The Forever Fight: The Forever Series Book 3

by Craig A. Robertson

  “They estimate billions, Master. Many billions.”

  “As parasites fleeing a sinking carcass,” remarked Omendir.

  “A very large number of parasites, Mighty One.”

  Omendir thought a moment, then spoke. “This is perfect. It fits my plan better than I could have prayed for.”

  “Again, Lord,” Ozalec basically sang, “Gumnolar knows your needs and provides for the righteous.”

  To himself, Omendir reflected how odd it was Gumnolar would grant his wishes. Omendir neither prayed to nor believed, like his idiot subjects, that Gumnolar existed. “How long would it take to send a message to the colony ships?”

  “A mm… message, Complete One? Why would we send the infidels a message?”

  “We wouldn't, because you are less than one-tenth of nothing! I would, for reasons you will not learn before your consumption by those who dwell in the prison of Ludcrisal!” To Ozalec, he howled, “Remove this flatulence bubble and bring me his second that I might accomplish my plans.”

  Very shortly, because anything ordered by Omendir was done expeditiously, Oyffew stood before him, tears streaking his fat cheeks. Owilla was being rushed to Ludcrisal. There he would be thrown in, alive. Life would depart Owilla quickly enough, however. The unexecuted criminals who lived in that desolate prison were invariably famished.

  “I wish to send a message to the human colony fleet. Can this be accomplished?”

  “Yes, Pure One. If I make some assumptions regarding their trajectory and speed and use a wide enough signal, I believe so.”

  “I don't want technical details. This is our first meeting, so I'll let you live for now. But,” Omendir pointed a fin at Oyffew, “look at my face, child.” The communication department's new chief tried to stare at his leader but could do so only waveringly. “You fail once and you die a thousand times. Any questions?” Oyffew shook his head, as he was unable to speak. He also fouled the water of his lord and master's office. This pleased Omendir. It indicated to him that the new fool had heard him well.

  “Fine. Here's the message: Great friends of Earth. I am Omendir, humble leader of a humble race. We of Listhelon have made every effort to make relationships between our two peoples loving, as they should be. The last leader of our world went insane without warning. He, and he alone, was responsible for the inexcusable attack on your gentle world. Swift justice was dispensed to him.

  It falls to me, as the new leader, to make matters right with you. I am incalculably sorry for the actions illegally taken against the innocent people of Earth. Luck, which can be kind even as it is being cruel, is at play. I have just heard of the tragic loss of Earth at the hand of fate. I have just learned of your colony ships venturing into the dark uncertainty of space to find a new home. Well, look you no longer. I invite you to come to Listhelon. Yes, I beg that you come here, so that we may pay the profound debt we owe you.

  We are an aquatic species. You are a terrestrial species. Our planet has massive expanses of unoccupied dry land. We have no need of it, but my scientists assure me it is perfect for human habitation. Our air is pure, fresh water abundant, and any troublesome land animals absent. (NB: Almost all life on land had been systematically eradicated by the hateful Listhelons.)

  So, new friend—new brothers—join us in a safe, prosperous, and loving future here on your new home.

  Ozalec stared slack-jawed at his boss. What, in the name of Gumnolar and his blessed children, was Warrior One doing? Who, he wondered, but only to himself, had just spoken?

  “So, my new head of communications, how long will it take for that message to reach our future guests?”

  “At these distances, around fifty cycles.”

  “So I might expect a response in one hundred,” he said to himself. “Good. You may go.”

  Ozalec could not help asking, “Lord, why in the name of Gumnolar would you send such a message? These humans can't be so stupid as to believe you. I thought we were to pelt them with small numbers of ships over time, not invite them to befoul our home.”

  Incautious words, even for the Second Warrior. “That you don't understand pleases me. I should not think a certified idiot can comprehend my designs. You see, I wish to play with their minds. It costs me nothing to send such a message. If they come, I'll publicly thank Gumnolar as I eat one of their hearts. If they don't, at least I might place a hint of doubt in their minds. Realistically, the best I might accomplish is to bring dissent into their midst. Some may argue for coming, while others refuse. Discontent poisons a society. When it does, I will smile.”

