooking," I said, "I've thought of a couple other details that might be relevant, that some of you probably know and at least I don't. To start with... Joe, how long has it been since Human Joe visited a spirit pool?"

Bunny Joe stated, "None of us have traveled to the Great Peace for two years."

I blinked. "That - seems like a pretty long time, from what I've gathered about you."

"It is."

"... Can I ask why?"

"The Nine Nations allowed for limited travel to and fro for a year. Then they stopped. They went back to the old way: all who enter the Great Peace, stay in the Great Peace. The three of me agreed that we could do more good outside the Peace than in it - so we have stayed out."

"Okay," I tilted my head. "I think I can see how that line of thought works. Next... Minerva, I'm sorry if this brings up memories, but just in case there might be some connection... how did your grandmother die?"

She looked away. "She killed herself."

"... Pardon?"

"She'd been feeling worse and worse, so she made sure I had people to take care of me, wrote a note, and drowned herself in the lake. I found her shoes where she took them off and went in, but not her body. Nobody took her away, or poisoned her, or shot or stabbed her, or anything like that, okay?"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry, but I had to ask. Mm... who reported Joe's death?"

"I did," said Bunny Joe. "He was on the hay pile next to mine."

Boomer spoke up. "I am beginning to detect sufficient differential in the iodine staining to make preliminary comparisons to the fingerprints I have recorded."

I looked around, to see if anyone was getting ready to smash the AI before it reported on them, but everyone was just sitting, waiting, and watching.

Boomer continued, "All of the visible prints match Human Joe's prints more closely than those of anyone else here. Additional time will be required to ensure they match Joe to a high enough level to rule out other people."

Alphie said, "I report similar findings."

I rubbed the back of my head. "Well, so much for that line of inquiry. We don't have any video to examine, none of us are CSI agents, I wouldn't know where to even start looking for DNA evidence... I suspect our best bet is to try asking the one witness we have to Joe's killing: Joe himself."

Toffee said, "He's not even frozen yet - you got some way to revive him?"

"I don't. If anyone does, it's the Great Peace."

Denise said, "Nobody who goes in comes out, anymore."

I shrugged. "I know some of the tricks they pull to make that happen - and Bunny Joe knows more. I'm pretty sure that if we keep Munchkin airtight, there's not much they can do to stop us moving around... At worst, I could try driving us straight to a spirit pool, slide Joe in, and then try opening negotiations with the Council."

"I'm sorry, Bunny, I can't let you do that."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Seven: Co-existence*

Everyone turned to face the rabbit in the room.

Bunny Joe looked around at us, and said, "I didn't kill him. But putting his body into a spirit pool would be bad."

Toffee stuck her chin out. "Yeah? And why should we believe you?"

"Because all three of us have been avoiding going back home for years." She gestured at Bear Joe, including him in her trio.

I said, "I have been wondering a bit about that. It's been nice seeing you, so I haven't been asking very hard, but given circumstances..."

"You looked at Minerva's bag in private," said Joe. "I would prefer to give you my explanation in private."

No complaints about that came forth, though Toffee did grumble, so in short order we two lapines were back in the lab; with me holding tightly to my cane in case Joe tried to take advantage of our relative isolation.

She told me, "When the spirits make more than one of a person - our thoughts stay the same, in many ways, even in different bodies. Human Joe liked looking at women, and I like looking at men - but we both like singing the same songs, playing the same sports... more personal things."

I nodded for her to continue, and she did. "Some months after you were frozen, maybe half a year... something happened to us. I'm pretty sure it was to him. We started... not just liking different things, but becoming different people. Not in the way that happens naturally... he started /thinking/ differently. Even now, I do not understand it well enough to describe it well. He could tell we were becoming other to each other, and that I wasn't changing, but still had a hard time realizing he was."

"Did it have anything to do with what Minnie said, that some people in the city aren't thinking right?"

"Perhaps. But every time she brought that up, Joe forgot all he had realized. The only way we could even try to figure out what was happening was to stay away from her."

"Did you? Figure it out, I mean?"

"Only glimpses. But one thing worries me greatly: that whatever changes were made to his mind, if the spirits take his memories into their hands, those changes will become part of all the versions of me that step out of a spirit pool after that. I would rather lose the nine years of memories of the three of us, than let that happen."

"Even to catch a killer?"

She looked at me levelly. "You seek immortality in your way. I have it in mine. Would you risk having another's mind wake up in your body, the next time you are frozen?"

"It's... an interesting point." I drummed my fingers on the wheelchair's armrest. "There are other avenues of investigation, and various issues in heading to the Great Peace. I'm not going to rule out trying to go there at some point, but I'm willing to pursue other lines of inquiry, for now."

"That's fine - for now."

We returned to the main room. The foxlings' head and tail had disappeared from Sarah's front, and there was no sign of them running around, so I guessed they were napping; if I didn't know how Sarah looked without them, I wouldn't have guessed she was carrying passengers. Toffee still looked disgruntled, Minerva unhappy, and Denise nearly expressionless.

I announced, "I'm going to file Joe's reasons under 'religious objection', and not get into further detail just now. However, there's at least one aspect to this whole... schmear that seems to need addressing, as it affects any further decisions that have to be made." I carefully didn't look at any of them in particular as I said, "I have reason to believe that at least one of us, probably several, though unlikely all, are under the effect of some sort of mind-affecting process. Which brings up the wrinkle - how can an investigator investigate when their own mind may not be entirely their own? How can any of us operate, when our own thinking hardware may be corrupted?"

Toffee shrugged. "You can't, obviously."

Minerva countered, "Then how did anyone ever figure out that just because someone's ugly doesn't mean they're wrong?"

The mayor squinted at the girl. "Was that a dig?"

Minerva quickly shook her head, and I said, working out the idea as I was speaking, "One thing occurs to me - and which may be what makes us interesting to Melvin - is that we have about as broad a range of cognitive architectures as I'm aware of. Toffee is a reasonably typical modern-day human; Denise is close to that, plus her optical cortex oddity; Minerva is pre-pubescent, and is aware of a particular cognitive deficit; Sarah has been Changed by a zone, and then Changed again by the Great Peace; Bunny Joe is a native of the Great Peace; Bear Joe is a human mind stuffed into a bear's brain; Alphie and Boomer are conversational interfaces connected to knowledge engines; and I've got a brain dating from before the Singularity itself. Whatever cognitive issue affects any one of us, is unlikely to affect /all/ of us."

Bunny Joe asked, "What about the squiddies?"

I shrugged. "If we can find one who can join in the debate, I'm all for it. I can also think of a couple of other AIs I've met who probably have different mental architectures... though one's outright dangerous, and another is inconveniently located, and I doubt Technoville would let us hire him." I reinforced my mental note to find out what had happened to the tape-bots; while Scorpia was snugly back around my wrist, I hadn't seen the other little guys in a while.

Sarah considered, "You're saying... if one of us has a wrong idea, the others will see it?"

I shrugged, but just a little. "Maybe. It's why scientists really like studies that were independently replicated."

Sarah doggedly (ahem) continued, "Even if one of us killed Joe, and wants to sabotage us?"

My shoulders barely twitched at all. "I didn't say it would be /easy/."

Sarah said, "Even if some of us are dumber than the others?"

I looked at her curiously. "Most of the point of trying to get different shaped minds to work together is that none of us are smart about /everything/. I may know the difference between GNU and Linux, but I haven't got the first clue how to deal with a two-year-old's tantrum. If you need advice on programming a computer, you can come to me; if I need advice on some of that squishy emotional interpersonal relationship stuff, I can come to you."

She gave me a look I was completely unable to interpret. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course I can. I can't even think of a situation where I'd need to lie about that."

Sarah smiled, nodded, padded over to me, and gave me a big hug, which I had just barely a high enough EQ to try to return.

Of course, that was the moment that Max and Pat woke from their nap, pushed out of Sarah's maw onto my lap, and peed on my clothes.

--

After a quick fur-scrub and change into the top set of clothes in the trunk - the commander-in-chief's uniform I'd been shot in, repaired at some point during my hibernation - I returned to the room everyone else was in, and nodded thanks to Bear Joe for standing guard again.

"Alright," I interrupted the quiet conversations that had arisen during my absence, "I call this meeting of the Royal Society back to order - we still have a stabbing to consider."

Denise arched an eyebrow. "Is that what we're supposed to call ourselves?"

I answered, "I thought about 'Privy Council', but even ignoring the legal ramifications of that, the bad jokes are just too obvious."

Toffee grumbled, "I've never been happy with this 'queen' stuff. I'm an American, bleep it!"

I grumbled right back, "I don't care of one of you calls it the 'Order of the Rabbit' and another the 'Munchkin Marauders', can we just get /on/ with it?"

"Fine, fine," Toffee waved a hand airily. "Just don't expect me to start bowing and scraping and tugging my forelock. ... Have I even got a bleeping forelock?"

"Alright," I repeated. "Stabbing. Munchkin, create new whiteboard."

I started scribbling the most well-confirmed facts we had onto the wall - that we'd found a knife in Joe's chest, the knife only had Human Joe's fingerprints - when Minerva said, "Should we write down the question we're trying to answer?"

I started to nod, but Toffee said, "Why bother? It's 'Who killed Joe?'."

I paused in my writing, frowned, thinking. "I... think we can do better than that. We're not just trying to come up with an answer out of idle curiosity; we want to use whatever answer we come up with to decide what to do next. And with mental manipulations possibly on the table... I think we need to split the question into at least something like, 'What group of muscles pushed the knife into Joe's chest?', and 'What minds tried to kill Joe?'. They're heavily related, the one affects the other and the other affects the one, but if the answers are different - that would be an important fact we'd have to take into account when deciding what to do." I shoved what I'd written to the side, and added the questions I'd just described.

I tapped my fuzzy chin, thoughtfully. "I have an inkling of an idea... maybe I should try going a bit manic to see if I can work it out? Any of you up to helping me if I crash afterwards... and are there any of those high-energy brownies around?"

There weren't, but I pretended Wagger had just snagged one and tried to placebo myself into the right state of mind anyway. "Okay. I think I'm starting to see where my subconscious is going here. As a purely illustrative example, without actually saying anything about whether it's true or false, let's pretend for a moment that Bunny Joe stabbed Human Joe." I sectioned off a bit of wall, headlined it 'hypothetical', and added 'Bunny Joe stabs Human'. "That would answer the 'whose muscles' question. However, for the other question... either she wanted to stab Joe, or she did not." I drew a couple of angled lines from the first entry, and on the ends of them, added the labels 'wants to kill' and 'doesn't want'. "And, either she was under Melvin's control at the time, or she wasn't." I drew four more lines, creating a simple tree.

Minerva spoke up, "If Bunny Joe didn't want to kill Joe, and wasn't under mind control, we can cross off that branch."

I nodded. "True - but I'll get to that in a second. There's a bit of statistics I remember, and that's if you have multiple possible causes for an effect, and don't have any evidence to favor one over the other, than you should treat them as being equally likely." I wrote '50%' over each of the angled lines. "To get the likelihood of each of these scenarios," I tapped the final four branches, "you multiply the probability of all the branches leading up to it - in this case, each one is fifty percent times fifty percent, which comes to twenty-five percent." I added the numbers. "Now - that applies if you don't /have/ evidence to choose between the options. Even in this little example, we have at least one piece - that Bunny Joe did the stabbing. People usually don't kill other people when they don't mean to, so I'm going to add a single branch extending off the one Minerva pointed out, call it 'accidental stabbing', and give it a probability of, oh, one in a thousand." I paused, considering. "I suppose I should put in two branches there, one with a weight of nine hundred ninety-nine out of a thousand, called 'no accidental stabbing', and then cross it out, but that would probably just muddy things up.

"This gives us four scenarios. For three of them - Bunny Joe wanted to kill Human Joe; Melvin wanted to kill him; or they both did - the weights are twenty five percent each. And the fourth, zero point zero two five percent. They don't add up to a hundred percent anymore, so we can't call these numbers the absolute probabilities; right now, they're just how likely each scenario is relative to the other scenarios. Pretty close to one-in-three odds for these three, and low enough to be ignorable for the fourth.

"And," I said, nodding to myself, "I've just figured out where my mind was going with this. I think. For each scenario about what led to Joe's death, we can create a tree, with branch-points for every potential cause that we don't know whether is true or not. For the ones we've got evidence for, we can weight each branch appropriately; and for the ones we don't, we give equal odds. We eliminate the impossibilities, and when we're done, we should end up with a good idea of just how many unlikely things would have to be true in order for that scenario to be true, and thus how implausible it is. Which should let us see which scenarios are most likely - and which pieces of evidence we should be focusing our attention on, as the ones that would cause the greatest change in the odds depending on what we find.

"Everyone with me so far?" I turned around to look at them all.

"I am," Minerva said, confidently.

There was a brief silence.

I sighed, and pushed up my glasses to rub the top of my nose. "Let's try a real example. Let's assume that I stabbed Joe. Given what evidence we have, how many things would have to be true for that to happen?" I looked around. "Anyone?" I sighed again. "Denise - when you came in, did you see the papers with my overnight bio-readings?"

"I did," she agreed, without much enthusiasm.

"And was there any interruption in them, such as from me getting out of bed? Did you hear any medical alarms overnight?"

"There wasn't."

"O-/kay/." I was writing out a new tree. "Now - ignoring the stabbing for a second - how likely is it that I'd be able to /get/ out of that diagnostic bed without interrupting those readings?"

"Not very. They were made by your fab while you were frozen, and include some simple squiggle pens. Even if you wanted to reprogram them, there's no chips or anything to reprogram. You'd have to fool a dozen different sensors with a dozen different things, all at the same time. I don't know how likely that is, just that it's 'not very'."

"Well, we can tree that out. I'd need to fool the heart rate sensor, and the temperature sensor, and the blood glucose meter - and that's enough for this example. How likely is it I could fool the pulse meter?"

"I built that myself. Maybe if you were /really/ clever, and could come up with something I didn't... without anyone catching you making it, and bringing it to your room... I don't know, maybe one in ten?"

"You just listed three things, and halving three times is one in eight, but I'll defer to your expert medical opinion. I assume one-in-ten for the others, too?" She nodded, and I filled in the numbers. "Now then - simply from that diagnostic bed's info, we can already see that the odds of me being the killer are already one thousandth that of any of the rest of you, with all else being equal."

Minerva had let her pack slide to the floor, and was sitting on the edge of her seat. "We could work together to figure out what all the trees are shaped like," she said, "but then - what about the numbers? I don't think I'd give the same probability that Alphie has any reason to want to kill Joe that Miss Toffee would. And why would she trust my numbers more than her own? Oh! We could each write down our own numbers, and then average them out, maybe?"

"Hm," I hmed. "There are a few statistical quibbles about that - but it's fairly easy to do, and at least gives us a rough place to start."

--

"You think I'm /how/ likely to be under mind control?" bellowed Toffee.

"I just think a lot of your behaviour makes a lot more sense if that's the case," primly responded Denise.

--

"You're forgetting the incident of the dog in the night-time," I pointed out.

"Which dog?" Bunny Joe looked confused.

"You were sleeping the next haystack over from Human Joe - and you /weren't/ stabbed."

--

Some time later, I said, "Next time we try this - we all come up with our own numbers /separately/, and /then/ hash them out."

Even just hashing out how to construct the conditional-probability trees had taken a lot of arguing. (While I could probably have called up some relevant programming from the whiteboard software, I was hoping that the Lake Erie Gang would end up with a better understanding of the idea by doing the work ourselves, so I didn't bring up the possibility.) But eventually a set of acceptable compromises was reached... though on occasion 'acceptable' involved me simply declaring outright something like 'no, multiplying two numbers between zero and one /always/ results in a number that's smaller than both ... adding more conditions never /raises/ the probability'.

"But," I continued aloud, "now that we've done all that hashing - we have our initial results. For our initial question, of which physical actor acted, our most likely scenario, with an actual majority of sixty-two percent confidence, is that Joe stabbed himself. Our second-most likely candidate, at a mere seventeen percent, is that Bunny Joe performed the act, with her topping the list apparently mainly due to her proximity. The piece of evidence that seems most likely to change that confidence is either finding a set of fingerprint-hiding gloves, or performing a serious search for such gloves and /not/ finding them.

"We all have our own disagreements with these numbers, but does everyone at least accept that these compromise figures are not entirely unreasonable, given the evidence at hand?" I looked around, and everyone looked back (except Minerva, who was distracting the kids by lacing string around their fingers in a cat's-cradle, which she was having some trouble keeping from devolving into a cat's-Gordian-knot).

"Get on with it," Toffee rolled her eyes.

"Fine. Moving to the second question: Motivation. We have much less evidence to go on here, and we have a lot of disagreement here. Either whoever killed Joe - possibly including Joe - had their own reasons to do so, or they didn't; and either an external influence caused them to kill Joe, or it didn't. With our choices of one, or the other, or both, then right now, no matter who the physical killer is, our confidence levels are staying fairly close to the thirty to thirty-five percent range. The piece of evidence that seems to have the strongest effect is find some evidence that such a strong mental influence can exist at all."

Denise shook her head. "We took all that time just to say what we already knew?"

I frowned at her. "As someone who taught me a great deal once said, 'If it can't be expressed in figures, it is not science; it is opinion.' Now we've got the figures, and we can skip over all the arguments that one of our opinions is less valid because of yadda yadda yadda, and stay focused on the actual problem, and possible solutions thereto."

"Science, hm?" She drummed her fingers on her armrest. "Going to start running some experiments to see if you can mind-control someone?"

I shook my head definitively. "There's a couple problems with that. One of the biggest is that the scientific method, by which I mean carefully-controlled experiments, with replications, to precisely quantify effect sizes, is a very powerful method of acquiring very strong evidence; but we don't have the time, budget, or people to accomplish proper science. So instead of spending thirty years working out the exact strength of radio waves have on the hippocampus to a ninety-nine point nine percent confidence - we're going to have to gather whatever evidence we can afford to spend the time on, even if it's no more than fifty-five percent confidence, and gradually nudge our evidence-trees and the plans built from them accordingly."

"That's a lot of words that seem to add up to 'not much'."

"Maybe, but we've got the math to back up however little that 'not much' is, and I don't know of a better way to figure out the best possible plan given however much uncertain evidence is available."

"Oh, so there is a plan?"

"Sort of. A few small planlets, anyway. Now that we've got ideas of what evidence would affect our decision-making, we can work on figuring out ways to gather that evidence, and sort them out by how much effort is required compared to how strong that evidence is. Then we can run through the easiest ones, even if none of them provide strong conclusions; and work from there."

"Like what?"

"There's a simple test to see if Melvin has set up some trap at Denise's clinic to kill more of us. I can check with Boomer or Alphie for some tests to see if any of us are more susceptible to suggestion than the others. I could do a flyover, with Boomer or Alphie or both, and use the data they collect to create a 3D model which might reveal details not visible to the naked eye, such as hidden footprints. ... Come to think of it, why haven't any of you built a body for them, so they can look around under their own power?"

Toffee said, "If somebody reported robots were sneaking around, and I didn't respond with hunting permits and the like, I'd lose a /lot/ of respect and influence. Mechanical minds are pretty bleeping unpopular, in case you've forgotten."

"Right. Anyway - there's a few checks like that. And just in case somebody shoots me again the next time I step out of Munchkin," I gestured at the probability trees on the walls. "You should be able to build on those even without me - including all the way to figuring out the actions that you can take that maximize the odds of avoiding the extinction of sapience."

Sarah gave me a funny look. "Toffee is big boss now. Can't we let her deal with it?"

I let my breath out slowly. "No."

Sarah asked, "Queen outranks big boss?"

I let out a surprised chuckle. "Well, technically, yes. But even if I hadn't ended up in this particular position - I'd still be doing all that I can."

"Why? Can't Toffee do more?"

"Maybe. But there's one thing about political power - almost all of that power is used for /staying/ in power. Or, more particularly, for keeping anyone /else/ from getting that power. Hey, Toffee?" I called out across the room. "How about you drop everything and put all your resources into a single research project?"

"What," she returned, "are you bleeping nuts?"

I turned back to Sarah. "And that's why I'm not just handing everything over to her - or to anyone else. From her perspective, it's perfectly rational to focus on short-term domestic matters, and let long-term threats slide. Just about everyone on the planet faces the same choice, and makes the same choice. At least to a first approximation: /there is nobody else/. You can't rely on anyone else even making the attempt, let alone being halfway competent at it."

She looked unhappy, and was about to say something, but I rudely cut her off. "And that's even just with pre-Singularity people. Since I've woken up... Technoville is advanced enough to have fighter jets, but as far as I can tell, had absolutely no knowledge of the squiddies, or vice versa. Once I got the ball rolling on the heliograph, it seems to be doing well - but it shouldn't have taken /me/ to start that. The whole /planet/ should be connected back up by now, but from what I've heard, the heliograph only goes as far as Metropolis, not even to Dogtown, after three whole years."

Everyone was looking at me, and I realized my voice had risen. I made sure I was still enunciating clearly, and let its volume rise or fall as it may. "It may not be /strong/ evidence - but it's not /zero/ evidence. Whoever or whatever Melvin is, it seems to have some interest in keeping people... contained. Controlled. /Small./ Maybe banding together into a city-state - but not much bigger."

Minerva asked, "Why? Why would anyone want to do anything like that?"

I shook my head. "You've got the confidence trees, you can work out the possibilities as easily as I can. And don't forget, there's a reasonable chance that at least one person in this carriage is sufficiently under Melvin's control to be willing to kill on its behalf."

Denise chipped in, "If you won't answer 'why' - how about 'how'?"

"Now /that/," I nodded, "is a question worth pursuing. Could be chemical, biological, radiological, sociological... say, did anyone ever put together that lab I was starting to spec out before I was shot?"

Bunny Joe said, "When the Lake Erie Dominion made their embassy, they asked for copies of your notes. I remember hearing the squiddies say they were making things ready for when you woke up."

"Alright - if we're lucky, we just might get access to a research facility that's not particularly susceptible to however Melvin pulls its tricks. If we're less lucky, the squiddies are already under Melvin's control. So, for meeting with them, I, at least, should make whatever safety preparations I can."

Sarah asked, "What about us?"

"I can't make you do anything, I'm just a queen. I'd suggest you stay aboard Munchkin for a couple of days, and work out just how much you need to worry about poison gas, snipers, or whatever. ... I could really use a body-double or trained, trustable body-guard right about now. Say, Denise? How did you disable the bun-bots?"

"I exploited limitations in their orders to capture them, and force them to exert themselves until their batteries drained."

"Wait - so all they need is a charge?"

"I wouldn't say /that/. They're very complicated machines, with soft parts - there may have been all sorts of leakages. I didn't exactly have a manual explaining how to drain them for long-term storage."

"Funny, I could have sworn I had that manual made up before the robo-fac crashed..."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Eight: Co-processor*

As Munchkin made its way along some of the back roads back towards Erie, I said, "Uh, Doc? I've just noticed my chest has started aching, and you wanted me to let you know about anything of the sort..."

After checking my vitals and running some scans, Denise looked a bit amused as she reported, "The good news is it's not your heart. The bad news is some of your hormones are far outside their baseline range."

I considered my symptom, then heaved a sigh. With my eyes closed, I said, "Let me guess. Lactating."

"You don't seem surprised. Has this happened before?"

"Uh-huh. Could you bring Sarah back here?" In a few moments, I asked the foxtaur, "Quick question - have Max and Pat been weaned yet?"

"Partly," she said, looking just a tad confused. "Some milk, some solid food."

"They're getting enough to eat?"

"Of course! Do you think I starve my own children?"

"That's not... nevermind. Doc, I thought it was a reflex from being near hungry children, some sort of pheromone or something - but it looks like it might be a reaction to being near any kid who's still of nursing age."

Sarah looked more confused. "What is?"

Denise looked like she was trying to suppress a smirk. She wasn't succeeding. "Do you have some way to turn it off?"

"Going away, at least. I might be able to just ask Bun-bun, but I don't know if she can, or even how well she's been doing since the freeze..."

Denise said, "I could make an argument that your system is already stressed, and forcing your hormone levels to go through another change might do more harm than good... but you also need all the nutrients you can hold onto, to help build your own body."

Sarah said, "This sounds like doctor stuff. Should I go?"

"Um..." I hesitated. "It's not exactly medical, but it is kind of private."

"I'm as good at keeping secrets as anyone."

That didn't exactly reassure me, but I pushed through the awkward feelings to just bluntly say, "My body does funny things, sometimes. Right now, after being near your children for a while - it's started producing milk."

Denise pursed her lips. "'It' produces milk? Not 'I' produce milk?"

I rolled my eyes. "We can deal with my dysmorphia later, and deal with practicalities now."

Denise frowned at me. "According to what I've been able to gather - you've been putting off dealing with your dysmorphia ever since your first revival. When, exactly, do you think 'later' is going to be?"

"When all the more important issues have been dealt with first."

She waved a hand at the wall. "We're moving slow, you've finished your math homework, and your solution to panic attacks is to forcibly control your adrenal production. As the person in charge of keeping you in one piece - now seems to be the time to start dealing with /something/."

I spread my hands, palms up. "What, exactly, am I supposed to do? There aren't exactly any references on growing bunny ears and a tail with a mind of its own in pre-Singularity psychology literature."

"Maybe not - but like you said in your royal speech back there, you can try some simple things first. Unless you plan on finding a zone that turns you into something completely different - the body you've got now is /you/, for the foreseeable future. I don't think you've done a single thing to accept that."

"I'm wearing a skirt. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have done that before... a kilt, maybe, but that's not the same thing."

Denise shook her head. Sarah had carefully started backing away, one silent footfall at a time, but the doc froze her in place with a glance. "Sarah," she said, "You've gone through a change even bigger than hers. When was the first time you did something with your body other than what was absolutely required?"

"... What do you mean?"

"Painted your claws. Got a massage. Came up with a dance for four legs. Wrapped yourself in ribbons, or flowers, or something completely ridiculous and just for the fun of it."

"... Jeff and I learned to massage each other, before the Indians fixed us up."

"There, see?" Denise turned back to me. "You think of yourself living /in/ your body, but not /of/ it. It is my professional recommendation that changing that will help keep you from going - as Bunny Joe says you like to say - bug-nuts."

I waved a hand in the direction of my chest, and the scar that was still rather prominently visible, if I were to unbutton my shirt a bit. "I'm not exactly up to teaching myself to dance," I feebly protested.

"So get a massage. You, Sarah - if you can massage someone with six limbs, I'm sure you can figure out how to handle someone with just four, right?"

Sarah and I looked at each other. She seemed cautiously speculative; I'm reasonably sure I seemed awkwardly apprehensive.

I deflected, "That still doesn't deal with the immediate issue."

Denise waved a hand. "I used the machines aboard this thing to make a high-precision blood pump. I'm sure I can whip up a breast pump and some freezer bottles." I looked flatly at her, and she shrugged. "Well, what do you expect from me? I trained in making milkers as productive as possible."

I looked up at the ceiling. "There are times I question every decision I ever made."

Sarah sounded like she was trying to be helpful as she said, "If you have a thing against pumps, I'm sure the kids would be happy to nurse."

"And this is one of those times." I lowered my gaze to the big blue-furred lady. "Lady, I've /seen/ their teeth."

"They don't bother /me/."

"This whole /scenario/ bothers me."

Denise broke in, "Start getting massaged. And whatever else you can think of. /Be/ your body. It'll bother you a lot less, then."

"I'm not exactly a 'be' type of guy."

Sarah pointed out, "You're not /any/ type of guy."

"You really know how to kick someone when they're down, don't you?"

"I put a baby in my boyfriend, I can probably swallow you whole, and I dance with two left feet."

"... Touche."

--

The first bun-bot I'd plugged in hadn't gotten to a usable charge yet, so it wouldn't be available for either masseuse or bodyguard duties for some time (if ever). And since the whole point of a massage seemed to focus around getting me to relax, I wasn't going to strip down to my fur in the main living compartment, with everyone watching; I might have been distanced enough from my body to go nude in front of strangers, but in front of people I'd actually started to get to know, and in most cases, to trust, it just seemed... weird, and off-putting. At the very least, not conducive to relaxing.

I made the best compromise I could think of for security. I liked Sarah well enough, and trusted her - but there was more than a one percent chance that she was under Melvin's mind control, and just might take whatever opportunities arose to kill me. I closed the doors between us and everyone else... but didn't lock them. I had Munchkin's internal cameras feed what was going on in the room I was in to a display on the wall of the main carriage... except for the bunk I would be stretched out on. I set a count-down timer to flash a silent alarm up front if I didn't say one of a particular set of codewords within ten minutes of the last one, or if I did say any of a different set of codewords. I kept Scorpia on my wrist, and the ninja special sword-cane within reach.

Sarah's preparations were to take off her vest, leaving just her shirt; to rummage through some of the inventory for any oils that wouldn't leave my fur a big mess (which she didn't find) and some variously-shaped rock-like things to push into my muscles (which she did), and to snark a bit about my paranoia. "Don't trust me?"

"Just removing temptation. Don't forget, Joe is two carriages over, and might have permanent brain damage. Hm - I wonder if I could get the Great Peace to cough up a copy of his brain from just before they made him... not that I know anyone who can integrate brain-states other than the G.P. themselves..."

"Sh," Sarah said. "Time to stop thinking. Do you still have that scent synthesizer?"

"Last I saw, it was in the bat-belt. I'm not that good at /stopping/ thinking - even when I meditate, the best I usually manage is focused attention."

"Then focus. And shirt off, on table, face down."

I rested my chin on interlaced fingers, ears lying back towards my neck. "You don't have to do this, just because Denise said so."

"You've been frozen. You haven't lived Changed. It's not just having fur, like Bunny Joe. It's being a thing you weren't born to, with no choice." She put her hands on the back of my neck, and started pressing and rubbing and doing things I'd never had a need to look up the words to describe.

"Um. No support groups in Erie?"

"All we Changed support each other. No-one else will."

"Please tell me you're not all... encouraged into the same neighbourhoods."

"All unions give crap pay to Changed."

"Even though anyone can end up that way?"

"Yep."

"Why not make your own Changed Union, then?"

"Unions are by industry. A Union that crosses industries, if they strike and we don't, means heads get busted."

"Ouch. No, keep going. Would royal patronage help? If Changed get paid less by unions, then Changed-friendly employers should be able to pay more and still have an advantage."

"You don't have to try to solve every problem you see."

"Why not?"

"I'm not talking for you to have an answer we don't. We've had years of thinking. I'm talking... shared experience. How we're alike. Mind if I take your tail out? I want to keep going down your spine."

"If you like. Not sure Wagger really counts as 'spine'."

"Anything in tail's stomach? Food, secret stash?"

"Not since I was revived. ... And why haven't I thought of that before?"

She chuckled, and I entertained myself by trying to push Wagger's muscles back against Sarah's hands, using my own will instead of trying to hint to Wagger what I wanted her to do. A bit to my surprise, I managed to pull it off, at least somewhat; though I still didn't have any direct control over Wagger's head or mouth.

Sarah said, "The great big secret keeper not think of a way to keep secrets? Not sure I believe that. You sure? Don't want to hurt muscles by squeezing too hard against hidden capsule."

"Unless one of you fed her something while I've been asleep - again - she's empty."

"Think I'll check, just to be sure." She ran her fingers along Wagger's mouth (which I could still /feel/ just fine), which encouraged the snake-oid to open it; and in a few moments I discovered the unusual sensation of my tail swallowing someone's fist whole. In just a few seconds, Sarah pulled free, and wiped her hand free on a towel. "What do you know - really is empty," she said.

"And that's part of why I keep thinking. There's always something I've missed."

"Well, stop that. At least for now."

--

Once Sarah finished up, I felt... fine, I suppose. Denise seemed pleased when she checked my vitals, and said something about "regular treatments".

I wandered through Munchkin until I got to the clothes fabricator, which still seemed to be in working order. I looked down at the uniform I'd re-dressed in; then twisted my head around to look at my rear end, where the skirt hid nearly all evidence that Wagger existed. I twitched her left and right a bit, watching the faint bulge in the dark skirt, frowned... and, with my only conscious thought on the matter being something about increasing my available outfit options, and learning a bit more about the fabber's interface, started programming up a new set of designs.

When I went back to the front of Munchkin, the skirt I wore had an opening to let Wagger out just under the waistband, free to wag back and forth as either of us saw fit, instead of constantly being confined and hidden away.

--

"A quick question for the group," I interrupted several conversations. "I find myself highly interested in various means of self-defense at the moment. What would it take to acquire, oh, a trunkful or so of firearms, grenades, squad support weapons, and any similar hardware?"

Toffee asked, "What about your super-weapon?"

"I may have a super-weapon, but that doesn't mean I want to rely on a single object."

Bunny Joe tilted her head, and said, "You going to protect yourself from all of us with guns?"

I shook my head. "I'm thinking more along the lines of /all/ of us protecting ourselves from each other, and from everyone else, with guns."

Bunny Joe tilted her head the other way. "Even if one of us is a killer?"

I offered a shrug. "Odds are very high that no more than one, or at the outside two, of us is. Letting them have a gun doesn't really improve their odds in a fight against the rest of us - and everyone of us having a weapon improves our odds against any outsiders who take a disliking to us."

Toffee didn't look happy. "I'm not happy," she confirmed, "with the idea of you and this gang of... people running around my bleeping city, with anything like that."

"We haven't had a chance to chat much," I said, airily. "Has your digestion been giving you any trouble these past few years?"

"Not much. You trying to say I'd still have my own guts if I'd had a gun back then, right?"

"Something like that."

She shook her head. "We've got enough troubles in the city with people bashing each other over the head, or when things get bleeping nasty, using crossbows and things like that. If any of the unions got the idea they could start getting their way by shooting the other guys, or blowing things up - do you have any idea how bleeping /breakable/ our economy is? Any one of a hundred things goes wrong, or even just doesn't go right, and we'll have to start deciding who gets enough food to survive winter."

"That doesn't sound like a properly robust economy."

"Yeah, well, bleep you. You don't have to deal with what I do every day."

"Maybe not - you've just reminded me of another thing. Some proper explosives are probably going to be part of what I'm going to need to do a proper investigation: opening vault-type doors, destroying obstacles, maybe even proper combat engineering. Not that I know combat engineering. Or any combat engineers. Except maybe Dotty, and she's not with us anymore."

Toffee looked even less happy. "You can't be serious. Letting /you/, and /this/ bunch, run around with /bombs/?"

I pulled myself to my full height as I looked at her. "You seem to have forgotten the stakes at hand. If blowing this whole city off the face of the planet is the cost of keeping another Singularity from happening? That's a price more than worth paying. If disrupting your /delicate/ sensibilities is what it takes just to get the freaking /tools/ I need, then I'll disrupt away. I'm going to do whatever is within my power to do that, with or without your help. Just for explosives, I can think of... at least three ways to get them on my own, without even lifting a single finger, without your involvement. What you should be asking yourself is whether it's to your benefit to stay involved in the process, or get shut out."

"One little massage and the little bunny is feeling her bleeping oats, is she?"

"No, one little massage and I'm going from gibbering in fear inside my skull and putting a good face on it to being able to work out longer-term plans than running and hiding." I hadn't actually been 'gibbering', though I figured that was probably Bun-Bun still keeping a cap on my adrenal glands.

"Like we needed to do /that/, either."

I took off my glasses and slid them into my pocket, adding a blur to everything in the whole room, and folded my hands on top of my cane. "If you /still/ don't get it, then I'm not sure you're /going/ to. So I'm going to make one /last/ try. And I really mean /last/, since there's only so much time to waste." I could tell that Toffee's expression changed, but couldn't make out quite what to. "The only things I have had a chance to learn about the Royal Mail are from what the people here have told me - which is mostly how far it goes - and what I observed from that telegram delivery boy. Based on just that, and on the existence of Melvin, I'm going to make a prediction about something you already know, but I don't have any way of knowing.

"My prediction is simple: At least one scandal is brewing which, if left unchecked, is not only going to halt all inter-city operations, but is going to make a large number of people so emotionally disgusted with the very idea of fast communications that they won't want to put together any replacements. One of the more effective gut-punches is a threat to the children, another is the menace of some alien-looking 'other' group that wants to destroy your way of life, ravage your women, steal your jobs, and make fun of you behind your back. With the Great Peace not interacting, the most alien others around right now are the squiddies, so I'm guessing that some controversy is going on involving, say, tentacle porn tied into the heliograph network, along with a side order of outraged indignance that they're out-competing hard-working citizens of Erie."

