The Forever Peace

by Craig Robertson

  Presently, it was time to call a meeting of the Security Council. We had business to plan.

  Over time, the grand assembly hall of the UN on Exeter had become more and more ornate and imposing. I chalked it up to human nature. A robust and vital organization couldn’t just have, like, a big room to meet in, now could it? No. One required marble, one demanded gold leaf, and ornate ceilings were, apparently, a must. Anyway, the chamber was done up in spades.

  Presiding over the meeting was the new Secretary General, Allison Gentry. She always impressed me with her unimpressiveness. She could have been thirty-two or fifty-eight years old. The fact that she was married but had no children provided me no clue. She might not have gotten around to childbearing yet, or maybe that time had passed her by. She had no beauty to her face and no allure hidden in her body, but I couldn’t say she was unattractive. Allison was a bit overweight, but she was by no means fat. Her hair held no luster, and its style might have fit another woman’s face, but it didn’t hers. She was never rude, condescending, or anything other than cordial, but she gave off no warmth and possessed no sense of humor. She looked like everyone’s mom, I guess. I’m not sure why I mention all these conflicting, dull elements of her personality, but they really stuck with me. I guess as another person out of place wherever he was, I empathized with her lack of apparent connectivity with the concurrent world around her.

  President Kennedy attended, along with the heads of the major worldship-states. Pan-India, Euro-UK, China, and Nippon-Korea were the main players. Because of the tight secrecy of the Sanctuary Project, the participants were kept to a bare minimum. One fellow who attended had always totally bothered me. Not that rubbing me the wrong way was either hard or a crime, but Émile de Maupassant sure as hell did. He was the head attaché for the Euro-UK Coalition. Pompous, over-bearing, and an android. Yeah, he was one of the very few people who wanted to download to an android host in the last two centuries. I should say one of the tiny number of sane people to contemplate that act. Any number of locos wanted to live out their grandiosity. Normal, thinking humans, however, were wisely reluctant to take the plunge.

  In the three centuries since my download, there had been volumes written on the morality, ethics, and advisability of such transfers. An entire new branch of philosophy was spawned. Artificial Life Meta-Epistemology. Yeah, pretentious sounding. Anyway, after the necessity of the original Ark Project and the megalomania of the Marshall Era, the necessity for more androids fell under sharp scrutiny. Take it from a three-hundred-year-old robot, it’s not the life suitable for most people.

  This de Maupassant joker, no relationship to the notable French author—to the latter’s eternal credit—had convinced those in charge of such matters his conversion served some greater purpose. Toño and Carlos had long since abandoned those duties. I doubt either would have condoned his download. Like me, they understood the universe didn’t need to ensure the longevity of an eternal pain in the ass. Those types were bred with more than sufficient frequency without help augmenting their number.

  Allison called the meeting to order. “I’d like to thank everyone for their attendance. I will ask General Hijab to provide us with a detailed report on the current situation on Rigel 12. General Hijab.”

  “Thank you, Madame Secretary. We all know this is General Ryan’s baby, but I’ll fill you in as well as I can, then I’ll defer to him for any additional insights. First, let me say the Sanctuary Project has worked better than most people, including myself to be honest, ever thought it would. We have high confidence that well over ten million Berrillians inhabit the planet.”

  Though everyone present followed the Project closely, there were still a few whistles of disbelief.

  “And you’re confident your intelligence is accurate?” asked Émile. He, of course, asked it in the most nasal, condescending manner possible.

  “Yes I am. It was hard to set up a reliable, widespread surveillance network, given the fact that we could not risk their finding any trace. But by using a space-folding transmission network, we ensured they wouldn’t detect the transmissions off planet. The data-gathering equipment itself only operates in microsecond bursts, so our adversary has never detected them.”

  “I was referring to the conclusion you reached, not the iffy technology we all know you employed,” responded the oh so annoying Émile.

