“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Nine”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

Chief Medical Officer Dr. Becka Stoudt had been waiting in the Morningstar III conference room for about 30 minutes. She felt slightly cold, and irritated, despite being dressed in a traditional uniform and lab coat. A wireless tablet sat on the table in front of her, with evidence files retrieved from the ship’s main computer. Sounds of normal operation provided familiar background noises, from the hallway outside. There was no explanation offered for being delayed. No excuse delivered as a diplomatic gesture.

 

She was simply not a priority on the interplanetary transport.

 

Commander Hornell Block arrived after another quarter hour, with a note of disinterest lingering in the air. He had been on a conference call with leaders from the Space Force, who were stationed at the dock which orbited their Red Planet. He appeared tired and chastened. And unshaven, which was a surprising breach of protocol.

 

“I’ve been getting my rump chewed all morning! So, what’s on your mind, Madam Sawbones? More of the same?”

 

Dr. Stoudt brushed the longish, gray hair away from her eyes.

 

“You’ve got a knack for reading the room. That’s a valuable skill, friend. I want to talk about the condition of Lt. Kelly Strafe. What happened to her before she rejoined the fleet?”

 

Block scratched his chin, which was rough like a square of sandpaper.

 

“Doctor, I don’t know what you mean...”

 

His physician-in-charge exhaled violently and sputtered saliva.

 

“Hornell, you’re a bad liar! You always were!”

 

Her superior flushed from hearing this tone of defiance. He could not hide being embarrassed.

 

“The lieutenant is a valuable asset. But she’s always had a rowdy streak. I figured that in olden days on our original homeworld, she might’ve been a cowgirl. But we do things differently in the 22^nd Century. Keeping order matters more than ever before. We’re all living in sealed environments. Poke a hole in the wall, and we’re all finished! That’s how the system operates. We can’t afford the kind of conflagration that torched that big, blue ball where mankind used to live!”

 

Stoudt nodded and then folded her arms. A chill ran over her skin.

 

“Thanks for the lecture, Hornell. But you sidestepped my question...”

 

The military commander bristled at her casual approach.

 

“THAT’S COMMANDER BLOCK TO YOU, MA’AM!”

 

The medical chief laughed and gestured with her right hand.

 

“I’m not a conscript, or a grunt. Not a soldier, okay? You can’t bully me with your rank. I serve the cause of science, not conquest among the outer worlds. Kelly Strafe shows signs of an electronic deprogramming. I’ve tried to look up information in our data stores, and via the university link with Mars. But nearly nothing pops up on my screen. Did you belt her into one of those zapper chairs? Is that why she came back to this vessel looking like someone who was drugged and zoned out?”

 

Block tightened his lips, as if suppressing a true confession.

 

“I didn’t do anything. I don’t have the authority! You know that very well. Whatever happened was the result of orders given by Admiral Corel Nauga, and his civilian partners on the high council.”

 

The lead physician tilted her head backward, and cursed in a whisper.

 

“There’s damn little literature on that thing, even for a professional like myself. What are your combat cohorts hiding? She shows possible signs of a brain injury, I can’t make a diagnosis without further study. And I can’t study while being kept in the dark. All I’ve got to go on are rumors and gossip. Some of my colleagues think that the seeds were planted with project MK-Ultra, around 150 years ago...”

 

The commander smiled with both corners of his mouth curling upward, in a betrayal of hidden prevarication.

 

“Doctor, I have no idea what you are referencing. I’m not a student of history, to be honest. I care about the here and now...”

 

Stoudt smoothed her white jacket, and toyed with the Velcro closure.

 

“I can’t authorize a return to duty for the lieutenant. She’ll need rest and evaluation. I’ve got to do more research before passing judgment. That’s where we stand, Hornell!”

 

Her onboard superior was livid over this proclamation.

 

“I NEED HER BACK IN SERVICE! SHE’S A HANDY TOOL IN THE KIT, A VALUED MEMBER OF THE CREW! QUIT DRAGGING YOUR FEET! THERE’S NO REASON TO KEEP HER IN A BED LIKE SOMEBODY’S GRANDMOTHER AT A NURSING FACILITY!”

 

The seasoned physician pointed her index finger with indignation. She did not attempt to placate her opponent.

 

“Commander, I make those calls. Look it up in your rulebook if you like. My role is specified in black-and-white. If I have doubts about anyone on the team that runs this craft, even you sir, then my judgment stands. If I sign off, it’ll be because I am convinced that Kelly has recovered fully. That’s how the chain-of-custody works for a patient. Any patient! There are no exceptions...”

 

Block had almost begun to foam at the mouth. He pounded the conference table with his fists.

 

“Don’t threaten me, Becka! My position in the force is very secure. You wouldn’t be pleased with the outcome!”

 

Dr. Stoudt snorted at the open threat. But she showed no sign of being afraid.

