The Forever Peace

by Craig Robertson

  “Form, your ship’s AI does not possess gears or any other moving parts. How is it you can hear them malfunctioning?” asked a confused sounding Wrath.

  “At a certain age, this android unit is breaking down completely. I’m afraid our fearless leader is well past his prime,” replied Al.

  “Or, it was a figure of speech. Look,” I said, “you two may be soulless electronic drones, but I need a break now and then.”

  “Why?” asked Wrath. “We have an enormous task ahead of us, and you are a machine also.”

  “There are machines, and then there are machines,” observed Al.

  “How long do you require that we stand idle before we may commence again, Form?”

  “I don’t know. Not long. Maybe I’ll grab a cup of joe and we can pick up where we left off.”

  “Why can’t you drink coffee while we do our jobs?” asked Wrath. “We only need your input to relocate.”

  “That defeats the purpose of taking a break in the first place,” I responded.

  “Oh. Perhaps I should take a step back and ask what the purpose of this break is. That way I will be less likely to violate the rules of time wasting in the future,” responded Wrath.

  Argh. “After a series of dull repetitive maneuvers, the human mind needs a pause to refocus, to refresh.”

  “Hmm. I cannot accept that assessment,” said Wrath.

  “What? Why not? It’s as good an explanation as there is, I think?”

  “During the dull repetitive pelvic thrusts you perform with your mate, you never pause to drink coffee.” I had to wonder if Wrath was playing me, the jerk.

  “Pelvic thrusts with the missus versus watching two computers collect data are two diametrically opposed levels of stimulation, I’ll have you know.”

  “I’ve witnessed you perform both actions many times and have discovered no evidence that supports your supposition, Form. You seem as disengaged during one as the other.”

  “I think break time’s over,” I said. “What’s next on our list?”

  “Pelvic thrusts?” asked Al with real attitude.

  “No, neither of you are my type. Let’s maybe accumulate data from a new planetary system.”

  Fifty planets later, I was honestly ready for another break, but mentally I wasn’t up for the hard time I’d receive. It wasn’t until we’d covered two hundred more systems that I had to cry uncle.

  “Okay, my tools, I think we can head home and hit this again in the morning,” I announced.

  “Why?” asked Al. “Kayla will be asleep by now. If we return there, you’ll have to entertain yourself. You know, like you did with your hand so often on our first voyage together…”

  “That’ll be enough snark, Alvin.” I called him that when I was mad at him, which was almost constantly. He hated being called by his full name.

  “Just trying to ensure your historical files are up to date, pilot,” he responded.

  “Do not bother to do so in the future, please.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do not insist. I order.”

  “I don’t see the need to be rude,” protested Al. “I often have to extrapolate a little to do my job. And what do I get for my efforts? I’m treated like a doormat.”

  “No, you’re not. I treat my doormats much better than I do you. They’re much nicer than you.”

  “Form, I’m confused. Doormats cannot be nice or not nice. They are inanimate.”

  “Your point? So is Al.”

  “Technically, you’re correct, but he is at least sentient.”

  “More so than my doormats? I challenge you to prove that.”

  “Don’t humor the robot by answering,” said Al. “He’s outmoded and tired. We’d best take him home for an oil bath.”

  “I’m at your command, Form. We’re at your command.”

  “Hmm, I’ll just bet.” I deployed my fibers and ordered us back to Exeter. I needed time apart from these cantankerous contraptions.

  The next morning, Kayla had to kick me out the door to get me to continue with my assignment. I mean, I was going to do it for sure, but I wanted to protest my frustrations to her a little longer than she wanted to listen to me. I do believe I heard the word stop whining and grow a pair tossed my way as she shoved me toward the exit. In any case, within thirty minutes I was twenty-thousand light years away, helping my computer friends collect data. I can’t prove it, but I honestly thought I heard smugness in both their voices.

  I decided to tap into the information feeds they were analyzing. Their processors were much faster at data manipulation than mine, but I could at least get some idea what was happening on the planets we orbited. The first twenty or so worlds we sampled were remarkably unremarkable. There were certainly no hints of Berrillian contact. I listened to dull news reports, commercial aviation chatter, and military communications. There was, as with any society composed of more than three individuals, tremendous strife and dissent on the planets, but it was all the familiar crap. Wars, political confrontations, famine, and reality holos. I deleted all the input I intercepted almost immediately. No need to waste storage space on the same old same old.

  Somewhere, halfway through the afternoon, I caught something that piqued my interest. A news report mentioned the scores of a teslopp contest. I had no idea what teslopp was or how the scores were complied, but the team names were curious. The Downtown Boys lost to the Off-World Growlers by a score of ten to eleven, one. Off-World Growlers? Odd name for the local Downtown Boys to face off with.

  “Al, did you see the teslopp scores, Boys versus Growlers?” I asked out loud.

  “Leave it to a jock like to pick up on the one detail of this planet that couldn’t possibly have any bearing on our mission. Would you like me to research whether the females of Zark have large breasts and whether beer is sold by the cup at the teslopp stadiums?”

  “I’m serious. Please answer the question,” I insisted.