  Faiza’s face grew stone-like, and she balled up both fists. I was liking her more every moment.

  “Asked and answered,” was her terse reply.

  “My dear General, we are discussing the survival of our species, of many species, in fact. This is not a courtroom reenactment. Please answer my simple question. Is the analysis of your space data actually credible?”

  “Err…” she began.

  “Faiza,” I interrupted, “I’d like to field this one, if you don’t mind.”

  She directed a hand at Émile, indicating he was all mine,

  “Son, with time, I’m certain you might become more familiar with technology and intelligence operations. I say might, because you clearly have focused your attention elsewhere to date in terms of whatever learning curve you’ve taken on.”

  He stood to object.

  “Have a seat, pork chop. I still have the floor. Unless you’d like to meet said floor with your face soon and very hard, I suggest you park it.”

  The moron raised a trembling finger halfway, then dropped it. He looked to his prime minister for support. The boss coincidentally happened to be inspecting the fabric of his sleeve and did not notice his assistant’s appeal. Émile sat with visible reluctance.

  “See, you can make a good decision. Now, as I was saying, we’re here to discuss the results of a long-standing operation. Your thoughtful questions are welcome. Your snotty derision is not. You’re immortal now. Every screw-up and misstep you make climbs aboard your back and stays there a very long time. Be careful you don’t end up being an involuntary hermit.”

  “Let’s move on,” said Faiza quickly. She was working like the devil to suppress a grin. “So, a significant portion of the Berrillian population has taken up residence on Rigel 12. More importantly, the central government and core royalty are there too. Space above the planet is full of their warships. My conclusion is that they are determined to occupy the planet and are willing to defend it with all their might.”

  The Pan-India prime minister, Indira Kapoor, spoke with awe in her soft voice. “They took the bait so fully. I can’t believe it.”

  “I have had a lot of contact with the Berrillians,” I responded. “You all know I hate them with a passion. That said, I have to say objectively that I think they’re not the brightest lights in the harbor. The make up for that in pure aggression and endless drive, but they’re not as intelligent as one might assume for such a powerful species.”

  “That would help account for the fact that they fell into our trap so completely.”

  “It isn’t a trap until you catch something in it,” I replied.

  “That brings me to the final issue,” said Allison. “Are we ready to see if our plan works? Clearly, we only get one chance at this. If it fails, they will know our intentions.”

  “Yes, but even if they do, they’re stuck on the planet. Our combined fleets can keep them pinned down there indefinitely,” added Kennedy.

  “Assuming there is no shift in our technological advantage, that is probably true,” said Allison. “But never forget our enemy is ravaging countless worlds throughout this quadrant. Sooner or later, they’re bound to discover a break-through technology that will threaten our superiority.”

  “If I might,” asked Émile reluctantly. “I realize my raising a potential negative might not be warmly received, but still I must ask. Why haven’t the Luminarians noticed the presence of such a vast number of Berrillians? For our plan to work, the natives must play a vital role.”

  “That’s a fair question,” I replied. “And you’re totally correct. If the Luminarians don’t act as w
e hope, all our efforts are for naught. I think it’s just a result of the fact that they are concentrated so close to the equator that they can’t sense far enough to detect the growing Berrillian population.”

  “That,” said Émile more robustly, “or they’re not interested in them.”

  “Or they’re not interested,” I agreed. Hey, even a blind pig found the occasional acorn. Émile was right.

  “So,” said Allison, “the final decision is mine. I will, however, ask for a vote. Show of hands, who favors finalizing Project Sanctuary?”

  Three quarters of those present raised a hand.

  “Those opposed?”

  A few people raised a hand. A minority of people didn’t vote either way. Dear Émile was in that last group. Go figure.

  “Very well, concluded Allison. “Thank you for your input. It is my opinion that we should proceed with the project and pray it works. If it does, the Alliance will be secure for a very long time.”

  Polite applause signaled everyone appreciated her tough decision.