 

“I’m the top dog here on our ship, Hornell. If you suspect that my analysis is compromised, a petition can be filed. But it’ll be another doctor that gives an official ruling on your case. I am devoted to patient care and nothing else. I don’t give a damn about flying between the planets, or chasing down political enemies...”

 

Her crew leader had turned a bright shade of crimson. He did not enjoy being accused, explicitly, or otherwise.

 

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN, DOCTOR? WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?”

 

Stoudt pulled the lab coat tighter around her neck, while hoping to stay warm. This move caused her medical badge to sparkle in the artificial glow of ceiling lights, overhead.

 

“It’s no secret that you’ve been ordered to chase down that professor from the university. I get it, the brass on Mars must be nervous about cinching up details before things come untied. They are always nervous about sedition. Maybe you are too? Either way, I don’t have a horse in the race. I’ll stick to providing care. That’s my field of expertise. When the lieutenant is competent to resume her duties, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, it’s hands off of the sick bay, and my practice as a physician. Stay in your lane, soldier!”

Nothing To See Here – “Going Postal”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

“The way of sinners is made plain with stones, but at the end thereof is the pit of hell.” – Ecclesiasticus 21:10 (KJV)

 

While writing for the Geauga County Maple Leaf newspaper, I used to observe that the best columns often created themselves. Situations that occurred in real-time were almost always certain to inspire prose projects that entertained readers and satisfied my editor. Quite often I would approach my weekly deadline with no material at the ready, only to find that a happenstance fluke of random occurences filled the page and kept my creative streak alive.

 

Recently, this paradigm once again made itself apparent, as I posted in a local Thompson Township Facebook group. With the plight of patrons at our local post office in mind, I commented about difficulties encountered when mailing out copies of books that I had authored. A pursuit that has kept me busy in retirement. Through the publishing superpower of KDP/Amazon, I have been able to sell numerous volumes in America and beyond. Even in the foreign stronghold of Japan, for example. This activity makes me feel invigorated as a wordsmith. But I stay focused on local needs, and responsibilities. Therefore, whenever possible, I like to fling these items into the continuum, from a launchpad right here at home.

 

Our USPS depot is located in a building which apparently dates back to 1914. The front steps are made from wide and flat slabs of concrete, stacked one upon the other. Single, tubular railings are attached to this crumbling structure. It is the sort of entryway that might amuse tourists and visitors with old-timey charm. But presents a real hardship for those in the disabled community. In personal terms, I have hobbled up and down this archaic holdover many times. Every occasion has meant concentrating carefully on my plodding progress, and vertical stance. Yet inside, the reception has always been warm and friendly. So, I feel that the sacrifice is worthy.

 

While having a brew on the front porch, after a session at my home-office desk, I pondered this dilemma in more detail. As a handicapped individual, I knew that there was a measure of importance paid to my specific needs, by our federal partners in Washington. So, with a reserve of courage building up, I commented about the situation via our portal on social media.

 

Like many decisions made while relaxing with an adult beverage, it was one I would later regret.

 

At first, the responses I received were civil and sane. Owners of the structure offered thanks for my participation, and assured community residents that solutions were being considered in the context of dealing with a restricted footprint. The location is situated literally on a corner of our township square. With little room or leeway for any kind of improvement. I felt confident in the wisdom of free-market ideas being able to resolve the issue in a way that would benefit everyone involved. Yet what followed dimmed my faith just a bit, in the goodness of human psychology.

 

Personal jabs began to prosper that were both puzzling and inappropriate.

 

“Why don’t you just go to the Madison Post Office? It isn’t that far away! There are plenty of other choices!”

 

This recommendation was true to be sure, but would have short-circuited my own desire to support our local point-of-access. I knew that officials with the USPS were keenly aware of traffic figures for each of their service areas. Because they had been suffering from a budget crisis for years, watching these numbers fall due to a lack of free entry would be devastating. When I commented this obvious truism, the negative flood became more intense.

 

“Go to Chardon, or Geneva! Have someone pick up your mail! They’ll just close the thing if you keep complaining!”

 

The final offering was candid, and decidedly surreal. I could not help but smile over getting such a sharp-tongued hit on the page.

 

“Oh my God! Oh my God! If they build a ramp for you, then there’ll have to be a plaque with your name and picture, inside!”

 

When I confessed to seeking legal counsel, to gain insight into the level of government responsibility that might be involved, the tide turned into a storm swath. I thought that perhaps some kind of funding might be available, to defray costs here at home. Yet this action was taken as a sort of self-interested move to gain a political advantage.

 

“Geez dude, get a life! Get a life!”

 

Around two o’clock in the morning, I crawled out of bed, after restlessly tossing from one side to the other. With bleary eyes, I found my cell phone, brought up the timeline of this extended conversation, and deleted my original posts. A sense of relief cooled my reddened cheeks. I fell back in the chair, perched in a dark corner of my living room, and went back to sleep.

