The Forever Life (The Forever Series Book 1)

by Craig Robertson

  He was interrupted by himself. The outside speakers boomed, in a very accurate copy of his voice, the message I'd given to Al. My, my, did he develop a funny look on his face.

  Boabbor exploded in rage. “How dare you! You will suffer so greatly for this…”

  In a flash, I ran to his side and placed a silencing hand over his mouth. My other arm held him in a bear hug. He struggled mightily, but to no avail. He bit my hand, but couldn't break my polyvinyl skin.

  “Want to hear the rest of your fortune now? You're going to escort me to my shuttle. After that, you get to visit my ship in orbit. Isn't that nice of me?”

  He kicked and flailed even harder.

  “I'll take that as a 'yes.' Oh, and I bet you're asking yourself, 'Self, what's my motivation to cooperate with this lunatic?.' Excellent question. Observe.” I sliced his desk neatly in half. The sections thumped to the floor. “You motivation will be that you don't want me to do that to you. Oh, one last prediction. You will make this trip stark naked. I'm more modest, so I won't. You, however, will parade in front of your subjects wearing what you were the day you were born.”

  I had his fullest attention. His body went limp. As soon as I uncovered his mouth, he spoke in a hushed panic. “I'll do want you request, but please, I cannot be unclothed! I beg of you. It is unconscionable. I'll do anything else you ask. But please…”

  That's when all the lights went off. “There,” I said, “now hardly anyone'll even see your naked butt. Ah, you people have stairs, right?”

  I had to mostly prop him up as we walked to a waiting car and got in. Man, you'd think the Drell had never seen a man stroll casually about without his clothes on. Such a prudish race. When we were back to the ship, I tied Boabbor up with climbing rope. It was the closest thing to a brig I had. I gagged him too. All his whimpering, bargaining, and threatening was distracting. I couldn't think straight.

  “Al, open a channel to the Foressál.”

  “Channel open.”

  “This is Captain Ryan. I'd like to come visit as soon as possible.”

  As sterile voice replied. “You are welcome anytime. Land at these coordinates and you will be met.”

  Wash, rinse, repeat. Probably another trap. But I needed an ally on Cholarazy, or at least someone who didn't wish me currently dead. “I'll shove off immediately. Pause transmission.”

  “Transmission paused,” said Al.

  “Boab, you want to come or you want to stay here? If you stay, you're coming with me. That'll be a twenty-year flight along which you'll die of starvation. What'll it be?”

  He shouted muffled words. “What'd he say, Al?”

  “He says you can't do that.”

  “Tell him I can and I will.”

  That was right in Al's wheelhouse. “Captain Ryan says he can, Highest of Equal Boabbor. Between you and me, I think the man's mentally unstable. My advice is to take him quite seriously.”

  More muffled exclamations.

  “He says if he goes to Foressál they will kill him. If he stays here, he'll die. What kind of choice is that?”

  “Tell him a poor one. But please remind him it's more of a choice than he offered me.”

  “Master Boabbor, the Captain says, either way, you're completely screwed. He says he's extremely glad he's not you.”

  Another bout of unintelligible words. “He choses to die on his world, not in the company of lunatics.”

  “Good choice. Channel open. “Oh, and I'm bringing you a present, too.”

  Funny. I was using the same trick twice. I hoped it worked. Who knew, maybe someday my technique would be called Ryan Diplomacy. Students would read about it in textbooks. Hey, it could happen.

  The Foressál seemed happier than kids on Christmas morning when they saw my gift.

  “You know,” a man named Gothor said flatly, “this man is our sworn enemy?”

  “Yes, but I also know people can change.”

  He bristled visibly. “You mock us, Captain. Such a thing is unwise, even if you gift us our foe.”

  “Sorry. I mean no disrespect. I offer this prisoner to you as a gesture of my desire to become friends of the Foressál.”

  He growled quietly. “It is too early to say words such as friend yet. For now, let us agree we will not be enemies.” These bozos seemed every bit as cruel and conniving as the Drell.

  “A good-enough start.”

  “Among our people, when such a gift as this,” he pointed to Boabbor without looking at him, “is accepted, a favor in return is customary. What would you ask for him?”

