Writer's Forum: “The 7am Train”

  

by Sarah A Burton 

c. 2026

All rights reserved

 

Editor's Note: The talented author featured here is someone I have known for at least 25 years. A native of the United Kingdom. We met on MySpace originally, where she shared music compositions that I thought were authentic and compelling. I became a long-term fan and have followed her career ever since. Recently, she spoke about writing short stories as a new project, and that news immediately made me want to become involved. I remember well as a young wordsmith, how a basic gesture of encouragement could mean so much. With that in mind, here is the next installment in her series...

 

I started walking to the station, it was a crisp day, not yet Autumn, summer sun still had warmth but in the early morning, breath could be seen. I looked down at my shoes, I could have polished them last night, don't like her to see me scruffy, she would worry. Oh well not this time, tomorrow I will make more of an effort. I went across the road to where the coffee cabin was, Sally was there, in her red tabard looking bright and fresh. She won't be long leaving now as she goes back to college, leaving grumpy Mr. Graves to work the winter months. Sally says 'morning sweetie, your normal? I smiled at her friendliness and nodded A large flat white no sugar was my 'Normal' I said 'I think I'll take one of those cakes too' 'for your lady friend no doubt' was her reply with a wink. I Paid for the coffee and the cake, 'yes’ I breathed, 'Her favourite'

I was walking slower today; most days I'm chipper I think it's the fear of not seeing her in the winter months. I get onto the platform, platform two. It's a lovely station, never been modernised like the city ones. Edgeleigh  Station aging with dignity.

The Big old clock showed 6:45. 15 minutes before arrival. No digital screens telling me of delays, it was just like the 'old days' I can picture her, with carful elegance she steps down from the train, her heeled shoes making a delicate sound on the steel steps. oh how I cannot wait for those minutes to pass before I see her.

I sat on the usual bench, sipping my coffee. Remembering other days, mornings just like this, people rushing, men greeting their loved ones, children rushing up to their fathers, their sons, tears of happiness and relief in their faces. Ladies (yes, I will still call women ladies, I am an old man, and I think it's only polite to call women ladies. Some sharply dressed, some in scarves and overalls, some, helping others with crutches.  it is always busy.

The sun was getting higher now shadows were shorter, thinner, looking up I asked in silent prayer, please let her be on the train again.  Then I heard it, the whistle, that familiar old sound that quickens my heart. The steam bellowing into the station, the conductor whistles and flags waving in an eager fashion as though his life depended on the very essence of the train's arrival. Then it stopped with brakes grinding, noises that sound like a dinosaur's roar. So much steam and smoke you could barely see anything accept the doors of all the carriages flying open, shadows appeared, like every day, crowds of people, families, rushing off the train, I saw one young girl wating on the platform and running to her beau, arms outstretched laughing and giggling as they walked past me. Her curls bouncing, coming out of her pins, she didn't care because she was so happy.  

 

Then out of the shadows, she came, she walked quickly but not rushed in her footsteps. holding on to her hat, her ruby lips; not a smudge out of place, she was searching, of course, searching for our bench. I sat still, not even wanting to breathe.

Then... 'Hello' I looked up and she smiled down at me, I answered, 'good morning' She then spoke uncertainly 'Can I possibly sit here for a minute? I need to find the address I'm looking for' She started rummaging in her bag, 'where is it, I need to know where I am going to let the taxi driver know' I smiled at her dizziness and spoke softly 'Have you tried your pocket?' she stopped and plunged her red fingernails into her Princess coat pocket.’ oh my you are clever, how did you possibly know?' there it was, the address, on the back of the  envelope in her hand. I could just make out, a glimpse of my father’s handwriting.

 

'You don't need to worry about a taxi' I say, 'I have been sent to fetch you' Her beautiful face looked astonished, 'Really?'  That's good news. Who are you?' Well I am the man You are going to marry in two years to the day, and I am the son of the Doctor you are working for at our village practice' Her face was a picture, like every other day, then she broke into that wonderful smile and said 'We better get on with it all then if that's the case' she gave a half giggle, a giggle that lasted until she died many many years later.  I got up from the bench and told her to ‘walk this way, with an exaggerated sweep of my hand, we strolled arm in arm until we got to the gate. the train already started moving on its journey, and there, with her beautiful, graceful face; disappeared into the smoke.  

The sound of the clock bought me out of my reverie, 10am, 2 hours, that was the longest time it had been, nearer now, nearer my love.  The station; emerging through a different light now......the smell, the noise.   Men with leather jackets and jeans strode passed with harassed wives and children, not really caring for their day out on the train, not realising until a few years later that it was a privilege to ride on a 1946 steam train. The train that meant, and still does mean so much to people, the sign of better days, wonderful days to come.

