Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Twenty-Three”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

When Dr. Judson Baines exited his Digger shuttle, to make a visual inspection outside, the result was gloomy and severe. The small craft had been damaged underneath, from its impact with thick, Buckeye mud, and an uncontrolled slide across the front field at Evergreen Estates. Yet all of its internal systems still seemed to function properly. The question that lingered in his mind was simple, but daunting. Would his transport retain its structural integrity, if taken beyond the planetary atmosphere? Or collapse like an eggshell, under the pressure of acceleration?

 

No answer could be obtained without a technical analysis. He needed the Morningstar for that kind of check-up, and its flight deck full of instruments.

 

As a half-measure, he decided that taking the ship on a limited excursion would help to build confidence in its abilities. An overland trip eastward, to explore and catalog the natural terrain. He knew that large portions of what had been New York and Pennsylvania were now more like what early settlers first encountered when they arrived from Old Europe. Forests had sprung up again, in place of artificial, population hubs constructed by mankind. Once again, a balance of elements dominated the landscape. Yet he suspected that there must be stragglers left behind by this devolving evolutionary curve. Certainly, it was possible that family tribes had survived, protected in the woods. In Atlantia, some sort of higher-function had been achieved, with a lifestyle more on the level of 20^th Century folk. Less than modern, but specialized enough to exist on a reasonable level. He could not guess if they were in touch with other clusters of humanity, or even curious about their presence.

 

With the C-drive powered, Baines navigated his tiny vessel into the sky, and pointed it toward the east. Acres of green lay ahead, seemingly untouched by sentient inhabitants. He flew along Lake Erie, then soared down, across the Southern Tier of New York. The empty districts looked verdant and glorious, yet sad in such a state of abandonment. All the while, he continued to monitor his rig’s outer hull for fractures or compromise. He could hear the craft creaking slightly, as the Cloitanium cells spewed their reactive stream. This innocent noise caused his pulse to quicken. But in reality, posed no immediate threat.

 

At the Finger Lakes Region, he circled over the familiar ruins of Ithaca. A place often depicted in his archival materials. No life signs were apparent, other than the call of birds, and scratching of wandering rodents in the brush. This pervasive silence made him bow his head, with remorse. He had hoped that some traces of the lost world might have survived here, yet realized that many of those who studied at Cornell University were among the first to join their generational freedom convoy, to Mars.

 

Upon reaching the coast, he retreated slightly. Antiquated radio signals had led him to a point on the map that indicated Roosevelt Station should be directly below. But he could see nothing through the overgrowth of timbers. He circled once, then twice, while listening to the broadcasts. Was the announcer simply on a recording, looped to play endlessly? He had not considered that possibility. Maybe their particular version of society had covered itself on purpose, to remain anonymous? That didn’t jive with sending out signals, over the airwaves. He felt puzzled. Somewhere, an answer to this riddle must have been close at hand. He needed to look hard, and think critically. But no clues appeared.

 

There was a break in the tree line, where ocean waters lapped at the beach. He hovered along this sandy stretch for several miles, going north. Then found a break in the ground cover. A concourse of some kind was situated between flanks of leafy vegetation. He spied a motor vehicle, puttering along with smoky trails of exhaust lingering in its wake. The style and appearance were ancient by design. Yet updated in a sense, as if repaired in a shop or garage by amateur mechanics. That sight buoyed his spirit. It was the evidence he needed, to hypothesize that indeed, mankind had outlived dire consequences related to the Great Uprising.

 

Now, he had to ponder options. Would it be wise to land in a favorable spot, and attempt to make contact with this pocket of civilized people? Or should he remain distant, and disconnected? The choice was not one to be made in haste.

 

Beyond thinking about the potential to observe and study this isolated kingdom, as a professional scholar, he also wondered if they held any sort of defensive assets. Might they launch an attack against his vessel, because it was so far superior to their own technology? Or would they strategically hide in trenches and holes? With suspicion guiding them to take extreme measures, only when an advantage had been gained?

 

The conundrum caused him to suffer a headache.

 

While fine-tuning the receiver in his shuttle dashboard, he realized that indeed, songs heard over the previous days were being repeated. With the same commentary, except for reports and asides about the weather. When he attempted to pinpoint the signal’s origin, it varied as he moved. That factual revelation made him quizzical about his original premise that Atlantia was a humble colony of unsophisticated inhabitants. He surveyed the shore and curled westward, toward the inland. There were no further appearances of living beings. And he saw no signs of construction, or any metropolitan center. Yet the hillbilly music continued to echo.

 

“Here’s a good ol’ tune by the Stanley Brothers, it’ll make you want to get up and do some clog dancing, I swear!”

 

Dr. Baines steered around the neighborhood while observing, and whistling along with this rural classic. He tapped his right foot to the rhythm. The melody brightened his mood.

 

“I got a pig at home in a pen;

Corn to feed ‘Em on

All I need’s a pretty little girl

To feed ‘Em when I’m gone

 

Goin’ on the mountain

To sow a little cane

Raise a barrel of Sorghum

To sweeten ol’ Liza Jane

 

I got a pig at home in a pen;

Corn to feed ‘Em on

All I need is a pretty little girl

To feed ‘Em when I’m gone...”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Twenty-Two” c. 2024 Rod Ice

 

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

Kelly Strafe resigned her commission with the Space Force, joined the team at Cosmo Solartec, and boarded an Ibid craft for her voyage back to Planet Earth, all before nine o’clock in the morning. The rapid pace of this event-chain made her head spin. Yet she was confident in deciding that an escape from the claustrophobic confines of life in her Mars colony made good sense. She had run into headwinds that threw her career as a military officer off course. Now, by exiting the paradigm of service and obedience altogether, she could do things that were truly important and meaningful.

 

No one came to see her off, before departing. She had become an orphan. Yet this new status brought her a sense of hope.

 

The Ibid carrier was more than simply a shuttle for traveling between points in the airless vacuum that surrounded worlds in their solar system. It boasted capabilities that were impressive for a vessel about half the size of a Morningstar-class ship. Though slower overall, it could reach distant planets in a reasonable amount of time. What a Larman transport needed a full year to accomplish, it could do in four weeks. It had the capability to perform defensive maneuvers, and in the skilled hands of an experienced pilot, to survey and study alien environments for observers seeking knowledge. She intended to reach the North American continent, locate Evergreen Estates, and discern whether her erstwhile, university cohort had survived his abandonment. Beyond that, work for the fledgling employer would keep credits in her account. As they prospered, so would she, until a better venue arrived.

 

After powering up the Gibidan impeller, she half expected some kind of raid. Perhaps a strategic interruption of the flight plan she had programmed. The promises of Commander Hornell Block meant little, in view of her new reality. Yet there was no hindrance offered to her launch from the dock. The away signal flashed on her viewscreen, and then, inertia slammed her back in the seat. She had both hands on the joysticks. Background stars twinkled as the ship lunged forward.

 

The station controller’s voice barked from her dashboard, in a synthetic monotone.

 

“Ibid-C, you are cleared to leave the space dock. Good vibes to you. Be well, and safe!”

