The Forever Peace

by Craig Robertson

  Then again, legend haters were out there. Those chip-on-the-shoulder types resented my history. Maybe they also had small dicks. Who could know? But they wanted to prove I was nothing in their eyes and that maybe they were the real heroes, not me. Like I cared what some shave tail thought of my life’s work. I was perfectly willing to wait two centuries and see what a BFD hotshot they’d become. I was willing because those guys—and I mean guys exclusively because I never once caught that attitude from a woman—never amounted to a hill of beans.

  But Timoshenko wasn’t either of the first two types. No, he was a metal hater. He didn’t like human transfers to androids. Not that we were all that common. A person could live their entire life never meeting an android. Most people did. But there was a group of individuals out there who disapproved of the process and the results. Maybe it was religious, maybe it was ethical. I was never sure. It required that the person be a special kind of stupid to be in that camp, that I was sure of. Prejudice sucked no matter what it was based on. Prejudiced people were ignorant fucks. What more can be said? Konstantin Timoshenko likely had similar uncharitable thoughts concerning me, of course. The difference was he was wrong and a dickwad. I was correct.

  I was in the office, so, like it or not, I wandered back to say hello—or drop dead, you filthy animal—to Kon. Galloway would tell him I’d stopped by. If I hadn’t checked in with the puke, he’d have more ammunition to dislike and disparage me with. A couple of fortuitous traditions aided me in my visit. One was the glue that held any military unit together: coffee, aka mud, battery acid, java, joe, or jamoke. The fact that there were all these nicknames testified to how mission critical the stuff was. So, I went to the mandatory pot of brewed coffee and poured myself a mug. There was a reason, a mandate, to walk to the back of the office and right in front of Konstantin’s door.

  The second convention was how we addressed one another in the military. I was a four-star general, the highest routine rank. Senior officers frequently addressed junior officers by their first name, but this practice did not give juniors the privilege of addressing seniors in any way other than by proper title. So, I got to annoy the hell out for Konstantin when speaking with him. I called him Kon, like that was how he liked to be addressed. I knew, by the way, that he hated the shortened form. He always demanded that his full first name be used. He, on the other hand, had to address me as General Ryan. If I’d invited him to call me Jon, he could have, but I must have forgotten to clear him for such familiarity. I needed to be more organized, didn’t I?

  I took my first sip of coffee and rotated to casually scan the room. My eyes met Kon’s. I could see his spine snap ten percent stiffer. His anal sphincter probably did too, but I didn’t actually want to know that.

  “Good morning, Kon,” I called out louder than necessary. I was glad Kayla wasn’t along for the ride. She’d have kicked me in the shin.

  He briefly lowered his head, then stood to greet me.

  “General Ryan, nice of you to visit us.” Simply bland, or was he reminding me I’d been AWOL in his reckoning?

  “I like to make an appearance. I know it really boosts the general morale, especially with the younger crowd.”

  We were shaking hands as I said those words. His grip increased, signaling his exasperation with my continued existence. Good.

  “That’s possible, sir. I’ll have to ask around and see if that’s the case.” Because, he implied, if it wasn’t, I need never return to darken his doorstep.

  “When the OOD’s jobs get that easy, maybe I’ll put my name on the duty roster again.” I smiled real big, like I loved him or something. “I thought the OOD spent their days toiling to save our collective asses from the bad guys.”

  He cringed. I loved seeing him cringe. My life had meaning.

  “I’m sure if you spent more time in the office, you’d appreciate that we’re focused on exactly that, and that we’re very busy at it.” In other words, if I was ever there, which was, like, my job.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of undercover work. Real secret squirrel type of stuff.” I put my index finger across my lips. “Very hush hush. Need to know and all that.”

  He winced. I loved seeing that more than the cringing.

  “So, General, can I help you with anything today, or will the cup of joe about do it for you?”

  I took an exaggerated sip, then set the cup down. “Good stuff. I was hoping to go over some of the supply reports with you. I know that, technically, that’s not in my purvey, but I’m a hands-on kind of guy.”