  “I need some provisions and would ask that my leaders be allowed to speak with you in the future.”

  “It is done. Would you join me at table, Captain?”

  “No, but thank you. I have much work to do.” I needed to do a detailed survey and set out probes. I wasn't going to trust anyone on this rock to supply me with that data. Too seedy a bunch for that level of trust. Plus, if I walked into enough traps, sooner or later one was going to snap shut on my buttock.

  I think they were as cooperative as they were in part because they didn't want to be presented naked to the next enemy down the line. I bet they couldn't wait to hear how I pulled that stunt off from their new guest. I bet they had all sorts of questions for him, in fact.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Taylor,” his boss shouted in his earpiece, “you keep movin' that slow and I'll see's you're on the next rust bucket back to Dead Rock.”

  “Charlie,” he tried to defuse him, yet again, “I'm working as fast as I can. If I crack the shell open, the asteroid is no good to anyone.”

  Taylor was unimpressed or, more likely, didn't give a shit for the excuses. All he wanted was the numbers. Workers got paid in credits. Bosses not only earned a salary-credits, they also received bonus credits if they beat production numbers. More credits for the boss, the more of his family were guaranteed to get off Earth. If he rode the men like rented mules, maybe he could bring his mother-in-law's hairdresser along just for the hell of it. No way Taylor was screwing up on his account and getting his ass mailed back downstairs. He was not going to lose his kid's ride so his freaking boss could be Mr. Big Shot, the sorry son of a bitch. Plus, who knew, this one might be the very Ark Taylor's family shipped out in. It has to last a long, long time in a very hostile environment.

  “I got my eye on ya, ya lazy slacker. Gimme a reason, one good reason, and you're flippin' burgers downside. Ten thousand men'd give their left nut to take your sorry place.”

  “You got it, chief.” Best not to engage the idiot.

  “You know something? I don't think he likes you.” His buddy Cal had a gift for understatement.

  “You're shitting me? I thought we were destined to be wed,” snarked Taylor.

  “I hope,” Cal teased, “you haven't mailed out any invites yet.”

  “Come on. We need to core out this section of iron-nickel without sending a fracture plane vertically to the surface. And we'll do it by the book, fuck you very much, Charlie.”

  Rhett Taylor was a miner on an asteroid in orbit between the earth and the moon. It was about as far as he could imagine from being either the professional ball player he wanted to be or the stock broker he ended up being. But that was before the world went nuts. World time was measured now by only two epochs: the BWWF and AWWF. The Before We Were Fucked and the After We Were Fucked periods. In the good old BWWF, you could do whatever you wanted. PWWF, you could do the too, but the difference was, if you did, you would die when Earth went down the shitter. So, Rhett grabbed the best production job he could and worked his ass off. Twenty hours on, ten hours off, seven days a week for almost eight years. If he asked for a vacation, even a day off to sleep, they grant it with a smile. And a one-way ticket to Dead City.

  “No prob,” said Cal, “This time I'll work the laser and you man the seismics.” As they worked, Cal asked a question that had been bothering him. “You been here longer than anyone else by a long shot. You got more tha
n enough credits to get your whole family a seat. Why do you hang in here and put up with his crap?”

  “I'm working,” he said flatly, “for my in-laws and friends. They'll each pay a fortune for the seats. When we get where we're heading, I plan to be rich. Diamonds, as they say, are forever. Gold, platinum, and palladium are going to be more valuable than life itself. I plan on having stockpiles of medicines and weapons. People'll want them and they'll pay through the nose to take them off my hands.” He tapped himself on the chest. “Rhett Taylor's name's gunna be up there with J.P Rockefeller, Bill Gates, and Miley Cyrus—the mega-wealthy.” The deep ache in his shoulders reminded him it was about quitting time. “You about ready to call it a day?”

  “Roger that, brother! A beer and a babe will get us both halfway back to human.”

  “And we'll be right back here blasting a big hole in a ten-klick-wide ball of rock tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, but we'll have big-old smiles on our faces, won't we?” They slapped elbows in acknowledgement.

