It is 2065 and Earth continues its downward spiral. It is more polluted, overcrowded and, most of all, more desperate. Then Charley shows up in an alien spaceship and o? ers an escape: a chance for a new life on a new world, in a colony currently unde

Forbearance

A Science Fiction NovelBy C. William Ochsenhirt

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 C. William Ochsenhirt
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4697-5568-7

Chapter One

A spaceship orbits Earth, alien and small. Barely 500 meters in length, that constitutes miniscule considering its ability to traverse the wastes of interstellar space with no more concern for such a journey's rigors than a weekend sailor would experience on a casual cruise around the bay. At present it is undetectable, whether by other orbiting vessels, eavesdropping space stations or even by the latest ground based sensor arrays. No matter what form or extent the curiosity that may be directed towards it, it circles wraithlike, cloaked beneath its intent, biding its time.

It is the evening of June 15, 2065, a Monday, 7 pm in the Eastern Time Zone of the United States, evening of what has been a generally pleasant day throughout most of the east coast. New York and Boston endured afternoon showers that snarled the evening commute to a certain extent but not seriously enough to warrant more than a brief mention on the evening news. Washington, D.C. got a little toasty that afternoon, as it was certainly capable of, it being already that time of year when the fortunate few fled the capital's unbearable summertime heat and humidity. That included congress, which was in recess but not the unyielding bureaucracy, which, while never overexerting itself, also never gets to all leave, certainly not at the same time. Further south, Miami was just beginning to awaken from its afternoon languor, already in anticipation of dinner and whatever Latin-flavored entertainment the evening might provide.

All in all, a largely uneventful day, so far.

A human being, a fully privileged member of the genus Homo Sapiens, who goes by the self-applied appellation of "Charley," sits in the command chair in the control room of the spacecraft orbiting Earth, about to change all that. He is trying out opening lines for a short speech he is about to give. What makes that noteworthy, other than the already surprising fact that an ordinary human is in command of an alien spacecraft, is that he is going to broadcast his message to the entire world below, but then labeling him as ordinary is probably doing him a disservice. The message, for good or bad, certainly will be anything but.

Although the message will be transmitted worldwide, propagated throughout every nook and node of the ubiquitous worldwide media net, this ordinary, or not, man named Charley is most concerned about the reaction it will produce in the United States for that is still the most powerful, prosperous and influential country in the world. Besides, he had been born there and felt a lingering twinge of, not patriotism, certainly not that, more nostalgia, an inveterate longing for a time when he was content to be merely dismayed at his government's clumsy heavy-handedness, like that of a careless toddler, not, as at present, concerned with how that incompetent brutishness might translate into action against a perceived, but, in fact, at least not from him, threat from the stars. He gazes at the continent's familiar outline displayed on the forward wall of the command room, easily recognizing Maine and Florida, guessing at the locations of the rest of the eastern states in between, his primary target audience. He catches himself daydreaming about geography, sits upright in the command chair and offers a trial opening line:

"Hello, earthlings. I am Xur of the Kodan Armada. I come in peace, or pieces, whatever. Not entire anyway."

Forgive him, Charley has not quite gotten his focus back. His next two attempts are no better.

"Yo, brothers and sisters. Look to the heavens. Your salvation is at hand," followed by, "Earthlings, lend me your ears. I do not mean that literally. I have already eaten. Blah, blah, blah."

Charley scrunches his face in disgust and frustration. "I don't know Percy, I don't like anything I've come up with. I think I'm having trouble believing we are actually finally doing this. You know what I mean?"

Percy is how Charley addresses the ship. It is not the ship's technical designation and certainly not how the ship refers to itself, simply the name by which Charley chooses to refer to it, a name indicative of his displeasure at having to depend on a sentient, ultra-advanced piece of alien technology to do everything for him from flushing the toilet to transporting him between the stars. Charley does not understand the slightest thing about the technology that surrounds him and upon which his very existence is so totally dependent so he is, therefore, wary of it, if not outright fearful. If, as someone has said, advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, then Charley is not at all certain that Percy does not represent the physical embodiment of the darkest of the black arts. Worse, he knows that the ship is many times smarter than he. His revenge is to give this ultra-advanced example of alien superiority an insulting, demeaning name.

Percy, the so-named, feared intelligence, likewise resents the insult implicit in being referred to as some sort of menial; it quite understands the reference. Even though it has been enjoined by its creators to obey Charley's orders, at least in theory, Percy has always considered itself superior to almost all organic life forms, human beings generally and most particularly the human being named Charley. On such terms are friendships forged.

Charley is a normal enough looking man: slightly more than six feet tall, apparently about thirty years of age with no distinguishing scars, or obvious debilities or deformities. His features are pleasing enough, chiseled would perhaps describe them best, or sculpted, with a strong chin and prominent cheekbones, classically handsome without appearing fey. He has dark brown, wavy hair that currently surrounds his troubled, tension filled face in dishevelment and disarray.

The eyes, though, would draw attention. They are ordinary enough, dark brown with a few flecks of something murkier at the edges of their irises, but they are not the eyes of a typical thirty-something man. They are the eyes of someone else entirely, of the submarine captain who waits for the depth charges to blow, or the polar explorer lost in the featureless wasteland, of every grizzled veteran who knows that no one always wins. His eyes belong in a rocking chair, staring into the past, not to a man in his prime in an orbiting spaceship plunging into the ineffable, unforeseeable future.

Mostly, his eyes are those of someone who would rather be elsewhere, doing anything other than attempting to communicate with an entire planet without scaring its inhabitants half to death.

Percy chooses that moment to answer Charley's rhetorical question, a bad habit it has. "Yet here we are, at that point, the point of introduction. I believe you would call it 'First Contact'. Perhaps something more serious would be appropriate such as 'May I have your attention please. This is a most important message.'"

Charley can't remember any longer whether he started calling the ship Percy because it reminded him of an English butler or if it started talking like an English butler because he began to address it as Percy.

Charley forces himself to focus on the matter at hand, his global net premiere.

Charley acknowledges Percy's suggestion.

"Yeah, first contact, except that I am not the alien here and this is not a clash of cultures. Your idea sounds all right but it's too formal. Let me work...