Of course, there was still time. If we collectively put our shoulders to the wheel, ten thousand ships might still be possible. It was a matter of perception on the part of the public. They saw the small but still powerful US government as proof that the average citizen had no chance of survival. It had become self-consumed, imperious, and unsympathetic. If the US folded so conspicuously, surely the UN would follow suit. Then, if everybody worked real hard, all the rich and influential bosses could hightail it to safety while average folk fried. That situation needed to change and soon.
We required a true, charismatic leader. A Martin Luther King, John Kennedy, or Winston Churchill type was needed. But, where was he or she to be found? If they were common, we'd already have one. It sure as hell wasn't me. I was a pilot. I could help, be inspirational and all that, but I had no stomach for politics. What sane person did? Time would tell. I could only hope a savior would emerge. That made me chuckle. I was a savior, back on Kaljax. Somehow, I figured that qualified me for nothing back home.
A few weeks back, I got an urgent call from Toño. Ark 3 was heading home at top speed, several years too soon. Only broken transmissions had been received, but something was very wrong. Great, just what the world needed. More bad news. He asked me to return to Spain, where the UN space efforts were centered. Though the mission was still controlled by the Americans, the UN, via Toño, could listen in on the whole affair.
That time out, Sapale joined me. She said she had to stand on the surface of an alien world at least once. How could I refuse her? Not surprisingly, she caused quite the commotion wherever we went. I loved it! She shined like a flare in the dead of night. She engaged strangers in conversation and answered every question asked, no matter how lame or personal it was. My brood's-mate wowed ’em. I was proud of her. Toño was smitten, I could tell. He saw past her external dissimilarities to humans and appreciated her inner beauty. I'd check with Sapale later. Maybe I could hook Toño up with one of her sisters.
In Mission Control, I stood shoulder to shoulder with Toño, straining to understand what Sim was saying. The pilot was Carl Simpson. We all called him Sim. Partly, we did so because he bore a vague resemblance to a monkey. He knew that, so our handle for him drove him nuts. That, of course made us love it all the more. I'd known him well. He was a good choice of someone to lead a mission. I asked Al to try and filter out some meaning, but all he could come up with was something about “abort” and “hostiles at the.” He was well outside the solar system when he sent his initial messages. Assuming he continued homeward, we'd get a clear signal sooner or later.
Within a few days, the picture became depressingly clear. Ark 3 was under attack. Some ship was following him at high speed. He was able to make slightly better time, so the gap was inching longer. Why the alien craft was chasing him was unclear. Finally, a week later, we received a complete signal. He was repeating it in a repeating loop.
Mission Control. This is Captain Simpson of Ark 3. I am under hostile attack. I am returning toward Earth along a vector that will allow me to raise you as soon as possible without betraying completely your location. I do not—repeat, do not—plan on returning to Earth, at least as long as I'm being chased.
My pursuers are the Listhelon. They live on the third planet orbiting my second system, Lacaille 9352. I achieved orbit, determined that an advanced civilization lived there, and attempted to contact them from orbit. They never sent a reply. My ship's AI translated their language and monitored most of their communications. He learned that they're a radically xenophobic race. They believe their god created only one true people. Any others would be, by definition, unholy—the work of their devil. Any other sentients found must be slaughtered.
They have encountered one other advanced species before. It used to occupy LC 4. That civilization was completely destroyed by the Listhelon a few hundred years ago. The planet is now uninhabitable. A nuclear winter persists to this day of such magnitude that I estimate hundreds of thousands of megaton fusion explosives must have been used to sterilize the planet. These are totally hostile creatures. They are not amenable to logic, reason, and negotiation. They wish only genocide for any other life. Period.
Their current technology is similar to our current level. The craft chasing me is using an ion drive similar to mine. As she's a bit more massive, I'm able to keep my distance for the time being. Assuming the location of Earth remains hidden from them, I urge you to never send another mission to the system. I will not be captured. If they come much closer, I will self-destruct Ark 3. Tell my family I love them with all my heart. Sim out.
