Nobody Reads This Page – “Leaving Here”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

The victory on Election Day by Donald J. Trump was an event described as both improbable and historic, by pundits across the nation. These terms were first used in 2016 to detail a mood of shock at his upset of Hillary Clinton. But they resonated even more loudly, today. Every accepted norm about political life in America has seemingly been broken by this controversial figure. He was adored by some on the right, though many of the Republican tribe openly expressed their opposition to his candidacy in 2024. Counterparts across the aisle have perhaps never despised anyone so vigorously. Even Goldwater, Nixon, and George W. Bush, who all drowned in waves of negative opinion, are pale by comparison. The Orange Man evokes hateful, descriptive words such as ‘fascist’ or ‘Nazi’ with great ease. Yet like the creature of a distant Star Trek episode, he feeds on those rebukes. Becoming stronger and more persistent with each confrontation.

 

I expected a tsunami of such emotions to flow, upon the announcement by major news networks that he had won out across our nation. Predictably, it did not take long for swastikas and Klan symbols to appear in posts on social media platforms, tagging him as a demon bent on destroying our safe haven of democracy. But many neighbors and members of my family responded in a different fashion, offering notes of applause and celebration. Notifications on my cell phone chirped away, throughout the wee hours. Cheers and jeers multiplied, as we approached the sunrise on Wednesday morning.

 

I did not support Trump on his quest in any way. So, suffering through a multitude of posts about personal grief over his return felt masochistic. I put my wireless device aside, and reached for a strong cup of coffee. Yet a day later, I noticed that some contacts in the cyber realm were offering details of their plans to exit the nation, altogether.

 

Canada, the United Kingdom, Spain, and even Peru were mentioned as potential destinations.

 

“I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS! I’M DONE WITH AMERIKKKA! VOTERS WILL REGRET THEIR MISTAKE, MARK MY WORDS! MARK MY WORDS!”

 

Even when I flipped the plastic wafer onto a couch pillow, while watching shows on my television’s DVR, the squawking continued.

 

“SCREW THE ANGRY CREAMSICLE! I WON’T HEIL THE FAT-FINGERED FÜHRER! HE CAN GO STRAIGHT TO MAGA HELL!”

 

These protestations echoed inside of my skull for hours beyond the actual closing of polls, and tabulation of results. But eventually, they were joined by the musical beat of a Motown classic from the golden era. A song written by Holland, Dozier and Holland. Released by vocalist Eddie, in 1963.

 

This vintage, vinyl artifact hit the bullseye as I visualized so many associates lining up to emigrate before Trump’s second inauguration.

 

“Hey fellas, have you heard the news?

These girls are tired of being misused

I’ve seen it all in a dream last night

Girls leaving this town ‘cause we don’t treat ‘em right

Oh, they’re catching a train (Catching a train)

Flying a plane (Flying a plane)

Leaving here (Leaving here, leaving)

Leaving here (Leaving here, leaving)

(Leaving here, leaving)

(Leaving here, leaving)

 

Lord, you fellas better change your ways

They’ll be leaving this town in a matter of days

The girls say instead of treatin’ them true

You fellas run around with someone new

Oh, they’re getting tired of it (Sick and tired)

Sick and tired (Leaving here)

(Sick and tired)

(Leaving here)

Oh (Sick and tired)

(Leaving here)

 

The love of a woman is a wonderful thing (Oh yeah)

But the way that we treat ‘em is a crying shame (Oh yeah)

One day, one day, and it won’t be long (Oh yeah)

‘Til all these fine girls’ll be gone (Oh yeah)

Oh, they’re catching a train (Catching a train)

Flying planes (Flying a plane)

Leaving here (Leaving here, leaving)

Two-by-two (leaving here, leaving)

They’ll be leaving you (Leaving here, leaving)

Goodbye boys (Leaving here, leaving)

 

And out the door (Leaving here, leaving)

Change your ways, fellas (Leaving here, leaving)

And start treating ‘em right (Leaving here, leaving)

They’ll be leaving this town (Leaving here, leaving)

 

Catching trains, riding planes (Leaving here, leaving)

Catching trains, riding planes (Leaving here, leaving)

Oh yeah (Leaving here, leaving)

Oh yeah (Leaving here, leaving)

 

 

Oh yeah...”

