The Forever Life (The Forever Series Book 1)

by Craig Robertson

  “No way I'm forgetting about this little treasure! Do you know the kind of energy this stuff can give me?” She smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Is that coffee I smell? You were hiding that, too?” Al made the sound of clearing his throat. She checked the screen again. “It's right here in the ship's log. How'd I miss that? Hey, you know what? Who cares? We're sitting pretty now!” She smiled even wider and held both treasures aloft. She looked…hungry.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As soon as I mentally regrouped from the impact of the data corruption, I set a course for Earth. We were a little over four light-years away. With all engines blazing, it would take my little band of travelers around seven years to arrive, ship's chronometer. That would be sixteen years, Earth time, so we'd probably arrive back in 2135. That was fifteen years, maximum, before the planet went puff.

  Other Arks would be out here, scouting for colonization sites. Since I was the first mission, the planners scheduled me back on the early side for a few reasons. First, they wanted a bird in the hand. Some of my reports would be streaming in from remotes, but they wanted hard data and samples with plenty of time to make the most of them. Also, if I'd had any significant issues or glitches, we could potentially alert the other pilots sooner than later. The other consideration was that I'd hit all the closest, lowest-lying fruit. To try and squeeze in another system would have been very tight. The last thing anyone wanted was for me to return after 2150, the drop-dead date.

  My lonely flight out to my first target, Barnard's Star, took ten years. That had been tough. The shorter return jump promised to be a lot nicer, assuming my crew held up. Ffffuttoe had survived trips of similar duration, so, hopefully, one more wasn't too much to ask of her metabolism. Sapale's funny-looking grasses were sustaining her. Her body weight continued to be stable as the months passed. But I did still lived in fear I'd have to watch, powerless, as my brood's-mate starved slowly before my eyes.

  One observation about ruminant creature like Sapale. Anyone who's lived on a farm, especially if that farm has cows, knows the troublesome volume of gas they produce. Unfortunately, my shipmate did so too, at a prodigious level I might add. Since everyone on Kaljax had the same physiology, farting was completely socially acceptable. No big deal. According to her, if one had to break wind, then one broke wind. It didn't matter if one was in mid-sentence, riding an elevator, or on a romantic first date. When the scented methane had to come out, out it came. That aspect of life with my brood's-mate was the one I adjusted to most slowly.

  On the topic of Sapale's inner works, I did learn something truly fascinating. Her species had evolved a wild method of reproduction. Once she reached maturity, a Kaljax female stored sperm. Whenever she had intercourse, a tiny percent of the sperm were directed into a pouch. Nutrients were provided there so the sperm could live for decades. For males, that meant having children was a sort of lottery. The more times you donated a sample, the percentage of your sperm in her pouch increased. But, unless your brood's-mate was a virgin, you never knew if you were the daddy. Sapale said that, in her culture, sexual promiscuity was frowned on (duh!). But for adults to have multiple partners over time was the norm. When a female decided it was time to get pregnant—she was always vague as to what that actually meant—she released hormones that matured an egg and ejected a small proportion of the sperm. The upshot as far as I was concerned was that once we were safe and sound back on Earth, she could have children. I could be stepdad to a brood of football-headed rug rats! Who'd a thunk it?

  One last note on my Sapale. Even before the halfway mark in our journey, I was totally, blissfully, and irrevocably in love with her. She became my brood's-mate. It didn't arise from boredom. That state of mind was quite impossible around the girl. Nor was it due to the significant limit on my options. She was simply the perfect woman for me. Figures it took an alien to fit that bill. Most of all, it wasn't a passing fancy. She became the switch that turned on all the lights in my universe and my guiding star. I knew I would love her forever. I was immortal. She was not. I was in for a fall and I didn't care.

  Finally—can I get an amen—Ark 1 officially entered our solar system. We were right on schedule. It was April 2133 when we shot past the orbit of Pluto. Ark 1 had started to decelerate months before, because it's very hard to stop a bullet moving near the speed of light. As we slowed, the time interval to Earth grew. That was fine by me, since I was beginning to have mixed feelings about being back. It actually took us the better part of a year to get home after passing Pluto.