"Of /course/ there's problems with the squids," Toffee objected. "And they're the top buyer for your bleeping network. So what?"

"Toffee - /how did I know that?/"

"It's been in the newspaper for years."

"I haven't seen a single one."

"Of course you have."

Denise, who'd been watching from the sidelines with the rest, spoke up. "She hasn't, actually. I moved everything that might upset her to the basement, and locked it."

Toffee shook her head. "Well, one of /you/ must have told her, right?" She looked around the room, and got various shakes of the head and shrugs in return, and a couple of audible negations from the limbless AIs. She turned back to me. "Well, you're just /wrong/. I haven't heard anything about, what did you say, bleeping tentacle porn."

Minerva cleared her throat, blushing.

Toffee groaned, saying, "Oh, come /on/."

Minerva said, "I haven't seen any, but I've heard some people talking about what the squiddies say to each other over the heliograph, and that they can grab someone and swallow them up whole and do all sorts of things to them and nobody would ever know..."

Toffee crossed her arms as she turned back to me. "Well, you're still wrong - that wasn't a simple guess at all."

"Of course it was," I countered. "All I had to assume was that Melvin wanted to return to the previous policy of isolation and containment." That, and that Melvin was actually capable of implementing such a policy. "A /complicated/ prediction would be figuring out how Melvin would adapt if the heliograph stays in operation, to try to turn whatever happens into a win for itself. Given how little data we have on Melvin's potential motivations, I'm a lot less confident about my guesses for that." In fact, I didn't really have /any/ guesses for that, but I was trying to make a point. "Do you want to know my predictions about /you/, Big Boss?"

"Can I stop you from telling me?"

"Of course you can. Just say that you /don't/ want to know what the mysterious enemy, who murdered someone you know and is secretly pushing political chips around, has in mind to force you to experience... and I won't breathe a word. There are all /sorts/ of plans I can work on that involve keeping you in the dark - even turn your plausible deniability into an advantage. In fact, now that I'm starting to think about it, I probably /shouldn't/ say anything to you, given how enmeshed you are in-"

"Just tell me the bleep already."

"The simple prediction - well, post-diction, but you know what I mean -"

"I'm not sure I do," she said through gritted teeth. "Get on with it."

I continued, "- is that you have been faced with perfectly good, sensible, and rational reasons for implementing policies that, in general, are indistinguishable from the ones LeBlanc had - or would have had, if he'd been faced with whatever situations you found yourself in."

She blinked at that, then wrinkled her forehead. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Apparently, even with AI help, if any of a hundred things go wrong, people start starving in winter."

"Yeah, so?"

"Toffee - that's /not normal/. That's not how other cities, even these days, work." It looked like there weren't going to be any fisticuffs or similar physical altercations, so I slipped my rather breakable glasses back onto my head. "As far as I know, it's not /impossible/ to manage an economy from a central authority - it's just a lot /harder/ than the alternative."

"So, what, you want rich people to grab all the money and let everyone else starve?"

"I didn't say capitalism was without flaw - but there are ways to at least try for a balance, where the market generates useful information on prices but still having some sort of safety net. Surely Clara has told you about them, or Alphie or Boomer?"

"They say a lot of bleeping things. They don't seem to understand that if I lose the support of the unions, I lose my job. And maybe my bleeping head, too."

"Is that what's important to you, then? Keeping your job, no matter the cost?"

"I didn't say that. Not going to complain about the perks, though."

"Which brings up something else I've been meaning to talk to you about." I wasn't quite sure how to talk about this topic, since it might trigger the memory thing Minerva had mentioned; but if I just avoided it entirely, I'd never be able to learn enough about it, let alone start figuring out how to deal with it. "I'm not sure if it's the preferred term, but I've heard that you've got a collection of 'bimbos', just like LeBlanc did."

"Yeah, so?"

"Is that one of the 'perks' of your job?"

"So what if it is?"

I looked away from her, chewing on my lip. "I'm probably going to mess this up," I finally said, "but in case someone takes a shot at me tomorrow..." I looked straight at her. "Toffee, three years ago, I saved your life. I'm calling in that marker."

"Hey, I've kept you alive since then. Brought /you/ back."

"/Denise/ brought me back."

"I paid Denise."

"With my money."

"I kept her from spending too much of it."

"Toffee - that's all well and good, but I think we both know the scales aren't balanced. So I'm going to make one request of you. You manage that, and we're even - or moreso."

"What are you asking?"

"That even if the people running the unions hate it, even if it risks your job: you put in some real protections for human rights."

"What, like that Charter thing?"

"That's a start. But a list of rights on a piece of paper is meaningless if it's not enforced, fairly and impartially."

"Tricky. I don't think there's an impartial citizen in the city. Everyone's got their union."

"There are ways to work on that. Talk to Clara. Dig up old books. Surely at least one nearby law library survived the apocalypse?"

"And that puts us square? You save me, I do this rights thing?"

"That's what I'm suggesting, yes."

"What if the unions make someone else the big boss before I'm done?"

"I'm not asking for guaranteed success. I'm asking for an honest effort. ... Which includes respecting the basic rights, yourself."

"Got any particular ones in mind?"

"In general, the ones that give people a reason to be invested in the system, reasons to support the rights-protectors and so on. In specific... I'm thinking of the right to benefit from one's own labor, to not be enslaved; and, possibly, the right not to suffer an irreversible punishment, at least not without overwhelming evidence of an extremely major crime."

"Back to the bleeping bimbos."

"Yep."

"You want me to send them on their way."

"Depending on their qualifications - let them have as dignified a life as possible."

"I'm thinking... no."

"'No'?"

"Even if I do still owe you for keeping me from turning into a snake - I don't owe you /that/ much. You want a job? I could put you in charge of the post office."

"I thought I already /was/. 'Royal' mail - unless you've found another monarch while I was out of the loop?"

"I'm sure we can find a nice office for you, whatever we call it."

"I'm not interested in a sinecure. You're sure you're not going to even try for a Charter of Rights?"

"Sure I'm bleeping sure."

"Is that your final answer?"

"I just said that, didn't I?"

"Well then. I suppose that's that, then. I'm sorry things go this way."

"What's to be sorry about?"

"You seem to have forgotten a few things. Small things, really. One is that I've changed the passwords on all the locks and doors for the vehicle we're all in."

"What, you're going to keep me locked in with you?"

"Probably not. I hear that the squiddies can grab people with their tentacles, swallow them whole, and have them disappear, never to be seen again. Maybe the next 'big boss' of Erie will be more amenable to my agenda than you are."

"And maybe less."

"And there'll be another big boss after that."

We stared at each other for long moments. The tension was interrupted by Denise. "Toffee, you're being an ass. Bunny, you're still my patient. No overthrowing governments until you're released."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Nine: Co-operation*

The rest of the day's conversations didn't produce any new insights. I, at least, pretty much focused on maximizing my paranoid preparations, particularly for myself, but also for the rest of the gang.

I was astonished that I seemed to be the only one who'd even /heard/ of regular-looking belts with long, narrow pockets on the inside. By the end of the day, everyone on Munchkin had an inconspicuous 'in case of kidnapping' kit, I'd glued a couple of nigh-invisible lockpicks to my toenails and hoof, Wagger had swallowed something like a flexible straw with a few bits and bobs inside, and the onboard fabber was set to work up some custom walkie-talkies overnight. (The range wasn't as good as it would have been pre-Singularity, due to the constant low-level interference, but we were far enough out of Toronto's blanket coverage that I was putting down the local lack of radios to Melvin's meddling.)

Shortly before nightfall, after I'd gotten Munchkin to throw up enough partitions to give everyone a tiny bedroom with a locking door and at least one machete under their pillow, I sought out Sarah for a non-public conversation.

"Had a thought," I told her.

"Mm?" She was holding one of her kids in each arm, while they fed; I felt more like blushing than she did.

"Might be worth finding out if they'll even want to drink what Bun-Bun - what /I/ - make, or if we might as well flush it."

"What?"

I sighed. "See if they'll nurse from me?"

"Oh. Right. Sure, I can get you started with Max. She still hates solid food."

The next few minutes felt as blush-worthy to me as sex-ed classes were supposed to be for teens; but in the end, Max had latched on, the teeth weren't a problem, and I had time to just sit quietly with Sarah and get used to the whole thing. About ten minutes later, Sarah added Pat's weight to my lap; she was no more of a problem than Max was. All told, it took over half an hour till Sarah pointed out they'd fallen asleep.

Once she'd finished instructing me about final details and clean-up, I tried to joke, in a soft voice to keep from waking anyone else, "I hope this doesn't mean I have to change their diapers."

"They don't wear diapers."

"I know, that was- nevermind."

"You have pads?"

"Um," I checked my memory palace for Munchkin's inventory, "yes. Lab carriage, cabinet six, third shelf, tray labelled 'toiletries', panty liners for guests or emergencies."

"Not /those/ pads. For your bra."

"Uh..."

"I see that's not a nursing bra. Is it the size you were wearing before?"

I sighed. "I suppose I should be getting used to my body changing by now, whether I like it or not..."

--

When morning came, nobody had died, so I set course for the squiddies' embassy to Erie, where I had an appointment. Given that at least one other being knew about the meeting, I couldn't trust it to be secret; so I worked through a suitably paranoid set of preparations, since knowledge that I would be at a particular place at a particular time would be just enough for Melvin, or his proxies, to come up with something more permanently fatal than a crossbow bolt to the heart. Said preparations started with whipping up a new Windsor uniform, only this version had so many secret pockets that it practically qualified as a TARDIS; and filling those pockets with as many potentially useful tools as possible, staying just below the line of any of them being noticeable as I practiced Bun-Bun's extreme flexibility. When I ran out of tools, there were still pockets left, which I ended up filling with "blades, combat, disposable" - throwing knives, shuriken, and caltrops.

When Munchkin passed by the embassy's entrance, it barely slowed enough to exit. All any potential snipers would have seen was the door opening, out of which bounded a figure in black-and-white armor, wearing the bat-belt, pulling a handcart with a few suitcases. Munchkin sped back up, and disappeared into the streets of Erie.

Nobody took a shot, no explosions happened, no gas was released, and so forth; so once I was inside the embassy and out of sight of the street, I carefully opened the pile of suitcases and climbed out. The one bun-bot that we'd managed to get recharged and in working order climbed on in, and I settled my clothes around me again (including the newly-fabbed walkie-talkie on my left hip, and Boomer on my right).

The place was, naturally, on the shoreline; and the inside reminded me of a trip to the local whale-tricks amusement park, where the people were just below ground level on one side of rather thick glass windows and the aquatic beings swam around on the other. The land-lubber side was dimly-lit, a touch cool, and full of echoes - I couldn't really tell you if the squiddies felt the same way about theirs.

They no longer needed Alphie and his robotic tentacles to interpret; instead, at some point while I'd been frozen, it looked like some sort of compromise language system had been worked out. Instead of facing Pinky directly, I was directed to a seat in front of a prim young woman at a desk, who I saw had a rather large mirror reflecting back to the tank (presumably so she could see what the squiddie was trying to say), and some sort of keyboard (though I couldn't tell what sort of output it produced). Pinky allowed the interpreter to follow the human custom of polite greetings before getting straight to the main point.

"We wish to fire you."

"I'm... sorry to hear that. If I said that I hope you don't intend to treat me the way Louis the Sixteenth was treated, would you understand the reference?"

"Clara of the University has been very helpful in educating us in your cultural history, and we have studied your monarchies. We do not intend to execute you. Our intention is to offer you a ceremonial title, one or more residences, and a stipend."

"That's - relatively generous," I allowed, "given the usual historical alternatives. May I ask what led to this offer?"

"A number of issues have arisen in the Dominion of Lake Erie during your hibernation. We have created preliminary solutions, based on precedents we acquired from Clara and from psychological extrapolations of your likely choices, but there is still a high level of uncertainty that you will overturn them. This uncertainty limits investment opportunities, slowing our economic growth. Removing you removes that uncertainty."

"I have to say, I'm actually rather pleased to hear you making the offer, and that you're making it so civilly. May I ask what your plan is if I were to declare that I would not agree to it?"

"We would begin presenting you with your judicial caseload, legislative proclamations to sign, and various executive actions that need deciding."

"No revolution?"

"According to the terms of the Simplified Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, that would be theft. While it may be politically justified, it would still be theft, and on a scale that negates the entire Charter, and thus all claims of ownership in Lake Erie. That would cause severe complications. Much more severe than the current uncertainty."

"That's... a much more rational analysis than I'd expect from a human-focused polity, with various internal divisions arguing about policy."

"We learn from your failures. We try to do better."

I drummed my fingers on my chair's armrest as I took a few moments to think. "I'm not going to accept your proposed offer - but I'm not going to completely rule it out, either. I need more data on several things before I can figure out what the best decision is."

"We anticipated this response. A diplomatic delegation from another group is in another room, and has agreed to convey you on a tour of the Dominion as they travel through it."

"That's - astonishingly foresightful of you, but only covers part of what I mean. I don't know how much your psychological models say about me, but I am trying to focus my efforts on investigating extinction-level risks, and what methods are available for reducing those risks."

"We have interviewed the Joes from the Nine Nations, among others you have interacted with. We are aware of this focus."

I nodded, and watched as the interpreter's fingers typed something to indicate even that gesture. "I am reluctant to give up control over the resources of the Dominion, in case those resources can be applied to such a risk. If your proposal to fire me included some sort of X-risk clause that I could invoke in such a case, I would be much more willing to hand over other powers... whether that's to an elected president, an appointed governor, an executive committee, or whatever other model you have in mind."

"Given the historical data I know of, the human model that comes closest to such a system seems to be a constitutional monarchy with the monarch retaining certain 'reserve powers'."

"That sounds promising, yes."

"You would be willing to transfer ordinary governmental matters to local authorities for that?"

"Pinky - I /know/ I'm not qualified to make vital decisions about human court cases, let alone those involving your kind. Both you (plural) and I would be better off if I stayed away from that. I suppose I might be useful to have around, as a last-ditch resort in case of the government violating rights on a gross level, but not for day-to-day cases, or even precedent-setting ones."

"It sounds as if you desire the position and its power but not the responsibility that comes with it."

"I now have a mechanical heart instead of an organic one, because I've been pursuing my x-risk responsibilities."

"Those are not royal responsibilities."

"On the contrary - if I fully assumed royal authority, what could I do for my citizens that is more important than ensuring their long-term survival?"

"That is not the historical approach to monarchy."

"The historical approach to monarchy dates to before the Singularity. If there's one thing that monarchies /are/ surprisingly good at, it's adapting to new times."

"That is debatable, given survivor bias and other issues."

I shrugged. "Maybe, but it's true enough for this particular point."

"Perhaps. There is another thing that long-surviving monarchies are good at: continuity."

"Pardon?"

"Having a system in place to replace a deceased monarch with a new one."

"Ah. And given my lack of close relatives - I'm guessing this is part of the 'uncertainty' you mentioned before?"

"It is."

"I suppose my being frozen, and technically dead, but possibly revivable, didn't help with that."

"It did not."

I drummed my fingers a bit more. "Would it be hard to arrange for some sort of council of regency, in the event of my future cryopreservation?"

"Ad-hoc legislation for that already exists, and can be adapted to permanent form. The uncertainty is for the line of succession in case of your permanent death."

"And since I'm not married, and am unlikely to have offspring in the near future... and it's not at all certain anyone else will have access to the same sort of proof I did of exactly how closely related they are to the royal line. How do you feel about elective monarchy?"

"I have not personally researched Parliament's authority in such matters."

"I'm almost surprised you didn't see that one coming. ... I'm going to make a guess here, in that you made preparations in case I didn't agree to your first proposal, and just might end up in involuntary hibernation again once I walk out."

"Within the translator's desk are a selection of the most urgent and least controversial documents that we wish you to sign, along with pens, wax, and seals. They are sorted by the proportion of who voted for them. This selection only contains documents with at least ninety percent approval by all participating groups."

The secretary pulled out several stacks of papers, each close to a foot thick. One pile had a cover sheet that just said 'UNANIMOUS', so I pulled the top paperclipped bundle. I read aloud, "'An Act for a Simple Criminal Code: Murder and Theft: English version'." I checked the second: "'An Act to Improve the Criminal Code: Fraud: English version'." I glanced at the window, at Pinky directly. "I don't suppose there are acts in here which bundle similar ones together?"

"Yes," the interpreter interpreted, "and ones that directly import laws from Canada, the United Kingdom, and other predecessor states. However, they did not pass unanimously."

I skimmed through some of the further title pages. "Do you have parliamentary procedures in place to avoid amendments that are unrelated to the purpose of an act?"

"There are no such surprises in the acts passed unanimously."

"Implying that there are in some of the other piles. Joy. ... Do any of these mention extinction risks explicitly?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Then I trust you have some blank paper around, because if there's one paper I want to sign before my next assassination attempt, it's one that does."

The interpreter's handwriting was better than mine, so after a few rough drafts to get the phrasing right, my very first official act as Queen of the Dominion of Lake Erie was to issue a Royal Proclamation, whose most important bit read:

"Whereas, there is no evidence that sapience exists outside of Earth;

"Whereas, given the time taken for sapience to arise on Earth, there is no guarantee that it can ever arise again; and

"Whereas, the existence of sapience is required for anything in the universe to be given meaning or purpose;

"Now know you that We do by this Our Proclamation, indicate Our implicit support for any action which measurably reduces the probability of sapience going extinct, and Our implicit opposition for any action which measurably increases the probability of sapience going extinct."

As best as I could figure, whether I was killed, frozen, kidnapped, brainwashed, or what, that particular document just might give the Lake Erie squiddies a kick to keep working on x-risk reduction while I couldn't - and, maybe, do a bit more to help me out while I could.

With that out of the way, I was willing enough to spend some time skimming through the stacks, and running through the procedure for affixing seals to them. There was nothing that involved changing my own position; but a good deal of confirming various ad-hoc measures that had been worked out in my absence.

--

When my signing fingers started cramping, Pinky suggested that instead of merely taking a break, I visit the diplomatic party she'd mentioned earlier. The interpreter led me to an above-ground room, decorated in what I thought of as 'trying too hard to look respectably wealthy and British', in which a half-dozen carnivores were lounging. I hesitated for a half-second, until I saw they were all wearing red jackets over white shirts, with black belts.

One, a feline with spots like a leopard's, but massing in at, I guessed, about twenty kilos - maybe a bit more, given that it looked rather thick around the middle - advanced on all fours, until it - no, he - sat before me. The interpreter introduced him as, "Captain Shatter of the Lord Protector's Ship, 'Travelling Matt'".

The spotted cat spoke. His mouth didn't move; the sounds seemed to come from deep in his throat. "Your Majesty, please allow me to present my First Officer, Commander Nimble," he nodded his head at a vaguely canine creature, "and my ship's doctor, Doctor Kettle." This nod was to a badger. "Also with us is my interpreter, Miss Neckline," a pure-black feline, "and Marine Smith and Marine Jones," who appeared to be a golden retriever and a black lab respectively.

I hesitated. Whatever I did now could, possibly, set the course of international relations for decades to come. On the other hand... I took a moment to drag some of my grade-school French out of my memory.

"Parlez-vous Francais?" I said in a low voice to the squiddies' translator.

"Bien sur, Votre Majeste."

"S'il vous plait, dites-moi, um, que ce n'est pas un... farce? Est ce le mot bon?"

"Je vous assure, c'est tout assez grave."

I wasn't /fully/ sure of what that meant, but guessed that 'grave' meant something suitably somber in both tongues. I turned back to the captain. "Please pardon my digression. I am... unused to certain matters of protocol, and am... unfamiliar with your origins, though I detect certain... familiar patterns." I had gotten used to the idea that somebody, or something, had gone to the trouble of creating life-sized transformers. I found myself surprised that I was surprised that, somehow, a ship's officers had taken names reminiscent of the actors crewing a fictional vessel, even if the Kirk-analogue /was/ an ocelot or something. "If both captain and first officer are here, would I be correct in assuming your vessel is currently under the command of a second officer, named..." I tried to guess how the pattern would extend, "Tackle?"

"No," said Shatter, mouthlessly. "Tackle is our helmsman. Doohickey is the second officer."

The squiddies' interpreter whispered, "Comment saviez-vous-?"

Neckline whispered to Shatter, "I don't think they told her."

Nimble added, "There appears to be an informational leak. None of us have said Tackle's name since arriving."

Shatter's tail twitched as he looked up and down at me. "Are you... psychic?"

I shook my head, both at the question and the byplay. "As far as I know, telepathy is impossible. There may be some form of advanced technology that can do something of the sort, but if so, I haven't come across it."

"Then, how... did you know?"

"That is a very good question. I have a question of my own; I have been under the impression that personhood requires... brains of a certain minimum size."

"A natural conclusion, if your only experience, is with individuals, with single brains."

"You have more than one? Hiveminds?" I guessed, looking around at the group.

"Perhaps, by, some, definitions. But all our, brains, are in, one body."

Kettle said, "We've got a head-brain and bone-brain and belly-brain and metal-brain. Means we don't have to keep all our brains in our skulls, like you do, so we don't have to be as big as you do just to have a decent conversation."

Nimble added, "A simplified, but not inaccurate, description of our neurology. Our hosts have informed us that you are unlike most of the large bipeds who live in this area, and you might be as much as three-quarters as fortunate as us."

I was feeling that the whole conversation was a bit surreal, and hadn't gotten my metaphorical mental feet properly under myself yet, so I simply asked, "And how do you figure that?"

Nimble elaborated, "We have been told you have a brain in your skull, a brain in your bones, and a brain in your tail. We suspect that your head brain handles language, like our skeleton-brains; that your tail-brain handles instinct, like our head-brains; and that your skeleton-brain handles abstract thought, like our belly-brains."

"And what do your... metal-brains, was it? ... do for you?"

"Math and abstract logic."

"Ah." I was kind of at a loss at figuring out what I could say that would be of any benefit, so I just tried to keep the conversation going. "I think you are a bit misinformed about my neuroanatomy."

Doctor Kettle asked, "You've got a metal-brain, too? What's the square root of three hundred and ninety-six?"

That was just under four hundred, so I knew that it started with, "Nineteen point," and by the time I said that, I'd brushed my hand against Boomer on my hip, and she whispered a few words that my bunny-ears were just able to catch, "eight nine nine and change. That wasn't what I meant, though. In human-style brains, such as what I have in my head, the two hemispheres are... very capable, even without the other hemisphere. There were tests done on people who had the connections between the hemispheres severed; and both sides were able to recognize objects in their field of view, even when the other hemisphere could not see them. There is a certain amount of specialization, such as language skills being concentrated in certain regions of the left hemisphere - but even if an entire hemisphere were removed, the person could continue to function to a degree."

Doctor Kettle looked at Nimble and asked, "/Five/ brains? Is that even possible?"

The canid looked thoughtful as he answered, "The orthodox interpretation is the old peoples only had one brain, but God has never taken an official position on the two-brain heresy. Perhaps the truth involves a fraction between the two whole numbers."

Shatter said, "Does that mean, this woman, this queen, may be even more advanced, than we are?"

Nimble said, "It is unlikely - but we came looking for strange, new life. She did know Lieutenant Tackle's name, without any obvious source for that information; and the invertebrates say she has some connection with one of the moons of Mars, though they were unwilling or unable to elaborate on the nature of that link."

Shatter turned back to me. "Your Majesty - would you do me, us, the honor, of having dinner aboard our ship?"

I blinked at him - and wondered just how closely his personality hewed to the "green-skinned babe in every starport" version of his mythic parallel. While I had no particular objection to consensual activities between consenting members of any species, the thought of me getting involved in such shenanigans made me feel just a teensy bit icky, even before I wondered what sort of interesting infections would be involved in such a lifestyle.

"While I appreciate your offer," I hedged, "I am afraid that I have other commitments this evening." That was even true; I just wasn't going to mention that I could cancel those commitments with a few words over the walkie-talkies.

Shatter seemed unfazed. "We will remain in port for two more days, barring a change in plans. We are learning much from this city."

"Then perhaps in a day or two, I will accept." I was rather curious about their claims of multiple sorts of brains - if no romantic interludes were required, it might be worth trying to learn as much as I could from them, as well.

--

All good things must come to an end - including my visit to the embassy. After giving them their main seal back, and accepting a ring-style seal for authenticating personal correspondence, it was time to rejoin the gang on Munchkin, who'd been rocketing along various streets, side roads, and rural boulevards to avoid any further leaks about who could be found where.

I pulled out the walkie-talkie, and keyed the transmit button. "Red Five to Blue Two. Red Five to Blue Two, over."

Sarah's voice came back. "Blue Two to Red Five. I hear you. Uh, over."

"Blue Two, begin Kansas City. I repeat, begin Kansas City. Over."

"Red Five, I'm starting Kansas City. Over and out."

'Kansas City' was the code word to start a particular bit of shuffling. When Munchkin's carriages had their batteries fully charged - which there'd been more than enough time to manage by now - each one could run around at full speed under internal power for forty-five minutes. I'd told Sarah to activate one of Munchkin's programs, in which all six cars decoupled from each other and started weaving back and forth, around and around, criss-crossing and hopefully confusing the bejeezers out of anyone trying to keep track of it.

While that was going on, I took the bun-bot out of my luggage, and prepped her for my side of the plan.

After fifteen minutes, the first of Munchkin's carriages whipped by the embassy, without slowing. Another wait, and a second, which slowed, as if to let someone on, then sped up. As the third came close by on the heels of the second, I slapped my doppel on the shoulder, and told her, "Go!"

She sprinted for the carriage, diving in the door that opened for her. The carriage sped back up again-

Thunder. Shattered glass. Sitting on Wagger. Dust, coughing. Ears ringing.

The radio squawked. "Red Five, Dog Six is down. I say again, Dog Six is toast."

I was rattled enough that about all I could remember for several long seconds was that, as a bit of obfuscation, we'd decided to use nines-complements for any numbers we spoke over the air, meaning that Sarah was actually talking about the third carriage.

After some amount of time, I came back to myself enough to say, "Blue Two, get out of there. We'll try... Checkpoint Charlie, in eight. Over." I'd had every one of them come up with a rendezvous point, and tell it to me and nobody else. Charlie was Minerva's, a warehouse in the docks area. Eight got rotated around to one hour.

Nobody seemed to be storming the embassy, but there didn't seem to be much help coming from inside it, either. Still, I pulled myself to my feet and tottered back inside, until I found Shatter and his crew pushing furniture into more defensible positions.

"I don't suppose," I asked them, "if you came here by way of some kind of shuttle boat?"

Shatter answered, "We left the jolly-boat aboard, and came here, over land. Do you require... a ride?"

I waved a hand airily, knowing that my brains had been rattled but not able to think any more coherently due to that knowledge. "Is Pinky still around?"

"The Ambassador? I believe so, yes."

"Then I've got my ride. I just hope she hasn't eaten anything else, recently." I also wished I'd thought to bring something more waterproof than a thin plastic poncho - while the inside of a squiddie's stomach wasn't especially uncomfortable, I wouldn't exactly be able to towel off in there.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Ten: Co-worker*

It was a very unhappy bunny who sloshed into the warehouse.

Minerva hurried over. "Bunny, I'd like you to meet the Professor, who runs this-"

I held up a hand to interrupt, glancing briefly at the man with a grey moustache and black top hat. "Did either of you tell anyone we were coming?"

The man shook his head, and Minerva said, "No."

"Then we may have a few minutes of leeway. Professor, please excuse me, but I have details I must attend to. Please allow us our privacy for a time."

I continued walking to the five remaining carriages of Munchkin, Minerva drawn along in my wake. In a low voice, I said to her, "From what I remember, the destroyed car was a cargo one, and nobody was supposed to be in it. Did anyone change the plan and get hurt?"

She shook her head, and a certain amount of tension dropped from my shoulders. I hadn't wanted to use the walkie-talkies more than absolutely necessary - radio direction finding equipment wasn't /that/ hard to build. Plus, water blocked such signals rather effectively, and Pinky hadn't swum in a direct route to get here.

In short order, we were back among the group. Not particularly caring about the proprieties, and wanting to relieve at least one sort of pain, I settled into a chair, called over Pat and Max, and opened my shirt to give them a feed.

"We have a problem," I said, restating the obvious, but regaining the focus of those who'd looked away from the nursing. "I am... /moderately/ sure that none of you had an opportunity to leak the meeting. Maybe there's a spy in the Royal Mail. Maybe the squiddies have a leak. Maybe Melvin anticipated me going to the embassy, or had someone watching it. But the short and long is, we don't have the resources to figure out which. And explosives are a lot messier than a knife or crossbow - Melvin seems to be getting less worried about collateral damage. Since I'm pretty sure none of us want to die, the main choice seems to be staying in Erie and hunting Melvin to keep them from making any more attempts, or leaving and continuing the Great Work of x-risk reduction elsewhere. Secondary questions involve sticking together or splitting up. I'd rather not invoke formal rules of order, so please don't start shouting over each other - I still have a headache." At that, Denise stepped over, leaned over to peer into my eyes, and continued examining me from there. I tried to ignore her as I continued, "The floor is open."

Toffee declared, "/My/ bleeping city. /I/'m finding who's throwing bombs around the place."

Sarah asked, "Is this," she gestured around us, "a target? Should we leave Munchkin behind?"

I answered her, "If it comes to that - all the carriages are waterproof, can float, and the legs can paddle. Not as fast as they can walk - something under a tenth of its top land speed - but there's nothing stopping us from just heading out into the lake. There are certain things aboard that I really don't want to fall into the hands of people who aren't ready for them... if we really want to get away from Munchkin, I could program it to make its own way to somewhere it could do no further harm." I was thinking of the little canyon near DeCew Falls, with enough radioactivity to keep Munchkin out of everyone's hands from then on.

Bunny Joe asked, "What if 'Melvin' follows, and attacks again?"

I shrugged, and the kids complained, so I put my arms around them to quiet them back down. "Then we'll have learned running won't work, and that Melvin has a larger reach than just this city, and it's either do something about Melvin or die."

Denise stood up. "No concussion or shrapnel - just some bumps and bruises. And you should dry off before you get hypothermia. And I hate to say it, but no paycheck is worth dying for."

I nodded at her. "If you think quitting and going back to your vet practice is more likely to keep Melvin from doing anything to you than staying with me, and whoever else stays with me-"

"I will," Sarah added.

I managed to smile and nod at her in thanks as I continued, "- then I wish you luck. However, before you head home, I suggest you take the time to really consider your odds of survival, with whatever mental tricks you need to do it as objectively as you can. Munchkin's walls are fairly bullet-proof, if not bomb-proof; we've got the auto-doc's tools to help with injuries, a lab to brew medicines, the fabber to make tools and weapons, and cash to buy what we can't make. And at least a few other warm bodies to take up the slack - everyone needs to sleep sometimes."

Denise crossed her arms and looked away. "And it's got a great big target on every wall."

"And it's a great big target," I agreed. "But will you /stop/ being a target if you leave? I think we have to try to figure out now - what are Melvin's most likely goals? What are the effects of its actions?"

Minerva frowned and said, "Well, it's putting us - well, those of us who stay - with our backs to each other, us against the world."

I scratched behind an ear. "Blowing us up to drive us together? Seems likely to have a high failure rate - any of us /could/ have been on that one carriage, if we'd been a little less paranoid."

"Trial by fire?" She looked around, then shrugged. "Okay, so it's more likely they're /trying/ to split us up. Well, even more likely they're trying to kill us."

Toffee interjected, "Us, or her?" She hooked a thumb at me.

I pointed out, "Would have been almost as easy to stab me as Human Joe. Seems to me like they're not fond of any of us."

Toffee tried again, "Maybe they're after one of the toys you're trying to hide."

"Hrm," I hrmed. I ran my mind through some of the more interesting inventory - the fusion generator that could make a rather large bang if set to do so, the boxed Berserker, the computer cabinet from the robo-fac which might have more November files, the explosive-lactation retrovirus, the snake-oid genetic data... any of them could potentially be worth killing for, by someone who knew of their existence. "The trouble with that is, just about the only people who know about any of those 'toys' are standing right here."

Denise inquired, "If you do run - what are you going to do? Other than running."

"With luck, what I've been hoping to do since you un-froze me, but I've been too benched to get around to. Pick one of the loose strings that's connected to the Singularity, and tug on it as safely as possible, to try and start untangling what happened back then... at least enough to know how to keep it from happening again."

Denise frowned. "What, exactly, do you mean by a 'string'?"

I gestured at the two foxtaur cubs. "Somebody had to invent a genome for a whole new class - they may be vertebrate, but they're not mammals. I want to see if there are any clues in their DNA." Sarah didn't look happy at the prospect, so I continued, "Transformation zones use tech beyond what was available before the Singularity - I want to find out how they work, and where they came from. There's those weird towers in nearly all the old cities - what's their function? What are they connected to? What made them? There are a few post-Singularity AIs around - do they use any techniques beyond the state of the pre-Singularity art? Why does Toronto shoot down everything in its airspace? Where did the 'spirits' of the Great Peace come from?"

I didn't add aloud a couple of more personal questions: Who'd made Bun-Bun, and why had I been revived in the first place?

I continued, "And those are just the more obvious ones. There's some trickier ones, too - like how can /anyone/ convince a whole population to wear the same colours without any obvious prompting, or affect a whole city's memory, or keep even larger areas from wanting to talk to each other? The trouble with those is that there's no obvious thread to tug at." I paused, then amended, "Unless you want to count Melvin's assassination attempts, but there's some obvious issues in /trying/ to trace /that/ back to its source." I frowned. "Might not be able to avoid those issues in the end, but it's not my first choice of projects."

Bunny Joe said, "You are one woman, and those are many things to research."

I nodded. "True - but there's you folk, there's the squiddies, I hear I have some sort of cult... and if all else fails, I suppose I could go talk to Technoville. I don't like them or their politics, but they've got a good resource and tech base, and a technocratic tyranny is better than extinction." I got a /lot/ of funny looks, so I defended myself, "What? Tyrannies can get overthrown, eventually; extinction is forever. I'm not going to use that plan unless all the others are worse - I'm just saying that it /is/ an option."

Toffee grunted. "Maybe for you it is," she crossed her arms. "From what I hear, they come here, and I'm just as out of a job as if I tried pushing your stupid bleeping charter."

"That reminds me," I commented, "have you figured out a way to test if Melvin's gunning for you? I've got a few more bun-bots - do you have any body-doubles willing to take the risk?"

"Maybe. Not that it's any of your bleeping business."

"I think it might be. If someone's going to start sniping at you, or blowing up places they know you're going to be... can you still hold onto being big boss at all?"

"Once you're dead, or leave, I'll 'hold on' just fine."

I hesitated. I was bad at reading subtexts, but Toffee's text didn't seem all that sub. "Does that mean if I leave, you're staying?"

"Even if you stay, I'm bleeping leaving. The only reason I haven't, is nobody's willing to open the door long enough to let me go."

"Toffee - we disagree on a lot of things, but I think we can still help each other. Is there anything-?"

She was shaking her head, and I sighed. I looked around. "Without saying anything, does anyone but Minerva know where we are right now?"

I got a lot of shaken heads, but Toffee threw in, "I know we're not far from water," she gestured at the puddle that had formed under my seat, "but in this town, that doesn't say much."

"Alright." I closed my eyes a moment. "Toffee, I'm thinking of putting you in the other cargo carriage, sending it off to wander around a bit, not getting anywhere near a place Melvin would think to set up an ambush, and then let you go. That seems safer for us than letting you accidentally lead Melvin here, and I can't think of how it puts you in significantly more danger than you already are. Does this plan meet with your approval?"

"Does it mean I can finally get back in touch with the Civil Guard and take control of whatever bleep-ups they'll have gotten into?" I nodded. "Then it bleeping meets with my bleeping approval."

"I'll set that up, then... uh, as soon as I get out from under these two."