 

I get up from ‘our bench’ and walk towards the Edgleigh Station gate. I sigh, as a poster appears in front of me announcing, ‘Our lovely train will be going away for the winter by 30th of September until May the 2nd.  

 

If only they saw what I saw in those summer months.... my love, coming home to marry me. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 27

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

The abandoned trailer community of Evergreen Estates had seemed undeniably primitive, when compared to colonies on Mars, or the bustling confederation of Calimex territories. But upon reaching the small, hillside enclave at Grafton Depot, a new perspective was in effect. For all three travelers onboard the Digger shuttle, this sense of being displaced from their normal environment was unifying. As a trio, they hiked over the woodland terrain for about an hour, until reaching this cluster of brick buildings, board shacks, and log cabins. There was some evidence of electrification on a meager scale, yet many of the homes seemed not to have that mode of power available, or even indoor plumbing. Crude outhouses dotted the mountainous slopes, along with sagging barns and pig pens. Most curious was the multiplicity of steepled churches that were interspersed with the other structures. For such a remote and inaccessible population center, there was evidence that the inhabitants were still deeply spiritual as a group. Perhaps continuing onward with old traditions left over from a century, before.

 

Kelly Strafe and Serge Tarka were interested in the local geography, and agricultural development that had evolved, out of necessity. But for Judson Baines, the immersion into pure, Appalachian culture was most compelling. It was as if the history of humanity had been reborn, from some nugget of DNA revived in a laboratory. Even the life of his great-grandfather, T. C. Lincoln, had been modernistic by comparison.

 

At the bottom of a long incline, by the riverbank, they found a great hall of some sort. It appeared to have been constructed with hand tools, and manual labor. Everything had a rustic feel of antiquity, though the condition of its timbers indicated a lifespan that could not have been too great. Next to this large, central structure was a stone building that boasted a much older pedigree in its makeup. The kind of durable fortress that might have been a post office or other official terminal for government business. Creeping vines had worked their way up its sides, which provided a decorative accent of nature on what was otherwise, foreign to the area.

 

Across from this town concourse sat a general store, with tools and shovels displayed in the front window. A banner draped from the roof’s edge proclaimed what awaited, within.

 

“Bodean Pringle III, Sole Proprietor. Goods and sundries for sale, at fair prices. We aim to please our customers, so we’ll see them again!”

 

The university professor was stunned by this family connection. It referenced something included in one of his progenitor’s notebooks.

 

“Lincoln wrote about having a cousin in West Virginia with that surname. Maybe this is a descendant member of the bloodline? That’s an odd coincidence to encounter, but it would make our detour more worthwhile!”

 

Tarka was cautious while surveying the makeshift village. He still wore the duty uniform of a coastal commander.

 

“These people are likely to be suspicious of outsiders. I would be careful when we approach anyone...”

 

Strafe was less fearful of arousing conflict with their presence. She carried a long, walking stick which could also be used for combat, if necessary.

 

“Most of this looks like it came out of a museum. But the time markers don’t add up. Some houses look new, where others must be very old. You’ve got a few motorized vehicles sitting around, but also carts for mules or horses. It’s a strange mix of eras, all thrown together!”

 

Baines scratched his red beard, and smiled while pondering.

 

“That’s a product of social evolution, Kells. After the Great Uprising, they would’ve been in a quandary about how to survive. For those who didn’t hop on a Larman transport, to the Red Planet, life would have become inhospitable. There wasn’t much left, according to my archaeological digs, over the past decade. War, famine, and ecological destruction took a heavy toll on the civilization that remained. In essence, there was a breakdown of that order, and a return to methods not used for generations. They would’ve had to relearn everything. Basic survival skills were lost long before that collapse occurred.”

 

As they came near the long porch that fronted Pringle’s emporium, a woman appeared, carrying a homemade broom. Her long skirt billowed in the breeze. After sweeping away dried grass and dirt from the wooden steps, she paused and turned her head at an angle. Something unfamiliar had gotten her attention, a tingle of voices or a fragrance of unfamiliar chemistry.

 

She shielded her eyes with one hand, then called out across the gravel lot.

 

“You there! We’re open for business, neighbors! Come in and sample some of my dandelion tea, it’s fresh and feisty, just like me!”

 

Kelly Strafe was first to step out of the thicket of trees, and introduce herself. Her boldness resonated with authenticity.

 

“Are you the owner’s wife? We’re looking for some shade and home-cooked meal, after walking a long way. Our umm... wagon broke down out there on the hillside.”

 

Angelette Pringle had wild locks of gray, and a gentle face. She stood with her broom acting as a prop. It felt good to have an excuse to rest for a moment.