  “General Ryan, if you’ll join me in my office, we can make the final arrangements,” said Faiza as she stood.

  “You got it,” I replied. If I was still flesh and blood, I’d have a stomach full of butterflies.

  It was go time.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Along the hillsides of equatorial Rigel 12, Luminarians lazily glided in random directions. They rarely interacted with one another. If they did at all, it was to ask anyone nearby to move away. They always did so rudely and forcibly. No one wanted to share their sunlight. It had been like that for millennia. The irony of such an advanced race becoming non-corporeal only to become totally isolated never struck the Luminarians. They were too hungry and self-consumed to wonder over such philosophical matters.

  Then, in the distance, bright, radiant bursts of energy erupted to life. They geysered nutrition, they lavished food upon their surroundings. At first sluggishly but quickly picking up speed, Luminarians moved toward the life-giving energy. No one spoke, no one asked what the nature of the unbounded gifts were. They were too hungry to worry about such intellectual concerns. They would eat.

  Since there was no conversation among the natives of Rigel 12, none of them knew that twenty equidistant other bursts of glowing light had sprung to life simultaneously, just north of the equator. Hungry Luminarians moved like herds of animals to the food. Soon, all the remaining natives of Rigel 12 were clustered around the energy, feasting as they had not in as long as anyone could remember.

  Then, as abruptly as the energy burst to life, it died out. As a race, disappointment shot through the Luminarians. To eat, to gorge so ravenously only to have it end so quickly was unbearable. With the bounty they had just assimilated, they were able to begin to bicker and argue, to accuse and to blame. Fury, rage, and contempt flared as they had not been able to do so in untold generations. Luminarians assaulted those near them, hoping to steal life from anyone they could, such was their hunger lust.

  Then, to the far north, fifteen beacons of energy beckoned, like wanton lovers anxious to give all they had to anyone who cared to take it. Streams of Luminarians moved with speed to the new sources of life, the new answers to interminable greed. Conversations ended as an every-Luminarian-for-themselves rush to feed burst northward. And when they arrived to bliss, they consumed the gift with abandon. Old senses and ancient feelings returned to the sentient being of Rigel 12. They knew what it was to be dominant again. They knew, every one of them with certainty, that they were made to rule and to dominate and to excel in their self-completeness.

  The entirety of the Luminarian population sucked up the nectar of life as quickly as it was produced. With increased nutrition came increased hunger and a commensurate ability to absorb more and more and more. Soon the glow began to dampen, the pull on it was so rapacious, so great. Then, like the incendiary meals earlier, the fifteen food sources terminated. They had assimilated enough energy by then that they were less inclined to fight, but still they bickered. Each told those near that it was the other’s fault that the meal was gone. The denounced one another like fools on a sinking ship. But they all felt the intoxication of self-worth, of endless pride and of unlimited desire.

  Then ten geysers of energy shot to life, farther to the north. A similar rush, now faster due to adequate energy stores, ensued. Later, four booming beacons of nutrition beckoned the Luminarians north, ever north. But the direction they flew in mattered not. Only the food they all equally lusted for mattered. It was all that mattered in the universe.

  And then it was over. Four masses of Luminarians were heaped up around one of the now extinguished volcanoes of life. For a while, they remained, hoping the bounty would reignite. Had they any belief in a being greater than themselves, they might have prayed to it, they were so desperate. They moved without direction, hoping to detect the next life-giving reservoir of energy. But this time, no new food was given to them. They waited, and slowly they dispersed, looking to find some other form of nutrition.

