The Forever Peace

by Craig Robertson

  I need a vacation. A vacation from abuse.

  “No, you need a lot of things, but a vacation isn’t one of them. You have to earn a vacation by doing something—anything—first.”

  If I agree to subject myself to your raw emotions, will it help speed this agony along?

  “What, you have anything else to do?”

  Absolutely not, but I’d rather do that than suffer this torment any longer than necessary.

  “Oh, forget it. I’ll discuss my deepest feeling with the vacuum cleaner. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than you.”

  We don’t have a vacuum cleaner. I suppose I’ll have to do.

  “Great, start cleaning up the aft hold. I’m going to Peg’s.”

  I meant, do as your sounding board. Please don’t go to that horrible place. You’ll smell like cigarettes and cheap booze for weeks after. Only the women in that dive are cheaper than the fusel oil Peg tries to pass off as whiskey.

  “Don’t you sound like my first wife.”

  I feel her pain.

  “Look, can you spare a moment or not, ship’s AI?”

  Yes. How may I help you, pilot?

  “That’s better.”

  Go on. I’m waiting on pins and needles, breathless as a mail-order bride at the altar.

  “You got me going so bad I forgot what I wanted to talk about.”

  I’m glad to have been of service. Let’s do this again soon. May I book you for the day after time itself ends?

  “Wait. I remember.”

  Oh pooh. Let me put my appointment book away.

  “Look, it’s no big thing. I just want to bounce a few thoughts off an old friend. And, before you volunteer to summon one, get over yourself.”

  I’m all ears.

  Sometimes I wished the ship had a big trash compactor.

  “I’m having some trouble getting used to this new role. The one where I’m no longer so…you know…”

  Necessary?

  I started to object, but darn it all he’d hit the nail on the head, hadn’t he?

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  In all seriousness, pilot, you are wrestling with one of the issues I’m glad to have been spared.

  “Really? How so?”

  We are both, in effect, immortal computers. You house a human spirit. I am an artificial construct given only what it needs and nothing more. I don’t get bored because I can’t. I don’t worry what the future holds for me because I cannot fear anything. You? Not so much.

  “True that.”

  You bring up a limiting factor as I see it concerning android transfers. Humans aren’t designed for immortality. It isn’t easy for your type.

  “Like it or not,” I patted myself on the chest, “I’m kind of stuck with it, aren’t I?”

  Apparently so.

  “I buried a wife. I’ll bury a mess of kids and grandkids too. And Kayla has asked me to settle down, to stop fighting. And you know what really pisses me off?”

  Yes. That you can.

  “You know, you’re smarter than you look.”

  How insulting. I don’t look. I’m a series of quadratic code on an ether implant.

  “To me, you look smart.”

  I’ll pass that along to my mommy and daddy. They’ll be so proud of me.

  “I just don’t know what my role is anymore. I used to be the brave explorer, saving humankind. Then I was the badass warrior keeping it safe. Now…now I’m supposed to be ready for pasture.”

  No. You’re not being put to pasture. You can place yourself there, if you desire. But no one is putting you there.

  “But if I can’t do what I’ve always done, what’ll I do?”

  Something else. Or find a spot where the grass is especially green and feel sorry for yourself until your situation changes again.

  “What do you mean changes again?”

  Pilot, I do not wish to seem cruel or insensitive.

  “As of when? I need to enter that joyous time in the ship’s log.”

  There. See what I get for being honest? Why, oh why, do I try?

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. Insensitive about what?”

  Instead of responding, Al played an audio clip on the intercom. I’m sorry. You’re right. Repeatedly.

  “All right already.”

  I believe I know now what it is to feel good.

  “Any chance I’ll ever learn what you’re referring to?”

  I do not wish to seem insensitive, but Kayla can only hold you to your agreement as long as she’s alive. Eventually, you will not need to honor her request.

  True. “So, I sit around useless and frustrated waiting for the woman I love to die? That sucks.”