Sarah silently handed me some new absorbent pads to put into my nursing bra, and I want through the rigamarole of getting myself all tucked away again. While I did, I told Toffee, "There's at least one thing I want to emphasize, so you don't forget it: Someone's been manipulating you. Not overtly, not dramatically, but slowly, over months and years, nudging you to become what they want you to be, instead of who you should be. I can't tell you how - but at the least, you should start looking for new sources of information, unconnected to whatever you're doing now. Heck, maybe just head out into the street and ask random citizens questions. If you can't think of anything to ask - you could at least try sidestepping the whole union structure, and finding out directly if the people in general, instead of the union bosses, would support that charter of rights I've been pushing you. And if you can think of something more important for you to know, go for that."

"You about done?"

"Afraid so."

"Then let's get going."

--

Once Toffee was gone, I settled down half on top of Bear Joe, resting the back of my head on his shoulder and inhaling his scent. Sarah stretched out next to us, and Bunny Joe, Minerva, and Denise took new seats nearby.

I glanced around. "Does anyone else want to leave? I'd rather not work out where to go next, only for someone to decide to stay behind and leak that to Melvin."

Denise grumped, "I don't understand how you can just /sit/ there when someone just tried to /kill/ you!"

"I think Bun-Bun still has my adrenaline turned off."

"... Okay, that could explain it."

"By the way, Doc - I'm going to have to insist you hand over my heart-rate controller."

"You don't know how to use it safely."

"Which is more dangerous, my not having full knowledge of the ins and outs and maintenance schedule of a piece of electronics - or me not being able to actually make my blood pump faster when somebody's trying to kill me?"

"I can't, in good conscience, let you hold on to that controller without proper medical supervision."

"... Does that mean you're staying?"

"That, and the fact that my house is probably filled with land-mines by now."

"Fair enough." I breathed for a few moments, then added, "There is /some/ good news out of this attack."

"I didn't think you were a 'silver lining' kind of person."

"I'm a 'grab every advantage and try to win and cheat if I have to' kind of person. Thinking about it - assuming that Melvin was trying to blow me up... he /failed/. He doesn't have perfect information about all the preparations we make in private; he doesn't have unlimited resources; he isn't willing to kill off a whole town to achieve a single goal, like the Berserker was. He's not omnipotent - he has /limits/. Which means that, whatever those limits are, it's possible to leverage them."

Minerva asked, "You think we can win?"

I lifted my head to look at her. "/Can/, yes. /Will/, maybe. And to be honest - I don't know if I'm comfortable with you anywhere near me, and whatever attempts Melvin makes in the future."

She offered a hesitant smile. "Seems late for that, doesn't it? If he knew who was visiting you, then my foster home is as dangerous as Ms. Black's clinic."

I turned to Bunny Joe. "I don't suppose I could get rid of you if I tried, could I?"

"You have a greater chance of finding Melvin than Toffee. His hand was on the knife in my other self's heart."

"Uh... huh." I sighed. "Then cards on the table - I don't plan on staying in Erie any longer than I have to. Just about any city will do, to look at zones and the towers and so on. Maybe Buffalo, maybe Metropolis... there's at least one piece of data I want before I decide: I met a, uh, unusual ship's captain while at the Embassy, who offered a ride. I didn't have the opportunity to find out what that would involve. I don't think Bunny Joe or Sarah or I could show our faces without Melvin finding us pretty quick - but you humans," I nodded at Denise and then Minerva, "could get lost in the crowd pretty easily."

Minerva perked up. "The Professor is good with disguises." I felt my ears twist in surprise, and she explained, "He does acting, sometimes. On a stage, I mean. Just for wigs, he's got at least a dozen."

I nodded. "That's good - I should probably go out and start talking to him soon. Denise - how about you head to the ship, the Travelling Matt, officially about their dinner invitation to work out any issues of precedence and protocol and politeness, unofficially to find out how much cargo room I would have available to squeeze in some portion of Munchkin's inventory?"

"You're abandoning it?" She looked around the room.

"Like you said - it's got a big target painted on it. I'd like to know what my options are.

--

"Sarah, Bunny Joe - I'd like to talk to Minerva for a couple of minutes."

I took off my glasses, cleaning the lenses on the bottom of my shirt as the remaining two adults moved off to the kitchen, talking quietly to each other, the last thing I heard before they were out of earshot being something about bulk shampoo discounts. I put my glasses back on and wriggled back up against Bear Joe.

Minerva asked, "Do you have a job to send me away on, too, so you can leave me behind without saying goodbye?"

I blinked, then shook my head. "If I'm going to leave you behind, I'll just tell you. I've got too much to deal with to try to come up with clever plans just to avoid emotional whosawhatsits." I pointed at her bag. "I thought we might start with your paperwork."

"Oh." She hugged the backpack tighter for a moment, then let go enough to open the top, and look down inside. "Um. Yeah."

"I'm guessing you didn't write them, or draw them."

She shook her head. "I didn't go looking for them, either. But some of the people in the Conspiracy, they wanted to know more about you, and started bringing these in..."

"Right, the Conspiracy. That's the other thing I wanted to ask you about. But let's focus on the papers first. Uh - do we need to have the sex talk?"

"/Please/ no. I know what's in them isn't real, isn't like what's real, and that I'll have problems if I try to have a relationship or, uh, sex, based on what's in them. I don't /like/ what's in them. I brought them so you wouldn't just shoo me away when I told you about them."

"Minerva, if I ever try to shoo you away, you have my advance permission to kick me in the shins. Now - do you know who wrote or drew the papers, or where they came from?"

She shook her head. "The guys I got them from wouldn't talk to me about that."

I rubbed the back of my neck, awkwardly. "Without you going anywhere that Melvin might have left a landmine - do you think they might be willing to talk to /me/?"

--

Once Minerva was off to the Professor for a quick disguise and then an errand, I thought about what she'd said earlier - and seriously considered trying to come up with excuses to send Sarah, her kids, and Bunny Joe out of Munchkin, and just leaving. Maybe north - Sudbury might be a nice place to settle in for a while, to try turning the old mines and such into a personal factory-fortress, hiding from the world, with just Bear Joe to cuddle with and Boomer and Archie to have high-falutin' intellectual conversations that improved my mind...

Don't blame me for fantasizing; I'd been having a stressful few days.

I let the dream-fortress fade, to become nothing more than, perhaps, a pattern for a new memory palace, and tried to turn my mind to more practical matters. But I couldn't concentrate; when I tried to come up with a plan, my focus skittered to Captain Shatter's uniform and to the school in Buffalo. When I tried to sort out recent events, up cropped games from my old Commodore 64 computer and wondering whatever had happened to my favourite authours.

I sighed, patted Bear Joe in thanks for his services as a piece of warm, breathing furniture, and pulled myself up to something resembling a standing position. With vague thoughts of tea, I wandered back to the kitchenette, and puttered a bit; my mind drifted to consider that, not too far away, vast forces had been put into motion, creating magnetic fields of such strength that atoms in existence since the Big Bang were now forced to change the natures they'd had for billions of years, becoming something new - all so that the energy released could be captured in a heat engine, shoving electrons along strands of purified metal, all so that an unexceptional mammal could try to feel a bit better by having a cuppa.

When you took the time to /really/ think about it, the universe was a pretty strange place.

As I added a bit of honey to the final product, Bunny Joe and Sarah wandered forward from the lab. The former, looking around, observed, "No more humans?"

I shrugged, sipping my beverage, and deciding 'tea' was too good a name for it - maybe 'herbal tisane', or 'boiled leaf broth'.

She asked, "What will we do now?"

I didn't have an answer, and took another sip.

Sarah, bright-eyed and tail wagging, offered, "Furry orgy?"

Classic spit-takes are astonishingly annoying to clean up, particularly when fur is involved.

While we shared that task, Sarah elaborated, "I was there when the Doc opened up the factory car." I thought back to the 'distraction bed' I'd whipped up on a whim, and my pink facial fur took on a rosier hue. "So I know you've got a sex drive, no matter how good you are at hiding it." My mind was focused, laser-sharp on trying to figure out how to explain that I'd never touched anything in that part of that carriage in a way that could be believed. I didn't /succeed/, but I was very focused. "Pat and Max are asleep and locked tight and safe, Bear Joe won't talk, and I think Bunny Joe has a thing for you." She hooked her thumbs on her vest, tugging it to better show off her cleavage. "So what do you say?"

My tongue seemed stuck to the roof of my mouth, but before I could even think of what I might say with it, Bunny Joe commented, "She is from the old people, and they had very particular ideas about sex. If Bunny still thinks that way, you should have asked for just the two of you, not all four of us."

"Oh," Sarah said. "Okay. Want to have sex, Bunny?"

"Ah..." I managed to get out.

Bunny Joe came to my rescue. "Also, they usually had several dates - shared activities - before they got around to having sex."

Sarah nodded again. "Seems silly to me, but what do I know? Jeff and I didn't stay together long. Would you like to go on a date, Bunny?"

I finally managed to speak for myself. "I would be much more comfortable with a date than a, uh, orgy. But even for that - someone tried to kill me just a couple hours ago, so I think I need to focus on dealing with that."

Sarah offered, "When death's so close, when's a better time to live?" I just shook my head, so she looked at Bunny Joe. "What about you? Do you have to have a date first?"

"I don't /have/ to; I just haven't met anyone I want to have sex with since the spirits made me a woman, this time. And maybe I can teach you a few things about rabbits, so you'll know what to do with Bunny later." They turned around and walked back into Munchkin's rear carriages, shutting the doors between them.

Once they were out of sight, something clicked in my head, and I remembered that they'd had something like three years to get to know each other - and they'd just been huddled together, chatting. Had the whole conversation been some sort of prank? Maybe a set-up, making an offer far in excess than what I'd accept, so that when Sarah pulled back to just a 'date', I'd be more willing to agree? Was I overthinking things by even considering such notions?

My rabbity ears twitched up at some noises - and I interrupted my next attempt at tea to hurriedly get Munchkin to improve its internal sound-proofing, my face aflame.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Book Six: Pro-*


*Chapter One: Pro-fessor*

/Thunk/.

My thrown blade embedded itself into a rather embarrassing part of the foam target - purely by accident, I assure you.

/Thunk/.

/Clank/.

From a mere ten feet away, I missed the human profile entirely, the knife bouncing off of Munchkin's hull, which I was using as a safety berm. I crouched down, and stretched out on my back, feet facing the target, threw again - and got a knee. I figured that if things got higgledy-piggledy enough that I actually needed to throw the things at someone, odds weren't all that great that I'd be able to apply a perfect throwing form from a standing start; so at least once every five throws I used my off hand, and at least once every ten throws, I sat down, or crouched, or lied down, or turned around, or did something else to make my life harder.

I grunted as I got up from the warehouse's concrete floor, threw a couple more, then decided I'd depleted my stock enough, so went to collect and re-sheathe them.

When I turned around, the Professor was leaning on a support pillar just past where I'd been standing. His grey moustache twitched as he said, "I can see you need the practice. But I don't think you'll get better fast enough for whatever plan you're thinking of."

I shook my head, and took position again. I slid one knife out of my right sleeve, and let it rest in my hand for a moment, just gauging its weight and feel; a flat piece of metal just over six inches long, sharpened on one side and to a point, enameled in black to reduce reflections, with a curved back that fit naturally inside my finger and palm, and holes in what would usually be called the handle - not to put fingers in, but just to lighten that part of the knife, so it would act more like a tail to the heavier blade. It was no Bat-a-rang, but I seemed to be doing better with this model than any other knife design I'd tried so far, or even the spikes of bo shuriken.

I wound up, a bit like for a pitch, and let loose, my fingertip just brushing the handle to keep it from spinning end-over-end. (Boomer had more data on knife-throwing styles involving spinning the blades, but since that involved picking exactly the right number of spins to have the knife land point-first, I'd decided that was less useful than going for something like dart-style.) There was a /thunk/ as I hit the target's shoulder.

"Not part of a plan," I told him, nibbling my lip as I tried to figure out what I'd done wrong on that throw. "I just need to take a break, think about anything but what I /have/ to think about, so maybe my subconscious will have some fresh insight when I get back to it."

"And of all the activities you could try, you choose hurling?"

"I have a harmonica, but since you're at least an ally, I'm not going to inflict it on you." I turned to face him, and offered my hand. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm called Bunny."

Instead of shaking, he went for the swoop and kiss. "The Good Queen Bunny, from what I hear."

As I recovered my limb, tucking it into a pocket to discreetly rub it clean, I said, "'Queen', maybe. 'Good', that's really up for debate."

"I'm certainly not going to call you the /Mad/ Queen Bunny - at least, not within your considerable earshot."

"Probably for the best. What should I call you?"

"'The Professor' is all that's needed to identify me in these academically-challenged days. 'Harry' suffices for informal yelling, such as to duck, while 'Harold T. Quisenberry' is suitable for placement on any documents conferring knighthood or other titles that you happen to wish to sign."

"Sorry - you're probably thinking of a British queen. The Canadian monarchy doesn't really go in for titles. A grant of arms, I could do, if you want one. Goodness knows that I owe you /something/ for offering us what's frankly a place to hide out from our enemies."

"I'm certainly not going to argue against any sense of obligation you might feel in my general direction, but decorum requires me to inform you that I feel similarly inclined towards you, for-"

"Oh," said a cheerful new voice, "put a sock in it, Prof." A girl with blonde pigtails and a gingham dress skipped over, and it took me a double-take to realize it was Minerva. "Just because she likes all the same fancy words you do doesn't mean you can go around /using/ them."

I raised my eyebrow at her, and she stuck her tongue out at me before smiling wider and saying, "Don't mind me, I'm getting into character. These days, everyone thinks blondes are dumb, so nobody'll pay attention to me if I'm what they expect..."

The Professor patted her on the shoulder, fondly. "Be careful, my dear. I wouldn't want to lose the best bottler I've had in years just because you missed a cue."

"You could just go back to using Toby - she's not as good as me, but you can split the take in your favour a lot more."

I didn't want to interrupt a good bit of banter, but I was already getting lost. "'Bottler'?" I inquired, of either one of them.

Minerva got to an answer first. "When he performs, I go around to get the audience to pay as much as I can. I get them to put the coins in a 'bottle', with a narrow neck, so nobody can scoop and run. Hey, Prof? If she needs to take her mind off things, why not do a show for her?"

"A splendid idea! Now, you have your own mission to perform, but don't worry - I'll have a captive audience, so even my meager skills will be enough to keep her in place until she pays. Now run along, so you can be back quickly."

Minerva skipped around the corner of Munchkin, heading towards the warehouse doors. The Professor waved me to follow him deeper, toward what turned out to be an office full of boxes and half-repaired junk.

"Now then," he said, poking around one shelf or another, "What do you think of clowns? Nevermind, you don't want to wait for me to get into whiteface. A stunning display of mentalism by Mesmero the Great?" He turned around, with a spinning spiral disc on the front of his top-hat. I must have grimaced, for he said, "Perhaps not - which I suppose rules out the illusions of Harrotini, as well."

"Actually," I managed to break in, "I've nothing against magicians. Learned a lot from the Amazing Randi, Houdini, Penn and Teller..."

"I'm afraid I'm no Houdini." Without turning from his shelves, he stuck his fist out at me, and was suddenly holding a long-stemmed rose, which he set into my nonplussed hand. It looked like a real one - smelt like one, too. "Just a fellow with a handful of tricks."

I saw a feline face looking down at us from one of the shelves not being rummaged through, so tucked the rose into one of my longer pockets and stepped over to introduce myself. It sniffed my finger - then the Professor dropped something, and, startled, it leaped out - using all eight of the tentacles it seemed to have instead of a torso to climb up and out of sight.

I blinked, even more bemused than a moment ago. "Er - Prof - do you have a, uh, cat-topus? Uh, octo-kitty?"

"Ah, I take it you have just met Toby the Dog. She's harmless, except to small rodents."

"I have to ask the obvious question; 'the Dog'?"

"Every good Punchman needs a Toby the Dog - but only a few have a live one. Ah, now there's the ideal distraction for you: a Punch and Judy show!"

"Puppets?" I asked, dragging what scraps of memory I could that were brought up by that name. I shrugged, with a somewhat dismissive "Well, I suppose a distraction's a distraction, right?"

"A distraction? /Just/ a distraction? My dear woman, this is /Punch and Judy/, the show that has entertained millions for centuries, which descends from the noble Italian /commedia dell'arte/, and itself is the ancestor of the Three Stooges, the Warner Brothers, and any Britcom you care to name! Why, calling it just a /distraction/ is like calling a cheeseburger a mere /sandwich/! ... Now, where did I put that shoulder theatre?"

In a few moments, he'd pulled out a box almost the size of a luggage trunk, put apparently much lighter. From within, he retrieved a small, black notebook, in which he paused to scribble something.

"Idea diary?", I hazarded a guess.

"A/B testing logbook," he countered, snapping it closed and tucking it into his jacket. "I keep notes on every performance." He pulled a couple of panels from the trunk, out of which dangled a striped, bedsheet-like drapery. "The things I can't really control: weather, time of day, audience composition. The things I can: location, the strolling booth or the rigid one, which warm-up routine, whether I call him Punch or Punk or Pinch, whether I use the Devil or the Dragon or neither, when I stay squeaky-clean and when I go blue. And after, how many laughs I get, and how much Minnie collects. When I have time, I try to figure out the patterns."

"What sort of patterns?"

He flashed his teeth at me. "Show an interest in performing, and I just might share. Here's one for free: vertical stripes on the booth garner just about as many people as a solid colour, or a pattern - but horizontal stripes just seem to turn people right off. Diagonal ones don't seem to do too well, either. When I get the right fabric, I'm thinking of trying symmetry - instead of spiraling all around, having the left ones point one way and the right ones the other."

Distracted by the conversation, he'd finished setting up his little theatre before I'd even realized it, and hauled it onto his shoulders - he was entirely hidden within.

--

Can you describe a 'Tom and Jerry' cartoon... in a way that appeals to your audience as much as the original did? If so, you're a better raconteur than I.

Sure, I can describe the elements of the plot: Punch and Judy danced and kissed, then he babysat, then he sat on the baby and then threw it out the window, then he and Judy traded blows until he killed her, and so on. But that doesn't do anything approaching justice to the performance.

It was a cartoon - not just like a cartoon, or the inspiration for a cartoon, but /was/ a cartoon. Sure, there were more technical limitations than a show where you could paint anything you wanted onto a cel, and only two hands and one voice... but the Professor seemed to have inherited all the traditions of all the performers in the past to get around those limits. Punch's voice wasn't anything that a human voicebox could produce - and yet his catchphrase of "That's the way to do it!" was as clear as any other character's. The action was frantic, the dialogue was frenetic, and most importantly, the Professor was good enough that even after the day's events, I was drawn into the show, calling back "Oh no it isn't!" on cue. (Which is at least one thing a puppeteer can do that even the best cartoons can't.)

I found out later that the particular version of the show I saw was a very classic version. After killing Judy, Toby the Dog the octocat appeared, along with her in-universe owner, the very Baron-Munchausen-like Scaramouche - which was one of the ways the Professor managed to have more than two characters on stage at a time. He eventually got his head knocked clean off by Punch's slapstick (which is the very stick that the comedy genre was named after), and via all sorts of dialogue and ditties, duels and digressions, Punch worked his way through (and whacked) a whole series of characters, from his bimbo mistress and a Changed mouse servant through a doctor and a law enforcement officer to his would-be executioner and a great big fire-breathing horned ultimate bad guy... and despite all his shenanigans and misbehaviour and outright misdeeds, Punch made it off as scott-free at the end as Bugs Bunny ever did.

--

When the proscenium and puppets were all packed away properly again, about all I could say was, "Well, that was certainly... something. Very archetypical. If I had change and you had your bottle, I'd definitely pay for your lunch."

He nodded, adding a few notes to his logbook. "I'm glad I remembered as much as I did. These days, I usually do rolling shows - set up shop where a lot of people pass by, maybe they stay for five minutes, and just keep on going. No plot, just lots of business and /lazzi/ and gags to catch the eye. Need a good bottler for that, though - someone who can get a penny out of the hardest-hearted watcher, and can keep track of a crowd and not try and squeeze the same stone twice."

I sighed. "I know, but as much as I'd like Minerva - Minnie - to stay here, it's just not safe right now-"

The Professor shook his head. "That's not what we should be talking about right now. While I do have you in my nefarious clutches for a little while... How would you like to see a show with a puppet version of you?"

I ran my memory back over the show I'd just seen, with enough cartoonish violence to satisfy a fan of 'Itchy and Scratchy'. "I'm not fond of seeing even fictional versions of myself dying."

The professor twitched his moustache. "Why not? Everyone dies. Victorians seemed to be positively obsessed about being reminded of that, with /memento mori/ in various forms."

"Discomfort with mortality is certainly one reason."

"Ah, but when you put it that way, that's not your real reason."

"It's silly and irrational. You'll laugh. Or be confused. Or both."

"And that is enough to keep you from speaking?"

"... There's a very hard-to-calculate chance that, at some point in the future, whoever's still alive will want to know more about people of the past - and will investigate them by simulating them in such detail that those simulations will be just as much persons as the originals. But there's only so much data they'll have to go on-"

"Ah, so you fear your future siblings will be based on whatever stories of you remain - so you wish those stories to be of you enjoying yourself?"

"Not exactly, but close enough for government work."

"I know a woman who simply doesn't like the idea of dolls that look like her staring all the time, with dust settling onto their eyes - gives her the shivers. Everyone has fears and discomforts that need no justification."

"Maybe - but I try to have a reason for everything I do."

"Do, maybe you can manage. Feel? If you can control that, you are truly inhuman."

"Don't let the fur fool you."

"One thing art can do, that few other things can, is let you delve into your feelings, those parts of your mind that you usually cannot face, those fears and drives you'd rather not acknowledge - and, facing them, learn more about how to deal with them."

"You make it sound like getting a young child to go out on Halloween to face the scary monsters."

"A very apt comparison! But emotional holidays could make this conversation last for hours, so getting back to puppets - in the Punch and Judy shows I prefer to put on, only two characters avoid dying: Punch himself, and the clown. His wife, his neighbour, the government official, even the Devil himself get beaten, beheaded, eaten, or worse."

"Okay, then..." I started trying to think of alternative ideas, such as non-Punch shows, but the Professor held up a finger to interrupt me; I let him.

"The classic clown of Punch, Joey, is actually based on a clown who really lived and breathed, a couple of centuries ago. He fit very well into Punch's stable of characters, and so more and more Punchmen used him, until he was a staple. However - he is not the only clown."

I raised an eyebrow. "You want to make a clown of me?"

"He is not the only /type/ of clown, either. Many of my books suggest that Punch shows derive from Italian performances called /commedia dell'arte/, which had a variety of /zannis/ - one of whom became Punch, another of whom formed the basis of Joey's original."

His hands started sifting through various scraps of fabric, darting and weaving, as he spoke. "I don't think you would wish to be a second /zanni/, who were called /lo stupido/, you can guess why. You don't strike me as an all-trusting Pierrot, anyway. Even though Joey Grimaldi's character, the Clown, started out as a second /zanni/ to Harlequin, Joe Grimaldi turned him into a first /zanni/ in his own right. Hm... Brighella? Too cruel. Tartaglia? Too fat, and you don't stutter. Pedrolino is a prankster; Harlequin dances around; Columbina is the only one who has two brain cells to rub together-" He glanced directly at me, and smiled. "Ah, so that's what appeals to your vanity, is it?"

I shrugged, a bit embarrassed. "My brain's about all I've got going for me, these days."

"Well then, let us see what we can see. 'Columbina' means 'little dove'; 'little rabbit' would be, hm, 'Coniglia', I believe."

"Is this - kosher? Whipping up a new character like that?"

"Are you familiar with the cartoon character, 'Porky Pig'?" At my nod, he continued, "He /is/ Tartaglia, as that character exists in a world of talking animals. Every character varies, and is adapted by each performer and into every medium. Some versions do better than others, and become established in their own right - others become failed experiments. I am now imagining an experiment that never happened: that one of the many variations of Columbina was Coniglia, and that, through some odd sequence of events, that /zanni/ was the inspiration for the clown in Punch and Judy, rather than Joey. Coniglia's too long a name, of course - Coney, maybe, or Bunny? What would make her stand out? A trick puppet, maybe with floppy ears like Pretty Polly's swinging arms? No, a one-trick puppet wouldn't have lasted so long as a frequent foil to Punch... Someone who tricks Punch? Punch himself is the Trickster, and that seems too much of an overlap... someone who /manipulates/ Punch? Ah, that might have potential. Everyone tries to get Punch to do something, with orders or force or law, but always coming a-cropper in the end. But would that be enough of a hit with the audiences for Coney to have lasted as long as Joey? Everyone knows what clowns are, so any Punchman can improvise something for Joey. What would make an audience laugh at Coney? Well, we're inventing her to be a character that doesn't die - so perhaps we turn that up to eleven, and make her someone who'll do anything to keep from dying? That could make her something of a cross between Columbina and Scapino..."

He kept talking, getting further and deeper into theatrical and artistic terminology that I'd never heard of, all the while he bent pieces of wire, sewed bits of coloured fabric, and shaped fur. After a while of that, he stopped, and held up the result to me: a rabbity head, as pink as my own if somewhat more blockish and simplified, on top of a white-and-blue dress. (Or should I call it a sleeve?)

"Here we are, the very first Coney puppet that has ever been. Would you like to try her on?"

I felt oddly reluctant, but put that down to the same instinct that made some people distrust photographs and held out my hand. He slipped my counterpart onto it, and I frowned; then I twitched her little arms, bobbed her head - and without even planning on it, I'd had her reach up and pet her ears into place.

The professor smiled at me beatifically. "I could jabber on about brain structures and mirror neurons and mind-projection - but the long and short is, they come alive to us, whether we mean for them to or not. Shall we see how she does on stage, in a proper Punch and Judy performance?"

Coney and I turned our gazes from each other to him. "Would it be one? A 'proper' one, I mean, if you use her," I nodded at Coney, who waved at him, "instead of Joey?"

"Punch was performed long before the human Joey was even born - and many performances don't include him at all. It's a very philosophical question - is Punch and Judy still Punch and Judy if Punch loses to the Devil at the end? If there's no Beadle enforcing public order, but there is a Policeman, or a City Guard? If he's called Punk? If he wears blue instead of red? If he's a marionette or a cartoon instead of a glove puppet? I like to think there is a /pattern/ to Punch and Judy, instead of a border. The more of that pattern that any show encompasses, the more true it is that it's a Punch and Judy show. No particular element is vital - but the more elements that are lost, the less of a Punch and Judy show it is, until, at some indefinable point, it isn't. Outside of the titular pair, characters come and go, waxing and waning over the years and lifetimes. In fact, trying out new puppets is, itself, part of the Punch and Judy tradition. Of course, so is leaving them out if they don't make the audience laugh. I've already had a few ideas about how Coney might make you laugh - how about we see if they're good enough for her to last, maybe not all the way to your strange future ancestor-simulator people, but at least to the weekend show?"

I looked down at Coney. She shrugged up at me. I shrugged back, then pulled her off my hand, and handed the soft bundle back to the Professor.

--

"Well, that was a little different," I said, trying (and failing) to suppress my grin. "Even if I kept trying to think of her as me, or me as her, or however that works, I think she's more clever than I am. ... Of course, she's got a few advantages over me, like only getting into situations you already know a way to get her out of."

He waggled his moustache dramatically. "I expect you have more Scapino in yourself than you realize. After all, I like to think I still have more Arlecchino left in myself than Il Dottore."

"Ah," I used his own exclamation back at him, "is that why you just happened to have some scraps of fur already dyed to match my own shades?"

"That's the trouble with being a /zanni/ in real life - it takes a lot more work to set anything up than just waving a magic staff."

"Mm... I've got a few canes and walking sticks that are pretty close to magic. Can't do any card tricks, though - never even learned how to riffle shuffle."

"You, at least, know what to expect out of a card trick - or a play's plot. Do you have a favorite Shakespeare play?"

I nodded once. "'Midsummer Night's Dream'. Couldn't name the four lovers if I tried, but Bottom and Peaseblossom and the fairies, and the play-within-a-play, Pyramus and Thisbe, always did stick with me. Didn't mind the 'Scottish Play', either."

"I have to admit a certain fondness for 'King Lear' and 'Hamlet', myself... I've even tried to adapt them for puppets, though it's been a challenge. The very fact that you and I can have a conversation about these classics makes us nearly unique amongst a people who seem more interested in the catch of the day than the culture they are the surviving heirs of."

"A lot of Shakespeare had to be translated, even in what I think of my day, just to make the dialogue understandable, let alone the allusions or the plots."

"Alas!" Yes, he really used the word 'alas'. "I have /been/ adapting and updating, where I need to, with my trusty logbook as my guide to what I can keep and what has to be tossed by the wayside. Nobody has even heard the word 'beadle', let alone have an idea what one is; and 'police officers' are as much a historical curiosity as 'index funds' or 'France'; so for anyone /but/ you, yourself, Your Most Ancient Majesty, I have had to update such characters to modern comprehension, in the form of the Civil Guard. The Dragon that can eat whole cities in single swallows used to be merely the Devil - a much less scary figure, in these days when whole cities /have/ been eaten in one gulp, perhaps not even metaphorically."

I tried to avoid wincing. He knew Minnie, so had to know about my involvement in the end of Buffalo. I dredged up a recent memory, of someone telling me that sometimes someone talks about a problem just to share it, not to try solving it, so I tried commiserating with him. "A lot's been lost, both quickly and slowly over the years. I suppose that makes what remains all the more important to hold onto - for the time when there'll /be/ more people who care not just about whatever cultural bits have evolved with the times, but with what they evolved from."

"Yes!", proclaimed the Professor with a shout and raised fist. "You /do/ understand!"

I blinked. "I do?"

"I had whole speeches prepared to try to nudge you to that point - but a good authour must be willing to murder their darlings, when it's time to."

"... I'll have to take your word for it. I'm guessing you have something your murdered speeches were going to lead to?"

"Of course, of course. I started by trying to remind you of the power of art, however illogical it may be - and my planned finish was to remind you of your power /over/ art, to request that whatever reward you might wish to offer me, you instead be a patron of Art in general, instead of relegating it to the trash-heap of irrational ideas and useless tools."

--

"One advantage Coney has over me," I mused aloud to Boomer while skimming back through her recording of the puppet shows, "she doesn't have to spend her time trying to figure out who her puppet-masters are..."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Two: Pro-sciutto*

Minerva returned first, handing me a slip of paper. "They're disappointed they're not going to meet you in person," she told me, "but understand with the bomb and all. There's an address in Metropolis - they send money orders there, and comics and books get sent here."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that /any/ network, not just the Internet, is for porn... but I'll add this address to the list of possible Melvin puppets."

--

When it was Denise's turn to report, she had a rather more positive result. "Their biology is /fascinating/," she gushed. "If it's possible to turn a regular canine or feline into a full-fledged sapient and sentient and sophont /person/, without using a zone, then who knows where the limits are? Giving myself magnetoception was child's play compared to what's possible!"

"That's all very nice," I observed, "but did you investigate their cargo area?"

"No - but their captain said he'd like to talk to you directly about that. Oh, I hope you don't mind, but to help with security, I suggested we move your dinner up to tonight. That's not going to be a problem, is it?"

"Not really. You don't mind taking these messages to the heliograph office to send, do you?"

"That's... a lot of messages. What are they all?"

"Press releases, mostly. 'After a vile and treacherous attempted assault, Queen Bunny's security procedures worked as intended, she is in good health and spirits, investigations are continuing', that sort of thing. For further background, please contact the nearest embassy or consulate from the Dominion of Lake Erie,' and so on and so forth."

"Is that all?"

"Not even close. But apparently I need to dress for a formal dinner earlier than I expected to; they speak English, have they kept the difference between white-tie and black-tie levels of formality?"

--

The culture the crew of the Travelling Matt came from did not, in fact, have nearly as many levels of formality as were to be found in the vintage etiquette guidebooks I'd offhandedly snagged from the university library three years previously - but part of their 'mission' was to learn about foreign cultures, and if possible, how to adapt to them. Denise's focus on their implants and upgrades meant I was saddled with a full white-tie state dinner... which could be traced to me being at fault, having sent her off without sufficiently clear instructions about my preferences.

Fortunately for both my sanity and my balance, in various parts of Munchkin's library and the AIs' memories, there were a number of pictures of Queen Elizabeth the Second attending such formal events, in attire rather less ball-gown-y than the public domain texts described; so I did have a certain amount of leeway. I found the ear clip and tiara I'd worn to the Nine Nations' Council meeting, set the clothes fabber to put together a sparkly white dress and blue sash, and tried to get one of the bun-bots to move a little less zombie-like so I could at least have the option of pulling a Padme body-double stunt, among other security measures.

I tried convincing the micro-factory that local laws really did permit the manufacture of firearms, but didn't have enough time to figure out the format of the update files. I couldn't even manage a one-shot zip-gun. What I was able to manage to do was temporarily link the factory to Munchkin's navigation system, to convince it that it was in American jurisdiction rather than Canadian, which let me tell it to produce air guns. The super-metal stuff that my Halloween armour was made of was also strong enough to hold a good deal of pressure with astonishingly thin walls, and we already had air compression gear for the cryonics setup that could be adapted. I skimmed over some of the designs in the mini-fab's mini-database; and when I came across an entry for something with a calibre of .12, I figuratively rolled my eyes at its puny size compared to the .177s, which could barely do significant damage to a paper target, let alone a .22 or anything with bigger numbers.

In fact, I really did skip over it, and the only reason I went back to look at it wasn't because I remembered that the calibre number was only a roughly-correlated substitute for the real values I was trying to optimize for, but because I was curious what such a small round /could/ be used for. When I saw that the range was roughly that of a shotgun, and the lethality of the rounds somewhere in the vicinity of a flintlock musket's, I again almost closed the entry to look at other options. And what stopped me was, again, pure curiosity; the scrollbar next to the 'additional notes' sub-window indicated there were a /lot/ of notes, and I felt a vague impulse to find out why so much more was written on this particular design than any other.

It turned out that, while I'm sure nobody really /wanted/ to be shot with a three-millimetre-wide needle travelling at up to the speed of sound, the 'Beretta 3mm Mouse' was designed to be something more like a blowgun, in that the needles were meant to be more of a delivery system than lethal in and of themselves. I dug around and found a list of compatible payloads, compared it with my memory of Munchkin's inventory, and to my surprise, found a match: aconite toxin. Even better, the main counter-agent to aconite was atropine, the same drug I'd been getting experience with using for nerve gas.

I looked closer, to make sure enough safeties were in place in the airgun pistol design to make accidentally shooting someone (ie, myself) a nigh-impossibility. Parallel with that, I read up on how quickly aconitine killed, and how - and paused my multi-tasking to read deeper, when I read that the main mechanism of death was by inducing ventricular tachycardia, ventricular fibrillation, and cardiac arrest. While my heartlessness didn't mean I was immune to all the other symptoms - including life-threatening respiratory paralysis - I was about as safe handling the stuff as a (mostly) organic being could be.

Given how well so many details of the whole weapons system matched my available resources and needs (or, more accurately, could be made to match them), I set the fabber to making a single "Beretta 3mm Mouse" and accessories as fast as the metal powder could be sintered, to be followed by a number of others while I was out. As an example, one such accessory involved having the fabber make a three-dimensional scan of the signet ring I'd just gotten, and making a copy - only this one contained something like an RFID chip, which the Mouse checked for with a tiny radio pulse, as both an additional safety and a security measure. Given how life could become complicated, I also made sure I not only had another ring for my other hand (I went for a snowflake design on that one, instead of the over-ubiquitous maple leaves), but that I knew how to bypass that particular safety measure, in case I lost the rings.

I spent a few spare seconds considering whether to give the thing a name, since 'Mouse' was kind of generic. I let myself wiki-walk for a bit, and learned that the Greeks thought that aconitum had sprung from the drool of Cerberus, whose name originally meant something like 'Spotted one', so for a few moments I entertained the notion of 'Spot-Spit'. But what I settled on was to continue in the tradition of 'Kahled-voolch', and call my personal version of the Mouse-gun 'Karn-wena', after King Arthur's personal white-hilted dagger.

As all that was being taken care of, I went back to the clothes fabber to make a few adjustments to let me carry my new (untried, untested, unpracticed, and thus untrusted, no matter how well-matched to me it might be in theory) backup bit of self-defense. (Which wouldn't actually help against another sniper, or another landmine, or nerve gas, or poisoned food; but which I just couldn't convince myself would /de/crease my odds of surviving.)