 

The friend and lawyer who I had tapped for informational purposes provided a contact person in the Post Office hierarchy. Someone in Greensboro, North Carolina. I learned that comments regarding on-site conditions could be sent to this individual. As a friendly gesture, I thought that passing along my own concerns was prudent and proper.

 

But having survived a virtual flogging for speaking out, I wondered if the benefit would outweigh more public scorn? In yonder days, as a newsprint scribe, I had gotten used to such criticisms. And even taken a few judgments, face-to-face, from irritated subscribers. Yet now, with the clock ticking away, and my bones aching arthritically, a different approach seemed right. So, I clicked on the YouTube channel, and hunted for a video clip that referenced childhood memories from the venerable, Hee Haw television show. In short order, I had forgotten about being shamed and instead, basked in a glow of cornpone humor.

 

“Gloom despair, and agony on me

Deep, dark depression, excessive misery

If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all

Gloom, despair and agony on me...”

 

 

 

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Eight”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

The Morningstar III was a sleek and modern vessel in every sense. Yet from appearances, it still had the profile of a flying sardine. Something that miffed Commander Hornell Block more than a little, when interacting with his peers in the Space Force. He longed to be in charge of a craft designed to cover long distances in a virtual instant, with a compliment of crew members that could populate a city on Mars. Yet having endured challenges and calamities throughout his military service, he felt grateful to still be at the helm of ship.

 

Once the team had offloaded their cargo at Callisto Fort, in the Jovian system, he clutched at his belly. Then gave the order for a roundabout turn, toward Planet Earth. It was a duty that made him sick with regret.

 

“Navigator? Lay in a course for our ancestral homeworld, we have our orders. Let’s not be tardy...”

 

Benson Rayl looked too young and gangly to be sitting in the command hub of a transport with such rock-hopping capabilities. Yet he had amassed a reasonable amount of experience in traveling between the orbs in the neighborhood of their primary star.

 

“Aye sir, back we go! Ahead full with the C-drive activated!”

 

Lieutenant Kelly Strafe sat stiffly in her position as second in charge. Yet she had not recovered from being treated with the Hidecki Wellness Chair. A numb sense of emptiness plagued her daily efforts for concentration. But at night, images emerged from the fog in her brain. She saw faces and heard voices, all unfamiliar. Only now and then could she pick out an echo of what had gone before. The person that she had been, from birth. Her genuine self. Like a blackboard losing characters of chalk, all of that vanished with the scrub of an eraser.

 

Her heart ached to know what was on the other side of that memory veil.

 

“Earth? We are going to visit... why? What will... we see there? What will... we find?”

 

Block looked sideways, still feeling guilty for having instigated the cause of her absent-minded confusion.

 

“Admiral Nauga is a soldier first. Among the planetary colonies he is respected and trusted. But civilian authority matters. We are a free people. He holds no seat of power. So, when there is debate and disagreement, he has to play the diplomat. I’m guessing that his change of heart about going back to that blue ball was the product of a face-to-face confrontation with the high council...”

 

Strafe raised her eyebrows.

 

“Going back? We’ve been there... before?”

 

Her superior officer heard his gut gurgle. He wanted to cover his face.

 

“Mankind came from that point in the cosmos, you know? Genetically, we all did...”

 

Navigator Rayl tried to provide a conversational diversion.

 

“I’m looking forward to the trip! My parents didn’t know much about how our species ended up on Mars. Or maybe they just didn’t care. Either way, I’d like to learn more about what happened. I know what they taught us in grade school, at New Cleveland. But there’s nothing like getting hands-on experience!”

 

Commander Block sighed and scratched his angular chin.

 

“We’ve got a proscribed mission, one I’ll stick to righteously. Get in, and get out! Find our target, if we can. Convince him to hitch a ride. The brass at home will take it from there. Anything more is above my pay grade...”

 

His subordinate twitched lightly, and snorted.

 

“Find... our target?”

 

The crew leader tried to deftly avoid naming their prey.

 

“Umm... the scientific professor we left behind. When we last ventured out this way...”

 

Rayl did not get the gist of keeping their intended capture undercover.

 

“You mean Dr. Baines? That scholar from the university? He never stops talking!”

 

Strafe swallowed hard. Her hands had begun to tremble. He long ponytail flipped and jerked with emotion.

 

“Juddy! You’re going to rescue... Juddy?”

 

Block cringed at the mention of this name, aloud.

 

“Our instructions are to do some reconnaissance, in preparation for future missions. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you...”

 

His assistant-in-charge gasped with a mental overload taxing her consciousness.

 

“Juddy... who is he? Why are we hunting... for him... on Planet Earth?”

 

Navigator Rayl dampened with a cold sweat.

 

“We never got an explanation of the Admiral’s orders, sir. What would make him turn us around so far out into space?”

 

The ship supervisor thumbed illuminated tiles on the arms of his seat.

 

“Enough! Enough! This isn’t a debate class, dammit! We’re on a voyage to another spinning rock in this solar circle. Why doesn’t matter! We don’t get paid for asking questions. We’re all grunt soldiers, ultimately. They bark and we bite! Everything happens on cue.”

