He wasn't getting off the hook that easily. No, sir! “Look, I'll just say a few things. You'll listen, and then we can talk about it if you ever want to. Doesn't have to be now. I do want you to know I'm here for you. Okay?”
He rubbed the sides for his head. “If it will shut you up, go for it.”
“Unless things change unexpectedly, it doesn't look like any of you kids are having normal, Kaljaxian sex for a good long while. Generations. That can be tough, especially for us guys. There's no way around it, as I see it. You're going to have a celibate life. That's not a pleasant prospect, trust me. I've been on fifty-year space flights, and that's tough enough. So, if you have, you know, trouble along those lines, I'm here for you. That's all I'm saying.”
Jon burst out laughing. Okay. Not the exact response I anticipated.
“Did I say something totally funny and not even know I did?” I asked.
Jon slowly stopped and walked over to put a hand on my shoulder. “You know, Pops, for a robot who doesn't sleep and the commander of this mission, you're kind of way out there in the dark, aren't you?”
Pops? Did he just call me Pops? “Pops?”
“Okay, I'll lighten up. But man, do you have some four-one-one coming. You want to sit down before I tell you?”
Oh now insults, is it? “I'm perfectly fine. I'm an android and not subject to fainting or the buckling of knees. Talk!” I tried, rather poorly I must say, to appear menacing.
“I'll sit.” He hopped up on a counter we'd just assembled. “The doctor and I have been discussing these matters for…well, as long as I can remember. He didn't tell you?” I sort of stammered and twisted my hands. “No? Well, I'll be. We have, Dad. He is, after all, a doctor. He worries about that sort of thing. He talks with the girls too.” He shook his head. “And he didn't mention it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Wow! And I'm thinking Mom hasn't told you everything about Kaljaxian…um, species behavior.”
I pointed in a confused manner toward somewhere. “Is that a question or a declaration?”
He was so full of himself. “The latter, Pops.”
I sat down on the ground. “I'm certain she has. Please refresh my recollection, just in case.” I held out a hang-on-a-minute palm. “Wait. Does Toño know what you're about to remind me of?”
“Duh, he knows! Doctor Toño knows, Pops. You remember all those talks Mom had with us kids you always found some lame excuse to avoid?”
“I had important reasons…yes. Go on.”
He was positively glowing. “I'd love to be a falzorn in the bushes when you talk to Mom about this. Dude!”
“A good executioner,” I said, “knows to deliver the blow quickly, son.”
“Your average executioner isn't loving life as much as I am right about now.” He snickered a couple times. “Our physiology is not human—duh. Our social norms aren't, either—double duh. Mom told us we evolved in a certain way, and that's simply who we are. Not good or bad, just…”
“Is that the ship's alarm? I better run…”
“Our species has sex play.”
I was attempting to stand and actually start running away. My knees buckled, and I stumbled to the deck.
“Not subject to that, eh?” He giggled like one of his sisters.
I had face-planted. I mumbled, with my mouth was full of dirt, “Please finish your thought and then I'll check that alarm.”
“Mom says our females go through something like heat but aren't actually fertile. She claims a female knows when she is. Beats me, but that's what she says, Anyway, when a girl's under hormonal pressure, she gets kind of horny.”
Horny? Did my boy just say my girls get horny? “Horny? My little girls get horny?”
“Dad,” he said with a good deal of judgment, “grow up! These aren't personal choices; they're preprogrammed evolutionary imperatives. And when they hit, the female will jump most any…”
“Stop!” Now I sounded like a father and a mission commander. “Stop talking immediately. This conversation is over. I am going to the ship. I will ask Toño to scrub the last ten minutes from my memory. We never had this…”
“Dad,” my little boy observed, “you can be such a big baby.”
I, like any reasonable father, put my fingers in my ears. “Na, na, na, na, na.”
THIRTY-TWO
“No,” said Senator Faith Clinton, “we cannot assume that type of attack will not happen again. We need an open society, yes, but we also need a safe one.”