  Spending the day seated next to me going over dull, pointless reports would be absolute purgatory for the man.

  “And call me a traditionalist, but I’d like to run the numbers for the office's petty cash,” I added, scrutinizing his nose like it was a new form of insect. “I learned that little pearl from General Colin Winchester, Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Did you know him?”

  Teeth grinding. Yes, my day’s work was done.

  “Yes, sir. He was my commanding officer up until five years ago, when he retired.” Kon lifted a finger, pointing to the floor. “I don’t re—”

  “Damn fine officer. Count yourself among the fortunate, Kon. The man was a credit to detail-minded bureaucrats everywhere.” By the time I was done rambling, I do believe I had a slight British accent.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Why he was thankful, I’m certain he couldn’t say.

  “Before we get going on all that,” I said, “I’d like to know if there are any important updates or charlie foxtrots on the horizon?”

  His face steeled. He knew I was messing with him. “Well, Sir, I’d invite you to our briefing tomorrow morning if I thought you might attend one. I’m certain your secret-squirrel schedule wouldn’t accommodate joining us grunts at the appointed time. I’ll be going over just those type of things then.”

  Hum. Hardass.

  “So, I take it there’s nothing new or mysterious?”

  “That, sir, depends on how one defines those terms, doesn’t it? I will present a possible situation on Luhman 16a.” He tapped his chin, pretending to think. I knew he wasn’t thinking because it would have been impossible for the Neanderthal. “Say, you visited there a long time ago, didn’t you?”

  I nodded softly.

  “You might want to try and attend. Just a thought.”

  He saluted, which one never did indoors. It was his way of saying we’re done talking.

  I didn't bother returning his salute. “I’ll check with the squirrel. Maybe see you tomorrow.”

  I said goodbye to the gunny at the front desk and headed home. I hadn’t thought about Luhman 16a for a hundred years. Picturing those silly Sarcorit and Jinicgus did put a smile on my face. I had to wonder what their planet had to do with the price of tea in China.

  THREE

  Oelcir lolled in the gentle surf near a beach protected from the bigger waves by a rocky tombolo. The water was warm. The air, what little he could tolerate, was hot and dry. It felt good on his scales during the brief periods when he hefted his torso from the sea. Leisure was bitterly discouraged by Listhelon culture in general, and Odidast, the current ruler, specifically. A fish not swimming with purpose could not give maximum glory to Gumnolar or his servant, Warrior One.

  But, Oelcir understood that what no one else knew could not hurt him. Plus, his pod, Gumnolar’s Vision, had lived in the shallow waters near these dry lands for countless generations. The barren was part of their domain. There was great wisdom, he had decided, in keeping an eye sprout on it to see if changes occurred that might displease Gumnolar.

  Deep water pods, by far the largest and most dominant form, were able to afford fewer liberties. Most members were ranchers, involved in herding and culling the enormous schools of fish needed to sustain the pod. The shallows’ podlets, derogatorily dubbed belly-scrapers, hunted more than farmed. Small groups might seek prey together, but lone hunting was a common practice too. So, Oelcir could steal away
and relax for a time. He’d collect shellfish and crustaceans galore, so no one complained about him not carrying his weight. Why the others of Gumnolar’s Vision didn’t avail themselves of the bounty tied to the barren was beyond his understanding. They were afraid of ground not covered by water. How silly. Dirt was dirt, and rocks were rocks.

  Occasionally, he could talk a friend into coming with him, but they almost never came twice. The sight of the barren burned their eye stocks, and the scentless air was repulsive to their sensitivities. Oh well, their loss and his gain. How many other servants of Gumnolar could say they’d spent half the cyclet sleeping, relaxing, and spouting water into the air? Life was good.

  Oelcir even daydreamed. Yes, such a thing was unthinkable for most fish, laboring and wearing their tail fins off. He daydreamed of many things, but mostly he imagined bringing a female to a place like this. Here, secluded, unwitnessed, and relaxed, he might discharge his sperm sack onto her egg port. Yes, such a blasphemous thought was enough to cause one’s immediate death and permanent relegation to the service of the Beast Without Eyes. But it might just be worth the price. Not necessarily to spawn, but to know milting. His daydreams were hurried and repeated themselves often.

