The Forever Peace (The Forever Series Book 6)

  ALSO BY CRAIG A. ROBERTSON

  THE FOREVER SERIES:

  THE FOREVER LIFE, BOOK 1

  THE FOREVER ENEMY, BOOK 2

  THE FOREVER FIGHT, BOOK 3

  THE FOREVER QUEST, BOOK 4

  THE FOREVER ALLIANCE, BOOK 5

  THE CORPORATE VIRUS

  TIME DIVING

  WRITE NOW! The Prisoner of NaNoWriMo

  THE INNERgLOW EFFECT

  ANON TIME

  THE FOREVER PEACE

  BOOK SIX OF THE FOREVER SERIES

  by Craig Robertson

  In Order To Live, Sometimes You Have To Die.

  Imagine-It Publishing

  El Dorado Hills, CA

  Copyright 2017 Craig Robertson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission from the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-9973073-9-9 (Paperback)

  978-0-9989253-0-1 (E-Book)

  Cover art and design by Starla Huchton

  Available at http://www.designedbystarla.com

  Editing and Formatting services by Polgarus Studio

  Available at http://www.polgarusstudio.com

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to all of us who crave, dream of, and live for creativity. To follow the imagination and drink deeply of joy is surely the greatest gift God can grant.

  Note: Glossary of Terms Is Located at the End of the Book

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  List of Main Characters and Places

  Shameless Self-Promotion

  PROLOGUE

  In the years that followed the defeat of the Last Nightmare, peace blessed the humans of the worldship fleet. But when discussing humans, peace was traditionally relative. Infighting, politicking, and social climbing were raised back to their pre-Earth destruction norms. But, it was a luxury to engage in those perennial selfish pursuits. They reflected that, for once in a very long time, there were no problems thrust upon humanity. No, they were back to generating crises and inflicting wounds on themselves. A notable milestone to be certain. But in a universe that was hostile and unrelenting, such dalliances were bound to be short-lived. No rest for the wicked, as they say.

  It was hard to minimize the blessing of miraculous technology the Deavoriath gifted to the humans. After the first batch of human androids were upgraded to Forms and provided their own vortices, many humans were similarly equipped. Within ten years, there were over a thousand human Forms. But again, human nature could be perverse. At first, all the Forms rallied together and worked as the crack unit they should have always been. But a split developed between the android and human Forms in no time at all.

  The androids had served humanity for three hundred years. All but one were new to the power and freedom the cubes afforded. Gradually, by ones and twos, some of the heroic explorers decided their terms of service were complete.

  That wasn’t to suggest they were unreasonable for terminating their service. Those brave men and women had volunteered centuries before and served continually since. They’d sacrificed their past lives and committed themselves to the uncertainty of immortality.

  The human Forms tended to be relentlessly loyal to “The Company,” also called TCY. That was the name given to the vortex pilot squadrons. Only a handful of androids would still belong to TCY in another decade.

  Most androids had wandered off on their own, exploring for themselves the wonders of the universe. Human Forms resented them, and directed that feeling toward the handful of androids still left in TCY. A rift developed that benefitted neither faction. Again, humans fabricated contention where none was required.

  A critical point in the worldship fleet’s military evolution came, as it had at the beginning during the advent of androids. Someone asked whether the leadership of TCY and the human vortex pilots should be transferred to android hosts. Though an innocent enough proposition on the surface, committing to such a course had tremendous implications. Immortal leadership was an ugly prospect. Lord Acton warned us that power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men. Add immortal to power and greatness, and a bad outcome would seem inevitable. Yeah, his name was Stuart Marshall.

  So, humans squabbled, divided, and set upon one another with a renewed, historic vigor. The problem was that the hostility the universe guaranteed them was indifferent to human foibles. Over time, there were increasingly fewer survivors of the conflicts that marked the initial human exodus. Vivid memories faded of the Listhelon, the Uhoor, The Last Nightmare, and, most lamentably, the Berrillians.

  But the Berrillians never forgot a single detail, a solitary insult, or even one defeat. They were cats with attitude and a big plan—a never faltering, never wavering vision. They wanted to rule the galaxy as its sole sentient species. Anganctus had committed them to a guerrilla battle strategy. His successor, Erratarus, was singularly focused on conquest. He was meaner, more ruthless, and less intelligent than his father. By most standards, a suboptimal combination. Humans came to call him the Berrillian Nero. But they nicknamed him only after being brutally reminded of the reality that was their existence in this galaxy.

  ONE

  Garo-fuf Jocar was impatient and task oriented. That was to say, he was Maxwal-Asute. Halfway through his life, he was disappointed in his achievements and wanted more. He expected more. Again, that was to say, he was Maxwal-Asute. He was too short to serve in the military. That was unacceptable. All males served in the military, or they were not males. One cubit. That was the height deficiency he was saddled with. If he’d measure one cubit taller, he’d have enlisted, and he was certain he’d have risen to the highest levels of command. His name would have been Garo-rir—Garo-fear—not Garo-see. He’d pounded the soles of his feet the morning of the military physical to the point where he could barely walk. But that hadn’t produced enough swelling to make him one cubit taller.