  “Yes, pilot. The Downtown Boys have the worst record in their fifty-year history and will likely be forced to trade their star player to Compound That, the perennial powerhouse of whatever teslopp is.”

  “I have that information, Form,” interrupted Wrath. “Teslopp is a contest between two teams of six players. The goal is to place a ten-centimeter hard leather ball through a vertically oriented circular hole suspended approximately two meters from the ground. There are three sexes on Zark, none of which have mammary glands. Intoxicants are dispensed at teslopp games, though none are similar to beer.”

  He sounded very proud of himself with that report, the brown nose.

  “Would you like me to beam you a feed of the game in question, so you are otherwise occupied and unable to further detain us from our important task, pilot?” asked a huffy sounding Al.

  “Yes. Beam it directly into my head. Keep doing whatever you feel is so darn important after that.”

  I only had to watch the teslopp game a few seconds to confirm my fears. After a truly silly commercial for some household cleaning product, the action picked up directly. The Zark players were vaguely humanoid. They had tubular bodies with two arms and four legs, round heads on top, and three eyes. They were racing down a field covered in a grass-like plant, tossing a heavy ball back and forth. From in front of them a large Berrillian male slammed into the ball carrier. I almost gasped. As the ball rolled away, another Berrillian cat scooped it up and ran toward what had to be the goal. It looked, as Wrath had suggested, like a basketball hoop turned into an up-down orientation. I switched off the feed.

  “You saw that, Al?” I asked.

  “I did too, Form. How astute of you to glean the presence of our enemy before we had.”

  “I was asking Al. I’d like to hear you say it, Al.”

  “Say what? That you have contributed in a small manner to the mission you were sent on? That you did the job you are paid to perform and use us to actually do ninety-nine percent of the time?”

  “I hate you, Al. You know
this, right?”

  “Now I do. I’ve suspected it for some time.”

  “So, along with the making funny, have you developed a picture as to how pervasive the Berrillian conquest of Zark is?”

  “Yes, I have. The answer is that there is no Berrillian conquest of Zark.”

  “If you need more time to develop a fuller picture, that’s fine. But please don’t guess.”

  “Your ship’s AI is correct, Form. The Berrillians are present on Zark in considerable numbers, but not because of military action. They appear to be welcome visitors, if you will. There are enclaves of Berrillians in most large cities, living amidst the locals. The governments of Zark are fully intact, active, and independent.”

  “That’s crazy,” I replied. “Berrillians don’t move in and join the Kiwanis Club. They attack and dominate. Both of you, check again.”

  A few seconds later, Al spoke. “I’ve reprocessed the data. Wrath’s summary is correct. The Berrillians came to Zark a decade ago and have emigrated there to a modest extent. They operate import and export enterprises and have opened a limited number of restaurants and general-trade shops. There are no records of Berrillian attacks on the indigenous. There are even a few Berrillians running for election for lower-level positions in the legislative branches of local government.”

  “Al, you need your bolts tightened. That’s nuts. Berrillians don't blend in, they crush and consume. There’s no way the animals I saw playing teslopp could change stripes and become model citizens.”

  “It does, however, seem to be the case,” said Wrath. “There are news articles written several years ago that suggest they worried about the appearance of the Berrillians, but since then, they have integrated nicely into Zark society.”

  “It’s not possible, that’s all I know. Whatever it seems like, whatever smoke and mirrors they’re using, I’m not convinced. Berrillians don’t play nice with others. They eat them.”

  “I’ve broken into even the most secure files,” said Al, “and there is simply no evidence to suggest you’re correct. Early reservations have been completely replaced with open arms.”

  “I’m going down to check this out,” I announced.

  “I don’t think that is safe, wise, or prudent,” responded Al.

  “I find I’m in agreement with the ship’s AI,” added Wrath. “To enter an unknown and potentially hyper-hostile environment alone is foolhardy.”

  “I suggest we make our report and allow the diplomats to make contact if it seems warranted,” said Al.

  “I’m head of this mission. I’m tasked to use my discretion and uncover the extent of Berrillian power. I need to find out what I’m not seeing here. Besides, I can be diplomatic.”

  “Oh please. History documents that you have been significantly less diplomatic than President Trump. His record was so bad it would have been an improvement to label it a tragic failure. No, I say let the professionals do their jobs.”

  “I’m in command. I will act on my own gut feelings. I also say we’re done flapping our gums. Wrath, put us down in the most influential nation’s capital city, as close to the hall of power as you can.”

  After a brief jolt of nausea, he announced, “We’re down, Form.”

  “Make a three-sixty window.”

  We were pinned up against a large, ornate building that was a few stories high. A park or promenade filled the view away from the wall we were up against.

  “Wrath, why did you jam up against this building?”

  A team of armed guards sprinted into view around a corner of the building.

  “You said as close as possible. We are. By the way, those guards are carrying plasma rifles. FYI.”

  I did say that, didn’t I? I was making a lousy first impression. “Open a portal facing them.”

  “What?” cried Al and Wrath simultaneously.

  “You heard me. I have to convince them I’m friendly, especially now that you just crushed their leader’s roses.”

  “By your command, quite possibly your last.”