 

“Walkin’ around? I don’t reckon nobody ever comes here on a pleasure hike. We’re a good distance from anywhere else. But y’all are welcome just the same. We’ve got a little kitchen in the back, I got smokehouse ham, green beans, sweet potatoes, and biscuits on the table. Or if ya prefer cornbread, that’s still in the oven, bakin’ up in a cast-iron skillet!”

 

Tarka was uncomfortable with this new venue. It did not match anything he had ever experienced, on the Pacific coastline. But his associate from the Percival Lowell Institute had turned giddy with the glow of this chance encounter.

 

For Judson Baines, it meant interacting with living relics from his own past. The sort of experience one could never expect to have, without learning the fantasy art of time travel, through some artificial means.

 

Mrs. Pringle noted the hesitance of her guests to accept this cheerful invitation, and reacted with a motherly dose of encouragement.

 

“Y’all come on, there’s no need ta stand out here in the hot sun! Those storms from yesterday have passed by now, and its time ta celebrate! Let’s get inside, and have ourselves a feast!”

 

 

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 26

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Powering up C-drive propulsion seemed to allow the Digger shuttle to maneuver more effectively in the worsening storm conditions, despite its handicapped state. But as the small transport lunged forward with renewed vitality, it overshot Lake Erie completely. The skipping-stone effect they had hoped for was sidelined, completely. With a hard landing somewhere in Torontara awaiting their uncontrolled descent. And the original orientation they had desired being reversed by chance.

 

Baines was flustered at the helm controls.

 

“I still can’t get this creaky crate to respond as it should! Damn those Seagull bots! We’re about to come down like a sack of stones!”

 

Serge Tarka had been trained for emergency situations, as commander of the Mare Frigoris mission. Moreover, he had been observing intently, as the university professor wrestled with the dashboard systems used for navigation. He guessed that a pivot while they still had enough altitude to spare would place them in a better position for survival, and reaching their intended destination at Grafton Depot.

 

“I’ve been studying your procedures, Judson. May I give it a try?”

 

The professional scholar knew that their chaotic jaunt was about to terminate abruptly. He strained to move backward in his web chair, and gestured over the console.

 

“Do what you think will work. I don’t have a better idea. We’re about to crash on the shoreline!”

 

The Calimex engineer switched off their autopilot assistance, and sensor array. Now, they were completely under analog control, and in motion only with a human in charge. Then, he grabbed the manual joystick, and peered through their forward viewport.

 

“Hang on friends. This is likely to make you feel disoriented for a moment...”

 

The Digger craft accelerated rapidly, while spinning in a clockwise rotation. Loose implements were thrown around in the cabin. All three of them teetered on the brink of vertigo, and unconsciousness. But the shuttle righted itself quickly, went back toward the large body of water, and took a steep dive into its wealth of blue.

 

The gravity arc sent their vessel upward again, with reflected energy. This time, in a southern direction, with enough distance between themselves and the landscape below that a more hospitable spot could be found to perch.

 

Kelly Strafe was nauseous, but impressed.

 

“Shit, that was insane! I never even pulled off a trick like that in pilot school!”

 

Tarka narrowed his eyes while monitoring their elevation and velocity with digital gauges on the dash. He crouched forward in the safety harness, until his muscles ached from the added restriction. He wanted to be certain that nothing escaped his attention, while bringing their short trek to an end.

 

“There’s a clearing of some sort around a mile from the town center. I figure that will keep us distant enough not to arouse undue suspicion from the local populace. They appear to be rural Appalachians, with a revived sense of individuality, and the old arts used for enduring hardships, while living in the wilderness. But they’ve got some sense of the outside world, at least...”

 

Baines laughed while marveling at their good fortune. He felt confident that a safe landing was about to transpire.

 

“And they’ve got a hillbilly flavor to their radio broadcasts! I heard the Foxfire books mentioned as being on their library shelves. My great-grandfather mentioned those in some of the notes he left behind. They’re like a user’s manual for surviving in a subsistence environment!”

 

The wounded transport sputtered a bit as its Cloitanium crystals were no longer synced-up properly. But had built up enough inertia from skipping off the lake surface, that it made the overland leap without risking a crash. The squarish ship came in at an angle that was steep enough to avoid clipping treetops, but conducive to sliding through the woodland loam, comfortably.

 

Strafe held her stomach and groaned as they reached ground level. The impact shook every girder and stress point in their Digger conveyance.

 

“Man, what a ride that was, Juddy! But I’d be glad not to do it again!”

 

Having come to a full stop, they could more directly observe signs of a civilized area, close at hand. The inhabited region around Grafton followed a hillside slope by the river, and also, the remnants of a railroad line that had once operated nearby. The abandoned B&O station still stood proudly, as a marker that indicated how busy the community had been in days of yore.