It might not have been the best possible use of the limited time I had to prepare; but it was the best use I was able to think of at the time.

And soon enough, that time ran out, and I had to leave. Denise had arranged for the Travelling Matt to undock and be offshore for the duration of my visit; so I made my own way to the shoreline, stepped into a glorified plastic bag to stay dry, and let Pinky ferry me over in the usual squiddie style.

--

During my first visit to the Travelling Matt, I got...

... a tour.

After the amusements of dealing with doors and passages designed for crew who were generally half my height or less, I observed, "I was under the impression that space is at a premium on most seagoing vessels."

Captain Shatter nodded his fully animal head, which, even with my experiences with various species so far, I still couldn't help seeing as an animal's head instead of the animal-shaped head of a person. He answered, "The squid-folk informed us that you would likely be, reluctant, to travel without your vehicle. We have been taking our time, in dock, to rebuild. The stern opens, now, and you should have no troubles moving all six carriages aboard."

"Five," I muttered, looking away, feeling embarrassed for no reason I could make out.

"Five," Shatter agreed equitably. "As our security cover, we have responded to inquiries that we are upgrading our ice rooms, to a refrigeration device."


... background explanations.

Captain Shatter said, "No, the Travelling Matt is the fifth of her class. First was the Undertaking, which, under Captain Church, went east to try to explore Europa. The Endeavour, under Captain Jameson, went south, along the American coastline. The Pursuit, under Captain Tibia, southeast, to Africa. The Venture, under Captain Williamson, north, to see if either the Northwest or Northeast Passage still allow travel to the Pacific."

I sipped my juice and commented, "'Travelling Matt' doesn't seem to follow quite the same naming scheme," while I expanded my estimation of the resources required to follow the scheme as far as I'd just heard described.

"Her hull started out as the Experiment, so that our shipbuilders could learn the techniques and issues of this class. But they did so well, that the Pursuit was sent to Africa instead of along the Saint Lawrence River, the mistakes that were made on the Experiment were fixed, she was christened with a real name, and a new crew drawn from the ranks of the home fleet."


... abstract philosophy.

Commander Nimble, who turned out to be a 'folf', a half-breed between a fox and a wolf, opined, "My current theoretical framework for understanding human and human-derived cultures focuses mainly on the creation of 'plausible deniability'. If one man covets another's wife, but cannot consummate his lust without upsetting his neighbour, then a great many social conventions come into play allowing him to pretend he does not feel what he feels, from the wearing of clothes that conceal inappropriate erections to the institutions of marriage, prostitution, and adultery. This appears to have started several million years ago, after the split between the /homo/ and /pan/ genii, when hominid females ceased to present consciously-observable signs of ovulation..."


... proud displays of their voyage so far.

I examined the caged creature from several angles; it looked like a sparrow attached to the back half of a mouse-griffon-style.

Doctor Kettle explained, "Some of us seem pretty fussy about what we eat, but it's because we get tummy upsets if we have to change from birds to fish, or fish to mice. This little fellow might feed two kinds of diets with just one animal, which could help reduce how much time, money, and effort we have to use in raising the things, which could let us spend more time doing other things."

"By any chance," I considered aloud, "have you ever heard what happened when rabbits made it to Australia?"

"Can't say that I have, Your Highness, can't say that I have, but it sounds like you have a tale. Would you care to have a sip of something while you tell me about your fellows?"

"Er - it wasn't that kind of rabbit..."



... and the makings of a rather severe diplomatic contre-temps.

"I can't say that I recognize the taste," I said after swallowing the first bite of the roast meat. "It's kind of strong - the closest I can think of is when I went to a hunting club's dinner, and tried bear, just because."

Shatter, to my left, was more than happy to expound, "It is panther cub," he somehow held up a fork with morsel from his own plate. "In fact, it is from Miss Neckline's most recent litter. This is a special occasion, after all."

I very carefully did not freeze, but turned my head to look at the black feline who'd just been named, several seats down. She nodded agreeably, and popped her own fork into her mouth, chewing with every indication of happiness.

I looked away from her, in case she could read lips, and mouthed the words without even breathing, 'Bun-Bun, no puking.' I turned back to Captain Shatter, and said in as normal a tone of voice as I could pretend to have, "By 'litter', you mean...?"

"She gave birth three weeks ago."

I carefully set my fork down, and my mind whirred as I tried to figure out what to do next. What I wanted done, and what ways were available to get there. "It appears that there are certain, um, cultural differences which Doctor Black did not have an opportunity to review," I carefully hedged. "To try to simplify a great deal, one rule of thumb that you will likely wish to observe in the future, is that local cultures consider it such a bad idea that it doesn't even need to be mentioned aloud, to, uh, eat anything that could have ever asked you not to, if any other food, no matter how distasteful, is available."

Doctor Kettle, just across from me, said, "Oh, you don't have to worry about that, none, Your Majesty. Like he said, they were only three weeks old - they hadn't been baptized yet."

I was confused. "What does a dunking in water have to do with it?"

I was getting confused looks in return. Doctor Kettle replied, "I don't know, what /does/ a dunking in water have to do with anything?"

Commander Nimble broke the resulting pause by stating, "Your Majesty - you appear to be connecting the term 'baptizing' with immersion?"

At least slightly relieved that /someone/ seemed to have an idea what was going on, I nodded. "That /is/ what the word means - though there are derived terms, such as 'baptism by fire'."

Commander Nimble nodded once, then explained, "We appear to have found a discontinuity between our otherwise similar languages. While Miss Neckline can cover the connotations better than I can, we apply the word 'baptism' to the process where our offspring become persons."

My forehead wrinkled. "That's, at least arguably, the reason behind the local ritual."

Captain Shatter interrupted, "Baptism is no mere ritual - it is when God gives us our souls."

I started to speak, to repeat what something like what I'd just said, when Nimble took the lead again, "By which he means undergoing the surgeries to start having our extra brains implanted. Without that intervention, our offspring remain mere animals for their entire lives."

I released a simple, "Ohhhhhh..."

Doctor Kettle threw in, "I don't know how it works for you folk. You humans - sorry, Your Majesty, and human-like species - are impossible to get to talk about sex. We can only build up our population so fast, and since most of our species have litters at least annually, we've got a lot of cubs we can't afford to turn into people, and can't afford to let grow up and eat all the same things we do. So we give 'em the best send-offs we can, and bring 'em back into us for the next go-round."

Feeling a tad helpless, I asked, "'Go-round'?"

Kettle waved his fork. "The next litter. When Miss Neckline heard you were coming aboard, she very generously offered to spread her litter through the command staff - and to you, of course. She'll probably want a few words with you before you go, about female stuff, suggestions for names when you give birth, that sort of thing."

"Birth?" I blinked and shook my head. "I'm afraid that's not likely to happen in the foreseeable future." In an instant, I was the focus of the staring eyes of /every/ sharp-toothed and sharp-clawed carnivore at the table. I was abruptly conscious of the locations of every trick, trap, and weapon I'd been able to stuff into my outfit and small handbag. I felt a need to elaborate. "I don't know what Doctor Black or the squid-folk have said, but due to - complications - I would need to undergo significant surgery, or some equivalent process, before I could give birth."

About half the gazes turned from myself to Miss Neckline. For the first time since I'd come aboard, she spoke. "But you /can/ have such surgery?"

I felt like I was walking on eggshells. Blindfolded. With a few landmines thrown in for good measure. What was supposed to have been a simple investigation into a taxi service had become this whole... thing... in which I couldn't even tell if what I was about to say would make the whole crew want to rip my head off, or worse. I couldn't even guess what answers would be more likely to turn these people back into the friendly bunch they'd been up to now, so the only guideline I had to go on was that old standby, the simple truth. I took a few moments to try to figure out what that truth was. "To be honest, Miss Neckline, I have not investigated that in very much detail. However, given what I know about my biology, and the technology involved - the only groups who seem likely to be able to do so, are groups that, due to political reasons, I am loathe to ask."

The collective heads swung back to Neckline. She seemed to be thinking. Finally, she nodded. "Alright," she agreed, without explaining what she was agreeing to, "if she wants." After a moment, she added, "Politics change, and we're exploring."

Suddenly, forks were scraping on plates, and dishes were clattering. The tension had mostly vanished, replaced with low conversation, and a number of surreptitious glances my way.

I looked down the table, then back at the power trio I was in the middle of. "If I want... what?"

Captain Shatter gently said, "To carry the spark of life she carried, until you bear it."

I looked down at my meal. I ran my mind back to my goal-tree, and its related method-tree, and thought about how my actions in the next few moments would improve or worsen those trees.

I picked my fork back up, and with every scrap of propriety and respect I could call up, ate everything on my plate.

--

It was only /after/ the meal was over that it occurred to me to treat the religious-seeming claims with the same respect that I did for Joe's claims about the spirits of the Great Peace: that they might be referring to a real, physical phenomenon in religious terms. Unfortunately, I didn't have any real idea what 'spark of life' might mean in this context. Nor did I have any instruments to look into it - for electronics, I'd only brought Boomer and the walkie-talkie; and even if I'd brought the tricorder, it was only really good for analyzing chemicals in a direct line-of-sight... the sonar probe seemed to be nearly useless to find anything interesting about what I'd put into my GI tract... and so on.

The private conversation with Neckline was unproductive. My attempted forays into asking about sparks of life, and related topics, only elicited circular definitions. (As close as I could make out, all living things had sparks, and eating them transferred the sparks from eatee to eater, lesser sparks combined into greater ones, which were transferred again during the procreative acts, until they died and either were eaten in turn, or dissolved and spread their combined soul out amongst the plants again. I wondered if whoever had come up with the whole thing had watched the "Lion King" a few too many times.) The only tangible details I was able to elicit were that she'd appreciate if my first-born could have a name based on her parents - Lychee if a girl, or Simile if a boy.

Less tangible, but still interesting, were her own questions, which kept coming around to her asking, more than once, if I /really/ had never been in estrus.

The conversation came to an inconclusive conclusion when I asked, "Do you have no other ways to control your population levels?"

She tilted her head. "What other ways are there?"

"Many. Well, at least before the apocalypse there were; but some require less technology than others. Once the reproduction cycle was understood, humans figured out how to interrupt it at nearly any stage." The discussion so far had been frank, so I didn't really hesitate to describe some of them. "Certain hormones could be taken to prevent ovulation; the mens' /vas deferens/ could be severed, or blocked; physical barriers made out of thin rubber could prevent the transfer of fluids..."

I trailed off as I heard an odd, rumbling sound - which I soon identified as coming from Neckline's chest. It wasn't a purr. Her tail was flipping back and forth in what appeared to be agitation, or at least unhappiness, though her ears weren't turned back yet.

I hastily backtracked, "Or even just timing intercourse to avoid fertilization." I decided to add, "Some of these methods were more acceptable than others, for various reasons. And, of course, they were designed around human biology, and the cultures of the day had time to adapt to the existence of such possibilities. Some cultures accepted them; others did not."

Given how upset she'd seemed over the mere mention of the pill and condoms, I decided I'd wait until she seemed less likely to take my head off before bringing up the topic of abortion. Maybe wait until she was declawed. And defanged. And put in a straightjacket with all-point restraints. And if that never happened, then just politely ignoring the entire subject seemed most conducive to keeping myself alive long enough to keep working on the larger issues.

--

Before I left, I asked Doctor Kettle if he might provide a blood sample from one or more members of the crew, "so that I can use my instruments to look for infections that might easily pass from one of us to the other." I got my sample, for the low, low price of a sample of my own blood in return.

Back in Munchkin, I fed both the blood sample and myself into the autodoc - which I told to examine the contents of my stomach.

The results were... unusual, but inconclusive. At least to me. I spent a good fifteen minutes puzzling over the readouts over a heavily-honeyed cup of tea (I suspected the autodoc's anesthetic might have started breaking down in storage) before admitting that whatever expertise I had lay elsewhere, and seeking out Denise.

"I don't understand what you want me to look for," she groused.

"I don't, either," I admitted. "Basically, anything that indicates something other than regular animal flesh - an unusual element distribution, or non-feline chromosomes, or hints of strange enzymatic activity, or... well, that's about as far as I can think to look for."

She flipped through the printouts, eyes flicking rapidly. "I don't know about enzymes, but there's one obvious thing."

"Yes?" I leaned forward, eager and nervous.

"One thing I like about your body - your biology - is whoever designed it put everything it needed into one species. No mussing about with commensal populations of microorganisms in the gut, that change depend on what you eat or who you interact with. Not having to worry so much about sepsis if I nicked something really made operating on you a lot easier."

She left off, so I prompted, "And?"

"And now, looks like you've got a bunch of commensal bacteria. At least dozens of species. Maybe hundreds by the time you're fully colonized."

"I don't like the sound of being 'colonized'. If I didn't have them before, then I obviously don't need them - can we get rid of them?"

"Tricky," she frowned. "I'd have to look up some references, but from what I remember, these sorts of germs are resistant to every antibiotic I can get my hands on. I suppose we could start growing colonies of them, and testing drugs for efficacy, but that would take a while."

"Wouldn't it be faster to just run up their genetic sequence?"

She lowered her chin and gave me an 'are you stupid?' look. "The border between us and the university is closed. Even if you manage to build the machines to produce the genetic sequence, we don't have the machines analyze it."

"Um... could we transmit it to Clara to analyze, over the heliograph?"

"A single bacterial genome starts at around a hundred fifty thousand base-pairs, and can be a hundred times that large. How fast can you flip a mirror?"

"Head to Lake Ontario, head on shore in the middle of what used to be the city, where the Nine Nations haven't really colonized yet?"

She sniffed disdainfully. "You're the queen - if you want to provoke an international incident, that's your prerogative."

"Last I heard, I'm Queen of the Quebecois, so it hardly seems international."

"You know what I mean."

I sighed. "I do."

"Besides, I'm not sure that will be necessary. Whoever designed your anatomy doesn't seem to have been an idiot. You had to have been exposed to other invading bacteria by now, but none took hold - I expect your immune system is more than capable of fighting off whole ecologies."

--

Apparently, whoever designed the Acadian carnivores knew a few tricks that whoever designed Bun-Bun didn't, since in the morning, the autodoc reported my upper and lower intestines now had their own fully-functioning ecologies. After my breakfast of shredded wheat in cereal, my stomach felt a little off, but I couldn't really tell if that was from the bacteria, or just my own thoughts about the hordes of things floating around in there.

I wasn't panicking. I was very carefully and conscientiously not panicking. Human Joe getting stabbed was a more significant recent event, and I hadn't panicked then, so I reminded myself that an infection with no symptoms was nothing to get worked up over. Repeatedly reminded myself.

"I'm thinking of paying Clara a visit," I said to the gang, post-breakfast. "She's got more than enough space and tools to keep Human Joe safe, until we find someone with a good chance of bringing him back."

Denise gave me a sharp look at that explanation, but didn't object.

"Plus," I added, "I want to get in touch with the Nine Nations in a peaceful, non-confrontational way, in which none of the Joes have to go into a spirit pool if they don't want to."

It was at this point that Minerva re-entered Munchkin, having gone out in drag to pick up the local morning newspaper, so that I could see how my press release had been treated. "Uh," she said, "before you make a plan, I think you need to see this..."

I unfolded the paper to behold the headline. "Plague in Metropolis!", I read aloud. The subtitle was even worse: "Furry foreigners at fault?"

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Three: Pro-biotic*

I took off my glasses so I could do all the eye-rubbing and nose-bridge-pinching I could. (It probably didn't really help, but trying to /not/ run through those near-instictive actions would have been a distraction.) "If it's not one thing, it's another," I finally said.

Sarah brought up the fact that, "Papers lie a lot."

"True," I agreed. "But whether or not there's really an epidemic in Metropolis, there's still the fact that the public /here/ /thinks/ there is."

Denise thought aloud, "Think Toffee's going to start a quarantine?"

I frowned. "I feel less worried about what Toffee's going to do than I am about what any local mobs might take it into their head to do."

Bunny Joe flattened her ears. "You believe they will try to kill us?"

"Maybe," I admitted. "But we've got ways to defend ourselves, from Kahled-voolch on down. I'm thinking of all the Changed, the non-humans, and any other group who might get swept up and be blamed."

Denise, bluntly, asked, "What's that to us?"

I managed not to growl, and kept my tone steady. "Every random person who dies is one more person who doesn't have a chance of helping with the Great Work," I hooked my thumb at the to-do lists on the walls. "And if that's not a good enough reason - think of all the good PR that comes from protecting the innocent from angry mobs."

Denise didn't flinch. "That's only a plus if people actually /like/ us for helping that group. If we're really going to be dealing with mob justice, that means most of the people will /hate/ us for helping. Are you sure you're not just looking for excuses, because they're like you?"

I started to say a retort - but then I /listened/ to her question. And closed my mouth, so that I could at least consider it. After a couple of seconds, I said, "Before I got bunnified, I thought pretty highly of Enlightenment virtues. I still do. By those virtues, even if the whole city is of the same mind, it's still the right thing to do, to try to save people who've done nothing wrong."

Denise continued, "It may be /virtuous/ to do that, but does it /actually/ advance your goals?" It was her turn to point at the big to-do lists.

Sarah added, "Don't forget Melvin. Maybe he started a disease. Maybe he got the paper printed. Maybe he didn't, but is trying to guess what we will do to get us."

I drummed my fingers on my thigh. I didn't /want/ what they were saying to be true. But I didn't have enough information to definitively refute their points. "What we need," I was able to conclude, "is more information. If there's really a plague. What groups are most at risk from what dangers; and what dangers we have the capability to deal with." I nodded towards the back of Munchkin. "Maybe the best thing we could do is make up as many masks as we can for everyone in Metropolis, to reduce the spread."

Sarah said, "Most everyone in Metropolis already wear masks."

I felt a little confused. "You already read the article?"

Sarah looked a little confused. "No. People in that city wear masks. Some hide eyes, some mouths, some whole face. They just... do. You did not know this?"

I pulled my glasses back off for another bit of eye-rubbing. "No, I did not know this. Still - it just highlights our lack of info. Fine, fine, /my/ lack of info. And I can think of at least one source that might be able to answer all the relevant questions. Doc, how about we get my heart charged back up all the way, in case this takes a while?"

--

As soon as Pinky's tentacles set me down, I started removing the latest version of my squiddie travel suit. A few moments later, another set of tentacles set a similarly suited figure beside me. As she started stripping off her outer duds, Denise said, "I am /never/ going to do that /again/."

As I patted my pockets flat, I commented, "Melvin's probably watching the embassy's front door."

"... I am /only/ ever going to do that /once/ more."

"Any particular reason?"

"I was /swallowed/ by a giant squid!"

"Yeah, and?"

"Bunny - the only time I am supposed to see the inside of anyone's gastrointestinal tract is when I'm operating on it."

"So now you've gotten a new perspective on things. What's wrong with that?"

She didn't respond for a few moments, while we walked down to the translation room. Eventually, she said, "Bunny, I like you and all, and I'm glad I was able to keep you alive. Even more than just the paycheck. But if someone wasn't trying to kill us all, I'd have already quit."

"If someone wasn't trying to kill us all, are you sure you'd still want to?"

"Okay, maybe not. But I'm letting you know that I'm not happy being stuck with you and your... weird ideas."

It was my turn to be silent as I thought for a few seconds. "If that's really true - how would you like to be the new head of a revived Canadian Red Cross society?"

"What?"

"Okay, maybe it was Red Cross and Crescent by the time of the Singularity, or Red Crystal, or whatever - I don't want to turn Boomer back on just yet - but there should still be /some/ cultural memory of the institution."

"I /know/ what the /Red Cross/ is. Was. But - you've never mentioned you were bringing it back before."

"We might be dealing with a pandemic. Having a Red Cross group might be helpful."

"Well - I mean - I'm just a vet, not an... administrator? President? I wouldn't know where to /start/!"

"You can check with Boomer or Alphie, and Munchkin's library, and even get Clara to start transmitting manuals for policies and procedures."

"Is that what you really want me to do, or are you just trying to get rid of me?"

"Denise - if you really want to leave, then you can take the job and go anywhere the squiddies or Acadians can take you, denounce my policies and ideas as much as you like, and do the best you can at whatever you think is worth doing. That could very well take you off Melvin's hit-list. If you think that what I generally work toward is worth working for, then you're the one who has to decide whether you can help more by sticking with me or going elsewhere. If you /don't/ think it's worth working for, then I'd rather you weren't stuck somewhere against your will."

"I'm not sure what to say."

"It's an open offer. When you've got a chance, take at least five minutes by the clock to think over pros and cons."

"How very generous of you."

"I can probably find another trauma medic. What I /want/ is someone who can provide ideas I can't think of - and I can only get that sort of thing if you really /want/ to help. For now, let's see if the squiddies can tell us exactly how screwed we are."

We were more screwed than I'd hoped for, but less than I'd feared. Through the interpreter, Pinky informed us, "The newspaper article is not a complete fabrication. The embassy in Lake Erie has believable data that a disease is significantly affecting the people in Metropolis. However, the Acadians have not yet travelled to that city, nor is there any significant anti-Changed sentiment there."

"Which implies," I mused, "that that's something that was added to the story locally." I tapped my fingers on my thigh. "I suppose that changes the question to, who in Erie tweaked the story? The editor? The owner? Someone who had enough political influence to push the change?"

I shook my head, suddenly feeling frustrated. Denise put a hand on my shoulder; I twitched in surprise, but kept my reaction down to that.

"It's okay, Bunny," she said. "Maybe you can't find that out - but not having an epidemic is a good thing, right?"

My mouth tightened, in a sour smile. "Doc, I'm going to admit that I had something of an ulterior motive in bringing you here. One of the lessons of the twentieth century is that if a country, or politician, wants to be assured of some real good karma, it's to offer sanctuary and safety to a population that's suffering discrimination."

Pinky spoke through the interpreter, "We thought you were an atheist. Karma is a highly religious topic."

I turned to look through the viewing window. "It's also useful shorthand for some secular ideas. If you need me to spell them out - something along the lines of providing good PR for the long term, plus the potential economic and scientific boom from the rescued people, plus positive feelings from your own mirror neurons when you think about the positive differences you've made in all those lives. Compared to the relatively modest economic expenses in such a rescue, and the annoyance of whatever neighbours or internal groups who still don't like that group, it's a no-brainer even for the most self-interested politician... well, as long as that politician is interested in the long-term instead of the next election."

I turned back to Denise. "In short, I had at least a half-formed plan to send you off to Metropolis, to do whatever you could for the Changed there to keep an extermination pogrom from happening, and so you wouldn't have to be stuck with me because you didn't have any other option." I rubbed the back of my head. "Now, with that idea derailed, I'm looking at all the possibilities of what I /could/ do, and, well, am having trouble picking any one over the others." I shrugged. "So I might as well ask you, Denise - if you had a completely free choice, what would you /want/ to do?"

She was eyeing me carefully. "Your speech has started speeding up," she observed.

"So I'm hitting a manic phase again. Bun-bun's got my adrenaline clamped, and my heart-rate isn't going to change unless one of us dials it up, so it's not going to kill me. Now, how about your goals?"

She shook her head, crossing her arms and looking away. "I'm not sure what you're asking."

"My own example, then. If someone I trusted took over the whole existential risk prevention gig... I think I'd be happy spending most of my time reading comics. Which is a shorthand for everything /that/ implies - that there is a broad enough culture that a good number of other people are free to make them, and comm networks to move them around, and cultural values which prize storytelling. Maybe I'd even try scripting my own, and looking for an artist to convince to draw them, once I thought I'd learned enough to have something worth expressing." I shrugged a little. "So there you have it. The cryonicist turned survivalist turned queen turned whatever-I-am-now, really just wants to try to come up with a new idea. So how about you?"

She didn't answer for a few seconds, and I didn't rush her.

Finally, she said, "What I /want/... is to learn more about what can be put in a body, other than it started with. Like your skeleton and heart, and the Acadians' brains, and my magnetoception. I want to know what's possible and what's not, and how new senses change how people think, and... so on."

I nodded. "That's probably better than my own want." I waved in Pinky's direction. "I've got a certain amount of influence over a national budget, as long as I don't draw enough from it for them to toss me out on my ear. It shouldn't be hard to convince them to start a Red Cross, and put you in charge of the landward side of things, with enough resources to work on the research you feel is most important."

Pinky spoke up, "We are not Christians. It would be easier to convince the relevant politicians to use the non-denominational Red Crystal variant."

I nodded once. "You heard the lady," I said to Denise. "Red Crystal beats cross. And come to think of it, that might even give you enough time to set up some real procedures to deal with pogroms before they get started, which is all to the good."

Pinky added, "Do you also wish to revive the Blue Shield?"

"Uh... I can't say that I'm familiar with that one."

"It derives from the nineteen fifty-four treaty, the 'Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict'. A particular emblem marks cultural sites, monuments, museums, libraries, and archives, and efforts are made to avoid damaging them even during war."

"That... Given how much pre-Singularity culture is already gone, that seems like an extraordinarily good idea."

Pinky stated, "I will have it added to the relevant agendas. I anticipate that you will wish Brock University to be among the first sites so designated."

"Um," I wrinkled my forehead as I had a thought, "Does that mean the Dominion of Lake Erie has jurisdiction over Brock University?"

Pinky responded, "That question does not have a definitive answer. The entity who occupies the university believes the Dominion of Canada is in control, but that Dominion's government appears to be inactive, except for yourself. The Nine Nations of the Great Peace have implicitly claimed that territory through the borders they claim, but according to the heliograph messages we still exchange with the university, they do not appear to exercise any authority over the university itself. The squiddies of Lake Ontario claim that it is part of their watershed, but there are issues with the university being land-bound, and the Lake Ontario system of contract-based interactions can be argued to not qualify as a state. The Dominion of Lake Erie has been negotiating with our neighbours to establish reasonable boundaries to avoid armed conflict, but the Great Peace has not responded to inquiries for two years; through experimentation, as long as we do not touch any ground-based plant or animal, they do not appear to object to us using their waterways, including the route to Lake Moodie, next to the university. And then there is yourself, whose limits to sovereignty and levels of authority over Canada, the Nine Nations, and Lake Erie are not clearly defined."

Denise seemed surprised at a particular detail. "You've been swimming /into/ Indian Country, after they closed the border? And coming back /out/?"

Pinky seemed unperturbed, both in her own person in the water and through the interpreter's body language and tone. "That is correct. Does that affect your plans?"

With a quick shake of her head, Denise negated, "Not /my/ plans." She looked at me significantly.

I sighed. "Well - if we went there, it would certainly make it hard for Melvin to get close enough to try to kill us. Of course, there's still the minor issue that the Great Peace might try to turn you into a flock of birds or a goat or something, but it's an option; and I've been meaning to get in touch with the Nine Nations anyway. So it's pretty high on the list of options to consider."

Denise looked up and down at me thoughtfully. "/Is/ there anything higher?"

I paused, running through the places we could go, and the tree of reasons influencing which was better than any other. "Bunny Joe and Bear Joe wouldn't be happy about going there, so that's a negative - I don't know how I'd sleep without either Bear Joe or sedatives, and I'm not happy about drugging myself to sleep for the foreseeable future. There are a couple of zones I know enough about to want to investigate... I suppose that could be done from Brock as a base, or on the trip there... another option is to do something like the Travelling Matt is doing, and just heading out into the unknown to look for something useful..."

I trailed off as another shape appeared in the water next to Pinky, which soon resolved into a slightly smaller squiddie. They flashed rapid patterns on their skins at each other for a few moments, then Pinky went back to changing her patterns on the side of her facing us. The interpreter spoke, "I have just received word, there has been another explosion in the city."

My ears rose as my stomach dropped. "The warehouse?"

"No. A collaborative workspace in a light industrial zone."

She gave an address, and Denise inhaled sharply. "I know that place. It's where Minerva's little math club meets."

I took in a breath - held it - let it go. "Well," I stated flatly. "That simplifies things a lot. We might not have to worry about preventing a pogrom in Metropolis - but we've got lives to save right here."

--

A couple of very short code-word transmissions (to try to reduce the chances of any radio-direction-finding gear having a chance to pin down the warehouse) over the walkie-talkies confirmed that Minerva herself was both unharmed, and unaware of the new explosion.

I was feeling rather uncomfortable. Whatever my attempts at aspiring rationality led me to conclude about the best course of actions, what I felt was a lot messier, more complicated, and downright mysterious to me than that. I'd never met anyone in that group save for Minerva herself - but they'd started with ideas I'd promoted, and had built from that; and now, /because/ those ideas had come from me, their lives were in danger. I had no idea of their names or faces or even personalities; but I desperately wanted to do everything in my power to make them safe. Even if doing so put every other long-term plan I had at risk.

I clicked the radio back on. "Dot Matrix to Principal Office," I hailed, using the newest set of codenames. "Those papers we discussed? How many of your friends have a similar outer folder ready to go?"

"Andraia to Dot. I'd say, uh, fifteen percent. That is, one five percent." I translated that via the nines complement routine to get ninety-five percent.

"Dot to Andraia. Is there a checkpoint, like Charlie?"

"Andraia to Dot. No - I mean, negative. Are you going to, uh, repeat what you did for me and Gramma? Wait, does she have a code name?"

I sighed, but answered. "No, no code name - and yes, repeat if I can. Mouse will deliver details. Dot out."

Denise asked, "I still don't know what I have to do with mice."

"Absolutely nothing. That's why it's a /code/ name. Anyway - I want you to work with Minerva on how to get as many of those kids as possible to safety. I'll give you some authorization codes for Munchkin, in case the best plan you can come up with is to take out one or more of the cars."

"Best plan /we/ can come up with? Aren't you going to oversee everything?"

"I've always heard that a good leader knows when to delegate."

--

Once Denise was sent off (in a different squiddie's stomach), I focused, not on Pinky, but the human in the room.

"Miss translator," I said to her, and she blinked at me, still typing. "It's obvious that the squiddies trust you with moderate levels of secrets, and are able to keep you safe from regular threats. However, I have some things I wish to discuss that would put both of us in greater danger by you knowing them. Have you anticipated this request?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," she answered, rising to her feet. "I have a book of updated translation protocols for your electronic assistant to view, and your original interpretation machine has been upgraded and improved. If you'll please follow me?"

In short order, I was installed in a much smaller room, still with the window to underwater; and Boomer was installed with a new set of robotic tentacles, and now, some sort of color-changing surface. (Boomer might not have been quite as integrated into me as the Acadians seemed to think, but she already knew more than enough of my secrets that whatever she heard today wouldn't make any significant difference, security-wise.)

I peered into the blue-tinted water. "You there, Pinky?"

A few familiar tentacles slid into view, and Boomer spoke for her. "I am here, and security curtains have been raised."

My range of vision in the water was short enough that I hadn't thought about that detail, which didn't make me any more confident about the rest of my current ideas. Still, I was only in the planning stages, and the whole point of this conversation was to get more information. "There's at least one option that will likely get whoever's trying to kill me to stop: if they have sufficiently persuasive evidence that I'm dead."

Pinky countered, "Are you certain that your own death will be sufficient for your goals? The second explosion appears to indicate that those connected to you are also targets."

"I know." I took off my glasses to rub them clean of the condensation forming on them. "But if I'm out of the picture, then it should be a lot easier for my people - including you - to regain normal lives, one way or another."

"Are you intending suicide?"

"Not at all. Which means that providing sufficient evidence of my death to convince the public, let alone someone intent on making /sure/ I'm dead, is going to be tricky. One method I'm considering is to stop being a bunny - finding a transformation zone to turn me into something reasonably acceptable, and arranging for my supposed death to be impressive enough not to leave much of a body. But I don't know enough about zones to say if that's even feasible, let alone likely. You seem to be pretty on-the-ball; do you have a summary of how they work?"

"I regret that I do not. Such zones appear to be built to defy analysis. Cameras positioned in different locations will record incompatible events happening at the same moment. Instruments sent within either come out without any data, or do not come out at all. There is generally no obvious power source, no obvious device to perform the massive amount of computation required for even the simplest alteration, and many of the known transformations should produce sufficient heat, simply from the motions of the molecules being rearranged, to boil the targets. Our current investigations primarily consist of cataloguing the inputs and outputs, and drawing what conclusions we can from that data."

"What sort of conclusions do you mean?"

"The favoured method of capital punishment in this city is what they call the 'bimbo zone'. The local authorities have allowed us to perform simple experiments with animals of lesser ethical value than humans, and to observe their executions. The changes are simple to identify, and appear to be consistent among all vertebrates: a change to female sex; exaggeration of secondary sexual characteristics; a permanent state of estrus; a reduction in pigmentation levels that is unassociated with albinism; reduction of adrenal glands and stress hormones; certain cognitive deficits; and some more subtle changes to the ears and jaws, which appear to be unobserved by the local human population. This appears to be the combination of two primary alterations. The first maximizes the feminine characteristics of the subject. The second appears to be 'domestication syndrome', which in untransformed animals, involves mild deficits of neural crest cells. This zone appears to determine how the subject would have developed if they had started with that deficit, and then arranges for those particular alterations."

"... Okay," I finally said. "Note to self - don't go through the bimbo zone. Second note to self - run a bulldozer through that zone if I get a chance to."

"That zone does not appear to significantly affect machinery."

"'Bulldozer' was shorthand for 'blow the place up to keep it from being used'."

"You have several issues to deal with. Do you wish us to take care of that for you? Or is the point your personal involvement in its destruction?"

"The /point/... is that lobotomization is not an acceptable criminal punishment." I rubbed the back of my head, as I thought about that. "There's another issue to consider for that one, too. Um - are you aware of Minerva's discovery, about, uh, local perceptions of the numbers of bimbos?"

"We are aware of the strange behaviour. We are as baffled by it as we are by how zones work."

I nodded, slowly. "I'm worried about some link between that zone and the minds of the local citizens... but I can't think of a good way to shut the one down that doesn't carry some risk for the other. Maybe instead of simply destroying the zone - can it be blocked off, kept from being used on any person?"

"We have commercial interests in several local construction companies. It would not be difficult to arrange for concrete barriers to be produced and emplaced, and would not be much more difficult to do so in a way that minimizes local understanding that a blockage is being installed."

I nodded, more firmly. "That sounds like a good start. Do that, and if something awful starts happening to the locals, it can be undone."

"I will make arrangements. In the meantime, do you wish to locate another zone?"

I drummed my fingers on my thigh. "If a zone can extrapolate that much about its target, and can tinker with the brain like that - I'm not sufficiently confident that if I ran into any zone, even one that hadn't been observed to affect the brain, that I'd be the one who ran out the other side. I think if I do have to fake my death, I'm going to have to do it the old-fashioned way. Well, kinda - I could always amputate a limb or two to provide physical evidence that it was really me who died. Since you mentioned you've got construction companies here, I'm guessing you've got some elsewhere; and I've got some bun-bots which I'm having trouble getting to work properly; which gives me another idea. Ever heard of the 'Kansas City Shuffle'?"

--

While resting inside Pinky's gullet on the way to Munchkin's new hideaway - I'd started getting concerned that Melvin had the opportunity to gather more and more bits of information narrowing in on the Professor's warehouse - my mind ran over some of the things I'd recently discussed with my betentacled steed, and a correlation came to my mind.

After running the idea back and forth, including polling my directional sub-personalities, I concluded that it seemed to be a bad idea for me to be a /domesticated/ rabbit.

"Bun-Bun," I whispered into the dark, "Maybe it's time to let my adrenal glands start working again, and see if I can handle that..."

--

As soon as I was back inside Munchkin, Denise hustled me into the autodoc. "Lord knows who you're going to replace me with," she told me as she started running scans. "Last time you went looking for a research doctor, you ended up with a vet. But you're still my patient, and even if I can't tell you who to hire, I can at least make sure your file is as complete as I can make it."

After a few moments of looking at readouts, she commented, "That's funny."

"I don't think any patient has ever wanted to hear their doctor say that."

"Oh, don't whine. And hold still. It's nothing major - you've just gained a pound."

"That sounds about as minor as it can get. People's bodies change weight all the time," I nodded.

"Hold still. Most people's bodies - yours is as stable as a clock, once I take into account your solid and liquid inputs and outputs."