  “So, we're still sending the guerrilla ships?”

  Omendir swiped a fin over his face. How could one fish be so stupid? Surely it would require ten normal fools to be as dense as this pup. Ah well, he was at least a pathetically loyal moron. He'd live, for the present.

  EIGHT

  Drawjoy was having a particularly bad day. All of his days were insufficient, many were bad, and none, absolutely none, were pleasant. Yet, he slogged on like a condemned prisoner through his endless, miserable days, because he held a belief. Drawjoy was certain that, one day, he would win his reward. Someday, his name would be spoken of along with the greatest minds humankind had ever produced. Einstein, Dirac, and Ramanujan would be the reference points used to praise his intellect and the scale of his contributions.

  One day, when his star was at its zenith, people would worship him. In that enraptured epoch, he might even date a woman, all of whom currently avoided his advances like they were a pestilence, plague, or other biblical scourge. Even women plying the oldest profession laughed in his face when he proposed a brief business relationship. But Drawjoy knew it was only because women didn't yet know him. Once he was famous he'd go on dates, several per week.

  But all that had to wait. He had several calls to make and several more trash converters to repair before he could drink himself into yet another fitful night's rest. With the pittance Marshall paid him to be on call, Drawjoy was forced to work for a living like the rest of the rats he shared the worldship with. Marshall’s arrogance galled him to no end. The man possessed a lack of insight. The indifference with which Marshall regarded the scientist who had resurrected him, and would time and again, was inexcusable. Drawjoy thought that a man with Marshall's resources and needs would treasure his labor and value the brilliant mind that allowed life to be his in perpetuity.

  “Are you having some sort of seizure, mister?” asked the occupant of the apartment located at 1132 Dover Street, New Cleveland, Intrepid. Gladys Dunsworth was her name, a large single woman with an ill temper and nonexistent manners. “’Cause you ain't moved in, like, five minutes. Ya just keep starin’ at that console and not workin’.”

  “Madam, I am studying this circuit board to try and ascertain if it can be repaired or if it must be replaced. It's a delicate procedure and requires time, not elbow grease, to accomplish.”

  “You talk funny. Ya know that? My third husband, Harry, used to talk funny too. It was so annoying! Like he was better than me ’cause he finished high school and I didn't. That's mostly the reason I divorced him, ya know? Well that, and the fact that I caught him bangin’ my cousin Doris, who ain't nearly as pretty as me, at my nephew's Bar Mitzvah. Never worked one day in her life, neider.”

  “How lucky Harry is to be free of a shrew like you,” mumbled Drawjoy.

  “Huh? D’you say Harry screwed me? Because if ya did, you was right! Dat bum never knew how good he had it till he didn't have it from me no more.”

  “Any more,” he said, a tad louder. “It's any more, not no more.”

  “’Scuse me, a’cause I can't hear you too well when you're using that power tool. Did you say sumpin’ I needed to hear?”

  “Almost done, ma'am.” He prayed to God the repair held so he never needed to return here for warranty work. “There. Your trash unit should perform up to, if not exceed, factory specifications. With that, I will take my leave and burden your existence, such as it is,
no longer.”

  “Did I mention you talk funny?”

  “Yes, homeowner, just like Harry. You did. Good day.” With that, Drawjoy grabbed his briefcase, crushing its handle with all the strength in his left hand, and stormed out the door.

  The instant he passed the doorframe, two massive police officers pounced on both of his arms. Drawjoy was slammed, face first, to the metal deck. A wet crunch signaled his nose was broken, as did the rapidly pooling blood on the floor. He struggled to break free, but as most endeavors in his life, he did so ineptly and ineffectively. His writhing only produced more blood from his nose and a more forceful rotation of his already searing arms.

  Cuffs were slapped on his ankles and wrists quicker than he could say I want a lawyer. Someone flipped him onto his back much rougher than necessary and rested a boot on his painful chest. The woman placed her Taser an inch from his nose. “Please try and resist. I really want you to.” She fired off a short burst, singeing a few of his nose hairs. “Pretty please.”