A couple weeks later, Sim changed the message. It was no longer a repeating loop. It was a live, ongoing broadcast. Poor son of a bitch.
Captain Simpson aboard Ark 3 to Mission Control, Houston. We have a problem. I'm as sorry as shit to have to make this report, on several levels. A small vessel, perhaps a shuttle, maybe a manned-missile, has broken off from the main Listhelonian ship pursuing me. It's headed straight at me. Its speed is such that it will overtake Ark 3 in seven weeks. As I'm at maximum velocity and have no real defensive capabilities, seven weeks is how long I have to live.
That's not the bad news. The mothership has changed course. She's headed directly for our solar system. My ruse failed. I can only assume they decided the nearest star along my course was my home. In any case, she's heading for Earth. They'll arrive to Pluto's orbit in six to eight months. Sorry, guys. I know what you'd say, but I can't help feeling it's all my fault. I brought them down on my own people.
Obviously, any subsequent assaults from Listhelon will take much longer. They're ten light-years away. If they haven't sent out an armada yet, they could hit you maybe once before Jupiter resolves their issues with our planet. I suspect, however, they might've already launched one. They're mindlessly aggressive regarding other life forms. My advice is to plan on at the very least for one attack from Listhelon no longer than ten years from now.
I'm sorry I can't tell you how to defend against them. I haven't had a opportunity to study their technology enough. Just please don't underestimate them. Throw every fucking thing you have at the bastards. Don't think of negotiation or prisoners or anything other than total annihilation of one side or the other. It's us or them, end of story. Naturally, once you've launched our colonization fleet, it will be fair game for them. It will be slow and easy to track. Shit, I'm so sorry. There's no way I can make this right. I may have condemned my species to extinction. Please, please, try and find it in your heart to forgive me.
Assuming there are no other updates, I will begin my final transmission in six weeks. I'll document my encounter with the smaller vessel until it's over. Perhaps you can learn something of their technology that way. Maybe then my mission won't be a complete write-off. Sim out.
I couldn't imagine the hell he was going through. Like me, I know Sim wasn't afraid to die. But for our kind, failure was much worse than death. To let your buddies down was a disgrace we simply couldn't accept. I knew how Sim thought. I wished I could have at least spoken to him once, let him know it was okay. But, that wasn't going to happen. He would die alone, certain of his failure, and unable to forgive himself. Poor Sim.
Six weeks later, we monitored his final report. The transmission showed the video of his stern view.
Sim here. As you can see, the little bugger that wants to dead me is faster than I thought. He's one thousand kilometers off, closing at seven-hundred kilometers per hour. Assuming he doesn't pull alongside and ask me to join him for tea and cupcakes, he'll impact me in just a bit. I'm jettisoning everything that's not bolted down. Maybe I'll get lucky and the son of a bitch'll run into a seat cushion and go boom.
The mothership is still on a dead course of the Sun. No changes in course or speed. Do me a big favor and blow the shit out of her when she's in range.
A personal message to his wife and family followed. I omitted that part. It was private. To pick back up where the smaller vessel closed on Ark 3, the
se were Sim's final words:
Looks to be a shuttlecraft, odd configuration, though. My AI says there's a nuke mounted on the prow. It's a jerry-rigged setup, some type of improvisation. No way of knowing for sure, but it's fairly small, maybe a few kilotons. I guess I'll find out pretty quick here. Doubt you'll get any signal, though, after it explodes. Too bad. Might have been helpful.
Wait! I'll redirect a remote and have it send you a recording. It should have enough gain to beam the signal all the way home. Okay, that's set up. Hope it worked.
For the hell of it, I've hailed them. The only response has been the same cheer they've made all along. They keep repeating: Gumnolar will live forever. No clue as to who the jerk-off is. Must be their deity, but maybe it's their favorite light beer.
A mechanical voice cut in: One minute to impact.
Final specifications on the craft sent. No portholes to get a look at one of the rats. Sorry. I jettisoned the ship's AI an hour ago. Hopefully it will survive the blast and drift until recovered. I doubt the mothership will bother to come after it, but there's a chance. Might buy you some more time. At least this sorry bastard can't go after it once he's recycled to elementary particles.
