by David Salvi
“My fellow Motus members!” Titus shouted in a raspy, commanding voice. It echoed off the walls with omnipotent power.
A roar, more raucous than outside by the docks.
Titus continued, “Our time has come. Our time for the great reclamation of what is properly ours. This planet. This civilization. And the time is such, because we now have a weapon beyond guns, knives, or blunting sticks—the works of Oscar Marian have been recovered. For what was passed as oral tradition in our society is now substantiated by Oscar Marian’s own pen. Undisputed facts. The knowledge of his true intentions as the discoverer of our planet and its inhabitants, both then and in posterity, will be revealed to the Canaanite people! Freedom, in the form of every Motus fighter, will knock on their doorstep!”
Cheers, both clapping and yelling. Canaanite never drew such odd fury, Chris thought.
“We are calling to arms every able-bodied man and woman to wage the final war with Canaan and reclaim the land and people!”
Chris looked around and slightly shook his head in disbelief, and partly in disagreement. He took a sip of ale to remind him of its delicious wheat flavor and numb the madness before him.
Chris whispered to Wallock, “The plan is to show Canaanites a bunch of journals?”
“Information is powerful, Sir Christopher!” Wallock’s ale was nearly empty.
“Not sure you have the right megaphone to get the message across…” Chris said.
Titus still was orating. “We remember the brave that came before us. And the brave that sacrificed their lives to make this possible. The worthy and brave dignitary of Jason, Jason Menas…”
Chris’s eyes shot wide. Did he just say Jason…Menas?
“...and his wife, Myra, who sacrificed everything to bring these writings before us. She lived in servitude for years as an agent of Motus in secret, among the Canaanite filth who would rid us in a moment if they could! Her ultimate sacrifice will never be forgotten. We honor them! Honor!”
Collectively the crowd said, “Honor!”
Stunned, Chris sat in his private silence staring at nothing while the crowds around him erupted in an ignorant chant of Motus likings. They stood up in jubilation.
Did I hear what I thought I heard? Chris thought.
Riley came from behind him, and grabbed his arm. “Come with me.”
“Never confuse movement for action.”
Ernest Hemingway
CHAPTER 9
HIS HEAD STILL SPINNING, Chris’s attention bobbed in and out of a meeting to which he was secretly invited. In a private room located deep in the mountain, there was a wooden round table with ten people. They called themselves the War Council. Riley, Chris, Lavik, and seven others he previously did not know. He struggled to recall their names or who the heck they were in this foreign hierarchy of Motus. What he did know was that these people were the most cunning of the Motus rogues.
Conversations swirled around battle tactics and how best to disable Canaanite forces. Chris reminded himself he was a poet, and not a fighter or warrior or soldier or whatever the Motus folk call themselves when you actively pursue death’s shadow.
“I’m afraid of devastating losses. I worry about the man power and arms to take on what the Canaanites have,” a grizzled man said. He looked to be of warrior stock in rustic military dress.
Chris agreed with his sentiment and figured the warrior knew what he was talking about.
Riley struck the table with her fist and yelled, “No! We have to press. Break their spirits. That will win.”
“I applaud your passion, dear, but sometimes we must rely on the numbers,” same grizzled veteran who looked as though he hated what he was saying. He wanted to agree with Riley. He believed in her.
“Motus wasn’t built on numbers.”
“Don’t romanticize war.”
“Motus was built on will. And don’t call me ‘dear.’” Riley replied while scowling with hunched shoulders.
Chris thought she looked sexy when she was angry. The way her nose pinched her face, contorting her cheeks and raising her luscious lips...
Enough, dammit!
He checked his lusting and pondered about the prospect of a real battle between the two forces. Devastating would be an apt word, Chris thought.
Again the same solemn look around the table of wanting to believe, but not allowing feelings to fog their judgment, came about.
“Just a thought,” Chris interjected calmly at the interlude, “what if there was a different way?”
“A different way?” said another.
“Yeah,” Chris responded.
“Let our Canaanite brethren live in a complete lie?” Timothy said. He was a young man, a bit older than Chris, and a quality fighter, as Riley told Chris on the way over. Hand-to-hand combat expert, apparently. Chris did not want to rumble with the likes of this guy.
Chris’s heart thumped a bit faster as he contemplated his next line. He mustered a sliver of courage and said with a knot in his throat, “We could return to Earth.”
Pandemonium ensued with the others yelling in anger around the room. Most of it was directed at Chris like he was a gypsy.
“Who are you, anyway?” Timothy broke the chaos by shouting his question. There was a condescending tone to equate the idea to madness or stupidity.
“War may not be the best way,” Chris said, undeterred by Timothy’s challenge.
“Last time I checked, we didn’t hire a devil’s advocate for this council,” Timothy declared.
Chris gave him a puzzled look. What is a devil?
Riley interrupted Timothy with a stark defense, “This is Chris Menas. Jason and Myra’s son.”
The room hushed, including Timothy.
She continued, “All right? At least show him that respect.”
Another pause, until Timothy spun his attention to Chris with a smirk.
