The Forever Enemy (The Forever Series Book 2)

by Craig Robertson

  “Everyone out, except you,” Marshall pointed to Kendell, “and you, Frontera.” Once alone, Marshall leaned over uncomfortably close to Kendell's face. “I wish to bestow upon you the reward for being a good little soldier, son.” He looked to Carlos with a sick grin on his face and tilted his head toward Kendell.

  SEVENTEEN

  This is the video journal of Kendell Jackson, recorded on my sixtieth birthday. I am documenting my thoughts and rationale so my family can, with the help the Lord, come to understand why I did what I was forced to do. Honestly, I cannot say as of this moment whether I shall simply commit suicide, or if I shall try and exact my revenge from Stuart Marshall. All I know, my dear ones, is that I cannot proceed along the path I am forced to walk.

  I work for no human. I work for the devil himself. And, the devil's an android. Worst of all, the devil wants me to join him—permanently. I'm to become a machine like him. Then I must kill the human who writes these words. Refusal, the great demon stated specifically, was not an option. I knew too much to waver. Either I proceed with the download, or I'll disappear forever, as will my family. My three children, my three precious grandchildren, my wife, and my two surviving brothers will all vanish. It'll be, he told me with a smile, like the Jackson line never existed in the first place.

  My transfer to damnation takes place in three days. The untrustworthy scientist, that Frontera fellow, needs that long to sculpt my likeness into one of his soulless beasts. Then, the devil and his fallen angels will own me forever. The woman I replaced, York, was an android. She emptied a revolver into her human self's head at pointblank range, all the while laughing like the possessed robot that she was. “Be nice,” evil incarnate chided me, “or I'll download you into her body. I'd pay good money to see you in heels and a skirt, Jackson.”

  The man must be stopped. He must die, if a robot can be said to die. The Marshall who was elected president died years ago. But how can I kill him? He controls everyone close to him. Most are indentured androids too. If it was only my life at stake, I'd do whatever it took. But it would cost me the lives of everyone I’ve ever loved. That's a price I cannot pay, and a burden I cannot shoulder.

  I must submit. I shall be a machine. I will become something abhorrent in the eyes of God—an abomination. But, I promise I will have my revenge. I will end Marshall. Then I will end myself, knowing I've done His will in both actions.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Sapale, I'm going to visit Offlin. You want to come? Ffffuttoe already turned me down. She said he scares her.”

  “I'll come if you want me to, but I'd just as soon not.”

  “Why? He's a good guy…ah, fish.”

  Her right eyes fluttered open and shut rapidly. That was Kaljaxian body language for: yeah, if that's what you think. “I'd rather stay with the children.”

  “Ffffuttoe is a great nanny. She dotes over them like they were her own kids. I'm surprised she hasn't tried to nurse them yet.”

  “She has. It didn't work.”

  I set a finger under my chin. “Let me see. Maybe because her species lays eggs and doesn't have mammary tissue. Do ya think?”

  “That's not,” she snipped, “the point. She tried because she loves them, and I think it's sweet.”

  Why, oh why, was I always fated to be the bad guy when it came to issues involving females? “I agree. She's sweet. You're sweet. Do you want to come see Offlin? If you don't, that's fine too.”

  “You go and have your man time. Smoke cigars and tell lies.”

  “We tried cigars. He couldn't keep his head out of the water long enough for it to stay lit. He threw up after he ate it. Said it was quite the rush.”

  “Males!” She shooed me away. “Go. Have fun. Come back too late and make certain you tell him what a bitch I am.”

  “I don't think I need remind him. He always has at least fifteen minutes of fun at my expense in that regard.”

  “Stupid spawner doesn't understand the value of a good woman at your back.”

  “I'll be sure to let him know.”

  “I bet you will.” She shoved me toward the door.

  “Jonryan!” called Offlin as soon as I came into view. Try as I might, I couldn't convince him to split my two names apart. He said that would be silly. Not sure why, but he wouldn't budge.

  “Yo!” I greeted back. “How's the water?” That was Listhelonian for how's it going.

