Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 17

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Judson Baines had been busy throughout the morning, sorting notebooks and artifacts in the trailer home of his great-grandfather, T. C. Lincoln. This ongoing task had kept him distracted from worry over the condition of his partner, who still languished in a coma. And it also prevented him from paying too much attention, when an apparent meteorite strike boomed from the hilltop field, above Evergreen Estates. Such natural incidents were rare enough that in a different time, he might have been motivated to investigate, and catalog details, or hunt for fragments. But with a new life-path taking him far away from Mars, and deep into the history of his own family, it did not register as being important enough to analyze.

 

The handwritten records stored at Lot 13 were numerous. His progenitor had been prolific in updating a personal journal, which he kept from the point of his arrival, until just before passing away after the Great Uprising had wrecked their society. Though it seemed doubtful that he would ever write a dissertation on this treasure trove of documents, it still seemed useful to archive every tidbit of truth, in case that store of information might someday be discovered by another traveler, hopping from planet to planet within their solar system.

 

With fatigue setting in, and a welcome visitation of sunshine lighting up the outdoors environment, he decided to take a momentary break. A short respite from reading and organizing his files. His intention was to walk around the neighborhood for a breath of fresh air, and mental relaxation. But as he slid down a long access ramp by the singlewide abode, and reached street level, there was a flash of movement by the Digger shuttle. He reacted impulsively, scanning yards left and right, for any sign of wandering animals or collapsing structures. Then, heard a noise echoing that mimicked the sound of footsteps falling lightly, on the pavement. He stood still while listening intently, for this odd coincidence to repeat itself. And finally, came face to face with a stranger dressed in the garb of some unfamiliar military discipline.

 

Serge Tarka appeared from behind the shuttle, bearing no weapons. His uniform tunic was styled in pale colors that reflected the golden warmth of days in his coastal republic. Unlike the red-bearded professor, he cut a figure that was functional and minimalist, in serving the cause of science. But both men shared an unspoken allegiance to exploration, and gaining knowledge about things as yet unseen. They were uniquely curious and persistent about pursuing the fine art of learning. Though raised in vastly different venues, where that process was able to occur.

 

The professional scholar was first to speak. He still carried some loose, notebook pages, folded under one arm.

 

“Hello, sir! Have you been living here, undercover? I must say that it felt like this property had been abandoned for years. I can’t imagine surviving with no amenities, or a reliable source of food. But maybe you keep a garden growing?”

 

The Calimex engineer gestured with a non-verbal greeting. His eyes were wide open.

 

“I had formed the same opinion. But what about you? Is this abandoned development your home? Or did you come here in that sleek vessel, sitting out on the street?”

 

Baines smiled and nodded, while extending his hand for a fist bump.

 

“You might say that this is a vacation jaunt. Though I have no plans to go anywhere else at the moment. I like to rummage around in dumpsters and archaeological digs, for fun...”

 

Tarka folded his arms, and exhaled loudly. Then pointed west, toward the hilltop.

 

“That craft is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Certainly, much more advanced than my own vessel, which is crumpled and stuck in the mud over there at the crest. I was part of a three-man team, headed to our lunar companion, in orbit. Sadly, our uncontrolled descent claimed their lives. Both of them appeared to have died on impact. Perhaps I was spared in a cosmic act of mercy? That is a fortunate reality I will never comprehend.”

 

The university researcher stroked his facial hair, reflectively.

 

“I offer you condolences then, so sorry to hear of your tragedy, neighbor. My situation is less complicated, but still challenging. I have a partner in the small ship you discovered. She had some sort of slip-and-fall accident when exploring our wilderness environment. I haven’t been able to wake her from a sort of comatose state. She’s been on a bed-board in the shuttle for a week or more. I have some useful skills from my time at the Percival Lowell Institute. But medicine isn’t one of my specialties...”

 

Tarka was intrigued by the mention of that famous astronomer.

 

“Lowell? The notable fellow who once thought there were canals on Mars?”

 

Judson Baines was amused by his excitement over the historical reference.

 

“Umm, right. I taught at a school named in his honor...”

 

The mission commander scoffed at this claim, as if it were a fabrication of imaginary excess.

 

“A school? Right, I get it! On Mars?”

 

His studious counterpart shrugged and shook his head as if to affirm the declaration.

 

“Yes, that’s right. There are branches in New Cleveland, and Texas City. The institution was founded a century ago, by teachers who had migrated from the old world...”

 

The Frigoris lead turned pale with shock, and began feel a tremor in his hands.

 

“I’ve heard stories about such things, as a child, and in grade school. But never as part of a first-person account! This is unbelievable, like something out of a fairy tale. So, you came here in that thing, from the Red Planet? How could it be possible, that red rock is an incredible distance from here!”

 

Baines sighed heavily, and pondered for a moment.