 

Tarka unhooked his safety straps, and sat back for a moment of relaxation, and introspective thinking.

 

“We were luckier than my men in the Farragut. I had no control over our drop from the sky. But this time things were different. You might say it is something of a miracle, if you believe in such things...”

 

The university steward shook his head in disagreement.

 

“I believe in technical skills. And the ability of a smart innovator when things get rough!”

 

The former Space Force lieutenant was more spiritual in her assessment. A din of dizziness still buzzed inside her skull.

 

“I won’t reject a miracle if it was sent my way. Right now we could use some divine help, to avoid seeing more of the surveyors from your coastal republic! If it takes a prayer for that, I’ll join in, willingly!”

 

The trio wanted to disembark after a few minutes, to catch a welcome breath of fresh air outside of their sealed bubble. But the atmosphere remained too unruly for being exposed to natural unrest, in a storm environment. Rain and hailstones pelted the ship’s hull, with a noisy downfall of violent precipitation. Eventually, this howling of wild weather began to rock the shuttle on its undercarriage. Stray branches and decaying matter blew up from the forest floor. The gray glow of a day ruled by meteorological mayhem took hold. They had nowhere to escape while watching this show of force by Mother Nature.

 

Feeling impatient with the period of rest, Baines activated a receiver on the dashboard panel. He scanned regular frequencies, until a local signal locked the automatic tuner. Then, the piercing pluck of a vintage banjo filled his ears.

 

“There’s a well-beaten path in the old mountainside

Where I wandered when I was a lad

And I wandered alone to the place I call home

In those Blueridge hills, far away

Oh, I love those hills of old Virginia

From those Blueridge hills I did roam

When I die won’t you bury me on the mountain

Far away, near my Blueridge mountain home...”

Writer's Forum: "The Nova Girl"

 

 

Editor's Note: The talented author featured here is someone I have known for at least 25 years. A native of the United Kingdom. We met on MySpace originally, where she shared music compositions that I thought were authentic and compelling. I became a long-term fan and have followed her career ever since. Recently, she spoke about writing short stories as a new project, and that news immediately made me want to become involved. I remember well as a young wordsmith, how a basic gesture of encouragement could mean so much. With that in mind, here is the first installment in her series...

 

by Sarah Burton

c. 2026

All rights reserved

 

Sonya was perturbed, she looked out at the new Nova Lady who was popping the latest brochure through her letter box, I liked Suzanna so much better. She suited the class of the suburban area she thought. Why did she have to retire ha, she slightly grunted, that's a laugh I thought most Ladies or Gentlemen usually do this as a retirement hobby. But since one team leaders' decision to go to the job centre to scout for new representatives then a whole new flock of them started going around the town.

 

Suzanna didn't have to do Nova as a job like these others, her husband was a big thing at the bank or something but she liked the way she dressed and was well spoken and her makeup was perfection, As a Nova Lady Should.

 

The ‘new woman’ all sports gear, trainers, pierced nose, tramped back down Sonya's path and started her attack on the neighbours. Geoffrey was cleaning his car out side, nice chap, married to a nurse. He works at the port one town over. Sonya approved of this 30 something couple, reminded her of Trevor and herself at that age doing well and moved to a nice area. Blour Lane, such a quiet and refined place. Little train station, a micro pub, hair salon and post office. Even the charity shop is more like a vintage boutique and certainly not ‘everything for a pound’ type shop like in the City. Sonya did not approve of those.

 

Sonya opened the front window and was intently trying to hear what Geoffrey was saying to the Nova woman. She heard ‘Suzanna’ mentioned and the girls answer was a shake of her head. Then gave Geoffrey a brochure and said she will speak to her….not exactly understanding, Sonya grabbed a watering can and headed for the front garden. ‘Got a brochure?’ Sonya called to Geoffrey in a sing song voice, ‘er yes, Geoffrey replied, Jess will be wanting to get a few things’ Sonya looked pitiful shame about Suzanna isn't it?. 'Well' Geoffrey shrugged, 'she made her money didn't she?!'  he sighed  and   almost giggled. Sonya looked at him with her eyes raised.  'I think it would have been her husband that did that. Anyway why on earth she had to retire is beyond me'. Sonya thought she would push it a little further,  'does the new Nova girl know Suzanna?' Geoffrey itched his head with one finger whilst the rest of his hand clasped the sponge, he answered a little defensive ‘Well she saw an opportunity to take her place after Suzanna…..then he trailed off. Anyway I better get back to cleaning he smiled without it reaching his eyes.

 

That evening Sonya heard a car, she had just finished dinner and Trevor was washing up. She tweaked the curtains to see who it might be….it was parked outside Geoffrey and Jessica's. She saw a well dressed woman in the porch light speaking rather irritatedly  to Geoffrey, Sonya gently opened the top window. She couldn't catch the words apart from ‘stop asking her OK?’ She yelled that bit, Sonya was disgusted at such behaviour.