  “Better, now that you're here. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about your prisoner.”

  I scaled the ladder and met him at the top of his tank. We slapped hand-appendages like the couple of old jocks that we were. I played football. He played something that sounded like fish rugby, ogoric, but with spiky metal cylinders instead of a ball. Everyone was injured and deaths were commonplace. Yeah, I'll stick with football.

  “Doc treating you well?” I asked after he submerged.

  He grabbed his stomach. “Look at this gut! He feeds me so well I worry he's fattening me for a feast.”

  After I stopped giggling, I became very serious. “Are you happy, my friend?”

  He did that floating-on-his-back thing he did when he was deep in thought and gently stroked his gills. “Yes, I believe I am,” he finally said. “Especially considering the alternatives.”

  “Which were?”

  “Death while attacking this planet or death returning home having not died attacking this planet.”

  “Swimming in luxury does seem a pleasant-enough path, doesn't it?” I lowered my head. “I'm glad you're content. I do still feel a little guilty taking you prisoner.”

  He swam to the glass where I stood. “Never feel that, Jonryan. I had just fired all my missiles at you, if you recall. Yours was an action taken in a war. If I returned home with a live human captive, I would have been most proud. I might have been allowed to spawn!” He did his trill-laugh.

  “Why, you dirty old fish. Shame on you!”

  “Speaking of spawning, Toño tells me your mate has hatched a brood. How many?”

  “Twins,” I confirmed, holding up two fingers. “Cute little dickens.”

  “Just two? How sad. Two hundred, maybe, but not,” he held up sequential digits, “just, two. Such odd species. Males or females?”

  “Neither,” I said in a confused tone, “Sapale hasn't decided yet.”

  “You've lost me completely.”

  “Me too. Ah, her species is, I guess they're born neutral-gendered. Somehow, the mother decides which sex they'll be. She said something about hormone changes in her milk. Pretty strange, if you ask me. Anyway, she says she has a week or two to decide. Then we can name them.”

  “Most peculiar.”

  “Tell me about it!”

  It was Offlin's turn to be suddenly serious. “I watch Toño a lot. We sometimes chat while he works. He is odd, Jonryan. Odd like you. Others who work with him come and go, eat as the day passes, but not him. Like you didn't most of the flight here. Why is this? I must know.” He waved his fins in front of himself. “Now, I'm not wanting military secrets. Not that I'd be able to use such information from here.” He pointed to the glass. “But, you two are strangely different.”

  At this juncture, I decided it couldn't hurt to tell him that much. “Toño and I are androids. Do you understand the word?”

  “I thought I did. But you can't be machines, so clearly I don't.”

  “We are machines. We used to be regular humans long ago, but our minds were transferred to these machines.” I pointed to myself. “In my case, it made long space flights much easier.”

  “I bet it would. Wow! That would explain my observations. Thank you for finally putting my mind at ease.”

  “And how was it that you were able to capture me?”

  “I told you. It was magic.”

  “Can't blame me for trying, can you?”

  “Not one little bit. Hey, Doc tells me you spend a lot of time looking at pictures of deep sea fish. You know, the ones that are as ugly as you are?”
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  Again, he pointed to his surroundings. “Kind of lonely in here. Your magic destroyed any images I might have had of my own species. Second best is better than nothing.”

  “Okay, but I don't want you getting too weird on me.”

  “I'll keep that in mind.”

  NINETEEN

  President Marshall sat in his office with the only three men—actually androids—he could call friends. He didn't trust basically hated everyone else. More importantly, these were the only three souls who would, if asked in confidence, state that they liked Marshall. The four were putting significant dents in several bottles of priceless Cognac while puffing on Cuba's best cigars. Marshall, along with General Chuck Thomas, Chief Justice Sam Peterson, and Senator Bob Patrick lived well, quite high on the hog.

  The conversation turned, as it always eventually did, to their personal futures. Perhaps it was better to call them their personal fantasies, but as they were on the verge of making their wildest dreams a reality, “futures” described them best. Thomas always started the licentious boasting at the same point of drunkenness. “You know what the first thing I'm going to do after I seal the hatch on my personal worldship?”

