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(4-26)
Earth from this vantage point was an unfamiliar place for Serge Tarka. He had never been outside of the coastal republic, except for participating in previous missions to study and land on their Moon. So in a sense, he had now become a foreigner on his own planet. While many preparations had preceded the launch of his vessel and crew, none of them were useful to him as someone who had become marooned in the heartland of North America. He was stranded in a wilderness environment that had none of the comforts associated with living in an organized society. Yet for the first time, he felt a complete lack of fear, apprehension, and anxiety. The constant threat of being overheard or monitored, when speaking candidly, was now gone.
He was no longer merely a numerical listing on a government roster. He had become a free man.
The trouble with this newfound sense of liberty, of course, was that he had now also surrendered every guidepost that gave him direction and purpose. He had been raised in an environment of conscription, education, and service, within the Calimex territories. He knew nothing else. His service as an engineer had been fulfilling to experience. It brought meaning to each day spent under the golden glow of a western sky. Indeed, he eventually grew so familiar with being watched and hounded by communal masters, that it simply became part of his routine. Much like the ocean tides and changing seasons.
Gazing across the long, grassy hillside, facing east, he wondered about where some form of shelter and security might be found. As their chaotic descent was occurring, in the Frigoris-Farragut craft, he had seen a marked quadrant of some sort, waiting below. A defined perimeter that appeared to have been man-made, for a specific use. It was situated along a deserted road that ran down the lazy incline. Into a forested area of growth. He guessed in the moment that it must have been some sort of visual anomaly, perhaps a trick of light and shadows. But now, there was no reason not to embrace that impossibility, and investigate.
Meekly, he stumbled down a natural path that had formed in between rows of tall foliage. Then hiked along what was left of the tarmac. Here and there he saw tire tracks from vehicles that must have used the route in olden times. Litter was still scattered along its crumbling edges. Crushed beverage cans, wrapping materials from food items, and empty containers that had once held motor oil and other automotive chemicals. He followed this lonely avenue deep into the brush and bramble, until it became a chore to turn aside the vegetation for room to pass through. After almost an hour of struggling, he crossed the span between where his disabled craft had put down, and the artificial boundary he had seen. There stood a weathered billboard, framed by pallet wood. A slouching flagpole towered over this painted sign. When he wiped away dirt and residue, an inscription became evident, barely legible, yet still offering a greeting to anyone who might read the bold lettering for clues about its existence.
“Evergreen Estates – A nice place to get started, or retire.”
Tarka took heart in seeing that his eyes had not been fooled. The community of mobile homes was distant from any other metropolitan center that had existed in the region, and must have been abandoned for a century, at least. But some of the facilities and manufactured dwellings were still standing on their concrete slabs. Decay and ruin now marked the property with indelible scars. Junk vehicles were everywhere, along with lawn tractors, outdoor furnishings, and garden decorations. A plaster gnome sat near the park entrance, as if put there to guard the rustic village. Its colors had faded, and any features carved in the statue were worn smooth. But the stout, stunted figure paid testimony to what had once been a thriving neighborhood.
The displaced mission commander felt a sense of empathy developing, as he walked from street to street. Each vacant residence offered a silent tribute to those that had lived within their prefab walls. There were still toys in the shattered windows, and blanket drapes, torn and frayed. White crosses dotted dead gardens, which had long been bereft of floral life. Cracks in the pavement were now inhabited by wild species of every sort. Water pooled in spots that reflected the sunlight with a sad glow of gray. A stench of rotting timbers and framing wafted from every boxcar hovel. What he beheld was more than simply a memorial to lost inhabitants and shifting priorities. It had become a graveyard, one that still held secrets buried under years of neglect.
On the corner by a maintenance garage, he saw a plaque for the on-site manager. It provided instructions for reaching their ownership offices, during out-of-service hours.
“The park manager will be available from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. on weekdays, except when there is a scheduling issue with one of our other properties, a staffing deficiency, a power outage, or a weather event. You may always telephone the emergency number listed here, or e-mail your concerns to: EEStates@GoldenFinancial.com.”
As he counted lots from the front corner, his attention fell upon an unexpected obstruction in the broken boulevard. Sitting sideways on the hard surface was a blocky conveyance with outriggers underneath, and an exhaust port in the rear. Its designation was clearly noted on each side. ‘Digger S-7.’ He had never seen such a modernistic transport, anywhere. Certainly not in his home state by the Pacific Ocean.
Carefully, Tarka circled the small vessel. There was a viewshield in front, which must have been designed to provide outward visibility for the operator. Its hull appeared to have been fashioned from some kind of composite material, which incorporated heat tiles to protect against atmospheric friction. But most surprising of all was a total lack of weaponry. It seemed to be intended for carrying passengers or cargo, like his own ship from Calimex. There was no sign that any offensive capabilities had been included in its makeup.
The shuttle revealed that someone else must have been present. A person unrelated to the site as a resident. Another explorer, perhaps, or misplaced traveler like himself. One who might also be seeking a way home. Now, he had to solve that riddle, in addition to gathering clues about the isolated neighborhood.
What good could possibly come of being stranded so far from home, in old Ohio?
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