 

Then the Well dressed woman stormed back to her white Lexus and as she got into the car under the roof light Sonya gasped, It was Suzanna!

 

Trevor came into the room with a couple of glasses and said ‘let's have a drinky’, he looked at his wife who was stood with her mouth open and a look of bemusement on her face. ‘What's up lovey?’ ‘I have just seen Suzanna have an heated argument with Geoffrey’ she exclaimed. ‘Ah had he not paid for the Nova? Was Trevor's response. ‘Don't be daft Trevor she doesn't do it anymore’ Sonya spat.

 

A couple of days passed, it was Sunday morning and Trevor was on his tablet reading the morning news. Sonya hated this, she liked it in the old days when Trevor would go and get the papers and a bunch of flowers for her..…civilised she thought.

 

Trevor out of no where suddenly loudly exclaimed, Sonya almost dropped her cup of tea. ‘Listen to this’ he said ‘There is a police investigation going on after Intel had been passed through from the Blour Lane police station to County lines that drugs have been delivered all around Blour in broad daylight through, wait for it, an Nova representative.’ Sonya shook her head in disgust. I knew that women was no good. Only been doing it for the past month too, she really worked the streets rather quickly didn't she? Sonya grimaced and was still grimacing when the door bell rang later that day.

 

‘Good afternoon madam said the young detective smiling. Could I please come in?’….Sonya moved aside of-of course she flustered. ‘We are just making inquiries about certain activities that have been brought to light over the last couple of days Concerning a drugs matter.’ ‘Oh yes’ said Sonya, ‘My husband Trevor has just been reading about it haven't you dear?’ Trevor nodded. ‘Its such a dreadful thing’ carried on Sonya, ‘to be honest I knew that new Nova girl was no good’ she sniffed in a dismissive way. ‘Only been doing Nova for a month’ The policemen shook his head ‘oh no Mrs..? ‘Redbridge’ Sonya obliged

 

‘Yes Mrs Redbridge, you see the Nova Lady had been doing this for years, her name is Suzanna West, she made thousands, was one of the top dealers in the whole area’. ‘This has only come to light because of the new, as you put it, Nova girl, reported it’. ‘Your neighbour over there’ he pointed to Geoffrey's House ‘was asking the poor girl if he could get a delivery and I do not mean bubble bath’. ‘Suzanna was trying to get her to do “extra rounds” but she wouldn't have it. So I am hoping you can answer some of my questions as you have been a regular customer of Ms West's haven't you?’ Sonya's jaw dropped …. 

 

 

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 25

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Once the Digger shuttle had been loaded with necessities, its three-person crew was ready to embark upon a mission to find some better, safer venue where they could live anonymously. The lure of Grafton Depot, and folksy inhabitants that were likely to be present, was strong. Because it seemed to be an environment in which they could hide from the Seagull bots, while learning more about how separate societies on Planet Earth had evolved, in postmodern times. And indeed, when the underpowered impeller drive engaged, their rise from ground level brought a sense of comfort, and relief. The transport managed to soar over evergreen treetops, and turned south, toward what had once been called West Virginia. But as Judson Baines wrestled with the helm controls, it quickly became apparent that their craft had suffered more damage from the mass explosion of surveyors, than they first believed.

 

Engineers at Calimex had lost their battle to steal the tiny ship for themselves. But won out in the end, by impeding the operation of its navigational systems with an unexplained lagging in directional stability.

 

Kelly Strafe was still woozy from her own injury. So, despite having the benefit of military training, her own internal gyroscope had been compromised. She held on tightly, as the vessel rocked from side to side, with nauseating variations in altitude.

 

“Juddy, what the hell? I thought this bucket of bolts was in good shape! You said it yourself!”

 

Serge Tarka strained against the harness of his web chair, for a better angle at the forward viewport. He watched attentively as the university professor fiddled with tiles and gauges on the dashboard panel, while groaning under his breath.

 

“What’s the matter with this shuttle, is it something I might be able to diagnose? Your technology is beyond anything we have in my home republic, but I’m good at innovating in tough situations. Trust me, that’s how I survived my fall from orbit, and crash landing on the Sidley’s hilltop!”

 

Baines was concentrating too intensely to answer in a polite manner. But a grunt of anxiety signified his frustration, and willingness to hear any ideas for a solution.

 

“The Digger is unbalanced now, its hull buckled from the blast forces. I can’t seem to keep us on an even keel, this is like trying to steer a go-kart on a muddy race course. Every time I get us on track, the center of gravity shifts. There are strong winds blowing in from across this continent, I can see the movement of more cyclical storms toward the lake region...”

