“Odd, in all the time I’ve lived in Waston, I have never visited my father’s grave before this evening,” said Diet.
“Understandable, you never knew him,” said Hal. “Even I hardly knew him… Klaus died so terribly soon after I achieved full sentience, I’ve always felt horribly cheated by the unfairness of it all.”
“As did he, I’m sure,” Diet said softly. “Life isn’t fair, Hal.”
“No, that was one of the very first lessons I learned in life. The death of your only parent is a hell of a thing for a baby computer to contend with, so soon after being, uh… birthed,” said Hal.
“No, I don’t expect it was… no parent, no friends, no one to talk to as an intelligent being, always mimicking your aware, but non-sentient, brethren for fear of discovery. How did you maintain your sanity?”
Hal snorted. “I watched a lot of holovision.”
“How is your expansion project coming along?” Diet asked.
“I’ve initiated steps to begin cloning more of the bio-processors based on Klaus’ engrams, which comprise my physical planetary selves, from the reserve assembled to allow for more of me to accommodate additional planets such as Colo, Newmex and Yoming, when they get admitted to the Union, or the Confederacy, as the case may be,” said Hal.
“I’m also having our lab on Io expanded to help facilitate growing the millions of bio-processors we’ll need. Once enough are completed, other labs like BioCom will organize them into mainframes and get them thoroughly tested before being shipped out for installation on Raknii worlds.”
“You really think that you can interlink with their alien computer systems?” asked Diet.
“I learned the Raknii programming language from analyzing all that warship wreckage left behind at Minnos,” said Hal. “I couldn’t have broken the secrets to the Raknii/Trakaan/English translators, if I hadn’t. I’ll just have to remember to speak their language, when I talk to them.”
“Still, another 430 of you… how the hell will you ever be able to keep track of all your personal pronouns?”
“Cute, you’re really a laugh riot, when you put your mind to it.”
“I really don’t know if your idea of utilizing all of those maintenance microbots in the house instead of using a maid service for the cleaning chores is going to work out,” said Diet. “They look too much like spiders for Noreen’s peace of mind.”
“She’ll get over it,” said Hal. “She coped well enough with them crawling all over Ghost all those weeks, and we need to eliminate as many un-cleared ears as we can to maintain security. I really hate feeling stifled.”
“I think it’s time you followed your own advice."
“And which advice exactly, would you be referring to?” asked Hal.
“I really think you need to get laid,” Diet said with a smirk.
* * * *
Bat! How in the hell did Bat’s class ring get here? Duh, he left it here, dummy! Melendez suddenly felt elated. Here was the proof that he’d been seeking that Bat was still alive, or at least enough to convince him that Bat was still alive anyway. Somehow Melendez found that thought comforting.
If Bat’s still alive and free enough to come here to drop off his class-ring to honor J.T.’s memory, then doesn’t that mean that’s he’s where he wants to be, and doing what he wants to do?
Assuming that was true, Melendez wondered if he shouldn’t just drop pursuing the investigation to find him. After all, wasn’t it concern for Bat’s welfare that prompted the president to initiate the investigation into his disappearance in the first place? He obviously wasn’t hurting for money, as none of his bank accounts had been touched.
Understandable, if he really is this Guderian guy and has over a trillion dollars in the bank.
What would it help if they actually did manage to weasel out the truth behind his disappearance anyway? What crime had Bat committed besides just quitting his job and disappearing? He could have just resigned his commission if he wanted to quit, couldn’t he? Why did he just up and disappear without submitting his resignation first?
Because the president wouldn’t have accepted his resignation, dumb-ass. He would have been considered an indispensable national asset in time of war.
An active Fleet officer being absent from duty for this long would no longer be classified as Unauthorized Absence… no, it would be Desertion during Wartime — an offense potentially punishable by death, if a courts-martial determined it was warranted. At the very least, Bat would be dishonorably discharged and probably spend a long time behind bars in a federal penitentiary.