  He splashed loudly into the water and swam to scoop up a few hard-shelled treats to nibble on. It did take him longer than it used to. Odd. One or two cycles ago, the hard shells veritably crawled into his mouth, they were so plentiful. Now he had to access water deeper than he was long to find fewer numbers of hard shells. In fact, there were far fewer fish in the shallows near shore. At least it seemed that way to Oelcir.

  He’d thought to discuss his observation with one of Odidast thinkers but decided against it. He was curious, but if it seemed he knew too much about matters unrelated to food accumulation, he might raise suspicion. Suspicion was poison in Listhelon society. He did not desire poison, thank you very much. It would—

  A massive paw slammed huge claws deep into Oelcir’s shoulder. Pain shot across his back and up the side of his neck. Strength beyond his comprehension lifted him from the sea like he was no more than a large sponge. He flew, an unknown experience to him up until then, though the air like he had sprouted wings. He thudded onto the rocky recess formed by several boulders jammed together and rolled onto his back.

  Oelcir was horrified to see the immense striped land beast spring onto his chest and bury its jaws in his throat, ripping into his gills like they were gossamer. The last vision he had before the darkness of Gumnolar embraced him was that of two juvenile land monsters fighting each other for purchase on his face.

  After the meal, her family’s first proper meal in weeks, Taliadar preened her kittens in the warm sun. They rolled and played, alternating bites to the other cub’s neck with preening of their own. This was Taliadar’s third litter on this pitiful watery world. She knew, however, that she was lucky. She had been assigned to a planet with no land sentients. It was very easy to remain hidden. Also, with almost no large land animals, there was no real competition for the plentiful small creatures they consumed. Still, she caught one of the tasty fish so infrequently it was hard to know a full, swollen belly. She missed that, in general, but not that day. That was a good day. Praise be to Erratarus and the empire.

  FOUR

  Okay, the SOB Timoshenko got me. I had to attend the briefing. It wasn’t like I was going on a mission. If I was up for that, I’d have been notified beforehand and of course I would have gone to the damn briefing. But, with five or six careers of briefings under my belt, I didn’t make it a habit of going for the free donuts and joe alone. Like any proper briefing, it was scheduled much earlier than it needed to be. Military tradition. As I didn’t sleep, the early hour didn’t bother me. It was just annoying.

  I joined the line waiting to get coffee and greeted the pilots near me. Most were cordial enough, though some seemed to wander away rather quickly. Did I have BO? I knew, of course, I was the general android they were hoping to avoid. Way back when, there was a TV show called Star Trek: The Next Generation. There was this anemic looking android officer who wanted, like Pinocchio, to be human. His status in that regard was often ambiguous. I thought I was mixed up in that kind of existential muddle in my compatriot’s minds. I’d been nothing but nice to them. I never once waved my arms in the air and yelled, Danger, Will Robinson. But, small-minded people were always abundant.

  I did bump into one of my actual friends, fortunately. In the twisted knot fate that was our lives, Molly Hatcher was bound to me. She was Kendra’s daughter, the hard case that was on my mission to test the validity of our Berrillian hack. It turned out Mandy Walker and Kendra really hit it off. They were married a year or so after I introduced them. Their daughter grew up to be a pilot. She was the newbie flight suit insert assigned to the same unit I was. I’d known her since she was knee high to a toadstool and was proud to serve with her. She was good people. Smart and kind, but as tough as her old lady.

  “Moll-doll,” I said in greeting. That was my nickname for her since she was a baby.

  “Uncle Jon,” she said by way of retribution, “didn’t we discuss not calling me that in the presence of a bunch of hot-headed jet jockeys who are just looking for something to tease me about?”

  “Hmm,” I feigned uncertainty. “I might recall such a request. Not sure.”

  “Well, General Ryan, please make a note of it now.”