 

Strafe sputtered and swung her long ponytail with befuddlement.

 

“Toward the lake? Aren’t we headed in the opposite direction, Juddy? That would mean we’re going north, not south!”

 

The wounded transport kept bobbing with the wild swings of a swivel lure. It could not maintain a disciplined heading, despite thrusters acting to correct its wobble.

 

Tarka unstrapped the safety restraints on his passenger seat. He peered deeply into a dark fog of meteorological mayhem that was gathering, on the horizon.

 

“We’ll never make it flying like this, your Digger is out-of-sync. See how it responds when you work the impeller jets? There’s a long delay in the command sequence. Whatever happened with the Seagull devices has put the helm programming into a drunken stupor. I would suggest going to fully manual operation, and saying a prayer while we spin and shake!”

 

The classroom scholar was offended by this reference to making a petition for spiritual guidance. He was a man of science, not superstation.

 

“Look Serge, what we need right now is a hard, technical solution, not mumbo-jumbo and theological platitudes! The Digger is balky and uncooperative. But it’s all we’ve got to get away from our ground zero. Your friends on the Pacific coast are sure to send more of their mechanized birds to hunt us down. We’ve got to go somewhere, anywhere, even if it is in the wrong direction!”

 

Kelly Strafe was swooning from the bumpy ride. But clear-headed enough to think her way through the perilous situation, logically.

 

“Juddy, the Gibidan Impeller is too weak for travel under storm conditions. Whatever happened to our controls only makes that worse, but it isn’t the main factor. If you want to survive, that’ll mean putting more thrust behind our tailfins. It means cranking up the Cloitanium cells! Quit arguing, and do it!”

 

The third member of their trio was gloomy about this risky maneuver. He cautioned against willingly surrendering their cloak of invisibility.

 

“You’ll be condemning us to die out here in the wilderness. The C-drive whistle is easy to detect, even from such a great distance. They’ll be onto us immediately, and salivating about the prospect of capturing this vehicle, at last!”

 

Baines slouched over the dashboard panel. He had run out of options, and also, time to debate about strategy.

 

“Does it matter at this point? If the Digger suffers more damage, it will be scrap metal, anyway. I can’t keep us on course, the ship won’t maintain its geographical orientation. If we skip off of the lake surface, and bounce forward, that might give us a reasonable chance to make landfall in one piece. Otherwise, it’s a goodbye kiss that’ll last forever!”

 

Tarka grimaced over the fate that awaited. He had no appetite for a second brush with death.

 

“Do what you must then, I don’t have a better plan in mind. But all the same, I will say a prayer, on my own!”

 

A gale of atmospheric unrest howled around their shuttle, as it spun freely. The shoreline of Lake Erie was still visible, despite being partially obscured by the murky melee. If they had any chance of jumping across that body of water, to the enclave that lay beyond, it would be a product of intensified velocity.

 

The Cloitanium crystals heated up in short order, as onboard wave generators were activated. A corresponding lunge forward and upward resulted. Then, the hapless craft became more responsive to virtual commands from the helm.

 

Strafe bounced in her seat harness, and cheered. She had the ebullient glee of a visitor to an amusement park, tempting her brain to rebel. Her mood became rowdy and defiant.

 

“THAT’S IT, JUDDY! WE’RE GONNA MAKE IT AFTER ALL! LET THOSE BASTARDS OUT WEST SEND MORE OF THEIR SURVEYORS! I DON’T CARE, WE’LL SHOOT THEM ALL DOWN, ONE BY ONE! TRUST ME, I’LL DO IT MYSELF!”

 

 

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 24

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Serge Tarka’s plan to eliminate the threat posed by invading, Seagull bots seemed simple enough as a concept. And the implementation would be easy to accomplish. Yet when he started the repurposed transmitter from his downed craft, they were presented with an unexpected reaction from the airborne surveyors. The semi-autonomous devices began to swarm around their prey, once again taking flight. In an aerial ballet of chaotic interdependence, the units soared upward, dived precipitously, and rolled as if gravity and gyroscopic orientation had no bearing on their work. Then, there was a glimmering glow of energy pulses, between the mechanized birds.

 

Kelly Strafe had to shield her eyes from the white-hot glare.

 

“What are those blasted things doing? It looks like they are about to explode!”

 

Her partner from the university reacted with a defensive twist of his upper body, and a sideways jerk that took both of them to the ground. There was no time to explain this impulsive maneuver. But a moment of finality appeared to be at hand.

 

“Brace yourself, that’s exactly what they are about to do! Get down and stay down!”