 

“The story is more complex than that. What you found in the road is a shuttle, intended for short-distance jaunts from a larger craft. We were allowed to hop down to the surface, for work at this site. I usually study ancient cultures of all kinds, in a variety of settings. But this has a special connection to me, as someone in my bloodline lived here, during the previous century...”

 

Tarka was puzzled by this explanation, yet accepted it as genuine, for the moment.

 

“Okay, you’ve made my head spin with that report. But what about your friend in a coma? Have you tried any therapies to revive her? There are treatments for restoring consciousness in a patient with that kind of issue. All of us on the Frigoris-Farragut team received training in providing emergency aid. It’s a necessary part of leaving the friendly confines of this big stone, for exploring outer space.”

 

The archival steward was embarrassed to admit his failing as an amateur physician.

 

“No, as I said, it isn’t my area of expertise. I don’t have a clue about concussions or cranial injuries, or whatever must have happened to her. I’ve just been waiting it out, so to speak...”

 

The Calimex engineer snorted defiantly. His old routines kicked into gear automatically, with the discipline of a non-combatant soldier.

 

“I don’t have anything so sophisticated as your people must possess, to be honest. But there’s a medic kit in my lander. Let me retrieve it, and I’ll do my best to help!”

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 16

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Earth from this vantage point was an unfamiliar place for Serge Tarka. He had never been outside of the coastal republic, except for participating in previous missions to study and land on their Moon. So in a sense, he had now become a foreigner on his own planet. While many preparations had preceded the launch of his vessel and crew, none of them were useful to him as someone who had become marooned in the heartland of North America. He was stranded in a wilderness environment that had none of the comforts associated with living in an organized society. Yet for the first time, he felt a complete lack of fear, apprehension, and anxiety. The constant threat of being overheard or monitored, when speaking candidly, was now gone.

 

He was no longer merely a numerical listing on a government roster. He had become a free man.

 

The trouble with this newfound sense of liberty, of course, was that he had now also surrendered every guidepost that gave him direction and purpose. He had been raised in an environment of conscription, education, and service, within the Calimex territories. He knew nothing else. His service as an engineer had been fulfilling to experience. It brought meaning to each day spent under the golden glow of a western sky. Indeed, he eventually grew so familiar with being watched and hounded by communal masters, that it simply became part of his routine. Much like the ocean tides and changing seasons.

 

Gazing across the long, grassy hillside, facing east, he wondered about where some form of shelter and security might be found. As their chaotic descent was occurring, in the Frigoris-Farragut craft, he had seen a marked quadrant of some sort, waiting below. A defined perimeter that appeared to have been man-made, for a specific use. It was situated along a deserted road that ran down the lazy incline. Into a forested area of growth. He guessed in the moment that it must have been some sort of visual anomaly, perhaps a trick of light and shadows. But now, there was no reason not to embrace that impossibility, and investigate.

 

Meekly, he stumbled down a natural path that had formed in between rows of tall foliage. Then hiked along what was left of the tarmac. Here and there he saw tire tracks from vehicles that must have used the route in olden times. Litter was still scattered along its crumbling edges. Crushed beverage cans, wrapping materials from food items, and empty containers that had once held motor oil and other automotive chemicals. He followed this lonely avenue deep into the brush and bramble, until it became a chore to turn aside the vegetation for room to pass through. After almost an hour of struggling, he crossed the span between where his disabled craft had put down, and the artificial boundary he had seen. There stood a weathered billboard, framed by pallet wood. A slouching flagpole towered over this painted sign. When he wiped away dirt and residue, an inscription became evident, barely legible, yet still offering a greeting to anyone who might read the bold lettering for clues about its existence.

 

“Evergreen Estates – A nice place to get started, or retire.”

 

Tarka took heart in seeing that his eyes had not been fooled. The community of mobile homes was distant from any other metropolitan center that had existed in the region, and must have been abandoned for a century, at least. But some of the facilities and manufactured dwellings were still standing on their concrete slabs. Decay and ruin now marked the property with indelible scars. Junk vehicles were everywhere, along with lawn tractors, outdoor furnishings, and garden decorations. A plaster gnome sat near the park entrance, as if put there to guard the rustic village. Its colors had faded, and any features carved in the statue were worn smooth. But the stout, stunted figure paid testimony to what had once been a thriving neighborhood.

 

The displaced mission commander felt a sense of empathy developing, as he walked from street to street. Each vacant residence offered a silent tribute to those that had lived within their prefab walls. There were still toys in the shattered windows, and blanket drapes, torn and frayed. White crosses dotted dead gardens, which had long been bereft of floral life. Cracks in the pavement were now inhabited by wild species of every sort. Water pooled in spots that reflected the sunlight with a sad glow of gray. A stench of rotting timbers and framing wafted from every boxcar hovel. What he beheld was more than simply a memorial to lost inhabitants and shifting priorities. It had become a graveyard, one that still held secrets buried under years of neglect.

 

On the corner by a maintenance garage, he saw a plaque for the on-site manager. It provided instructions for reaching their ownership offices, during out-of-service hours.

