The Antares Cigar Shoppe (The Endless Sea of Suns Book 1)

by John Gregory Hancock

  "Let me ask you a question. Do you dream, Chantal?"

  "Yes, of course, silly Gaston. Everybody dreams." She rolled her eyes and laughed. She didn't just laugh with her face. Her whole body was involved.

  "Can you remember one to tell me? I collect them."

  She held her finger to her lips in melodramatic fashion to let him know she was thinking. She bounced it off her lips a couple of times.

  "A bear was chasing me around a tree." She formed her hands into claws and hunched up her shoulders to look formidable. "And I ran and ran until my feet turned into roller skates made of tumblebugs. Only they weren't really roller skates because they didn't roll but they lifted me off the ground until the bear passed right under me. He couldn't see me so he kept running until he disappeared far down the trail."

  "I see. Was it a grizzly bear?"

  "What's a grizzly bear?"

  "Here," Gaston said as he lifted up the palm of his hand. The hologram projected a segmented ribbon containing photos of different kinds of bears as it rotated in a circle. He flicked at one picture and it enlarged in the center of the circle on a disc. "Is this the kind of bear it was?"

  "No. The bear was fuzzy pink," she directed seriously.

  A glowing line passed through the hologram of the grizzly bear from top to bottom. As it passed through, it turned the fur pink.

  "Oh! And it had seven legs!" She nodded with certainty.

  "Seven? Really? How did it walk?" Gaston laughed. "Okay. Three more legs coming up."

  The image sprouted the improbable legs.

  "And it had a golden dress on..." Chantal was trying very hard not to smile, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, quirking up ever so slightly.

  "Did it maybe also have butterfly wings?" Gaston asked oh-so-seriously in return.

  "No, they were dragonfly wings. All shiny and see-through."

  The hologram lifted up off Gaston's palm and hovered in flight. It winked at the little girl. Chantal clapped her hands with delight.

  "Was this your dream bear?"

  "No, not at all, but isn't this one much prettier?" she asked.

  "Yes, it is, in fact," Gaston said, storing the memory of the image and especially the interchange with the girl.

  "C'mon, Chantal, we have to catch a rocket," said her brother.

  The girl flounced off the bench and waved backwards over the top of her head without really looking back. "G'bye, Gaston!" she squealed joyously.

  "Wait, Chantal!" he called as he plugged in a carbon block to the matter printer. "Don't you want your doll?"

  The little girl ran back, breathless. A few seconds later, the printer kicked out a cloth pink bear with dragonfly wings.

  "Oooooh," Chantal said as she examined it from every angle.

  "Okay, sweetie, thank the man...robot...thing," said her mother.

  Gaston didn't bother correcting her.

  * * *

  Three bright million years ago,

  a madman plied his vicious war

  Drank darkened blood

  from vanquished suns

  Struck wide his iron-bladed fist

  Swung dread and cruel

  his strengthened arms

  Planets, stars, and harried men

  fled wormhole armies evermore

  -- Lamentations of the Purge, Tsu'ar Venadi

  * * *

  Dusk.

  There was no real night. The gargantuan curve of Antares never quite left the horizon. It just dipped lower, diminishing its influence. Bluish shadows unfolded longer, turning more purple.

  It was a time for easily mistaking one thing for another in the muddled play of light. Briefly Antares B, the companion star, could be seen hanging in the sky, the apparent size of a credit coin. Compared to the primary star it was faded and barely blue, like a reflection in a smudged window.

  The Antares Cigar Shoppe did not close, not just yet. For now came the second tide, the neighboring shoppe owners. After they shuttered down their collapsing doors and twisted their keys into oversized locks, some carried their bags and satchels to the Cigar Shoppe for an evening smoke.

  Gaston retained tiny recognition spaces in his mind for each of them. Some had families they were neglecting by staying. To them it was worth it; a man (or a woman, or a thing) sought ways to unwind at the end of the day. To chat, maybe drink from a concealed flask and share a fine cigar.