 

Strafe had tears in her eyes. She went limp like a wilted flower, as if a fainting spell was about to hit.

 

“Juddy... who is Juddy?”

 

Commander Block gestured with concern, while leaning forward. He tapped at an icon for emergency assistance.

 

“STAND DOWN, KELLY! YOU’VE GONE THROUGH ENOUGH! NAVIGATOR RAYL, HELP ME GET HER TO THE ENTRYWAY! I JUST CALLED FOR A MEDICAL TEAM! HER DUTY SHIFT IS THROUGH! SHE NEEDS TO RECOVER!”

 

The lieutenant woke in a bed, at their sick bay. Her skin had turned oddly pale. She couldn’t remember much about being re-assigned to the Morningstar, or her duties as second-in-charge.

 

“Juddy... what happened to Juddy? What are they going to do with... Juddy?”

 

Veteran physician Becka Stoudt lingered for a moment, after calming her patient with a sedative spray. The chemical pen delivered a dose of medicine that would induce sleep, for the moment. A temporary measure until more could be learned about after-effects of the Wellness Chair. There had been few documents published about the controversial technology, in medical journals. So, she had no foundation of knowledge upon which to rely.

 

She was a graying matron on the staff. Very experienced in caring for the different needs of human physiology. But in this moment, she felt nearly helpless.

 

“Don’t fight it, Lieutenant. Let yourself fall into oblivion. Rest your mind, and body. I’ll develop a treatment plan in the interim. I’ve got some searching to do, and reading. For now, rest, rest, rest...”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Smokies Segue”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

As a kid in the 1960’s and 70’s, I grew up with the emotional woes of my mother providing a component of mystery to everyday life. I did not fully understand the bouts of anxiety and depression that she experienced. Nor was I given much information about these random periods. Yet for me, and my siblings, the effects of her affliction were obvious. She developed a duality which confused us, slightly. Staying busy with household chores, and our care. She was loving and nurturing, and somehow, darkly affected by invisible demons.

 

Only in my teenage years would I realize that these nagging ghosts had transferred themselves into my own personal makeup.

 

In yonder days, my father described this condition as a touch of nerves making itself present. I knew that some in the bloodline, like my mater and her sisters, had experienced what was informally called a nervous breakdown. Any analysis or treatment was kept from me and my younger equals as a protective strategy. But this cautious regimen only made us wonder more.

 

When I began to stumble, particularly in junior high school, it seemed as if a curse had been passed forward. Mom confessed that after her initial collapse, it had taken 10 years before she could feel fully human again. That honest recollection filled me with dread. Yet I had a simple strategy in my own quiver of arrows, to fight off such challenges.

 

Art was shield I carried. When gloomy days approached, I would draw and write, and sing.

 

In elementary years, I became the target of scorn for a scholastic matron who was at the end of her teaching career. She would single me out for criticism as someone who was too loud and impulsive for her liking. Not the sort of quiet-unless-spoken-to child of earlier times. But having been trained to respect elders and keep quiet when chastened by older people, I decided to channel my angst into a civilized, creative burst of expression. The result was a cartoon series kept in a notebook. Soon, friends in my class wanted to read and share these rowdy illustrations.

 

A template was set after that year at the desk. I learned that rendering my innermost thoughts in the form of scribbling or doodles was more humane than acting out with negativity and physical violence.

 

 

I had inherited the craft of wordsmithing from my father, who was a published author and a regular contributor to theological magazines. His calling became my own, in lifting the quill to sling ink and unburden my aching heart. I found that upon filling pages with the texts crawling through my head, I felt better as a yield. Revived and rescued from the frailty into which I had been born. Much as I did when climbing a tree in the yard of my grandparents, and jotting down notes on a piece of parchment. Making art for art’s sake brightened the world around me, immeasurably. It uplifted my spirits. It gave me hope for tomorrow.

 

Staying busy made all the difference.

 

Which strangely, connects directly to my habits in modernity, as a disabled, senior citizen. I never let myself sit still for long. Accomplishing tasks, however small and insignificant, keeps me connected to the continuum. At some point, these chores beget a creative product that warms my innards with a feeling of vitality. Every step forward, be it slight and stumbling, matters.

 

Most recently, I faced the day ahead with no inspiration providing sunlight. But a basic need for foodstuffs, like bread and meat, and brew, had me centered on making a quick excursion around the rural corner. I knew that a food depot just across the county line had what I needed. It wouldn’t take too long to fill my cupboards and refrigerator.

 

And perhaps more importantly, to clear away mental cobwebs by interacting with other mortal travelers, at least for a moment.

 

This I needed, to remain alive and awake.

 

At Trumbull Locker Plant on Route 534, I found that two women from the store team were busy working a wheeled flat of products, while waiting on customers. I took a small shopping cart from their equipment stash by the front wall, and began to select what I needed. But while doing so, my belly started to grumble with need.

