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!”
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