 

“The park manager will be available from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. on weekdays, except when there is a scheduling issue with one of our other properties, a staffing deficiency, a power outage, or a weather event. You may always telephone the emergency number listed here, or e-mail your concerns to: EEStates@GoldenFinancial.com.”

 

As he counted lots from the front corner, his attention fell upon an unexpected obstruction in the broken boulevard. Sitting sideways on the hard surface was a blocky conveyance with outriggers underneath, and an exhaust port in the rear. Its designation was clearly noted on each side. ‘Digger S-7.’ He had never seen such a modernistic transport, anywhere. Certainly not in his home state by the Pacific Ocean.

 

Carefully, Tarka circled the small vessel. There was a viewshield in front, which must have been designed to provide outward visibility for the operator. Its hull appeared to have been fashioned from some kind of composite material, which incorporated heat tiles to protect against atmospheric friction. But most surprising of all was a total lack of weaponry. It seemed to be intended for carrying passengers or cargo, like his own ship from Calimex. There was no sign that any offensive capabilities had been included in its makeup.

 

The shuttle revealed that someone else must have been present. A person unrelated to the site as a resident. Another explorer, perhaps, or misplaced traveler like himself. One who might also be seeking a way home. Now, he had to solve that riddle, in addition to gathering clues about the isolated neighborhood.

 

What good could possibly come of being stranded so far from home, in old Ohio?

 

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 15

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Upon regaining consciousness in the lander section of his craft, Serge Tarka drifted from a netherworld of obliteration, back into the realm of humanity. A pervasive silence seemed to smother him with negation. Yet he was very much alive and aware. There were no alarms going off in his module, to indicate what had transpired. No chatter of communications traffic sounded from the dashboard console. There was only a light rush of wind seeping through cracks in the outer hull of his half-vessel.

 

He thumbed a com button on the tiller guide, and rasped hoarsely for attention.

 

“Farragut? We have made landfall. How do you stand over there?”

 

A burst of static followed this plea for information, but nothing else. So, he repeated the call with more vocal intensity.

 

“Farragut Capsule! This is Mission Lead Tarka! I say again, how do you stand over there? We had a rough landing, but these old buckets seemed to stay in one piece! Are you able to respond?”

 

More of the electronic din ebbed from his dashboard speaker. But a formal reply did not occur.

 

Tarka unstrapped himself from the safety harness, and exited his web seat. The hatch wheel for their connecting dock was balky and hard to rotate. It took some effort to spin the assembly in a counter-clockwise direction. But upon loosening its junction plate, he was able to open the portal and peer across that short span, into the other half of their symbiotic transport.

 

Hayden Riley and Chester Volk were both still in place, at their own control displays. Both men appeared to have been killed on impact. The sight was excruciating to behold. It caused tears to well up in the eyes of their team commander.

 

“GAWDAMN IT! WE NEVER SHOULD HAVE PUSHED THE ENVELOPE JUST TO PLEASE THAT PRICK, GARDINO! IT WASN’T WORTH RISKING OUR LIVES JUST TO LOOK TOUGH FOR OUR COUNTERPARTS IN THE OTHER ENCLAVES! THIS IS DISGUSTING, I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE ONE TO PERISH! I’LL NEVER BE ABLE TO FACE THEIR FAMILIES! THE PRIME KEEPER CAN BURN IN HELL! HOPEFULLY, I WON’T BE THERE AT HIS SIDE!”

 

None of the navigational instruments were functioning, and their sensors had been knocked offline by the crash. But the mission chief had a crude locator included with his toolkit. More of a charm for good luck than a functional device. Yet calibrated to read off ancient GPS satellites that were still orbiting the planet, despite being decommissioned. He had to perform math calculations in his head, when reading numbers on the digital display. Eventually, this slow process yielded a fix on his current position, within a range of estimated distance.

 

The Frigoris-Farragut duo had come down somewhere near Lake Erie, in what had once been the State of Ohio. That spot was so far removed from the Calimex confederation, that it would be impossible to mount a rescue run. Moreover, he wondered if Gardino might simply want to scrub the memory of their launch, and erase details of the adventure. A move that would conceal their failure, at least temporarily.

 

Spring was well underway as he climbed out of the lander, and stood on a grassy hilltop near their point of impact. From outside, he could see that the capsule had been compromised by the violent reentry, and descent through atmospheric conditions. Upon impact, its protective skin had split into jagged pieces of metal. There was a wide area of burned foliage, from the impeller force used to slow their downward velocity. If not for that cushion of artificial levitation, he also might have died when they abruptly met the surface. Being wedged in between supply crates carried by the lander had helped to insulate him from the G-forces.

 

With futility in mind, he reached for the transmitter brick on his duty belt. It was still fully charged, and active. He raised the device to his mouth, and hailed the research facility at Toqua Platte.