 

The pair had just waited on a young girl who seemed very charming and polite. Stylistically attired in a checkered dress, with long pigtails swinging from the sides of her scalp. The workers chattered about her grandmother, who had been snippy and combative as a patron. Someone who insisted on refusing the good cheer of her retail benefactors.

 

While roaming, I decided to check on their case of cured meat products, which was a calling card for the business. And discovered a new variety that I had never tried.

 

“BEEF BACON CHEDDAR SMOKIES - $13.99 lb.”

 

The clerk who served me at the counter was tall, curvy, and very personable. She offered to let me try a sample which of course dazzled my taste buds. I ordered two pounds without hesitating. Then, using my most earnest brogue as a hillbilly oldster, I offered a story about having managed supermarket locations, in the past. Places where I also had encountered difficult customers.

 

“At a shop in Geneva, I had someone inquire about an item in our Dairy Department. This came late in the evening, and I was the closing manager on duty. I checked our walk-in cooler, and found nothing. After receiving my apology, the cranky shopper huffed away to another person on the sales floor. She requested to see the head of that section, which of course, meant that our service counter called me directly, via a cordless phone on my belt. I graciously explained that the one overseeing milk and eggs had worked early, so he was no longer available. Again, I rummaged through our refrigerated backstock, and found that the desired product wasn’t available. I offered sincere regrets for her inconvenience. But as before, this act of contrition fell short. Finally, the gloomy goose went squawking to our office clerk, who paged me to the service counter. When the irritated bird saw my face for a third and final time, her reaction was harsh. She blurted out, ‘You again?’ Then, left the store, with a long face.”

 

I described how I stood still for a moment, while shrugging. There was nothing more I could offer, except my sorrow over losing a sale. I did not follow her toward the lobby.

 

The clerk bounced in her spot and laughed, when my tale was finished. With amazement, I realized that my mood of anxious detachment had completely dissipated. Both of us felt lighter for having let go of our frustrations. It felt good to have shared the experience.

 

I went home with a large bag of smoked goodies, and a case of beer. And a sense that once again, God had delivered me from myself.

 

 

 

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Seven”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

Arbiter Goland Pick had been busy at the Toqua Platte Center in Calimex, particularly after his head-of-state had ordered the launch of a Ranger, land-drone swarm to cross the vast emptiness of their continent. He worked long shifts at his control panel, fiddling with settings and rewriting programs as needed. But on Monday morning, as their exploration had been underway for several weeks, suddenly, his focus was shattered by circumstance.

 

The Great Uprising of antiquity had left them with a puzzling mess to traverse.

 

Through the entryway to his command hub, Lotharian Gardino appeared, in a long vestment of flowing robes and colored stripes that indicated a position of supremacy within the territorial government. He was brusque and aggressive in tone, with little effort to introduce himself formally to the research team.

 

“Good morning, everyone! I trust that you’ve all been overworked since this mission was undertaken. But, with a nod to your efforts, let me inquire about what has been done to find the source of those C-drive emissions. What have you accomplished?”

 

Pick swiped across illuminated tiles on the board, while averting his eyes.

 

“Your visit wasn’t announced, sir. We all apologize for being unready...”

 

The Prime Keeper cursed under his breath. But smiled with a forced arc of his mouth.

 

“Unready? Does that mean you are short on data from the logistical trek?”

 

Engineer Jordan N’Falah interrupted with a youthful overabundance of enthusiasm. He was unintentionally rude, but had good intentions.

 

“Mr. Gardino, I’ve got plenty of clicks stored in our computer banks. No worries there, would you like me to bring up a graphic display on our monitors?’

 

The de facto ruler of their high council was slightly amused by this interjection.

 

“Crewman, did I ask you to speak? My observation was very general in nature. But, go ahead, work your magic. Show me what you’ve discovered...”

 

N’Falah felt his hand tremble slightly, when reaching across the panel.

 

“Our Ranger drones have been mapping on-the-fly, sir. No one has explored the middle region of North America for a long time. It’s been re-forested by nature, and is difficult to penetrate. But believe it or not, they have encountered pockets of civilization. Nothing like what we have here, on the coast, of course. But there are small groupings everywhere, hidden by the overgrowth. Some are no more than families huddled together. Others might approach a hundred people, or more. They are living on a primitive level. Just basic subsistence...”

 

Gardino was impatient and sour. Yet still projected an official veneer of civility.

 

“How does this relate to searching for the C-drive?”

 

Arbiter Pick rubbed his bald head, and bowed slightly.

 

“I thought it would be useful to catalog what the land drones uncovered, while making their way toward Lake Erie. That region was the focal point of what we received...”

 

The Prime Keeper lost his temper at last. His left fist crashed on the control panel.