"Any chance it's increased muscle mass?"

"According to the machine, it's pretty much all fat cells."

"Uh - I haven't gone through a winter yet. Maybe I'm starting to store up for then?"

"Possibly."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not."

I sighed. "It's those Acadian microbes, isn't it?"

"Most likely. Clara has both your genomes. While you were frozen, she mentioned that your body has a cute trick - when it's absorbed enough calories, your intestines stop absorbing. No matter how much you eat, you don't gain weight."

"Sounds... interesting. And maybe dangerous, in lean times."

"In lean times, that doesn't come into play. Anyway - if you've gained fat, then that trick isn't working any more. I haven't got the tools Clara does, to analyze every biochemical interaction - but it looks like your new gut ecology somehow keeps feeding your body calories it doesn't need, so... a pound of fat, to store it."

"I'm going to have to start paying a lot more attention to my diet, aren't I?"

"And exercising more."

"Well - I suppose there are worse infections to have. And if I could adapt to everything else, including a self-propelled tail, that's not nearly as big a change to my lifestyle. In fact, I should be doing that anyway, other than the whole 'recovering from cryopreservation and heart surgery' thing."

"I'll write down some notes on a rehabilitation program for you, for once I'm gone."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Four: Pro-bability*

While Denise proceeded with poking and prodding my physiology by proxy via the autodoc's precision paraphernalia, I was pleasantly puzzled by a pussy's pate perambulating into the picture.

I was somewhat more puzzled, and less pleased, when the rest of the kitty failed to materialize - only a set of tentacles, which the critter used to walk - if that was the right word - along the edge of the autodoc, staring down at me - more specifically, at Wagger, who appeared to be looking up from between my legs with equal interest. Before I could decide whether to try petting it or get ready to set Scorpia on it, Minerva hurried over and scooped the pseudo-feline up. "Sorry," she said, "I haven't taught Toby Junior what's off limits yet."

Denise muttered something about data being as good as she was going to get, so I sat up (and pulled my skirt back down over Wagger). I reached over, and, in the standard cat-polite manner, offered a finger for it to sniff. The feline head stretched over, did so, then shoved its head under my knuckles. I obligingly scritched - contact had been made. "Is it a he or a she?"

"We, uh, haven't figured out how to tell. But there's more important things to deal with." Toby Junior reached a couple of tentacles around my wrist, and swung its - I decided to go with 'her' - her surprisingly light weight onto my arm. I instinctively cuddled her against my torso, since even though it looked like she couldn't fall unless she wanted to, it took less effort to bring my other arm up to continue the scritching.

While I dealt with that, Minerva continued, "I spread the word to the rest of the Bayesian Conspiracy - and a bunch of them are now heading off to visit relatives, or go camping, or the like. But nine thought that staying as close to you as possible was better than their own plans, so I've got them all in the cargo car, and I hope you're not mad at me for letting some go and having some stay, or for keeping them out of your personal rooms, or for-"

I held up my scritching hand to stop her. (Toby Junior took that as a cue to clamber up that arm, holding onto my wrist with all eights and shoving her head back into my scritching-fingers.) "That's fine," I reassured her. "Monkeys survive the unexpected by doing all sorts of different things, like curling up and running away and running towards whatever upsets them. There's good reasons that that sort of meta-strategy survived millions of years - probably the same reasons it's often worth buying insurance, now that I think of it. And now I'm the one who's getting off track."

I clambered out of the auto-doc, and called up a recliner to settle onto instead. Wagger poked her head back out again; other than tucking my skirt to preserve any modesty I might happen to still have left, I let her and Toby Junior start working out who was scared of who on their own. I just kept an eye on them to make sure neither tried to eat the other.

While that was going on, I commented, "I suppose I should go meet them soo - wait, hm. That's how politeness would usually work, but /is/ that a good idea?"

Minerva was watching my tail-snake interact with the octo-kitty, and from the twitching at the corners of her mouth, I guessed she was trying to hide how funny she thought it looked. "Why wouldn't it be? I'm pretty sure none of them are going to try to kill you on sight."

"That wasn't what I was thinking of, but now that you bring it up, that's another reason keeping my distance might be worthwhile. What I was thinking of was... hm, it dates back to what I think of as the 'classic' computer hackers - they didn't care what you looked like, or your sex or clothes or anything like that, just the quality of your computer code. When the internet still existed, I noticed that I treated people differently when I just read what they wrote than when I also found out what they looked like. The pictures didn't improve how I treated their text, so I got into a habit of not looking for faces."

Wagger yawned, and Toby Junior stuck a couple of tentacles into her mouth. When Wagger started slurping them up like spaghetti, I reached down to pull the kitty out of the tail-snake.

Tony Junior immediately stuck another tentacle into Wagger's mouth. Remembering Max and Pat's earlier shenanigans, I muttered, "Does everyone on this trip have a-" I interrupted myself as I discovered that, instead of trying to be eaten, the octo-kitty was wrapping her mantle around Wagger's head, which I felt getting pulled inside her. The squiddies kept their beaks and mouths there, so despite the mouth on her feline head, I guessed Toby Junior was trying to turn the who-eats-who tables.

"Sorry," Minerva said again. "I haven't fed her in a while - I've got a sausage to give her. Toby, food!" The kitty immediately leapt from the chair to Minerva's shoulder. Wagger hid herself inside my skirt without any further prompting.

"Okay," I tried bringing things back to some semblance of sanity, "Let's see about meeting this nonad without actually meeting them..."

--

Minerva handed me nine sheets of paper, each with a few typewritten sentences.

--

My favorite color is blue. My favorite animal species is a wolf. The most interesting project I have been working on is investigating my family heirloom. It looks like a skull made of black wood like ebony but it gives advice. I figured out it is solar powered and it helped me design an air compressor to make dry ice for our cryonic project.

I am >99% sure my favorite color is blue and >95% sure my favorite animals are horses. I want to be a horse. I tried magic and it didn't work. I found out how anything can happen in different quantum realities, so tried to be happy that there are universes where I just turn into a horse. I don't want to lose my mind and I'm at least 10% sure that the people who come out of zones aren't the people who go into them, so I'm trying to convince my parents to let me join a zone research crew.

I like purple and cats. I don't understand the purpose of these questions. If it's a psychology experiment it doesn't seem to be very good one. Do you have cameras watching us? Are you finding out which of us are willing to follow pointless orders you give? What secrets we're willing to share? I don't have any projects I think you think would be interesting. I have projects that aren't interesting, like trying to figure out how bimbos like my mom are different from other people, but that's not what you asked for.

I prefer blue and I like rabbits. I want to learn everything I can about computers. I asked Clara what computer you learned how to program on, and sent her a collection of local biological samples in exchange for a computer that worked just like yours.

red wolf the people in charge here are all liars and phonies and hate when i show them they hate electricity so i make music with it i brought my tape deck and sample tapes if you want to hear some

Purple, Foxes. I am working out a full propertarian constitution that I am confident will make another Singularity impossible anywhere it's in effect.

My favourite colour is purple, and my favourite animals are skunks. I was quite impressed at your application of the principles surrounding the Crown and Parliament Recognition Act 1689, that a de facto monarch is competent to summon a Parliament even in the absence of a Parliament to confirm their accession to the throne, and your various efforts to establish your sovereignty de jure. I am one of the consultants hired by the Lake Erie squid to offer a human perspective on their ideas, and have helped keep them from trying to offer thousand-page treaties where two-page ones would work better.

Green is good, and so are dragons. (I haven't seen one in years, though. At least in my current memories, of this timeline.) Your network design for the heliograph has a few vulnerabilities that I'd like to show you.

Favorite color: Green. Favorite animal species: Wolf. Interesting things I've done: I don't know how interesting it is, but I'm sure that the only long-term solution to ensure humanity's survival is to get back into space, and anyone who thinks hard enough will come to the same conclusion, but I'm still trying to figure out how to convince people who haven't spent enough time thinking about it on their own.

--

Fortunately, none of the color-species combinations collided, so it was easy for me to stick appropriately-shaded animal heads into a mental tic-tac-toe grid. At least for me, it was a lot easier to remember 'purple skunk' and from there recall 'constitutions and treaties' than I usually managed with names and human faces.

"Welp," I said to Sarah, as she massaged my shoulders, watching as Minerva sorted through the trunk-theatre the Professor had apparently given her at the same time as the octocat, "we've spread the warnings to everyone in danger; we've offered shelter to those who want it; and if I'm lucky, Toffee isn't going to lobotomize anyone else. Seems to me like it's time to hit the road. Am I missing anything?"

"Of course you are," she grinned down at me. "From the way you talk about things, anyway. But let's go anyway."

In short order, Munchkin was on its way to the docks. However, as we neared the pier the Travelling Matt was berthed at, Munchkin automatically started slowing down, due to the crowd of people in the way... all of whom were wearing the red coats of Erie's Civil Guard. And unlike their puppet counterpart, I rather doubted they'd let me get away with bonking them on the heads with a slapstick.

I started giving Munchkin new orders, to turn south and back into the city, only to see teams of more red-coated men dragging barriers across the streets: sawhorses and barrels and what looked like whole tree trunks.

I guessed that Toffee had never had a chance to read Munchkin's specs; as long as everyone inside was strapped in, it could push itself over obstacles at least three metres high. But if Toffee /thought/ that she had us trapped... then simply going right over her barriers could be a Plan B to the Plan A of talking. (Going right over the guardsmen was only around Plan H or so, given how much weight Munchkin's long, sled-like feet would put on each one who didn't get out of the way.

I keyed open the internal intercom to get everyone's attention. "It appears our leaving may have complications. Melvin may take the opportunity to try to blow us up again. Please prepare for possible rapid evacuation, which may be during combat conditions."

I turned off the intercom and started calling out orders. "Joe - go turn on all the bun-bots and send them forward, to here. Denise - figure out whether Human Joe can be moved. Sarah - grab the first-aid kits from the lab. Minerva - uh, hunker down until I need another pair of hands."

Munchkin was practically at a crawl, so I brought it to a halt, to have a steady platform to look from. After a moment of thought, I remembered that Munchkin's software had a 'riot mode', so I called that up; the main result was to electrify a significant part of its surface, like an electric fence, to keep anyone from trying to sneak underneath or on top or anything of the sort.

The guards seemed to be focused on building up their fence line between the buildings, and in front of and behind us between the buildings and the waterfront. "Minerva, come here for a second. I'm going to go grab a few things in back - if they get any closer, press your hand here, and that'll send us into the water."

In short order, I returned with Kahled-voolch slung over my left shoulder, and my go-bag over my right. (I didn't have to be paranoid and crazy-prepared to be a queen, but it helped.)

"Okay, Minerva, I'll take over again. Opening external intercom... Is somebody out there going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to guess?"

The guards continued their shuffling around, and nobody seemed like they were about to talk, so I double-checked the external speakers were on, and tried again. "Do I need to point out that this is a diplomatic vehicle, which you are prohibited from interfering with the conduct of?"

"No it's not!" came a voice. Munchkin had some rather user-friendly software to focus its cameras in on such a person; and this particular such had a few more shiny things on their jacket than the others, so I guessed they were, if not in charge, at least a spokesman.

"I'm a head-of-state in a foreign country," I responded. "Pretty much by definition, by the Vienna Conventions on Diplomatic Relations-"

The speaker spoke again, interrupting me. "Erie never signed any Vienna Conventions, so they're not in effect here!"

I thought to myself that I should have expected, during my three-year nap, for somebody to figure out the biggest hole in my bluff. Still, talking was better than not talking, and I felt my inner Foghorn Leghorn voice coming to the fore again. "Now trust me, son, you don't want to violate such a long-standing international tradition. There are international laws which don't depend on treaties, things that are called 'peremptory norms', and if you take it into your head to violate them, why, every other nation who hears of it would feel absolutely no compunction in waging war against you to knock some sense into whoever called /that/ shot. Now, war is a terrible thing, especially over a minor misunderstanding, so as long as whatever this particular misunderstanding is remains minor, I expect I could be persuaded to overlook it. For all I know, I happened to blunder into the middle of your annual log-and-barrel festival's festivities. But, I feel that I shouldn't have to point this out yet still have to anyway, I can't blunder out of your little shin-dig unless you move a few of your party-favours aside for a few moments, so how about you get on that and we can all go on with our business?"

The fellow I'd been talking to - well, at - pulled a paper from inside his jacket. My hopes dropped drastically; official paperwork was rarely-to-never a good sign, especially when there was a bunch of people in uniforms with weapons nearby.

"I have here," he shook the papers in the air, "a warrant for the arrest of a woman who calls herself Bunny Waldeinsamkeit, a self-proclaimed autocrat; anyone in her vicinity; and the seizure of her vehicle and possessions. Open up and prepare to be boarded!"

I felt remarkably calm. I reflected on that for a moment, pulled out my heart controller, and got my blood pumping faster.

"On what charges?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Son," I returned, "do you happen to know, to have the faintest inkling of any idea at all, /why/ that Vienna Convention was put down on paper in the first place? Countries need to negotiate with each other, otherwise they'll just stay at war forever and wear each other down and let someone else walk in and take over, which is bad for business for everyone but the newcomer. And to be able to negotiate, countries have to be able to keep some secrets from each other, starting with what each government tells its diplomats to try to haggle for. Each side letting the other have its little secrets is a small price to pay for peace, but the thing of it is, those secrets aren't just as important as a life-or-death situation, they're as important as /lots/ of life-or-death situations."

A few moments after I fell silent, he asked, "Was there a point to that?"

"A fairly simple point, son, a fairly simple one. Try and board and all sorts of death and destruction will be dealt, on both a tactical as well as a strategic level. Most likely on logistic and economic ones, too - after all, merchant marines and ports have been valid military targets for thousands of years, and from what I understand of your economy, you'll have some mighty lean winters if you and your people can't go out and collect all the fish that you're used to noshing on."

He waved his paper again. "If you do not open up, we will be forced to open fire."

"Now that would be a bad idea all around, since I don't think I could convince myself that such an act would merely be part of exceptionally high-spirited celebrating. Also, in case whoever gave you that paper you seem to attach so much importance to didn't mention it, my vehicle is quite resistant to bullets, and wouldn't even notice arrows."

"We have rocket-propelled grenades."

I turned my heart up another notch. I knew that I /should/ be feeling afraid at /that/ threat. I retorted, "I have a certain lack of compunction about overrunning soldiers threatening to blow me up with grenades. Oh, and I have lasers." That last bit was arguably a lie - I had at least /one/ laser, which was of questionable use during actual combat.

"We have hostages to ensure your good behaviour."

"Son - are you a good man?"

"What? Of course I am!"

"I'd like you to reflect a moment before you take that answer too seriously. Here I am, an innocent woman going about her business, and you're threatening to lock her up, lock her friends up, blow up her property, steal what's left, risking outright war, and now you're adding to the list, threatening innocent civilians. So, if you were to take the outside view and consider how someone else who took those actions would be considered, in a moral and ethical perspective, I ask you again - are you a good man?"

"I'm a good soldier. Since you don't seem to understand what that means, I'll put it in terms you understand: if I don't follow /my/ orders, I get to enjoy a court-martial. Or worse. So, with all of these men as witnesses, I have to prove that I made every reasonable effort to follow my orders to bring you in. Do you understand?"

I paused for a few moments; there was something about that answer, comparatively long compared to what he'd said so far, that was niggling at me. I tried to draw things out longer while I tried to figure it out. "If that's the case, then you've already made a slight blunder, in that you haven't tried very hard to convince me that I /should/ willingly let you, as you put it, 'bring me in'. You haven't even stated who gave you those orders, or what treatment I might expect after the bringing."

He shook his head. "It's an order from the Office of the Mayor to bring you into custody for investigation. I have the authority to summarily execute one Jeff, husband of Sarah; the foster-parents of Minerva Harriet Tubman Joshi; and several acquaintances of Doctor Denise Black."

I was silent for a long moment. Pretty much every story-book and cartoon I knew stated that this was the moment for me to reluctantly surrender, in order to later perform a daring escape or get rescued by some convenient deus ex machina. However, this wasn't a story-book, or a cartoon. Whether or not I was really a head-of-state, one thing I recalled from every real-world hostage situation was that I had three realistic choices: surrender, which, given the casual approach to life being displayed, meant my probable death; performing my own rescue of said hostages, which I had neither the resources nor training to manage; or treat them as already dead.

I abandoned truth and went for the blatant lie. "Son - did your 'superiors', loathe as I am to call them superior to anything more valuable than fungi which grow in various rather embarrassing places of the body, happen to tell you what the last person who tried using hostages on me finally said to me?"

The spokes-guard took a moment to flip through his papers before saying, "There's nothing here about that. What did he say?"

"'You killed my hostage!'" I turned towards Minerva while swiping at the external mike control, and said to her, "Don't worry about your foster parents. Lying is a much smaller sin than killing, so it's a lot more likely that they're lying about having hostages at all."

She stopped biting her lip long enough to ask, "But what if they do? Have them, I mean?"

"Like I said, lying is easy - if they're willing to take hostages, then much more likely than not, they're going to kill them no matter what we do. Nothing any of us can do has any measurable chance of changing that."

"How very cynical of you," came the spokes-guard's voice.

I whipped my head to the controls - I hadn't turned the external intercom off at all, and he'd obviously heard what I'd just said. "Crap," I muttered aloud, for the benefit of all involved, "I thought I turned that off." This time, I double-checked that I did, before sitting back. Speaking mostly to myself, but letting everyone hear over the internal intercom, I mused aloud, "Something funky is going on here. Something below the surface. Toffee knows Munchkin can ford streams - but there's no one blocking off the water. I could pop my head out and wave at the Travelling Matt, if I wanted to risk snipers. Someone's trying to do something other than whatever's on that warrant. If they really do have RPGs, and want us dead, why not use them already? Maybe they don't have them? Or maybe they're just not here - there's lots of places they could have set up similar traps - and they're stalling us until they arrive? That doesn't explain the empty water side, though. Maybe they're trying to provoke us into a particular action, which benefits them in a non-obvious way? Driving us into the water... maybe they have underwater mines? No, I'm pretty sure the squiddies would have mentioned if they had those. We are near the Travelling Matt, and there was that odd newspaper article fomenting frivolous fear for furry folk..."

Nobody was talking, but movement outside derailed my monologue. I kept talking anyway, in case that gave somebody enough info to offer a useful idea. "Horse-drawn hay carts? Almost anything could be hidden in there... but I'm just about certain it's nothing good for us. Okay, time to get out of here before we find out they're full of explosives. Everyone hang on, it's going to be a bumpy ride."

A couple more icon-swipes, and Munchkin's external speakers sounded off with a lorry's air horn, or a reasonable simulation thereof. Another press, and the sled-feet took a single step forward, with a similarly faked hiss of a locomotive's steam pushing things into motion. A second step. The guards directly in front of us were looking rather nervous. Two more steps, and we were moving slowly and relentlessly, and speeding up. I gave the air horn a double honk.

I honestly didn't know how willing I was to run over them if they didn't move.

Fortunately for my conscience, they took the better part of valor, scrambling away from their hasty barricade... and Munchkin simply stepped right on top of their tree trunks and barrels, catapulting me onto the floor (and creating an unhappy amount of crashing noises behind me from insufficiently secured gear).

Getting back to my seat, I observed that, still at its pier, the back of the Travelling Matt was opening, a pair of Munchkin-sized doors swinging left and right. While Munchkin /could/ go over water, it couldn't go fast, and on the lake it wasn't stable enough to avoid rocking rather unpleasantly. A few swipes on the wall's maps, and we aimed straight for their dock, and in moments slid right into the hatch, the walls bare inches from either side. Munchkin's rear cameras saw the doors closing behind us, with room to spare in front of us as we came to a halt - we had, of course, lost a carriage.

In that empty space, I saw a familiar, black-furred feline face peeking around a corner - Miss Neckline, who, as an interpreter, I presumed had few duties related to casting off.

"Okay, people," I sent over the intercom, "we're aboard ship, so if you start feeling ill, give a shout and we'll get you a bucket or something. I'm going to go talk to the captain about courses and ports and such. Cultural warning - I recommend you ask what any piece of meat is before you try it."

I gave Wagger a quick pat, apologizing for landing on her, straightened out my outfit a bit, and stepped out onto the wooden floor to greet Neckline.

However, as soon as my hoof was on the deck, I made an unpleasant discovery: a rifle whose business end was being held three point seven centimeters from my nose, held by a human in a red coat.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Five: Pro-bation*

I'll give this for Erie's civil guard: when they stripped me, they had a checklist to make sure they didn't miss anything. They got every gadget and weapon that I'd hidden in my clothes, as well as the clothes themselves - everything from my fur out was taken, including my glasses. They even had a female redcoat check the usual orifices.

That meant that all they missed were the tiny, flat lock picks glued to the keratin on my feet; the flexible straw in Wagger's gullet; and the fact that Bun-Bun could lay eggs containing anything from knives to drugs.

I was deposited in a small room containing a cot (hard), a pillow (harder), a guard (of uncertain hardness, but at least sixty percent likelihood of femaleness), and a set of overalls (grey, baggy, and quite ugly). I completely ignored the latter and sat down on the cot.

"Get dressed," said the guard.

"Why?"

"You can't be naked for your interview."

"But I am not 'naked', I am merely not wearing clothes. I could try creating a pun about your organization's 'naked aggression', but I don't think I can pull it off. I'd probably do better attempting a pun about wearing a fur coat."

She snorted, but didn't press the issue. I reminded myself of a piece of advice that applied to almost any social situation: 'Stay classy'. I still had my dignity, my pride, and my self-respect, and from what little scraps I'd heard about interrogation techniques, holding onto those, onto my /self/, would likely improve my chances of coming out of this in one piece.

I felt an urge to check my wrist for the time, but they'd taken Scorpia; so I could only estimate how long my battery would maintain enough charge to keep my blood flowing. I hadn't even had a chance to turn it down to its usual rate, so its nominal 'sixty hours' was probably going to be shortened by an unknown amount. Given the circumstances, it seemed unlikely that anyone would be willing to cryopreserve me if I ran out of juice, so I had somewhere under two days before I simply dropped dead and stayed that way.

Since my first revival, I'd been in a few situations that were arguably worse - but not many.

I crossed my legs and assumed a position of meditation, and prepared to spend some time in thought.

--

"Mealtime," the current guard announced, and opened the door. Head held high, I stepped into the hall, watching for any scrap of useful information (though without any significant hope of sufficient incompetence to let me make a break for it). I was directed to a cafeteria-like room, lit mainly via barred windows, and apparently empty of people. A single tray of white stuff, green stuff, and brown stuff was already set out.

As I neared it, I discovered I wasn't alone - poking out from behind a table was a gray-furred feline rear end, with a black tuft on its - her - lion-like tail. Even if I'd had my glasses, that wasn't enough to tell if I'd met her on the Travelling Matt, so I changed course to round the table and approach her front end.

Her fur was gray - but her feathers were black. I found myself standing in front of what appeared to be a full-fledged griffon, who had her own meal tray on the floor in front of her. She licked some gravy from her beak, and asked, "And who are you supposed to be? The mad queen?"

"Why does everyone keep calling me 'mad'?"

"Most people would say something about you walking around nude, but I can't throw a stone about that. You'd better eat fast - if you're not done when they say it's time, you don't get to finish."

"I can stand to lose a pound. How long have you been here? Do you know what's going on?"

"Now I know I'm in trouble - usually, the first question everyone asks is if I can fly."

"Unless you're nothing but muscle and hollow bones, I'd be surprised if you can even glide."

"Hah." She unfolded one wing and waggled it around. "All these are good for are looking nice and staying warm at night." She grabbed a chunk of something red in a talon, examined it from several angles, then bolted it down without chewing. I took the time to sit down next to her. Once her mouth was clear again, she said, "Been here since yesterday morning. Word is they're pulling all the Changed into quarantine together. So we'll probably get a lot more company for the next few weeks."

"I have confirmation from other sources that that's a big fat lie. Metropolis has a disease - Changed aren't involved."

"Figures. Unions probably just want to thin out the competition." She wiped her claws on her chest-feathers, and held it out. "Brenda Miller. My zone got wiped after I went through, couple years ago, so I'm the only catbirdbutt I know."

I shook. "Bunny Waldeinsamkeit. More complicated life."

"I can see that," she waved a claw at Wagger, who was sniffing at a table leg, and then at my hoof. "Maybe you can tell me about it sometime."

"Probably not. Somebody's been trying to kill me the past few days. If I'm still here that long, I expect my cell will have exploded. Not to mention, not one guard has acknowledged when I told them my artificial heart is going to need to be recharged soon, or else I'm dead anyway soon enough."

"And here I thought hauling mail through the wild was a tough gig. I think I'll skip my next round of complaining about sore feet."

"Eh, there's sore, and then there's sore. I'm lactating, and I don't know how long that's going to take to stop without any toddlers emptying them. ... Mail in the wilderness, you say - do you know a blue fox-centaur named Jeff?"

"Sure, she's on the Buffalo run-"

Our conversation was interrupted by a guard yelling, "Time!".

Brenda stuffed her face into her tray and started gulping down piece after piece, and I grudgingly pulled myself back to standing. In a low voice, I said, "If you're in touch with any other Changed - there's good odds if we don't escape, none of us are getting out of here."

--

I did eat dinner that evening, and then breakfast, exchanging some hurried words with the monochrome griffoness in the process, and spending most of the intervening time either meditating, looking like I was meditating while I was thinking, or sleeping, always under the watchful eye of at least one guard.

After breakfast, what seemed to be the start of a simple daily routine was interrupted. Cuffs were slapped on my wrists and ankles, gags were fitted for me and Wagger, and one guard heaved me over his shoulder. In short order, I was tossed into a hay-cart. Fortunately, it was full of hay. Perhaps less fortunately, Brenda was trussed up at least as thoroughly as I was. We looked at each other, shrugged, and that was about all we managed before the cart-driver called the horse into motion.

I'd just barely finished getting across the idea of the standard prisoner's tapping code - a five by five grid, with A being one then one tap, B being one then two, up to Z being five then five - when we came to a halt. Guards tied a long rope to my handcuffs, and another to Brenda's talon-cuffs, then unlocked our rear limbs. I didn't fancy being dragged on the ground, so allowed them to lead me off the wagon.

Without my glasses, I couldn't make out the faces of any of the guards standing more than a few feet away; and I never had spent enough time memorizing any maps of Erie to be able to figure out where we were by any of the blurry landmarks in sight. Nevertheless, when Brenda's eyes widened enough for me to make out that her irises were actually golden-brown, and she started struggling and thrashing and yelling incoherently, I had a suspicion. When I saw that our leads were being tied to long ropes, which disappeared through an irregular hole blown through a recently-constructed wall, that suspicion was more of a sinking stomach.

Brenda's rope tightened, and she was pulled, kicking and screaming, across the ground and into the hole. After a few moments, her repeated "Ohgod ohgod ohgod ohgod" abruptly cut off.

The guards were, as far as I could see, very relaxed and unconcerned.

Inside Wagger's gut, the closest I had to tools useful in this situation were a ceramic scalpel blade, which was sharp but rather small, and a flexible saw, which needed a certain amount of leverage to work. So, in the silence, I started noiselessly whispering to myself, "Okay, Bun-Bun, time to help me if you can. Hysterical strength to break the cuffs, or bite through the rope, would be good. Or if you can lay an egg with a nice knife or saw. I'll even take dislocating or breaking or, if we have to, amputating our thumbs to get out of these cuffs..."

Before I could come up with any even less palatable suggestions, a form came around the corner of the building - from the size and color, it could only be Brenda. She wasn't screaming, or tied up - she was bouncing, practically prancing, until she arrived next to the hay-cart again.

Brightly and cheerfully, she called out, "Hi!", looking around at everyone.

One of the guards took some paper out of a pocket, and appeared to read. "Brenda, you are a bimbo."

"Oh!" she said, happily. "Do I get to live in city hall now?"

The papers rustled. "No, Brenda. Only human bimbos live with the Big Boss."

"Oh." The mindless cheer seemed to dim a notch - just a small notch. "Whose bimbo am I? A pimp's?"

"No, Brenda." If I didn't know better, I'd have said the guard sounded like he was trying to be kind. "You're /her/ bimbo." He pointed at me.

"What!?" I squawked.

"Oh!" Brenda's cheer went back to full glow again. "Hi!", she said again, turning to me. "You look familiar! Have we met?"

The guard coughed, and Brenda turned back to him. "Brenda, that's Bunny. You love her very much, and want her to be happy, and would do anything for her."

"Oh! That sounds nice of me. Hi, Bunny! You don't look happy. I'm happy. Do you want to be a bimbo too?"

I squinted at the guard to try and focus my eyes to get some idea of what he actually looked like. "What," I said to him. "The. /Fuck/?"

"Oh!" Brenda piped up. "Do you want to fuck?"

The guard said, "Brenda, go lie down in the hay and take a nap."

"Okay!" she agreed without a qualm, and jumped into the cart.

The guard who'd been doing the talking put his papers away. In a remarkably casual and conversational tone, he said, "Sleeping finishes up the imprinting process. When she wakes up, she'll be 'set'. Nobody's found a way to change that."

I felt my teeth gritting. I managed to move my lips enough to ask a single word. "Why."

"Word is that you had to be given a demonstration. What had happened, and," he kicked at the rope that looked like it could yank me right where Brenda had gone, "what can happen to you."

After a moment, I unclenched my jaw. "And for this /demonstration/," I had to pause to unclench again, "you had to take an innocent-"

The guard barked a laugh. "I don't know what she told you, but she's hardly 'innocent'. Convicted of embezzling thousands and thousands of dollars."

"And for /that/, you /mind-wipe/ her?"

"No, for that, we /imprisoned/ her. /You're/ the reason we had to do this demonstration, and she was the most expendable. Doesn't even have hands."

"And /what/. Is this demonstration. Supposed to get me to do. That /asking/ wouldn't?"

The guard shrugged. "Hell if I know, ma'am. Above my paygrade. What I am supposed to do is offer you a choice. Start cooperating, or we start the winch your rope's tied to."

"Cooperate with /what/? None of you have even /asked/ me anything since you /grabbed/ me?"

He gestured at the cart driver, who pulled a bundle out of the hay and tossed it at my feet. It was the ugly gray overall.

"Did you," I grated, "mind-wipe her just to get me to wear your stupid /clothes/?!"

"Of course not. But if you're so indifferent to social pressure that you'd rather walk around in the buff than do even that, then I'm guessing whatever the higher-ups want you for is out of the question." He pulled his papers back out, flipping through them. "Oh, yeah. I'm also supposed to mention that there's lots of other Changed we can turn into bimbos. And lots of things we can imprint them with, like-"

I was spared whatever he was about to say next by the crack-rumble of an explosion, not much further than the one that had taken out the carriage of Munchkin.

The guards sprang into action - and my rope sprang into the air, pulling me off my feet and toward the bimbo zone. The talky guard gave orders about stopping one thing or another, and as I rolled onto my back one of the guards jumped onto me, his weight pressing me down onto the pavement... but not slowing me down.

When my hands were pulled through the wall, the guard on top of me rolled off, and I was yanked into darkness.

I was pulled along what felt like a smooth floor instead of concrete or cement.

I remembered what it had felt like just dipping my foot into a transformative pool, and curled up into a fetal ball in anticipation of that pain, multiplied over my whole body; my eyes scrunched shut, Wagger tucked against my belly.

After a few moments of just more sliding, I relaxed a tad, and my mind cleared enough to start entertaining thoughts about gnawing on that rope...

... which is exactly when I got pulled into a wall of jello.

I started thrashing again, and my conscious mind was able to note that my hands weren't shackled together again. Of course, that also meant that I wasn't being pulled /through/ whatever I'd been embedded in.

I came up with the idea that swimming might be more effective than wild, random limb-flailing. I couldn't tell what direction was up, my closed eyes couldn't detect a spark of light; so I just started breast-stroking in the direction I was pointing.

As I tried to swim, the semi-solid substance engulfing me became thicker, harder to push against, until, finally, I couldn't twitch my smallest toe. My thoughts quickly turned from trying to come up with an appropriate pun based on 'fly in amber' to how long Bunny's mammalian diving reflex would let me remain conscious without fresh air.

--

At roughly this point in the proceedings, I can no longer guarantee that what I remember experiencing bears any resemblance to what might or might not have actually happened. But as there might be some causal connection between my recollection and the events, and said memories did influence my subsequent thoughts, I feel obliged to recount them.

After thirty mississippis of simple immobility, the gunk changed its behaviour again. To put it politely, it pushed into all my body cavities, starting at my nostrils and finishing at Wagger's, including everything in between. The stuff went down both pipes in my throat before hardening like the remainder - and while I couldn't even try to inhale, with every one of my alveoli held rigidly, after another sixty mississippis I noted that I wasn't feeling any discomfort from lack of air.

For three hundred mississippis, nothing else seemed to happen.

Then my eyelids opened against my will... through the rather disconcerting mechanism of being attached to my skin, which, through some sourceless light, I observed being slid off my entire body, in large, regular pieces. There was no pain, not even any numbness, just a continued sensation of floating in a body-temperature liquid.

I would have screamed, if I was able to vibrate my vocal cords, when most of my internal organs were floated out in front of me. Digestive tract to the left, liver and kidneys to the right, lungs above and uterus below, blood pump and batteries smack-dab in the middle.

/Then/ I lost consciousness.

--

I came to curled up, on a smooth floor, my hands clutching the fur on my legs. I felt dizzy, and bloated, and off-balance, but my pelt was still in one piece, and I seemed to have at least a majority of my major organs where they should be.

I struggled to stand, and as I did, I discovered at least one change - instead of being just one pound overweight, I was significantly heavier, by at least twenty pounds. It was still dark, so I couldn't tell if my fur had been bleached - though, when I thought about it, Brenda's hadn't been - and picking the number three hundred fifty six at random, I was able to figure out that the square root was eighteen point eight something. I didn't feel especially cheerful, or interested in following orders. Wagger pressed her head into my hand when I petted her, as usual. All in all, I made a first guess that Bun-Bun's unusual chromosomes had thrown off the zone's usual results, said guess to be subject to heavy revision given any more evidence at all.

Noises were echoing about the place, confusing, hard to make out - voices, rumbling, sharp cracks, hisses. A stream of dust tickled my nose, and I sneezed. I made another guess that there were procedures in place to deal with bimbos who didn't bounce right out, and this might be my one-and-only chance to escape; so I decided to get myself moving before someone else came to move me somewhere I wouldn't find pleasant.

I held my hands out, taking a step forward - and recoiled instantly at the feeling of jello. I turned right around, and started shuffling the other way.

In short order, I found myself approaching the inside of the irregular hole I'd been pulled in through. This confused me a bit, since Brenda had exited a different way; but I put that aside to focus on the moment, pulling my ears back along my head to reduce my profile, and slid just enough of my head into the opening to get a view of the outside.

I was, once again, confused. The red-coated guards were to my right, hiding behind the wagon, nearby trees, and so on, from the group to my left. About all I could say about them was there were at least a dozen, all wearing all-encompassing body-suits, not completely unlike the getup that 'Darth Idiot' had been wearing at my first revival. More to the point, they were also all carrying combat rifles, which were being used to shoot at the redcoats - or, at least, at the things they were hiding behind.

When I'd had about five seconds to take that in, the hole was blocked, and I pushed myself back, but not in time to avoid... being glomped by Brenda.

"What are you doing /here/?" she chirped as she hugged me with all six limbs, while I was on my back. "The exit's on the /other/ side, and I've been /waiting/ for you, but you took so long I thought you might have bit through your rope on this side and here you are!"

I cleared my throat, and she snapped her beak shut, looking down at me with enormous, /interested/ eyes.

I asked what seemed most relevant, "Who are the guys with guns?"

"No idea!"

"Did they shoot at you?"

"Nope!"

"... I'd rather not be captured by the Erie guard again. Think we can just kind of sneak out?"

The hole darkened again, and Brenda chirped a "Nope!" as a gas-masked head leaned in.

In a muffled voice, he - or she, or it for all I knew - said, "Ma'am? We're here to extract you."

Brenda stopped hugging me, and jumped up to all fours, straddling my body, facing the figure with spread wings and lashing tail. "You can't have her!"