  Now, he was a farmer. His family told him the empire needed farmers. Of course, it did. What were the glorious soldiers to eat? Mud? The discontent of males one cubit too short? Barshuf! Garo-fuf had determined he was cursed and everyone knew the cursed deserved what they received. Yes, he might have three beautiful wives, ninety-seven bouncy offspring, and one of the largest landholdings on the continent of Darlip-malm as he did. But his curse was as clear to him as it was unapparent to everyone he tried to complaint to. His wives said he was blessed with such healthy children. How could he be cursed? His children said he was blessed with such fertile wives. How could he be cursed? The blind praising the blind, that’s what he was surrounded with. How did he know when he was being lied to? Someone’s verbal cup-lip vibrated.

  That day, he did what he did more and more as his life-clock ticked toward death at a disgustingly slow rate. He got in his truck and he d
rove as far away from civilization as he could. He was alone, which was the only time his auditory cup-lip didn’t buzz with thinly veiled insults. Plus, he did have legitimate concerns in the western section of his holdings. The grass grew too long, and the numbers of deppeb and marshups was too low. He’d like to have blame predators for thinning out the herbivore numbers, but even girrdy and feshdoles were scarce in that region. Odd. Nothing ate feshdoles. They were too vicious and tasted too bad. They had less meat on them than a bone his second wife was finished gnawing on.

  Looking out from the top of the tall hill near the edge of his lands, Garo-fuf Jocar saw nothing unusual. Large boulders studded the vista and rocky crags abounded. A few beasts grazed lazily below. High above, various aircraft trails crisscrossed the sky. He stared down at a sestril’s burrow entry for a long time, but no furry head popped up, even after he tossed a crumb of bread next to the hole. His land had turned odd. Ah, he thought with clarity, it is the curse. His curse. It spilled over to the livestock, the predators, and even the rodents. Wasn’t that just his fate? He woo-wooped the air loudly with his entire head cup in anger and frustration and damnation of all he was forced to look upon.

  It was said in many religions that divine truths was revealed on mountaintops. Maybe the proximity to the deity allowed that. If the Maxwal-Asute had any belief system approximating a religion, perhaps Garo-fuf Jocar might have anticipated a defining revelation there on his mini mountaintop. But he held no belief in anything that could not be seen, felt, and owned.

  A rock tumbled down from above him, thudding to a stop after striking one of his feet. He glanced up the slope to see what had dislodged the stone. Nothing living was there. Hmm, he thought, that is odd. Stones don’t just roll down hills and impact landowners’ feet. That, too, was odd. He was beginning to hate odd, even the word odd itself. He picked his way up the steep hillside to investigate. He knew there was nothing there, but it wasted time well. Otherwise, he’d have run out of reasons to delay returning home.

  Garo-fuf Jocar reached a rough outcropping and pulled himself atop it, wedged between two large rocks. Nothing. He neither smelled, saw, nor heard anything with his cup. Bah. Time poorly wasted…

  A scrape. Yes, there was a scrape on the ground just around the rock he leaned against. He stuck his head through the two rocks to investigate. As his eye-lip was angle down, he never saw what killed him.

  The massive jaws of a four-hundred pound Berrillian female snapped shut over his cup and head. She crushed his skull and tore what she held in her mouth free in one snap of her neck. Her huge paw pulled the rest of Garo-fuf Jocar’s body around the rock, and she pounced on it. She batted it and tossed it in the air. Intermittently, she’d toss it to the side like it was escaping and pounce on it again. After a few minutes, however, she tired of the game and consumed him, leather boots and all.

  Afterward, Nellbeck flopped on the sunlit ground in front of her cave and cleaned her muzzle and paws. A full belly in a warm spot were her only real pleasures in life. She was proud to serve, stationed on this abysmal rock, waiting for the glory of open warfare. Until that day, there was little to occupy her mind. If she ever got her paws on a male, then she’d have a litter to keep her busy. But the nearest potential mate was so far away he probably couldn’t smell her even when she was in heat. Still, someday…

  Before retiring deep in her cave to sleep, Nellbeck collected the truck her dinner had used to deliver itself with. No traces. Those were her orders. Plus, the tiny vehicle would make a great toy for her kittens someday.

  TWO

  I’d been knocking around a nearly empty house for three weeks. Kayla was off to help Josie, our youngest daughter, with the birth of her twins. I was invited to attend, but…yeah. Something big came up at the last minute, and I had to bow out. The universe was going to end or something, I just knew it. Of course, both girls were happy I stayed home. So was Gus, my son-in-law. If I was there, he’d have to listen to my war stories, which bored him to the point of a developing a rash. He’d also have to “entertain” me, which was the code word for keep me out of the women’s way as much as possible. Remembering that I don’t sleep, he probably spent the entire first week in church thanking the good Lord for the blessing of my absence.