  Once we were close, there was only a few hours lag on communications. That meant I could catch up on the news—eighty years of news. The novelty of that apparent luxury wore off in less than a week. Things were bad on Earth.

  Ever since news was invented, it had been criticized for its predilection for showing violence and mayhem. It was said, for example, there was no such thing as “good news.” If was “good,” it wasn't “news.” Such was no longer the case. Society was so tormented, so chaotic, and in such flux that if it wasn't genocide, it wasn't news.

  I told Al to monitor all the unofficial broadcasts he could, but to update me only if it actually concerned either us or our mission. Sapale, on the other hand, couldn't get enough of the holo-news shows. She wanted to learn more about her adopted society. It was also quite entertaining for her. She would point at the screen and ask me if my species actually did this or that horrific thing to one another. There was a good deal of judgment in her tone, to be sure. Can't say I blamed her, though. What she viewed spoke rather poorly for our species.

  As we passed the orbit of Mars, I got my first look at Jupiter. At the time, it was nowhere near Earth in its new orbit, but it was spooky to look at it, knowing what was to come. Still, it looked, for all the world, like it always had. I guess I imagined it might have grown horns and a tail, or something.

  The plan was for us to dock with an orbital platform in high earth orbit. When we were only two and a half months out, direct communication with NASA became necessary. I have to say I was glad the mission was still controlled by them. That much stability over eighty years was reassuring. The first human I spoke to in almost a century was Colonel William French, CAPCOM. The acronym came from when spacecraft were called “capsules.” Only flight directors and CAPCOMs were allowed to speak to a crew in flight. That way, there was no possibility of receiving conflicting information.

  “On behalf of a grateful planet, welcome back, General Ryan.”

  The sweetness of those words was evaporated when I heard my new rank. “General Ryan? What, Congress has gone and made me a general officer? Things are crazier than I imagined down there.”

  “It was gradual, General. You moved up the list slowly. Like I said, we're all pretty proud of you. But, yes, you've got all four stars now.”

  “Imagine that. Me, littered with all those scrambled eggs (hat embellishments) on my hat.”

  “You'll shine like a new sun, sir.”

  “Okay, now that we got the formalities over with, you need to call me Jon.”

  “No problem, Jon. I'm Bill.”

  “So, who's the boss nowadays?”

  “The mission commander is Lt. Gen. Cynthia York.”

  “Is she okay or just another she-man with more ambition than talent?”

  “She's the best officer I've ever served with.”

  “Oh, crap. She's standing right next to you, isn't she?”

  “That's a negative, Jon. She's sitting down.”

  “Tell her I say hello. Tell her I'm saluting real nice, too.”

  “Gen. York says she's impressed. All is forgiven. Huh? You want me to tell him what? You got it. Jon, she just handed me an envelope. She says it contains the answer to your next question. Ah, what's your next question?”

  “I…I don't rightly know. How ’bout you open it up and let's all find out what I'm thinking.”

  There was a ripping sound, then a muffled well I'll be damned. “It's from some guy named Gen. Saunde
rs, in his own handwriting. He say, 'Yes, Major, I am dead.' Never heard of the…oh, he was your commander when you left? Well, whoever he was, I can confirm he's pushing up daisies.”

  “We didn't get along so well,” I clarified.

  “You don't say?” was his flat response. Then, back to a business tone, he filled me in. “You're to dock at Station A-11-23. Coordinates are being sent to your AI. After you're on station, you'll receive your next orders. The staff of the station will secure your craft and your samples.”

  “All but two,” I said firmly. “I have two sentients with me. They're my crew. Oh, and please ask the station's mess to whip up several kilos of a neutral-flavored protein meal. They're both hungry.”

  “Gen. York says the creatures need to be quarantined. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  “Then I'm not docking.”

  “Jon, you now have the general's full attention. She asks me to confirm that message because she's certain there was an equipment malfunction with the original version.”