 

A hum of generators glowing with energy made the metal hull buzz. Strafe checked her course settings, and steered out of orbit. She locked in the coordinates for Planet Earth. Then, let the automated programming take over.

 

“Roger that, home base. Here’s hoping I find things in good shape on the other end of my journey. I’d hate to go all that way just to be disappointed. We’ll see what happens...”

 

The C-drive of larger, newer ships could be tracked across long distances. This made them easy to identify when approaching. But Ibid propulsion did not generate the unique, high-pitched squeal of Cloitanium reactors. So, as Kelly Strafe journeyed toward the origin point for humanity, she was cloaked in a measure of invisibility. Only when in close proximity could her transport be identified with low-tech radar.

 

While under the control of automatic guidance, she busied herself leafing through data sets that had been cataloged from their first mission, on the Morningstar III. There were many pages of scans and photographs. Each one offered evidence of the culture that had birthed their own civilization, on the red globe. She was intrigued by the diversity of Old Earth. Its variations were incredible, considering the unsophisticated nature of their evolutionary curve. They had sired many languages and traditions. Yet still found reasons to fight each other, and spill human blood. This barbaric tendency was one that cursed the blue world.  It made mankind suspect among the stars. A violent, hulking giant, not to be trusted or admired.

 

As she read through entries on the magnetic disc, a chirp of salutation sounded from her com-link. The notification repeated until she answered by clicking on a message icon.

 

“Lieutenant? I regret not being able to address you with that rank, any longer. Please accept my apologies for the discipline which was necessary.  I would have preferred that you offered a confession of liability, and made amends with the leadership on our high council...”

 

Strafe cleared her throat and laughed out loud. She recognized Admiral Corel Nauga from his distinctive brogue. Something picked up from colonies beyond their own homeworld.

 

“FUCK YOU, SIR! I DON’T HOLD ANY MILITARY RANK NOW! SO, YOU CAN POLITELY KISS MY LITTLE, ROUND ASS!”

 

The top-tier commandant was speechless.

 

“I understand that you might feel combative, Kelly. But it would be helpful if you approached this situation with a bit more contrition.”

 

The demoted officer shrieked and cackled like a sorceress.

 

“CONTRITION?  AFTER YOU WRECKED MY CAREER? C’MON, ADMIRAL! YOU KNEW COMMANDER BLOCK WAS INVOLVED. BUT THAT WAS FORGOTTEN. YOU LET HIM SLIDE! AND NAILED ME TO THE CROSS, INSTEAD!”

 

Nauga breathed heavily, and drummed his fingers on the control panel.

 

“An outdated metaphor, to be sure. Block notified us of your intentions with the Morningstar. He was heroic in staying true to his oath of loyalty. You were on the fringe. You deserved to be reprimanded. I just regret that it cost us a prime candidate for promotion...”

 

Strafe was amused to the point of turning red.

 

“PROMOTION? IS THAT A CARROT YOU WANT TO DANGLE IN FRONT OF ME?”

 

The admiral kept his composure.

 

“I mean that sincerely. Your talent is obvious. It always has been.”

 

His deposed warrior shook her head in disbelief.

 

“Well, I’m on the team with Cosmo Solartec now. It doesn’t matter. You both got what you wanted, or maybe you didn’t. If your desire was for kneeling and begging, then sorry, I’m not that kind of woman! This isn’t the puritan era, right? We have liberties in the 22^nd Century. We make our own decisions. Our own choices. Men don’t command us, any longer!”

 

Nauga choked on his own breath. He had run out of words to exclaim.

 

“So be it then, I’ll leave you to your adventure. My regret is sincere. You were an asset to us, I hate to surrender valuable officers to private industry. It makes us all weaker. I wish you goodwill and the protection of a loving creator...”

 

His former lieutenant switched off her com-link. Then roared with defiance.

 

“SHOVE IT, ASSHOLE! SHOVE IT WHERE OLD SOL DOESN’T SHINE!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Twenty-One”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

The military brig at New Cleveland was cold and austere. A place intended to humble prisoners, though in a humane fashion that befitted the culture developed on Mars. Each cell had basic amenities, and was equipped with sensors that allowed monitoring from a single station. Live surveillance continued all through the day and night. There was never a time to relax. Though no torture or punishment was allowed, often, those incarcerated at the facility broke down from stress. Being housed in such a sterile and severe environment usually caused even well-trained recruits to sign a pledge of contrition, and make videos for general distribution. These minimalist productions included confessions of guilt, pleas for understanding and forgiveness, and oaths of renewed loyalty for authorities in the planetary colonies. Only one captive seemed strong enough to resist, long-term. She would not murmur with regret, or guilt. Instead, her defiant tone only grew louder while being held behind bars.

 

Lt. Kelly Strafe had been trained for exploring outer worlds in the solar system, under harsh conditions. She did not bend or break, despite being isolated. Instead, each day only served to increase her fortitude.

 

Guards at the facility kept their distance from her cubicle. They interacted only when necessary.

 

Commander Hornell Block arrived at the unit on a Tuesday afternoon. He wore a standard uniform, as if on duty in charge of his spacefaring vessel. But did not try to make a show of his presence, otherwise. After logging in at the security kiosk, he walked through corridors until locating the metal cage of his former junior. He stood silently in front of her cell for a moment, then cleared his throat and offered a greeting.

 

“Kelly, how have you been? I apologize for the way things turned out between us...”

 

His former aide bared her teeth and growled, animalistically.

 

“FUCK YOU, HORNY! YOU’RE A BACKSTABBING SON OF A BITCH! A GAWDAMM BASTARD!”

 

Her commander bowed his head.

 

“I would ask that you show respect to a superior officer!”

 

His erstwhile lieutenant spat through the grid of steel bars.

 

“I don’t have my rank anymore, remember? You took that away, along with my privilege to speak freely! And my career in the force!”

 

Block looked dejected. He closed his eyes and nodded.

 

“Perhaps I deserve that, it wasn’t my intention to blank your commission. I only wanted to protect our way of living. Do you understand? We’ve survived as a race because of our discipline. Because of the strong will exhibited by settlers who came here from Planet Earth. We had to learn to do better. Our rowdy, cowboy habits nearly made us go extinct. Our survival has depended on staying true to principles of honor and loyalty. Straying from the path is suicidal. I had to take action before you went off on a wild goose chase, so to speak...”

 

Strafe bit her lip and cursed.

 

“Make yourself believe whatever you want. You’re a soulless robot now. You’ve been completely converted. I pity you really, it can’t be pleasant to live on your knees. Always clicking your heels like a good tin soldier, and hopping to the crack of a whip.”

 

Her one-time superior clenched both fists while holding his breath.

 

“Okay, are you trying to get under my skin, Kells? That’ll do it for certain. But remember that I’ve been the one team member in your corner. I’ve never given up on your abilities or effort. I know how hard you’ve worked to rise this far on the ladder...”

 

She could barely force out a whimper. Yet had to respond in kind.