“So you’re the one? I didn’t get to see the boat’s arrival. Welcome, Menas. Let’s hope you live up to the name,” Timothy said. He loosened his stark gaze on Chris and relaxed his body.
Riley turned to Chris and calmly said, “That’s a noble idea, Chris. But even if that were the decision, we have no means of getting there. No ship. No way to connect the four light-years of distance between the two planets. And, we’d leave everyone on Canaan behind to live in the misery they have lived for centuries. You know that life. And it’ll only get worse as Arch Canaanites tighten their grip on society. A select few bullies enslaving and torturing the majority to maintain a lifestyle.”
Titus entered the room shortly after Riley’s comments, diverting the group’s attention his way. He had a half-cocked smile on his face.
The leader said, “What did I miss? Did someone pass some gas?”
This time the pandemonium was one of uproarious laughter. They were glad to have the mood lightened. But Chris fell back into his chair.
Riley spoke up, “Sir, I believe we have the warriors and weaponry to sustain a war. By surrounding the Canaanites and keeping the attack, we’ll break their will. They will surrender. And we will have the city.”
“You’re sure of this?” Titus asked. He wanted to believe Riley like the others.
“Yes, we have the best warriors on the planet. And the will,” Riley replied.
“Is the will to fight enough for victory?”
“I’ve fought among the best in Canaan. I know the value of that currency on the field of battle.”
“Then pray others have your will, dear.”
Their eyes darted around the room for finality.
Titus declared at the table, “Then we go to war. The final war with the Canaanites.”
The ten people, Chris excluded, cheered as if they already won.
***
Late in the evening, flames blazed across the city center in lampposts and rock-walled pits, and speckled along the mountainsides on lanterns and torches. Most of the people lived in the mountain as it was the safest lodging against the might
y ‘canes that bashed into the atoll and center isle. Each night, before daybreak, stores and shops were folded and secured to the ground in the event of a surprising crest of waves, wind, and rain. They were always cautious.
Chris elected to walk the shore that evening, taking in the blue and purple hues from Canaan’s moons bouncing off the trees, mountain, and rest of the atoll. He had enough of the party in the Great Hall. Most people were unusually drunk, stumbling and vomiting outside. He found it unsightly, so he decided to take his routine evening walk, only now he’d look east instead of west. It was there that he scribbled notes on his papers.
“Hey,” said a familiar voice. Riley Reuben again.
Chris turned and shuffled his papers like the schoolboy he always was when alone with her. He put them in his bag.
He said, “Thanks for sticking up for me back there.”
Riley smiled and said, “Try not to say crazy things, and I won’t have to.”
Chris organized his papers in a neater fashion in the knapsack.
“What are you up to?” she asked.
“Writing. Just figuring things out.”
“Like how to get back to Earth?” She laughed at the sarcasm of her comment.
“Oh, I’ve already got that figured out. Of course.” Chris smiled.
“Of course!” she smiled back. “I’m sure you have plenty of magic up your sleeves.”
“Yes, ma’am. The greatest sorcery Canaan has ever seen!”
The two giggled like children as orange and red light lit up one side of their faces.
“It’s been done before, ya know?” Riley said.
“Yeah? Who’s as foolish and crazy as I am?”
“Your father.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“What’d you think Titus meant by ‘sacrifice’ when referring to Jason Menas?” Riley said with furled eyebrows. “He went on a one-man mission back to Earth. Before we were born.”
“My mom never said anything about him.”
Riley sighed and said, “To protect you.”
“Wow.” One word.
“You never knew?”
“No. What happened?”
“All I know is your dad was the bravest, coolest, nicest, most intelligent, funniest, and out-of-this-world awesome guy,” she said. Her eyes fluttered and lips pursed, then she burst into teary laughter. She couldn’t help but have fun with the newbie. “My mom used to tell me. And wickedly handsome apparently. Too bad you only inherited the nice part.” From what Chris could see in the amber-glow on her face from the fires, she winked at him.
“And?” Chris leaned in.
“Something happened. We just don’t know exactly what.”
“What do you mean?”
“Early in her pregnancy with you, your mom and dad were captured and taken hostage by Canaan. So, the Canaanites forced him on a spaceflight, alone, with some artificial intelligence computer and enough rations for a few days. It was a suicide mission. But they wanted to test something out. Your mom was held back as a hostage carrying Jason’s future son.”
Chris listened and waited for more.
Riley continued, “There was an explosion in the sky, and he died. Nothing came of it. After years of converting Canaanites to our side, he was sent to his death. Many of the converts on the island owe their life to your father. If you want to become popular around here, tell them you’re Jason’s son.”
“I’d rather avoid notoriety.” Chris kicked his foot on the ground for distraction.
“Ha! Just like your dad. My mom was gah-gah over him. It was quite annoying to listen to, really. She always loved your mom, so no hard feelings. Plus, my dad is okay.”
“Who is your dad?”
“Titus,” Riley said in cockeyed way. It mirrored her father’s expression. “Yeah, he’s pretty old. He likes much younger women, like my mom. But I can’t complain.” She sidled Chris again, bumping hips and smiling at him. He looked into her eyes, which reflected flames as if haunting passion raged within.