  “Yes,” Marshall guffawed, “and please spare us the details!”

  “No, Stu. That's the second, third, fourth, and two-hundredth thing I'm going to do. No, the first thing I'm going to do is turn off the damn radio! I'm taking no calls from anyone until I've sated my considerable hunger.”

  Quietly, staring into his snifter, Sam observed, “That's most likely all two-hundred of our plans.” He produced a sickly, grunting cackle. Sam was, by most human standards, a grotesque man. He was not simply obese, he was greasy fat. His face looked like a cheap Halloween mask, warts on the nose and all. His ears were set too low to masquerade as some form of birth defect. And, from his childhood, he had horrendous halitosis. His breath was a mixture of rotten cheese, burnt rubber, and embalming fluid. To everyone's shock, when he was transferred to his android, he insisted his features be artistically preserved. He neither elected to have his pendulous abdomen reduced nor his unfortunate face remodeled in any way. No one asked him why he insisted on remaining hideous. It was clear to all that he'd made grievous errors in judgment. Such, it would seem, were the idiosyncrasies of this psychopath.

  “Here's to that, times a hundred,” shouted Marshall, as he threw back a shot of liquor. “Same hold for you, Bob? You think the missus will allow such debauchery?”

  “If she wishes to flee this rock, she will.” That drew robust laughs from all four men. Bob was a cautious, thoughtful man by nature. Hence, he was continually questioning whether they could pull off their insane plan. He was fairly certain they couldn't, but he also couldn't deny it was worthy of every possible effort. He voiced his thoughts. “I hope we can pull it off before anyone notices or before there's any pushback.”

  Marshall tossed a balled-up napkin at Bob. “You're such a Glum-Gus! Of course we'll pull it off. And if anyone dares object, let them try and fly to a habitable planet with their arms.” When the giggles settled down, Marshall continued thoughtfully. “It's foolproof. We shuttle those hand-selected by each of us, along with their families, up to a clearinghouse space station. Then, we let it be known that for reasons of personal security, the women and older girls need to be flown to their worldships separate from the men and boys. Who's going to question us at that point? The females end up on one of our two hundred ships, and the men, if we so chose, end up on the other fifty. Any overage in men can be ejected into space for all I care. Once we shove-off, it's a done deal. The promise of potential reunion with their loved ones will convince the women to be as cooperative as they possibly can be.”

  “One man,” growled Chuck, while wiping some drool, “to fifty thousand women. I like those numbers.”

  TWENTY

  “Glorious Master Otollar,” the officer said meekly, stooped over in a deep bow, “I bring troubling tidings.”

  Otollar was floating on his back, thoughtfully stroking a gill slit. The words of the inconsequential soldier brought him upright instantly. Upright and outraged. “Who are you to bring me such news? Who are you, in fact, to even speak to me? Where is my Second Warrior at such times?”

  The messenger, an otherwise affable fellow named Oppitor, began to quiver like a tsunami had struck him. “I…I don't know, Great One. I…I was at my post serving Gumnolar and you when the message arrived. My commander said I should inform you at once. S…s…so I came as instructed. I pray only to please you, Glorious One.” After that tortured response, Oppitor was capable of no further speech.

  “So, you're to be the sacrificial fintail pup?” In response, Oppitor only trembled more violently. “First, the news. Then I will have the name of the coward who sent you to save his scales.” Oppitor opened his mouth to talk, but no words came out. Only tiny bubbles. “Speak! The message now or you will join your fool commander in my belly!”

  Sufficient motivation. “It is a message from Gumnolar Attacks.” Oppitor reflected a second, then amended his statement. “I guess it's the non-message from Gumnolar Attacks.”

  Otollar swam over to the young man and head-butted him powerfully. “No riddles! Say meaning or die!”

