TWENTY-TWO
“But, Your Holiness, such a thing is simply not possible. It's not for want of effort on our part, but due to the strong convictions of those we wish to aid.”
Pope Kennedy II rustled magisterially on his golden throne. He raised an arm high in the air to place more emphasis on his proclamation. “Because it has yet to be accomplished doesn't mean it's impossible. With prayer, Cardinal Wilson, and the application of your fullest efforts, We are certain you'll succeed.”
With a barely perceptible motion of a finger, the secretariat of state spoke. “Thank you, Cardinal Wilson, for your report. His Holiness looks forward to your update and that it comes both soon and with better tidings.” Impassively, he turned to the right. “Next!” An ornately dressed old woman shuffled forth. “Cardinal Nancy, His Holiness will receive your report.”
She bowed as deeply as her age would permit. “I bring news of the conversion of the Jews, my Pope.”
He sat expressionless for several tense seconds. Then the Pope burst out laughing. He stepped down to her side and gently patted her on the back. “Would that it were so, wife. Would that it were so. Amidst all Our consternation and discouragement, it's good you retain your humor. More importantly, you remind Us to keep Ours.” He limped back to his throne and sat, resting one hand on a knee. “So, Cardinal Nancy, what have you to report?”
“Nothing welcome, I'm afraid. I've spoken personally with the joint representatives of all the Aboriginal tribes in Australia and the adjacent islands. They have no interest in our offer to help them relocate off-world. While they have no objection to individual tribe members departing if they wish to, as a people, they can't imagine leaving the land they hold as sacred. If the Sun Mother's wish is to perish, then they wish to join her.” She shook her long white hair. “There's no way around it. They've made up their minds and they will not budge.”
“Well,” he said solemnly, “let them know We stand ready up to help them relocate should their opinion change.” He shook his ancient head in regret. “We shall continue to pray for their deliverance.” She bowed again and left.
The secretariat offered a hand to help the pope rise. “That concludes your morning business, Holiness.”
“Where are you dragging me of to now, Carlos?”
“Lunch with the American ambassador.”
“Him,” growled the pope, “again? Can't he afford his own lunch? He eats here more often than I do.”
“Your Holiness, the Americans lead the effort to save all out collective lives, yours and mine included.”
“Technological imperialism! That's what it is, Carlos. I tell you that even after we leave, they'll lord themselves over us all like they owned the stars we sail amongst.”
“We could,” Carlos smiled as he said it, “always stay here and let them go without the blessing of Mother Church that is you and the Curia.” He enjoyed reminding his father of that option whenever the old man complained excessively.
“Bah! They may save lives but We shall save souls. We owe it to Our flock to go, difficult as it is to bear the gloating of the Americans.”
Carlos drew the pope to a halt outside the dining room. “Excellency. Before we enter, there's a phone call from the Canadian prime minister.”
“What does she want now?”
“She says she wishes only to thank you for your efforts in bringing the French Canadian government into closer alignment with hers.”
“Humph! I'll bet she'd also like me to threaten half of them with excommunication if they call for one more strike.”
Carlos offered the phone to his father. “There's only one way to know for certain.”
“Some aide you've turned out to be.” He tapped the “hold” key and spoke. “Margaret, good morning.”
“To you too, your Holiness. I know you're busy, so I'll be brief.” She couldn't see him roll his eyes. “You help brokering an agreement with my political associates was dearly appreciated. I could never have achieved such an accord without your wisdom and guidance.”
“Glad to help.” He caught himself just before he said “anytime.” She'd make him regret such an open offer. “Well, I'm needed elsewhere. I bid you a good day.”
“Good day to you too, Your Holiness.” There was a very brief pause. “Ah, one tiny request, if I might be so bold.”
To his son, he mouthed the words, “Knock me over with a feather.” “Yes,” he spoke aloud, “what else is on your agenda?”
“Oh, not really part of any agenda, my old friend. More an idea I'd like to bounce off a man of your unparalleled experience.” His only response was a deep grunt. “If my government was to open a dialogue with the United Nations concerning food allocations, would that be something you could support, or would you continue to remain neutral?”
“Certainly, my child.”
“So, you're saying you'd support our request for increased allowances? My, that's wonderful.”
“No, I said I have no problem with you opening a dialogue. That's what you asked.”
“Yes, you're correct, as always. But, naturally, I was curious if…”
“Margaret, please submit your proposal to the Curia per protocol. We can look it over and decide what actions help the most people. Now, again, good day.”
“Thank you, Your Holiness. Good day.”
As she set the receiver down, she turned to her secretary. “The old goat remains as inflexible as a steel rod.”
“At least,” Jane replied, “you made him aware. He can't help but think it over.”
“Yes, but there's a thousand miles between that and more food on Canadian tables.”
“With another mild winter, we should be alright for another year, ma'am.”
“If by 'alright' you mean no food riots like Europe and China, then I agree. But we're one bad harvest away from armed rebellion just like they've experienced.” She walked to the window. “Those fools at the UN! If they don't allocate more manpower to farming, there'll only be dead people to send into space.”