  Empty nester. Dude, I’d been a hero, an explorer, a liberator, a sex symbol. Now, I was…one of those things I cared not to repeat. They said life could be funny. I assumed they meant ironic. I’d rather drop on a live grenade than be referred to as an empty nester. Yuck. It was about as sexy as being the janitor in a morgue. I’d traveled alone for decades, I’d been held prisoner in the bleakest prisons, and I’d survived a falzorn attack. I’d muddle through real adulthood somehow. How? Beer. Yes, that was a key component in my remember-me-not formula.

  Kayla said she’d be back in a few more weeks, but I didn’t blame her if she dragged her heels a bit. She, the former tough-as-nails first mate on a pirate ship, was about as sanguine concerning the empty nester thing as I was. The only difference was she, as a mortal woman, had anticipated its inevitability. I was an immortal fighter pilot. It never made my list. So, for her, hanging around the older grandkids and cuddling the newest ones beat the heck out of watching me mope.

  I knew my life would change once the Deavoriath gave us all those cubes. I underestimated, it would seem, the impact it would have on my leisure time. For reasons of family and, yes, loyalty, I was one of the few androids to stick with TCY. If one didn’t count Toño and Carlos, who were basically in charge and critical to the functioning of TCY, I was the only android remaining. I was the last person who was a pilot. Don’t get me wrong. Being excluded from the routine scut work of shuttling VIPs around or assisting in the relocation of large numbers of colonists to alien worlds was fine by me. And I didn’t much miss the patrol duty in disputed or potentially active space either.

  Not participating in the diplomatic part, though? That did fry my bacon a tad. Ironic? Miffed because I wasn’t invited to that party? Well, I was a little. I was pivotal to galactic politics for over two hundred years, criminy sakes. I was hella good at it too. Now, as the old-fart-last-android Form, I was conveniently overlooked when those assignments were inked. Younger and more human pilots were felt to better represent not only the worldfleet, but, and more importantly, TCY.

  For nearly three centuries I’d dressed in a flight suit or civvies. TCY had shiny new uniforms with flashing patches and clear rank insignia. Oh yeah, the Uniform of the Day was different from the dress casuals and didn’t look at all like the mess-dress penguin suit. It was the old days all over again with the clothes. And if I was out of uniform, I was either reminded of it or it was recorded a disciplinary infraction. Behind my back, younger officers called me General NJD. Non-judicial punishments were those used to address minor infractions. Enough demerits, and I wouldn’t get pudding for dessert or something. Kayla chided, nagged, and punched me a lot attempting to get me to grow up and go with the flow. She maintained my rebellious, juvenile protestations were beneath me, and I was destined to fail. I’d adopted a “we’ll see” approach to her speculations.

  Bottom line was that I had a lot of time on my hands. I guessed I could have resigned my commission, retired, and kicked back formally. But, that went against my grain. I lived to serve. Yeah, sounded corny, but I meant it. I’d be doing this forever. It was important to me. Call me old school, but if a person was able-bodied, they should pull their own weight. I was a proven officer, the best damn officer there ever was, in fact, and I was going to remain one until some alien horde turned me into shrapnel. That, or until my batteries wore out. If TCY and I experienced some growing pains, so be it. Unless a lot more of them transferred to androids, I’d get the last laugh. I’d be around to speak warmly of them at commemorative dinners. I’d also be around to pee on their graves. Growing pains. Nothing big. By the way, the pee thing, I never actually mentioned that part to Kayla. As it was a plan and not necessarily a done-deal, I felt it that was the sa
fest course to keep that wish on the DL.

  With nothing on my dance card one day while Kayla was still gone, I wandered over to the operations center. I’d see if anything was brewing, even if it was only burnt coffee. I didn’t make it a habit of hanging out there and brown nosing, but it never hurt to seem interested. Jeff Galloway was the NCO at the front desk. He was a nice enough guy, meaning he wasn’t a blue falcon. Those were the guys who’d chat you up and then stab you in the back with anything you said.

  “Yo, Jeff,” I said, “how’s it hanging?”

  “General, I’m hanging just fine. How’s your set?”

  Not sure if that slipped out automatically, or it was one of the many barbs cast my way for being an android. My pair, after all, were in a jar in some lab that Jupiter swallowed a few centuries earlier.

  “I’m good. Anything cooking?”

  “Same old, same old. You know the drill, sir. We wait for shit to hit the fan, but it mostly hits your desktop.”

  “I hear you. Who’s got the watch today?”

  “That’d be Colonel Timoshenko. You want I should buzz him?”

  “Nah, I’ll just surprise the shit out of him.”

  I didn’t like that man, and he didn’t like me. Neither of us made much pretense of that situation either. I’m not sure if I did or said something to piss him off, or if he just hated my guts long before we ever met. I was accustomed to both scenarios. Me? I was an affable, easy-going guy. Some ate-ups didn’t much fancy that in an officer. Katashi Matsumoto was a good example. He was the kind of jerk who followed regulations and protocol so intently that he couldn’t adapt to the context of the situations he faced.