ALSO BY CRAIG ROBERTSON
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THE FOREVER LIFE
by Craig Robertson
Would You Choose To Live Forever…
Imagine-It Publishing
El Dorado Hills, CA
Copyright 2016 Craig Robertson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission from the author.
ISBN 978-0-9973073-0-6 (Ebook)
Cover art work and design by Starla Huchton
Available at http://www.designedbystarla.com
Editorial assistance by Gabriella West
Available at http://www.Editforindies.com
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
Available at http://www.polgarusstudio.com
First Edition 2016
Imagine-It Publishing
This book is dedicated to my Author's Group, headed by the stalwart Scott Evans. Please know, my friends, that without your guidance, patience, and caring, the The Forever Life would have never have gotten off the ground. Thanks.
Table of Contents
ALSO BY CRAIG ROBERTSON
PRELUDE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
Shameless Self-Promotion
PRELUDE
The president sat in the Oval Office, alone in the dark. His thumb was anchored on his temple while his fingers rubbed his brow raw with worry. He was confronted by the greatest possible threat to life on Earth. The Ice Ages, Climate Change, and thermonuclear war were child's play compared with what he faced. Teddy Roosevelt had once said of being commander-in-chief, “In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing and the worst thing you can do is nothing.” This was indeed a time for action.
A soft knock on the door brought him back to the here-and-now. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. “Come.”
His chief of staff, Roger Carl, opened the door slowly and reached over to brighten the lights. He then ushered in two men: the secretary of state, Sherman Collins, and the other, the messenger. Both visitors were stiff and somber. Without being asked, all three sat across from the president, the messenger with some uncertainty.
Secretary Collins spoke first. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. President.”
Barely lifting his hand from his head, President Marshall waved a fatigued dismissal. His once-proud frame seemed deflated by the weight of current events. No one could recall the last time he'd told one of his silly jokes, or even smiled.
“This is Dr. Tip Benjamin,” Collins said. A faint nod was all the acknowledgement extended from Marshall. “Dr. Benjamin is the world's best authority on our present crisis. He brings, I fear, as poor tidings as we had anticipated. Dr. Benjamin.” He gestured that the messenger should speak.
Tip cleared his dry throat. “Good evening, Mr. President.” Tip was a thin man and one unaccustomed to high-pressure meetings. What astrophysicist was? “The secretary has briefed me as to what you know, so I'm not sure where to begin or how detailed to be.”
“Just talk. I'll ask questions when I need to.”
“Very well, sir.” He sucked at his lower lip. “About three months ago, a deep sky survey telescope detected what was initially felt to be a new comet. It quickly became apparent we weren't to be that lucky. It turned out to be a rogue planet, one not associated with any particular star.”
The secretary could tell Marshall's patience was flagging. “Dr. Benjamin, I believe you should skip the didactic and get to the bottom line.”
Tip shrank back in his chair. It was a bitch being a geek in the world of normal people. “The planet is the size of Jupiter, give or take, and it's moving really fast, for a planet, that is.” He stopped to consider his words. “Mercury is about ten percent its spe…”
“Dr. Benjamin! The president is a busy man.” Roger Carl had lost his patience.
“Ah, sorry. There I go again.” He looked briefly at the floor. “So, this large planet—we call it Vega, but that's not official yet or anything—is going to pass through our solar system and move off to who knows where. Before it does, Vega will pass close enough to Jupiter to throw that planet completely out of its present orbit around the Sun.”
The President asked quietly, “On this point, are you absolutely certain, Doctor?”
“Absolutely. One-hundred percent certain. Jupiter will fly off like a billiard ball, picking up speed. In a year or so, it will stabilize in a smaller and very odd-shaped orbit.”
Sitting up, Marshall asked, “And?”
Tip dropped his head as though an anchor hung around it. “And, on it's sixteenth orbit, Jupiter will directly impact Earth.”
“Again, Doctor, on this point are you absolutely certain?”
“One-hundred percent, sir.” He raised his arms above his head. “Really, I wish I wasn't so damn certain. Jupiter will strike us squarely, a direct bull-seye.” He slammed a fist into his palm. “Dead center.”
“Doctor Benjamin, there's so much riding on your prediction, I must ask again. Is there any chance, however slight, the two planets will miss each other?” Marshall slumped back in his seat. He already knew the answer.
“Sorry, Mr. President. None whatsoever.”
Looking to his secretary of state, Marshall said, “So, in ninety-seven years, the Earth will be annihilated.” Back to Tip, he asked, “What, precisely, Dr. Benjamin, will occur?”
Tip held his hands up in the shape of a football. “Our tidally deformed planet will pass into Jupiter's gaseous surface,” he exploded his fingers apart, “and some dust will come out the other side a few days later.”
Collins shrugged, and replied, “Well, at least we have almost a century to prepare. That's something.”
Tip cleared his throat loudly.