  Mr. Arsenault and Gaston sat close together on the bench while the rest sat on scavenged boxes or crates or collapsible chairs they'd brought with them. Mrs. Plouffe preferred to stand, no matter how late into the night her visit went. She was a tough older woman with legs like tree trunks and a solid torso. She had probably been pretty in her day, and some of that still sifted through, especially if she laughed.

  Mr. Arsenault made the rounds with cigars and lighters, always taking care of others before he came back to the bench. He kept in reserve a special smile for Gaston, and a sideways glance or two most nights. Tonight he still seemed bottled up, still wanting to address something between them, when and if they had some time alone.

  But right now was the group, the 'club' they sometimes called it. Often they'd chatter and talk, raising their voices to be heard over each other, and sometimes they'd become tangled in awkward silence as a topic would falter, none of them knowing what topic to broach next or whose turn it was to jump in.

  Sitting in groups like this, in the deepening dark of evenings, was something so utterly human that it had been unconsciously practiced on hundreds of worlds throughout the galaxy. An unintentional thread of connection that maybe only Gaston realized.

  Perhaps those who were mortal clung jealously to every moment, understanding their fleeting nature which would wilt under the inexorable march of time and the heat of various suns.

  "Let's play Faux ou Vrai--false or true, then," Mrs. Plouffe suggested after one of those awkward silences had stretched on a bit long. "I'll start. Faux ou vrai: I was once an exotic pole dancer, making money from tips."

  This brought some laughter, which made her face redden. There were a few coughs and the rest quieted down.

  Mr. Lemieux said, "I will say true. You do have smoldering...eyes."

  But when they voted, most thought it was not true,faux.

  "Well, which is it, Mrs. Plouffe?" pressed Mr. Navarre.

  She pulled herself up straighter and patted her hair. "Vrai. True. When I was very young, with little money, I danced in a rocket port on Rimroude, the fourth planet in the XC117 system. I was the best earner," she laughed, "but I got out as soon as I could, and used my money to open up my shoppe."

  The rest of the group applauded. Mr. Pascale even requested a demonstration, which earned him a slap on the arm.

  They played the game, going around the circle, until it fell on Gaston.

  "Wait. Does Gaston get to play?" Mr. Navarre objected. "I mean, can a robot lie, Mr. Arsenault?"

  Mr. Arsenault shrugged and looked at Gaston, motioning for him to answer.

  "Well, that's an interesting question. I could tell you that I never lie, which could be a lie, but you wouldn't be able to tell. Why not let me play, and you can find out?"

  Everyone nodded, though Mr. Navarre just stared.

  Gaston put his hands behind his head and turned a virtual switch in his mind that no one could see. "Faux ou vrai: Mr. Arsenault invented wormhole travel."

  "What?" Mr. Arsenault leapt off the bench and turned to face Gaston.

  "Faux, obviously," declared Mr. Navarre. "Well, I think we now know robots can lie, at least for the purpose of the game. I know you're pulling our leg. Wormholes are natural phenomena that occur when space folds in on itself. Everyone knows that."

  That made Mr. Arsenault shake his head as he sat back down. He inched slightly away from Gaston, looking as if he'd been betrayed.

  "Faux," voted Mrs. Plouffe as well. The rest followed suit.

  "I think I win the game," Gaston said. "Because it'svrai. True."
>
  "I did not invent wormholes," Mr. Arsenault insisted.

  Gaston moved his metal-clad arms. "No, of course not. But the person who invented them was also named Mr. Arsenault."

  The merchants all glared at Gaston.

  "Okay, this will take some time to explain."

  The listeners shifted in their hodgepodge of seats.

  Gaston leaned forward. "Many years ago, a boy was born, naked like any other, but there was one thing different. He couldn't die."

  "What?" blurted Mr. Lemieux, nearly dropping his lit cigar in the sand, much to the amusement of everyone else.