“I never said Marshall's actions were isolated.” Heath Ryan hated political debates. He wanted to talk policy and vision. All everyone else wanted to do was put words in their opponents’ mouths. “I said, we can't live in fear or allow fear to guide our society. We must be true to our commitment to…”
“If we're all dead,” Javier Monroe interjected, “there will be no society. I say go after the criminals, punish them, and let that stand as an example to future terrorists. We need heads on poles, not words on paper.”
That didn't even make sense. Monroe never made sense. He was the loud voice of mindless outrage, the so called “Trump factor,” in this election. Heath never wanted a life in politics, but he'd come to believe he had no choice. His family name got him in the door. He needed to be inside to stop those two lunatics from taking over. Electing Monroe would be like putting a drunken ten year old in charge of a nuclear power plant. Clinton was only a little less awful. She, too, had used her family name to get where she was. She didn't want to lead, she wanted to be in charge. Big difference. She'd say anything, promise anything, and likely do anything that would get her into the Noval Office. That's what the pundits were dubbing the “New Oval Office” of the soon-to-be resurrected presidency.
Individual worldships would still have some local governance, and the UN could be the UN, but Americans wanted their cultural and political identities restored. The reorganization in the wake of Marshall's attack and departure was the logical time to do that. Heath wasn't all that certain it was a good plan. The population of what was once the USA was scattered onto almost four hundred worldships. Once they were linked by geography, which mandated cooperation. Now, they could drift apart literally as well as figuratively. A single figurehead might be ineffective in preventing that breakup.
If an attempt at a strong, central government was to be made, Heath couldn't stand by and watch one of his opponents lead that effort. Stupid and Sneaky, as his wife had dubbed them, had to be stopped.
The moderator called Heath's mind back to the proceedings. “The topic of food is close to all our hearts, or should I say stomachs.” She waited briefly for laughter that never came. “I will ask the same question of all three candidates: How, if at all, would you modify the current rationing plan? We'll start with you, Assemblyman Monroe.”
“We’ve been out here for but a few years and already the divide between the ‘Haves’ and ‘Have-Nots’ has grown like a weed. And we can't eat weeds! They sip champagne to wash down their ribeye steaks while you and I pick pieces of tofu out from between our teeth so as not to starve!”
Heath started shaking his head again. The man was nuts. Dangerously nuts.
“I say let the people decide if there's enough food in production. Yes,” he raised an index finger to where the sky would have been, “let's all take a peek, shall we? And if we're too generous in our use of food, so what? We just ease back on the gas pedal a little and things snap back to normal. At least our bellies will be happier than if we never had.”
Never had what, demanded Heath in his head. Peek? Increased allocations? Placed gas pedals on our stomachs? It was getting brutal.
“Senator Clinton,” prompted the moderator.
“Thank you for that thoughtful question, Meredith. I'd like to answer it this way. We all love food. I know my kids sure do. My wife says I'm a little too fond of it, myself.” She patted her midsection. “I realize it's hard to know when enough is enough and when fair is fair. That'
s the nature of knowing, after all.”
Heath contemplated challenging Clinton for that remark, but decided that would just make him appear to be more like Monroe.
“I think we need to take a hard look at the situation and then, and only then, make sure we're all getting as much quality nutrition as we need, want, and deserve. It's only fair.”
Heath was pulling his hair so hard it was painful.
“Mr. Ryan. Same question.”
“Thanks. I think about this differently than my opponents.” Big surprise. “The UN has a high commission charged with this challenging matter. Many outstanding experts sit on that commission. I know them to be honest, hardworking individuals. For the time being, I feel we need to follow their leadership. Gradually, after the election, we can transition that job over to the US government. Historically, the departments of Interior and Commerce would deal with these issues. I suggest that, as these bodies grow in strength and experience, they slowly take over the regulation of the US food supply.”