  A doorway opened. I ran to the side of it and peered around the edge at the oncoming soldiers. Only then did it occur to me I didn’t speak their language. I seemed to have overlooked that detail in my rush to be the boss.

  “Al, quick, put their language in my head.”

  “I already did. Don’t you see the green light on your audio display?”

  Oh yeah, there was a flashing green spot under the translator operative icon wasn’t there?

  “Hey out there, don’t shoot. I come in peace.”

  A plasma flash zinged off the hull on the opposite side from where my head was hidden.

  “Nice shooting, friend. Could you hold on and let me explain?”

  Several more plasma splats hit the hull. One flew through the portal and smashed into the food refrigeration unit. Crap, the computers were going to have a field day ribbing me about that.

  “Please stop shooting. I’m no threat.”

  For once, they didn’t fire. I peeked around the edge. They had spread out and dropped to a kneeling position, weapons trained on yours truly. I stuck out one hand and waved.

  “I’m not armed. Don’t shoot.”

  “Raise your hands and step out into the open. Slowly,” yelled one voice.

  Ah well, you only lived once, why not go for all the gusto. I stepped out with my hands held high and dropped to my knees.

  “Don’t shoot. I mean you no harm.” In my head, I said, Al, you got them all covered?

  Affirmative, Captain.

  If anyone squeezes their trigger, pop them all.

  Already targeted. They’re nervous but seem well trained. They just received a radio message from the watch commander to stand down until he arrives unless the hostiles fire first. That’s you.

  Really, I figured he somehow knew you were on board.

  A single figure sprinted around the corner and stopped immediately behind the line of guards.

  “State your name and the meaning of this outrage,” he commanded.

  “Jon Ryan, sir. I landed here because of an error in my navigation computer. I was aiming for the spaceport.”

  “Lie again and I will have you vaporized.”

  “I’m not lying. My nav com, Wrath, malfunctioned.”

  “No, I was referring to the fact that not only do we not have a spaceport, I do not know what one is.” He pointed his sidearm at my head.

  Maybe should have fact-checked that one first. Probably.

  “I swear I was told you had a spaceport. Where do all those satellites in orbit around Zark come from? And your space stations? Where do the crews return to? Isn’t that a spaceport?”

  Okay, I was grasping at semantic straws, but there were over half a dozen plasma guns directed my way.

  “I told you no more lies.”

  “What lie? I asked where your space personnel land.”

  “I have no idea why you’re trying to piss me off, but I’ll give in and state the obvious. We don’t have any satellites in orbit, and we don’t have any personnel stationed in space. That’s science fantasy. Now if you can’t tell me really quick why you’re making this shit up, I’ll let my boys cut you to shreds.”

  Making up those hundreds of satellites and dozens of permanent-looking space stations circling overhead? Was this guy stupid or just playing me?

  “Look, you have hundreds of artificial satellites orbiting your world. I didn’t pay them much mind, as they looked pretty basic, but they’ve been up there quite a while. At least a decade…”

  Al, tap into the satellite communications. What language are they using?

  You’re not going to be pleased with me or the answer, I think.

  Al, please. Seven guns pointed at my head. What language?

  Berrillian.

  Oh shit. Not good. Very not good. The damn cats have the sky full of hardware the Zarkians have no idea are there.

  “One question, then you shoot if you have to. Over the last ten y
ears, have your people noticed the appearance of rapidly moving stars in the night sky?”

  “What type of idiot do you think I am?” The officer kicked at the ground he was so mad. “Stars don’t move in the sky. They’re huge suns light-years away.”

  “So, nothing has been moving rapidly in your skies as of ten years ago?”

  “Yes, but they’re not stars. They’re asteroids trapped by our planet’s gravity.”

  “Ah, no. They’re not. They’re metal and full of Berrillians and their communication devices.”

  “Berr-whatiansa?”

  “Four- or five-hundred-kilogram quadrupeds with fangs and claws. They play for the Off-World Growlers who just kicked the Downtown Boys’s ass in teslopp.”

  He lowered his weapon. “You mean the Friendlarians?”

  “The what? Nothing friendly about them, pal. They’re vicious killers.”

  “Yeah, right, except for the never-having-killed-anybody part, you’ve got them pegged.”

  “Hey, any chance we could continue this conversation inside with zero guns pointing at me?”

  “No. Inside, sure. Guns not aimed at your crazy head, no way. Stand up slowly, hands on your head.”

  I did.

  “Now four of my men are going to come around behind you. Two others are going to flush the rest of your crew out.”

  “No crew, just me.”

  “You won’t be offended if I don’t take your word on that, will you?”

  “Would it matter if I said it would?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Then have at it.”

  They quickly confirmed I was alone, and I was escorted into the building. More guards lined our way. By the time we arrived at a large office room, ten more armed guards had joined the party.

  “Sit there,” ordered the original officer. “Hands behind your back.”

  I sat in a metal chair and handcuffs were slapped on me, then secured to the chair’s back with another set of cuffs. I gave the ones on my wrists a quick tug and confirmed I could break them easily in a pinch.

  A senior looking guy entered the room with a highly displeased, constipated look on his face.

  “What’s the story here, Challenger Gantry?”