  All the work sites had several support vessels—the mother ships. Rhett's was particularly posh. He had a four-square-meter room all to himself. He rendezvoused with Cal at the Starlight after a quick shower. Expensive booze and even pricier women, but it always did the trick after a gruesome shift.

  “What'll it be, boys?” The barkeeper Jake asked, as if he didn't serve them the same swill every twenty hours like clockwork.

  “A shot and a beer,” they said in unison.

  “My kind of men,” Jake said for the nine-thousandth time. It helped that none of the three were listening to each another. Hadn't for years. Jake said the same thing to every customer and the men were preoccupied checking out the girls. The women hadn't changed in ages, but the two patrons eyed them lustfully just the same. Everyone was just going through the motions these days, especially the tradeswomen. Not one person liked what they were doing or wanted to be where they were. Each was motivated by the same two unifying emotions: fear and greed. Those two oldest of friends. Everyone was in fear of their lives and for those they actually cared for. And they all wanted more credits. Credits held the power of life and death. If heroin, apple pie, and sexual orgasm were blended in a potion, it wouldn't make a soul feel better than another credit could.

  One of the women walked over to Rhett. She stroked the side of his head. “Hey, sailor, new in port?” Rhett had made love to this woman more than he had to his wife by a considerable margin.

  “Why yes, I am. It's powerfully lonely out at sea, don't you know?”

  She rubbed his groin. “Well, Overtime here has just the cure for what's ailing you, honey.” She kissed his nose. “And when your wife asks what you've been doing, you just tell her you've been working Overtime.” She slid onto the stool next to him. “Wives just love it when their men work Overtime.”

  Rhett throated a primal chuckle. “Can I buy you a drink, Overtime?”

  “I thought you'd never ask.” She looked to Jake. “I'll have two of what he's having.” She turned back to Rhett. “I'm getting a late start, you know.” She smiled as seductively as familiarity would allow. “Do you know what a girl would do for a tenth of a credit, sweetie?”

  Rhett actually hadn't heard that line before. The answer was, of course, not nearly enough. But he couldn't blame Candy for trying. “What?”

  She ran a finger across his lips. “Anything a man desired twice a day till he cried out for mercy.” She would, as always, settle for a quarter his dollar-wages he'd made since she had sex with him twenty hours earlier. Or maybe it was Priscilla last time? Who knew? Who cared?

  Rhett was already calibrating the seismic sensors when Cal staggered to the job site the next morning. In lieu of good morning, he told his friend he looked like shit.

  He rubbed the back of his head. “No way.” Cal moaned. “Shit's feel a whole lot better than I do.”

  They work quietly for several hours. As the morning passed, they excavated tons of iron/nickel rock from their asteroid. Twenty other crews were doing the same thing around the clock.

  “So,” Cal asked when he felt more human, “this your last core job? You've done, what, twelve now?”

  “Twelve start to finish,” he said with pride, “but I've worked on fifteen so far.”

  “Sooner or later you have to go home, Rhett. This work'll bust your balls.”

  “If Candy doesn't first.”

  They both laughed loudly. “Suit yourself. But I'm counting the minutes. In two years, I'm cashing out. The wife and I'll be safe and I'll have a wad of cash to last a long time. I'm not greedy like some people I know. What, are you trying to save enough to buy yourself an android to upload to?” He laughed grimly. “People like you and me'll never have that kind of cash. You can forget that one, sport.”

  “You don't know that, shit for brains. I can dream, can't I? Maybe not one for me, you know. Maybe for one of my kids.”

  Cal stopped working and placed his hands on his hips. “And how you gunna decide which one gets the gift of immortality? You got like four kids. You sure as hell can't afford to outfit the whole clan.”

  He slapped his palm to his chest. “All the same, I'm working until it's time to evacuate.” He stopped working. “Besides, what's there to go home for?”

  “You're shitting me, right? How about your wife and kids?” Cal guffawed in his helmet. “Forget them, how about drinking water that hasn't been somebody else's piss a hundred time before.”