  Drawjoy started to respond in a gurgled, confused manner, but she slipped her heel from his chest to his throat and pushed down moderately hard. “Save it for someone who cares. If there weren't witnesses, I'd end you here and now. Capisce?”

  He tried to nod in the affirmative but was unable to because of her large presence on his neck. He relaxed completely and tried to determine what had just happened.

  Several hours later, Drawjoy found himself in a dazzlingly shiny, polished room, sitting manacled to a chair that was bolted to the floor. He had received cursory medical attention. An absurdly bulbous dressing was affixed to his nose, like a white version of a clown's red nose. Not a single person, aside from the paramedic, had spoken to him since the female officer had. He knew, of course, why he'd been arrested. He still could not believe they'd accomplished the feat. His cover had been perfect and his contact with Marshall brilliantly discreet. He suspected, actually, that he could not be under arrest. Perhaps he was having a bad dream to pair with his bad day. How else could he explain the fact that he, a genius of the first magnitude, had been captured by simians?

  His fantasy was interrupted by the sound of the door opening and a single pair of heavy shoe-falls approaching the table. A chair slid back with a high-pitched squeak, and someone of bulk sat down heavily. Papers rustled, and the person sipped strong coffee. Drawjoy couldn't contain himself any longer. “I have wights,” he said, his Rs transforming to Ws due to his nasal predicament. “I wish to know who you awe and whewe I'm being held. I also demand to speak to my attowney!” He tried to sound imposing.

  “You don't, cupcake,” said the man with a weary voice. “I would like to proceed. In fact, I will proceed. A point of order, if you will. You have no 'wights' and you will not have a lawyer, ever. As of this moment, Drawjoy Miljenko is officially dead. You suffered a tragic accident while repairing a trash unit. Crushed beyond recognition, believe it or not. Even your dentist couldn't identify you because of the severe malfunction that turned you into a two-inch-thick pancake of mush.

  “The state, which presently means yours truly, owns you. If I decide to light you on fire and watch you burn, I shall do so. If I desire to flay your hide off slowly, I shall. Are we perfectly clear here? Do you have any lingering hope or unfounded piece of mind I need to further crush?”

  “You can't…”

  “Shut it, robot boy! From this moment forward, you will only answer my questions, and you will do that with an economy of words. You will not otherwise speak.”

  “Owa what, tough guy? See to it I don't get dessewt?”

  “Or,” the man said as he rushed around the table, “I might do this.”

  Pain exploded in the center of Drawjoy's face. Two powerful digits crushed and twisted his broken nose. He was unable to breathe; the agony was so intense.

  “And that's just off the top of my head, jerk-off. Give me some time and I guarantee I'll come up with a much better 'owa' else.”

  Drawjoy made no response.

  “Good, even a fool such as yourself can learn when motivated. Now, one additional rule. When I ask a question, you will answer it. If you try and get cute, or if I even think you're lying…well, I think you get my drift. I want to get home in time to watch the big football game. You make me late, and I promise you'll regret it.

  “Okay. Question one, where's Marshall?”

  “I don't know,” he responded quickly.

  “You probably suspect that's not the answer I'm going to like, right? Want to take another swing at that pitch?”

  “I told the twuth. How stupid do you think I am?”

  Drawjoy's nose seared with pain. “You remember the point about only me asking the questions? Now, I'm going to break my own rule, just this once, and repeat the question. Where's Marshall?”

  “I told you, I don't know.”

  “All right, how about this. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I can't recall?”

  There was a crushing sensation, followed by nauseating, visceral pain in Drawjoy's testicles. “You see, that's a lie. I know you saw him shortly before you reanimated him, following his incineration. You didn't do that with your eyes shut. So the truthful answer would have been: When I uploaded him eight months ago.”

  “That was the last time I saw him.”

  “Outstanding! You can relate useful information. Not bad for a dead dodo. Okay, double or nothing. How do you contact him?”

  “I can't. He calls me—or his assistant does, if he temporawily deceased.”

