My name is Mothen Messarus, or was it? Will it be? My grip on sanity is tenuous at best.

I thought my grip on reality was as firm as the Serco grip on Sol II. That, however, was before he challenged it, destroyed it, or maybe, who knows what he did.

Six months ago I was a minor professor at the Sky Command War College. Teaching Toaster officers the history of the dominion, and their gloriously proud part in it was my small contribution to the glory of the dominion. A major accident during basic training in the infantry forces ended my direct fighting ability.

After 2 months of rehabilitation I was forced into an academic position. Serco warriors don't cry, but I came close many times. I cursed Lady Serco for denying me the ability to join my fellow warriors in combat almost incessantly during those 2 months.

During my academic training I researched why we called ourselves toasters, and why everyone else called us toasters. My first revelation shocked me. I could not believe we allowed anyone to show us that kind of disrespect. We were definitely not mere household appliances to be used as seen fit, then ignored until needed again!

My professor, and good friend Reynas Volko explained it in a way that made me proud to be called a toaster. "We sit ignored, and underestimated." He said, "Until something enters. It gets stuck in our space until we're good and ready to let it go. If everything is set right it comes out nicely done. If something is just a little off, though, it comes out burned completely black and useless. Then they go back to ignoring us and underestimating us yet again."

"That's right!" I declared, "I'm a Lady damned toaster and I'll burn you to ashes!"

That was when I was certain. I thought I knew something. Six months ago that triever showed me I knew nothing.

I remember the day I met him as if it was yesterday. The leaves had turned the purple of autumn, and the winds carried them in eddies making them pile up in conical heaps on the leeward side of anything remotely vertical.

The slight nip in the air was nothing any toaster would take
any significant note of, let alone complain about, but the temperature was dropping in preparation for the winter to return to the northern hemisphere of Serco Prime.

I had just sat down in my office in the History department when a triever entered my office as if he owned it. He was a typical triever. Not very tall, not very broad, although slightly broader than your typical triever. He appeared to be in his forties as triever lifespans are so short compared to us toasters that it appears they're as ephemeral as desert flowers. His complete lack of hair on the top of his head made me think he was a smurf monk except for the lack of smug self righteousness the smurfs always carried. He did have piercing green eyes, which was notable in itself as brown eyes are the norm throughout known space. His facial hair was turning gray in places, but had not completely faded to white, nor was it completely black.

"You're Mothen Messarus?" He asked. "I've been searching for you for a little bit of time. I would like to hire you to do a little research for me."

"And you are whom?" I asked in return.

"It doesn't matter," He replied, "What matters is how much I'll pay you to find the answers to the questions I have."

"You trievers are so Lady damned funny!" I chortled, "I'm not another triever who will run, and fetch for a bone. I won't sit at the table like you do and beg for scraps. I'm a Serco. I work for the Dominion, and nobody else. Now leave!"

"Oh, but you do work for money," He replied. "The dominion pays you money which represents energy. You use that energy to acquire food, shelter, and whatever other things you desire, and have the condensed energy in the form of that money to acquire. We 'trievers' are just honest about it."

"I'm surprised though," He continued. "You are an academic, but you let your emotions cloud your judgement. I guess you are another Serco warrior even if you're confined to a wheelchair due to a rare genetic anomoly that prevents regrowth of your limbs. I just thought your fifty years as a professor would have honed your intellect and curiosity."

At that point I should have thrown my letter opener right through one of his annoyingly bright eyes. In retrospect it wouldn't have done the least bit of good, but back then I thought it would have rid me of him.

He smiled at me and it completely reminded me of the dogs that
the trievers are named after. They're bounding and perpetually happy regardless the circumstances. They aren't fighting dogs, but will retrieve anything they see land withing visual range. Given the proper treat they would fetch a heavy assault cruiser if they see it land. That's trievers in general, and this one seemed to be the mold that all other trievers were cast from.

I had no idea at the time, but he was using a trick almost every triever is born knowing, and is honed and trained during their entire short life. The art of getting someone to do what they want them to do while appearing to be the one that's doing the menial work, and acquiring the profit from it.