 

“Arbiter Pick? This is the Mare Frigoris team. We have made landfall south of the Torontara enclave, by a body of water known as Lake Erie. Do you read me, sir?”

 

A crackle of distortion echoed, sounding much like a feedback loop. But there was no response.

 

Tarka shielded his eyes from the sun, while gazing across a long slope that lay before him and the twin vessels. To the east, he saw nothing but an overgrowth of wilderness and forestation. Perhaps he and his men had already been forgotten in their coastal republic? It seemed possible that their names would be scratched off lists in the census. As servants of the Calimex hierarchy, they were fully expendable. Their value depended on mission success, and nothing else. Otherwise, they were chattel. Components of the machinery. Requisitioned pieces in a parts bin somewhere, now miles away from home.

 

Tarka raised the transmitter again, and repeated his call to be heard.

 

“Toqua Platte, this is the Mare Frigoris team. I have two men down, and am the only survivor. Somehow, I need to bury our compatriots. But haven’t figured that detail out, just yet. I also need to find shelter and food. The lander is scrap now, I can’t do much with what is left of that half-ship. Do you read me, Arbiter Pick? I say again, do you read me?”

 

More static followed this desperate plea. He was likely out of range for those in control at the coastal facility.

 

A hike down the weed-covered hillside put him far enough from the lander and capsule to view the wreckage in its totality. He was dubious about how anyone could have survived the brutal impact of his twin-ships on that crest of earth. But each breath in his lungs confirmed what was so impossible to believe. He was alert, alive, and for the moment, safe in his unfamiliar surroundings. Fate, or perhaps a cosmic deity of some sort, had chosen him to persevere.

 

There was a hand shovel included, among their ration of implements for the lunar adventure. It would be his only aid in providing a fitting end for the crewmates who had perished. He did not welcome the chore that awaited. But knew that once two graves had been dug, and markers placed on the site, he would be free to pursue a happier goal.

 

Namely, beginning a new existence far from the influence of Lotharian Gardino, and his enablers in the western federation.

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 14

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

When Lotharian Gardino received word that the mission to revisit Mare Frigoris had failed, his explosive temperament was unleashed. He pounded the conference table with both fists, as other members of the coastal governors witnessed this outburst in shock.

 

“HOW COULD THESE IDIOTS POSSIBLY BE SO INCOMPETENT? WE HAVE EXPENDED A FORTUNE IN RESOURCES TO GET UNDERWAY WITH THE NEXT LUNAR PROJECT! THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS! WE WILL BE THE SUBJECT OF SCORN AND RIDICULE, EVERYWHERE ACROSS THIS CONTINENT! I CANNOT ABIDE BEING HUMILIATED!”

 

Darden Tomea, a younger member of the council, observed that they would need months or years to prepare for another attempt at reviving the Luna Citadel base. He had the black hair and darker skin of his Mexican progenitors.

 

“What do you advise us to do, Prime Keeper? We are out of options, I am afraid.”

 

The elected head of their cooperative republic did not want to hear any notes of dissent being offered. He seethed with anger over being cheated by fate.

 

“GET GOING ON LAUNCH NUMBER THREE! THAT IS MY COMMAND!”

 

Gordoni Guaca, the senior member of their confederation, shook his head with remorse.

 

“That isn’t possible, Lothi. We’ve run out of resources. It’ll take weeks or months just to assess the flaws that put us in this situation...”

 

Gardino pummeled the table until its synthetic materials began to disintegrate.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! I WON’T STAND FOR THIS! I REFUSE TO BELIEVE WE ARE CRIPPLED BY OUR OWN STUPIDITY! THIS IS NOT PART OF THE PLAN FOR DOMINANCE!”

 

Tomea put one hand over his mouth, while reflecting on that candid comment.

 

“Dominance, Prime Keeper? I thought your desire was to unite the enclaves. Wouldn’t that mean an equal footing for all of the nations, east, north, and us to the west?”

 

Their head-of-state had worked himself into a lather. But almost instantly, that mood was stalled by the simple query. He tried to twist away from his own confession.

 

“Yes of course, my friends. Equality for all partners. That is a noble goal, indeed! Forgive me, I spoke too quickly...”

 

Guaca scratched his gray goatee, and smiled.

 

“Lothi, I think you were being honest, and ambitious. But remember, we all wanted to see the lunar outpost reactivated. Attempting this miracle with such haste is what put us at a disadvantage. We should have been more cautious. Now, we have no choice but to sort out the details, one at a time. We cannot magnify our failure with more carelessness.”

 

Tomea bowed his head deferentially to the other coastal governors.

 

“Our esteemed colleague is wise. We should listen to him!”

 

Gardino huffed over this show of unanimity. But chose to change the subject, rather than argue.

 

“So, what was the report from Toqua Platte? What happened to our lander and capsule?”

 

Over a wireless link to that scientific facility, Arbiter Goland Pick joined their lively conversation in real time. He was eager to be heard, despite what had transpired.