 

In personal terms, it was hard to imagine finding a confluence of so much money, and so many elites and cultural celebrities, all dedicated to stopping a repeat of woes at the ballot box for their Democratic kin. Trump had been excoriated, impeached twice, raided, indicted, convicted, and nearly assassinated. It literally did not seem possible that a candidate dripping with such disgust and derision could rise again as a person of consequence. But as our leaders have observed repeatedly since revolution birthed this rebel land, ‘The people have spoken.’

 

That cry of an eagle is still echoing, for good, or bad.

 

Harder still to process, was the thought that following the unending migration of immigrants across our southern border, the scales of citizenship might now be balanced by an egress of progressive thinkers and their allies. Could logic defend that kind of abdication? Someone with more experience in the paradigm of governance might be willing to debate the subject. Yet for this writer, a quiet meditation seemed better suited to the moment.

 

I decided to sit on my front porch with a casual brew, and ponder in silence.

 

A childhood lesson in civics and civility came from Grandma McCray, after the election of Richard M. Nixon in 1968. She was a lifelong supporter of working-class ethics, and had often enlightened me with stories about Franklin Delano Roosevelt. So, when this seismic shift in our national leadership occurred, I looked to her with innocent eyes, for guidance and wisdom. She did not urge me to look darkly upon his rise to power. Instead, she offered gentle words that abide with me, even now.

 

“I didn’t vote for that man, Rodney. But remember, he will be president for all the people. We only get one at a time. So, I’ll pray for him, and our country. That is the right thing to do...”

 

Cradling a cool bottle of pilsner in my right hand, while enjoying warm temperatures for November, I wondered out loud. Was it likely that those who chose Kamala Harris as their champion might offer such a petition to the Lord? One asking for mercy and grace to be bestowed? It did not appear to be likely.

 

Still, that leap of faith was easier to imagine than driving a U-Haul truck, all the way to Peru.

 

 

 

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Twenty-One”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

Judson Baines had been in a coma for nine days after crashing his Digger shuttle on the Morningstar III flight deck. Floating in a netherworld of non-existence. That was his new reality. During this time, he drifted through visions that were confused and uncontrollable. Doting on images from his childhood, and the innocent period when he first enrolled at the university on Mars. These visual echoes came in waves of sensory perception. He was reliving his mortal journey like someone reviewing a motion picture, in fast-forward mode. This restless period allowed him to heal, after the chaotic, cranial impact of his return to the mothership.

 

Then, his unconscious void was pierced by an unfamiliar figure.

 

“Y’ALL LOOK A LOT LIKE YER GREAT-GRANDPA, BOY! I MISS THOSE DAYS WHEN HE WAS RIGHT ACROSS THE SIDE YARD. WE MADE SOME GOOD MEMORIES! HOT DAMN! THAT FELLER HAD SOME STRANGE IDEAS, BUT I LIKED HIS STYLE. HE COULD DRINK WHISKEY LIKE IT WAS WATER! BUT NOW, I’M DOWN IN THE DEPTHS WITH THAT STINKY OL’ DEMON WHO RULES IN HELL! HE’S BORING AS FUCK! YA GET MY VIBE? ALL WE DO IS SIT THERE AT HIS LAKE OF FIRE AND WATCH THE SINNERS DROWN! IT’S THE SAME SHIT, EVERY DAY!”

 

Baines squinted to see through the ectoplasmic fog. The mystic visitor glowed in pale shades of gray and white, while hovering over his sick bed.

 

“Do I know you?”

 

The fierce, female apparition began to cackle.

 

“OF COURSE NOT, DUMBASS! BUT Y’ALL MIGHT SAY THAT I KNOW YER BLOODLINE. A HUNDRED YEARS AGO, I WAS A DAMN QUEEN IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD! EVERY RED-BLOODED MAN BENT HIS KNEE WHEN I CALLED THE SHOTS!”

 

The professional scholar struggled to grasp what he was witnessing.

 

“Neighborhood? You mean, that trailer park by Lake Erie?”

 

The seething spirit folded her arms defensively, and nodded.

 

“Y’all have been reading his diaries. Ain’t there anything in those pages about Ezzie Jonovic? I figured he’d have plenty ta say about my shapely ass!”

 

He had to pause while sorting through recollections from the archaeological dig at Evergreen Estates.

