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!”

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Thirteen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

When Dr. Judson Baines first arrived at the trailer community of Evergreen Estates, as a clandestine immigrant, he felt like an outsider. The village of mobile homes stood in ruins. Completely overtaken by a creeping advance of nature. He was careful not to disturb the site, except when a need to investigate made him prod into the rubble like an archaeologist. There were clues everywhere, mostly obvious and troubling. Signs of a culture influenced by populism and capricious bouts of rebellion. He cataloged each lot individually, with descriptive notes jotted on his wireless tablet. A link to the Digger shuttle kept all of his records backed up properly. But when three or four weeks had passed, he realized that his old self had begun to retreat. Being immersed in the stink of this rural oasis, not only from its stench of death, but also, lingering whispers of abandonment, caused him to change.

 

Strangely, he now felt at home in the graveyard development.

 

Cloudy, dark, overcast conditions were apparently the norm for Ohio in modern times. He rarely saw any direct sunlight. Though there was enough of a glow from Old Sol to light his path through the streets and courtyards. His chance encounter with the radio station from Atlantia was something never repeated. Though he fiddled with the onboard receiver in his stolen craft, hoping to again tune into their broadcasts.

 

Occasionally, he found decaying bodies in the empty, boxcar dwellings. These surprise encounters made him disgusted at first. He vomited outside once, when seeking to flee. But eventually, his role as a scientist and historian took over. Steeled with a desire to learn and document what he saw, the university professor grew internally stronger. More disciplined and perhaps, numb to the horror of skeletal remains riddled with shotgun blasts and rifle bullets.

 

Conflict had visited the isolated property for some purpose he did not know. The official saga of events as told on Mars spoke about a restlessness that permeated Middle America. Literally, a spark that lit the flame of their Great Uprising. Attempts had been made to quell this chaotic period, before society itself collapsed. Governing authorities were portrayed as benevolent and thoughtful. Yet in the end, crude emotions of prejudice and fear had overwhelmed the power structure. This tipping point coincided with the rise of technological advancement, and a desire by some to colonize the outer planets.

 

Now, Baines was peeling back layers of a metaphorical onion. With each strata revealed, he discovered that the truth was more complex in its totality. Though it had been supposed for over a century that most citizens in this central region of the continent had subscribed to aims of the MAGA Defense and its lust for a new order, he realized that voices of contrast had also resounded. The handwritten journals of his great-grandfather testified to that reality. He spoke as a Libertarian, a dissenter from every predetermined mode of thinking. Eventually, some kind of crackdown had sealed their fate. A sacrificial offering had been made, to preserve seeds of goodness for the future. His brain could not avoid making a quantum leap from that fact, to others on the intellectual road ahead.

 

If they had been spoon-fed lies about their origin as a transplanted race of beings, what other falsehoods were woven into that tattered fabric of obfuscation?

 

Upon having a second look through the trailer at Lot 13, he found photographs of Townshend Carr Lincoln and neighbors who had lived in the park. There were images of bonfires, macro-brewed refreshments, salty snacks vended by supercenter retailers, and weapons. Lots and lots of weapons. Pistols, long guns, even ceremonial swords fashioned from Viking patterns. Knives and hammers and axes, and flasks of caustic chemicals. After sorting through this trove of pictures, he realized that his ancestor had intended to create reference material for tomorrow. His careful analysis of their habits was too painstaking to be accidental. Too meticulous to have occurred by chance.

 

One phrase had been captured over and over by his wandering camera lens. ‘Make America Great Again!’ The very inspiration for their nickname, given not with respect but as an insult by federal stewards from their national capital. This slogan had been tattooed, smeared, spray-painted, and flown defiantly on banners across the region. Detainees had it branded into their flesh, at camps where they were processed and incarcerated. Though as a matter of history, they slipped into a void of non-existence. Their identities were erased from the rolls. Their ashes dumped in pits of waste. Their families encouraged to join the egress to Mars.

 

The Red Planet had offered them refuge, and absolution.