 

A ring of electric fire sparked around the shuttle, leaving its hull scarred and buckled. The resonant boom that resulted echoed all across Evergreen Estates, and off the hillside slope above their position. Some unexplained variance in the Seagull design had added a terminal feature, in the event of an assault. Perhaps a measure taken by engineers from Toqua Platte, as a safety feature while operating so far from home. Or, a byproduct of the virtual learning curve employed by the surveyors themselves, as a feature of artificial intelligence.

 

All of the wandering devices had committed suicide, in unison. Tarka was stunned.

 

“Believe me, I beg of you... this defies any sense of logic. Someone must have altered their onboard programming. These machines were never intended to kill!”

 

Strafe and her companion had both been scalded in the blast. They were closer to the shuttle transport, while the Frigoris-Farragut commander stood with his radio controller, atop a set of fiberglass steps outside one of the singlewide trailers.

 

Ashes had scattered around the street and nearby yards, after this explosive conclusion to their experiment. But the Digger appeared to have remained intact.

 

Baines struggled to stand, while scratching residue out of his red beard.

 

“That was really dramatic! It’s hard to think that your team in Calimex would do such a thing, because it puts them at a great disadvantage, now. But we’ll never be sure, I suppose. Whatever the case, our shuttle is free once again. The next question is more of a quandary though, what should we do now?”

 

His female cohort had skinned her knees in taking a tumble. She spat out bits of gravel and weeds.

 

“That’s a damn good question, Juddy! Will they give up on hunting down our little ship, or keep searching for a way to steal it for good?”

 

Tarka put aside his remote device, and sat on the steps, while thinking.

 

“They’ve got our location, that can be assured. I would guess that they think the lander-capsule crew are all dead, including myself. So, the only remaining goal would be to commandeer your vessel, and study its propulsion system. But the problem of traveling so far over land still remains. My coastal republic doesn’t have a sophisticated network for moving people and cargo by air. Our lift capabilities are inhibited by fuel shortages, and a manufacturing deficiency. We’ve basically been piecing together old hardware from a century ago. Lotharian Gardino can’t be underestimated, however, he’s an innovator by nature. And he has the thought patterns of a gambler. Taking risks is never a challenge for him, never an obstacle. I can’t be certain of how honest he has been with engineers at my facility, or with the other members of his ruling council...”

 

Strafe pondered their plight for a moment, before offering strategic direction.

 

“Okay boys, here’s what we know. They have this abandoned village pinned on their map boards. That’s already been confirmed by the Seagull bots, right? It gives them a starting point to keep hunting. So, our best plan of action is pretty obvious, we’ve got to bug out! Change the parameters, and it’ll upend their little game of hide-and-seek. Confuse them and watch it mess with their heads!”

 

The professional scholar winced a bit while listening. His friend from the Space Force was still slightly off-balance after her cranial injury. She had a bold edge to her personality that was exaggerated from its original character. But what she said was undeniably correct.

 

“Kells, our only way out of here is in the Digger. But we won’t know if it has suffered any serious damage without a test run of the drive unit. That could be tricky if something fails with us in the sky and moving at speed!”

 

Serge Tarka offered a wise note of dissent. He remembered that the signature whistle of Cloitanium cells in operation had first given them a clue that the technology existed in their region of the solar system.

 

“If you want to fly that thing, it has to be done judiciously. Your drive tubes will call out to the people on duty at my western, technical center. It will indicate what we are doing, in real time. There has to be another way, we can’t just hand them an advantage by acting too hastily...”

 

The former lieutenant stomped her feet and swore, in defiance.

 

“Okay, if that’s a damn problem, then keep the shuttle in first gear! Use the Gibidan Impeller, it’ll conserve energy as a bonus. If we travel like a snail, it won’t matter too much. Any amount of distance will throw them off track. Once we’ve found a new spot to land, the craft can be camouflaged so it won’t be seen by aerial surveillance. That’s all we need to worry about. I’m tired of this old dump, anyway!”

 

Professor Baines stroked his temples while considering this shift in tactics. He remembered listening to the primitive broadcasts from Grafton Depot, a reference point not far away, if traveling in the shuttle. Some sort of communal structure must exist there, to produce the radio outreach he had heard. It was reasonable to assume they might be welcomed, if entering the tiny enclave on foot, after hiding the Digger.

 

“Okay, I guess we’ve got no other choice. You can bet that more of those Seagull bots will be on the horizon, very soon. Let’s load up the transport, and get moving!”

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 23

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Kelly Strafe seethed with irritation, when beholding the Seagull bots that surrounded their Digger shuttle. She hissed and stammered, and stomped her feet. But for Judson Baines, this unexpected sight evoked more curiosity than alarm. He wondered openly how the surveyor machines were designed and controlled from so great a distance.