Meredith started to say, “Thank you…”
Monroe shouted out, “I bet you're having caviar on little crackers to soak it up tonight, Ryan. I'm having stewed soymeal, and you're eating high on the hog. Hah!”
Heath could stand it no longer. “Javier, there is no caviar on any worldship. I don't have any.” He placed his hands on his chest. “Faith doesn't have any.” He pointed both hands at Clinton. “And you don't have any.” He pointed at Monroe.
Javier's face became the very picture of indignation. “Of course I know I don't have any. You took it all!”
“I took your caviar, Javy? I'm confused. Where did you get caviar from for me to steal it? There's never been any in ship's stores. Any sturgeon eggs in the fleet will remain inside the fishes until laid. They're strictly for breeding purposes. So, where'd you snag caviar?”
Indignant, Javier flared back. “I didn't have any. You have it all.”
Heath turned to the moderator. “I got nothing.”
“I…” She didn't get very far.
“Of course not, Ryan. You ate it all. You've as much as admitted here on holo.” He gazed at the camera. “You see, my friends. We have no more caviar. I rest my case on his.”
Unfortunately for her rising career, the camera then panned to Meredith's face. She looked like a streetcar had just slammed into her and internal organs were flowing out from her abdomen onto a hot sidewalk. She made several vain attempts to speak but could only say something that sounded like “bleh, blah.” She remained paralyzed until the show broke clumsily into a commercial. After two one-minute ads, the camera once again fell upon Meredith. She had composed herself sufficiently to speak in full sentences. Her expression was still rather shell-shocked, unfortunately.
“And that…with that, I'll end this candidate de…debate,” she flared a hand in the air, “or whatever that was. We at LBC hope our forum has helped the voting public to understand better, so they can make sound decisions.” As the show faded to black, Meredith's microphone was left open a couple seconds too long. “What the fuck was…” Then the program actually ended.
Heath was joined by his campaign director as he walked toward the exit. “You killed ’em, boss. Someone should call the cops and have you arrested for murder one!”
A weary-eyed Heath replied, “If only I had just killed them. The worldship would be a better place.”
Pat Stevens thwacked Heath's back. “That's the spirit, my boy!”
“Pat, seriously, Monroe was obsessed with gas pedals and caviar. How can he poll second? He makes morons look witty, dead people look thoughtful, and doorknobs look intelligent by comparison.”
“And your point?” Pat replied. “He's second in most polls. He's within spitting distance of your ass, so keep checking to see if you feel moisture back there. Never underestimate the man. Lucky for us, Clinton is double-talking herself into an early electoral grave. She can't last out the month. Most of her people will come to our side, but we can't let Javier snag a single one. He's got more money in his war chest than you do by quite a margin. The man's a danger.”
“Tell me about it! If he is elected, I'm moving to a tropical worldship and drowning my sorrows in drinks with umbrellas.”
“You and me both, buddy. You and me both. But, I kind of like it here, so let's swab the deck with his toupee and do our livers a big favor.”
“Hi, hon,” Heath's wife greeted him cheerily, “want some caviar? I have it on little crackers, just the way us rich people like it.”
“Ha, ha, very droll.” Heath accepted a glass of red wine from Piper.
She raised her glass. “To the next president of a bunch of floating rocks.”
He clinked his glass. “My, but you make the job sound so regal.”
“Today floating rocks. Tomorrow, the world, assuming we find one, that is.”
“You need to switch to decaf, love.”
“No,” she teased, “it's just that I get so excited when I see a man dominate a debate.”
“Thanks but, if you don't mind, I'll have a seat and a cool towel for my forehead.”
“I was talking about Monroe, not you. The man has a way with misconceptions. Makes me all sweaty.”
“There's room on his bandwagon, if you want to hop aboard.”
She sat next to him. “Maybe I'll hop aboard something a lot closer.” She batted her eyelids toward him at point blank range.
“I've just had one of the more discouraging interludes of my life. Could you give a guy a minute to decompress before you leap upon his tired bones?”
“Ooo. Say decompress again, like you mean it.” She smiled.