The man started to reach for his weapon - well, now that he was closer, I noticed I had to clarify that as his /main/ weapon - and I hissed, "Brenda, calm down." I figured that whatever had been done to her head, she didn't deserve to get shot for it. She looked down at me, head cocked, then helped me as I started trying to roll upright. While I got my feet under me, I asked the man, "Who are you?"

"We are operating under the authority of Lake Erie. Pinky offered the recognition code, 'You're seven spans tall and weigh seven stones'."

"I think I'm up to eight," I grumped, my mind flashing back to my first attempts to communicate with the squiddies. "But it's the best offer I've heard all day. Okay, let's go."

"Do you wish the quadruped to come with us?"

"Of course I am!", Brenda had no doubt.

She'd been a fellow prisoner, and the Erieans had forced her to imprint on me, as an example to me; I certainly felt a certain amount of responsibility to her. "What she said," I agreed.

He pressed a hand to the side of his helmet. "One additional subject to extract, codenaming it Birdbrain."

"Hey!"

"Additional note: Primary subject requires minimal jostling, we were not informed of her advanced pregnancy."

"My /what/?" I looked down at myself in the light from the hole. The extra twenty - okay, more like thirty - pounds weren't spread out as a layer of fat, but were concentrated right in front of me.

--

"Well, Doc?" I looked up at the figure, eager for answers.

The first soldier had wrapped a blanket around me, escorting me and Brenda out of the building and along the wall, behind the similarly-clad figures. He kept up a constant patter of 'watch your step' and 'keep your head down' and 'mercenaries based out of Youngstown' until we were efficiently packed away into a horse-drawn, covered wagon, and sent on our way. The new figure, who was dressed identically to the first, asked about injuries while quickly but efficiently checking our limbs were all in the right order.

In answer to my question, he rubbed the back of his helmet, as if he were scratching his head. "Well, I'm pretty sure you're not pregnant," he said. "It's a solid mass, not amniotic fluid. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a straight-up watermelon."

I closed my eyes and let my head fall back. "Or an egg."

"Suppose it could be," he agreed. "But I don't think anything's laid eggs that big since the dinosaurs."

"I do /not/ want to deal with trying to... pass something that size. What would it take to get an abortion?"

"Well, I /could/ try and come up with something now, ma'am, but with the moving and the tools, I'd recommend you wait until we arrive."

"Arrive where?"

"Out on the peninsula. The other platoons are recovering your ship, equipment, and companions."

"My ship? I don't remember ever owning a ship."

"The 'Travelling Matt', ma'am?"

"Ah. I was going to ride on it, but it was Acadian, not mine."

"As you say, ma'am. We're supposed to meet it at Horseshoe Pond."

"What then?"

"Then we get the second half of our pay and go back home, ma'am."

"Hm. I don't suppose you'd be interested in any sort of longer-term employment?"

"You'd have to take that up with the captain, ma'am, but probably not. We've already been away from home longer than she's usually comfortable with."

"Why'd you accept this job, then?"

"We were already in the area, Erie have been good employers, and they made an offer the captain really liked."

--

Despite the fact that the peninsula was a dozen kilometres from base to tip, and we were travelling at horse speeds, that was about all the useful information I got from my rescuers during the trip, for the simple reason that despite having all sorts of things to try to think about, I simply fell asleep.

I woke to my shoulder being shaken by the medic, and discovered Brenda was also napping, using me as a pillow. "Captain wants to see you, ma'am. We have your clothes - would you like to get dressed?"

"However much they /fit/," I rested my hand on my enlarged belly, "that would be nice." My Windsor outfit wasn't among the pile I was presented with, so I was soon draped in my Commander-in-Chief uniform, via the simple expedient of leaving it unbuttoned and my gut protruding. Hardly the epitome of formality, but I decided that if there was one perk of being royalty, it was getting to declare my own uniform's standards in non-standard conditions such as being unexpectedly egg-heavy.

While I was perched on the back of the wagon, deciding how best to get down while I couldn't trust my balance, another figure indistinguishable from the other mercenaries stepped over. "Bunny Waldeinsamkeit?" I nodded, and she offered a handshake, which I accepted. "Captain Bravo, of the Youngstown Free Company."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain," I fell back on the meaningless pleasantries. (Of course, I only had their word to go on that she /was/ their captain. Or even a 'she'.) "I'd be a bit happier if your men had arrived fifteen minutes sooner," I rested one hand on my womb, the other on Brenda's head, "but at this point, I'm not going to quibble about details."

"In that case, we should be able to finish this up and get you on your way. All the people you were captured with have been extracted, and are being escorted to the city's docks. Your ship's jolly-boat is in the pond here, and we should be able to get you all together and out the harbour's entrance channel. After that, you're on your own; we're not equipped for significant water operations, and that's as far as our contract extends."

"I don't suppose I might be able to entice you to extend that any further?"

"No, ma'am. We're already overdue for downtime and training. I refused the first offers your government made, and if they hadn't sprung for the city-killer, I never would have accepted."

"... Pardon?"

"We just need you to identify the item that destroyed Buffalo, so we can collect it and be on our way."

"... Captain, I think there's been a significant misunderstanding."

"I don't see why. If you regret your purchase, we'll be happy to return you, your people, and your vessels to Eriean custody. Well, maybe not /happy/, but we /will/."

"If you don't get me back in touch with my people soon, all you'll be able to return to Erie will be a corpse. I require very specialized treatment every few days to stay alive."

"I am guessing you are referring to your artificial heart needing a recharge?"

"The squiddies really didn't hold anything back, did they?" I started sliding forward to set my hoof on the ground.

"You will be pleased to note that we recharged your batteries-"

That was about as far as I heard, as I was distracted by a sudden ache all across my abdomen, forcing me to curl forward and nearly fall flat on my face; I probably would have, if Brenda hadn't grabbed hold to help steady me.

After a few moments, I was able to pay attention to, "Ma'am? Are you alright? Ma'am, please look at me. What's wrong?"

I finally grated, "I /hope/ that that was just my uterine muscles cramping from being stretched so far so quickly. The alternatives are much less pleasant - I don't even know if what's inside me is physically capable of passing through my hipbones, and I certainly don't want to die finding out that-" I cut myself off at a second cramp. Brenda started shouting, the captain started barking orders, and in a few moments I was stretched out on a tarp on the ground.

One of the black-garbed figures managed to catch my attention. "Ma'am, you're going into labour. Your, uh, egg is wider around than an infant, so I need to either break your pelvis or destroy the egg. Are you able to make a medical decision?"

"It's... not... my... egg..."

"I'll take that to mean you don't wish us to take any effort to preserve it. I'm going to drill a hole in its shell so I can see what I'm dealing with. This shouldn't be any worse than a gynecological exam."

I grunted, and sweated, and tried not to interfere with what he was doing. He suddenly cursed, and wiped at his goggles. "The albumen is pressurized - it's just coming straight out." A pile of clear jelly was building up on the tarp. "It shouldn't be doing that - not without water flushing it out. I think the shell is filling up with air. Don't worry, shells are designed to withstand outside pressures-"

My gut clenched - and there was a horrible crunching, crackling sound. My belly deflated like a popped balloon. The man's goggles were sprayed with blood.

And /then/ I couldn't stop screaming, until I passed out a mercifully short few moments later.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Six: Pro-hibition*

I woke to discover a few useful facts. I was in a bed, in an unfamiliar, white-walled room; some kind soul had set a calendar and clock nearby, so that I saw it was only two days later; and I couldn't feel my legs, or anything at all from the waist down.

A quick lift of the sheet revealed my legs were still in place, though my lower wardrobe had been replaced with a cloth diaper. A lift of my head showed Brenda curled up on the carpet next to my bed, on the opposite side from the IV drip stand.

Things could have been worse.

They could also have been a lot better - starting with the squiddies never having mentioned that I'd had any contact at all with the Berserker, let alone offered it in a bargain with a mob of mercenaries.

I had about ten minutes to ponder that before a gas-masked head leaned through the doorway. I had another two minutes before a fully-suited figure strode into the room.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get good chitosan these days?"

"I'll go with 'no'." Brenda sat up, but simply rested her head on the bed near my hip. I absently started stroking her headfeathers.

"Let's just say there isn't an abundance of shrimp near Youngstown. We had to use up most of our stockpile to keep you from bleeding out on us."

"Is that supposed to make me more inclined to pay you? Need I remind you that it was your medic - if he was a medic - who got me started on that whole bleeding out thing?"

"Don't worry, I'm not demanding extra pay - just what you already owe us."

"Lake Erie hired you. You can take it up with them."

"You're here. I'm taking it up with you."

"I have to say, I don't think I've ever seen someone use your negotiation tactics so brazenly - coming over before anyone can even tell me if trying to sit up will rupture my spleen, let alone whether this paraplegia is short-term, long-term, or permanent."

"We /are/ running behind sched- wait, paraplegia?"

"You're telling me you didn't already know?"

"How could we? You've been unconscious."

He stared at me. I stared at him. Brenda pushed her head to get me to scratch behind her ear-holes. After a few moments of standoff, he sighed. "Fine, one medic, coming right up."

"Not to be too picky or anything, but how hard would it be for /my/ medic to come in?"

"What, you mean that vet?"

"I mean that woman who knows my physiology well enough to have implanted my artificial heart, among other treatments."

"She could be Mary, Mother of God in disguise and have raised you from the dead-"

"... near enough..."

"- and I don't care, as long as we finish our business. I'll have her brought in through the security cordon." He vanished back out the doorway.

"So," I said to Brenda, "what have /you/ been up to the last couple of days?"

"These people wouldn't let anyone else near you," she said, eyes still half-closed from my continued scritching, "so I've made sure you're taken care of properly. Avoiding bedsores, changing your diaper, keeping your fur groomed so you'd feel confident and ready to kick ass and take names when you woke up..."

"That's..." I wanted to say 'creepy' or 'stalkerish', but reigned in my tongue. I had no idea whether I'd need somebody to do all that for me for the next thirty years, and with what had been done to her, I couldn't tell if she could have /not/ done something like that. So I continued with, "above and beyond the call of duty."

"It was no duty at all. I know you don't feel about me the way I do about you - I can't /not/ take care of you, any more than a mother can't take care of her newborn. That guard who imprinted me on you didn't say /how/ I had to love you."

Carefully, so as not to dislodge the IV in my elbow, I rubbed my face. "I hope you won't take this the wrong way - but I'm really, really sorry that I wasn't able to keep the bimbo zone sealed up before you got pulled through it. The simple fact that it /can/ do what it's done to you is all sorts of disturbing."

"I'm imprinted, not an idiot."

"Er..."

"I think the idiot part of being a bimbo comes from new bimbos being /told/ to be dumb during the imprinting stage."

"That's... possible, I guess, though it doesn't match the theory I heard about neural crest cells."

"Do neural crest cells have anything to do with giant eggs appearing?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then your theory's crap."

I managed a shrug, then had a thought. "Say, did you see what happened to that egg's contents?"

"Kind of. Three, four gallons of goo pretty much just soaked into the ground and disappeared. I think they kept all the pieces of shell they pulled out of you."

I rubbed my head again. "I suppose that now I can't find the answer, I can actually face the question of /why/ I had a giant egg stuck inside me... I mean, if the bimbo zone had just made me pregnant, I could at least kind of understand it as part of that whole female-fertility thing..."

"Isn't it obvious?"

"I want to make a comment about my brains feeling scrambled, but whatever drugs are in this IV are making it hard to concentrate."

"There aren't any drugs in it right now, just blood substitute and volume expander. They couldn't transfuse blood, they didn't have any that matched your type."

"Hunh. Could have sworn I was AB positive, the universal recipient."

"Don't ask me, I'm just passing on what I've overheard."

"Maybe I can blame being muzzy-headed on a shortage of red blood cells, then. So, uh - what's obvious about the egg?"

"How do you think new zones get made?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. I guess I assumed whatever made the first ones just kept making more."

"I don't know how long it'll take, but I'd make a bet that a new zone's going to show up where your egg drained to."

"... And here I thought I was just avoiding the creepiness of some sort of alien parasite incubating inside me."

--

"The good news," Denise said after some basic prodding, under Brenda's watchful, hawk-like eyes, "is that I'm pretty sure you're not permanently paralyzed. I think all we're dealing with is swelling that's pinching some important nerves. Once your over-engineered metabolism finishes healing up from the damage from the shards, you should be back on your hoof and paw in no time."

I nodded, encouraged. I'd used a wheelchair as a disguise, and because it made things easier, so I figured I could get used to it as a necessity for a while.

Denise continued, "There's an off chance the nerves themselves were damaged, but without more specialized instruments, I have no way of determining that. Which brings us to the bad news." She stared at the soldier who'd escorted her in. "We're in a seized farmhouse, in the middle of around two hundred heavily armed men."

"You're sure they're not women?"

"Yes," she stated bluntly. "While they were quite competent in extracting us from Erie's civil guard, they also seem quite competent in keeping us from leaving. I will admit that the food is better than in prison. That's about all I'll admit."

--

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Just checking that it was you. Is there any chance that I could see a copy of the contract you were hired under?"

"Of course. I'll have somebody retrieve a copy for you."

"About that. I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but for matters of this value, there has to be a certain temptation for somebody with access to those papers to modify them, perhaps even without your knowledge or consent. While I would be happy to examine whatever papers you care to show, I trust that you will understand if I do not rely on their contents as being definitively accurate, without further confirmation from an external source."

"You're not making this easy, are you?"

"Captain - you're asking me to hand over something which could kill thousands. Even without my acknowledging whether or not I have access to any such thing, would /you/ hand over such a thing to a group without making /absolutely/ sure that group was really who they claimed to be, let alone that that's what they were owed?"

"Are you saying you /don't/ have the city-killer?"

"The thing about a policy of deliberate ambiguity, Captain, is that once that ambiguity is resolved, it can't be recreated. You have yet to give me sufficient reason to resolve it."

"If I lose men because we had to fight off an attack while you play games, their blood will be on your hands."

"I'm not forcing you to stay."

"You expect us to leave without getting paid?"

"I don't expect you to do anything. I will point out that I intend to be around for a very long while, and it would do my reputation significant damage were I to stiff the first mercenaries hired in my name."

"We're /not/ leaving without the city-killer."

"Period? Not even if an examination of the contract reveals you aren't owed it?"

"Of /course/ we're owed! My men put their lives on the line to rescue you, you ungrateful furry b- ... Is there a reason you're trying to rile me up, ma'am?"

"There is. In general, when honest business proceedings are taking place, a certain amount of courtesy is involved. It has yet to occur to you to offer me my glasses, let alone clothes, let alone privacy - either by myself or to consult with my associates - let alone anything related to the contract itself."

"What, you're not demanding I call you 'Your Majesty' too?"

"I am not demanding it - as far as I know, you are not a citizen of any of the realms I am a monarch of, and this is not a formal or diplomatic meeting. I /am/ taking into account the fact that you are aware of the title, but have been choosing not to use it."

With the distortion from the gas mask, I couldn't tell whether he was grating his teeth, but would have been willing to lay good odds on it. "I will get you your papers, /Your Majesty/, and signal Lake Erie to send their own copy."

"I would appreciate that, thank you. If you could, please arrange so that, let's say, Sarah - the blue fox centaur - can come back and forth without hindrance, and she can take care of my glasses and such minor things."

--

"Brought Boomer," Sarah announced. "Thought you'd want her."

I squeezed her hand as she set the AI on my belly, smiling up at her. "Thanks, you read my mind."

I heard an odd rumbling noise from the side, and in a few moments, identified it as Brenda, whose avian throat was emitting a rather un-birdlike growl.

"Uh - Sarah, this is Brenda, a Changed who got sent through the bimbo zone before me, and was imprinted to 'love me'. Brenda, this is Sarah, who I once rescued from death by poisoning, and has been a steadfast companion since. Both of you have helped me when I was in need - I hope the two of you can help each other, too."

Brenda turned away from the two of us, snorting, staring at a wall. "Sorry," she said. "I /know/ it's irrational, but - she's going to take you /away/ from me, and I want to chase her off."

"I'm not going anywhere any time soon," I started, but Brenda shook her head.

"I know me being possessive like this won't make you happy, so I'm going to work on it. Just letting you know that I /do/ feel this way."

Sarah said, "Maybe I could give you a massage? You have been here all the time for days. Maybe we take bath or shower? Do your feathers need special care?"

"I don't want to leave her alone - who knows what those black-suited bastards would do while nobody's watching?"

"I can go get Bunny Joe to watch over her."

Brenda seemed kind of torn, so I contributed, "Brenda, if you want to watch out for me, being well-rested would help... and looking your best and fiercest is more likely to head off trouble than, say, 'ragged animal chic'."

"Fine, fine," she grumbled. "But anything happens to you while I'm gone, I'm taking it out of blue-boy's hide."

--

I flipped the papers in front of Boomer's camera, then adjusted my glasses to start looking at the front page myself. Since the captain knew I was going to be getting confirmation of its contents, I didn't expect it to have any notable differences from any other copy, and getting a head start on studying it seemed the best use of my time.

I asked the AI, "Any obvious loopholes?"

Her badger avatar shrugged. "Nearly the entire contents appear to be mimeographed from a standardized boilerplate, which seems likely to have been carefully crafted by a team of lawyers to avoid such simple modes of failure."

"Maybe - but it's unlikely that team of lawyers had a digital mind like yours to help them.

"Perhaps. There are several sections. Conditions of payment, mission parameters, support offered to the unit, methods of dispute resolution and so on. They were paid a certain amount up front, with further payment dependant on successfully recovering you intact-"

"There's a possible loophole right there. Was the bimbo zone specifically mentioned?"

"Not directly, but you were specified as being in 'suitable condition to continue serving as monarch of the Dominion of Lake Erie'."

"Hrm. I was hoping that them being too late to keep me from being pulled into the zone would be enough on its own."

"It may be an arguable point. Your reaction to that zone was not predictable, and if you had experienced a typical reaction to that zone, the changes to your neural structure could count as becoming incapacitated. However, it is unlikely the Free Company's legal staff would accept that argument."

"What happens if I claim that's the case, and they claim it's not?"

"Neutral third-party arbitration, to take place in the Metropolis of Cleveland."

"Let's put a pin in that."

We went over other parts of the contract, from what else they were supposed to try to rescue, to which version of the laws of war the Company was supposed to abide by, to dealing with prisoners-of-war.

Boomer finished by reciting, "Signed, a squiggly hieroglyphic, translated as Whitecap, Minister of Finance on behalf of the Cabinet Committee of Her Majesty's Privy Council for Lake Erie."

"Hm... It's not much, but I think I can work with that. At least enough to get what I want, but make all sorts of people mad at me. I'd rather not tick off a company of mercenaries who are as... /effective/ at their jobs as these fellows - they might come in useful in the future, and if nothing else, I don't want them to accept contracts against me and mine just because they carry a grudge. Of course, I also don't want the squiddies' government to turf me out and go republic if I step on too many toes..."

"I have insufficient information to advise you on how to accomplish that set of goals."

"So do I. Let's see if I can convince the mercs' legal department to let me, meaning you, speed-read through the rest of their library; and exchange some messages with the Lake Erie government."

--

"Captain Bravo."

"Your Majesty."

I smiled and nodded up at him. "Thank you," I said. "Oh, as an aside, according to the usual standards of decorum, once you've used that title, you're free to use 'ma'am' afterwards. But to my main point - I would like to thank you and your men for the efforts you all went to in attempting to recover me, my property, and my fellow prisoners. If you wish, you can consult with the government in Lake Erie for the specific form of that thanks - medals for personal service to the Crown, if you'd like them."

"That's very nice, ma'am, but medals don't pay the bills, or help us win fights."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that - a reputation for getting the job done can be quite intimidating to your opponents. But please don't think that my thanks are going to be expressed purely symbolically; I intend to make sure that you and your men receive what you are owed, financially and contractually, as well."

"That's good to hear," he seemed to relax a tad.

"That said," I continued, "that payment will have to be in the form of cash - and a significant quantity of that - rather than the 'city-killer' you negotiated for."

There was a long pause. "You're reneging on the contract?"

"On the contrary - I'm fulfilling it to the best ability of the government of Lake Erie."

"It doesn't sound like it."

"There are some legal technicalities involved, but the short version is, I would like to make a cash offer in line with the non-payment penalties of the similar contracts you have in your library."

"I think I want to hear about these 'technicalities'."

"In that case - I'll start with an analogy. I don't know much about Youngstown; do your people still have sports and music and such culture?"

He sighed. "We do."

"Good. Let's say you play baseball, and a musical instrument - in fact, you're in charge of both the team and the orchestra. Now - if the orchestra falls into debt, can its treasurer sell off the baseball team's bats?"

"You're saying the city-killer isn't Lake Erie's to sell."

"I'm not just Queen of the Dominion of Lake Erie, I'm also Queen of Quebec, arguably the Queen of Canada, and of many other places which don't concern us. Buffalo was destroyed before the Dominion of Lake Erie was founded - if I did acquire that city-killer, I would have done so under one of my other Crowns. There is a long-standing constitutional tradition that the government of one member of the Commonwealth has no connection to any other government, even if the same person happens to be the monarch of both."

"That's a lot of words that don't mean much of anything. None of those other countries still exist."

"Quebec does, if no others do."

"Quebec's in Indian Country."

"Which is why that's not the only technicality I'm using to guide me. As a monarch in the Canadian traditions, I consider myself bound by certain guidelines, including the ones that led to certain treaties expressly prohibiting the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction. In fact, my very first formal act as Queen of Lake Erie was a proclamation expressing my hostility to anything involving mass deaths. When the Lake Erie Finance Minister signed that contract, he was doing so against my explicit wishes. If you ask your lawyer to buy a horse for you for ten dollars, and he makes an offer for fifteen, things get... complicated, and unpleasant for all involved."

"You're still not saying whether or not you actually have a city-killer."

"Now that the offer was made, rumours are going to spread that I do, whether or not that's the case. Given that, it would be... unwise for me to explicitly state that I don't. Some people wouldn't believe me, and think I had something to hide; some would take my lack of possession of such as an admission of weakness. If I do have one, then for similar reasons, it's better for me to avoid explicitly acknowledging it. The best course that I can think of is to keep as many people as possible guessing, for as long as possible."

"You'd better be offering a /lot/ of money. Running a company isn't cheap."

"I have suggested to my government in Lake Erie to be generous enough that taking the matter to arbitration would most likely end up with you receiving less." I frowned. "I wish I understood what possessed them to make the offer they did in the first place."

"They made lots of offers. That was the first one the Company's agent didn't have instructions for."

"If you'd been negotiating yourself, instead of through an agent, would you have taken one of the other offers?"

"You get to keep your secrets, I get to keep mine."

--

I stared at the telegram Sarah handed to me, and thought about it. Whitecap was offering his resignation, and I wasn't sure whether to accept or reject it, or let the squiddies' government handle it instead of dealing with it personally. Canadian tradition was for me, as monarch, to act as the government advised - but the older, deeper British traditions went all the way back to when kings were more war-leaders than figureheads. I'd been drawing on whichever tradition seemed handiest at the moment, but that had led to the whole mess with the Free Company.

I'd been doing well enough so far by asking for more information, so I did that once again, asking Sarah to send a return message to Whitecap, asking him to explain his reasoning leading up to the offer to the mercenaries. In short order, I had a reply: "We acquired copies of your 'motivation tree' shortly after your hibernation. It was obvious that while you had to place the 'avoid extinction of sapience' node as equal to the 'personal survival' node for public relations purposes, the latter was the true root node. The Youngstown Free Company were the available tool with the greatest chance of ensuring your survival, thus the lesser node was sacrificed for the greater."

"Hoo-boy," I started, but Boomer interrupted me by flashing her whole screen.

Text scrolled across, reading, "Message patterns match steganographic protocol. Do you wish to view hidden message now?"

I curled the telegram around Boomer to hide her screen from Sarah and Brenda, and tapped agreement. The screen changed to read, "Decoding and decompressing acronyms, etc, message reads: Youngstown Free Company appears more interested in gathering intelligence than money. Their known expenses exceed their projected income. Due to similarity in outfit and location, there is a possible connection to Pittsburgh, but this is unconfirmed. City-killer's existence was used to entice them to accept contract."

I re-read that, cleared the screen, and grunted another "Hoo-boy."

I'd gotten lazy. I'd come up with a perfectly useful six-layered multiple background story - and then had dropped it to focus on one particular persona, that of Queen Bunny of Canada. Meanwhile, it looked like both the squiddies and the Youngstown/Pittsburgh group (or groups) hadn't been slacking off. I couldn't even tell whether the non-hidden message about their interpretation of my motivations was true, or was just a believable cover story to allow the hidden message to be sent... and I had absolutely no clue what Pittsburgh was up to. I only even had Denise's word that Captain Bravo was male.

And if Captain Bravo had really wanted - there was nothing I could have done to keep him from forcing me to tell him about the Berserker. Or anything else. All the words we'd exchanged, the loopholes and technicalities I'd dug up; he wouldn't even have had to do anything but lock the door, and wait until I was delirious from dehydration. With only a modest bit of cleverness, a cover story would have absolved him of any negative consequences of my dying while under his control. The only reason I was going to pay him off in cash was because /he/ chose to allow that, not because I'd come up with any particularly persuasive ideas. I was still alive... because he believed I was more valuable to him alive.

If I tried to rely on that belief, then I would stay alive exactly as long as that belief lasted. And since I didn't know what he based it on, I might as well treat it as a random switch, which could change at any time.

If I wanted to stay alive for an appreciable length of time, I was going to have to really step up my game, and become a lot more independent and self-sufficient, instead of relying on the random whims of strange mercenaries.

I sniffed the air, and decided my first step would be learning how to change my own diapers.

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Seven: Pro-fessional*

I cleared the copy of 'The Prince' from Boomer's screen.

"Captain Bravo, how hard would it be for me to convince you to remain in place for another day or two?"

--

"Ladies and gentlemen." I looked around the conference room, where the various union heads had been gathered by the Free Company - fortunately, with little more resistance than loud arguments, and which had only occasionally needed to be solved with the application of rifle-butts. (A bit to my amusement, Toffee had been treated as one of my 'associates' earlier, and had already been acquired.) I was in my military duds, and discreetly tied to my chair, which was not-so-discreetly raised higher than that of anyone else in the room. Members of the Free Company were spread along the walls, partly to keep order, and partly as a pure, bluffing show of force.

"When your city's 'Civil Guard' captured and imprisoned me, you committed an act of war. Whether you intended it or not, whether you had any influence or not, whether formal declarations were made or not - at that moment a state of war came to exist between the city-state of Erie, and the Dominion of Lake Erie.

"For whatever reason, your city's defensive measures were so pitiful that a single company of infantry was more than capable of penetrating within, and doing as they wished. In short - I find myself to be in the position of an occupying power, until such time as I choose to withdraw. I would rather spend my resources elsewhere rather than on a military occupation. Thus I have decided to make a one-time offer, to find out just how much damage I have to do to your city's infrastructure to prevent you from committing any further acts of war.

"Given your city's unwritten constitution and de facto practices, you are, collectively, the closest it has to a government competent to sign a peace treaty. If you will pass those papers on the table around, you will find the text of such a treaty, with notes explaining what everything means. Mainly, it covers transfer of authority from the now-existing military government imposed by force, to a new civil government that meets certain standards: a charter of rights, universal suffrage, prohibition of slavery, an impartial judiciary, and so forth. In short, a government with members who can be held accountable for their actions. There are also some items dealing with the specific act of war that caused all this: trials for everyone in the chain of command that committed the act, transfer of certain assets as reparations.

"Which brings me to my offer. Sign the peace treaty, and I'll withdraw the infantry, and allow you an appropriate length of time to implement the treaty's provisions, with minimal interference during the transition period. You get to keep your jobs for your unions, your wealth, and your dignity. You will be able to seek positions in the new civilian government. No further damage will need to be done to the city, the port will remain open, business will continue. There are even provisions in the treaty for Lake Erie to help you build up your defenses against any other attack. In short, you will have demonstrated that your act of war was an aberration, and that you are working hard to prevent any such act from occurring again.

"Oh, yes. As soon as each of you sign, then I will have no reason to suspect you of intending to attempt some form of insurgency, so you will be released from custody to return home, with none of your property seized to keep out of the hands of would-be guerrillas."

--

After they had all been dismissed and were out of sight, I let Sarah manhandle me back into my hospital bed. She asked, conversationally, "Do you think it'll work?"

I sighed. "I honestly don't know. I tried to make signing as enticing an option as possible, given the examples Boomer had for me to draw on... but there's still something wonky about this whole place. Your civil guard doesn't seem organized enough to deal with a single monstrous Changed, let alone any more intelligent hostile entities - and I can't figure out what's been keeping reasonably smart political types from beefing up the guard enough to protect their own keisters."

Toby Junior wriggled out of Sarah's maw and sprung onto my lap. I tugged at my covers to let Wagger out, and the octo-kitty and tailsnake proceeded to play. I actually found myself unhappy that I couldn't feel Wagger's movements.

Sarah interrupted the byplay by fluffing my pillow, and asking, "What will you do if they don't agree."

I sighed. "I know this city is your home, but about all I can see to do is have the Free Company destroy as much landside infrastructure as possible on their way out, and the squiddies do the same to the waterside."

"Isn't that... excessive?"

"Sarah - stop that for a sec. Look at me. If you wanted to, you could take that pillow and smother me to death right now, and there's not a thing I could do to stop you." There were, actually, a few things I could try, such as drawing the poison-tipped-needle-gun I had in a concealed holster in my back; but none of them were guaranteed to work, and dilly-dallying with such exceptions would have blurred my main point. I continued, "While you have no particular reason to do that, there appear to be a number of Erieans who do. I've come up with exactly four choices. First, I could just let them. I think we can both agree that that's not a very good solution."

"I've heard better plans," she agreed as she puttered around, getting me tucked in, checking papers, and so on.

I started petting Toby Junior and continued, "Second, I could convince them they don't really /want/ to do me harm. That's the peace treaty: rearranging Erie's organization so that the people involved have better things to do than put any effort into killing me. Third, I could remove their /ability/ to do me harm. Destroying infrastructure is, as best as I can tell, the least costly way to do that. There are several /more/ destructive ways. Anyway, fourth, convince someone else to do numbers two or three for me. This one is more theoretical, since my interpersonal skills suck. I wasn't even able to convince Captain Bravo to detach just five men for a bodyguard detail."

"Those choices don't sound like you. Are you sure the bimbo zone didn't do something to your mind?"

"Of course I'm not /sure/. But it didn't have to, to make me face up to /those/ choices."

"Maybe I should get you a counsellor."

"Do you really think you could find one I could trust?"

"There is a very professional rape crisis centre and women's shelter in the city."

I coughed once, suppressing some sort of laugh or sob or something. "Let me tell you a story. It's not true, but you'd have trouble finding one that comes closer to the truth. Once upon a time, there was a bunny woman. She had troubles, but whenever she faced them, the East side of her mind told her she had a choice - she could always just say 'Bugger all this for a lark', drop everything, and just wander into the forest, to spend a month, or a year, or a decade; and then come back at her own pleasure, and start up from scratch. So every time she had a problem, she always included that option among the possible solutions, and always found something better to do than go a-hermiting.

"A couple of times, other people trapped her, so she /couldn't/ leave. This made her unhappy. But the South side of her mind showed her a different choice: whether to be dressed or be nude. Oddly enough, most of the plans she came up with were worse than deciding to walk around in the buff, so she walked around nude, and was less unhappy, because she could make that one choice for herself, until she figured out how to escape.

"And then one day, she faced a situation where she might never run away again, and which her state of clothing didn't matter. Her internal organs got rearranged, and she became physically completely helpless. Thinking very hard, the North side of her mind reminded her of one of her secrets: that she knew how to destroy a city. She looked at her problems, and realized that one solution to them was to destroy the city they were in. So she had a new choice to consider, every time she faced a problem.

"But a bunny woman who fantasizes about being alone and reading a lot is a different sort of bunny woman than one who spends her time thinking about matters of state, of war and strategy and logistics and morale and espionage and so on. Even if it's the same bunny woman, who still has the same goals and memories and skills, it's the difference between the refreshing east wind and the chill north wind."

I petted the cat. After a while, Sarah said, "Your legs /are/ going to get better."

"Probably," I agreed.

After another while, Sarah asked, "What about the west?"

"Hm?"

"In your story. What about the West side of the bunny woman's mind?"

"It hasn't made any suggestions yet. Maybe it will, maybe it won't - every mind keeps /some/ secrets from itself."

"... I am /definitely/ getting a professional counsellor for you."

She turned to leave, and I called out, "Could you send Brenda in?"

Since it turned out Brenda had been guarding the doorway, that was easily accomplished. "I've had a thought," I said to her, "which I'd like your opinion on. How much do you think people would underestimate you if they thought you were an animal instead of a person?"

--

"Ah!" I woke with a cut-off scream, abruptly sitting up - well, as much as I could with my nerve signals getting cut off somewhere around the T8 vertebra. I panted and looked around quickly, trying to figure out whether I needed to draw my weapon /immediately/ or I should keep it secret...

"Has she been having nightmares for long?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

I collected my glasses as I heard Sarah answer, "For longer than I've known her. But she is usually good at avoiding them."

"Alcohol?"

"Never. Drugs from a doctor, or sleeping with a person or animal. Sleep, not sex."

"Hm... well, I've seen worse."

That was around when I finally managed to see clearly. Brenda was stretched out on the floor, snoring softly; Sarah was standing inside the doorway, along with an unfamiliar woman. The word 'tomboy' came to mind, or maybe 'punk' - ragged hair dyed in several shades of purple, a selection of tattoos from her neck to her wrists, jeans, and a jacket that straddled the edge between 'motorcycle leathers' and 'leather armour'.

The only reason my heart rate wasn't slowing down from an emergency peak was, well, you know. "A rape counsellor, I presume?"

At my voice, Brenda lifted her head, blinking, giving a half-hearted growl to the pair at the doorway.

"Abigail," said the only human in the room. "I run the Erie Emergency Shelter, and smack some sense into anyone who needs it who I can reach. Our usual counsellor is Amy, but Sarah didn't think she'd be much help for you."

I settled back onto my pillows, lacing my fingers over my belly along the line where the numbness started. "Why's that?"

"Amy's more about all the wishy-washy, feely stuff. Hugs and group meetings and dream symbols and all that crap."

"'Crap'?"

She shrugged. "Ah, it works for some. I'm better at teaching self-defense, but that doesn't help until people /want/ to defend themselves."

Sarah said, "I'll let you two talk. Brenda?" She gestured at the doorway.

The griffoness rose to all fours, padded next to my bed, and plopped back down. Sarah sighed, and Abigail grinned. "Nice claws. Think I've heard of you - deliveries, right?"

Brenda just rumbled, and I offered the most appropriate cover story we'd come up with. "She was, but got shoved into a zone that affected her mind. Seems to have made her protective of me."

Abigail's eyes flicked between us for a few moments, then looked at me and said, "We've had a few bimbos who lost what they were imprinted on. We've learned a few tricks to help them find reasons the people they love would want them to go on. Just something to keep in mind in the future." At my raised eyebrow, she added, "Her fur's started coming in white instead of gray. She wants to be a fierce animal, I don't care. She wants anything else, she can always drop by."

"Uh... /huh/." It was my turn to give her a more thorough look.

"So," she hooked her thumbs into her pockets, and leaned against a counter, "Sarah says you're going cuckoo."

I snorted once, but smiled just a bit. "And you're here to stop that?"

"Up to you, really. I've seen some shit. Maybe I've seen something that you can use. Anything in particular that's bugging you?"

"You haven't got the security clearance."

"Security what now?"

I waved a hand at myself. "Queen Bunny. Head-of-state. Currently trying to negotiate a peace treaty so I don't have to blow up significant amounts of your city."

"Oh, that."

"Yeah, 'that'."

She shrugged. "You can't talk, you can't talk. Any troubles you /can/ talk about?"

"You want them alphabetically or chronologically?"

"Whatever works for you."