 

“I’m not on your damn ladder anymore. You kicked my ass off of that thing! I hope it feels good to have twisted the knife. You didn’t seem to feel any remorse. Just remember that old saying, ‘What goes around comes around.’ Are you safe from the same kind of recriminations? You were the one that let Dr. Baines jump ship, after all. How long will it take them to figure out the mystery? Guilt is a stain that doesn’t just wash out with a trip to the laundromat. You might’ve earned some extra time by selling out a friend, but it won’t last. Trust me. When you’re behind bars like I am, things won’t feel the same!”

 

The Morningstar commander gulped his pride. Her words resonated too powerfully for his liking.

 

“There are a fleet of Ibid carriers at the space dock. Slower, smaller transports, but no less efficient. No less sturdy or reliable. I can make one available for your use. They can travel between here and Terra Firma in about one month. Not a sprint exactly, but quick enough for your purposes...”

 

His demoted junior laughed and cocked her head to one side.

 

“What the hell is this, a bribe? Are you trying to buy me off?”

 

Block looked deadly serious. He did not take any amusement from her accusation.

 

“If you really care about that university geek, then an Ibid craft would be the way to get in touch. They aren’t regulated by the force, or the Martian high council. They are private vessels, moving at their own pace and not under any governmental authority.”

 

Lt. Strafe cackled and looked directly into his face.

 

“So, that’s your deal? A get-out-of-jail card? You let me hop a civilian transport, and be out of your hair? No muss, no fuss?”

 

He groaned from spikes of regret in his belly.

 

“Frame it however you want. I’m not a monster. I cared enough about Baines to let him poke around at that trailer park in the woods. Who knows, he might discover something truly groundbreaking about our ancestry. We’ve all wondered how mankind came to the Red Planet. None of us are old enough to have asked such questions about our heritage. But the puzzlement still echoes in our heads. We are all immigrants to a foreign world. Every one of us, from me to you! We crossed the border unannounced. We invaded this far-flung territory, and made it our own. Now, we wrestle with questions about what got everything started. Is it wrong to open Pandora’s Box? I don’t know. You don’t know. That professor doesn’t know. It’s a chance we’ll have to take...”

 

The deposed officer put her face between the jail bars, and grinned.

 

“Okay, Big H, I accept. Since my tour with the space force has ended, I might as well jump on a swiftboat, and head into the cosmos. Tell me where to sign up! I’m ready for a new adventure!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Twenty”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

The glee of Dr. Judson Baines over discovering wild corn growing near Evergreen Estates lasted for only a short time. After a few meals cooked out in the yard, over an open fire, he felt both satisfied and relieved. Yet once again, unpredictable weather patterns were at work, causing the planetary atmosphere to swirl violently and buffet the rural trailer park with threatening winds and hail.

 

A survey conducted with meteorological instruments on his Digger shuttle predicted that this latest session of climate unrest would be more threatening than those that came before. With his on-site research completed for the moment, it seemed to be a fortuitous juncture. A change of plans might let him escape the worst of this rowdy period. So, he made a quick assessment of the power reserves stored in his transport batteries. Then, began to calculate how long it might take to travel between the barren spot in old Ohio, and another population center. Each model had its own advantages. Yet unless he ventured a long distance from what had once been known as Middle America, his plight would be unchanged. The storm system on his radar was huge, and moving slowly. He guessed that the damage done could be far worse by comparison, than any experienced over the past century.

 

Atlantia tempted him with its gentle, anachronistic culture and relaxed social order. But that eastern territory would also soon feel the vehemence of Mother Nature’s wrath. To escape the event and be safe, he needed to chart a course in the opposite direction. One headed south and west, to the district of Calimex. A place that made him slightly anxious, due to its aggressive pursuit of technological sophistication. He knew that civilization on Mars had evolved into a sterile sort of obedience, something necessary because of living on worlds where the conditions were not so friendly to human residents. He feared that similar attitudes might dominate the western commonwealth. And, make him a target of suspicion, as an outsider.

 

These thoughts were loose in his head, as he fell asleep on the couch at Lot 13. After packing up volumes of his great-grandfather’s handwritten journals, and having a final taste of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey. He had stuffed the interplanetary truckster with every artifact that it could hold. But in the balance, his own stamina was sapped. Restlessly, he turned from side to side, tossing cushions and blankets in the process. He wanted to be sharp when the little craft lifted off, for its next adventure.

 

While dreaming, he flashed on visions of rising floodwaters and floating manufactured homes. One nightmare seamlessly blended into the next. He gasped and coughed and jerked, while unconscious. Then, just before sunrise, he slipped into the blessed embrace of oblivion.

 

A muted glare of overcast skies roused him from this uneasy slumber, around eight o’clock. It had already started to rain, hard enough that the empty driveway trickled streams of wet muck onto the street. When he stumbled out to the porch, sheets of torn skirting danced along the property perimeter. Broken windows howled through cracks and crevices. Tall grasses whipped in the wind. Garbage cans rolled freely. Debris scattered over the tarmac.

 

There was little time to ponder these conditions. He sprinted for the Digger, with limbs aching and his eyes fighting to see through the falling precipitation. Once inside, he keyed in an authorization code, and took the helm. A hard pull on the joysticks caused the tiny vessel to lift itself toward a vertical stance. The engines throttled up, with a roar of Cloitanium crystals glowing white hot. Then, a furious blast of ejecta pummeled his ship. Broken boards and stanchions from an abandoned boxcar flew sideways, uninhibited and angry. The horizon seemed to spin in his windshield. He had to tug against the seatbelts, to avoid being tossed from his seat. Vertigo hit him squarely in the cerebral cortex. He became nauseous and disoriented.

 

“HOLD ON DAMMIT! HOLD ON! HOLD ON!”

 

He could see trailers ripping away from their concrete anchors. One turned on its side and slid along the resident boulevard. Another split in half and spewed its contents across a wide swath of gravel and grass. Wheelbarrows and buckets, and all sorts of yard implements sailed toward the sky. Beer bottles crashed one-by-one, rendering a symphonic song-suite of destruction.

 

The Digger shuddered in this melee. It rose many feet in the air but then curled downward, and streaked through the muddy wasteland of their front field. It came to rest next to a ruined tractor. The din was so loud that Baines held both hands over his ears.

 

“GOD HELP ME, IF THERE IS A GOD! I DON’T WANT TO DIE OUT HERE, ALONE!”

 

The transport rocked upright, on its landing skids. This unhitched his safety restraints, and sent the scientist face-first, into a viewing portal. A concussion resulted that blanked out his ability to perceive and comprehend. He fell on the floor panels, numb and drooling. More than two hours passed before this visitation of natural rage subsided.

 

When his torment abated, a signal from Roosevelt Station, in Atlantia, woke him from the nothingness.

 

“Friends, I hope you’re staying cooped up and dry today. It’s not fit for man or beast out there, please do be careful. Look after your families and friends. Here’s a traditional song that might explain what you need right to do now, during all these storms. Listen to Bascom Lamar Lunceford, and keep your noggins down, and stay alive...”

 

A crackle of vintage shellac yielded to banjo plucking, and a crooning call of folksy musicianship.