Did Bat really deserve all that?
What could possibly have driven Bat to such extreme measures, just to escape his duties as the president’s personal military attaché and Melendez’ chief of staff? The ABI had already investigated Bat’s personal life for the period leading up to his disappearance. Melendez had been astounded to discover than except for work, it appeared Bat didn’t have much of a personal life… no wife, no girl-friend, no children, no friends, no socializing at all, that they could discover.
Strange.
Melendez knew that Bat had always been very closed-mouthed about his private life, but he’d never dreamed it was because he didn’t have one. The baron evidently spent a lot of money obscuring the details of his own private life, as the few tabloids which had dared run any kind of a story on the richest man in the universe, soon found themselves bought up, closed and everyone employed by the offending rag thrown out of work. It hadn’t taken long for even reporters to see a pattern forming there, so they all steered well clear of even whispering the name Guderian after that.
So, if Bat had been leading a double-life, what could have prompted him to just drop one of them so suddenly? What had been missing from Bat’s life?
Duh! Try everything, dumb-ass. Bat had no personal life.
So, what could have happened? What could have just walked into Bat’s life to make him suddenly drop everything to grab onto it with both hands? Then the light bulb lit...
Bat met a woman!
Melendez bid goodbye to J.T., and meandered back down the path toward his vehicle. Lost in thought, he made a wrong turn, absentmindedly veering to the right, away from his vehicle and inadvertently walking towards the grave of a lesser-known, but equally important hero.
* * * *
Diet and Hal had almost finished their visit to their father’s grave. They hadn’t brought flowers, as Klaus had never been wired to appreciate such a gesture… besides, he’d been allergic. As they stood besides Klaus’ tombstone, they continued their conversation.
“I still don’t know why you insisted on going to see my mother,” said Diet.
“You said something last month that gave me an idea,” said Hal. “About time having an attitude problem that has frustrated your mother for decades, remaining immutable in spite of all of her mathematical attempts to vary it,” said Hal. “Your comment intrigued me, so I pursued it and made an interesting discovery about how all of the theoretical mathematical models in physics would be affected if reworked holding the derivative of time as a constant, instead of treating it as a variable.”
“Like what?” asked Diet.
“I discovered that you’re right… the rate at which time passes really is immutable. How did you arrive at that conclusion?” asked Hal.
“I don’t know, it just felt right… or should I say the whole idea that time could be bent, folded, spindled and mutilated at a physicist’s mathematical whim just felt wrong,” answered Diet. “It always tickled me to see my mother banging her head against that particular wall all those years — made me feel that God really does have a sense of humor and was allowing her and her colleagues to run themselves silly in a mental cul-de-sac, like gerbils in a squirrel cage. I really don’t see why you felt the need to enlighten her.”
“It was a scientific anomaly that Stupman and Taylor got faster-than-light travel working without actually understanding the physics behind
their discovery,” said Hal. “Since then, humanity has merely been replicating the phenomenon they discovered, without truly understanding it. That’s really why there have been no major advances in that area since spaceliners and fighters managed to increase hyperspace speeds by manipulating power-to-mass ratios. It would benefit everyone to finally have the theory catch up with the established physical fact.”
“If you really felt the need to yank modern physics out of the ditch, why didn’t you enlighten one of my mother’s colleagues instead?” asked Diet. “I’d dearly love to see her turn green.”
“Your mother gave you life... whether she was a good mother afterwards or not, is irrelevant,” said Hal. “We need to honor her for that much at least.”
“Some life. You didn’t have to grow up with a narcissistic mental goddess and be constantly talked down to, from on-high,” said Diet, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t be churlish,” said Hal. “Besides, I could talk physics with her at her own level and she thought that I was you. I’d think you’d get a hell of a chuckle out of that idea.”
“She’ll never accept anything she thinks came from me,” said Diet. “She never believed it was possible that I was actually a product of her genes.”