"Hm. Okay, let's see..." I ran through my memory palace to find the list that was suitable for public consumption. "I was hit by a truck, died, revived decades later after something like eight billion people died including everyone I ever knew, stuck in this body, threatened by a mob with actual pitchforks, chased by a monster bigger than this house, drugged and kidnapped, shot by a bandit, had my foot melted off, looked through Buffalo just after everyone died looking for survivors, kidnapped at gunpoint, was shot through the heart, had one of my best friends stabbed, my vehicle blown up, my followers' meetingplace blown up, captured /again/, imprisoned, watched someone get mind-wiped just to try to get me to cooperate, got yanked into the bimbo zone myself, had it do /something/ to me other than a simple bimbofication, and while I was getting extracted, enjoyed a rather painful injury which seems to have done a number on my spine and left me stuck in this bed and wearing diapers."

"Jesus." Abigail pulled out a cigarette and lit it, though she was at least polite enough not to blow smoke in my direction. "That all?"

"I left a few things out to protect some peoples' privacy."

"Okay, I give. You've had more troubles than most anyone I've met."

"'Most'?"

"Ever hear of carousel trees?"

"Uh... no?"

"If you ever find a branch growing out of your chest, and another growing out your back, do whatever you have to to keep the chest one from touching the ground. That is, unless you're in a spot you don't mind being rooted to for the rest of your life."

"Oh... kaay..."

She shrugged. "There's more to it than that, but that's enough info to keep you safe. I can introduce you to a few people who didn't learn that in time, if you've got a strong stomach."

"Would they want to meet me?"

She blew smoke towards the ceiling, looking like she'd tried for a smoke ring but failed. "Yeah, I think so. Nice to hear that's the question you asked."

"Yeah, yeah, I've still got empathy for my fellow man - or Changed, or whatever - and all that jazz."

"Don't knock it, til you've met people who haven't got it."

"Did I not mention people trying to kill me, and who did kidnap me?"

"Yeah, that does seem like it happens to you a lot. You doing anything about that?"

"Had a self-defense course to practice, though I've either got to wait and see if I get my legs back or figure out a new one. Been surrounding myself with people who seem more interested in keeping me alive and in one piece. Made a few other preparations I'm not prepared to share with you. Oh, and last time something like that happened, I pointed out that a formal state of war existed between this city and Lake Erie and suggested a surrender agreement and peace treaty would be better than the alternatives."

More smoke curled up. "Sounds like you've got that taken care of, then."

I barked a disbelieving laugh. "Are you /crazy/? The only reason I'm letting you anywhere /near/ me is that I seem to have acquired a pet griffon who'd tear your throat out if you tried anything. There's a particular way almost everyone in this city is cracked in the head, that you can't even see, that seems to be part of why I've ended up in a state where I've seriously considered the pros and cons of just getting my legs taken off."

Her gaze focused instantly, and intently, on me again. "Don't-" she started, but I waved her off.

"Oh, don't worry, the cons outweigh the pros, even if I do have a mutant healing factor that'd let me regrow them."

She stared at me for a long moment, then went back to watching the curls of smoke. "Okay," she agreed. "What I'm hearing you say is that you don't feel safe. Is there anything you can do that /will/ let you feel secure?"

I snorted again. "Depends. Do you want to include considerations about a Second Singularity that might wipe out everyone who survived the first one?"

"Do /you/ include that?"

"At least half of that list I gave you, and most of the list I didn't, is /because/ I've been including that and trying to deal with it."

"Saving the world is a little outside my job description. How about we focus on what would keep /you/ safe?"

I shrugged. "I don't see how that can happen, in the short term. I still don't know /why/ you Erieans have been trying to kill me, so I don't know what it would take to get you to /stop/."

"No clues at all?"

"Hm. Well, I have got one other mystery about the place I don't understand, and which, most likely, you literally can't think about and would lose most of this conversation if I referred to it directly. Conservation of evidence suggests the two are connected, I just don't know how, or even what it would take to find out..."

"You don't sound too sure of that."

I grimaced. "Last time I came close to where I might find something out, I ended up a paraplegic. I'm not exactly eager to repeat the experience."

"I can see that. But you /are/ alive, and it sounds like you might even recover, so I gotta ask - is what happened worse than not knowing?"

I opened my mouth to give an immediate answer, but paused, to think about my reasoning. After a few moments, I closed my mouth, frowning. Eventually, I said, "I'll have to get back to you on that." I ran my memory back over the conversation so far. "Say, any chance you happen to know any self-defense tricks that work for someone whose legs don't?"

--

"'Course," Abigail added, "it's a lot harder to aim for a pressure point if you're too sleepy to see straight."

"I'd be less worried about that then the fact without my glasses, I can't recognize faces six feet away from me."

"Can't you see when someone you're talking to is trying to steer the conversation to something they think is important?"

"I'd have to say 'probably not'. Just one among many reasons I sometimes mention my social skills suck. So - what about my sleeping arrangements needs talking?"

"Thought about finding a more long-term solution than drugs?"

"I'm not using drugs even as my short-term solution. I've just been under medical care a lot lately."

"What, you got something against altered states of consciousness?"

"Yes and no. I might have mentioned something about people trying to kill me a lot, and I really, /really/ don't want someone to try that while I'm so out of it I /can't wake up/."

"Okay, okay, jeez. What's the 'no' for?"

"Eh, some altered states can be useful tools, if used /as/ tools, instead of just for fun. You know the heliograph network?" She nodded at the rhetorical question, so I continued, "Wrote out the specs for that while I was zapping my brain."

"Haven't heard that one before. What was it, Salvinorin?"

"Externally induced electromagnetic fields."

"You're shitting me."

In a few minutes, I had my thinking cap delivered, and Sarah, Brenda, /and/ Bear Joe all standing guard. "I've been meaning to do this more often, what with all the problems I have to deal with, but, well, I've got all these problems I have to deal with... you're sure you want to see this? I'm pretty sure it's going to be really boring."

Abigail nodded. "I'm kinda curious about the whole thing now, even outside the whole figuring out how to help you thing."

"Fair enough. Lemme just set the timer..."

--

"Bunny. Bunny!" Someone shook my shoulder.

"Huh? Wha?" I looked up from my notepad.

Sarah said, "Time's up."

"Already?"

"/Been/ half an hour."

"Oh. Uh - I'm pretty sure I was just getting started on something. Anything important going on in the next hour or two?"

"Abigail dying of boredom?"

"Oh. Right, sorry, forgot you were there. So - boring, right?"

She crushed out a cigarette, and it looked like it wasn't her first. "Yeah, right up to when you grabbed your pet and started measuring her for bondage gear."

"What?"

"That's what you've been drawing, isn't it?"

"What?" I focused on what I'd been drawing. "Oh. No. Very much no. Lemme just think a sec about how classified all this should be..." I flipped through some pages. "Right. First useful idea I had - if the peace treaty gets signed, use at least some of the reparations to help empower the powerless in Erie, including a donation for your emergency shelter."

"Can't say I'm gonna say no to that, unless you've got too many strings tied to it."

"Not even going to ask you to rename a bench after me. Part of a long-term selfish plan, to get as many people up to snuff to where they can help out."

"Where's the bondage gear fit into all that?"

"Bit of free associating, new idea. Um... controversial idea. Bimbos may or may not be able to give meaningful consent about some things. Makes it hard to protect them, or figure out if they need help at all. So I started working out a set of gizmos where they could push a red button to signal if they needed help, and a green button every day or so to indicate they're alright. You haven't got much of an electrical grid, so I was fiddling around with batteries and solar cells - and with discreet, or not-so-discreet places to wear them - and with the whole set of issues of radio networking and locating a distress call without benefit of GPS. I've still got a lot of blank spots in the design, starting with figuring out who'd be trustworthy enough to pay attention to the signals, and to send someone over for a red light, or if a green light isn't lit for too long. Not the Civil Guard, that's for sure."

Abigail was staring at me with an intent expression. "You know where to buy these alarm jewelry things?"

"I haven't finalized the design - but if I do, I don't have to buy them, I know how to /make/ them. Would need some raw materials, but with reparations in the pipeline, that should be easy enough."

As I flipped through the design pages, I very carefully didn't mention another feature of the bracelets, collars, anklets, and so on; or the /real/ reason I'd come up with that approach in the first place: location tracking of the bimbos. I still only had hints that some of them disappeared, but not when, or where to, or which ones; but this was one way that I might be able to start collecting such information.

It might not be the /best/ way, but that was the trade-off with the artificial flow state.

Abigail looked thoughtful. "... If I wore that hat, could I come up with something like that?"

I shook my head. "Doesn't work like that. Just lets you focus better on what you already know. Well, it /might/ be able to do other things to your head, but I haven't gotten them to work yet."

"Can it let you sleep without nightmares?"

"Um." I frowned. "It's not impossible that that might be possible; might not be possible, either."

"Now there's a fancy bit of hedging."

I shrugged. "Hey, it's always good to know what you don't know. It's a novel approach, at least, and might be handy if it does work."

"If you do make it work - any chance you could send a few hats to the shelter?"

"I thought most folk didn't like using electronics if they could avoid it - the whole 'city-swallowing dragon' thing."

"Maybe people rich enough to talk to a queen can afford that. I've had people in pain so bad they kill themselves just to make it stop - others who do just as good as, with whatever they can get to fuck themselves up."

"Ah. Uh ... I'll see what I can come up with."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Eight: Pro-tection*

Negotiating the peace treaty turned out to be astonishingly simple. I met with each of the union heads individually, asked them what they wanted to change in it - and whatever they said, I then asked how much their union was willing to chip in to increase the reparations owed. When their own cash and job was on the line, the original treaty proposal was, surprise surprise, entirely acceptable.

I threw together a signing ceremony as fast as I could after that... mostly so that when the Free Company left, it would appear that I was being generous and giving the Erieans time to set their house in order, instead of because I couldn't keep the soldiers around.

Oddly enough, even though the Lake Erie squiddies had embassies, they hadn't established a flag or anthem. I tried whipping up some quick placeholders, but neither Boomer nor Clara could provide any particularly relevant symbols; so, somewhat reluctantly, I fell back to the British tradition of using royal symbols to represent the state of the Dominion of Lake Erie. I dug out - well, asked Sarah to dig out - the personal royal flag I'd flown on top of Munchkin during my visit to Brantford, to hang in counterpart to the flag of the city of Erie. (Which was another of those annoying "Let's just stick the whole coat of arms in the middle of the flag!" jobs. I made a note to Boomer to recommend the new government might want to pick something more pleasing, like, say, a flag based on the shield of the coat of arms, the way flags were originally designed by heralds.) 'God Save the Queen' was a simple enough tune, but since I was an atheist, and had no intention of using the 'Defender of the Faith' part of the royal titles if I could avoid it, I made a quick executive decision to strike out 'God Save' and swap in 'Hail to'.

Most importantly, I made sure the press was there, well-supplied with photo film.

And, if you will excuse the expression, I gave interview.

"Who's this?" asked the man I'd given a newspaper reporter's press card to, reaching one hand out towards Brenda's head.

She growled, he pulled his hand back, and I said, "What does it say on her vest?"

"Er... 'Service griffon', 'please ask before petting'."

"There you go, then."

"What's a, uh, service griffon?"

"She serves as a service animal. Fetching items, opening doors, pressing buttons - I can even hook her up to pull my wheelchair, if need be."

"Is she dangerous?"

"If she were a part of my security cordon, then I would trust you to understand that the value provided by a free press should be tempered by knowing when leaving certain details out of a story does more good than harm."

"Er... does your, ah, adoption of this animal, mean that your injuries are permanent?"

"My medical professionals are fairly confident that I will eventually make a full recovery, though there is still a reasonable chance that I will never walk again." I decided to try steering things back to the topics I wanted covered. "Rest assured, that the amount of reparations have already been fixed, and will not be altered based on my degree of recovery."

"Isn't that money for dealing with your injuries?"

"No, it was purely punitive, removing it from the control of a system that demonstrated it was not qualified to be entrusted with that responsibility. In fact, most of it is not in the form of money at all, but partial ownership of various local enterprises."

"What's going to happen to it all?"

"We're still working out final details on that. What has been confirmed is that it will mostly be re-invested locally, with the proceeds going to the benefit of local charities that help those in need. For example, I have made personal contact with a local women's shelter. Your city also has a few issues which other cities do not have to deal with, that I'm trying to learn more about before offering help that does more harm."

"You mean bimbos."

"I do, in fact, mean bimbos. I am very uncomfortable with using the bimbo zone as punishment - but for those people who have become bimbos, I need to find the fine line between ensuring they are well-treated and forcing them away from the people they have been imprinted on to love. Slavery is bad, because it keeps slaves from being able to do more for themselves... but I don't know enough about bimbos to say what they are, or aren't, capable of. I'm working on some interim measures, to offer them as much protection as possible until final decisions are made."

"So... you're not going to force people to give up their bimbos?"

"Hrm. I'm not really used to doing interviews - I'm probably not explaining myself well. The decision on that hasn't been made yet."

"How about the mayor's harem?"

"As I said - the decision hasn't been made yet."

And so it went.

As my claim to royalty depended on my original body's extremely distant relationship with the original British royal family, I provided an abbreviated version of my origins that was consistent with that fact. I described how my favourite colour was not, in fact, pink. I touched hands with people who wanted physical contact with a royal personage, and let myself be posed for photographs.

In short: I schmoozed, to the limited extent that I knew how to do so.

It may even have done some good.

--

"Note to self: When meeting with more than a couple of people at a time, gloves aren't a fashion accessory, they're a hygienic necessity."

--

While I was recovering from that social outing, I thought of another reason to try out the bimbo alarm jewelry, which was enough for me to go ahead with the project. Technoville had told me that any computer hooked up to a radio would quickly be taken over; I wanted to learn more about how that happened, and could tweak the parameters of the radio system to make a few preliminary tests. A few hours in electronically-induced flow state, and I had my design specs ready to feed into Munchkin's mini-fab.

I brought the first samples with me as I visited the women's shelter. The place had enough security to satisfy even the North side of my mind - which only made sense, given that the occasional ex- hammering on the door might be a Changed as big as a Clydesdale.

Amy, rather than Abigail, let in me, Brenda, and Sarah. The co-manager of the place made me think of Fluttershy, if that character had been an anthropomorphic otter instead of a cartoon pony: soft-spoken, long-haired, and overflowing with empathy for her charges. Brenda pulled my chair through a common room where some women were reading to their children, a couple were painting the same bowl of fruit, and others focused on their own pursuits. I offered polite words of greeting, trying not to intrude if they didn't want me distracting them.

And then Amy brought me to a blonde woman, dressed in a big white bathrobe over pajamas, curled up in a bench under a window (with heavy metal screening protecting the bulletproof glass). "This is Colleen," Amy introduced her, her long whiskers twitching sadly as she spoke. "She seems to be in a permanent depression. When she was sent through the bimbo zone, she was imprinted not just to love a certain old man I don't want to name, but to protect and defend him. He died. In similar situations, we've sometimes had success in redirecting the bimbo's focus - onto a new individual, or onto the original's children, or even onto something more abstract, like what the original 'would have wanted'. But Colleen's imprint seems to have been very specific. She'll eat if she's fed, go where someone leads her, but that's about all."

Several thoughts occurred to me quite quickly, and I gestured for Amy to lead us somewhere out of earshot. Sarah stayed behind, to sit next to the woman for a bit. "Simply as a logic puzzle, I've already had an idea about how to get Colleen interested in, well, living again." Amy perked up, eyes wide and webbed hands rubbing each other, so I quickly continued, "But there are ethical issues that it might be better not to rush into."

Amy brushed her hair back so she could see me with both eyes. "Her prognosis is that she will not recover, and she will end up dying - forgetting to eat, or wandering outside during winter, or something of the sort."

"Should you be telling me that? I'm not a doctor."

"If you can do something for her, breach of confidentiality is a minor sin at best. Do you know a zone that reverses bimbo programming?"

"No - I don't even know what happens if someone goes through the bimbo zone twice."

"Brain damage, to the point that someone who started human becomes an uncontrollable animal."

"Eyurgh. Okay, so noted. Anyway - I know a few bits of philosophy and science, and if I mention them to Colleen... they might give her something to focus on, some sort of hope."

"What sort of hope?" I explained my thought to her, and she frowned. "Is that true?"

"To the best of my knowledge."

"It sounds very... un-Godly."

"In a sense, it is. But if it might help her - then now you know, and you can give it a go once you've run it by your review board, or whatever your process is."

"I'm not sure I can. And we don't have a board like that - it's just Abigail and me." She turned away, and I watched her thick tail swing back and forth, trying to guess at her thoughts. After a few moments, she turned back. "Tell her. I don't think it will do a thing - but I'm willing to try almost anything."

I soon had my chair parked by the bench, looking out the window at a house across the street. I tried sorting my thoughts a bit, took a breath, and said, "I don't know if being imprinted is anything like it's described. But if all that matters to you is one man, who died... there /may/ be a way to get him back."

Her eyes focused on me. I took that as encouragement, and continued.

"This way depends on unproven science with questionable assumptions, would require resources that probably don't exist anywhere on Earth and that nobody currently knows how to build. It may, in fact, turn out to be impossible. To understand how it could work even in theory may take more learning than you can learn. What I can say is that no magic is involved. No wishful thinking, no religion, no /unprovable/ assumptions. It's something you can start working towards, and have an idea of how close to your goal you get."

She continued staring at me, now with a slight crease between her eyebrows. After a moment, she opened her mouth, and after a few false tries, said what I would interpret as, "How?" Amy squeezed my shoulder hard enough that I had to focus to avoid wincing.

"There are things you have to learn before you can understand that. But I can describe one of the first things." I waved at her. "You are not quite the same now as when you woke up. You are even more different than you were a year ago, or ten. But you're still the same /person/. It has nothing to do with any particular atoms you're made up of - it's the overall /patterns/ those atoms are arranged in. That's called the 'pattern theory of identity'. And with that theory, and with, well, mind-boggling levels of effort... it just may be possible to recreate the pattern of the man you're thinking about. Meaning that he was alive, and then was dead, and then would be alive again."

I paused, glancing at Amy, then at Sarah, who'd started heading to a nearby table to grab a plate of small sandwiches. I turned back to the woman. "To do that, though, you'll need to learn a lot about math, and physics, and neurology; and grapple with ideas that seem impossibly crazy at first. And you'll need to take care of yourself, so you can start learning those things. And maybe you'll have to work on other things, like at a regular job, so you can afford to buy the books and pay the teachers you'll need." Sarah returned with the sandwiches, and placed it in front of the woman, so I added, "And get your strength up, so you can start doing all that."

I fell silent. We watched her. She stared at me.

After a long minute, she looked away, down at the sandwiches, and picked one up.

--

In Amy's paper-strewn office, I politely sipped a cup of not-coffee, while Brenda playfully gnawed on a bone at my feet, after having given me an eye-roll once Amy wasn't looking at her.

Amy set her own cup down, to say, "I don't think we ever would have thought of telling her /that/. What do you think she'll do when she finds out it's not true?"

I raised a brow. "What makes you think it's not true?"

"You can't just bring people back from the dead. Their souls are gone, in heaven."

"I have all sorts of things I could say to that, from cryonics to what I've seen happen in Indian Country, but the short of it is, I believe that what I said is true. I under-emphasized the difficulties, and over-emphasized how possible it could be... but if she's still alive a hundred or a thousand years from now, she could very well have created a person who matches the man she imprinted on in all measurable respects. Whether or not it's the /same/ man is an argument for philosophers... but argue against it too hard, and she might go catatonic again."

"I suppose I let myself in for that, letting her believe something so... strange, when I let you talk to her. I just, well, expected you to feel so bad about failing that you'd want to give the shelter more money."

I muffled an amused snort, then said, "I'll give you some notes before I go, so you can try the same explanation yourself on any other bimbos who lose their will to live. In the meantime, I wanted to talk to you about some bracelets I fabbed up..."

I gave her the quick overview of the user interface - red button if bad, green button if good, try to leave in sunlight.

"And you can tell where the bracelets are when the buttons are pressed?"

"Yes and no," I hedged. "For technical reasons, what I can build are stations that point in the direction of the bracelet. Two or more, spread a few miles apart are needed to pinpoint a location in the city. The trick is getting the information from the two stations to whoever is going to go investigate - and deciding on the solution for that depends on who that's going to be."

"Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Definitely /not/ the current Civil Guard. Well, the current version, anyway. I've had a few vague thoughts on some sort of security company, which uses the profits from paying customers to subsidize bracelets for people who can't afford capitalist rates... but I'm not close enough to the people on the ground to /really/ know how badly that approach could mess up."

"Are any... /computers/ involved?"

"No, this design is purely analogue, no switches other than the buttons themselves."

"It's electrical, though?"

"Well, of course."

"I know some women who won't touch it. But... I think I know some who would. Does it have to be a bracelet?"

"Not... /necessarily/, but I'd say it's important that it's wearable."

"It only works when touching someone?"

"Not quite. Um. A quick hacker parable might explain. Many years ago, when trains were invented, the people running them had a problem: to keep more than one train from trying to be on the same part of the track at the same time. One solution they came up with, was to have a sort of key, that unlocked a particular bit of track for that train, and that key was then left for the next train. Perfect security - only one key, so only one train could ever use that track at a time. Then, one day, two trains collided. When the crash was investigated, the owners discovered that the train drivers had gotten annoyed at having to move the key back and forth all the time, so they came up with a clever solution so they didn't have to work so hard: they made a second key." I suppose I grimaced, and continued with the moral. "Any gizmo has to take into account not just how it's /supposed/ to be used, but how people /will/ use it." I gestured at the sample bracelet. "This thing is only of any use if its owner actually has it /with/ them. So part of my design criteria is to let people be able to keep it on their persons without thinking about it. That mostly narrowed it down to 'bracelet' or 'necklace', so I went with one."

"Hm. Does it have to be... so black?"

"Not entirely, but a lot of it does. Collects sunlight. There's still enough leeway in the design of the power system to throw some filigree work on top of the basic design, or make it the band for a wristwatch, or something like that."

She set the bracelet down on one of the smaller stacks, and folded her hands together. Her nose twitched, and I wondered how different an otter-shaped sensorium was from what I was used to.

"It sounds like you are not interested in making money from this... project. So I must ask - what are you doing it for? Good press?"

"That certainly doesn't hurt, but it's not my main goal." I shrugged and looked away. "I've already almost forgotten the name of the woman in the window-"

"Colleen."

"Yes, well, names aren't my strong suit. Anyway - the way things were going, it seems like things were just going to get worse for her. But now... maybe she'll start studying math, and in ten years, will be better qualified than anyone else for a useful construction project, and save me some weeks of effort. More likely not... but there are a lot of people out there, who just need a little help to get through their troubles, and become the best they can be. As best as I can figure the odds, in the long term, every hour I spend helping the worst off returns about one point two hours saved, in the long run. The numbers can become even better with more directed efforts - but for that, I need to at least have a vague idea of what the heck I'm doing in the first place. So I guess you could call this a pilot project, so I can learn how to do charity stuff, where if I mess up I don't sink a whole city into a recession or something like that."

"Is that all? Just... math? You're not doing this because you care?"

I turned back to her. "Mu. ... which means I un-ask the question, because it is based on faulty assumptions. I've met Colleen. I'm sad she's sad, and I hope she does better. I hope the other people we saw do better. I hope the people who live here who I didn't see do better. I hope the people who don't live here now, but did in the past and will in the future, do better. I hope the people in Dogtown in similar situations do better. I hope the people in all the places I've never been, and who I have no idea even exist, do better. And, maybe, I can do something to help a good number of them do better... but I'm only human. Or close enough. If I let myself focus too hard on too many people, I'll get... burnt out, and then not be able to do anyone any good at all."

"That sounds like you've rehearsed it a lot. Is it actually true?"

I grimaced again, but it rang a bell in my mind, reminding me to be a good little aspiring rationalist and check my assumptions. "Maybe. Probably? I've been having emotional issues ever since I searched through Buffalo for survivors - probably even before that, since I got fuzzy, but Buffalo didn't help. So... I'm doing my best to manage my mental and emotional health, and trying to avoid anything that's likely to disconnect from reality any further."

"'Further'?"

I shrugged, feeling a bit guilty. "I have no permanent residence, no stable workplace, and the people near me are in danger just by being so - the man who helped me search Buffalo was killed with a knife, just a few days ago. I am at a point in my life where being paralyzed from the waist down, possibly permanently, is merely one more cup of water added to the flood."

"It sounds like you should take a vacation."

"Tried that already - medical leave. Ended with my friend getting stabbed, people trying to blow up me and my friends, and a literal state of war."

"Are we in danger, by your being here? By helping with your project?"

"I... don't /think/ so, but I honestly don't know. From what I've seen, you're in /less/ danger than most would be, because you're already prepared for the levels of violence involved."

"I see." She slid the bracelet across the desk towards me. "I'm going to have to talk to Abigail before I can give you an answer."

I took it back, sliding it into one of my wheelchair's pockets. "Of course."

--

To the back of the shelter's main house was a very large yard, with a tall, brick fence protecting it. Within was a small playground, slides and swings and monkeybars and a few other immortal ways to keep kids running around; and a rather large garden, with enough trees and bushes to let several groups at once have private benches to sit quietly.

I didn't feel like going to the effort of hauling myself out of the wheelchair and back, but I did enjoy the late-summer, early-autumn greenery enough to let Brenda pull me to one such corner. I took off my glasses, closed my eyes, tilted my head back to face into the sun, and rested a hand on her head-feathers as she sat beside me.

"Can I pet your griffon, miss?"

I cracked open an eye just wide enough to make out a short humanoid, yellow on top and in a dress. "As long as you're nice about it, and stop as soon as she shows she wants you to." I patted Brenda on the head, pulled my hand back to my lap, and closed my eyes again.

After a few moments, the girl's voice asked, "Did your boyfriend hurt your legs?"

A new voice, older, jarring as its source jogged over. "I'm sorry, ma'am, she's not bothering you is she?"

I didn't even bother opening my eyes. "We're just fine. Just relaxing in the sunbeams. She asked before petting, just like she was supposed to."

"I like her feathers," piped up the girl.

"Yes, well... that's good, then." I heard the woman settle onto the nearby bench.

"Did he?" asked the girl.

"Hm?" was my cogent reply.

"Hurt your legs?"

"Patty!" hissed the woman at, I guessed, the impropriety. The corners of my mouth twitched, almost smiling.

"No boyfriends. Or girlfriends. Just hurt my back."

"Are you a bunny?"

"Mm-hm," I agreed.

"Are you a bimbo like Mommy?"

"Nuh-uh." I lifted one hand just far enough to wave in the vague direction of the bench. "Hi, Mommy." I got a giggle from Patty for my effort.

She added, "Your griffon's a bimbo," not asking.

I opened an eye to peer at her, finding her arms wrapped around Brenda's neck; I decided that I was probably happy I couldn't make out the latter's expression. "How can you tell?"

"She's coming in white, see?" Patty grabbed a hunk of Brenda's fur, and I tensed, expecting her to yank; but she just pulled it to the side. With a slight mental sigh, I pulled out my glasses to see how far the new hair was growing in - then raised my eyes at the sight of both Patty and her Mommy, who both had feathers instead of hair. Patty's were as yellow as a songbird's, while her mother's were stark white. There was no sign of any other avian or animalistic features, just the plumage. I ignored my brief flare of impolite curiosity about how extensively their Change extended, looking away from the mother digging around in her purse to look back out over the wall; all I could see were the distant towers of the parts of Erie that had been rebuilt in the Singularity.

"She didn't want to be turned into a bimbo," I commented to Patty, who was back to the hugging and petting, "but since she was, I'm trying to do right by her."

"I wanna be a bimbo too, but Mommy says I hafta wait 'til I'm grown up."

"You should listen to your Mommy. It's a really big decision, because once you make it, you can't take it back."

'Mommy' paused in her rummaging, giving me a funny look. "The papers said you hate slavery, and want to get rid of it."

"Newspapers simplify everything, sometimes too far. I'm opposed to /involuntary/ slavery, and the old city government was abusing the bimbo zone. But if somebody really, really wants to be a bimbo, I'm pretty sure it shouldn't be any more illegal than, I don't know, any other irreversible medical decision. Get the government out of forcing it to happen, and put up safeguards to keep it from happening accidentally - and if nothing else, I'll have lots of more important issues to pay attention to instead."

"So you're /not/ trying to get rid of bimbos?"

"Of course not. I'm trying to get rid of /abuse/ of bimbos."

She took her hand out of her purse, looking at me thoughtfully. "I guess I shouldn't believe everything I read."

"Hear that, Patty? Everyone has new things to learn, including me and your Mommy."

"Come on, Patty; it's time to go back inside. Say goodbye to the nice lady and her griffon."

"Bye, bunny-lady! Bye, griffon!"

Once the pair were out of earshot, Brenda muttered, "I forgot how /sticky/ kids that young are. I'm going to need a shower."

"You could always just preen."

"I don't think I want these feathers in my mouth. I don't know where that kid's been. I'm just glad that woman didn't pull out her knife - if I started growling, that kid could have gotten scared enough to choke me by accident."

"... Pardon? Knife?"

"I could smell the metal when she pulled it out of its sheath in her purse, and hear it bump against the other stuff. Couldn't you?"

"My ears aren't aimed at anything right now, and my nose isn't much better than a human's. ... Think she was getting ready to protect Patty from you?"

"She was looking at you, not me."

"... Huh. That's funny."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Nine: Pro-drome*

Inspecting Munchkin from stem to stern for any surprises left behind while it had been in the custody of the Civil Guard was an annoying job all on its own; trying to accomplish that with my spine still giving five-oh-three (service unavailable) error codes was a pretty good distraction from trying to figure out all the implications of all the events that had happened since I arrived in Erie.

While my legs were sticking out from underneath the fabric storage bin of the clothes fabber, I heard someone clear their throat for attention, so I signaled Brenda to pull me out.

"Bunny," Sarah said, "we need to talk."

"Fair enough. What's up?"

"Not just you-me we, everyone we. I've gotten everyone together in the living carriage."

"Oh-kaay..."

When Sarah said 'everyone', she really meant it. Minerva Harriet Tubman Joshi, sitting on her puppet trunk next to the Professor, who was petting Toby Junior the octo-cat; Bunny Joe and Bear Joe; Denise Black, holding Alphie; Sarah herself, along with another foxtaur who had to be Jeff, along with Pat and Max... Toffee, ex-mayor and her ex-secretary, mayor-pro-tem, Winston Edwards; Captain Shatter and his interpreter, Neckline; a cluster of figures in robes and face-concealing cowls who I made an educated guess were (and soon confirmed as) all nine members of the Bayesian Conspiracy that'd been rescued; Abigail and Amy; and, of course, Brenda using her leash to pull my wheelchair to the room, and Boomer in my pocket.

If Winnebago hadn't designed the place to pop up furniture on command, it would have been impossible for everyone to fit. As it was, Brenda and I parked ourselves just outside that carriage, in the doorway leading to the lab carriage, and I found myself checking the walls to see if there was an undocumented feature to slide them outwards.

Sarah caught my attention again, sitting her rear end down in the middle of the room, facing me. She cleared her throat, then recited in a stilted voice, "Bunny. We are here today because we love and care about you. That's why we want you to seek treatment."

I blinked a few times, as this was right out of left field, at least to me. "Treatment for what?"

Sarah glanced around, then back at me. "It wasn't part of the rehearsal... but would you mind telling everyone what you were doing when I found you?"

"Uh... checking my private carriage for damage, or anything else untoward."

Sarah nodded, saying "Physical labour."

"Yeeesss?"

"While you can't move your legs."

"... Yeeesss?"

"Bunny, do you really think that that's the most /productive/ use of your time?"

At that, I gave a firmer nod. "There were other things that were more important, but I did them, and the inspection made it to the top of my priority list."

"I'm sure it did," Sarah said, "but what I mean is - is that the most productive use of /your/ time?"

"... I'm not following."

Toffee took a step forward, face clouded. "Oh, just get to the bleeping point already, you stupid fuzzball." She pointed at me. "You're getting distracted by every flashy thing that comes in front of you, it's getting worse, and we think you should go into counselling before you go nuts and kill us all while you're trying to dance with the bleeping fairies or some stupid bleep like that." She gestured at the group, who had, shall we say, mixed reactions to what appeared to be a speech well outside what they'd rehearsed. "They've all got letters to read about how they've seen you're getting worse, and how they love and care about you and bleep like that." She crossed her arms, glaring balefully at anyone who wanted to challenge her.

Captain Shatter whispered to Neckline, "What a fascinating ritual."

I looked from one face to another. "Ignoring the verbiage... is that roughly true?"

I got various nods and mumbles of assent.

"And," I considered, "You thought this... group thing was better than coming to me individually?"

Bunny Joe answered, "Some of us started talking to each other about you. Then more of us talked. We talked to Clara. She said that with what we have to work with, this is the most effective way of getting your attention."

"Well, you've got /that/, at least. Uh... what's next."

Sarah took the lead again. "Well, since it looks like the rehearsal's out the window... we've made arrangements with Abigail and Amy to keep the shelter running while they focus on helping you. Pick one, or both, and take at least a week off. In the shelter, or on the ship, or wherever you like - just stop trying to work on /stuff/, and work on /you/, first."

I snarked a bit, "I've been trying to make time for that, but there's been the people trying to blow us up, or capture me and try to stick me in a zone, and so on. Do you really think I /can/ spend a week without another attack?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Sarah admitted. "But we think you need to try."

"And you think that's more important than trying to prepare for the next attack?"

"No," Sarah said. "But /we/ can do that." She glared at Toffee. "Most of us, anyway." Back to looking at me, and went back to stilted reciting. "We are your friends and we're here to help you. Let us take care of things for you, while you take care of yourself."

"Um... Conspiracy guys? Is that you?" I got some nods from the crowd of hoods. "Got any numbers on this?"

There was a brief muttering amongst them, then one stood up. "I'm 'purple skunk', until we get a better naming scheme going. In spite of Aumann's agreement theorem, our estimates haven't converged yet, but roughly, if you refuse treatment and continue working on defensive measures, we anticipate over a ninety percent chance of the death of at least one of the people in this room in the next month, including at least a ten percent chance that everyone in this room dies. If you accept treatment, we anticipate merely a sixty percent chance of the death of at least one person in this room in the next month, with under a one percent chance everyone dies. Most of the 'everyone dies' scenarios we're anticipating involve you releasing one or more city-killers. If you'd like, at a later time, we can go over the methodology and more details."

"Hunh." I drummed my fingers on my armrests, trying to ignore all the eyes focused on me. "If I remember right about interventions, you're all also supposed to tell me how you won't support my self-destructive actions if I don't agree, but I don't think we have to do that." I shrugged. "The fact you all agree enough to get together is pretty good evidence you've seen /something/ wrong with me, and I've been meaning to see a mental doc since before that sniper took out my heart... so my current thought is that if you've done this much work, then as long as you've made security arrangements that are up to snuff, I'm in."

--

I wasn't entirely satisfied with the group's plans for keeping me, themselves, and my various unique pieces of equipment safe. Of course, it was possible that it might be impossible for them to properly satisfy me, given that some of them had loyalties to potentially hostile groups, some had thinking processes that were undermined to an unknown degree, and the rest simply didn't have any relevant expertise. Still, it wasn't a terrible plan, and with a few suggested tweaks from me to reduce the odds that any one part of the group could cause too much trouble if they decided to steal the whole kit and kaboodle, improving the security plans even further dropped from the top of my priority to-do list.

The new top item was to get myself as sane as possible.

In short order, I was back at the women's shelter, with my wheelchair, a week's worth of essentials in a bag (which weren't /quite/ what most people would consider essential; less of a variety of outfits, more jumbo-sized shampoo and conditioner, plus enough metalwork to get some practice in, if I could find a place for it), Boomer, and Brenda. Instead of any royal get-ups, I went back to simple shorts and t-shirts.

In even shorter order, Amy and I were out back in the garden, with a portable sign fencing off the bit of path we parked ourselves at. She left behind Abigail; I left behind Brenda, and left Boomer turned off.

"Generally," she said, webbed hands folded on the lap of her peasant's dress, "I'd take this opportunity to try and work out as full of a case history as possible. However, before I even try, I think we need to work on trust. If you don't trust me enough to tell me the truth, then I won't be able to help you properly. If you have some issue with me in particular, then I can help you find another psychiatrist to take your case."