Ten seconds to impact.
Still no significant details visible. There is a small hatch…yes! He's opened the starboard hatch. Well, I'll be…
That was it. The transmission cut out in static. The remote did indeed sent a pretty good image before the blast reached it. It showed a Listhelon leaning out an open hatch, holding onto the seal. He waved one arm maniacally as his body swelled and quickly broke to pieces in the vacuum of space. Man, was he ugly. He had a small, round head that looked all the world like a rock. His face was similar to one of those deep sea fish with oversized, overlapping fangs. The taunting arm was more of a fin, a long, thin flipper. What was visible of his torso was short and squat, ending in his long, thick neck. And there was something flooding out the hatch. It vaporized as it touched the outside, but it seemed to be a liquid. The Listhelonians were an aquatic species! The warrior's stupid gesture and Sim's clever use of the remote had given us an important insight. I was sure he rested in deeper peace knowing that. Then the two craft collided. Al estimated the force to be ten kilotons from a fission device. Talk about overkill.
“God help us all,” whispered Toño, as he stood by my side.
“And I thought my people were vicious,” said Sapale. “These beasts are much worse. I hope they never reach my world.”
“That's what the space-time congruity manipulator was for,” I said.
Toño turned to me. “Pardon?”
“Yes!” Sapale said.
“What?”
“Uto, the man who gave me the plans for the membrane. It wasn't to use against my people. It was to defend against the Listhelonians.”
Toño wrinkled his brow. “But how? How could he possibly know we were to face such a horrific enemy?” A notion crossed his face. “You said he referred to himself as 'Uto?' How exactly did he pronounce it?”
“Uto? I don't know. Like it sounds, I guess.”
“Jon, my friend, there exists another possibility. Perhaps he said: I am you, too.”
“Huh? What…that makes no…” Holy crap! It did sound like that. I assumed he was stating his name. Maybe he was. I'd never know. What I did know was we were a long, long way up Shit Creek with no signs of any paddles. A corrupt government undermining our efforts, public apathy that threatened to strangle Project Ark, and now hostile aliens bent on killing us. If it got any worse, I'd be tempted to flip my off switch.
“Doc, we need to get those membranes on everything that flies.”
“I know. We shall.”
“We must. Not only do we have to run for our lives, now we have to fight for them too.”
EPILOGUE
THE NEW YORK TIMES
January 4, 2103
THE WORLD PAUSES TO SAY GOODBYE
By SARAH RATHER
Brigadier General Jonathan Ryan passed away quietly in his sleep last night. In a prepared statement, his wife Dame Indigo Ryan, CH, DBE, FRSA announced her husband of twenty-seven years finally lost his battle with cancer. Their five children were at their side as one of the greatest heroes this nation has seen slipped away. The world will mourn the loss of the man who pioneered android transfer and who is, at this moment, far off in space searching for our new home.
Indigo said, “As most of you know, Jon went through a pretty rough patch around the time we met. Fame can be a cruel mistress. But, he put that behind himself and rallied. His tireless work with our charity, One Family One Destination, was an inspiration to us all. With Jon's help, OFOD has already guaranteed that many third world people can join in on our journey to our new home. In a very real sense he lives on, as an android. I'm certain Jon's spirit will soon be united and fully at peace.”
President Clinton, often referred to as Ryan's wingman, said there will never be another man as great as his friend. He also said he hopes not a single additional public building, park, or university will be named after Jon. It's embarrassing, the president said, that one man should have triple the number of things named after him than his entire illustrious family combined. “It's just not proper.”
To be continued…
Shameless Self-Promotion
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Thank you for joining me on the Forever Journey! It's only just begun. Book 2, The Forever Enemy is available on Amazon now: https://www.amazon.com/Forever-Enemy-Book-ebook/dp/B01ILBE9BK/
Book 3, The Forever Struggle will be out in the fall of 2016.
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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
The Forever Life (The Forever Series Book 1) Page 23