 

“WERE YOU GIVEN SUCH ORDERS WHEN THIS BEGAN? I DID NOT KNOW YOUR RANK WAS SO HIGH AS TO JUSTIFY MAKING DECISIONS ABOUT OUR TASK! TAKE CARE THAT YOU DO NOT STEP TOO BOLDLY OVER YOUR BOUNDARIES, GOLAND, AND FALL INTO OBLIVION!”

 

N’Falah gulped reactively hard, and tapped at virtual buttons on his console. He had the pale appearance of a teenager who needed to bask in warm rays of sunshine.

 

“Mr. Gardino, I laid the plan myself. It just made good sense to keep track of what we were learning...”

 

Their territorial leader began to flail his arms and spit.

 

“KEEP TRACK? MAYBE YOU SHOULD’VE KEPT TRACK OF MY ORDERS, CREWMAN! THIS QUEST IS TO FIND THE C-DRIVE VESSEL, AND BRING IT HOME FOR CLOSER INSPECTION! WE NEED THAT TECHNOLOGY! IT WILL EXPAND OUR CAPABILITIES EXPONENTIALLY! AND PUT US IN CHARGE OF THIS ENTIRE REGION! I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT TAKING TOURIST PHOTOS ALONG THE WAY! FIGURE OUT THIS RIDDLE, AND DRAG THAT SHIP BACK TO OUR LABORATORIES!”

 

Pick shook his head, while adopting a submissive pose of surrender.

 

“Of course, of course! Forgive the boy, he is our newest recruit. I gave him that idea! As he said, it just made good sense...”

 

Pinpoints hovered over the continental map, where each pocket of inhabitants had been encountered. They were random and few in number. Yet undeniably curious for lingering in a climate of post-apocalyptic destruction.

 

N’Falah crouched low over his board. He had closed his eyes, tightly.

 

“It’s a miracle, isn’t it? The human race is resilient! We can survive almost anything! Those stragglers should be dead. Not running around in the woodlands. But there they are! Who knows what stories they might be able to tell? We could learn a lot, sir. Think about the value we could get from listening to them...”

 

Gardino had flushed bright red. He was seething with irritation. But held his thunderous temper in check.

 

“Very well. Scribble your notes. Take your pictures. Amuse yourselves for the sake of scientific wonder. But get the job done! Find out what sparked the C-drive signature, and devise some plan to get the source back here, in one piece! I want to see it myself. Maybe even ride on it, toward the stars! This is our destiny, our hopes and dreams hanging in the balance. Don’t screw it up! Do not screw it up!”

 

Before anyone on their team could protest, the Prime Keeper turned on his heel, and exited the control chamber. He was finished with the episode of psychological assault.

 

Arbiter Pick wheezed with relief after the council leader had made his exit. He turned toward his junior engineer, and began to laugh out loud.

 

“Jordan, I think you knocked him off balance! That might’ve actually saved us, your impulsive spurts of information made him stumble. He’s used to dealing with military officers, and diplomats. Not a geeky kid with a habit of interrupting others! I know he will return, once he’s had a chance to process everything. But for now, you covered us like a shield. You covered the lack of having a coherent result from our work. You covered our asses, so to speak!”

 

 

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Six”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

After the last round of cyclical storms before winter, Dr. Judson Baines emerged from the makeshift bunker at Evergreen Estates to find a first hint of morning peeking through the trees that surrounded his temporary home. Red leaves dotted the foliage, indicating that a seasonal change was at hand. Organic debris blew across the street, as he walked from the abandoned maintenance garage, back to the trailer home of his great grandfather. Having survived a long summer without any cooling or forced-air ventilation, it was slightly amusing to realize that he felt cold. Temperatures had dipped overnight, low enough that condensation formed on the windows of mobile dwellings up and down the broken boulevard. He zipped up his woven, university hoodie, and huffed while making the short trek to Lot 13.

 

His belly grumbled for a protein square, and some coffee, upon arriving at the boxcar hovel. Yet neither were available. He had long ago exhausted the Digger shuttle’s store of provisions. So instead, a chew of crude, corn meal flapjacks sufficed. With a mixture of roots and berries boiled in water, for his wake-up beverage. Everything was prepared on a cookstove improvised with appliance parts, and pallet wood for fuel.

 

Guilt humbled him with thoughts of fouling the air. Yet he had no other options.

 

Through his com-link, he streamed information about the drone swarm moving east from Calimex. This teeming mass of autonomous, wheeled vehicles was traveling at a deliberate, but unhurried pace. The caravan had barely covered 200 miles since leaving its western point of origin. In modern times, the continental middle was messy and overgrown. A geographical nightmare for anyone interested in exploration. But the Ranger vehicles were able to survive frequent bouts of environmental rage, left over from the Great Uprising. Smaller aerial craft had failed to endure such harsh conditions. Though they offered more speed and a better overview of the terrain.

 

Baines shrugged at the report of overland movement. He was unconcerned about being approached. Yet a slight mood of anxiousness lingered in the background.

 

He spent hours cataloging the journals found at their property center. In the last of these, a final revelation made him sit up straight, and fiddle with his thick spectacles. The handwritten log of his ancestor at last described what he had suspected, for weeks and months while studying artifacts.