 

“Esmeralda? Umm... the militia leader who ended up eating shrapnel from a hand grenade?”

 

The dead militant blazed with an intense flash of irritation. Her flowing gown oozed streaks of red and black, in the pattern of a Confederate banner.

 

“SHOW SOME RESPECT, DICKHEAD! YER GREAT-GRANDPA HAD SOME STONES! WE DIDN’T SEE EYE-TO-EYE ON THINGS, BUT I LIKED HIS COURAGE. HE WAS A STRAIGHT-UP DUDE! I ALWAYS WANTED HIM TO JOIN THE MAGA DEFENSE! HE WOULD’VE BEEN ONE HELL OF A PATRIOT SOLDIER!”

 

Baines felt groggy. It was difficult to concentrate while teetering on the brink of oblivion.

 

“From my research, I’d say he was drunk most of the time. So, it’s hard to think that he would’ve helped your cause. He seemed to have few friends in that community...”

 

Ms. Jonovic kicked up her bootheels. Her fingertips shot sparks that sizzled and smoked.

 

“HOO BOY! OUR SOLDIERS KEPT THINGS GOING, EVEN AFTER I TOOK MY HELLRIDE! BUT IT ALL CAME APART WHEN PEOPLE STARTED BUGGING OUT FOR OTHER PLANETS. THAT’S A FREAKING STRANGE IDEA, WHO DOES THAT SHIT? THERE WAS A WAR GOING ON, WE NEEDED COMBAT TROOPS! NOT COWARDS HOPPING ON SPACESHIPS!”

 

The university nerd could feel her voice resonating inside of his skull. The hard tone of her voice gave him a headache.

 

“Were there any heroes in those days? I don’t think so, from what I’ve been reading. They ruined the homeworld. Though there was plenty of guilt to go around...”

 

The spooky she crept closer until her hot breath burned his skin.

 

“GUILT? Y’ALL WANT TO TALK ABOUT GUILT? WHAT ABOUT ALL THE GAWDAMM POLITICAL CORRECTNESS, AND GOVERNMENT LOCKDOWNS, AND CENSORSHIP, AND MANDATES? THAT SHIT MATTERED, BRUH! THEY WIPED THEIR ASSES WITH THE FLAG! BUT NOT MY FLAG, IT SAID ‘DON’T TREAD ON ME!’ THAT’S WHAT GOT THOSE WASHINGTON FUCKS ALL RILED UP IN THE FIRST PLACE! THE SOUND OF GOD’S ZEALOTS MARCHING INTO BATTLE!”

 

Baines would have rolled his eyes reactively, but he remained lost in a realm of slumber.

 

“That’s the angle I got from T.C. Lincoln’s notebooks. A culture clash between distant intellectuals, and the blue-collar residents of his mobile-home oasis. Once I get back to the Mars colonies, I can have a deeper dive into what he wrote. It must’ve been chaotic, especially with neighbors and friends leaving Planet Earth so abruptly...”

 

Jonovic hissed and spit white-hot bursts of fire.

 

“Y’ALL CAN’T IMAGINE, TRUST ME, BOY! THE FOLKS WHO HUNG AROUND WERE OLD AND CRAZY, OR THICK-SKINNED AND TOUGH! EVENTUALLY, THERE WASN’T A FUCK-OF-A-LOT LEFT. NOBODY EVEN COLLECTED LOT RENT ANYMORE. OR MOWED THE FIELDS. THE STRAGGLERS STAYED BECAUSE THERE WAS NOWHERE ELSE TA GO! THE WHOLE DAMN CONTINENT TOOK A SHIT! MAYBE IF I’D STILL BEEN IN CHARGE, THINGS COULD’VE BEEN DIFFERENT!”

 

He was puzzled by her emotions. She still had the passion of someone who was awake and alive, in every sense. A real-time witness to the damnation wrought by human error. Yet she had surrendered her mortality, a century before.

 

“I’ve got nothing to offer, Esmeralda. We’re on opposite sides of the veil, now. Go home to your demons. Let me go back to mine...”

 

The wailing eidolon hovered in a phantasmic mist. Her gaudy glow seemed to dim while reflecting on the futility of having escaped Hades, only to return in defeat.

 

She whispered through taut lips, with a breath of surrender.

