c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(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 20th 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!”
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