I should have told him to kiss a smurf. I should have sent him away empty handed, but I didn't. I'm condemned from that point until my dying day to be empty, hollow, and devoid of purpose. If I reveal anything I have discovered in those short six months I would be locked up as a delusional schizophrenic. My only comfort is in this very private journal. I can't tell another living soul, but I can write it down and put it on a data crystal. I know it's the truth, but someone who finds it and reads it will consider it the rantings of another toaster who had one to many cerebral implants, and went harmlessly insane.

"What do you want me to find?" I asked. I had no idea that would be the phrase that condemned me to borderline insanity and apathy for the rest of my life.

"Back in 3844, an Itani ship named the Azhanti High Lightning disappeared deep within Serco space. I would like for you to find it's whereabouts." It's odd, but it didn't sound like, "I'm taking you on a trip to hell, and only one of us is coming back friend."

"How am I going to find a smurf ship that vanished six hundred years ago?" I asked. "Besides we launched a preemptive strike. It was called the first battle of Eo, and anyone who knows anything beyond remedial Serco history knows that. There were no smurf ships operating in the dominion then."

"I have contacts throughout known space," He replied. "I know this ship is somewhere within the dominion's borders this very minute."

In retrospect this was probably the only true thing he had said. Of course he knew the ship was here. The Devil knows where all damned souls are and where they go.

"Even so I can't take time off right at the beginning of the semester for a wild avian chase," I replied. "It will have to wait until the sixth month of next year."

"I've arranged for you to take sabbatical at this very moment if you will assist me," He said. "Sabbatical and enough money that you could retire comfortably in any system in known space."

"You've been sniffing too many smurf spices, and it's damaged your brain," I replied. "You don't have that kind of stroke."

"Check my record," He said smiling, because he knew he had gained another soul. "As a reserve officer in Sky Command you have access to anyone's record that operates in Serco space. You will find I have more than enough 'stroke.' You'll also find that your sabbatical has been approved, and a ship is waiting to take us wherever you need to go."

In retrospect of course he had enough stroke. He's whatever evil you can imagine throughout history. Satan, Lucifer, Iblis, take your pick. He is that and everything more.

"Your name would be?" I asked.

"Matthias Corvinus," He replied.

A shiver ran down my back. I even felt it all the way down to my non-existent toes. When a demon tells you his name he gives you nothing of power. It only lets you know the name of the terror that will haunt you for the rest of your days.

I should have turned and wheeled my way out of there screaming like a little smurf girl. I should have committed suicide then and there. In my ignorance i had no idea what was going on.

I ran his background. He was considered a pillar of society. He was a knight in the order of Pyronis. He had acquired quite a few medals indicating he was a hive bot killer of high caliber, and as is typical of any triever he has trade medals indicating he had acquired more money than it took to fund some military divisions for five years. It didn't show the exact amount, but the awards indicated he had acquired it. Whether or not he kept it was a different story.

The odd thing is that different news blurbs indicated he was bordering on "eccentricity," to say the least. He was doing nothing truly dangerous, just what appears to be the ramblings of a harmless triever who had acquired a slight case of space dementia.

Checking on my record indicated that I had, in fact, been granted sabbatical, and a rather large sum of money had been deposited into my personal account just five minutes prior. I won't say how much he deposited, but it was enough to sustain me for the rest of my unnatural life. It's probably the only decent thing he did for me.

"Well, sir Matthias," I began.

"Please, call me Matt," He interrupted extending his hand. Being on a first name basis with the devil, and shaking his hand felt quite natural. There was no thundercrack, no eerie music, no canids howling in the distance. I didn't give him my soul for sexual favors, money, or even a good drunk on toaster ale. There was no contract signed in blood. There was just the handshake, and his name.

"Well Matt," I replied. "It seems I'm your man. Why did you pick me though? There are a lot more renowned historical researchers than me."

"I found your paper on the suspicious events leading up to the Serco-Itani war intriguing," He replied. "Well thought out, well researched, and unfortunately well attacked by any and all academics. I notice that after that paper you only stayed with non controversial subjects."