  While rubbing his forehead, Oppitor said, “Your son Offlin informed us he had indeed found the infidel's home world. His last message was that he was being confronted by one of their vessels. He discharged all his missiles, but none struck the servant of the Beast Without Eyes. Then his radio went silent. That is all.”

  To himself, Otollar howled, “A single ship? They only deigned to send one ship?” Back to Oppitor, he demanded, “Are you certain that is what you heard? No further signal was received?”

  “No, Your Glory. No static, no dead-air, nothing. I can only assume his craft was destroyed suddenly and without warning.”

  Otollar rubbed his gills. “And they sent but one warship. That means they knew it would be sufficient, even though they knew Gumnolar Seeks was able to destroy one of their scout ships? They are either great fools or possess a great weapon that the Captain Simpson was not fitted with. Hmm.” Unconsciously, he drifted into a supine position in silent reflection. Again he spoke to himself, for he was the only one who mattered in that chamber. “Could be a new weapon, so the older ship didn't have one. Perhaps it is too large for a scout ship.” Directing a harsh tone to Oppitor, he asked, “Did Offlin send a visual of the warship that defeated him?”

  “Yes, Majestic One, of course.”

  “Show me,” he pointed to a screen, “both infidel ships.” Otollar studied the images intently. “Basically the same vessel. So, the weapon must be new, or, rather, it was new forty cycles ago. Which means they've had time to improve it, understand it better. So, we were at their mercy forty cycles ago, and now we're even more so. Perhaps hopelessly so.” Addressing the trembling messenger, he asked, “You work in communications, correct?”

  “Y…yes.”

  “Any news for the fleet that would alter their planned arrival?”

  “None, Glorious One.”

  With defiant resolve, Otollar said, “We will destroy those who serve the Beast Without Eyes or die as a species! Send word to launch all remaining ships, at once. They will attack what remains of the infidel world or provide visual proof that our ships were useless against them. Go now! And send me your commander. I have developed quite an appetite.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  2144 was, by any measure, an apocalyptic year. It was the terrible harbinger of what was to come six years later. 2144 was the year of Jupiter's last close pass by the Earth before it finally destroyed her. Whereas 2138 was famous for awe-inspiring meteor showers, in 2144, the meteors were incredibly spectacular right up until they exploded in the middle of a city. Biblical was a term the news holos overused in their coverage. One aspect of membrane technology that quickly became apparent was that you couldn't blanket the entire globe. Some larger meteorites were stopped, but way too many foun
d rich targets. It seemed like Jupiter really had it in for planet Earth, like it was personal. A word to the wise: never piss-off a giant planet.

  Sapale, Ffffuttoe, and I spent most of the year in space, to avoid becoming numbers on the rapidly growing death toll. Fortunately, several worldships were ready, so some lucky few also found refuge in their new homes in space. By 2145, around five hundred million people were inhabiting the ships. The UN had a workable plan to evacuate a whole lot more—billions more—before 2150 hit. The USA had produced only two hundred and fifty worldships, which were much smaller than the ones we were cranking-out. It was so odd. When work on that last ship was completed, they simply stopped building more. Five years left to potentially save more of her citizens, but nada. Toño privately relayed to me that Frontera had confirmed that no further craft were planned, but he wasn't privileged to know why. That information was for Marshall's inner circle alone.

  The US was targeting increased production of androids. They had a lot more than we did, but I didn't see that as an issue. Maybe someday everyone could become a robot, but there hardly seemed a rush to get to that point. Also, I knew Marshall, the poster-child for SOBs everywhere, wasn't allowing regular people to transfer. No, he had some twisted plan, of this I was certain. Bully for him. Maybe it would keep him out of our way for the next five years. Then his worldships could go one way while ours went in the opposite direction. Good riddance!

  The US made several attempts to steal our membrane technology. I'd have been stunned if they hadn't. Fortunately, they never came close to obtaining it. They'd tried seduction, covert-ops raids, and offering outrageous bribes. They even let it be known that anyone supplying them with the technology could have an unlimited number of seats on one of their worldships. They forgot that the UN had more than enough room, so that ploy didn't work either.