Cosmic Savior: (A Space Opera Adventure) (Interstellar Gunrunner Book 3), page 33
“Welcome back,” Ruena said, her tone as dry as ever. “What took you so long?”
Gadra, meanwhile, eschewed words. She launched herself up the ramp and collided with my waist, hugging me so tight I was reminded of Kruthara’s fatal grip.
“Bodhi!” she shouted into my shirt. “We thought you were dead. Well, they did. I knew you were alive. Kind of.”
Too weary to do anything else, I hugged Gadra in return. “I just couldn’t live without your art, ma’am.”
“Aw, shucks. I know you’re lyin’, but it’s still nice.”
Chaska clapped me on the shoulder and headed down the ramp. “Come on, folks. Gonna be a long night.”
Full disclosure: I don’t remember most of that evening. I blame it on an unholy medley of sleep deprivation, post-coma grogginess, and the copious amounts of spirits I drank throughout the festivities.
It was a celebration that would’ve made moon-worshipping pagans jealous. We howled at the stars, we laughed, we cried, we danced, we sang… but we also said farewell to the kindest, most selfless being I’d ever known. I’d be lying if I said that moment wasn’t seared into my brain, I admit, but I’m hesitant to retell it. Emotions would get in the way. Therefore, I’ll offer something of a corporate-style description of what went on.
There was no body to bury or cremate or launch into a sun, naturally, so we settled on the next best thing: Tusky’s canister. In a way, it was his womb. How fitting (and poetic), then, to have it serve as his coffin.
There had to be a thousand refugees gathered at that altar in the swamps—many human, many not. A few individuals stepped up to speak about his life. Others offered some boilerplate well wishes, clearly due to a lack of direct knowledge about the brilliant sloth.
Not that I could blame them, of course. I myself barely knew him, and I’d been there at his moment of death. Still, the whole thing felt a bit obscene, if not sacrilegious. Nobody knew how or why he’d died. The details of that sacrifice had been buried with him—or, rather, scattered into the infinite void. As I sat there on the red grass, listening, judging, I wished that I’d gone into death with him. That I’d been there as he drew his last breath, finding out whether he’d felt pain, and whether he’d been afraid, and if somehow, some way, he hadn’t truly died in a flash.
Then, as the final speakers offered their condolences and generic goodbyes, the Maker’s words occurred to me like a nostalgic song: You will not be anything, merely an action. A force. Perhaps that was the best way to consider it. The only way that would bring me comfort. A bypassing of the grief process? Maybe. But it was also true. We had no body to mourn, only an ideal to cherish. Sappy as this is, he hadn’t died—he’d lived on within us, through us.
And maybe, if the universe is as zany as I believe it is, he’s still out there somewhere. Not as a sloth or a mind or anything else, but merely as the simple kindness that formed his being.
“Here’s to you,” I whispered as I drained my cup, drowned out by the drums and flutes around me. “To meeting again in the void.”
Several hours later, sobering up under the hazy blue nebulae, I sat with Chaska on a nearby hilltop. A gentle wind stirred the reeds around us, and starlight bathed everything in silky silver tones. It was a beautiful night. A miraculous one, in hindsight.
“You ready to talk about it?” Chaska asked me, resting her head on my shoulder.
I stared down at the ongoing festivities. “No. I don’t know if I ever will be.”
“I get it.”
“How?”
“You’re not the only one who’s lived through war.”
“This was different.”
“I don’t think so.” She let out a long breath. “I’ve held people as they begged for their mothers, Bodhi. I’ve seen the life go out of soldiers’ eyes. There are some things you never forget… things you’ll never talk about.”
I shrugged, tacitly admitting she was more “on my level” than I’d predicted. “It’s just… I don’t know why it had to be him. He was good, Chaska. Maybe the best we had. Why’d he have to be the first to depart this world?”
“I could tell you anything,” she whispered. “I could say he was too good for this place… or that it was his time on Death’s clock… but nobody knows. And maybe we don’t need to.”