 

 “I wish I was a mole in the ground

Yes, I wish I was a mole in the ground

If I’s a mole in the ground I’d root that mountain down

And I wish I was a mole in the ground...”

 

Somehow, despite the assault on its structural integrity, most of Evergreen Estates remained intact. Rivers had formed in between the trailers. Trash was piled in yards and alleyways, and against propane cylinders and storage barns. But the flagpole stood erect, by their front entrance. Stripped of its national colors, and bowed by the velocity of cycling gusts. A symbolic gesture of defiance, to the heavens.

 

Dr. Baines smeared dirt from his cheeks and forehead. He still reeked of whiskey. The stench made him sick.

 

“In the name of Sir Issac Newton, what the hell can I do now?”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Nineteen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

On her way to the space dock concourse, above Mars, Lt. Kelly Strafe paused to look through one of the observation portals. There in all of its glistening, metallic glory, was the Morningstar III. Her destination, and transport for another trip to the inner regions of their solar system. She had heard some visitors observe that its stubby fins and silver sheen made the sleek vessel look like a flying sardine. Yet such remarks did not dim her affection for the ship. She had been proud to serve with other recruits, as the chief assistant. It was a mobile platform where she truly felt at home.

 

A quick check of her com-link indicated that it was six o’clock in the morning, according to universal Mars time. By now, other members of the crew should have already arrived for duty. She was eager to assemble everyone, and offer a quick briefing before her commander arrived. Every step she took invigorated her body. Her pulse raced with excitement. Her blonde ponytail bounced and swung from side to side.

 

At the dispersal hub, she counted hatch doors until finding the proper access point. Then, lugged her nylon tote over one shoulder, and punched in an authorization code.

 

When she entered the craft, it seemed oddly quiet and empty. Her nose began to twitch, sensing that something had gone amiss. She rode an elevator up two decks, to the control center, and waited for a facial scan to recognize her identity. There, she expected to see her navigator and ensign ready for duty. But upon passing through a short corridor that linked the nexus to other sections onboard, she encountered only silence. The primal chamber was vacant. None of the work stations were occupied.

 

Suddenly, a voice intoned from behind. One that filled her heart with dread, and caused her lower lip to tremble.

 

“Lieutenant! Assume the position for discipline! Hands behind your back!”

 

Admiral Corel Nauga stood tall, in the doorway. His rank was signified by vertical stripes of gold, over one shoulder of his uniform tunic. He had an expression of anger and regret.

 

“Kneel on the floor! You are being taken into custody!”

 

Strafe felt her eyes growing wet and blurry. Somehow, she had been betrayed.

 

“I don’t get this sir, what charge do you have? I was only reporting for my assignment...”

 

The longtime veteran huffed and pointed his index finger. His gray brows tightened with serious disdain.

 

“Kelly, I’ve watched you advance as a career officer. I was proud of your courage. And your determination to outperform men who had similar goals in the force. But now, you’ve manifested something ugly. Something dark and counterproductive. You have a rebel streak in your personality. Do you understand why that isn’t embraced here on Mars? It’s the seed that sowed calamities for mankind, across the centuries. It caused wars and famine and the collapse of empires. It humbled the mighty. It drove the human race out of its own cradle of civilization. That’s why we all live in the artificial atmosphere of canisters on the Red Planet, and elsewhere!”

 

His prisoner bowed her head, and wiped away tears.

 

“Admiral, my intentions were pure. All I wanted to do was take the Morningstar back to Planet Earth. There’s unfinished business to address. We abandoned a prime asset for political convenience. I’ve been ashamed ever since...”

 

Commander Hornell Block appeared, from the corridor hatch. For the first time in months, he was back in his military garb. He had returned to the disciplined appearance of a professional voyager.

 

“I’m sorry, Kells. I’m not given to breaking trust, or surrendering secrets. But your plan was out of line. What I would call dangerously impulsive. We all survive by following the chain of command here, without it, everything would collapse.”

 

The female lieutenant glared at her friend and confidante.

 

“YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU GAWDAMM TRAITOROUS SON OF A BITCH!”

 

Admiral Nauga cringed at her bold tone of speaking. He tightened his muscles, reflexively.

 

“Enough! I won’t suffer that kind of behavior on a vessel under my authority! You’ll show respect to a superior officer. And I would suggest some contrition might be in order, since your next stop will be in the brig! Do you understand? You are now under arrest, Ms. Strafe! I am stripping you of your rank and privileges, immediately!”

 

Block felt an obstruction in his chest. He had trouble breathing.

 

“As I said, Kelly, I’m sorry...”

 

She refused to look him in the eyes.

 

“Baines will have run out of protein squares by now. He’s a nerd, great with the schoolbooks, but not one to go hunting for his next meal. Congratulations, sir, you’ve just given him a death sentence. How does that feel? We could’ve at least gotten out of orbit before anyone noticed. I had the jamming software programmed. Everything depended on you!”

 

The admiral coughed at hearing her confession.

 

“Careful Ms. Strafe, be careful! Whatever you say will only enhance your shame! There will be a trial at the court in New Cleveland. A tribunal will be convened. The sensor logs will show that this mutiny was your idea. You were the instigator. The kingpin of a rebellion like we haven’t seen in a hundred years!”

 

The commander was nauseous. His belly gurgled and twisted with guilt.

 

“Keeping order matters, Kelly. It really does. I hope you’ll understand someday. It’s the foundation of everything our race of sentient beings has built, on planets and moons across the solar system. We’re trying to atone for the sins that ruined our ancestral homeworld. You can’t sacrifice that for anything. Not for friendships or loyalties, or philosophies...”

 

Strafe refused to sob openly. Yet a trickle of moisture rolled down her left cheek.

 

“You pulled the trigger, Big H. You put a laser beam through that university geek’s forehead. As a matter of fact, it would’ve been more human to kill him on the spot, before we left! But you don’t have the spine for that kind of honesty. You couldn’t stand there and watch him die!”

 

Commander Block was rattled by her wild accusation. His legs shook until both knees knocked together. For a moment, he wished to have retired altogether, after the disciplinary incident that interrupted his service.

 

Admiral Nauga laughed out loud. He was tired of listening to the protests.

 

“I’d say we have a hero in our midst! A genuine hero! Congratulations, Hornell, I am reinstating your commission as the head of this crew. The ship is yours! Pilot it well! May the stars bless you on your next adventure!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Eighteen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

Hornell Block had been perpetually bored since being temporarily relieved of command over the Morningstar III. Something never experienced before, in his journey between the outer planets. His life had been dedicated to serving colonies on Mars, and elsewhere, as a Space Force officer. So, his solitary status did not sit well. He roamed around Heinlein Heights, with a listless sense of being dead. His purpose in living no longer existed. His inner gyroscope could not find its own direction. Even family members brought him no peace.

 

In Lowell Plaza, he passed through as a drifter of sorts. Members of the population center thought that he must have been a retired, military officer. His disciplined gait and groomed appearance were both characteristic of someone with a long history of public service. Yet when he arrived at Bradbury Cove, in a southern region of the Red Planet, this learned mode of conduct had worn thin. He was betrayed by beard stubble, darkening his facial features. His close-cropped hair had become unruly. His clothing was wrinkled and dirty.