  "He didn't notice at first, until his family and friends grew older and sicker and fell away from him, while his stubborn heart beat on. In the era in which he was born, people were ignorant and superstitious. Was he a demon? they wondered. An angel? A vampire? He didn't know what he was, either. Suspicions festered, and there were no welcoming places for him. Some feared him, many hated him, because they didn't understand. They tried to take him apart to discover his secret. They attempted to kill him. Each time he suffered great torture and pain until he could make his escape. Over time, he grew smarter. He vowed to never be at someone else's mercy again.

  "He trained in every discipline of war. He learned strategy and the use of power from the masters of each of his lifetimes. Machiavelli, Sun Tzu, Hitler..."

  Mr. Navarre objected, "Who are these people? I've never heard of them."

  "Their names have been lost for millions of years. They were iconic masters of war and programs of inflicted suffering."

  In the haphazard circle, they looked warily at each other at the word 'suffering.'

  "He became the greatest warlord his world had ever known. Or never wanted to know. But it was not enough. He wanted more. As science and weapon-making progressed, he kept up. He amassed wealth and power behind the scenes, choosing to exist in the shadows while his proxies proceeded under his explicit orchestration. What he didn't know, he obtained from those he coerced or enslaved. Eventually, his top scientist happened upon the technology to make wormholes."

  "I assume his name was Arsenault," said Mr. Arsenault.

  Gaston nodded.

  It was now as night as it would ever be on Curie Prime. Gaston pointed to the stars visible on the side of the canopy of sky not dominated by Antares. There weren't just a few stars visible, like there had been on old Earth. There were trillions and trillions, numbers larger than could be conceived.

  "All those stars. The warlord coveted them. He hungered to own them. Time did not limit him. Once he had in place a wormhole network, his lackeys colonized or terraformed planets across the galaxy. It took centuries, until all known livable space was his to rule."

  "I feel like there is a 'but' to this story," Mr. Lemieux noted.

  "Yes," Gaston continued. "Even immortality is not perfect. It's been claimed that a human brain is only partially utilized, with a lot of growing space to take on new memories and thoughts."

  "I've heard it's twenty percent," said Mrs. Plouffe, "although my husband uses a lot less than that."

  Many in the circle laughed, knowing her husband.

  "After a thousand years, the warlord ran into a wall. The brain is an amazing organ, but even an immortal one has a storage limit. His neurons and synaptic pathways had overwritten themselves too many times. His immortal ability to regenerate began to spontaneously reformat gray matter containing important information, gradually corrupting his mind's ability to remember and even function. He became insane," Gaston said.

  "Wasn't he already insane? I mean, the desire to control everything?" asked Mr. Navarre.

  "Yes, in a way. Once the situation became clear, he made his scientists devote all their attention to a solution. But they couldn't alter his cells to store more. Every experiment ended up with the cell replacing itself with a fresh, new cell. There is a theoretical maximum boundary of knowledge that can exist in a confinement the size of a human skull. A normal lifespan would never trip this boundary. But an immortal life would have to, at some point."

  "So what happened?" asked Mr. Arsenault as he lit up a new cigar.

  "The warlord developed uncontrollable brain injury. It was really brain renewal, of course, but his memories were being lost or scrambled at random. This resulted in increasingly erratic behavior and irrational rage. All the worlds he had built across the galaxy became targets for his bloodlust. There was a massive purge on planet after planet. His warriors feared him or were so misguidedly loyal that they followed his directives without question. Further, as best he could, he tightened his inner circle to prevent leaks about what was happening to him."

  "But I don't remember reading about any purges," Mrs. Plouffe objected. Others in the group nodded along with her.

  "How far back does the historical record go?" Gaston asked her.

  "I don't know, maybe ten thousand years?" She glanced at the others present to get a confirmation.

  "Sounds about right to me," said Mr. Lemieux.

  "Well, these events occurred millions of years ago," Gaston explained.

  "So this happened before written records?" Mr. Navarre asked.

  Gaston bowed and rolled his shoulders apologetically. "Vrai," he nearly whispered.