“Maybe.” I leaned over and kissed her head. “I’m just… glad to be here.”
“I’m glad we’re here, too.”
“I’m glad you’re glad.”
“Alright, enough of that,” she said, groaning. “What are you gonna do now? Strike some new deals? You’ve got about a thousand small-scale civil wars to choose from.”
I shook my head. “I’m retiring.”
“You’re what?”
“Yep.”
“Bodhi Drezek, arms dealer extraordinaire… retiring in the most turbulent time in recent history?”
“A smart gambler knows when to fold,” I said, smiling faintly at her. “I’ve got what I need right here.”
“What? A refugee encampment to sell weapons to?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I seldom do.” She laughed. “So tell me in clear words… what’ve you got ‘right here’?”
I pulled her closer and listened to the music, the wind, the insects chirping. “The whole universe.”
Epilogue
If you’ve made it this far, congratulations. You’ve officially heard the A-to-Z tale of how I, Bodhi Drezek, caused the end and beginning of this very universe. Okay, in truth, it was more like several galaxies than the universe… but you have to give me some creative slack. People love high stakes, and “universe” sounds better than “galaxies.”
Anyway. Now that I’ve left you on a cliffhanger note about this fractured region of space and the fates of all my crew members (and long-sworn enemies), you might be wondering how things ended up. Did we all fly into the sunset? Did the wars get resolved overnight by a benevolent interdimensional god?
Depends on how you look at it.
See, my own ending hasn’t come just yet. In case you’ve yet to figure it out or read my name in a gossip holo-net thread, I’ll be around for the foreseeable future. This entire memoir has been written within the confines of a simulation.
But before you get bent out of shape and scream, “It was all a dream!?” allow me to clarify. Everything I’ve written here happened in the “real world.” But as you know, many hundreds of years have passed since this tale ended. I could (and may) write a thousand more tales of the exploits that occurred between then and now. Point is, I’m an old man now. And old men love nothing more than telling stories about their glory days and living a rich, occasionally boring retirement life.
So how did I end up in a simulation? Being a businessman, of course. After many years of seeking, I eventually stumbled across one of my old comrade Center’s physical manifestations. By this point, Center was being worshipped as some sort of god of time. Predictable, I know. Anyhow, I managed to strike a deal with Center:
Offer the terminally ill and decrepit a place to reside in virtual space, and in return, receive a constant flow of new and strange experiences via the inhabitants.
As it turns out, omnipotent AI constructs love nothing more than novel twists and turns in their reality. And wily sentient beings provide more surprises than you can shake a stick at.
So there you have it—the million-bux answer to the question of “Where is Bodhi writing this from?”
It’s a good life here. A virtual cabin by the virtual lake… virtual philosophy reading… virtual meditation on the Maker’s teachings… virtual cooking classes (I am classified as a rank-four chef by the Institute of Flavonoid Research). It’s not a lonely one, either. Spoiler alert: I live here with Chaska. That’s right—even foxy young insurgents grow old and settle down someday.
Our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren visit from time to time. They tell us the universe is doing alright, probably not to worry us. They also assure me there’s no need to sell weapons despite a growing demand for that profession. For what it’s worth, I haven’t sold an offensive combat system in well over two hundred and twelve years. Now, defensive grids for colonies and merchants… no comment.
But enough about me. What about the others?
Well, here’s what I know.
Ruena, my faithful mercenary, is still living with her people out in the far reaches of the Nogo. She sleeps longer and longer these days—think three years for a nap—but she did stop by for virtual tea last month. Her last stint of true action in the “real world” involved using her twosight to operate nanowire fighters and stave off sudrona poaching. (Ironic, I know.)
Gadra (now known as Le Artiste G) is one you’ve probably heard of. She’s gotten enough life-extension implants and gene treatments to live until the universe is swallowed by entropy. If you’re rich enough to get into her galleries, you’re living a good life. If not, watch out for her hypnotic marks. Very highly valued in the world of personal defense.
Umzuma… I have no idea. Came and went like the wind. Hell of a pilot, though.