 

When 90 days had passed, no call to return came via his com-link. Members of the command structure and high council seemed uninterested in his leadership career. They made excuses about his craft being docked above the homeworld, for repairs. Friends soon abandoned him due to crankiness and a sour disposition.

 

But on a Friday evening, as he sat drinking a brew concocted from a recipe popular with explorers of the Jovian moon Europa, there was a chirp from his tunic pocket.

 

Lt. Kelly Strafe appeared in the viewfinder. Her familiar smile brightened his mood.

 

“You look drunk, Big H! I’ve not seen you with that kind of expression since a staff party before our vessel launched officially, a dozen years ago...”

 

The professional soldier shrugged slightly and raised his Watanae glass.

 

“Not quite, but getting there. How have you been, Kells?”

 

Her voice changed its pitch immediately.

 

“They’re hesitating to bring you back. It hate it! Your judgment call about leaving our scientist pal on his own to wander around Planet Earth made plenty of sense. It was a better choice for him and for us...”

 

Block stroked his chin, while thinking.

 

“So, now I get to bear the brunt of that decision. They stay safe from whatever skeletons Dr. Baines can dig up in the dirt of Ohio, and I have no voice to argue. They’ve shut me down, like a Cloitanium reserve, taken offline.”

 

His junior officer from the Morningstar huffed and hissed into her wireless device.

 

“IT’S NOT FAIR! WHAT YOU DID COVERED THEIR ASSES! THERE, I SAID IT OUT LOUD!”

 

Her former commander nodded and continued to drink.

 

“Do you think that’s the final straw? Are they done with me as a ship steward?”

 

Strafe glared at her screen. She turned bright red, feeling rowdy.

 

“I honestly don’t give a damn what they intend to do! You’re years away from retirement. The force needs people with your experience and rank. I was proud to serve on your watch!”

 

He sputtered through a mouthful of the crude libation.

 

“I appreciate that, Kells. But if they’re going to knock me down from the top peg, then it doesn’t matter. Without my post and position, I’m nothing. Just an empty jar. Worthless and vacant...”

 

The lieutenant flipped her long ponytail in defiance.

 

“NO! NO! NO! NO! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR THAT! DON’T GIVE UP ON YOURSELF! DON’T GIVE UP ON ME! DON’T GIVE UP ON YOUR CREW!”

 

Hornell Block raised his eyebrows. He was confused by such words of protest.

 

“The crew follows orders. You follow orders. I used to... follow orders. Now, it appears that I’ll be told to stand down, for good. So be it, there’ll be more time to drink here with hardhats from Jupiter and Saturn and wherever-the-hell-else mankind has gone!”

 

Kelly Strafe lowered her tone to a whisper. Her eyes narrowed with catlike intensity.

 

“Sir, the onboard team is ready. I’ve been canvassing our recruits. To a man, or woman, everyone is loyal. They remember your strength as a crew chief. Their faith in your skills and temperament hasn’t wavered. They know you better than any of the bureaucrats who run our colonies!”

 

Her superior officer gestured with gratitude.

 

“That’s great Kells, thanks for the vote of confidence. But we’re stranded without a tug to sail. The planets will exist without us, without me, without the Morningstar...”

 

His erstwhile aide screeched and spat metaphorical fire.

 

“WE’RE READY TO GO BACK INTO SPACE! THE CREW IS READY! I’M READY! THE DOCK TECHNICIANS ARE READY! CALL IT A MUTINY, OR REVOLT, OR WHATEVER! GIVE THE ORDER, AND WE’LL ALL LEAVE MARS TOGETHER! IT’S TIME TO GO BACK TO EARTH, AND FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT PALE GEEK WITH THE THICK GLASSES!”

 

Block felt a chill run over his skin. He had turned clammy.

 

“Go back into space? With the Morningstar? Be careful now, there are voice sensors in these walls. You can’t be certain of who might be listening...”

 

Strafe laughed at his warning.

 

“Here at the space dock maybe, but not where you’ve landed! The grunt workers at Bradbury Cove are barely human, by our standards. I’m surprised they haven’t already staged an insurrection with their mob.”

 

Her deposed commander finished his drink, and slouched low over the bar.

 

“They still hang traitors, you know. So to speak. You get an isolation cell in the brig, then a round in the wellness chair of some quack physician, with electrodes strapped to your skull...”

 

The lieutenant snorted and sneered with rebellious confidence.

 

“I trust the team. Every last one of them! Give me the go sign, and I’ll make it happen. All you need to do is be ready. Be ready for the biggest adventure of your military career!”

 

Even after a half-dozen measures of Jovian Watanae, suddenly, he felt sober.

 

“Be ready? It’s that easy?”

 

His junior aide bared her teeth, and roared like a wild creature.

 

“BE READY! I’LL HAVE OUR VESSEL ON THE WAY BY TOMORROW MORNING!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Seventeen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

Dr. Judson Baines had made a bold choice in piloting his Digger shuttle back to Planet Earth, and the remote locale of Evergreen Estates. It was a step taken in the interest of research and discovery. Things that had guided his life for years. He never spent much time pondering the mysteries of their universe from a theological perspective. Science was enough. What he could observe and study and measure, was real. Anything else, from antiquated concepts of faith and prayer, to political loyalties and tribalism, were beside the point of being alive. He was present and active as a scholar. Always watching his surroundings, free of prejudice. Without fear, but never short on hope.

 

Yet after realizing that he had stranded himself in a place forgotten by history and disconnected from mankind as a species, this cold tilt in his perceptions began to change. Wandering though vacant streets in the trailer community, he felt infinitesimally small. Insignificant and invisible. A mere grain of sand in a vast hourglass, counting away minutes in an eternity. Residents from the village of mobile homes had been desperate to escape the chaos of their own sins. Yet by surging forward to seek new vistas in the solar system, they scattered seeds that were necessary for sentient beings to survive. Their courage, however fleeting and ill-founded, kept the timeline constant.

 

Like settlers who originally populated the Americas, looking for free land, conquest, and opportunity, they unwittingly brought life to a new civilization on planets circling, afar. After escaping the judgment of guilt and consequences that they and their forebears rightly deserved.

 

Baines had landed in the midst of a graveyard, with the intention of peering at tombstones, and cataloging their inscriptions. Now, one etched with his own name could join the rest. In a sense, this fate would bring his bloodline fully back to where the circle had begun.

 

With his insides growling for sustenance, the university professor decided to hike along Pine Trail Road, toward the nearby township square. He reckoned that scouting the local landscape might be a useful diversion from thinking about his famished plight among the pines. And it would widen the scope of his mission. Something that was sure to yield genuine archaeological benefits. He strode up Sidley’s Hill, over what was left of the tarmac. Turning left and right from the centerline when necessary, to avoid spots where the hard surface had given way to incursions by nature. He basked in a golden glow from Old Sol, in the sky. Eventually, the heat made him short of breath, and dizzy. He had fallen out of condition, for going so long without a regular regimen of exercise. And so many skipped meals, in the interest of preserving his depleted stores of food. But determination kept him in motion. He refused to surrender.