I rolled my chair a bit to face the playground, so my ears wouldn't have to turn so far when they twitched to catch the intermittent noises from there. "Trust's a tricky thing. Everyone is pretty well convinced that I have access to at least one city-killer - and assuming that's true, I've got a certain responsibility about that. Being, well, the equivalent of a nuclear power means that there are some things I /can't/ trust you with, or anyone with, without a background check of greater reliability than is feasible." My forehead wrinkled. "And maybe not even then. Someone shoves you through that bimbo zone and imprints you on them, well, apparently you'd be happy to blab whatever they wanted to know. Not that I understand this whole 'imprinting' business - rebuilding bodies, sure; applying templates for feminization and domestication syndrome, I can get that; but falling in love with whoever you're told to before you fall asleep? I can't figure out how that /could/ be done."

"Then why did you bring Brenda, instead of Sarah or Bunny Joe?"

"I may not understand it - but if it's really what happened, then I also don't know what would happen to her if she had to be apart from the person she was imprinted on. I might not have bimbofied her myself, but I've still got a responsibility for her, at the least to keep her from turning into another... Colleen, was it? That said - I did ask her not to join us for this first talk."

"It's very commendable of you-" I winced, and she trailed off.

"Amy - I don't know how long we have before the next whatever-it-is interrupts our lives. I'd prefer if we focused less on nice words and more on fixing," I vaguely waved my hand at myself, "this, as much as we can."

"We can do that, if you wish. In that case, given what I have learned of you so far from those who know you, and what I have observed so far, puts together your nightmares, your avoidance of talking about your disturbing experiences, your flattened emotional affect, and the hypervigilance I can see in you right now, you are well on your way to a case of full-blown post-traumatic stress disorder. The only reason you don't already qualify is that, according to the texts I have consulted, not enough time has passed."

"You're the doc, doc, so I'm not going to disagree. Uh - 'hypervigilance'?"

"You are twitching at every noise, glancing at every bit of movement."

"Well - rabbit ears are built to do that, aren't they?"

"Perhaps. But my ears are also mobile - and I have been able to keep them focused on you, not the environment."

"Oh. Maybe I've been having trouble keeping track of what's changing because of my body," I gave Wagger's head a pat, "and because of my mind. So... do I have to start taking pills or something?"

"There are drugs which are known to alleviate the symptoms, though we do not really have access to them - and they do little to deal with the underlying problem. If you are intent on a quick fix... you have no religious objections to electricity, from what I heard?"

"Er - no. Though I'm going to want to double-check any equipment you want to use to run current through my skull."

"Nothing so crude," she twitched her whiskers, I guessed in annoyance. She reached into a pocket of her dress, pulling out a hand-sized object; plastic, with four great big colorful buttons in a circle, a few switches to the side, and a logo which was nearly faded, but that I was morally certain had once read 'Simon', or some variation thereof.

She held the electronic game out to me, and, confused, I took it. She then started explaining, "Memories are not like writing something down. Every time you remember something, when you're done remembering, it gets written down just a bit differently, depending on what else you were thinking about. It is possible to reduce the emotional effect of traumatic memories by recalling them as vividly, as clearly, with as much detail in as many senses as possible, while your mind is also distracted with another cognitive task. If you truly believe we are going to be attacked tomorrow, or something of the sort, then I can provide this much treatment, at least. I do not expect it to work as fast as proper therapy, or as well, or to deal with any of your other issues... but it won't hurt, and will probably help at least a little."

I don't think I could ever imitate my expression at that moment if I tried. "You're... serious?"

"Entirely. There are other versions of this therapy, where you do other things while recalling the traumatic events, such as moving your eyes in certain patterns. But few of my patients like electricity, and from the pre-apocalypse papers on psychology and psychiatry I have been able to collect, the multi-sensory modality of this particular mental task works well. I can give you some papers on self-evaluation, timing and number of repetitions, and so on, before you leave."

"... Gotta admit, I don't think I'd have ever thought to try anything of the sort on my own. Still not /entirely/ sure I believe it, but at this point, I'm not going to say it won't." I set it on my lap, watching as Wagger flickered her tongue over it. "So... if we /do/ have more time before the inevitable interruptions... what'd you like to do?"

"Talk, mainly."

--

"Do you have any objective evidence that this... 'Bun-Bun' really exists?"

"Um... I'm pretty sure I can't start and stop lactating via force of will, all on my own..."

--

"Tell me more about these 'North', 'South', and so on... what did you call them, sub-personalities?"

"There's not much to tell. It's just a mental trick, to remind myself that I can look at a problem from different perspectives..."

--

"Not a drop?"

"The only time I've ever ingested alcohol was involuntarily, as part of a medical procedure immediately before I got furry. Nothing before, nothing after, and no other mind-altering chemicals that I know of."

"I'm not going to judge you, or turn you into any authorities. I just need to know so I can take it into account for your treatment."

"I've been a teetotaler all my life. It's theoretically possible that the new gut flora I acquired from the Acadians might be leaking unusual chemicals, though they hadn't as of my last medical scan; or that something besides what I remember happening happened while I was in the bimbo zone... but, again, if so, it didn't show up on the scans. Since I didn't go through an ordinary sort of Change process, I've still got a male human brain in this female almost-human body, and I don't know enough about hormones to say how /that/ might be messing me up..."

--

"Did you particularly enjoy it?"

"No, I'm not an exhibitionist. I suppose you could say I was following in the traditions of some of the protests of the nineteen-sixties."

"I know this is a delicate subject, but before your spine injury, did you ever experience arousal at all?"

"I'm not exactly comfortable on the topic, but - yes, all the parts were in working order."

"How many sexual partners have you had since your change?"

"None."

"Is it a matter of being uncomfortable with your anatomy, or not being able to find a partner you find attractive, or-"

"Pregnancy, STDs, and adapting to the fact that I'm never going to be able to go home again have been more than enough reasons for me not to go looking for a date."

"They may be more than enough reasons - but are they /your/ reasons?"

--

"I'm not sure whether to call those hypomanic episodes, from your description; do you mind if I eventually ask the people you were with for their perspectives?"

"Kind of hard for some - Human Joe's been stabbed and frozen and might or might not be revivable. But after that whole intervention thing, I'm not exactly going to be able to keep any secrets or help myself by telling you not to go..."

--

"Sarah mentioned that you described one of your coping mechanisms to her, that you consider problems in light of having another solution, such as being able to leave everything behind. You have also told me that you feel a responsibility for Brenda, and don't want to leave her alone. Could you describe to me how these work together?"

"Uh..."

--

"What are your nightmares about?"

--

"When was your last panic attack?"

--

"Well... your symptomatology has a lot of layers. I'm going to need to consult some references before I can recommend any treatment options."

"Don't forget, if there's any chemical that can help, I can almost certainly arrange for it to be made at the university. It'll be a bit tricky, but should be manageable."

"I'll keep that in mind."

--

"Well," I said, with a slight smile at the yellow-feathered girl, "hello again... Patty, was it?"

"Your chair smells funny."

I sighed a little, and idly pushed a bit at the handle on the chair's big wheel, moving it forward an inch in the gravel before settling back. "That's not the chair, it's something called a 'scent synthesizer'. It's supposed to help smell nice, not funny."

"Do you want to swing with me?"

"Uh... even if I was good at getting in and out of the chair, with my legs not working, I don't think I could start swinging."

"Slide?"

"How would I climb up?"

"See-saw?"

"Now you're just being silly."

"Monkey bars?"

"... Sure, why not."

--

"Note to self - not being able to feel my legs means not being able to feel injuries to my legs, such as profusely bleeding cuts."

--

Amy said, "As best as I can tell, you have a strongly entrenched habit of staying within the detached protector schema mode, within which you use the maladaptive social withdrawal coping response and the social isolation and emotional inhibition schemata. Given your overall situation, I recommend an integrated approach using cognitive behaviour therapy, schema therapy, and the internal family systems model for your long-term issues; desensitization and reprocessing for your acute stress; and if needed, occupational therapy to help you adapt to long-term paraplegia."

"I'm trusting that those are actually evidence-based... whatever-they-ares, and will do some good."

"I can show you the papers we have on them, but Erie doesn't have enough people to ethically perform new clinical trials."

"So what's on first?"

"First, I would like you to tell me more about your childhood..."

--

After a surprisingly exhausting first day, I was relaxing in the common room with a number of the shelter's other residents, watching a rather short reptilian woman (who I was trying very hard not to think of as a 'kobold', with little success) wearing little more than bangles, baubles, and scarves twirling and dancing to some amateur music. The instrumental tune had little to recommend it but enthusiasm and a strong beat (and was vaguely reminiscent, at least to me, of the giants scene from the movie 'Ella Enchanted'), but the dancer was working with it in ways I don't have the vocabulary to describe, making it her own. I suspected the Professor would have approved of the way she drew in her audience.

I was clapping along, sitting between Amy and a woman whose mammaries were, entirely literally, larger than her head (and were contained in a bra which appeared to be a masterwork of structural engineering), and even Wagger was bobbing to the beat.

Amy leaned over, and I spared her an ear as she said, "It's a shame Bun-Bun hasn't fixed your legs yet - they've been practicing a couple's dance for later, but I don't think anyone here knows how to dance with a wheelchair." She poked my thigh with a blunt-clawed finger, hard enough to leave a mark, and Wagger stopped bopping to hiss at her.

She tilted her head, then put her finger on my thigh again, and slowly started pushing in again. At a certain point, Wagger dropped her jaw open and started hissing again.

Amy leaned in again. "How long has your tail-snake been able to feel what happens to the rest of you?"

"Uh... never, as far as I know."

"Well, she can now."

"... Great. If that's the case, it looks like my mutant healing factor just hooked up the wrong central nervous system. Uh - would it be impolite for me to head out now to have some words with myself?"

"I don't think it'll hurt to wait for the end of the song, will it?"

--

In the morning, my legs had started twitching - not under my control, and I still couldn't feel them.

By lunchtime, Wagger seemed to have learned enough to control any given muscle, to the degree that she could move my leg away from a hand she saw reaching to pinch it.

By evening, I decided it might be safest to tie my feet to the bed, just in case Wagger tried teaching herself to walk while I was asleep. (Brenda managed to only giggle once at that.)

The /next/ morning... I could feel all the bruises and cuts and suchlike in both my legs, as well as everything else from the waist down. Still couldn't /control/ anything, but I was willing to call it progress and be cheered. As a bonus, Wagger appeared to have learned how not to be incontinent. (I still wore the discreet adult diapers, though, just in case.)

And so it went. I wasn't even focusing very much on my physical improvements; Amy kept me busy with all sorts of exercises, from role-playing one sub-portion of my mind talking to another, to creating a deck of flashcards, to keeping a dream journal... and so on.

By the fifth day, I was able to twitch my toes, both on my paw and my hoof, and was willing to call that cause for a celebration. However, that day, a new woman came to the shelter to get away from an abusive husband, so I kept said celebration down to sharing a toast of a glass of grape juice with Amy at dinner-time.

Come day six, I was able to weakly start moving my legs... though Wagger seemed to have more control over them than I did.

I'm not going to say that my head was screwed on straight from seven days of intensive psychotherapy; in fact, a lot of people would say I seemed even crazier, in that Amy had really focused on treating my various sub-selves as independent entities with wants, needs, and desires of their own. (A lot of our time was spent in simply identifying which parts of me had strong enough impetuses to be worth dealing with individually.) But when overall-me was able to recognize what parts of me wanted, and was able to satisfy those wants, then those parts willingly joined in the overall, well, alliance, instead of fighting for what they wanted. Self-management (and selves-management) was the key - and once Amy inculcated the basics of that skill into me, I could continue working on improving that on my own, without making it my full-time day-job.

The seventh night, Brenda slept in a separate bed... and while my dreams were still, well, I'll just simplify and say 'disturbing', I didn't wake up screaming in the middle of the night. I still felt that the electronic game was a completely ridiculous way to even try dealing with that, even after the evidence that it seemed to be helping.

And so, the morning after that, I was nearly unanimous in feeling confident that I was on a fairly steady upward trend. After recharging my cardiac batteries during breakfast, I was tinkering with the external transformer, looking for any leaks or short-circuits that might be the cause of some slightly off numbers I'd noticed - nothing serious, just not quite the same ones I'd been seeing so far. While part of me was focused on the hardware, another part was considering suggesting to Amy that we pull back on the therapy to half-days, so that I could start getting back into research, politics, and so forth again.

Which was, of course, when Sarah trotted straight into the room, not hesitating to declare, "We have a problem."

I started reassembling the charger. "Something serious enough to interrupt my recovery... I'm pretty sure Munchkin and its contents are locked up tight, so I'm going to guess: politics. Involving me in some way, so I'm going to guess... the city's constitutional convention going off the rails?"

"No, the committee's still nervous you'll bring back the Free Company. It's the bimbos."

I glanced over at Brenda, who paused in her preening of her wings to look back at us. "What about them?"

"That's just it, we don't know. Most of them have disappeared."

 

[DataPacRat]

*Chapter Ten: Pro-liferation*

"In fact," Sarah continued as I started packing my things, "the only bimbos I can still find are the ones here, and the mayor's harem."

"How does that work, anyway, since Toffee was deposed? Did the harem stick with her, or with the mayor-pro-tem, or are they waiting for a permanent mayor, or what?"

"What do you mean?" She looked genuinely confused.

"What do you mean what do I mean? It's a simple question - who are the mayor's harem attached to?"

"Edwards, of course. Why would they go with anyone else just because he became mayor?"

"... Oh, okay. I thought we were talking about the bimbos from the last mayor, but I guess they were gone. Didn't realize Edwards had collected any before his promotion."

"What do you mean, bimbos from the last mayor? Toffee's not into women."

"Uh... what about the bimbos Toffee inherited from LeBlanc?"

"You can't inherit a bimbo - they imprint on who they imprint. Or they don't get imprinted, and do their own thing."

"Uh... you know what? Let's table that for now." I wasn't agreeing with what Sarah was describing, but part of me was pointing out that she seemed to have gotten stuck in some version of the local bimbo-related Jedi mind trick, and that our time would probably be better spent discussing other aspects of what was going on. To start with, I pointed out, "My legs are still wobbly at best, as you can see... which do you think is faster, you pushing my wheelchair or me riding on your back?"

"Neither. I'm not taking you anywhere." I raised my eyebrow at her, and she shuffled her forefeet. "You're not a bimbo - but you were in the bimbo zone, and /something/ happened to you there. Whatever's happening to the bimbos, maybe it's happening to people who were bimbofied, maybe it's happening to everyone who was in the zone. I can't think of a way to find out which, without putting you at risk."

"Lack of knowledge puts me at a bigger risk than wandering around. If we don't know what's going on, then we've got even less of an idea how to keep it from happening to me. Hm... do Amy and Abigail know about this yet?"

Sarah crossed her arms, and I tried to pay attention to that bit of me that was focusing on her body language and what I could interpret of her emotional connection with me. It wasn't very much - a couple of decades of being the next best thing to a hikikomori and focusing on text rather than faces had really atrophied skills that most humans took for granted - but my gut feeling was that Sarah was less interested in the disappeared bimbos, and more interested in protecting me from joining them. "I don't see how they couldn't. They try to keep track of everyone they've helped."

"Then the next step is a quick chat with them. While I roll over there - what are the crime scenes like? Broken dishes from fighting, weapons fire, sawed-off ankle chains to free the bimbos, anything?"

"Why would anyone need to chain up a bimbo? They're /happy/ with what they do."

"I'm sure bicycles are happy machines, but they get chained to keep from getting stolen. And there are things people do with chains and such for entertainment."

"Uh... no, nothing like any of that."

"They all just wandered off?"

"Maybe. Maybe someone's been sneaking in, and threatening to kill the people they were all imprinted on, to get them to come willingly."

"What's the timing? When did they leave?"

"Most seem to have vanished this morning, some time between midnight and dawn. Some might have started disappearing earlier - a few, maybe days earlier - but they might have just been doing other things."

"Hm." The shelter was compact enough that we'd arrived at the office, which I'd been hearing muffled voices from.

Brenda shoved the door open with her beak, revealing Abigail waving her arms and shouting, "- protect ourselves!"

Amy, calm, composed, sitting at her desk, coolly responded, "Acting in self defense is one thing. Handing out firearms to untrained women is another."

"'Scuze me," I rapped on the door, catching their attention. "One quick question. How many alarm bracelets have you handed out, outside the shelter?"

Abigail crossed her arms, mirroring Sarah's stormy expression, as Amy said, "Three. One to a human, one to a Changed, one to a bimbo. The first two are fine. The bimbo pushed the green button yesterday morning. She hasn't pushed any buttons since then."

"Okay, thanks. Uh - okay, a second question. Anything you need help with here before I go start doing things?"

Abigail waved us outward. "Go. Kick the asses of whoever's responsible."

Amy added, "And stay safe."

"I'll see what I can do, on both counts."

--

The shelter had a flat roof - I guessed it might once have been a small commercial or office building, before being fortified for its current use - and after some chair-wrangling, Sarah, Brenda, Boomer, and I made it up there. Not for the view, but so we could open the metal case where I could examine the radio direction finder's logs. Computer chips were still at a premium, but with Boomer's help, I'd been able to find analogue solutions; the whole thing looked like a teletype, or an old-style daisy-wheel printer.

Sarah picked up the most recent paper, and read aloud, "'Time, date, ID, Direction.' Three entries a day for the last few days. We already know where they live - what good does this do us?"

"Little," I admitted. "Which is why I'm not looking at that one, I'm looking at the debug logs. 'Scuze me." I opened up an interior door, and tugged out another piece of paper, this one covered in a solid mass of numbers. "Get all that, Boomer?"

"Yes, Bunny," she agreed. "Bracelet number three made its automated check-in twenty minutes ago. Signal strength is too variable to be confident of position, but appears to still be within the city. The bracelet has been moving all night."

I grabbed the walkie-talkie from its charge-point. "Safety One to any free Safeties. Anyone got their ears on?"

"Uh... is this thing on? Safety Two here."

Sarah's eyes and tail perked in surprise. "Is that Jeff?"

"Probably. Hold on. Safety One to Safety Two. I need you to read out, let's say, the last couple lines in the debug log."

"Okay, let me get that... uh... the whole lines?"

"Please."

"Okay. Er, that wasn't part of the log. Gee, six, aitch, en..." He kept on reading over a hundred alphanumerics. "That's it."

"Alright, thanks. Safety One out." I returned the hand-radio. "Boomer?"

"Map displaying." Her badger avatar vanished, replaced with the map of the city she'd assembled over the last few years from whatever sources she'd found, and highlighting points. "Bracelet three maintained position here from eight PM until two AM. Two and three AM, it was moving. Four AM, it was in the location designated 'Bimbo Zone'. It travelled roughly west, at speeds consistent with bicycling. The last two signals were in the same location, ten kilometers outside of the current city. Land records indicate the area is zoned for agriculture."

Sarah gave me a Look. "Did you tell Amy or Abigail you can track the bracelets this accurately?"

"Do you want to stand here and debate information security, or go see who needs rescuing?"

--

Sarah let me ride her during the gallop to Munchkin, and once I made sure none of the seals had been broken or tampered with, we were good to go.

We soon caught up to the half-hour-old location, and kept going with eyes wide open for any sign of Judith. I muttered, "Note to self - in the mark two bracelet, add some sort of ping-response. Uh - Boomer, do you know what's growing there? It /looks/ like lots of flowers, but..."

"There are no records, but it appears to be papaver somniferum. Given the number of new varietals and species, I cannot confirm that identification."

Sarah asked, "Wait, is this the Ferrum place?"

Boomer agreed, "That is the name on the land records."

Sarah nodded to me. "Bunny, this is actually one of your farms. Part of what the Mayor's Office gave you as reparations. Those must be the poppies; we figured it was good P.R. for the local medicines to be grown and distributed in your name."

"... Poppies? As in opium poppies?"

Sarah shrugged, and Brenda just tilted her head. "Probably? I just know they do something to make morphine out of them."

Boomer added, "Update to one of your standing requests: You may be able to acquire additional chemicals for Project Mouse here, such as etorphine, a large-animal tranquilizer."

I grunted. "We're getting off-track. Boomer, can you show, say, a heat map of the most probable location of Judith's bracelet? Hm... we don't really know what's going on, so I'm a bit hesitant about walking around out there - there could be a transformative zone that's gone unmapped so far. Or snipers - I don't want to lose any more internal organs. Hm... ah, I know! We just need a better viewpoint. Lemme go see if a PPG is fueled and ready."

"Are you sure you're saner than when you started getting treatment? You're worried about snipers - so you want to fly and make yourself a bigger target?"

"I'm not /really/ worried about snipers. Nobody but me and you know I can trace the bracelets, let alone that we have. Well, unless they were watching Munchkin wander by."

"So why do /you/ have to fly?"

"Your taur-body is too heavy, Brenda hasn't learned how, Boomer doesn't have limbs, and the bun-bots don't have brains."

"There are more people in the city."

"You've got a walkie-talkie, if you want to call someone over, you can. Meanwhile, Judith might need immediate medical attention, or there might be some time-sensitive info disappearing as we speak."

--

I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoyed being in the air. I would have happily yelled out 'Wheee!', if it weren't for the whole lives-might-be-in-danger aspect. What I did call out was, "There she is!"

--

Sarah crossed her eyes and sighed. "Now what are you doing?"

"Judith looked like she was puking. Whatever's going on, my hazmat suit seems a sensible precaution. And yadda yadda, we haven't got one that fits you or Brenda. Hm... let's get a bun-bot suited up, though, to push the wheelchair."

--

As we crested the slight rise that had hid Judith from the farm road, I called out, as best I could through the hood, "Hello? Are you alright over there?"

Judith was looking rather haggard, nearly entirely undressed bent over with arms around her knees. "It won't... stop coming... /out/..." She proceeded to be sick again, spewing something as clear as water, which piled up in front of her for a moment in a very un-water-like fashion.

"I'm here to help," I half-hedged, waving to the nurse-bun to roll me closer. "Is there anything you can tell me?"

"Just... went for a walk. See the old neighbourhood. Then... seemed like a nice day... for exercise..."

As we reached about ten feet from her, her mouth kept moving, but no more sounds came out; she clutched at her throat.

And then her skin disappeared, leaving a human-shaped pile of transparent goo. It raised an arm, reaching toward us - then collapsed in a splash.

I was telling the nurse-bun "Back. Back!" even before I saw whatever Judith had turned into soak into the ground, disappearing without even leaving a stain - just the bra and panties she'd been wearing.

I had visions of being eaten from the inside out. "Did any get on me? Is it /eating through my suit/?" I hauled up my legs to look at the suit's feet, then back to try and get a view of the nurse-bot's suit, and the chair's wheels.

I had further visions of some self-propelled liquid stuff coming up out of the ground to engulf us, and practically teleported into Munchkin's airlock. "Get us out of here!" I called through the intercom to Sarah and Brenda. "And don't open this door until we've been decontaminated!"

"What happened?"

As the vehicle rocked into motion, and the first of a series of antibiotic substances showered through the airlock, I commented, "Boomer can show you a video later. Other than that, I have no freaking idea."

--

"Look," Sarah pointed at Boomer's screen, "she had some sort of transparent skeleton, that was the last bit to melt."

"In a minute." I focused back on the hand-held radio. "A quarantine is the /minimum/ necessary, Abigail - I don't want anything to get in that might affect your bimbos, and if they're already affected, I don't want them to get out. ... Yes, total lockdown. ... Yes, I really mean it. ... Abigail - Judith /melted/, and I mean that literally, right in front of me. ... I'm heading to collect the mayor's harem, to put them in isolation, and after that, find someone to coordinate a manhunt for all the other bimbos. What I don't know is if there's anything left to /find/. Bunny out."

"And here, earlier," Sarah added, "zoom in there... her teeth are already clear. Her tongue's still pink, but see-through. And /then/ her skin went, all at once. She had to be half-goo before you got near her."

"Great, so we can do a quick check for transparent teeth to see if someone's in the advanced stages of... whatever the frell this is."

"We should go to the bimbo zone," said an unexpected voice - both Sarah and I looked in surprise at Brenda. "You said before, she went there before she went to the field, right? So whatever happened to her probably came from there."

"Probably," I slowly said, "but even if it did, if we go there - what will we do there?"

"See if there's any tracks from any other bimbos. See if we can follow them."

I frowned, my ears already flat against my head. "If the bimbo zone has started melting people, I'm not sure either of us should go anywhere near it. We've both been changed by it - if turning into goo is the next stage, I don't want any part of it."

"You want to let someone else risk their lives instead of us?"

I didn't answer immediately, running through one of Amy's exercises to consult my various sub-selves. "Hunh. Part of me does, it seems. But what more of me wants to do is get that zone blocked off, or just plain destroyed, before anyone else gets pulled in. If the city had significant amounts of explosives, they'd have used them against the Free Company, and I'm pretty sure they didn't... I wish I'd gotten someone to start making naffa three years ago, before I got shot in the heart. What else is there that can be improvised... ANFO? Thermite? Thermobaric flour fuel-air explosive? Some version of napalm? What does it take /to/ take out a zone?"

Sarah said, "After Jeff and I were Changed, we reported the zone to the civil guard, and they destroyed it. You could ask them how they did it."

"After they locked me up, ran Brenda through the bimbo zone just to be an example, and then stuck me in it anyway? ... Yeah, okay, maybe, as long as they /do/ know how. ... I probably should avoid mentioning /which/ zone I'm planning on destroying."

--

"Why don't you just use one of your city-killers?" The red-coated member of the not-quite-disbanded Civil Guard sneered at me.

"Because, among other reasons, I don't want to kill the whole freaking city! Now, what is it you use to deal with bad zones? Fire? Acid? Tap-dancing?"

"Yyyyeah... you're not cleared for that."

If I hadn't just spent a week in therapy, I might have done something that provided an extreme amount of short-term satisfaction. As it was, I let the parts of me that were focused on my long-term goals override my more impulsive parts' immediate suggestions, with the promise to my subselves that any suggestions they made which /helped/ those long-term goals would be immediately adopted. Almost instantly, such as suggestion came to mind.

"In that case," I said, "you're in violation of the peace treaty, and I have the option to replace your city's current provisional government with direct personal rule - as was agreed to and signed off on by the previous mayor and other muckety-mucks. Which would make me your boss. Which would both make me /cleared/ for everything you know, and with the power to fire your stupid ass for turning an emergency, time-sensitive, quarantine-related request into an international incident."

"Yyyyeah... like I'll believe /that/."

I stared at him a moment, then pulled out my radio. "Is Mayor Pro Tem Edwards on the network? ... Well, I need someone in the Civil Guard chain-of-command, fast. I've got a... /member/ of that organization too stupid to apply basic principles of self-preservation trying to obstruct the whole operation, willing to void the whole peace treaty. ... Uh-huh. ... Yep. Okay, here he is." I held out the radio to the guard. "Your boss wants to talk to you."

Certain parts of me quite enjoyed the color-changes that went along with the guard's variety of expressions.

--

"Really?"

"Yep," said the replacement guard, after the other one had let me in, then, apparently, been sent off to the livery to be bossed around by stable boys for a while.

"And you can pull that off without explosives?"

"'S long's we've got these special capacitors, we can brew up a good zap. Explosives're us'aly better used for exploding things."

"Got any EMP-makers ready to go?"

"A couple, but our generator's in the shop. You got somethin' to charge 'em with?"

"Mm, I think so."

"Good. Just remember that anything electric nearby gets zapped, so if you like that digital watch or if you've got metal tooth fillings, get a good distance from where you set it off."

--

Brenda stated flatly, "I don't want you anywhere near that... thing."

"I'm all too aware my heart's electrically powered."

"Don't forget Bun-bun. Your skeleton's a computer, right?"

"It's got triple safeties. Have to pull that bit out, and attach that wire, before the timer can do anything at all."

"How close do you have to get it?"

"I don't think they've done proper tests. The guy just told me 'the closer the better'."

"I'll take it inside, then, and arm it. You can't, and the blue bi- lady doesn't know where the dangerous part of the zone is."

"I've got bun-bots who can follow directions and are a lot more disposable."

"That's sweet, but if the thingy goes off early, you lose a bun-bot and you can't make more. If I go in, even if I do something wrong and it goes off early, nothing happens to me."

"If something else goes wrong and you go in too deep, you'll melt."

"I remember where the zone grabbed me."

"What makes you think that's the furthest it /can/ grab you?"

"So I leave some leeway. Maybe get a stick to push the thingy farther."

"I'm of several minds about letting you go."

"Then I'll make things simple. I'm going. End of discussion."

--

I'd activated Munchkin's riot mode, in case its electrified surface happened to have an off-label use as a basic Faraday cage; and had the mini-fabber working overtime to produce real Faraday cages to shelter Boomer, Archie, Scorpia, and every other piece of electronics I could stuff inside one. (Including a brand-new metal-foil vest for yours truly.) After dropping off Brenda and the fully-charged EMP generator, I'd also set course for a couple of kilometers away. I had a sacrificial pair of walkie-talkies set up, one on a loose collar around Brenda's neck, the other on the ground outside the questionable protection of Munchkin's wiring.

"We're clear," I announced over the external intercom, through the radio's mike, and to Brenda. "And grounded. You can bring it in and set the timer."

"I'm already in," her voice came back. "Found a bunch of recent tracks and footprints. I'm going to set the timer and check where they go."

"Brenda, just set the timer - we can do the footwork in a few minutes. ... Brenda? ... Brenda!"

Sarah asked, "Did it go off?"

"No, the little light on the radio is still on. ... Sarah, I can't go anywhere near there while that thing's active, but if Brenda's gone off the rails..."

"Yeah, the stupid guards won't bother for a Changed, and I've got good legs for galloping. I'll see if she needs help."

--

I tried arguing with everyone I could get on the radio, who might get to the zone before Sarah made it. Their excuses were some variation of, "Sorry, gotta button up for the EMP."

It was an excruciatingly long wait.

--

The little light on the radio went out; its tuned circuits had been overloaded by a powerful, invisible, and extremely brief wave of electromagnetic radiation. I yanked the grounding spike out of the lawn I'd parked on, and set Munchkin at maximum safe speed back to the zone.

Sarah had her hindbody lying down, and was resting Brenda's head on her lap, stroking her feathers. As soon as Munchkin stopped, I stumbled out the door, making it the few steps to the pair before my legs twitched out of control, sending me down to the pavement.

"We should go," Brenda said. "Far away. Far, far as we can go."

Sarah said quietly, "Her beak's already half see-through, and it's getting more so. Whatever happened to her, the EMP didn't stop her."

My various subselves clamoured for attention, half-a-dozen thoughts trying to squeeze through my mind at once. I focused on one - probably not the best one, but being able to deal with one was better than not being able to deal with any. "Boomer. How long was it for Judith? Between when she left the zone, and when she... splashed."

"Given the data from the tracking bracelet, depending on when she left the zone: Between one and two hours."

"Just take me away," Brenda said. "So when I go, I won't hurt anyone."

"Fuck that," a certain small part of me reveled in my letting it swear when appropriate. "I kept Toffee from turning into a snake - er, physically - I can keep you from turning into a puddle. ... I can try, at least. Sarah, take her to the cargo carriage and make her comfortable."

--

"What the hell is that?"

"Zentai suit built for a griffon. Judith looked like she was still controlling herself even after she turned clear, at least for a few minutes. Maybe this'll help Brenda keep herself together. Just let me get a few samples for the autodoc before we seal her up."

"Uh - how will she breathe?"

"The material's supposed to be porous to air, but not water."

"Far, far, far, far far..."

--

The autodoc threw up its metaphorical hands. Whatever Brenda was turning into was still mostly made up of cells, but not any sort that its limited database could recognize.

"Boomer, I want to talk to Clara - where's the nearest heliograph station where I can open a live conversation with her?"

--

I dismissed the local station crew, and set up bun-bots to run the mirrors and relay the messages back and forth. The first signal was the Mayday call, which I had specifically designed into the heliograph network for any such situation where lives were on the line, and had the effect of clearing the line of any lower-priority traffic. After a few moments spent proving to Clara that I was me, and working out which method we'd use to talk to keep the other stations relaying our messages back and forth from knowing what we were talking about, my questions pretty much boiled down to, "Would the retroviral therapy we used on Toffee work on Brenda?"

Clara's answer was fairly simple. Paraphrasing a bit from the Morse-like code, she responded, "Maybe, but the previous stockpile was used against the snake-oids, and you do not possess the technology to create more. In addition, the fact that the process takes hours instead of years implies a different mechanism is at work, and a different counter-agent would need to be developed."

"Maybe we can come to you?"

"It is two hundred kilometers. Even at your vehicle's maximum speed, by the time you arrive, there will be insufficient time to develop a counter-agent."

"Is there /anything/ we can do?"

"Place her in another transformation zone, in hopes that the new change will interrupt the last. Inject the naffa-production retrovirus, with similar hope. Freeze her, in hopes that a better solution may be found later. Offer to assist with euthanasia, if that is a preferable demise. Collect her liquid remains, in case they still contain her neural patterns. Experiment with random biochemicals or forms of radiation in case one might interrupt the process without killing her. Provide a lab animal to determine if the condition is contagious. Be kind and comfort her during the time she has left."

"None of those sound like they're very likely to help."

"They aren't."

--

I sat down next to Sarah, and we gently transferred Brenda's head from her lap to mine. I couldn't see her eyes or expression through the suit's black material, but it was stretchy enough for her to open her beak. "That you, Bunny?"

"Yep."

"What's the word?"

"A bunch of ideas, none very likely to help," I reluctantly admitted, and relayed Clara's suggestions.

"I think I like that 'be kind' one."

"I'm not sure I'll be very good at it. We haven't even started with getting me to face deaths in my therapy."

"Bunny, I'm in love with you. I know it's artificial, I know you don't feel the same - I want you to end up happy. And, okay, I'm selfish enough that I want you to be a /little/ sad when I'm gone, but I want you to get over it. Maybe get together with the blue bitch-"

"Hey!" Sarah instinctively interjected, though without much force.

"- I can see she's got a thing for you, even though she's trying to stay in the friend zone. But for now - if you can't handle being here, I'm sure you can think of something important to do, somewhere far from here to go. But if you're up to it - I think I'd be happy if you just held me, and talked about anything."

How the hell could anyone refuse a request like that and still call themselves human?

So I held her. And I talked. And what I said is none of your damn business.

--

After some time... Brenda's form suddenly sagged, her mass puddling in the bottom of her suit in a way impossible for anything with a skeleton.

I kept talking for a few minutes... and then, as gently as I could, set the head of the suit on the floor. The liquid shifted as it found its new level.

And then it shifted again.

I scooted back from it, nervously.

The suit's wings slowly filled back out again; and then the head. The legs regained their shape.

A black-coated talon reached forward, curled all the claws save one, and ever so slowly, drew shapes on the floor: letters. Words. "STILL HERE", were the first two. "SENSES FUCKED" were the next.

Ever so hesitantly, I whispered, "Can you hear me?"

"WHOA. DO THAT AGAIN."

I complied.

"OK. GETTING HANG. TOO MUCH. SEE EVERYWHERE." After a few more minutes, she added, "OK. THINK I REMEMBER WHERE EVERYTHING GOES. NEXT: LUNGS." She made some disturbing ripples in her torso. "OK. NEED TO PRACTICE LUNGS LATER. CAN YOU OPEN SUIT?"

"If you can hear me, and understand me, what will you do if I do?"

"THINK YOU ASKED WHAT I'LL DO. TRY NOT TO SINK INTO DIRT."

Since Brenda's death sentence seemed to have at least been postponed, I ignored the parts of me that said it was a bad idea, reached to the suit's neck, and pulled back the magnetic, zipper-like seal.

When I got halfway, a mass of jelly spilled out, barely maintaining anything like a coherent shape, and coating my hands and forearms. In moments, my fur was gone, simply dissolved, and I started listening to the more cautious parts of my mind, yanking myself away from her with only minor burns to my skin.

"SORRY," Brenda finger-wrote, as she pulled herself out of the suit and back into her usual shape - though a tad more transparent than I was used to seeing her. "DIDN'T KNOW I DO THAT. I THINK I CAN CONTROL IT." She held up a talon, which morphed into a sphere, then a hand, then back into a talon. "THIS COULD BE FUN."

"Mmmaybe you should stay in the suit for now... until we're more sure about what's going on with you..."