Now I was intrigued. I wrote that paper just out of graduate school, and the fallout from that one paper still haunted me to that day.

"Even us toasters know when to quit fighting a losing battle," I replied. "I got beaten so badly defending that paper it made me re-think being a historian. I seriously considered becoming a structural engineer."

"I'm glad you didn't," He replied.

The depth, and breadth of his influence was frightening. His personal "yacht" as he called was a Serco Skycommand Promethius. To my knowledge they're not only expensive, but nobody but native born Serco are allowed to buy it. My knowledge was so limited back then that I'm surprised I remembered how to breath.

"Where are we taking this?" I asked.

"Itan," He replied acting completely unconcerned.

"In that?" I replied horrified. "You're going to take a SkyCommand Prom to Itan, and you think they'll just open the doors and let you in. Maybe the Abbot of Eo will come out to greet you, and give you a welcome kiss."

"Oh, I've already done that," He said. "He's a nice guy. A little too sure of his belief's but otherwise a nice man."

The next six months were a surreal blur of places, things, and discoveries for me. We found the lightning all right. It took only a month and a half. If you knew what to look for in the computer databases a six year old smurf could have found it by smell alone. The clues were cleverly hidden to be just below the surface. A hint here, a slight redirection there. To me it appeared as if I was doing excellent research. I had no idea he was playing me. He had it set up so I would find them, and it all pointed to one of the least travelled parts of the Serco Dominion.

After all the digging and searching everything pointed to Rhamus I-9. A sector that was almost directly between that system's primary and secondary star. According to the charts there was nothing there.

We jumped into that sector, and after four hours we found it. I was giddy. I had pulled it off. I found evidence that the stories told by both sides of the first battle of Eo were either misled out of ignorance or propaganda.

We docked with the Lightning. It was an old Heavy Assault
Cruiser, but it looked like it was in pristine condition. It looked as if it was ready to commence firing on us at any moment.

"Are you sure it's safe?" I asked.

"I'm sure," He replied. "I put it there."

I laughed so hard I almost wet myself. This thing had to be at least six hundred years old and this mere triever claimed to have not only been present, but to have had a hand in the events. I remember reading that the last survivor of the battle of Eo died two hundred and fifty years ago. At least two hundred years before this triever was born.

"I see you don't believe me," He said. "Why do you find it so hard to believe?"

"Trievers aren't known for two things," I replied. "Longevity, and combat ability. Everything I've dug up indicates that this ship was here six hundred years ago."

"How old do you think I am?" He inquired.

"I don't know," I replied thinking as I looked at him. "Forty, maybe fifty."

"Thank you," He replied. "That's very generous of you. The truth is, I remember walking in the sunlight of Sol. Not Sol II, but Sol. I remember the green grass of earth. I remember the blue/green oceans, the blue sky with white clouds. I remember the year 2000 like it was yesterday."

"Bullshit," I replied losing any academic demeanor. That was over two thousand years ago. No triever, toaster, or smurf is that old! NONE!"

"Do you know how the smurfs got their name?" He asked.

"Uh, no," I replied. I was perplexed because it's one question nobody had even thought to ask. Even the Itani themselves had no clue why they were called smurfs.

"Then watch this on the display," He said as he inserted a data crystal into the Lightning's computer data port. What was on display was the grossest display of ignorant stupidity I've ever seen. These little blue humanoids who lived in myconid houses committed some of the most egregious displays of ignorance, incompetence, and gramattical stupidity. Their use of the word smurf for any and every occasion was an assault on my senses. There it was though. The copyright was MCMLXXXI. 1981. Almost three thousand years ago.

The entire thing could have been one big legpull, but why would he? Why would he waste a month and a half, and millions of credits just to do a legpull on an academic. The Lightning class cruiser itself was enough to convice me. It's an Itani design that matches the profiles of ships of that era, and without actually dating any of the parts appeared to be that old.

Reproducing a ship like this would have been outside the ability of even the richest seven trievers let alone this one. Either what he was telling me was the truth, or I had lost what few bits of sanity I had when I started.

