The Milk of Human Kindness

by Christopher Kempke

Copyright (c) 1990

A fire burned in the fireplace, illuminating carefully-laid masonry beneath a walnut mantle, silver pokers to the side, logs stacked to add comfort as well as functionality. A bit further away, the plush earthtone carpeting slid beneath two easy chairs, a few feet apart, facing the fire at an angle that allowed easy conversation between them. Further away still, the fire echoed on the glass of a bay window, through which, were the shades of night not pulled, one might see down a narrow drive that extended three quarters of a mile to a dirt road which fled out of sight, passing no other habitation. On the fire's mantel sat a snifter of brandy, itself reflecting the glow of the flames multiple times.

Its mate was held in the hands of an elderly gentleman sitting in one of the easy chairs. His eyes flickered with the flames; there was no guessing what color they might be in less fickle light. His face showed the beginnings of true age, the short, narrow beard had turned white, his hair was well on the way to silver itself. The arm that did not hold the brandy rested comfortably on the arm of the chair, his body was relaxed as he contemplated his companion.

In the other chair sat a man of indeterminate age, hands folded in his lap, posture slightly less comfortable than that of the older man. He was dressed in a robe of velvet and silk, the only thing about him which would distinguish him from any member of a crowd; if he took off the robe he might cease to exist.

Silence existed for a second, an hour. It was ended when the man with the brandy spoke.

"I've seen you in this contemplative mood before, Andy. You're thinking of a story?"

"Yes. Science fiction, I think."

Davidson's eyes narrowed slightly. "Not your usual genre. Doesn't sell well. Not that money's really a concern." He spread his hands, taking in the world in the flickering firelight, the mantel with its treasures hidden by the light, the rest of the mansion beyond shrouded in darkness. "Tell me about it."

Andrew paused, then gestured toward the window. "Do you think that there's anyone out there? All those stars, probably all those planets. And all that time. Eternity for life to exist."

"I've never really thought about it. But a story must begin somewhere. So I'll give you all the kinds of life you want." He sipped his brandy.

"All those living beings over all that time. You see, it's the time that's important. Time enough for a vast array of creatures to have come into being. We cannot assume that they would be human, or even human-like. We cannot even assume that their thoughts are what a human can consider thinking."

"It's going to be a dull story, if we can't understand the characters thoughts. They claim that you can't tell a story about a nonhuman, that even if the characters are animals or aliens, they must have human, comprehensible motivations or the story will make no sense."

Andrew nodded. "Yes, we must bow that far from possible reality for the sake of a story. But I picked a bad example -- my aliens think enough like a human to make the comprehension simple. In fact, I'll bring up their psychology in some depth in a few minutes. For now, though, consider a physical rather than psychological difference, most notably, immortality."

"How immortal?"

"Complete, total immunity to death. The body cannot be destroyed by any means, nor harmed, even by intention."

"Difficult to explain. Unless it's necesary to your story, I'd just give them very long lifespans."

"It's necessary. The explanation could be no more complex than a mental ability to control matter and energy. An inborn defense mechanism that can't be shut down."

"Still sounds pretty awkward."

"Indeed. But how much of reality is convenient? These same mental properties might be controllable to some extent. These aliens have both a limited shape changing ability and significant control over the world around them."

"Magic?"

"Sorcery if you like, though a perfectly rational form of it. A reassembling of matter and energy to specific ends."

"And if you lived forever, you could get pretty good at it."

Andrew nodded quickly. "Very good. Perhaps even enough to create worlds, perhaps life itself."

"You've created God." Davidson took another small sip of his brandy, considering.

"Gods, perhaps. My story concerns a race of such beings. Millions of them."

"Be careful, Andy. You can't let your characters get out of control."

"That's exactly the story. These creatures, I call them Calagar, are out of control." He stood up, retrieved his snifter from the hearth. "It's the long life, you see. How's this for a motivation: pure boredom."

"Certainly not out of the realm of possibility. Everything gets boring after a time. Even life itself, I suppose."

"Indeed. And in boredom begins cruelty. You can only drink of the milk of human kindness so long. Pain, suffering, these are the more interesting possibilities. You'd take it up as a hobby, stick with it because of the entertainment it offers; small, yes, but better than nothing."

"Very dark. Would not some morality, altruism exist, even in such beings? Or are they of one mind?"

"Certainly it would exist, and any one Calagar might go through cycles, alternating good with evil as interest waned. But eventually, all of them would fall, every one. Eternity is a long time, and ideas and people change over even short time. And boredom does not; it is always the same."

"You usually write light, humorous or at least cheerful pieces. Why the change?"

