The Unanswered Question

by Gary Inbinder

conclusion

Paradise was not all that its name implied, unless your idea of heaven was middle-class exurbia transplanted to the Moon. The Paradise colony began as a mid-23rd century real estate development, the first off-world commercial venture of its kind. A private conglomerate built a terra-formed, geodesic domed surface and subterranean village on a large plat of prime lunar realty.

Billionaires were the initial investor-residents, but they soon tired of the place when the novelty of owning a villa on the Noon wore off. Once the billionaires had gone, Paradise went bankrupt. In 2290, the World Federation took over the development and transformed it into a retirement colony for public servants and officers who had engaged in clandestine operations or were otherwise privy to highly sensitive state secrets. Leaks to earth were rare and quickly plugged, but they did occur via a persistent underground network.

The Supreme Council gave Bud a two-bedroom condominium in a former villa on the banks of a small, shade-tree lined river that flowed through the center of Paradise. The living quarters were comfortable and well furnished, and Bud had all the necessities and some luxuries as well.

For example, he had a super-sized flat screen high definition television and game play-station. He also had a nicely stocked bar and wine cellar and a very friendly female android named Trixie who cooked, cleaned and kept him company both in and out of bed.

Bud had just turned twenty-eight when he entered the retirement colony. His youngest neighbor was a fifty-seven year old recently retired civil engineer; most of the other residents ranged in age from their late fifties to early seventies. Retirees did not last long in Paradise.

Bud missed his rowdy, youthful Space Marine companions. Trixie was some consolation, but much of the time he spent by himself, playing games on his entertainment center, watching old martial arts films, and walking along the riverbank.

Sometimes he took fishing gear on his walks, stopped at a pier, and fished in the well-stocked river. Occasionally he hooked something that reminded him of Tweed-el and Twad-el. He invariably released his catch, while muttering, “If the tables were turned, I doubt that you’d show me the same courtesy.”

Bud organized a Friday evening poker game with a few of his neighbors. They set aside a certain amount from each week’s winnings, along with an expensive bottle of cognac for the last surviving group member.

The little social circle consisted of three men, one woman, and a cyborg: Bud, the civil engineer, a crusty old Space Marine colonel, a female JAG officer, and a cyborg computer analyst. The cyborg had a one-hundred and fifty year life expectancy, but he reassured his friends, “Don’t worry, I plan to kill myself soon.”

Suicide pills were popular in Paradise. The Moon colony retirees tended to become bored and depressed living under constant surveillance in the isolated off-world environment. Seven years was the average life expectancy following lunar relocation, and that did not bode well for the young Bud Hicks.

The cyborg went first, as he had predicted. He killed himself less than a year after the poker group formed. Six months later, the civil engineer punched his own ticket to the great unknown. That left Bud, the elderly colonel, and the JAG officer.

The colonel began talking to himself, misplaying his cards and mistaking people for those long gone. “Hey, Stinky, what are you doing here?” It was just prior to their regular Friday night game, and the colonel addressed Bud by the nickname of an old comrade who had been killed in action more than forty years earlier.

“I’m sorry, Colonel. I’m not Stinky, I’m Major Bud Hicks. Don’t you recognize me?”

The feeble old man stared with rheumy eyes. He placed a withered, palsied hand on Bud’s cheek. “No, I’m sure you’re Stinky. But, wait a minute....”

The colonel dithered and drooled for a moment. He looked away from Bud, and then looked back. His lips trembled and a tear trickled down the gutter of a wrinkled cheek. “Stinky’s dead, isn’t he? I remember now. A plasma bomb cut him in two. I was next to him, and his blood and guts splattered all over me.”

The old man turned and waddled back to his room. Two days later the medics took him to the hospital, and within a week, he had joined his old pal Stinky.

That left Bud and the JAG officer. They played two-handed poker each Friday evening for a few years. Then, one night, the old woman showed Aces and Eights. She smiled at Bud. “That hand must be a sign from above.”

She popped a pill and washed it down with scotch. In less than a minute, she was lying motionless on the floor, her glazed eyes staring up at the ceiling. Bud took the kitty, opened the cognac and drank a toast to his fallen comrades.