 

“Prime Keeper, the craft we launched was damaged in transit. Then, it met with a stray meteor while attempting to continue its voyage. Our flight engineers are trained for a variety of escape scenarios, and reentering the planetary atmosphere. Most acceptable would have been a separation of both modules, with our capsule drifting west, toward the Pacific Ocean. And its lander assembly finding a convenient spot, elsewhere. We believe, however, that the twin vessels came down without splitting into halves. In that case, the descent toward dry land needed to be managed with thrusters powered by the impeller system. Their velocity must have been recklessly out-of-limits. The surface module is designed for Moon encounters, not the full gravity we experience here on Planet Earth...”

 

Young Tomea gasped audibly when hearing this description.

 

“They hit the ground that hard? How could anyone, or anything, survive such a landing?”

 

Arbiter Pick was sober in his assessment.

 

“It would be rough on the crew. They might have been knocked unconscious, or suffered fractures or other injuries, despite being strapped into their safety harnesses. With the proper amount of impeller propulsion, they might have been able to plant the craft like a spike in the ground, on a vertical descent. Though having that level of control seems unlikely.”

 

Gardino cleared his throat, and frowned intently while thinking.

 

“How long will it be before we know for sure, Goland? There are too many questions left unanswered!”

 

The engineer from Toqua Platte was uncertain. Yet attempted to sound confident in their technological capabilities.

 

“Keeper, I just don’t know. But it is likely that we will receive some form of communication within the next several hours. I would give them all a chance to catch their breath after that kind of ride! In the meantime, we will hail them according to procedure. There is no signal from their onboard beacon, so far. We have been unable to determine exactly where they put down...”

 

Guaca groaned to himself, and closed his eyes.

 

“I would petition the cosmic sire to grant them mercy. May the crew be safe and sound, and come back to us, very soon!”

 

Tomea nodded to signify his agreement.

 

“Indeed, elder sir! I hope they will be protected.”

 

Lotharian Gardino was uncomfortable with this display of emotion and empathy. But joined in their common prayer for survival.

 

“Yes, yes, very well. May all of them be found and rescued, in due time. But what about us, what about another mission? How quickly will we be able to mount a new campaign for reviving that lunar base?’

 

Arbiter Pick had to choose his words carefully, before offering a reply.

 

“Keeper, we don’t have anything ready for launch at this time. It will take at least a year to build the next generation of exploratory vessels. And our stockpiles of chemical fuel are depleted. I think funding research on the impeller program would be more wise. We need an improved system for propulsion, one that does not require huge amounts of thrust at the outset. Unfortunately, our technicians have not yet devised how to accomplish that daunting task. If you simply reuse old designs, the results will be no better...”

 

Their elected leader clenched his teeth, and growled. He had grown tired of seeking counsel from his timid associates. His patience had been exhausted.

 

“I ASK FOR ANSWERS, AND WHAT YOU GIVE ME ARE HEADACHES! I DON’T WANT DITHERING AND DOUBLESPEAK, I WANT RESULTS, GENTLEMEN! DO YOU HEAR? I WANT RESULTS! I WANT RESULTS OVER EVERYTHING ELSE!”

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 13

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

The Frigoris Lander and Farragut Capsule made a competent duo, when connected with docking clamps, and launched as a single unit from the Toqua Platte facility in Calimex. Yet the technology utilized was long out of date, by modern standards. The carrier assembly was a tower of chemical thrusters, which originated with the Artemis program of olden days. Once in orbit, a first-generation drive system took over, which was the most basic, experimental version of what would later evolve into the Gibidan Impeller. A precursor to discovering the off-world element Cloitanium, and thereby creating the principle for C-drive travel. A speedy and ultimately more efficient method for jetting around between the outer planets.

 

Arbiter Goland Pick had felt an uneasiness in his stomach, as this most recent mission got underway. But he could not quantify this discomfort, or identify its origin. It simply seemed to him, as a long-term engineer and controller, that they were about to exceed the limitational capabilities of their spacecraft. It had been loaded with equipment for outfitting the deserted Luna Citadel base, and bringing the outpost back to life. But the weight of this extra cargo was beyond anything originally intended to be on board during an exploratory adventure. The natural balance between both modules had been upset by this disparity. Therefore, the helm was frequently sluggish and unresponsive, when performing delicate maneuvers. Had he been given more leeway as a supervisor, his first choice might have been to suspend the launch, in favor of some refinement and study. Yet from Lotharian Gardino, there was no patience for delay. His order to proceed had been delivered with a sour note of finality.

 

“GET THIS TASK DONE, WITH NO EXCUSES OR APOLOGIES! DO IT QUICKLY, AND DO IT NOW!”

 

Serge Tarka and his crew had strapped in, as was their procedure for any departure. But with plumes of smoke rising toward the sky, and wafting out over the Pacific coastline, a nauseating wobble shook the twin vessels and their interior mooring.