"Even I go through cycles, perhaps." Andrew grinned, produced a jug from the velvet darkness over the mantel. He refilled Davidson's glass, replaced the jug and seated himself again.

"Long cycles. You've been writing the same stuff for twenty six years, since I've known you, and probably before that as well. But continue; perhaps the variety will give some freshness to your writing. Not that it needs it."

"The Calagar attained the stars, easily. Where they went, they found new beings and places, brought technology, civilization, and, almost inevitably, destruction. If they could not find a convenient lifeform or world for a particular game, they created it, destroyed it and its population when it was no longer necessary, useful, or entertaining."

Davidson looked contemplative again, offered nothing into the silence except a brief wave of the hands. Andrew continued.

"Of course, where there is one powerful, starfaring race, there would likely be another. And so there was, the Groli. Not immortal, not possessed of the mental sorceries of the Calagar, but highly advanced and technical. From the view port of their shorter lifetime, they might not lose the virtues that the Calagar had given up. And they would be aghast at the atrocities of the Calagar."

"A lot of good it would do them. Mortals against gods? How do you overcome something you cannot kill?"

"The laws of this country do not permit you to kill a thief. How do you overcome him?"

"You have him put in jail. But how do you jail a god?"

"Remember their inability to harm themselves? Say the Groli managed to create a "cage" that reacted like a Calagar body, unaffected by their sorcery? A very large cage, planetary in scale, which could contain all of the Calagar, trap them forever where they could harm no one."

Davidson shook his head sharply. "War story, then? I doubt it would be very interesting. Battles get old quickly."

"Oh no! The war is only incidental to the story. The Groli win, although their own race is nearly destroyed as a result. The only interesting part about the war is the way one of the Calagar deals with it."

"Which is?"

"Remember the boredom factor. Since an enemy is the first truly interesting thing to happen to the Calagar race since the beginning of time, they race off to battle. The thought that they could lose is unimportant. The odds of it are small, in any case. To the man, they attacked, and the Groli used this to their advantage, trapping each Calagar neatly in their cage."

"But?" Davidson prompted.

"One, only one, of the Calagar considered the consequences of losing the battle that lay before them, truly considered the possibility that the Calagar _could_ lose. If he was bored now, spending eternity in a cage without even the outlet of sorcery to amuse himself would be even more boring. He fled, took cover with a group of lifeforms uninvolved in the war, changed his shape, avoided displays of sorcery, and waited."

"While all of his race were trapped."

"Yes, and for centuries more, waiting while the Groli race lost the knowledge of their technology, lost the skills to fight back, eventually lost even the ability to continue as a race. Waiting for the last possible enemy to die."

"Dull."

"Yes, but not so much as one would expect. In all of the universe, there was little chance of being detected, and cruelty exists on the small scale as well as the large. He could play with the world he had chosen, interact with it in a myriad of ways, bring it cruelty and kindness. But he could not destroy it, for to do so would be to lose his entertainment, and risk discovery in the search for more. Only when the last of the Groli had died did he destroy it and move on."

"To free the rest of his race?"

"Perhaps, though I think first he would savor the experience of being a sole god in a universe unprepared to deal with such a being. I haven't really worked out that part of the story yet."

Davidson considered for a time. "It has potential. I should probably sleep on it for a while. It's hard to really find the motivation in such a character."

Andrew smiled. "Boredom, Davidson. Raw boredom." He stood up, retrieved a long jacket from somewhere outside the fire's glow. "You've got a long drive home tonight."

"Indeed." Davidson stood up, put on the offered coat. Leaving the brandy glasses on the hearth, the two of them walked to the door, and through it into the deep August night.

"Good night," Davidson said, taking the two stairs down toward his car.

"Good bye," Andrew said, and there was a funny tone to his voice, as though muted by distance.

Davidson turned. The house was almost a hundred yards away, though he had taken only a couple steps. His car was nowhere to be seen.

In the darkness of the forest, brilliant red eyes glowed, flickering like burgundy in the firelight. Three wolves emerged from the shadows, each as black as the night itself, seven feet tall at the shoulders, moving with a quicksilver speed toward him. Teeth shone coldly, though there was no moon.

"Just to make this interesting..." Andrew commented, and a steel pistol appeared in Davidson's hand. "There are exactly three bullets. Please don't make this boring, Davidson."

"By God, Andrew! We've known each other twenty six years!"

Andrew shook his head. "No, only the blink of an eye."

Christopher Kempke is a Computer Science graduate student at Oregon State University. His interests include writing, computers, magic, juggling, bridge, and other games, not necessarily in that order. His major goal in life is to become a professional student, a goal which he is rapidly attaining.

kempkec@umbra.cs.orst.edu