“All right, let’s get everyone into the boats, we’re going to Haven,” Checkmate said, “we should hurry, there isn’t much time before the Cricks get here.”

The school teacher didn’t have to be told twice. Like a mother hen she cluck-clucked her charges to their feet and they began to file out the door, tight lipped, grim and silent, down to the docks and the boats. Two Trees, who had been looking across the river to the burning village, suddenly said, “Less time than we think. Look!” Swimming in the river, only a few yards upstream, about 10 Cricks bristling with weapons were almost upon them.

“Get going as soon as you get into the boats,” Checkmate said to Mrs. Posey. He went over to a window and issued a piercing whistle. The remainder of the Haven war party hustled up the steps past the children headed to the boats and into the strong house.

The Cricks were up and out of the water, in spite of the almost vertical rock where they landed, and began to surround the house. They were all intricately tattooed and naked except for loincloths. Claw, Checkmate, and Iron Hand defended the stair to the boats from two of the quicker Cricks. Claw slashed a completely tattooed Crick’s shoulder and kicked him into the river, he bobbed once or twice, the current carrying him, then sank.

Checkmate parried a spear-thrust from the other and, while wrestling over the lance, Iron Hand crushed the man’s skull with his hammer. The boats with the Riverside survivors were shoving off so the three men dashed quickly into the strong house slamming the heavy door in the faces of three more Cricks.

“It’s going to take them about three seconds to go after the boats,” Claw said. And surely, after they had determined they couldn’t get at the men inside the house, the Cricks, seven in all, started down the steps toward the canoes. Another group of Cricks could be seen swimming 50 yards or so upstream and would be there in minutes.

Checkmate laughed. Everyone in the house turned to look at their leader. “We can swim if we have to,” he said, looking over his little band, “but I think we’ll enjoy the trip much better if we ride!

“Those dumb asses have made a strategic mistake,” the leader said  grinning, “we have the high ground and there’s only one way back up. Git ’em boys!”

The men streamed out of the house and took positions at the top of the stairway. One Crick had jumped into a canoe and was about to cut the mooring line. Jimmy shot an arrow right through his neck and he fell into the river. The other savages saw the Havenites and, like a flock of wheeling birds, charged up the stairway. Most of them were cut down by the archers and the two that made it to the top were perfunctorily dispatched by Claw and Two Trees.

The next group of Cricks would soon be up on the rock; another group behind them could be seen approaching. “Time to go,” Checkmate said and the war party got into the remaining canoes and shoved off.

Today is Star Wars Day! May the Fourth be with you!   cc

“You know,” the nurse said, “ you’re pretty lucky. High speed crashes on the bus don’t very often leave any pieces at all.”

“Not many people have the Bodyguard AR I have either,” Random said from the recuperation bed.

Not many people need that kind of protection. Of course, this wasn’t the first time his packet had been blasted to bits. Someone in his line of work would be foolish to operate without some kind of fool proof backup. His bodyguard algorithm kept his personal configuration in a hard-wired kernel at Citi Bank. When physics conflicts crashed the local grid on the Common Bus its contents were lost. The crash had destroyed his user’s config packet, lost forever without backup.

The backup system is complicated, as there are many levels of protection. The essence, however, is that everyone has their config backed up. In the normal course of events a local backup in one’s personal domain is sufficient to cover the majority of “accidents” we humans tend to have. If an accident should occur and no other backup is available the default is loaded.

Backups are quite expensive so most people don’t do it more than once a quarter. Loading the personal backup causes events occurring subsequent to the backup to be lost to personal memory—not a good thing when you’re a private investigator.

Traumatic event crashes that cause a reset on the local grid, like the crash Random just endured, leave no traces of anything not native to the grid. However, Random’s ID marker was rebuilt from a cyclic redundancy check combined with the kernel at Citi. His bodyguard AR rewrote and inserted his ID code at the same time the local grid rebooted the destroyed section’s default. It was then found in a dormant state after the reboot. In this case Random was not so much lucky as smart. “traumatic event crashes” seemed to follow him around.

The nurse cluck-clucked, “Well, you’re still pretty lucky.” She helped him sit up. “Now git,” she said.

Random stood and said, “Personal.” The hospital room flickered once or twice and then resolved into his foyer. He went to his living room and collapsed on the sofa there. Stretching his arms up to the back of the sofa he sat there like an eagle gliding on a thermal, thinking about things. “Footstool,” he said and the glass coffee table changed into a leather upholstered footstool. He absently put his feet up, lost in thought.

The Free Radicals were political terrorists bent on destroying the status quo. They had tried to kill him several times but their attempts were amateurish at best. They really didn’t have the resources, or ability for that matter, to crash the Common High Speed Bus. And who in the hell is Abraxos? Random couldn’t be sure but he had a sneaking suspicion he/she/it wasn’t human. An artificial intelligence doesn’t create itself.

There’s another player, he thought. But who? And what was their motive? And that was as far as Random could get with it—unanswered questions. After he sat there in silence for a long time he finally looked up and said to himself, “Wong. I’ve got to see Wong again.”

“Office,” he said and his office appeared around him. “Blink.”

“Yes?” His office AI replied.

“See if I can get in to see Wong again.”

“Checking,” Blink said, “. . . yes . . .” and, “He can see you anytime this afternoon.”

Random entered Wong’s private domain and the Asian was sitting on a pillow on the floor dressed like a Shaolin monk, shaved head, orange robe, black belt and all. An elegant porcelain tea service was set on a golden filigreed tray in front of him.

“Just one thing,” Random said, not wasting any time on preliminaries. “Do you know who’s trying to kill me?”

“Indeed,” the monk said.

“So tell me.”

Wong shook his head ruefully. “I can’t.” The monk met Random’s quizzical look with an inscrutable gaze, the vague hint of a smile barely perturbing his stoic face. He continued, “I can’t because it’s not something you could possibly understand.”

“I’m not so bad at understanding,” Random replied, “try me.”

“You can’t understand because it’s beyond the realm you know and live in.”

Random narrowed his eyes. “What realm?”

“See? You can’t even comprehend the right question,” Wong said then added ominously, “The answer to your question can and will totally change your way of life if you pursue it.” Wong reached down and picked up a cup of tea from the tray before him. He took a sip, then another. “In fact,” he said, “it can potentially destroy your way of life completely.”

“I’d like to be the judge of that,” Random said.

Wong took another sip of tea then placed it back on the tray, his face pensive. After a pause he said, “Okay, it seems to be time. I’m unable to tell you directly but I can tell you that the answer you seek can be found in Maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” Random reiterated nonplussed. “What the hell does Maintenance have to do with anything?”

“You will be more than surprised, youngster,” the smiling monk said. “Make sure you check out the “Technical” section way down deep in the Level 25 miscellaneous storage stack.”

Level 25? There are only 20 levels for anything, unless they raised the cap and didn’t tell me. A lead at last, Random thought. “So how do I get to level 25?” he asked.

Wong chuckled. “Not my job, man.”

Random shot him a caustic glance but might as well have been glaring at a snowman for all the effect it had. “Thanks, old man,” he said.

“That remains to be seen,” Wong said, bowing inscrutably before returning to his tea sipping.