  Rhett looked off into deep space. “And the riots and the rationing. I sure don't miss those. At least we eat our fill up here. Down on Dead Rock, I'd be thin as an excuse.” He shook his head. “No, until I'm safe on my own world-ship, I'm just fine up here.”

  Cal was uncharacteristically serious. “You could be down there protecting your family if you think it's that dangerous.”

  “Hey, with what I make up here, I provide them with top-notch security. They're perfectly safe.”

  “Yeah,” Cal observed sarcastically, “in a biosphere to keep out the rotten air and vicious guards to keep out the zombies.”

  Zombies. Rhett chilled at the word. Those who'd given up all hope of survival and were living for the moment: the zombies. They knew they were to die and had nothing to lose—nothing. Zombies reveled in drugs, crime, and far, far worse. Once, a film crew tried to document the lives of a troop of zombies. When their camera was finally found, it showed them being burned alive, then eaten. The military had orders to shoot zombies on sight. Much of the time it seemed they sought out the bullets. Better to face a death you knew rather than one you didn't. Quicker, too.

  But Rhett's family was safe. So was he. And they'd all be safer and richer in less than twenty years.

  EIGHTEEN

  My last stop was Alpha Centauri, just under five light-years from home. It took me four years to get there from Epsilon Eridani. Four long, boring years. Ffffuttoe went safely back into hibernation six month into the flight, leaving me with the dubious company of Al. Did I mention long, boring years?

  Being the closest system to Earth, we were all especially hopeful we'd find a habitable planet. There was reason to hope. Several planets were confirmed to orbit both of the brighter stars in the system, AC-A and AC-B. There was a dwarf star, Proxima Centauri, orbiting a good distance from the central pair, which held less promise.

  As the months passed, I grew both excited and worried. Part of me was anxious to be done with the exploration gig and back in the company of humans. Still, another part of me was concerned for what I might find at home. A lot can change in eighty years under normal circumstances. Add the stress of imminent destruction and who knew what the place would be like. I was trying to be a glass-half-full kind of guy, but couldn't really own that mindset. I knew both how good and how poorly humans acted under pressure.

  I wondered, also, what the future held in store for me, after this mission was over. Would I be tasked another interminably long exploration mission? Maybe I'd be asked to assimilate i
nto the mass of colonists, basically stand down. Eighty years of new technology couldn't possibly make me obsolete. An android had to still be a tremendous asset. Surely the basic governmental and military frameworks were in place, so I'd find an important role.

  Then, for the first time it hit me. What if I couldn't support the government that I reported back to? I mean, it was possible the whole system had become corrupt. Look at post-World War I Germany. All the ducks lined up for an evil maniac to take control. No reason it couldn't happen again. What would I do then? Oh well, I'd jump off that bridge if and when I came to it. Those perverse thoughts didn't make my last few years in space any easier.

  Al and I knew the drill well. By the time we were six months out from Alpha Centauri, we began a detailed survey and set a plan. It was good to have something to do to occupy my time. Both main stars were very similar to the Sun. The challenge for habitable planets was that the stars orbited kind of close to each other. All the planets could be subject to some weird extremes of light and temperatures.

  The nearest system, AC-B, had eight planets and three were in the habitable zone. One of those was very large, however, so human colonization was not feasible. Everyone who lived there would be so heavy their legs would shatter if they stood up. Our first target, AC-B 5, showed no signs of civilization for orbit. The atmosphere was not breathable, having almost no oxygen. It had quite a high level of methane. That ruled out backyard barbecues. Water was scarce, but it was present as small seas or lakes. With environmental suits, humans could otherwise live there tolerably. I decided on a few landing sites and piloted the shuttle down.

  Okay, nearly forty years into the mission, you just know I had to do it. I named AC-B 5 “Jon.” Made a silly little flag and everything. Planted it right by my shuttle's ramp. Jon was beautiful. That actually sounded kind of weird, having to say it. But I'm not changing the name. Jagged mountains, a bright sun, a dimmer one, and three moons in the sky. The lake I put down by was stunning. Crystal-clear waters, babbling brooks, the whole nine yards. I wished I had a picnic basket and a date. More the date, come to think of it, than the basket, but you get my drift.