After that it was another four months of amazing discoveries. The entire war was a contrivance. Some people blamed the Serco, others the Itani, yet others claimed it was a triever plot to make money. It was all lies.

The truth is they did it. Them, they, the ones you talk about in hushed tones. Here I was talking to one of Them. He took me to Sedina B-8. I would never have set foot there because it's only known for the scum that abides there. What I witnessed shocked, horrified me, and then finally caused me to laugh.

Every six year old Serco can read a tactical display. I watched as trievers, smurfs, and toasters came in, engaged each other and died. Names like "Nahin Lor, Impavid, Strat, Shlimazel, tumblemonster, peytros, Ryan Reign, Schelling, Folks Dolkaris" appeared, got damaged, and died. Then they would return.

Schelling and Folks Dolkaris are some of the most famous members of The Big Red One. Every Serco has heard of the One. Getting in as an infantry member is an honor all by itself. Becoming a pilot is impossible, and now I knew the reason. You don't need replacement pilots if they're manned up by immortal whatevers.

For the first time since I was a little boy I cried. My entire reality was shattered. I realized the obviousness that what he was showing me was the end of my existance as anything.

"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.

"I'm bored," He replied. "Do you realize how boring immortality becomes? It's incessant, and becomes insipid. What do you do after you've done everything? You find some poor sod, clue him in, and then watch him struggle with it."

"My unnatural life is almost worthless now," He continued. "I made my fast money trading in gray. I announced to everyone that I was counterfeiting cereal box tops so nobody knew what I was doing, and therefore put a stop to it."

"Unfortunately I had to make a deal with the devil," He said.

"You mean you're not it?" I replied. "I realized that I can't tell anyone about this! I would be committed to a mental institution for the rest of my days."

"Are you done?" He asked, and then continued without waiting for the response. "I made a deal with the pirate guilds. I paid them some money, and they let me alone to print my cereal box tops. Figuring I was trading worthless stuff they left me alone and I made more money in a week than most people make in hundreds of lifetimes."

"Unfortunately the pirates get accustomed to getting paid just like everyone else does," He explained. "when they found out no more paychecks were coming from Matthias Corvinus they took exception. I can never again be caught by them with anything of value. They will destroy my ship, take my cargo, and have a good laugh about it."

For some reason I could sympathize.

"So what are you going to do?" I asked.

"I'm spreading the word that I got a cornflake mining beam, and am mining worthless junk," He explained. "I can make a little money at it. Since I have amassed so much wealth I really don't need any more. I will just mine carbonic, ferric, or aquean for something to do with my unnatural life. If the pirates find me, and explode my ship I will have lost nothing. No life as I can just come back. No real money as I didn't take any so I'm free to mine cornflakes."

"Where does that leave me?" I asked, really dreading the reply that I knew was coming.

"When you're sent to hell to suffer eternaly there's only the comfort of knowing that someone else is suffering with you," He explained. "I'm damned eternally here, but you're only damned temporaly. After your time is up you'll grow old and die. Unfortunately I'll get to watch you do that. I like you Mothen, you're a smart guy. You're the only one in the last couple hundred years that bought it and came. I'm kind of sorry, but it's what I do."

I couldn't believe it. It was all bullshit. We were all actors on these immortals stages for their amusement. The ignorant ones, smurfs, toasters, and trievers had it lucky. They lived out their lives in blissful sleep while I had been ripped out of my ignorance, had my blindfold removed to see the rotting cesspool my existance was, and given a pat on the back and a "have a nice day."

"I can't go back," I said. "It's over. I guess there's only one thing left to do."

"Suicide isn't the way," Matthias said.

"Suicide hell, I'm mining fucking cornflakes myself," I replied. That was just last week.

If you happen to find this, and read it be sure to wave at either of us in yellow mining gear talking about mining cornflakes. Pity us because we're in our own self created hell.

Excellent short story. I enjoyed reading it quite a bit :]
Always wondered what NPC's were thinkin..

Creepy, yet hillarious. Self-Aware bots that played like us would be scary.