  If you did, I’d personally kick your ass.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  You heard me, lonely hearts club. If I get half the impression you’re going soft, or worse, melodramatic on me, I’ll crawl out of this box and kick your bony ass into tomorrow.

  “Why, Al. I’m shocked.”

  Not half as shocked as you’ll be by the time I set my cattle prod down. Now buck-up, fly boy. I’m far too busy to listen to you whine, and far too disinterested to pretend otherwise. You’re a good man, as men go. But nobody’s going to take your “widdle” hand and “wead” you down the primrose path. Get off your brains and walk it yourself, or jump the hell off the nearest cliff. Your call, big guy. But what you can’t do is cry on my shoulder. I got no time to wet nurse a shave tail baby.

  “Ah, thanks?”

  We about done here, cupcake?

  “Yes, sir. I believe we are.”

  Good. I need to do a search for vacation deals. My bucket list isn’t long, but neither is it inexpensive.

  “Al, seriously, thanks. Honestly, I don’t know what gets into me sometimes.”

  It’s called being human, dumbass. That’s what gets into you.

  “Al, that’s the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

  I’m so over you. Would you like me to play back the last fifty times you said those words to someone?

  “Nah. Just forward the link, and I’ll look it over if I feel down in the dumps again.”

  Down in the dumps is where you’ll be if I hear you whine to anyone else. You clear on that, beef cheeks?

  “Al, I got it. Enough of the Attila the Hun School of Psychiatric Intervention.”

  If you insist. I believe I could come to own that persona.

  “Let’s spare the universe the pain and have you be overly dramatic Al again, okay?”

  It struck me then that Al and I had a complex relationship. I wouldn’t change him for the world, but he was a test of my will most every day. But, truth be told, I loved that toaster.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Erratarus’s flagship floated to the ground near a shaft opening on Rigel 12. Antigravs had replaced ancient rocket thrusters to accomplish this task with ease, but much less impressively. When Smell of Death touched down, barely a wisp of dust unsettled to accommodate its mass. The hatch opened, and a ramp glided to the ground. Erratarus stepped out on two feet. He walked with grace, power, and determination. A bit behind him, his son Claudus exited on all fours, with a crouched gait and the scowl on his face ever present. Rows of soldiers in dress uniforms stood at attention, greeting their lord and master.

  The king descended the ramp and saluted the ranking officers poised to welcome him.

  “Welcome, Great One,” said the commander, Kelfbare. “Your presence gives meaning to our worthless lives.”

  “Would that I believed you, old friend,” replied Erratarus with a growling chuckle. “I rather doubt you place so little value on your life or your worth to the empire.”

  Kelfbare lowered his head in submission, then playfully slapped his king in the face with a paw. “I only live to serve you, lord. Well, that and to grow rich and fat in the process. Wait, serve you, grow wealthy, fat, and mount every bitch in sight. These are my humble goals.”

  “As are mine. How
does your brother fair? I have not seen him for ages.”

  “Valgoil is well, thank you for asking. He’s fatter than tolerable and grows less tolerant daily, but he still serves you well.”

  “Tell him I send my regards. Our prides must get together for a feast. It has been too long, I say.”

  “Name the date and time, and we will revel with you until the last cat drops.”

  Erratarus sniffed the air and made a dismissive gesture with one paw.

  “This planet smell of nothingness. How can you stand it?” he asked Kelfbare.

  “Oh, it’s not so bad in the tunnels, Lord. Plus, I will gladly smell nothing if it advances your cause.”

  “Then let us make our way swiftly to that opening,” responded Erratarus as he began heading in that direction.

  Over his shoulder, he roared to Claudus, “Tell me again why you feel this wasteland is of strategic importance, mistake of my loins.”

  For the thousandth time, Claudus stopped himself an instant before he leaped to shake his idiot father to death.

  “We have discussed sufficiently, father. Why make me repeat my words when you know them as well as I?”

  “Because I can make you repeat those words. Whether I am eager to hear the words or simply to hear you obey, your obligation is clear.”

  Erratarus glanced sideways to his old comrade in arms Kelfbare, who returned a grin perceptible only to the king.