 

Now, he could honestly observe that the entire mission had proved to be worthwhile.

 

“I’ve always been considered to be a crackpot here, never part of the MAGA defense. I’ve never had a snake flag in my yard, or the pine tree banner. I never felt any interest in joining the local militias. Never gave a damn about looking trendy or stylish with the political crowd. But today, it dawned on me that things have gone far beyond quieting this rebellion. There were federal agents roaming around the whole development, today. Not people with kind dispositions, you know? A lot of the instigators got rounded up, like Aimes Hefti and his amateur brigade. I won’t miss those bastards! The dragnet was cast wide though, they took some neighbors that were really just trying to avoid any grief with the park association. That fat fuck Linn Speck bailed out months ago, he’s on his way to Mars. The rest of us get to fend for ourselves. Coping with power outages and empty shelves at the supermarkets. Plus, watching people get dragged away in handcuffs. I might’ve finally lost my nerve here, usually my mouth has no filter. I keep everyone at a distance. It’s getting eerily quiet though, so many residents have bought a ticket for a Larman transport, to go see the Red Planet. The rest are wearing chain bracelets, courtesy of the authorities. Only a few of us have escaped. I’m old and drunk, and crippled. Nobody takes me seriously, anyway. So, I guess they figure I don’t rate getting thrown into a jail cell. It’s like that Rock & Roll song Roger Daltrey used to croon. ‘Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.’ Nothing has changed, it’s just shit in one hand or the other...”

 

The professor sighed heavily, after reading through his trove of yellowed pages. Across the generations, he could hear his progenitor’s voice. Speaking candidly about the desperate era that had birthed their new world, on a distant orb.

 

“T.C. Lincoln, you finally solved the riddle!”

 

While surveying this junkyard oasis, later that afternoon, he whistled the anthem to himself. The Who had always a favorite group from British history. Raucous and rebellious, but ultimately, sober in assessing the futility they faced. He had inherited a similar vibe from the written record penned by his predecessor in the family bloodline.

 

From the communications array, in his Digger craft, squawks, beeps, and whistles continued to emanate. The coastal republic persisted in directing its swarm with technological efficiency. Yet their capabilities were hobbled by distance and limited resources.

 

Lotharian Gardino, a narcissist and would-be king, had actually stumbled onto a correct assumption about the separate societies that inhabited parts of North America. Cooperating together, pooling ideas and assets, would make all of them stronger. But his notion of implementing such a plan was to have them kneel before a grand throne upon which he would sit. This divergence between logic, and a loathsome self-interest, damned him to fail.

 

Atlantia and Torontara had already rejected overtures for forming an alliance. Neither group wanted to sacrifice their independence.

 

In a sense, the old habits of human beings still cast a curse over Planet Earth. Mankind was a race of superior and creative beings, able to learn and process, and innovate. All with skill and forethought. But as a species, they were still stained with the animalistic traits of brutes and beasts. Never far from spilling blood and seeking vengeance.

 

This was the conundrum which Dr. Baines faced, when reading scribbled notes left by his genetic sire. Lincoln had been on the brink of a genuine epiphany. His Libertarian bent was akin to having a revelation from the heavens. His nation, and world, needed to rise above their own identities. And climb to a higher plane of existence, through a philosophical evolution.

 

But they were still very much in the dark. And unwilling, or unable, to navigate through that unlighted corridor of consequence, toward the glimmer of tomorrow. For them, sadly, the next sunrise never appeared.

 

When Sol projected its golden glow of inspiration, that blessed event came over the horizon, for settlers on Mars.

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Five”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

Commander Hornell Block felt a sense of joy when the Morningstar III embarked on its next mission, to visit colonies that were scattered around the outer planets. After having been ostracized for an extended period, the feeling of once again retaking his place as chief officer on the spacefaring vessel gave him a sense of validation. Now, he was truly secure as a member of the force. Someone who had proven his worth to the military hierarchy, like Admiral Corel Nauga. His name had become known across Mars, and their solar system.

 

Yet a nagging bite of guilt gnawed at his subliminal self, over what had transpired with Lieutenant Kelly Strafe.

 

The professional soldier was oddly bland in her service, after surviving treatments in the Hideki Wellness Chair. Her quirky, combative humor and lively personality had vanished. In their wake, she projected little more than a dutiful observance of commands and goals. Her competence remained intact. She continued to be an asset for the ship’s crew. Yet a glazed look of emptiness filled her deep, dark eyes. When she spoke, her answers were always delivered in a monotone of indifference.

 

Block directed his vacuous subordinate to take the vessel out of orbit, and chart a course toward one of the Jovian moons. A distant point where a research station had been located to promote study of the gas giant. Her obedience ticked off like the beat of a metronome. She did not seem curious or eager.

 

“Aye sir. Full ahead... with the C-drive. We will be... up to speed... in about two minutes.”