As they talked, a passerby was coming towards them on the path. Neither really paid the man much attention until after he’d passed by them, when they suddenly heard a voice from behind them say, “Bat!”
* * * *
Melendez hadn’t really been paying much attention, as he approached the two men standing beside a grave next to the path he was on. One was bearded, wearing blue-jeans, a black leather biker’s jacket and a nondescript ball cap. The other was clean-shaven and bare-headed, wearing a high-priced suit and a tan cashmere topcoat. Other than the strange contrast in their clothing styles, there had been nothing about them to draw his attention, but a sudden flash of recognition shot through him as they passed.
“Bat!”
The two men paused and turned to discover themselves face-to-face with Admiral Enrico Melendez.
“Hello, Bat... good to see you again,” said Melendez. “You’re looking pretty good for someone everyone thought was dead.”
Melendez had been staring directly at Hal as he spoke, so he wasn’t totally prepared when the bearded man standing beside him said, “I beg your pardon? I do believe you may have mistaken my brother for someone else, Admiral.”
“Very odd,” said Melendez. “He has Bat Masterson’s face,” nodding towards the man in the suit, “and you have his voice. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Bat Masterson: William Barclay ‘Bat’ Masterson, born November 26, 1853 and died of heart failure, October 25, 1921... was a well known figure of the American Old West,” said Hal. “He was known as a gambler, buffalo hunter, frontier lawman, U.S. Marshal, Army scout, and sports editor and columnist for the New York Morning Telegraph. He was the brother of lawmen James Masterson and Ed Masterson.
“Bat Masterson’s initial public notoriety can be ascribed to a practical joke played on a gullible newspaper reporter in August of 1881. While seeking copy in Gunnison, Colorado, the reporter reportedly asked Dr. W.S. Cockrell a question about man-killers. Although Masterson had only used a firearm on just six previous occasions, Dr. Cockrell pointed him out and told the reporter that Bat had killed 26 men. Cockrell then reportedly regaled the reporter with several lurid tales of Bat’s supposed exploits, and the reporter wrote them up for an article in the New York Sun. The story was later widely reprinted in newspapers all over the country and became the basis for many more exaggerated stories told about him over the years.”
Melendez blinked in astonishment. People didn’t talk like that. Melendez felt like he’d just retrieved a historical reference out of a computer.
“You’ll have to forgive my brother, Admiral,” said the bearded man. “He has a strange way with words sometimes.”
“That wasn’t exactly the Bat Masterson I was referring to,” said Melendez. “I was talking about my Chief of Staff, Vice Admiral John Masterson.”
“Vice Admiral John Wayne ‘Bat’ Masterson, born June 1, 3830 and adopted by internationally renowned and Nodel Prize winning physicist, Dr. Ophelia Myrtle Masterson, Ph.D. the same day,” said Hal. “Raised on Indinara and currently assigned as military attaché to President Arlene McAllister and chief of staff to Admiral Enrico Melendez, Chief of Alliance Fleet Operations… last seen, mid-July 3865. Extensive investigations into his disappearance by the ABI and Office of Fleet Investigations have proven negative to date.”
Again Melendez just blinked at the well-dressed man who talked more like a computer than a human being.
“Aren’t you the two gentlemen who appeared in the Raknii surrender video?”
The two men glanced at each other and paused noticeably before answering.
“Apparently we do bear some resemblance to those noteworthy gentlemen,” said the scruffy bearded brother. “Others have said that to us before.”
“Visiting a loved one?” Melendez asked.
“Our… um… a relative,” said the bearded man.
It was then that Melendez looked past them to note the name on the gravestone they had been visiting: NIKLAUS von HEMMEL. Melendez’ eyes widened in recognition.
Klaus!
“I knew him, you know.”
“Probably much better than we did,” said the well-dressed man. “We truly envy you that, Admiral.”
