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.
No comments:
Post a Comment