  “I've studied my two crew members—not creatures—for decades. They pose no danger and they're in no danger. My crew stays with me or I shove off back to a more friendly port.”

  “Gen. York says she is coming to sympathize with Gen. Saunders. She says she will meet you personally on A-11-23 when you get there. She also directs me to end this transmission. Until later, my friend.”

  “Ryan out.” No way I trusted the lives of the two beings I'd grown to love to stone-hearted white coats. They'd dissect them without a second thought. If York didn't like it, she could stow it where the sun didn't shine. Either that, or she could explain to the waiting public why I was confined to quarantine too, because that's where I'd be, along with my crew.

  Finally, the day came. I slowed to a full stop. We'd dock safely. My mission was complete! To her word, York was seated outside the airlock, alone, when I stepped through. She rose and saluted, me being the superior officer. I snapped off a crisp return salute. She closed the distance between us confidently and extended her hand. “Welcome home, Gen. Ryan. It's an honor to finally meet you.”

  I responded formally, still not sure of her endgame. “It's a pleasure to meet another human after forty years.” For dramatic effect, I scratched the side of my head, meant to reflect thought. “But local time, that's eighty plus years. So,” I looked up, “were your parents born before I began my mission?”

  “Yes. They both remember the day you launched and talked about it often. They were in grade school. Class was canceled for an entire afternoon to discuss the journey of the brave Col. Ryan.”

  “Okay, so you owe me, on their behave, right?”

  “So, we've established that you outrank me, you're twice my age, a legend, and that I owe you a legacy debt. But, there still remains the matter of me being your commanding officer.” She sat down. “Will there to be a problem with that, Ryan?”

  I gave her my best lovable-guy smile. “No, Cindy, there won't be.” I threw her a two-fingered salute.

  She returned my signal. “Call me Cindy again and you'll end up on KP duty for a very long time. I go by Cynthia.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  She was very serious all of the sudden. “Why weren't the viable sentients mentioned in any of your reports? By any standard, scientific or military, that's a fairly provocative breech.”

  “I wasn't sure either would make it here alive, Ma'am. No point announcing a thing only to have it turn out to have been wishful thinking.”

  “Looking at me as you are, does it appear to you that I buy such a weak explanation?”

  Better not cut up anymore. She was serious. Give the diablita her due. “You should. It's part of the reason.”

  “The remainder of the justification for your dereliction being what?”

  “They are not specimens. They're my crew. One is my brood's-mate. If I let the white coats know they were coming, they'd have international conventions planning how to vivisect them. By the time I get back, Congress would have passed the Alien Dismemberment Act approving the sorry deal and I'd be out two friends.”

  Cynically, she peppered in a rub. “And a brood's-mate?”

  “And my brood's-mate.”

  She gently rested her hand on her eyelids. “For now, up here, they're free to roam with you if you can provide me with an ironclad guarantee there'll be no problems.”

  “There will be no problems.”

  “I will ask once. Is there any thing else you wish to report that might have been omitted heretofore?”

  You mean like a force field generator, probe, or laser finger? “No, Ma'am. Nothing.” For reasons I couldn't articulate well, I decided to play matters as close to the vest as I had all my alien interactions. Something seemed…off. Probably just years of being away, but I determined it was the better part of valor, at the present time.

  She stood. “Fine. Again, welcome back, Ryan. You'll be shown to your quarters directly. Any questions?”

  “None that can't wait, ma'am.”

  After she led me to a room down the hall, York split. The officer of the day, a Major Anderson, escorted us to the mess hall. It was a small one, but I thought Ffffuttoe would die of a heart attack when she saw it. A buffet line! I had to grab her by the back of her pelt to stop her from hopping on top of the pans. I explained she could eat her fill, but that she must do so from a tray and slowly. I didn't want her to explode based on pent-up greed.

  She took a tray and had the mess hand pile it with some of everything until it could hold no more. I gave up trying to get her to use plates and bowls. She kept reminding me I said she had to eat from a tray. That's what she was going to do. Period. I let her have her fun. It was quite the sight. She shoveled mass quantities down her throat as a gathering crowd cheered her on. An alien gorging itself. What could be more entertaining?