Marshall was too tired and too angry to brook indirectness. “Do you have something to add, Doctor? I can't do the right thing if I do not have all the facts.”
Tip folded his shoulders forward, and tried to disappear between them. “Well, the sixteenth is the orbit where a collision is certain. But, orbit fifteen may rain hell from above, pun intended.” Furrowing his brow, Tip remarked, “Fourteen may not be particularly enjoyable, either, unless you're carrying a really big steel umbrella!” He harrumphed a quiet laugh.
Marshall lost it. “Look, Benjamin, I don't have the time or inclination to play twenty-questions with you. If I don't make the sensible choice and blow my brains out before tomorrow, I can't waste time. What!”
Tip was shaking like a frightened dog beaten by his cruel owner. “Not only does Jupiter have several moons, but, after the interaction with Vega, it will likely trail behind it a large debris field. Certainly by orbit fifteen, our planet might be struck by someth
ing big enough to cause major damage.”
“So,” Marshall said to no one in particular, “we have ninety-seven years, tops. We may only have ninety-one or less, if our luck remains as bad as it's been.”
Carl stood up. “Explain to me, please, why we can't just blow the damn thing up? I'm told we can't. But, I mean, if the combined nuclear weapons held on Earth worked together, how could that not destroy Jupiter?”
Tip angled his head. “It's just too damn big, Roger. If we launch all our nukes at Jupiter and throw the Moon at it too, it wouldn't change a thing. And even if we could blow it apart, the little pieces would orbit together and would still make mincemeat out of Earth just as efficiently.”
A frustrated Carl asked, “Couldn't we redirect Jupiter? I've heard they would try that on an asteroid that threatened Earth.”
Tip shook his head. “Sorry, Roger, no can do. Yes, we can alter an asteroid's orbit enough by flying rockets to one side of it, using the ship's gravity to redirect it. But, like I just said, Jupiter is too massive and the time left is too short. There is nothing we can do to save the Earth. You gotta let that idea go.”
Collins said hesitantly, “Mr. President—John—what are we going to do?”
He tented his palms over his face and rubbed it vigorously. “We're going to work like hell and pray like hell and hope to God we catch every single break between then and now.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Sherm, you and I both have grandkids young enough to die in this catastrophe unless we do something. We will not be remembered as the administration that chose to do nothing. We will commit every dollar of our wealth and every minute left to us to salvage as much of our species, of human culture, as we can.” He took a deep breath and looked out the window. “We will evacuate the Earth. We will find a new home for humanity. Nothing less is acceptable.” He stood. “So, gentlemen, we had best get started. Sleep is a luxury we can no longer afford.”
ONE
Three years later in Houston
It wasn't every day I had my entire being, everything I ever was or ever knew, dumped into a robot built by low-bid government contract. What could possibly go wrong? The white coats reassured me that none of the test animals showed any statistically significant mental impairment from the transfer. Great! No rats were stupider than they already were. But the whole process was so prohibitively expensive, full scientific vetting wasn't possible. Worst-case scenario, my brain would be scrambled into warm mush and the android would remain lifeless and empty. Jon all gone. Heads would shake and a few kind words would be said. Then, the search for someone to blame and a new volunteer would begin in earnest.
You know what? I'm not worried in the least about the risks. I'm the perfect man for this job. Youngest officer to make USAF Major in decades, a decorated combat veteran, and a graduate of the astronaut program. Two doctorates, one in biology and one in physics. Since divorcing Mrs. Controlfreak years back, I'm as single as can be. Once that bitten, eternally shy am I. Plus, I'm an only child, both my parents are already in the ground, and my nearest relative is so distant I could legally marry the woman. Not that I want to marry my demented ninety-seven-year-old third cousin awaiting death in a nursing home. But, my point is, Jonathan Alan Ryan is going to be the man who helps save this planet's butt. The upcoming procedure and mission might just make that possible. Not sure I want to live forever, but, for now, it's one day at a time.
One more briefing with the suits and IFGOs, and I can get on with it. Oh, excuse me. For those never lucky enough to be military pilots, IFGOs stands for, and please excuse my French in advance, Ignorant Fucking Ground Officer. Not really a term of endearment, but there it is. I fly planes: they fly desks. I risk my butt: they risk splinters in theirs. One more boring meeting. I can do this. At all times, I never forget that there are three equally qualified pilots dying to take my place, and the boss, General Saunders, would love to bump me just because he can.
In fact, once I'm clear of the docking bay and alone on my ship, I do believe I'm going to have to tell that SOB off. What's he going to do? I will have been downloaded into an android with no possibility of reversing the process and be outbound on a mission slated to last the better part of a century. Saunders, sure as hell's a bad place for penguins to nest, won't be standing at the dock awaiting my return with a couple of MPs. But, for now, I have to stay focused. No screw-ups and in a little while, I'll make history. Or be history. Hey, either way, I'm kicking the can down the road.