 

Having crested the hill at what was once Route 528, he saw scattered debris and clusters of abandoned vehicles. Doors and hatches were open, tires deflated, and windshields cracked. Rust had spread without hindrance. Weeds and tall grasses surrounded the metal masses of junk. But beyond the intersection, he spied something else. A sight that revived his spirit with a burst of unbridled joy.

 

Wild corn, growing in a field located diagonally from where he stood!

 

He cried out in a fashion that was uncharacteristically humble and reverent.

 

“THANKS BE TO... GOD! IF THERE IS A GOD! AMEN!”

 

A light rain started to fall as he reached the agricultural boundary of this uncultivated field. Yet the drizzle only served to lighten his mood. He danced in and out of corn stalks, plucking ears here and there, for his synthetic backpack. Soon, he had stuffed the sack full of edible goods. The harvest would fill his belly, and bolster him in finishing the work at Evergreen Estates.

 

In the evening, he built a fire from discarded lumber that had been piled next door to his great-grandfather’s manufactured abode. He roasted the maize bounty eagerly, and consumed it while listening to a radio broadcast from Roosevelt Station. Once again, the unpredictable weather patterns had turned in his favor. The signal from Atlantia was clear and strong.

 

“Here’s an old favorite by Haywire Mac, the songwriter and performer Harry McClintock. ‘The Big Rock Candy Mountains!’ Sing along folks, I know you’ll recall the words!”

 

Dr. Baines thought that he remembered someone in his family twanging out a version of the tune, when he was very young. But he could not be certain. He listened intently while enjoying his improvised meal.

 

“One evening as the sun went down

And the jungle fire was burning

Down the track came a hobo hikin’

And he said, ‘Boys, I’m not turning

I’m headed for a land that’s far away

Besides the crystal fountain

So come with me, we’ll go and see

The Big Rock Candy Mountains’

 

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

There’s a land that’s fair and bright

Where the handouts grow on bushes

And you sleep out every night

Where the boxcars all are empty

And the sun shines everyday

All the birds and the bees

And the cigarette trees

The lemonade springs

Where the bluebird sings

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.”

 

The professional educator smiled when hearing the word ‘boxcar.’ It reminded him of the prefabricated dwellings, some of which still had their wheels underneath. A sign that at least a few of the residents had intended to pull their homes out of the park. Though to what better destination, he could not imagine. With war and collapse touching every corner of the land, picking another site to set up camp would’ve made little difference.

 

Upon polishing off a half-dozen ears, he belched loudly. Then stood up on the outside porch.

 

“Okay old man, where did you hide the hooch? I’ve been here long enough. It’s time that I sampled your Tennessee liquor. Just one swig, my bloodstream isn’t accustomed to that kind of abuse...”

 

Baines rummaged through the cupboards until he found a sealed bottle. The contents were still brown and potent from aging. He twisted the stopper and took a swallow directly from the glass neck. Then coughed and fell backwards on his posterior.

 

“DAMNNNN, GREAT-GRANDPA, THAT STUFF REALLY PACKS A PUNCH! YOUR TASTE BUDS MUST HAVE BEEN MADE OUT OF IRON!”

 

He fell asleep that night while dreaming verses of the Haywire Mac classic. Visions of tobacco smoke and echoes of hillbilly music filled his head. He had likely reached the conclusion of his stay at the rural development, poking around in the rubble. Now, he needed to make an important decision.

 

What should he do next – go off traipsing around the continent, or even, the globe, or find a way to get home to Mars?

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes - "Return Mission, Part Sixteen"

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

Considering that Planet Earth had seen not only its geography changed by a century of conflict, but also its climate and weather patterns, the venerable, blue sphere was in good condition. A scarcity of human inhabitants only enhanced its ability to heal and thrive. Varieties of vegetation not seen in thousands of years were springing up, again. Wild animals roamed freely. Insects mutated and multiplied. In a sense, the Garden of Eden had been reborn. Mankind’s exit as an irritant had paid incredible dividends.

 

Yet somewhere in that mix of elements, there were still high-functioning, sentient beings afoot. Unlike their progenitors, they had learned to live in harmony with nature. But the cowboy spirit that drove them to seek out new worlds and explore, was gone. Now, they were content to simply be present and participating in the panoply. Order reigned. Dissent was looked upon as an act of cultural violence.

 

In Calimex, as on the Red Planet, their human species had evolved to a higher, saner level of existence.

 

But for Dr. Judson Baines, who still considered himself to be a student scholar, immersed in the learning process, this metamorphosis was not completely positive. He mourned the loss of individualism. The character that sired innovations and spurred their society to wander. They had spread out through the planets, to escape the woes of their mistakes. Yet now, the seeds of humanity had become rootbound. Overgrown in their pots. Unable to continue the evolutionary process. Unable to rise above what they had become, by chance.

 

So, when an energy signature of the Toqua Platte probe triggered sensors onboard the Digger shuttle, it tripped an alarm which squawked for attention. And, caused the university professor to ponder this unexpected happening with much interest. He went running toward the small craft, to have a look.

 

“Who would be sending up flares over an empty continent? I don’t get it! We’ve never thought that any survivors on this big rock were that sophisticated!”

 

He tracked the probe trajectory, which seemed to be aimed at their nearest partner, still identified with a minimalist moniker from antiquity. Luna, the Moon. A gentle arc saw the metal spike slowing slightly, with gravity taking effect. Its course adapted in kind, before curving gently into orbit. Then, it paused over a specific spot on the rocky crust.

 

The carcass of Alpha-One glistened in naked, solar light. There were no inhabitants left to offer a greeting. Only empty chambers and structural forms created by a different, more impetuous generation. He saw the mechanism wobble, as it struggled to find a proper balance between inertia and the decay of velocity. Its boosters fired in sequence. Then, there was a violent surge off course. He imagined technicians and engineers frantically cursing their fate. The Venmax probe plummeted precipitously, while twisting and turning on its axis. Finally, it crashed into the shadowy depths of a lunar crater. Plumes of ancient dust rose above the horizon, and scattered like bits of confetti.

 

Baines knew well how crestfallen and cheated they must have felt.

 

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! Thank goodness it was probably an unmanned ship! Whoever sent that thing into outer space doesn’t yet have a handle on traveling between heavenly bodies. They don’t know what they think they know!”

 

His store of protein squares had become depleted. Despite economizing with rations, a grumbling in his belly testified to the dire situation. Soon, he would either be forced to kill some living organism, in the woods beyond Evergreen Estates, or die of hunger. This dramatic prospect put him in a sober and serious frame of mind. He returned to the boxcar residence at Lot 13, and kept his thoughts diverted by reading more entries in his great-grandfather’s journals.