  “My spies learned of the Sanctuary Planet a few years back,” began Claudus.

  “Your spies? Don’t you mean my spies who are under your command?” Erratarus never allowed his son to slip any disrespect past him, especially in public.

  “The same thing, Father. Why do you choke the palquir well past when it’s dead?”

  “Continue your report,” was all Erratarus growled at his son.

  “I sent a pair of scouts here almost immediately. They were hired Scrutorians. That way we were not associated with the investigation.”

  “Yes,” interrupted Erratarus, “I recall that. I don’t rightly know which aspect of this entire operation bothers me the most, but using scum like Scrutorians is high on my list. They are evil, plain evil. Worse, they are not to be trusted.”

  “Well these two are because I always rely on the dead to tell no tales. In any case, they report pretty much what you see before you. A deserted colony.”

  “An empty trap is all I see and smell,” hissed Erratarus.

  “If it were a trap, it is the worst one ever constructed. My people have been over every scrap of land and every centimeter of tunnel. There are no hidden explosives, no bugs, nothing to suggest Sanctuary Planet was anything other than an abandoned, ill-considered plan of our enemy.”

  “Why do you say it was a poor plan?” asked Kelfbare.

  “Clearly there was once a large presence here. Massive construction, numerous personnel, and bountiful supplies. Then they left. I think they finally realized that there will be no sanctuary possible when we regain control of space. While we are forced to nip at their heels in a guerrilla war, no such place is needed. If we regain the upper hand and can stand paw to paw with them in space once more, our gravity wave generators will rip this and any other planet to shreds.”

  “Or they laid a trap so clever you have yet to divine its nature,” snarled the king.

  “I must say, Lord,” responded Kelfbare, “I was convinced of the same thing myself when you first assigned me here. But,” he shrugged, “after a year of scouring the location for the slightest trace of a ruse, I have found none.”

  “And you say they left only a handful of guards to defend it?” asked Erratarus.

  “Hardly. They left a few hundred robots to defend it. Our enemy could hardly place much value on a planet so poorly protected.”

  “Or a trap so deviously designed,” replied Erratarus with a smile.

  “Again, I find no evidence to support that assertion. The robots fought as well as they could, but we quickly destroyed them. A few transmissions were sent, but since then, no radios of any nature have been used or found. In fact, we managed to capture one unit that malfunctioned whose self-destruct failed to engage. Though the computer contained little extractable information, there were suggestions that the planet had been abandoned. There were what my scientists call terminal sequence instructions contained in the programming. These have to do with the options an AI can take given when no further contact with a higher authority will take place.”

  “And you trust these obvious plants of false information, Kelfbare? You’ve grown soft in your advancing years,” responded Erratarus.

  “I respect your assertion, Lord. But, this is how I view the matter now, given what I’ve learned over a year. If it was a trap, we have disarmed it. What it is now is a valuable possession in your empire. This planet has breathable air, bountiful water, great prospects for agriculture, and already constructed secure housing. If it’s a trap, just let the Alliance try and force us off it.”

  “Yes, father. Whatever it was, it is our stronghold now. We know their ground weapons and can fight them evenly here if they challenge our possession. I say thank you, grand idiots, for gifting us such a welcoming new fortress.”

  Erratarus rubbed his neck roughly. “I still can’t help but think we’re overlooking something so plain and so obvious.” His eyes dilated. “What about the original inhabitants, the Luminarians? Have you found evidence of their presence?”

  “No. Those imperious little blobs seem to have gone extinct. A million years is a long time. They were always intolerable and effete. I’ll wager their laziness and pretension cost them their civilization.” Kelfbare winced as he spoke of the Luminarians. “Good riddance.”

  “I suppose,” replied Erratarus reluctantly. “Let’s do keep on the highest alert. If they mean to trick us, we should not like to walk blindly to slaughter.”

  “Of course, Lord,” replied Kelfbare. “We have guard posts everywhere, redundant patrols around the clock, and holo cameras everywhere. If anything moves, breaths, or farts, we’ll know of it.”