 

Among the trashy possessions of his deceased progenitor, Baines found a Sanyo boombox, which incorporated functions for intercepting radio signals, or playing compact discs and cassette tapes. It was left sitting behind a row of framed memories, whiskey bottles, trinkets, and beverage cans. Unplugged and dusty, but likely, still able to be put back into service. The outdated artifact got him jazzed on recreating his brief connection with the eastern kingdom. There were inputs of all sorts in the matrix of his shuttle. With some improvisation, he guessed that it might be possible to power the crude device.

 

He labored for several days, twisting wires and hunting for suitable connectors. None of the manufactured homes on surrounding lots had the parts he needed. But he refused to surrender hope. This exercise made him recall being taught about Thomas Edison, a figure of renown from their original homeworld.

 

Late on a Friday evening, he spied a cardboard box full of electrical hardware, in the Evergreen Estates maintenance garage. This wealth of junk contained exactly what he needed. A wall outlet lay on the surface, wrapped with a stout extension cord. When he ran back to his Digger craft with this prize, it did not take long to rig up a connection. The necessary voltage represented a mere pittance of what the vessel could generate from its Cloitanium reserve.

 

He plugged in, and started twisting the rotary tuning dial. Static and ambient noise echoed inside of the tiny spaceship. Then, there was a musical burst of comic relief.

 

A disc jockey in Atlantia had dropped his needle on a wax platter by Homer & Jethro.

 

“Here they are, the Thinking Man’s Hillbillies, with their rendition of ‘The Battle of Kookamonga!’ It’s an all-star parade here on your king of the airwaves, from Roosevelt Station!”

 

The doctor felt his jaw go slack as he listened. Something about the antiquated cube did a better job of sifting signals from the moist, musty air, than his 22^nd Century transporter.

 

As the farcical song played, he smiled broadly, for the first time in a month.

 

“In nineteen and fifty-nine, we took a little hike

With our scout master down to lake Oneeganite

We took a little pizza and we took some sauerkrauts

And we marched along together till we heard the girl scouts

We’re the boys from Camp Kookamonga

Our mothers sent us here for to study nature’s ways

We learned to make sparks by rubbing sticks together

But if we catch the girls then we’ll set the woods ablaze..”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Twelve”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-24)

 

 

The justice hall at Camp Clavius on Mars was an austere creation. A place built wholly for functional purposes. Not to inspire loyalty in citizens through the artifice of architectural grandeur. An anonymous trial guard sat at the side of a judicial bench, keeping watch over all proceedings that took place on their busy schedule. Adjudicator Nongsol Ghalen entered the chamber with a stiff gait that testified to his age and long service in the military court. He wore a traditional robe patterned after the garb used at early tribunals held on the Red Planet. A long sheath, halved with hues of black and gray.

 

“Be seated, everyone! First case on the docket is an issue with Commander Hornell Block, and his stewardship of the Morningstar III. Barrister Lara Polangor will handle the prosecution, on behalf of Space Force authorities. I cede time to her now, for an introduction to the case...”

 

The statuesque, female attorney stood up slowly, with a wireless tablet under her arm.

 

“Your Honor, I would like to address the court respectfully. But what transpired around Planet Earth in recent days is difficult to describe, politely. I believe that the commander committed an act of wanton negligence, Or perhaps, sedition!”

 

Gasps sounded from the officers who were present as witnesses.

 

Adjudicator Ghalen frowned and stroked his hairy chin.

 

“Sedition? I would advise you to choose your words carefully, Ms. Polangor...”

 

The legal expert nodded and folded her arms, defiantly.

 

“Sir, I have evidence stored on my tablet which indicates that Block willfully allowed Dr. Judson Baines to escape with a Digger shuttle from the flight deck of his vessel. This amounts to theft from the people of our Mars colony. And certainly, from the force!”

 

More gasping could be heard around the cramped workspace.

 

The presiding judge tapped his gavel lightly, for order. He turned to the face the accused, directly.

 

“Commander, how do you plead before this court?”

 

Block smiled as if the potential for spending years in a brig somewhere did not cause him to feel afraid.

 

“Your Honor, I’d need a definition for the concept of guilt before I could answer that question, accurately.”