  Mr. Lemieux looked around the group. "There is no way to verify or disprove it, then."

  "I knew letting the robot play was a bad idea," added Mr. Navarre. "Anyone else want to keep playing? I don't."

  The topic changed uncomfortably and the game was abandoned. No one wanted to cross Mr. Navarre. He had a habit of escalating disagreements.

  The group eventually spoke the small talk of goodbyes, and gathered up their items to go to their homes or to the sleeping spaces above or behind or below their shoppes. Mr. Arsenault waited until it was only he and Gaston left behind, and rolled down the front gate. They both walked into the shoppe, then walked down to the apartment below the building.

  As they were walking, Gaston flipped the virtual switch in his head.

  Now. It is time.

  He allowed the recording to overtake him.

  The river of blood flowed deep, as high as a person's calf. The warlord stood in the street, his armor bathed in drying blood. This was one of the last planets with human life. Life seeded by him in centuries past. All he could think was, 'Why?' What was the point? On his orders the warriors had traveled the wormhole highways and helped him destroy life on planet after planet.

  He vibrated in blind fury, in contempt and confusion. He couldn't concentrate on anything but death, and thirst for killing. There was a feral animal in his breast.

  He saw red everywhere. It churned in him, the bile and the anger. It filled his mind until his eyes reacted and filmed over.

  As he watched, a man wearing the uniform of his science division walked up to him and said words. Just words. He thought he should recognize the words, but he could not. The words had no meaning. He had forgotten words. He had lost the way of them.

  The man bowed, and then rose up to caress him and kiss him gently on the cheek. At first, he pulled back in alarm. Then he did remember something. Scenes like this, being held like this, maybe by this same man. Kissed and even loved. And then those connected thoughts unraveled until he was left with nothing but breath and pressure.

  The kissing man pulled something out of his uniform, said more words empty of meaning.

  Something was jabbed into his neck.

  His body, trained by centuries of fighting, reacted instinctively. The warlord let out a guttural and savage scream. Swifter than thought, his weapon sliced off the man's head. The body crumpled into the gore in the street. The head spun and landed at his feet. He watched it happen without comprehending.

  Then he began to feel strange. Something opened a discreet window in his mind. A recorded voice in his head recited instructions, and on some level, his mind obeyed, even though he did not yet understand the words.

  His mind opened. And opened again, like a p
iece of intricate origami unfolding. A great breeze traveled through him, cleansing and beautiful. His thoughts traveled beyond him, to a waiting repository of data. It was a comprehensive library of all recorded history, greater than the largest libraries ever constructed.

  He touched the first file, and it rebooted his mind, overwriting the empty and jumbled cells with a robust template of streamlined understanding. At first, he was overjoyed to be able to think clearly.

  The plans were there for the clever mechanism that had been implanted in him by the man at his feet. It explained that there was no more room inside the warlord's head, but a whole universe outside of it. The scientist had found a way to connect the warlord's brain to the matter of asteroids, planets, and nebula dust. He had designed a virtual wormhole that would work inside the warlord's head to store his memories outside the limited skull box that held his brain.

  In the data repository he found a data trail about himself, through the words and the thoughts of others, in a million books and articles. Photographs of the mindless purge stared starkly back at him. Antiseptic data. No bias, only truth.

  He UNDERSTOOD.

  He wept, for he knew now that he had become insane.

  He reached into the blood and lifted up the head of what he realized was his scientist, his lover, his savior. Lifeless, the face dripped blood from the off-center mustache that the warlord remembered loving once.

  He collapsed to his knees, holding the head to his breast while his warriors looked on in bewilderment.

  There were only a handful of survivors.

  Would it be enough?

  It must be.

  It had to be.

  Gaston stood watching Mr. Arsenault put things away in the apartment below the shoppe. He looked everywhere but at Gaston.

  "What did you want to ask me today?"

  Mr. Arsenault shrugged. His struggle played over his face. "Why do you continue to sit here, day after day?"