 

“In this new era of isolation, I am always blitzed. I think that the surviving members of our government like it that way, to see us drunk and doped. It means less bitching about harsh conditions, especially in winter. Somehow, bottles of whiskey always seem to make it through the barricades. The store at our township center has been mostly empty for months, even years. We’ve heard about bomb blasts at production facilities, and raids by the Army to feed their troops. I don’t know who is actually in charge. But I figure that it doesn’t matter much. Who wants to rule a kingdom in ruins? More residents bugged out this week, the Larman transports have been carrying volunteers away at a remarkable pace. Everybody wants to hitch a ride to Mars! But I’m too old to go now. My legs won’t work unless I use walking sticks. It makes me hobble around like a marionette with bad strings. This neighborhood is so empty that nobody notices. I can stand on my deck outside, and piss in the wind. The back railings have turned yellow. There used to be notices left in the door about violations like that, but now yards up the street have gotten out of control. Weeds adorn the trailers, as if Mother Nature decided to reclaim this development for herself. I’ve been living on canned, Vienna Sausages and Miller High Life. The market on our square hasn’t had a lot on their shelves. Last week I got a loaf of bread. I’m trying to make it last. But the final few slices are turning green. They taste like cardboard. Still, it’s better than starving...”

 

With the weather changing again, it had become more difficult to pick up signals from Roosevelt Station, in Atlantia. He enjoyed hearing their broadcasts of old-timey, hillbilly music. A throwback to ancient culture that he had not expected. Listening helped to soothe his mood. He started leafing through cookbooks across the street, at the empty home of a grandmother who had apparently been a close confidante and caretaker for his bygone relative. These volumes were sprinkled with photographs of oddball culinary creations. Many used Aspic in some form, or canned meats like SPAM. A particular dish that boasted the flavor appeal of grape jelly smeared over carrots and baked codfish nearly caused him to spew. Yet after flipping through those weathered pages, he felt fuller inside. Almost as if some magic had transferred those imaginary meals to his gut.

 

Back at the abode of T.C. Lincoln, he found an Ithaca Model 37 shotgun in one of the closets, and some unexpended shells. He stroked the long firearm, thinking of its value as a tool to secure his future. Would it serve to end his torment, before wasting away to little more than a bag of bones, which were sticking out through his taut, pale skin? Or, would he violate the vegan upbringing learned on Mars, and fill his stomach with an act of harvesting no one in his bloodline had committed in generations?

 

The choice made him sweat, and shake.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Fifteen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

Arbiter Goland Pick stood before a shiny, keyless display panel at Toqua Platte, in the western district known as Calimex. He had a narrow, tattooed strip of ink on his bare skull that denoted being a member of an upper caste. Something carried by few in their coastal region. Yet the significance was more technical than an indication of rank or status. It denoted his skill as an engineer, something that was greatly valued in the postwar era. Thinkers like himself had helped to resurrect their civilization after the perilous calamity of contending with unrest in Middle America. He was valued and respected. Looked upon with a sort of religious significance.

 

Though in this new age, survivors of the Great Uprising had little time for worshipping deities.

 

Ambition had propelled the isolated society to attempt revisiting a lunar base once established at Mare Frigoris, on the familiar satellite’s near side. A Venmax probe was sent to investigate conditions at Alpha-One, an installation that was abandoned when recruits were called home to aid in quelling forces of resistance that were loyal to the MAGA Defense. Yet when this small craft stealthily snooped above the atmospheric perimeter of their world, it detected something amiss in what had been the State of Ohio. The clear signature of a Cloitanium C-drive registered on its instruments.

 

This unexplained anomaly made the arbiter clutch at his belly, and curse with disbelief.

 

“What in the name of Neil deGrasse Tyson is that?”

 

An aide who was busy processing data from the craft, looked up from his own console. He appeared to be very young, no more than a teenage prospect brought from one of their university campuses along the Pacific Ocean. Yet his comprehension of this oddity spoke much about the experience he carried.

 

“Mr. Pick, I analyzed the stream from our probe for errors, just in case. The signature is genuine. Would you like to divert our mission to investigate? The Moon won’t be going anywhere...”

 

His superior technician laughed softly.

 

“Thank you, Gene. Let’s stay on course. I need to map the region where Alpha-One is located, and have that information ready for a meeting of the provincial governors, next week. They’ve got an appetite to reopen the base if possible. It’s as much a of a vanity project as anything else. You know, a way to inspire our citizens. I don’t care about such nonsense. But the benefit in terms of stargazing would be enormous. There is no interference from weather or clouds on the Moon. I like the idea of having it in our array of options for research.”

 

Eugene Pataki nodded while fiddling with his virtual controls. He had the slender profile of a plucked chicken. With a pale complexion to match.

 

“Very good, Mr. Pick. But what about the C-drive echo? Will you inform our benefactors at the university?”

 

The arbiter coughed into his fist.

 

“NO! SAY NOTHING ABOUT THAT! IT’LL ONLY GET THEM RILED UP AND ANXIOUS! IT’S HARD ENOUGH TO EXPLAIN OUR WORK WHEN THEY ARE IN A SANE STATE OF MIND! STORIES ABOUT SOME MYSTERIOUS PHENOMENON WOULD TURN THEM CRAZY! LIKE COCKROACHES SCATTERING FROM THE LIGHT!”

 

Again, his youthful aide nodded obediently.

 

“The intensity is minimal, sir. At that level of propulsion, whatever is generating such a signature would have to be diminutive in size, with a short range. Like a wave-hopper, or a limited transport. Perhaps it’s a search party from the eastern district of Atlantia? We haven’t made contact with them in 20 or 30 years...”

 

Goland Pick chortled derisively.

 

“ATLANTIA? PLEASE, YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE ME HURL! THOSE MOUNTAIN DWELLERS ARE TOTALLY BACKWARD. THEY’VE TAKEN TO BURNING FOSSIL FUELS AGAIN, AND CUTTING DOWN TREES FOR SHELTER. THEY EVEN INGEST ANIMAL MEATS! I THANK THE STARS THAT WE’VE MANAGED TO AVOID THAT SORT OF CIVILIZATIONAL DECLINE!”

 

Gene slapped himself on the cheek, in a mock episode of punishment.

 

“Sorry, Mr. Pick! I’m sorry, so sorry!”

 

The arbiter smiled at this self-effacing gesture.

 

“I pity them, in truth. They’ve cut a swath out of the rubble, from old Maine along the coast, to the edge of New Jersey and Delaware. Those areas weren’t so drastically affected by battles with the rebel militias. Didn’t you learn about all of that in grade school?”

 

His subordinate technician shrugged and flushed red with embarrassment.

 

“Of course, sir. But all of that was so long ago, and so far away. How do we know what really happened? How do we know what they are doing on the other side of this continent?”

 

Arbiter Pick cringed at the sound of this bold rhetoric. It made him fear that their conversation might be monitored through listening sensors in the ceiling and walls.