 

Polangor nearly dropped her device and a ream of paperwork.

 

“WHAT IN THE WORLD? THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!”

 

The adjudicator’s gavel made a knocking sound akin to a woodpecker assaulting a tree.

 

“Order, everyone! Order! Commander, explain yourself! Or be held in contempt!”

 

Hornell Block took the metallic badge off of his uniform tunic, and held it gingerly in two fingers.

 

“Judge Ghalen, I earned this at the academy. After years of study and preparation. Being promoted to my rank, and appointed to lead the team on an interplanetary voyager is a privilege few soldiers get to experience. I’ve never taken that for granted. But there are words in the oath I took, that mean more than simply pledging loyalty to our civilization. Our ancestors came here to start over. They had witnessed the decline and downfall of humanity, at its birthplace. I swore to protect and preserve mankind as we know it today. That promise, I believe, means more than following orders. It also stands for thinking ahead of the curve. Being proactive. You know? Going toward danger, into the breach, instead of running away.”

 

The adjudicator cleared his throat. His mood became impatient, while pondering.

 

“Get to the point, man! What are you trying to say?”

 

The ship commander sharpened his tone and leaned forward.

 

“Dr. Baines uncovered journals at Evergreen Estates, in what used to be known as Ohio. We had already determined that two coastal societies were thriving on the North American continent. Calimex, to the west, and Atlantia, to the east. Though each state is apparently aware of the other, they have little contact. The western district is more sophisticated by our standards. The eastern one has evolved in reverse, with a style of living humans once enjoyed early in the 20^th Century. These approaches to surviving both work for their purposes. But neither would serve our needs in this colony, or on other worlds in the solar system. Moreover, the descriptions included in notebooks found by the university professor talk about things that are unknown to our people. We’ve been fed a sanitized version of history for generations. Maybe that has been for the best. But setting Baines free among our citizens could be reckless. Even unpredictable! Still, I wouldn’t want to be someone who stifled his effort to learn. He has a right to dig through the rubble. The mess made on that soil is ours, by proxy. We’ve inherited the DNA of those sins and sinners. They created us, by leaving behind the wreckage and guilt...”

 

A stunned silence took hold in the chamber. Finally, Ms. Polangor slammed her documents on the stand where she had been assigned to rest.

 

“WHAT IS THE POINT OF THIS NONSENSE? YOUR HONOR, IF IT CONTINUES, I’LL HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO FILE FOR A CHANGE OF VENUE!”

 

Adjudicator Ghalen broke his code of conduct by laughing out loud.

 

“Lara, this is a military proceeding! You don’t have that option. It’s a bench trial, I run the show. I make all the decisions. So, I’ll ask the subject of this hearing once again, what are you trying to say?”

 

Commander Block leaned over his knees in the witness box. He was flushed red from stress. Yet clear in his speech.

 

“I’m supposed to protect everyone under my care. That includes those of you back home, on Mars. That’s a big responsibility. To protect in every way, right? Well, if I allowed Baines to come back here and spout off about his discoveries, that might rattle people like you, sir. And if I crushed his operation, if I confiscated his manuscripts and evidence, that might halt our mission to investigate and understand. Balance is my watchword. I figured on keeping some sort of balance between doing the right thing, and treading carefully. So, I let him go off on a tangent. For now, that seemed like a safer bet. He can get lost in the woods. Satisfy his curiosity, and do no harm in the meantime. That’s a dead zone now, the middle of a great empire that collapsed. He's got plenty of room to wander. I hope he doesn’t get killed by a bear, or his own stupidity. God help him as he sifts through the ashes. And God help us, when he finally comes back to this planet, and proclaims his truth. I hope by then, we’ll be ready...”

 

Nongsol Ghalen pounded his gavel so forcefully that it left a mark in the composite countertop of their judicial bench. His graying beard dripped sweat.

 

“You’ve made your point, Mr. Block! I rule that your command will be suspended for 90 days. In the interim, you can spend time with your family in New Cleveland. Otherwise, this case is dismissed!”