 

Gasps and deep breaths followed. Then, a crackle of electronic chatter ensued, as the lander-capsule pair surged upward, against the dominant force of gravity.

 

“Toqua Platte, we are underway with the next mission to Mare Frigoris. I have a reading of compromised hull integrity, due to physical stress on the exterior of our twin ships. I believe this may create some concern, going forward. However, we have already passed the ignition phase. It would be impossible to cancel our journey, without a possible loss of control...”

 

Arbiter Pick slammed his palms on the wide console where he stood. Then, gestured over control tiles which flashed in response to each wave.

 

“Careful, Mr. Tarka! Do not speak too loudly about failing in this mission. Be aware that our communications are monitored remotely! I would counsel you to restrain yourself from expressing doubts about our capabilities. Stay on course, and pay strict attention to our guidelines!”

 

Upon exiting the natural pull of G-forces, they were able to swing around the Terran homeworld, and then roll toward a rendezvous with the Moon. That rocky orb steadily grew in size, on their scanners, until it nearly filled the viewscreen. Below their position, a new round of cyclical storms could be observed, crossing the blue ball from where they had come. Those atmospheric disturbances were no longer a threat however, being distant enough to allow safe passage. Yet as they rounded the cratered, spherical satellite, and prepared for a separation and landing, a stray meteor interrupted this procedure.

 

Tarka was unprepared for the confrontation. Their exodus had been hasty, and hurried.

 

“Toqua Platte, I have a warning beacon going off here. We are within range of a rogue entity, which might knock us off our vector. The resulting damage would be considerable. I am taking evasive action, negating our lunar trajectory for the moment. Do you copy?”

 

The engineering professional gripped both rear corners of his panel. The overhead monitor glowed with an ominous shade of red.

 

“ALTER YOUR FLIGHT PATH IMMEDIATELY! THAT BIG CHUNK OF STONE IS UNCOMFORTABLY CLOSE TO STRIKING THE LANDER AND CAPSULE! I SAY AGAIN, ALTER YOUR COURSE! DO A SPIN MANEUVER AND REVERSE YOUR THRUSTERS!”

 

The onboard crew braced themselves for an impact. But as the linked ships turned clumsily aside, there was a spray of metallic debris left behind. Traces of the meteor had scarred their craft, and compromised its structural rigidity. Helm control had become balky and slow. With a rapid, spiral rotation, the Frigoris team veered away from their intended destination, and plummeted back toward Planet Earth.

 

 Flight Leader Tarka wanted to vomit inside his helmet.

 

“Toqua Platte, we have lost all control. I have a reserve of propulsion fuel left. We are aimed at the central land mass of North America, this will be a rough ride! I intend to use the impeller force as a cushion for our drop to the surface. It won’t keep us from getting some bumps and bruises, but should make it possible for a vertical descent and deceleration, with all hands surviving the crash...”

 

Arbiter Pick closed his eyes. More than the calamity of a hard landing, he feared having to explain their failure to the Prime Keeper.

 

“Steady on, Mr. Tarka. Set the sensor array to automatic protocols. You are all likely to be knocked unconscious when reaching ground level. Good luck, compadres!”

 

Above Evergreen Estates, the scene was decidedly dramatic. A fireball streaked across the azure sky. There was an audible roar of thrusters laboring to slow the pace of descent. Then, a booming thud echoed across the hillside.

 

Judson Baines saw the monitor on his panel in the Digger shuttle drop to a flat line. The rush of friction and wind displacement yielded to silence. He sat for a moment in his web chair, then double-checked to make sure that Kelly Strafe had not awakened.

 

Finally, he exited the small transport, and donned a backpack for hiking. He found the carved, walking stick used before, and set out for the sloped field above their adopted home.

 

“I have no idea what just happened, but I’m going to find out. One way or another!”

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 12

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Lotharian Gardino had retained his position as Prime Keeper in the Calimex Confederation of Coastal Governance, because of his ability to lead the combined group as a single, united republic. They were the most advanced of all population enclaves on Planet Earth, and had adapted remarkably well after the collapse of traditional societies on the North American continent. But his vision for the future of Terran people was not universally shared by those in other regions. The mindset of inhabitants on their world had been fractured by history. With a curious and crude sort of independence taking hold. Knowledge and development were no longer considered to be pillars of a higher evolution. The downfall of 20^th Century mankind had left a salty taste in the mouths of children that were born after that cataclysmic event. Now, his greatest challenge seemed to be one rooted in solving a perplexing riddle. How to placate outsiders with overtures of peace, and cooperation, while maintaining a tight rein on his own citizens.

 

While pondering their plan to revive the lunar base at Mare Frigoris, he consulted with Governor Guaca, who was in charge of what had been the peninsula of Baja California. The official was old, withered, and pale. Yet carried himself with such dignity, that every other member of their group praised his tenure as a public servant.