 

“ENOUGH! DON’T TALK LIKE THAT, YOU’LL LAND US BOTH IN A CONFINEMENT CELL! OUR SANCTIONED VIEW MAKES US STRONG AS A PEOPLE, DON’T QUESTION IT! WE ARE FORTUNATE TO WORK HERE, AT THE PLATTE CENTER! WOULD YOU RATHER BE DIGGING DITCHES ALONG THE PCH COASTAL ROUTE? HARD LABOR SHORTENS LIVES AND BREAKS BACKS! NOT TO MENTION BREAKING YOUR SPIRIT!”

 

Eugene crouched low in his seat, as if being surveilled by an invisible lens.

 

“Sorry sir, I’m sorry! I’ll watch my tongue in the future. You are right to give me correction. But I still have to ask about the C-drive echo. Won’t they find that in our reports? Can’t they access the signal on their own?”

 

Goland Pick brought his palm down hard, on the control panel. It made a sharp popping noise, of flesh on plastic.

 

“I’ve deleted the encounter. Let’s consider it a malfunction. You know, static in the interplanetary link! Things like that happen all the time! It’s a function of working with leftover junk from the fallen California Republic...”

 

His aide frowned and chewed on a stylus.

 

“Isn’t that treason against the provincial governors, sir? Think about what would happen if anyone discovered your actions. The response could be very harsh.”

 

His supervisor lost control. He began to flail his arms and spit saliva, wildly.

 

“ENOUGH! ENOUGH! ENOUGH! QUIT STIRRING THE POT, GENE! YOU’LL HAVE DENIABILITY IF ANYTHING HAPPENS, IT’S ALL ON MY SHOULDERS! IS THAT GOOD ENOUGH? I’LL TAKE THE HEAT! NOW GET BACK TO WORK AND GUIDE THAT VENMAX PROBE TO ALPHA-ONE!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Fourteen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All Rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

Digger shuttles had been designed as a workhorse vehicle for vessels of the Space Force, but with a limited capacity for hauling. Fully loaded, they could only carry four crew members. Room for stowing cargo was at a premium, due to the need for onboard equipment to keep the craft on track and propelled by its C-drive, an engine fueled from the Cloitanium reserve. So, when Dr. Judson Baines began to collect journals penned by his great-grandfather, and artifacts from around Evergreen Estates, it quickly became obvious that he would have to curtail his appetite for such historical records. Instead of saving all these physical relics, he switched to documenting their existence in digital form. This method seemed more practical, if far less satisfying. At some point in the future, he would need to return with a larger carrier. But the unlikely nature of such an expedition turned him pale. Even getting off of the planet was an impossibility without a mothership in orbit. In his haste, he had willingly become stranded. Now, his fate was obvious.

 

His remains would be added to those who had perished at the rural oasis of mobile homes.

 

Staying busy with his work kept such morbid thoughts away. He had become so immersed in studying the pages scribbled by T.C. Lincoln, that any connection between his life as a curious traveler and scholar, and the abyss into which he had fallen, disappeared. Each session in the trailer sitting at Lot 13 fulfilled his desire to learn. He soaked up this newfound wealth of knowledge eagerly. Without any regrets over the drastic price of his hands-on education.

 

As seasonal patterns changed from summer into fall, he felt the air turn crisp and cool. Yet continued to read every day. A notebook of recollections jotted down after the Great Uprising had exploded, spoke vividly about one of the other residents in their neighborhood. A fellow for whom his distant ancestor seemed to have had little respect.

 

He read the words out loud, as if conducting a lecture at his university on Mars.

 

“Linnford Speck bugged out today, with his on-again, off-again spouse. I’ve always figured him for a coward, but seeing his rattlebox car limp toward the junction with Pine Trail Road sealed this perception, forever. He’s been an instigator and a rabble-rouser for years. People on my street say that he has a marble head, chiseled in the image of his hero, the MAGA King, in a spare room full of wartime paraphernalia. I wouldn’t doubt it to be true, but even with him escaping on a Larman transport, it isn’t worth having a look. He’ll be on that slow-moving lifeboat for a year at least. I wish him good luck. His spouse will probably kill him before they get to the Red Planet. She can’t run away this time. It’s damned ironic that somebody who kept striking matches finally jumped off this big rock, when things started to burn...”

 

Baines had read many tales about the mass migration that flung humanity across their solar system. But to see such events written in ink was nearly overwhelming. He had to pause in between the pages, and wipe fog off his thick lenses. His hands and fingers went numb. The stale aroma of aged parchment filled his nostrils.

 

After taking a short break for lunch, he realized that the food store in his tiny tug was nearly empty. He had another week’s worth of protein squares, a few filters for the water purifier, and some assorted sauces packaged in synthetic foil. A bit of discipline might stretch these rations for a longer period. Yet his survival would depend on finding other sources of sustenance. No one in his remote colony had ever eaten meat. It was considered barbaric and disgusting. And, wholly impractical for a race of beings that lived in sealed chambers on an unfriendly world. But now, he had to consider robbing the graves of his forebears. There were shotguns and rifles left everywhere. With plenty of ammunition. He had seen deer and other wild creatures in the woods. Even turkeys, with stout bodies and grand profiles. Plenty of potential firewood lingered in the rubble. He would have no problem creating an igniter, with batteries repurposed from the Digger. Still, when balancing the prospect of starving, or tasting the flesh of a living creature, the choice made him nauseous.

 

Should he kill and eat, to save himself?

 

Radio signals from Atlantia had become stronger in recent days. The skies were clearer, more conducive to allowing for night-time reception. He wondered if the citizens of that territory had rediscovered their former command of crude technologies, from 20^th Century America. In time, they might advance to a level more in keeping with the superior civilization in Calimex. Though by being on opposite sides of the continent, with bursts of aggressive weather prevalent in between, it might not matter.

 

If he had been a religious man, rather than a skeptic and disciple of science, he might have concluded that their separation was an act of God. Something done to prevent the chaos and conflict that nearly erased their presence as a species, from the universe. But as with worries over being alone in a hostile environment, he stayed dialed-in on laboring for good. He did not fret or feel sorry for himself.

 

The notes from his progenitor resonated loudly, in his skull.

 

“Aimes Hefti was marching around today, in his military get-up. Barking orders at his soldiers. Goosestepping, kicking his heels, practicing maneuvers with the militia team. I’ve always thought he was a jackass. But he does take the role of a neighborhood commander seriously. There are fewer and fewer grunts left to do his bidding though. We’ve been locked down for weeks, since the governor declared martial law. There are strange noises in the distance, big booms and sounds of metal being twisted out of shape. No wonder park residents are signing up to ride the transporters. I hear rumors about Congress being disbanded. But how would we know? Newspapers have been shut down, television is offline. I don’t know what the hell is happening. At least I’ve got a stash of Tennessee whiskey in my cupboards. When that runs out, I might actually have to shoot myself. I’ll never hop on one of those Larman rigs with that fat piece of shit, Mr. Speck!”

 

Judson Baines took off his spectacles, and sighed heavily. He rubbed his eyes for relief. Tomorrow, he would begin rummaging through the heap, once again. For now, he needed rest, and a useful diversion from the agony of what had transpired, a century before.

 

“Hey, old timer, did you leave any of that juice on the kitchen shelves, I wonder? Maybe it’s time that I had a look!”