Amodari and Chitta Mini, rather predictably, ended up settling their interspecies differences and reuniting to lead the Hegemony (also known in history books as the Reformed Hegemony). Unfortunately, this also meant they decided to team up in seeking my head on a silver platter. They obviously never got it, but that doesn’t mean they’ve stopped looking. And considering the lifespan of inustrazans and chittas… I’ve got my head on a swivel. That being said, Amodari did send my former acquaintances several cryptic love letters addressed to me. What can I say? Crazy is as crazy does.
Momura and Cahari are, as I alluded to previously, still living it up as manufacturers. Last I heard, they were preparing to get into subatomic teleportation tech. Rest assured I won’t be the first one to test that out. In any event, they still keep in touch. Somewhat. Usually by sending me virtual pets. (If you two read this, please slow down—I already have twelve hamsters.)
As for Stream Dancer, my baby was sadly lost in the Shell Wars of 1056. Its final mission was delivering a nuclear payload to the emperor of the crustaceans, who was just about to fire a solar railgun into Halcium Alpha. Ridiculous, yes, but such is life in space.
And Chaska, who I quite obviously know most about, stood by my side until the day we checked into our virtual abode. She ran the most humanitarian rescue and resupply missions of anybody in the former “liberation” movement (which later became known as the Fair Trade and Settlement Organization). She is my bright star, my grounding force. Oh, and the mother of my children. She’d kill me if I forgot to acknowledge those labor pains. We still live together, and she only tries to kill me once a week or so.
There are probably many, many names I’m forgetting, but what can I say? I’ve experienced a long and colorful life, and faces don’t always linger long—either in the world or in your memories. A hard lesson to learn, but part of “the way of things,” I suppose.
Now, if you’ve followed this memoir from the start, you’ll recall my opening words about the art of the sale. The crucial ingredient was demand. A demand for power, for security, for fulfillment. Anything that the client believed they lacked. Thousands upon thousands of deals were forged by means of leveraging this weakness in the human psyche. But now, looking back, I believe that my finest deal was a negation of demand.
You see, the deal in question didn’t involve anybody else—only me. And in this deal, I surrendered demand entirely. I hopped off the endless carousel of fame and wealth and aspirations. Lurking beneath that squirmy, sordid mass was the one thing I’d never been able to buy. The thing I had craved so dearly, scouring the grimiest corners of the ’verse to find. My dangling carrot, my missing piece.
And what was it?
To be at peace.
Cliché, perhaps, but this is my story. My life. Although I suspect that, in the grand scheme of things, what you really want is no different from what I wanted. You didn’t really want to read this book or to bask in an uplifting ending. You wanted an experience that you can’t put your finger on. A feeling that you haven’t had since you were a child. Even when you set this book down for the last time and go about your day, you will continue seeking this state of mind, likely without even knowing it. But the truth is, you will not find it in anything.
Music may stir you for a brief time. Drinks and drugs may sedate you. A good romp in the bed may settle you. Yet when these experiences end, much like this book, you will be left wanting more. Wanting that one thing you cannot describe. The end of the rainbow.
What if—just, what if?—the thing you truly want is to make the same deal I did? Perhaps this marvelous opportunity has been under your nose since your birth, and you have lost your way on the long road back to it. On the off chance this is the case, allow me to offer one old man’s pithiest instruction.
Demand nothing of the world, and in return, receive everything.
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INTERSTELLAR GUNRUNNER
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COSMIC SAVIOR
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ABOUT JAMES WOLANYK
James Wolanyk is a writer and editor from the Boston area. He holds a B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Massachusetts, and has authored the Scribe Cycle and Interstellar Gunrunner series, as well as Grid and several pieces of short fiction.
After university, he pursued educational work in the Czech Republic, Taiwan, and Latvia. Outside of writing, he is an avid meditator, film enthusiast, and nootropics nerd. He currently resides in New England with his wonderful wife.
James Wolanyk, Cosmic Savior: (A Space Opera Adventure) (Interstellar Gunrunner Book 3)