Bud lived on with the immutable Trixie. Ten years passed, and then twenty, and thirty. Major Hicks survived in Paradise beyond all actuarial expectations. On the eve of his sixtieth birthday, Bud sat with Trixie on the condominium balcony. They were enjoying a double-chocolate birthday cake and a bottle of champagne. Bud gazed upward through the artificial atmosphere and beyond the transparent panels of the sheltering geodesic dome. Amid the black emptiness of space, Earth loomed large, blue and inviting. He smiled, and raised a glass of champagne, “Here’s to you, Twad-el and Tweed-el, wherever you are.”

Trixie’s robotic eyes watched Bud as he drained his glass. “Buddy, did you toast the aliens you encountered on your mission?”

Bud turned to Trixie. “That’s right, Trix. I think of them every now and then.” Over the years, Bud pondered whether he should break his oath and reveal the aliens’ true message of Armageddon. More than thirty years had passed without further alien contact, and Bud’s first encounter had become a historical footnote. Would anyone care about Bud’s message, one way or the other? After all these years they would probably write him off as a nut-job, and Bud figured that breaking his oath would do nothing but get him in trouble.

Furthermore, even if he leaked the message in Paradise there was only a slim chance it would get back to earth via the underground. “Trixie, could you please leave me alone, for a few minutes? I’m going to finish my glass of champagne and look at the Earth.”

“Of course, Buddy. I’ll just go and tidy up.” Trixie smiled, picked up the dishes, placed her empty champagne glass and the bottle on a tray, and covered the cake. Bud watched her as she walked to the kitchen. She wore a new outfit with skin-tight pants and spiked heels; Bud loved the way she wiggled her little ’droid behind. He had grown very fond of Trixie over the years, and he could not imagine his life without her.

Bud sighed and took an envelope from his pocket. He re-read a letter he had just received from the Office of the Secretary General. Bud had long exceeded the average life expectancy in Paradise. Therefore, due to budgetary and living space constraints, the Supreme Council had reduced Bud’s pension by twenty percent and they were going to move him to a small, one-bedroom apartment in a less desirable neighborhood.

Moreover, Trixie would go back to the factory for reprogramming and reassignment. Bud had read the letter repeatedly since he received it two days earlier. He muttered under his breath: “Sons of bitches, there was no talk of budgets and cutbacks when I risked my life and then agreed to clam up and go to Paradise. I suppose if I live another five years, I’ll be sleeping in a dumpster.” He was crap in the bowl; time to flush. Bud crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it onto the balcony floor.

He took a suicide pill from his pocket and lifted the champagne glass. The old Space Marine glowered at the heavens. “I’ll bet it was a joke, you fish-lipped bastards. But why play it on me?” Bud held the pill for a moment, stared at it and then threw it over the balcony. He downed the glass of champagne, and called Trixie. “Hey, Trix, there’s a brown leather case on the floor next to our dresser. Could you please bring it to me?”

“Sure thing, Buddy.” Trixie fetched the case.

Bud retrieved a powerful bullhorn he had bought on the Paradise black market. He held the bullhorn in his right hand, put his left-arm around Trixie and walked with her to the edge of the balcony. Bud kissed her, and brushed back some hair from her eyes. “Trix, whatever happens I want you to know that you’ve made me very happy. I couldn’t have lasted thirty years here without you.”

Trixie smiled and rested her head on Bud’s shoulder. Then, Bud raised his bullhorn and announced, “People of Paradise, this is Major Bud Hicks of the Space Marines, first human to encounter intelligent extraterrestrials. I bring you a message from Twad-el and Tweed-el of the Deneb Constellation. The end of our world is near. The aliens are coming to flush us down the cosmic crapper. Prepare yourselves.”

Sleepers awoke to Bud’s voice blaring like Charles Ives’ trumpet. Then the security police broke through Bud’s front door, but not before the underground network heard his message. Far away, in another galaxy, Tweed-el and Twad-el heard him, too.

Open Challenge 310...