  “I’ll try,” I replied with a wink.

  “So how are your moms?”

  “They are wonderfully well. I do believe they also made a similar request not to be referred to as my moms.”

  “No? Are you certain?” I couldn’t suppress a big smile.

  She smiled right back.

  “So are you slated to go anywhere fun or dangerous today?” I asked.

  “Yes. A risky routine patrol of the Alpha Quadrant. I’m anticipating death by midday.”

  “Nice. Best of luck with that.” The Alpha was the dullest, most lifeless, worthless piece of real estate imaginable. No one would fight to control it. Repeating the words Alpha Quadrant was a trick people used to help fall asleep faster. It beat the hell out of counting sheep.

  “How ’bout you? Going off to save our asses today?”

  “No, your ass is in someone else’s hands today. If I catch him, by the by, I’m putting a hurt on him.”

  “I’ll be sure to warn him well in advance. Probably help if I found a guy first.”

  “Let’s keep it that way, young lady.”

  “Uncle Jon, I think I'm a big girl and don't need a chaperone for the rest of my life.”

  “I look at you and all I see is a skinny legged girl with braces.”

  “People,” called out Major General Faiza Hijab, the current CO of TCY. “If you could find a seat so we can get going.”

  Faiza was an okay CO. At least she wasn’t a prejudiced oxygen thief like Timoshenko. She held me at arm’s length, though, which was understandable. Not only did I outrank her, I was a legend. Nobody wanted to command someone like that. Plus, I was me, the loose-cannon wiseass. Her career didn’t need me and would hopefully survive me, so she treated me with kid gloves. She also didn’t push to have me be very active in terms of assignments. I used to press her for missions, which she would then hand out. But when I stopped nagging, they’d dried up. I wasn’t sure if it was a hint that I should seek reassignment or whether it was just caution on her part. I’d find out if our guerrilla war with the Berrillians ever heated up. Then, I’d better not be left behind like some useless pogue. I wasn’t about to stay behind selling war bonds to the Knights of Columbus.

  “We have a lot to cover, so I’ll get started. If possible, hold your questions until I’m done. That way we’ll move along a bit quicker.”

  Yeah, that last comment was probably directed at yours truly, famous as I was for piping off whenever the spirit moved me.

  “You’ve all seen the duty roster. If you’ve been assigned to a mission, please see your squad leader
after this briefing. So, interesting development in Beta Quadrant to present. Intel reports the locals on LH 16a are finding a number of dead Berrillians. Rotting ones, actually. In the last two months, they’ve found several hundred dead cats hidden away in caves, abandoned buildings, and otherwise remote locations.”

  “Sir,” interrupted one of the squadron leaders, “excuse me, but how are they finding dead cats under deep cover?”

  “All the sentients there, especially the Sarcorit, have acute senses of smell,” I answered totally out of turn. “They can track an offensive odor twenty-five klicks away.”

  “Is that why they took such a strong objection to you, Ryan, and tried to get you off their rock?” said George Updyke, a pilot who particularly disliked me.

  “Yeah, they said I smelled like your butt. Mentioned Uptight Updyke by name. It was so weird.”

  Okay, not my most clever retort. His butt wasn’t born when I visited LH 16a for one thing.

  “Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, that will be enough,” said a highly displeased Faiza.

  “Sorry,” I responded. “I still have some trouble communicating with shave-tails.”

  George actually lunged toward me. Granted, it was only about five centimeters, but it was an angry five centimeters.

  “Are we done here, General?” asked Faiza. “Or do I have time to go grab another cup of joe while you Bob Hope the troops?”

  Bob Hope the troops? That was great. I had to remember that one.

  “Of course, Ma’am. Again, sorry.”

  “As I was saying, they’ve found several hundred. We offered mutual aid to help in the search, but typical of all the tiny species involved, they declined.”

  “Stupid donuts,” said a junior officer. “We should eat them, not kowtow to them.”

  “Yeah,” said Konstantin, “we’re trying to survive, and they’re getting all territorial and pissy. It isn’t right.”