 

Navigator Benson Rayl glanced sideways, while making gestures over the control panel. He was younger and still very green as a member of the Space Force. But quick at learning routines. His eyebrow raised while pondering the stiffness of this restored affiliate, in action. He looked upon her as a big sister. So, with a careful nod, he whispered low, under his breath.

 

“Lieutenant, are you okay? Everyone else is excited to be back on duty! You aren’t even cracking a smile!”

 

Strafe was pale and slim. Her ponytail hung limply, over one shoulder.

 

“Yes... I... am, of course.”

 

Commander Block leaned forward in his swivel chair. The craft hummed and whistled with energy as its drive components came online.

 

“Callisto Fort is primitive. The engineers who man that installation are rough and crude by our standards. Like the sort of people one might expect to find in a border town of the old, American west. I would caution everyone to use their best diplomatic skills when we arrive. There have been several incidents when our vessels visit. The team there does not consist of conscripts or designated officers. There is no regular chain of command...”

 

The lieutenant frowned as if she were confused.

 

“No chain... of... command? How does... that... work?”

 

Rayl chuckled to himself while tapping at his console.

 

“Not very well, I’d bet! But those guys are builders and explorers. They put up with harsh conditions. Like carving caves out of ice, and solid rock!”

 

Strafe seemed to be focusing on some distant memory. Her reactions were delayed.

 

“Caves in... the rock? You mean, in... the craters... of that moon?”

 

Block wrestled with the folds of his uniform tunic. He could not get comfortable in his seat.

 

“They’re a ragged bunch, as I remember. One of my first expeditions with the force came through a mission to that outpost. We were delivering supplies on a freighter loaded at the Mars dock. In those days, military transports had to handle everything. The private contractors hadn’t gained acceptance just yet...”

 

The junior navigator brightened at this mention of their historical timeline.

 

“My father used to talk about those memories, fondly. He eventually died when one of the capsule communities sprung an oxygen leak. That’s a tough way to meet your end! But he saved the other technicians by diverting what was left from their harvesting apparatus.”

 

The commander slapped one side of his chin, as if to wake himself from a daydream.

 

“My goodness! That’s a hard tale to hear, Mr. Rayl. But I get it, we took lots of risks moving out to the distant planets and their satellites. You can be confident that your dad was a hero. Those pioneers gave us what we sometimes take for granted...”

 

Lieutenant Strafe had become lost in a flashback episode. An invisible glare of blue-white electricity filled her head.

 

“Pioneers... yes, we owe a lot... to those... pioneers.”

 

As the ship achieved cruising velocity, there was a notification chirp from its communications array. Reflexively, Block thumbed an illuminated tile on the arm of his chair.

 

“This is the Morningstar! We are headed to Callisto, and Jupiter! State your business, please!”

 

Admiral Nauga barked in the hard tone of someone who had just endured a difficult meeting with the high council of their colony. He did not attempt to be civil, or gracious. Instead, he gave an order that immediately had everyone scrambling.

 

“Commander, you’ve been rerouted in the opposite direction. This wasn’t my idea. Drop off your cargo at that moon installation, and make a U-turn. The Martian leadership has requested another look at our ancestral homeland. They are furious about loose ends not being tied together!”

 

Rayl covered his mouth with one hand. He trembled visibly.

 

“What in blazes is this? We’re turning back?”

 

Block slammed his open palm on the control grid of his perch.

 

“Loose ends? Sir, this makes no sense to me...”

 

Admiral Nauga had a sheen of perspiration over his face.

 

“Your opinion is noted, soldier. Rest assured that this wasn’t my take on the situation. We’ve got some meddling bureaucrats here, they like to squabble about details. The gossip around New Cleveland and Texas City has been that we let an instigator off the hook. That university geek, Dr. Judson Baines. They are afraid he will dig up dirt on our civilization, and poison minds here at home. The plan is to get him on their side. Or neutralize his work as an archaeologist, or whatever the hell he claims to be, officially.”

 

Strafe felt prickly sparks of energy poking at her brain, from the ether.

 

“Dr. Baines... Judson... Juddy...”

 

The commander clenched both fists, and his teeth.

 

“If you needed a delivery truck, any other transport could have carried goods to Callisto. And you could send out an enforcement party to nab that nerd who stayed in the hinterland of what used to be Ohio. You know, a police patrol! The Morningstar is a big damn boat to be sending around in circles! We’ve got a full compliment of staff and crew on hand, sir! With respect, I think this is a strategic mistake! And definitely, a waste of our capabilities!”

 

Nauga had heard enough dissension from his counterpart.

 

“NOTED, DAMMIT! YOUR OPINION IS NOTED! YOU’VE GOT YOUR ASSIGNMENT, NOW FOLLOW THOSE INSTRUCTIONS! OFFLOAD THE SUPPLIES FOR THAT JOVIAN BASE, AND MAKE A HARD TURN BACK TOWARD PLANET EARTH!”