  Sapale and I took more dignified portions and sat at the table next to Ffffuttoe. We didn't want to be struck with flying morsels, of which there were many. For her part, Sapale made certain to sample everything that didn't contain vegetable matter. Years of grazing had soured her on that class of edibles. Whenever someone came over to congratulate me, I introduced them to my brood's-mate. She shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with many a thrilled station member. I told everyone who Ffffuttoe was, but no one wanted to interrupt her food orgy with small talk.

  Later, we were shown our quarters. One room for the three of us was all that could be spared. But, it was larger than Ark 1, so we couldn't complain. While my crew slept, I check periodically with Al. He said most samples had been off-loaded and computer records transferred. He mentioned something about upgrades to our system. Apparently some technicians were planning on reworking our network. Al said it was as good an idea as was my bringing Ffffuttoe on board. He was just as certain it was equally desirable. As he was dead set against me bringing along what he called a foul-smelling carpet, I took his coded meaning.

  I instructed him to be as helpful with the technicians as he'd always been with me. I knew he'd understand that message. I wasn't comfortable with sneaky alteration of the ship that was still under my command. Hopefully Al could foil their efforts without seeming to do so. I had to decide if they were simply making routine improvements or if the upper-ups were trying to pull a fast one on me. Why would they want to alter the ship's systems so quickly? Didn't seem reasonable, but, maybe years of exploration had jaded me. Sometimes, there wasn't anything lurking in the shadows. And, we were talking my own people here. Finally, I reminded Al that my superiors hated surprises. Since we had nothing to shield from them, I ordered him to make certain they had access to everything necessary. He said he'd make sure there were no barriers discovered. Good computer!

  The next morning York met us in the mess hall. “Are your quarters acceptable?” she asked without interest.

  “Just fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “We released the news of your return late yesterday. Not surprisingly, every reporter on the planet want
s to interview you.”

  “I expected as much.”

  “We decided to let Stars and Stripes be the first one to have access to you.”

  Stars and Stripes? The newspaper read mostly by people on foreign deployment or trapped on military bases? Stars and Stripes, blessed with a circulation of around one-hundred thousand? How underwhelming. “Ma'am, I'm curious how that decision was arrived at. Why not a live news conference or at least The New York Times?”

  She tightened her jaw. “You've been away a long time, Ryan. Much has changed. Until you land on your feet, we want to protect you. We wouldn't want to overtax you. Plus, keep in mind you're still on active duty. We feel Stars and Stripes is the logical choice.”

  “I didn't realize I was yet to land on my own two feet.” I looked at them under the table.

  “Ah yes, your vaunted, disrespectful wit. It reinforces our commitment to unwrapping you slowly, Ryan. We don't want any slip-ups due to your not being fully oriented as to the situation you've returned to.”

  That sounded like political double-talk with a dark underpinning. Not good. “What situation is that, Cynthia? Maybe you could fill me in.”

  She set her mug down with finality. “All in good time, Ryan. The reporter and stills photographer are waiting for you in my office, if you're ready.”

  “Now?”

  She stood. “Finish your coffee if you like. I'll meet you there.”

  So, my boss was going to chaperone my interview. No possible conflict there. Or maybe censor it would be a more accurate description. Why was I getting such a bad taste in the back of my mouth? What was the universe trying to tell me?

  The interview went well. That is, if you define “well” as short, scripted, and suffocating. The reporter had a list of questions to ask. I made it a point of peeking at the paper York had in her hands. It was the same, numbered list. So much for “free press.” He asked such penetrating, probative questions as: What's it like to stand on another planet, did you read any good books during your flight, and has your ship perform up to expectations. That year's Pulitzer was in no danger of going to him. York had the photographer take one shot. Her shaking hands with me in front of an American flag. Need I say more? As quickly as possible, she dismissed me. My, but that was unusual treatment for a returning hero. No ticker tape parade, not even a holo. Had I developed bad breath or offensive body odor?