 

Gardino bowed ceremonially, when receiving him at the conference table.

 

“Gordoni, I’ve always cherished your advice and support with the governing council. Your words never stray from hard facts, and supreme logic. But at this moment, I am troubled by our position. We stand at the brink of our greatest achievement as a society. But naysayers are afoot, everywhere. Here in our western home, and abroad, at the regions of Atlantia, and Torontara.”

 

Guaca stroked his thin, white goatee. Then nodded with understanding.

 

“I know that you want to provide an example for everyone, Lothi. You believe that it will inspire a new way of thinking, am I correct? A metamorphosis for all people on this big rock, orbiting the sun...”

 

The Prime Keeper folded his hands, and sighed loudly.

 

“Yes, my esteemed friend, that’s the intention I have. Reviving the Frigoris outpost would send a signal around this globe, that we are capable of doing great things! I believe it would signify our importance as an ally of consequence. A genuine leader of nations! A visionary group among all the far-flung territories.”

 

His mentor and adviser smiled while pondering this assertion. It was one that sounded ambitious, and undeniably political.

 

“Lothi, you view yourself as the head of this future endeavor, is that right? A leader with great power and confidence. One who will control much of this hemisphere, and its surviving pockets of humanity?”

 

Gardino raised his eyebrows, and frowned.

 

“Yes, of course. Of course! Does that cause concern for you, Gordoni?”

 

The coastal governor shrugged and softened his expression.

 

“To be bold is not necessarily a bad thing. Our genetic pool has always relied on those who are strong in themselves, and brave in their outlook. But with that kind of courage also comes great responsibility. A need to seek counsel, and take it with humility. Do you understand?”

 

The Prime Keeper was confused. He wiped sweat from his brow, and leaned forward to listen more intently.

 

“Take counsel with humility? Haven’t I always done that, old friend?”

 

 Guaca restrained himself from answering too quickly. But spoke in a firm tone of honesty.

 

“When you were rebuffed by those to the east, and north, with regard to assimilation under a shared constitution, how did you react?”

 

His former pupil reddened with slight embarrassment.

 

“I was, of course, disappointed. Surely that could not have been a surprise...”

 

The veteran official clasped his hands together.

 

“You were outraged, Lothi. I remember it well! It seemed that you felt slighted by the refusal. Even insulted! But that diplomatic rebuke should have been expected, at the outset. We must all get to know each other better, before joining forces. It is a slow process. Trust has to be earned, over time. But, allow me to make a second query instead of debating these facts. What was your response when Serge Tarka reported about conditions at the abandoned Luna Citadel, after his team visited with the Frigoris Lander? When he observed that conditions at the site would need to be assessed and certified, before any work could proceed on reactivating the base for our mission specialists?”

 

Gardino turned a deeper shade of crimson.

 

“I was unhappy with that opinion, of course. It appeared that he was hesitant to accept the challenge of restarting active operations, day-to-day. I thought it bordered on sedition, to be blunt. His standing orders are always to implement any plans put in place by the governing council, and myself. I thought his reluctance was quite offensive. An act of cowardice, to say it straight out!”

 

The Baja governor averted his eyes. He did not take pleasure in offering correction to someone who had been his advocate for so long.

 

“That’s the fury of someone interested in his own goals over those of the confederation, Lothi. You were given an honest assessment by a trained member of our scientific community. That should not have sounded like sedition, or disobedience. What if you push those men to revisit the Moon, and they suffer losses as a result of our carelessness? Where will that leave your notion of providing a shining example for our people? Or for other enclaves around this continent? Think about your responsibility as a leader. This is not a moment when we should hurry ourselves. It is a point in our history when we should reason together, and show respect for truth. We need to be cautious, when looking to the heavens. Our legacy as travelers to the outer worlds was shattered, long ago. It may be possible to do great things like that again, I hope. But not if we act recklessly, or foolishly! We must be deliberate and smart.”

 

Gardino clenched both fists, and lowered his head. He knew well that the other coastal governors would agree.

 

“So be it, Gordoni. You have offered me a wise and sober opinion. One I cannot refute at this hour. I will accept it for the moment. But be aware that we must move forward while the opportunity presents itself. Otherwise, someone else may snatch away our idea for excellence!”

 

The governor smiled again. He knew that their steward lacked the important quality of patience. Something that would have made him stronger in his position of service.

 

“Your idea, Lotharian. Your career, your notability, your walk of fame. Your quest to be a legend among the people of this republic. Take care that it does not blind you to what is reasonable, and real!”

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 11

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

With Kelly Strafe still sidelined by the hillside incident above Evergreen Estates, her studious partner was in a persistent funk of loneliness. While Judson Baines stayed busy with his work, archiving evidence for future review, he felt distracted. It was impossible to focus on the tasks at hand. Instead, every thought drifted toward the predicament of his companion. He could not escape feeling guilty, for allowing the young woman to explore in the wilderness of their empty township, on her own. That burden weighed heavily on his consciousness. Finally, he was moved to reach out for contact with the Morningstar III. But upon directing the communications array of their Digger shuttle toward outer worlds in the solar system, a greater gloom descended on his mind.