“I don't see that happening. Asteroid conversions are five years behind schedule. With just over fifteen years until Doomsday, their choices are severely limited.”
She grabbed the windowsill so tightly her knuckle blanched. “Don't tell me you're on their side! If you can't support me, I'll replace you at once.”
“No, ma'am. You know I'm completely loyal. I'm simply pointing out what their response is likely to be.”
“Sorry. I know. I'm so tired, that's all.”
“No problem. I understand perfectly. It's time for the president's weekly address to the US. You do want to watch it, don't you?”
“No, but I will anyway. The imperious jerk might say something important for once.” They shared a quiet giggle as Jane flipped on the holo.
“My fellow Americans and people of Earth everywhere. Today, I am pleased to report that our brave android explorers have made me proud. To date, Ark 1 has provided news of three planetary systems, Ark 2 has reported on two, and we have just received a report from Ark 3. Combined with the ongoing remote probe data from Ark 1, our scientists have confirmed at least four planets we can easily colonize. Several other planets hold some additional promise.
“I thank everyone for their tremendous ongoing efforts and understanding. I hope that we can all remain focused on our goal. I promise you better times are just ahead. We need only cross the finish line at full speed. Thank you and God bless.”
“And…we're clear!” shouted the director. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
Without acknowledging the production crew, the president turned to his chief of staff, Garland Walker. “Think they bought any of that upbeat crap?”
Garland, a friend of forty years, pretended to be shocked. “Charlie, how can you say such a thing! Not one thing you said wasn't the absolute truth.”
“There are a thousand lies between truth and honesty.”
“What, pray tell, was dishonest about that broadcast?”
He laughed. It was a guttural, humorless laugh. “Nothing. But neither was I in the least bit honest with the electorate.”
“What would you have said were you in an honest mood?”
He sat back, balled up his hands tightly together, and stared at them with anger. “Listen up and listen well. We're in the middle of a shit-storm with no umbrellas. If we stay on our current pace, only one-third of you sorry sonsabitches have the slimmest of chances to get off this deathtrap. Either ya'll stop whining about the hardships or I'll send you to Eastern Oregon with the rest of the troublemakers. If you think that's in the least bit a pleasant option, please keep the following in mind. One, everyone there will die in seventeen years. Two, everyone there knows they'll die in seventeen years and acts accordingly, which is pretty damn badly. Three, if we send a member of your family there, the remainder of the family get a big-old asterisk next to their names on the get-out-of-here-alive list. Four, shut the fuck up and work harder, longer, and better with less. Act like your life depends on it because it actually does. That's what I'd say if I were of an honest predilection.”
Garland was stunned by the ferocity his friend had hidden so completely. “Mr. President, where the hell did that come from?” He walked over to stand next to the president. He tentatively rested a hand on his trembling shoulder. “Charlie, are you okay,?”
He regained at least the facade of confidence. “Sure, as always.” He rubbed his face with both palms. “I'm just so damn tired, that's all.”
“You sure? Remember, I'm here to help. I don't serve the American people. I only serve my college roommate.”
He took hold of the hand still resting on his shoulder. “I know that, Garland. If it weren't for you, I'd have never lasted this long.”
Garland massaged his boss's neck. “Don't sell yourself that short. You're cut from the right cloth. Hell, your cousin, your grandmother, and both your great-grandparents were president. If it weren't for a pesky Marshall here and there, your family might as well be royalty. You've made it this far, this well, because it's in your DNA.”
He stared at the family portraits on the walls. “They're tough acts to follow.”
“And you're making them proud.”
“It won't mean shit if I can't get more than a fraction of the people alive today off the planet.”
There was a soft knock. A secretary stepped in. “The cabinet is ready for the meeting. Shall I let them know you're running late?”
He stood slowly and stretched. “No. That won't be necessary. Tell them I'm on my way.”
“Certainly, President Clinton. I'll send word immediately.”
TWENTY-THREE
One more planet, then I could be homeward bound. That sounded pretty good. I anticipated a very brief stopover on PC 1, based on its size and the star's temperature. It was very unlikely to offer any prospects of habitation. That was great. I was anxious to wrap the mission up. I wanted to get to where I called home. I was looking forward to the looks in their eyes when they saw my new crew. I was proud to have exceeded all reasonable expectations by such an unimaginable margin. Two live sentient alien species to study! I deserved a raise and a handful of medals.
The three-month journey to PC 1 seemed like the shortest three months since I left Earth. Yeah, Sapale and I were bunny rabbits in space. But the physical part wasn't the only one that sped time along. She was becoming a good friend and an endless source of information, opinion, and, most importantly, bullshit. How could anyone not appreciate a BSer? It was easy for her to aggrandize the situation from Kaljax, since I knew next to nothing about the culture. But she could BS about my world. For example, she made a big deal out of having had sex with Al. For the better part of a week she added credible, and incredible, details about how it had been possible and how enjoyable it was for them both. For his part, Al played along as best he could. He could be snarky, sure. But he had no prior experience at the fine art of bullshitting. He eventually confessed it was all a joke when he couldn't corroborate essential parts of her story. But, it was, all told, a great ration of BS on her part.