Then she turned away, and Chris lost any nerve he had in the moment.
After a sobering silence, Riley said, “I’ve always wondered…” Her voice trailed off and her head tilted up toward the stars, thousands in view on the clear evening. Chris saw her throat gulp as if to swallow the magnitude of what’s up there. “...what is Earth like?”
“Better.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Knowing how it is here.”
“You never thought that maybe if we make this one better, we don’t have to entertain the idea of interstellar travel?” Riley asked.
“What’s so great about here anyway?”
“Gotta embrace the Motus way,” she said as she playfully bumped her shoulder into Chris’s.
He said, “This isn’t home.”
“And Canaanite City is?” she asked.
“No, but I was an outcast there,” Chris was poignant but not sad in his answer. He sounded determined like he wanted to get the hell off the planet he was supposed to call home.
Riley perked up and said, “And when you’re grazing on Earth, you won’t be an outcast?”
Chris looked up into space as Riley did moments ago. She had stared intently at his face, trying to study him for curiosity sake.
He replied, “Back in the city I was a gardener. I knew how to tend crops, check levels, make them grow to their fullest potential…some of those plants came from Earth, like us. They were transplants. Not natives. From what I read of our early farming and gardening history on Canaan, the adaptation to the plant’s different soil and climate took more time than anticipated, and it almost killed us.”
“Right, they adapted. That’s we do. All living things.”
“But to ignore years of adapting to our home planet? Making sure we live just right, happily and peacefully as we should. Not be carried away for one man’s fantasy.”
“He saved our species,” Riley reminded him.
“Please.”
“We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”
“Wouldn’t that be better.”
“We should be thankful.”
“Maybe he made a mistake?” Chris asked.
“Then what’s our purpose? Just to go back?” Riley asked.
“Maybe.”
Frustrated with the conversation, Riley turned away from Chris and strolled back to the jubilation in the Great Hall. He gave her a weak goodbye and wave. She returned the same putrid amount of enthusiasm.
Before leaving earshot, Riley said, “Ask Brody sometime about the mission. He’s our chief engineer...and he was the flight director on your dad’s mission.”
December 2065 Entry -- Yukon Territory, Canada
I write these for future generations. Always make progress possible.
Oh my mighty Albert Einstein, we’ve done it!
Here’s what we know:
- Four light-years is simply too much of a distance to go the “old-fashioned” way. Enduring the trip at normal propulsion would take over 100,000 Earth years. We don’t have that kind of time or patience aboard even the coolest space cruiser, let alone supplies. The only real answer was a transversable wormhole - a shortcut passageway through the universe, by bending the space-time continuum and entering a new dimension. All of which I mentioned in a previous entry, but worth reiterating.
- We have an A.I. system, Rob I, at Canaan with the universe’s most advanced space technology, including supplies that were deemed “JIC”—“Just In Case.”
- Rob II, our A.I. system here, has whatever we need at the compound to replicate what they have “up there.” Is it weird I want to call him a “clone?”
- Rob III is a security backup of Rob II here at the compound. Another clone.
- However there is a finite amount of supplies at the moment. Trial and error at nauseum is not an option. We must act smart.
Decades ago after the turn of the century, the world experienced an explo
sion of two key elements: profound technological advancement with robots and artificial intelligence, and atomic and subatomic matter research. I made my wealth with aggressive investments in both areas, allowing me to curate and dictate the direction of that research.
One company successfully marketed A.I. to help oil Earth’s practical motor on behalf of humans—mainly day-to-day life like chores, maintenance, and entertainment, and corporate operations like supply chain, travel, manufacturing. There were some military innovations, but the world’s armies are so advanced that it’s a matter of who’s going to push the ‘nuke’ button. No SkyNet, however, for all those conspiracy theorists and storytellers.
The other project revolved around exotic matter and particle colliders, which I kept secret. I didn’t try to patent anything, because I did not want it to be in the public record with the existing material. There was something about the second operation that I held close to the vest, and the discovery went unnoticed except for our elite group of scientists. Our other work funded this project.
Based on studies and math to date on wormholes, the possibility of “building” a wormhole requires a massive amount of gravity of two sides, thus opening up the passageway from one side to the other, connecting light-years in a matter of seconds or minutes. I suppose I’ll have to save a more interesting description after I go through one. It’s sure to be fascinating. I hope I can do it justice when the time comes.
So, in order to open a precise wormhole, we have to create two gravity fields and link them. Rob (collectively the system) had calculated what it would take to do this using our discovery of exotic matter and using an implosive force with such a gravity field, and, upon blasting them on a precise schedule, a window opened in a separate dimension, and we linked the two. The bridge, however, did not sustain its opening for a long-enough duration, and we do not know why—yet. But we knew we could create a bridge, aka wormhole, between the two points.
By God, we’ve done it! So, what’s next? Rob says build a bigger bomb. I’m starting to think he’s comical and sadistic. Can a robot go insane? I don’t see why not...