  “His assistant! Three cheers. I may not have to beat you until you're dead a second time. Who is this assistant?”

  “I don't know hew name. I have newer met hew.”

  “A lady? Useful info too. Where does Marshall live?”

  “No idea. Honestly. Why would he tell me, officew? Think it thwough.”

  A tremendous slap to the face spun Drawjoy's face almost one hundred eighty degrees. “Why did I hit you, bozo?”

  “I asked a question.”

  “Smarter than you look. Good. Let's move on. Where do you do the transfers?”

  “I newer know. It's all awwanged on thiew end.”

  The man lunged across the table and choked Drawjoy until his face was beet red. “That is your last lie. One more—strike three—and you're out. You'll never see it coming but it will be immediate.” With a dull metal clunk, he set a pistol on the desk. We have a team dismantling the lab you use in the warehouse district of town, near Kennedy and Palm. Where are the android shells kept?”

  “He keeps them. I sweaw it! They dewiver one to my lab when needed. Honest. You gotta twust me.”

  “You, shit-bird Miljenko, think I should 'twust' you? You are directly responsible for the death of Madam Secretary Kahl. You killed your one-time supervisor, Carlos De La Frontera. That news crew that was slaughtered? Their blood is on your hands as surely as it is on Marshall's. You're an accomplice to mass murder and a disgrace to your species. The only aspect of you I trust is that you will bleed when I cut you and feel real pain when I inflict it. Understood, worm?”

  “Yes, siw.”

  “Okay, and I'm only asking because I was told to, because me? I could give a shit. Why did you do it? Why do you aid and abet Stuart Marshall, the most dangerous man of our time?”

  “He pays me well for my sewices. Plus, before you torture me again, I like the wowk. Aftew De Jesus twumped up false accusations against me and tewinated my employment, I had no altewnative.”

  “I actually believe the part about you liking the work. I also know you're stupid enough to think you were wronged. But I've read your entire file. Your job performance with the android program was abysmal. You work was shoddy, your attitude poisonous, and your team spirit was nonexistent. You were, and I kid you not, the worst employee ever in android development history. The fact you were too dumb to realize that and tried and go it alone is just icing on the cake of your complete failure in life.”

  “I
don't have to sit hewe and be insulted. Awe we thwough yet?”

  “I'll let that question slide because I want to beat the traffic home. But know this. For you, it will never be done. You're going to be questioned three times a day, every day, until the day you die, unless of course someone does us all a favor and kills you. Then we can all celebrate. I'll bake the cake myself. No, shit bird, you'll be the test subject for every student at the academy to hone their skills on. Hell, we may even let some of the victims' families interview you. Wouldn't that be fun?

  “Your existence'll be as miserable as we can make, and we'll ask around for ways to make it even worse. In fact knowing what's in store for you, the suffering you will endure, the horror that'll be your remaining days, I almost feel sorry for you. But you know what? When that happens, I’ll remember my brother. He was one of Kahl's bodyguards. I think about him the way he looked when my mother insisted on seeing him one last time. Only half his head was left. Can you imagine her pain? Well, if you can't now, I promise you will in the months and years to come. You'll be the universe's top expert on soul-killing suffering.”

  NINE

  “It's pretty clear,” said Heath, “that Drawjoy isn't going to provide us with any more useful information.”

  “Yes,” agreed Amanda, “we understood he was a pawn and Marshall was too savvy to let him in on anything big. Still…”

  “It would've been nice to be led to the boss-man. I know.” Heath sipped his wine. “At least it didn't take much footwork to pick up that lunatic Mary Jane Plumquist. What a piece of work!”

  “She's so devoted to Stuart it took major drugs to loosen her tongue.” Amanda took a big gulp of juice. “But even she knew next to nothing. That Marshall's one clever SOB.”

  “He'll surface, one way or another. He'll either have a mechanical problem, we'll find him, or, best of all, someone will kill him on sight. You'll see.” He gently raised her chin with one finger. “What's the matter? I know you have ten million things on your plate, but I can tell something's really eating at you. Give.” He offered her his glass. “You sure you won't have some?”