She also had penetrating insight. When she focused it on me, it could be kind of uncomfortable, but she was never mean spirited or unkind. She helped me deal with some fears and bugaboos I harbored. A key one was my return to Earth.
“So,” she said out of the blue, “you must be looking forward to getting back to Earth.”
It took me a few heartbeats longer to reply than she expected. “Yeah, sure.” I fiddled with the bolt I was adjusting. “Who wouldn't be?”
“Well that's a less than ringing endorsement if I've ever heard one.”
“What?” I protested.
“'Who wouldn't be' is not a statement of affirmation but an evasion. It makes it seem like you answered the question when, in fact, you simply posed a second, unrelated one. In fact, the question opens the discussion as to which type of person might not be looking forward so as to see if you fit into that group.”
“If you hadn't been a revolutionary, I bet you'd have been a lawyer back on Kaljax.”
“And again, he shifts the subject and dodges a simple question!”
“I said I was glad to be going home because 'who wouldn't be.' It's a just an expression. You're over-interpreting because you hear it though a translation circuit.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“Then, here you go. Look at my eyes and say the following sentence: “Sapale, I am extremely glad to be returning home. I can't wait to get there.” I did. She exploded. “You don't mean that and you know it. I am trying to have an adult discussion with a child!”
“Sap, what's the big deal? I am going home, whether I like it or not. That's my job. Why is it so important to you that I long for home?”
“It isn't important to me in the slightest.”
I slapped my palms to my sides. “Then why the Brathos are you torturing me about it?”
“Because it's clearly important to you. Since you're my brood-mate, that makes it important to me.”
“Wait, wait,” I held up a hang-on-a-minute hand, “what's a brood-mate?”
“What do you mean what's a brood-mate?”
“Excuse me,” Al interrupted, “in order to prevent you two from starting Interstellar War I, I'm forced to set things right.”
“What, computer?”
There was a several second pause. She'd called Al 'computer' again. He hated that with a green passion. Hence, I knew she was really pissed off. Finally, a huffy voice spoke. “A glitch in the translation algorithm is causing the confusion. The female alien is saying 'brood-mate.' The correct translation for you, Jon, is 'husband.'” He waited a couple seconds for that to register. “You're welcome. I think I'll just slip into sleep mode now.”
“You don't have a sleep mode, Al.”
“I know, but I'm working on one.”
“Why does the computer need a sleep mode because it corrected the translation malfunction?” Her voice was three octaves higher and twenty decibels louder than normal. Not a good sign.
“Because the computer doesn't wish to witness the fur fly after whatever the pilot says next reaches the ears of the female alien.” That Al, always trying to be so helpful.
“Computer,” she demanded, “how could you possibly know what the pilot is about to say?”
“I don't know what he'll say. I just know he will speak. I predict with 99.7 percent confidence that after he speaks, you will attempt to remove his skin, slowly and in small strips.”
She turned on me. Crap! “Jon. Brood-mate, Jon. Please say a sentence.”
Nice weather today. Nope, she'd be on me in a flash. You know, I think I need to run a full set of diagnostics on that darn AI. Death would ensue in five seconds if I did.
“What, brood-mate, Sapale, would you like me to say?”
“Hum.” She was using that weird guttural growl of hers. “For the record, I'm brood's-mate. The male is the brood-mate.”
“My but that's a fascinating insight into Kaljax language and culture. Thank you for sharing.” I stood there awkwardly a second. “Isn't that fascinating, Al?”
“I'm asleep.”
In my head I spoke. Thanks for having my back, you rusty bucket of bolts.
He replied out loud. “Sorry, couldn't hear you. Cotton in my ears. What did you say?”
Her growl loudened. Then she spoke slowly, accenting each word of her dirge with precision. “You knew we were brood-mates, right.”
“Well, it's just, you know, we never talked about it…said it in so many words.” My, but that growl got even louder. “I mean to say, I didn't, as you just witnessed, know the actual word, you know—brood-mate—until just now.” Shit, shit, shit! “Fascinating word. Brood-mate. Brood's-mate. I just love ’em…don't you, Al?”
“If you were organic, I think this is the point at which I would dismember your violently and consume you.” That growl of hers really did have a lot of complexity and nuance to it when it got going. And, funny thing was, even without a translator, I knew what each note meant.
“You know what?” I asked as cheerfully as possible. Implacable. Yes, that was it. Her burning eyes weren't inscrutable. They was implacable. “Here's the thing, and it's my fault,” I placed my hands reverently on my chest, “not yours.” I directed my palms toward her. “To be brood-mate—which we definitely are, brood-mate—on Earth, there has to be a formal ceremony first, before we say we're, you know, brood-mates. Since we haven't had one, you know, yet, I didn't want to be presumptuous and, you know, lock you into being my brood-mate until we, you know, did the ceremony thing.”
“Brood's-mate,” she corrected obliquely.
“Exactly! I'm so glad you understand and we can put this little, teeny, tiny, small misunderstanding behind us, brood's-mate.”
The Forever Life (The Forever Series Book 1) Page 18