 

“Serge, you can tell us a lot about how these things operate, I would guess. They seem to be acting independently, but at the same time, show evidence of remote guidance. It is almost as if they have default settings, some kind of standard algorithm maybe, which operates in relation to local conditions. But then they receive updates from a central controller...”

 

Tarka nodded in response, and paused to think for a moment.

 

“You are perceptive, which must be a prerequisite for teaching at a respected university. The Seagull program was originally developed as a way to explore uninhabited regions outside of our own republic. We didn’t have the communications technology to build a fly-by-wire system, at least in the beginning. So, they were literally searching on their own, before reporting back to us with a delay in effect. Each unit can interact with the others, while on a mission, which enhances their operation. Data is then shared with the facility at Toqua Platte, on our Pacific coast. It takes time to cross the continent, and process all that information. Eventually, we incorporated a variable element in the programming, for redirection as needed. It’s a slow link-up, but works well enough to make the devices useful.”

 

Strafe flipped her long ponytail from side to side, and spat on the ground.

 

“If we had any weapons, I’d blow those mechanized birds to bits!”

 

The Calimex engineer was slightly amused by her oath, but also concerned.

 

“You don’t have any offensive capabilities? That has to be a handicap when roaming around in an alien territory!”

 

Baines shrugged off this worrisome comment. Then, he offered an explanation of their core philosophy on Mars.

 

“See, it’s a matter of evolutionary thinking. Our progenitors knew that war and conflict had ruined the old world. It made Planet Earth a desolate and unfriendly piece of rock, which they had to escape. In addition, to survive in the colonies, we had to breed out those qualities that made it all happen. Humanity had to better itself, in order to endure. Therefore, none of the Morningstar vessels carry lethal implements. It would be against our creed as a civilization to fight with other races, on neighboring bodies in the solar system. We are seekers of knowledge, and traders in goods and services. It is how we have lived for so long in sealed environments on the red soil of our homeworld...”

 

Tarka was somewhat embarrassed to be puzzled by this resistance to do battle. But inspired by the nobility of it, in principle, as a method of living in harmony and peace.

 

“Those are brave words, indeed. Our governors speak with such goals in mind, when debating over the rule of law in our coastal republic. But I suspect it never quite works so easily, when dealing with outsiders and foreign agents. We haven’t fought a war in generations, basically because the independent enclaves are so distant from each other. Though I am certain our Prime Keeper would be willing to use force to impose his desire to unite the districts, if necessary. He has a heavy hand with our own people...”

 

The former Space Force lieutenant clenched her fists, and reddened while listening.

 

“So what can we do, just stand here and watch those surveyor bots steal our ship? That doesn’t work for me, I think we need to get busy, do something!”

 

The professional scholar did not disagree, yet had his own strategy in mind to defeat the surveillance bots, and preserve their safety.

 

“What kind of link is there between your western facility, and these airborne machines? Just a basic form of radio transmission?”

 

The Frigoris-Farragut commander gestured with affirmation. He had already begun to form a plan of sorts, subconsciously.

 

“Yes, that’s it in simple terms. The connection depends on geography and weather, being over such an extended distance. Cyclical storms sever the link sometimes. Physical obstacles make reception difficult or even impossible. That is why the Seagull units had to have their own capabilities as independent observers. They can’t be effectively controlled in real time, all day, every day. We don’t have your advanced methods for data processing, either. It works well enough to serve our needs, but is far from perfect!”

 

Baines lowered his head while pondering. Then, exhaled with a breathy burst of inspiration.

 

“That’s it then, the solution is one we can implement in two phases. First, jam the hook-up between your technical center and the surveyors, so that no data can be exchanged. After that, we scramble their onboard paradigm by introducing a computing error into their archives. A virtual virus you might say, that will stall their regular operation and cause chaos to abound between members of the flock. I’m guessing they will regress into standby mode at that point...”

 

Tarka smiled at this direct and non-violent solution. His role in their escapade of sabotage was now obvious, and one that might bring him a restored sense of being liberated from Lotharian Gardino.

 

“I have the functional equivalent of their transmitter array on my lander. Give me enough time to retrieve it from the hilltop where we crashed, along with some power cells from the cargo store, and I can set up what we need. The streaming platform will accomplish what you have described, in a matter of minutes. Once the wireless connections are broken, and protocols are erased, our standoff will be ended. The team at Toqua Platte will be confounded by their failure. As will the governors on our ruling council.”

 

Kelly Strafe was still uncharacteristically aggressive, after her cranial injury and restoration. She lusted for a more combative solution.

 

“I’d rather zap them with a laser gun, or maybe T. C. Lincoln’s old Ithaca Model 37! But have it your way, boys, we can finally settle this dispute, and flip a middle finger to those bastards on the west coast! I guess that’ll be good enough for me!”