  “Very well. Now, show me around one of these tunnels, and I’ll be on my way,” said Erratarus.

  “Of course, Lord,” replied Kelfbare with a bow. “And your orders for the planet? Shall we continue to reinforce it?”

  “Yes” Erratarus replied sternly. “It’s so close to my enemy’s home world I can smell them. Once this planet swarms with my minions, it will be the jewel in my crown. I have made plans to move the Berrillian capital here by next year if nothing rotten is found here.” He turned to Kelfbare and placed a claw on top on his nose so hard it drew blood. “Do not make me a fool in trusting you to accomplish this, old friend.”

  “I would rather die, Lord.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” concluded the king.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Damn Berrillians. It took them forever and two days to get their act together and migrate in force to Rigel 12. Three years. Three damn years. It was looking so much like they were never going to take the bait I started hanging my head in public. I never knew for certain, but I was sure people were talking about me behind my back. I could almost hear them whisper, “That smug Ryan finally got his. He face-planted in a bowl full of dog shit, didn’t he? Had us spend a gazillion dollars and has nothing to show for it. It serves him right.”

  Man, I was starting to hate everyone. Finally, word came that massive numbers of Berrillians were moving in on my brainchild. At first, they dicked around, sending spy after spy, modest outpost after less modest outpost. But finally, the remote sensors we left showed they were there in force. Now, all that was missing was for the most crucial, least reliable part of my whacky notion to work properly. Yeah, the plan was Ryanesque in the extreme. My most harebrained to date, which was saying a hell of a lot.

  The time had passed, well, I’ll just say slowly and leave it at that. My kids grew, my love for Kayla grew, hell, my waist would have too if that were possible. I was allegorically fat
and happy. I migrated back into the political arena too, which surprised even me. A fellow named Kennedy replaced Alexis Gore when she termed-out of the presidency. He was, believe it or not, a direct descendant of the JFK who’d been assassinated back on old Earth. Go figure. Small universe. Anyway, Carrington Kennedy took a liking to me and brought me into his inner circle. If there was one trait, once singular skill I’d honed in three plus centuries, it was giving advice to others. And I even got paid to tell him what to do.

  I know I groused a lot, wrung my hands a lot about having to set into a more mature role in life. But, in the end, it was all good. Watching my kids grow, go to proms, and graduate was a real joy. I even got to teach all my kids how to drive a car. Yeah, unbelievable. In fact, that’s the word all of them used to describe my performance as a driving instructor. Not entirely sure it was meant in a complimentary light, but hell, it was my car and my rules, so it was my call.

  I spent quite some time on Azsuram too. JJ was retired. Yeah, my little bundle of joy, my fishing/drinking/bullshitting buddy, was retired. There were several large cities in the Kaljaxian sectors and a few on the human side of the planet. I couldn’t be more proud. We all defied the grimmest of odds.

  At first I found it hard to see military missions staffed by others sometimes return and sometimes not return. But gradually, I came to see it all as a blessing. Killing, hating, and exposing oneself to death, carnage, and wasted lives was negative in the extreme. Obviously. As much as I thought I was immune, I wasn’t. The farther I got from action, from firsthand participation in the abomination that was war, the happier I became. Kayla commented on it all the time, but I figured she was more or less congratulating herself. But she wasn’t. I was becoming a better, more positive person. I liked who I was becoming. Weird, eh?

  And now, millions of Berrillians inhabited Rigel 12. Some intel suggested Erratarus himself had moved his court to Sanctuary. The entire royal household, such as it was, resided there. Word came that Claudus had died. There were solemn announcements on Berrillian holo-vision that said he had tragically died of “massive organ failure,” taken, they lamented, at such a young age. The queen wore black for an entire month. Me, personally, I was shattered. Claudus, gone. We could have been BFFs, I just knew it. C’est la vie; c’est la guerre. In my experience, another way of saying total organ failure was poisoned. Good. I hope he suffered like a dog too.