 

There was no immediate response from the silver ship. They were now too distant from each other, for regular communications.

 

Baines sat in his pilot chair by the control console, looking backwards. He spent minutes and hours contemplating the former Space Force officer. Even in slumber, she was plain and pretty. Her breaths were regimented, and regular. Her hair glistened in pale sunlight that shined through a viewport over the dash. Their exodus to the Terran homeworld had been somewhat impulsive, yet driven by necessity. And not a cause for concern from either of them, until now. But with the new responsibility of caring for an injured friend, he suddenly had different priorities. No longer was his scholarship as a scientist and archaeologist a foremost concern.

 

Had he been more spiritually inclined, he might have paused to offer prayer to a cosmic deity. But that sort of remedy was not one he could embrace, without more faith in things unseen.

 

The small craft was able to maintain a comfortable environment, and monitor health signs efficiently. So once again, the professor disembarked to continue his search around the abandoned community of manufactured dwellings. He took a carved, walking stick for support. A crude, handmade implement that was also useful when turning aside tall grasses, or scattering loose stones out of his path. The neighborhood had been overtaken by nature, and was well on its way back to being a swampy tract among the pines. Yet much of the original construction had survived. There were still trailers sited on every street. Utility poles standing erect, electrical cables strung without purpose, and buildings along the perimeter which served to mark the outline of what had once been a thriving oasis of humanity. It was not difficult to imagine how the social order had functioned, on such a limited scale. Only the collapse of their state host, and national government, plundered that paradigm. When pondering the aftermath, he was bearing witness to the shared guilt of a lost generation. One that would, in its death throes, birth a new society on the Red Planet, so far away.

 

Lot 13 had held many clues about what transpired at the rural property. But with his courage growing stronger, Baines began to hike around the communal environs, to seek out other variations on this theme. He discovered a plethora of vehicles sitting in driveways and yards around the neighborhood. Minivans, pickup trucks, economy sedans, and even vintage relics from earlier in the 20^th Century. Motorcycles inexplicably left uncovered and out in the open. Riding mowers and powered tools for lawn care. All of these artifacts had flattened tires, cracked windshields, sagging frames, and rusty bodies. But paid testimony to the vigorous struggle that had once existed. Because of its remote location, park residents were perpetually going somewhere else, for goods and services. Or, to workplaces in more populated areas. When the Great Uprising took over, this isolation helped to protect them from the chaos and madness that persisted in other regions. And it hardened their resolve to endure, by whatever means was deemed necessary.

 

On the porch where Maylene Jefka had lived, a matron of the township with many children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, a plaque by the front door spoke eloquently about her belief in God, and family. Two pillars of existence that had carried her through a long journey, from a metaphorical sunrise, until the twilight of finality.

 

Joshua 24:14-15 - “Now therefore fear the Lord, and serve him in sincerity and in truth: and put away the gods which your fathers served on the other side of the flood, and in Egypt; and serve ye the Lord. And if it seem evil unto you to serve the Lord, choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell: but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

 

Judson stood silently before this inscription. He knew that his partner, still recovering on the Digger shuttle, would have her own take on the passage. One very different from his own, yet no less valid.

 

Having circumscribed a complete circle around the ruined development, he returned to the lot where his genetic progenitor had lived. There, he sat in a recliner by the Silvertone radio, and heated a cup of instant coffee, from military rations provided with their transport.

 

Grafton Depot had returned to its daily schedule. The distinctive crackle of a vinyl record echoed over the airwaves. Then, a plucking of acoustic guitar could be heard. Charlie and Ira Louvin crooned out a melody that was hauntingly familiar, yet one he had never heard before.

 

“Got in a little trouble at the county seat

Lord, they put me in the jailhouse for loafing on the street

When the judge heard the verdict I was a guilty man

He said forty-five dollars or thirty days in the can

 

Said that’ll be cash on the barrelhead, son

You can take your choice you’re twenty-one

No money down, no credit plan

No time to chase you cause I’m a busy man

 

Found a telephone number on a laundry slip

I had a good-hearted jailer with a six-gun hip

He let me call long distance, she said number please

And no sooner than I told her, she shouted out at me

 

That’ll be cash on the barrelhead son

Not part not half but the entire sum

No money down, no credit plan

Cause a little bird told me, you’re a travelin’ man

 

Thirty days in the jailhouse, four days on the road

I was feeling mighty hungry my feet a heavy load

Saw a Greyhound coming stuck up my thumb

Just as i was being seated, the driver caught my arm

 

Said that’ll be cash on the barrelhead son

This old gray dog gets paid to run

When the engine stops, Lord, the wheels won’t roll

Give me cash on the barrelhead, I’ll take you down the road!”