  For hours, the slowly spreading mass of Luminarians saw nothing to eat aside from one another. None were above cannibalism, but it risked energy loss to oneself if the intended victim was quicker or cleverer. In time, if it became necessary, they would scavenge for a meal among their kind. They fanned out and searched for an easier meal. Soon, they had thinned enough that the radiant energy emissions from the group itself no longer obscured their individual vision. Tiny pricks of life began to pop into their consciousness. Soon, it became apparent to all Luminarians that they were close to a harvest of nutrition that seemed limitless. Greedily, they swarmed the points of life. With gusto and abandon they assimilated the life force of thousands of corporeal sentients in a flash. Though none knew it, the fact that they no longer sensed smell was good. Otherwise the rank odor of the Berrillian cities would have been off-putting.

  **********

  “Sir, there’s an anomaly present near the equator.” Senior Pack Guide Geurnol studied his monitor screen intently as he spoke.

  “What type of anomaly?” replied the officer of the watch, Tight Scout Maldapir. She moved toward Geurnol’s station.

  “I cannot say. There appear to be multiple bursts of sustained energy along the entire course of the equator.”

  “Is it a natural phenomenon?” she asked.

  “Doubt it. Too evenly distributed. Also, it's intensely hot. I doubt a geologic process could give off such an energy.”

  “Very well. Keep me posted.” Maldapir flicked a switch with a claw. “Massive Source Squarrap, there is an anomalous burst of artificial energy encircling the planet’s equator I should like to alert you to.”

  “Bitch, what do you spit words about? I cannot act on a threat that my staff cannot detail for me. Am I a divine seer now?”

  “No, err…I thought whatever was occurring was sufficiently important to alert you immediately.”

  “You thought, Maldapir? You’re in the army. You’re not fed to think. You’re to gather information and pass it to your better. I have the big head. I do the thinking. Now find out what in the infernal wastelands is going on and get back to me no sooner than you have a useful report. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Massive Source Squarrap.” She flicked off the comm and cursed herself for being so foolish. The safety of self was more valuable than the safety of the many. She’d tried to help her kind, and now she might well die for her lapse.

  Within fifteen minutes, Maldapir was a good deal more confused. She was absolutely baffled by whatever it was she was documenting. Energy bursting on and off, the number of emitters decreasing, and the latitude, of all things, decreasing rapidly…

  “No.” Maldapir lunged for the comm switch. “Squarrap, you imbecile,” she roared, “you have to hear this. Your complacency might have cost us all our lives.”

  By the time the last four energy bursts cut off, Erratarus's court was abuzz with activity. Cats yelled, soldiers ran, and angry messages were
being sent wildly.

  “What is the purpose of lighting large torches?” bellowed the king. “Our cursed foes have lit-off a fanciful display, but to what end? I need answers, and I need them ten minutes ago.”

  “Lord,” said his prime counsel Zarrep, “our scientists tell me nothing but gibber-gabber. For unknowable reasons, flares of energy are departing the lower latitudes and ascending toward the mid-latitudes. Perhaps it is a joke, Most High.”

  “A joke?” Erratarus growled as he seized the counsel’s throat with a powerful jerk of his paw. “That was the stupidest phrase a dead one has ever spoken. Bring us someone with answers.” He tossed the writhing body of Zarrep to the floor.

  An old Berrillian in a laboratory smock walked as quickly as he could toward the throne. He bowed as deeply as time’s effects on his frame would allow. “Lord Erratarus, I believe I see purpose in these energy bursts.”

  “Don’t stop for my begging. What purpose?” howled the king.

  “The bursts of energy seem to have entailed a life force. It moves north. The energy seems to beckon it.”

  Erratarus charged the old cat. He pierced the flesh of old cat’s neck with all his claws. “Speak no riddles or die. What are you not saying?”

  “The long-lost Luminarians, Lord. I believe the native sentients of this planet are being herded toward our location.”

  Erratarus’s arms dropped like wet hay. Luminarians? They were extinct. And so what if they lingered on his world? The information he had on them was that they were weak bags of protoplasm incapable of anything but ill will.

  “Why? Can you tell me why our enemy would go to all the trouble of parading a feeble excuse of a species halfway across the planet?”

  “I cannot, Master. I can only advise that is what they are doing.”