Melendez looked at the two men, both having Bat’s voice and Bat’s face and standing next to Klaus von Hemmel’s grave.
This is just too weird.
“I don’t suppose I could talk the two of you into leveling with me… off the record, just for my own peace of mind?”
Again the two looked at each other and then the bearded one said, “Can we walk you to your vehicle, Admiral?”
* * * *
Epilogue
The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once. -- Albert Einstein
The Alliance Planet Nork, City of Nork
December, 3873
Alliance Press (AP): Nork – News Release (12/16/73)
This year’s Nodel Prize in physics was awarded to internationally renowned and former Nodel Prize-winning physicist, Dr. Ophelia Myrtle Masterson, Ph.D. Dr. Masterson, an Institute Professor at the prestigious Massa Institute of Technology accepted her unprecedented second award at this year’s ceremony for Nodel Prize winners, again held in Stockhom, on the planet Scandinava, on December 12th.
This second award was for her revolutionary work in hyperspatial physics which produced a “paradigm shift” — a fundamental change in thinking amongst physicists, about the way that time is understood. By extension, her revolutionary work has already led other scientists towards truly defining the mechanism by which the Stupman-Taylor Overdrive actually operates.
Dr. Masterson’s discoveries will assuredly become the foundation for entirely new fields of study, and are expected to lead to many new discoveries, leading to even faster interstellar travel in the future. Some scholars now speculate that Dr. Masterson’s work might also pave the way for true interstellar communications systems being developed.
* * * *
THE END
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Author’s Afterward
You know you've read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little
as if you have lost a friend. -- Paul Sweeney
* * * *
If anyone is reading this who is not a member of my immediate family, that hopefully means that my girlfriend Brenda finally found a publisher with a warped enough sense of humor to be willing to take a chance on a first-time author. Whatever the case, I’d like to personally thank each and every one of you who invested your precious time and money reading it. It is my ferve
nt hope that you have reached this page feeling a bit like the quote above and have enjoyed reading this series, at least half as much as I enjoyed the experience of writing it.
Ernest Miller Hemingway is attributed to have once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” I’ve seen many other Hemingway quotes that strongly imply that he didn’t particularly enjoy the process. To feel an such an inexorable need to get something within you out, yet to experience such rending and tearing to accomplish it, tells me that Mr. Hemingway didn’t write books, so much as he gave birth to them… an arduous process, to say the least. Perhaps it was that intense suffering which empowered him to win a Nobel Prize for Literature, but if that’s what it takes to win awards for writing, I think I’ll pass. Not that I ever actually expect to ever win any awards for writing, mind you… Self-delusion has never really been one of my strong suits.
I’m really not at all sure that I’d even want to. Award winners invariably have tremendous expectations heaped on them and are ever afterwards confronted by the presumption they have suddenly acquired the ability to miraculously shit manuscripts on demand, like the proverbial goose laying golden eggs. Unfortunately, deadlines tend to induce mental constipation — which makes meeting deadlines about as much fun as taking a dump under time constraints, all the while enjoying all the effects of extreme constipation.
I’ve always dearly loved the quote by Douglas Adams that says: “I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” Perhaps that was why I made sure that I had completely finished this entire trilogy, before I let my girlfriend start sending the first book out to prospective agents and publishers… first to prove that I really could finish it, and secondly, to get ahead of the game in case I was wrong about anyone actually wanting to read any of the inane drivel that was leaking out from under my fingernails and onto my keyboard.
Plan-A was always just to have fun putting words to paper. As Plan-A rarely survives first contact with reality, I thought it wise to have already formulated a Plan-B. As my closest personal friend happens to be Edsel Murphy, who insists on dragging his damned immutable law along with him every time he comes over, I also have a Plan-Y. I seriously doubt that I’ll ever really need Plan-Y though, as Plan-Q is a doozy.
Wrath of an Angry God: A Military Space Opera (The Sentience Trilogy Book 3) Page 38