“You're impossible! Seriously, how'd it look?”
Piper rested back and took a sip. “It looked like one man, one woman, and one monkey were performing on stage. You were not the monkey, by the way. The man looked and sounded humble and presidential. The woman looked and sounded confused and without an opinion. The monkey… well, he was a monkey. You could almost smell him through the camera.”
“Yeah, but President Funky Monkey is a serious threat of winning the election.”
She patted his chest as he lay reclined. “No, you'll tame that circus beast and become a great leader. I know it, Pat knows it, now we just have to get you to know it too.”
“Until the election is over, I'm going to have nightmares about monkeys and big bananas. Thanks a lot.”
“Hey, guess what's for dessert? Bananas dipped in caviar, with little monkey-shaped crackers.” Piper rubbed her stomach. “Yum!”
THIRTY-THREE
Owant swam cautiously into Otollar's office. His head was down the entire way, yet he didn't strike a wall. He had swum in that manner so many times, it was comfortably familiar. He hovered in the water at the edge of the chamber silently awaiting recognition.
“What now?” Warrior One shouted, without looking up from his work.
“News, Glorious One.”
Otollar shot a glance at his aide. “News. How nice. What were the ogoric scores from yesterday?” He hurled a desk weight at Owant, who ducked just in time.
“I bring news of the attack fleet, Master. Not, I regret, the ogoric scores.”
Otollar stiffened. Anger evaporated from his face, replaced with tense expectation. “That does not sound favorable, my old friend.”
Owant doubled at the waist as much as possible. “It is not.” He rose to his full height. “The fleet was destroyed.”
“Destroyed? How many ships survived?”
“None, Glory. They were all completely destroyed.”
“And what of the infidel world? How much revenge did they inflict before the last warrior fell?”
Owant stood silent, his jaw tensing, for several heartbeats. “The fleet never came closer than five light-minutes of their target.”
“Wh… that’s not possible! Are those reports confirmed?”
He held forth a small cube. “Here's the report from the last ship to die. The smal
l supply vessel Gumnolar Provides sent it just before he fell silent.”
“Your summary, please!”
“Our force was met by one thousand enemy ships…”
“But, that's not possible either. I sent ten times that number. How could they imagine to win when so completely outnumbered?”
“Be that as it may, that was their response. Gumnolar Provides reports, as if added insult is required, that not all enemy vessels engaged in the battle. Many were held in reserve a safe distance away.”
“Owant! Please give me at least one good sign. How many of their ships were lost? How long did we hold our space? Please, tell me at least one redeeming aspect of this unthinkable calamity.”
“We did not damage or destroy a single of their ships. The confrontation lasted eight owits.”
To himself, quietly, Otollar mumbled, “Eight owits? Eight owits? That is less time than it takes to say the words: the Beast Without Eyes won a complete victory, and I, the servant of Gumnolar, failed absolutely.” Owant didn't respond. Quickly, Otollar spoke with authority. “Send a finfull of ships to try and confirm the enemy home-world's location. Otherwise, recall the second armada. The next Warrior One might be able to use the ships to honor Gumnolar where I failed him.”
“Otollar!” Owant had never spoken to his leader by name. “Please. You can't!”
As an indirect answer, Otollar replied, “I will go now to my sleep chamber. There, I will die. I will die of shame, humiliation, and from the knowledge that I betrayed Gumnolar's trust in me. May the next Warrior One fare better than I, or may the Beast Without Eyes consume him alive as he screams for undeserved mercy.”
THIRTY-FOUR
A few days later, I made up some excuse to visit Toño in his lab. As usual, he was underneath some kind of contraption using a power tool. “Yo, what's up?” I greeted.
His reply was muffled by the machine he was working on and its mechanical whine. “Hello. I'll be up in a second.” After a minute, he pulled himself up and removed his safety goggles. “There, that should hold it for now. What brings you to see me?”
The Forever Enemy (The Forever Series Book 2) Page 17
