October 18, 2361 AIA

P16

Former General Emery Gardner half hummed and half sang in that tuneless way where all lyrics are reduced to "da" or "la." Despite his inebriated state, he managed to get his door unlocked. Once inside, he stopped by his security panel and put on his serious face, hoping it would help him master his mind enough he could activate the system.

He didn't usually drink at bars. He preferred the privacy and comfort of his home, but after he’d finished making arrangements for his journey, he passed by a quiet place advertising his favorite scotch whiskey. He hated traveling, and the latent sense of displeasure goaded him to enter on a whim.

They hadn't asked for his membership. That meant he would be spared the self-important, swaggering company of those that had bought their piece of paradise here on the planet Kala. He would be drinking with people who’d been born there: the ones who made their humble living from serving those with cash and prestige. He'd always felt more comfortable with the working class, despite the fact they all stared at him as if he was a fat, moneyed interloper.

Which, he was forced to admit, he was.

But at least he had no prestige. Thank god for that.

The bartender had been humorless but efficient. He kept Gardner well supplied with drinks throughout the spirited conversation he was having. A young man had challenged the general’s opinion that the modern cacophony of noise could never qualify as music. He’d also argued with some persuasion that it was directly related to Old Earth jazz—which anyone with any taste would realize was the only real music. Much to the annoyance of the other patrons, as they talked, the general and the young man played musical tug of war with the jukebox, comparing the radically different songs as each came on.

Gardner had been so engrossed in the discussion, he stayed much longer than he intended and drank far more than he should have. At last, he forced himself to leave. He staggered the last bit home after the autodriver dropped him off.

The old general had barely finished setting up the security system when he heard a heavy tread muffled by the thick carpet.

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"Good evening, sir," his bot said.

"Good evening, Rem."

"Did you enjoy yourself, sir?"

"I did, Mr. Rem. More than I thought I would. I should get out more."

"I'm glad to hear that, sir."

"Did you know I'm an interesting person, as well as a good conversationalist?"

"I did not, sir, but I will be certain to remember that fact."

"A young punk told me so, therefore, it must be true. His taste in music is questionable, but his opinions regarding other people are beyond reproach. Did you receive the details regarding my travel arrangements?"

"I did, sir."

"Good." The short walk through the cool night air had done a lot to clear Gardner’s head. Now he was at least sensible enough to realize how much he would curse himself in the morning. "Rem, bring a pitcher of room temperature water and a glass to my study."

"Yes, sir."

Gardner made his way up the stairs, into his study, and resisted the temptation to drop into his favorite armchair. That was reserved for drinking and reading. He was too far-gone to do the latter and certainly shouldn't indulge anymore in the former. Instead, he went over to his computer. When he was settled into the worn groove of his office chair, he eyed the blinking light.

Even after he scowled at it, it refused to go away.

He woke up his machines and hunted down the source of the blinking. Someone off-planet had pushed a secured line to his computer. After putting in all that effort, they’d only left a six second message.

The former general felt a chill sobriety slice through his mood. There weren't a lot of messages that could be conveyed in six seconds. He found himself hoping, against all probability, that this one would be, "Sorry. Wrong number."

He tapped on the message tab to play it back.

There was heavy breathing. Then he heard the voice of his old commander, choked and faltering. "Gardner." There was a weak laugh. "You were right."

The line dropped.

Gardner stared at his desk, seeing nothing.

It's a terrible thing for a man as fundamentally pessimistic as the old general to be told he's right. If he was right, then something dreadful had happened.

He patched back through the networks and pushed his own secured line.

Oh, god, how he hoped he was wrong.

Eventually, someone picked up.

"This is Emery Gardner. Fable? Is that you?"

"General Gardner?" It was a voice he didn't know. "Sir, I'm sorry, but Vincent Fable is dead."

There was more silence. More coldness.

"Sir, we know he called you before he died." The voice was a distant buzz in the motionless study. "Could we ask you—"

Gardner cut the line, shutting out the noise.

When he heard metallic footsteps, he turned to the open door. "Rem, get my luggage."

The robot stood in the door, a pitcher of water in one hand, a glass in the other. "Sir, your flight doesn't leave until early tomorrow afternoon. There will be plenty—"

"No! Get my bags. I'm leaving now!"