I stepped up to the main security checkpoint before taking the elevator down the twenty stories to the main laboratories. To the sergeant, I said, “Morning, Jimmie. How's it going today?”
He popped me a salute, and said, “Fine, Major. And you?”
“Jimmie, don't they tell you anything around here? Today's the day they shrink-wrap my brain and try to stuff it into an untested android. If that doesn't kill me, pretty soon they're shooting me off in a completely experimental spacecraft, alone, for a hundred years.”
With a blank expression, he said, “So, you're looking at busy day, right?”
“I'm thinking so. Yes.”
Jimmie shrugged. “I'm hoping for meatloaf tonight. You're clear to proceed, Major.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. Oh, and maybe save me a slice, if there's enough. I love meatloaf.”
He saluted. “Sure, no problem. I just hope the missus can wrap it well enough to last that long.”
I made it to the meeting room just on time. Saunders was there, as was our lead scientist, Dr. Toño De Jesus. All the section heads were there to go though our final checklists together. The three alternate pilots were hovering like vultures.
Saunders stood with a grunt. After a loud clearing of his throat, he began. “Today we're going to take an enormous step forward. I expect perfection from each and every one of you. If any of you find yourselves looking at me across my desk tomorrow morning because you screwed something up, I promise you, it will not be pleasant.” He thumped the desk with his knuckles. “Just hope whatever mistake you made killed you. It will save me the bother.” He scanned the room like a shark surveying a school of fish, to see if anyone reacted poorly. “Very well. Professor, the floor is yours. But make it quick. We're all very busy today.”
Nervous by nature, De Jesus hesitantly stood up. His tall, thin frame and long, thin face were set off poorly by his tendency to stoop forward, as if he were years older than he looked. His loose-fitting clothes only amplified his hunched, drained appearance. He looked to me. “Good morning, Major Ryan. I trust you are well.”
“Couldn't be better, Doc.”
He turned to the others. “Any glitches or stops on anyone's final checklist?” No one said a peep. “Fine, fine.” He looked to the wall clock. “In approximately ninety minutes we will commence the upload of Major Ryan to the android. If anyone runs into a problem, however slight, notify the general or me immediately. Otherwise, I suggest we all get to our stations and do our jobs.”
I had to say it. Heck, it might be the last time I saw them, or anyone else, for that matter. “Ah, a moment of your time, if you don't mind.”
Everyone looked to Saunders. He scrunched up his face like he was significantly constipated, but finally said, “Unscheduled, but, all right, Major. If it's brief and mission critical.”
I stood up and crumpled my hat in my hands. “Sure is, sir. I just wanted to thank you all for your hard work. Especially those of you working to make the android as human as possible. I did have one question, before I go any further, though.” To me, Saunders looked like he was going to puff up and explode. Too bad he didn't. “For those of you in the Genital Department. When you signed off on 'fully functional,' is that a promise, or just your general goal?”
The room erupted in snickers, well, aside from the boss. He looked as displeased as a cat with a can of sardines. He glared at me a moment. “Very droll, Major. If you're finished with your locker-room jokes, do you think we could be gettin
g on with it?”
“Of course, General Saunders.”
My mother warned me up until the day she died to stop being my own worst enemy. I know she meant well, but it sure has been more fun my way.
A driver waited outside the meeting room with a golf cart transport. The main laboratory was about a quarter mile away. The general, doctor, and I mounted up. We were all silent for the short trip. Once there, I headed to the locker room, while the other two made their way to control central. In the dressing room, I donned my designated clothing. In honor of the historic significance and the presence of news photographers, the higher-ups decided that I shouldn't wear a traditional medical gown. They felt there was insufficient dignity if my naked butt flashed across a holo screen. Also, a Hollywood director was consulted to suggest camera angles and general movements. One of his actors demonstrated that if I was seated in the exam chair wearing a standard-issue gown, my masculinity was at risk of entering the public record. So, I wore a modified toga. It wound around me tightly one and a half times and tied with a thin belt.
The design of the outfit was actually hotly debated. One camp held that the entire kit should be white. Understated, antiseptic, and traditional. A disparate segment of those entitled to an opinion favored a military palate, such a Air Force blue and gray. A differing gaggle of fashionistas felt a bold new look was called for by the enormity of the occasion. They argued against a Roman toga, suggesting a smock-over-towel-wrap ensemble. The colors, they proclaimed, should speak of the future: iridescent oranges transitioning into electric yellows.
When told of the controversy, Saunders decreed that the robe would be white. His robe at home was white and it was a perfectly fine robe. The assistant asked what color his robe's sash was. That turned out to be an awkward, TMI moment for both men. The general remarked off-handedly that he didn't have a belt for his robe. Oh myyy. When the nearly apoplectic assistant pointed out the lack of privacy, Saunders screamed that the belt would be white, too.
The Forever Life (The Forever Series Book 1) Page 1