 

“I never wanted to sit by the side of Satan, y’all get me? He’s a stale, old bastard. No fun at all. He don’t live up ta the hype! A damn boring fuck, that’s the truth. Be well, man. Keep reading those scribblings. Yer great-grandpa was a cool dude. I miss him. I miss the touch of a warm, male hand caressing my face...”

 

There was another flash of wild illumination. Then the medical ward, and his unconscious mind, went dark.

 

Kelly Strafe, still dressed in patient garb and looking pale from her own health crisis, was at his bedside. He opened both eyes reluctantly, with the artificial light stinging his optic nerves. The glare of equipment screens, and repetitious din of alarms sounding, made him blink out of reflex. When he tried to speak, his throat was dry.

 

“How long? How long did it take to pry me out of that wreck?”

 

His erstwhile companion flipped her long ponytail with surprise.

 

“JUDDY! MY GOODNESS, YOU’VE BEEN OUT FOR OVER A WEEK!”

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Twenty”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

Arbiter Goland Pick had been observing the Morningstar III carefully, from his console at the Toqua Platte Center, in Calimex. The foreign vessel had orbited Planet Earth for several days. A period long enough to make him believe that some sort of mission had been planned. This second appearance of the craft had him anxious about the possibility that superior forces from Mars might invade his coastal territory. Though the commander onboard had always described their colonies as being dedicated to non-violence, he did not believe such rhetoric. It was deeply imbedded in human DNA to seek dominance, and conquest, whenever possible. Any notion that a species of high-functioning apes could will themselves to be peaceful and content, seemed ridiculous. So, when the ship suddenly slipped out of its orbital circle, and turned back toward the Martian homeworld, there was a measure of disbelief hanging in its wake.

 

A cheer went up from the team on duty. But for the seasoned technician, there was only a sense that more questions had been aroused. Riddles that neither he, nor his officers, could answer.

 

As the sleek, silver transport faded from view, he turned toward his lead engineer, and called for a magnification of their search parameters.

 

“Increase our sensor range! Let’s follow that intruder until his drive signature has completely disappeared!”

 

Jordan N’Falah nodded in response, and tapped at his control panel. He had just begun his shift, after working twelve hours during the previous day.

 

“Aye sir, we can track them for maybe another 30 minutes. The C-drive gives them a capability to achieve stunning velocities. We don’t have anything so quick in our own fleet...”

 

Pick nearly roared at this comment. He flushed red, with irritation.

 

“OF COURSE WE DON’T! ESPECIALLY WITH OUR FAILURE TO CAPTURE THAT SHUTTLE VISITING THE RUINS OF OHIO!”

 

The assistant cringed slightly, and averted his eyes.

 

“I didn’t mean to rehash a bad memory, sir. It was simply a statement of fact.”

 

His superior at the center shook in his seat. Droplets of sweat trickled from his bald skull.

 

“The facts say that they came back here for some reason. Was it just to retrieve their wounded mule? I doubt it, but maybe. It seems like a huge effort just to rescue a lost pilot. We wouldn’t stoop to that level! Sacrifices have to be made! Yet I am just speculating. You don’t know, and I don’t know...”

 

N’Falah still felt groggy from having worked so many days in succession. His youthful constitution made it possible to survive such an ordeal. But his eyes struggled to focus.

 

“Their radio chatter is encoded, sir. I couldn’t pick up anything intelligible. They were in contact with a Mars base of some kind. Not a surprise, as that is their origin point. Still, I’d like to know what was said between here and there!”

 

Arbiter Pick groaned and clenched his right fist.

 

“OF COURSE YOU WOULD! I’LL BE QUIZZED BY LOTHARIAN GARDINO ABOUT THIS, UNDOUBTEDLY. HE WILL WANT ANSWERS, AND WE HAVE NOTHING TO GIVE. NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING!”

 

The junior engineer ducked his head as if avoiding shrapnel.

 

“Their course is steady now, sir. A short trip to the Red Planet, at cruising speed. It would take us a year to get that far.”

 

His top-ranked technician sputtered and spit saliva, as if he were having a seizure.

 

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I KNOW DAMNED WELL HOW LONG IT WOULD TAKE US! WE’RE STUCK LIVING LIKE CAVE CREATURES HERE! CAPTURING A C-DRIVE UNIT WOULD HAVE GIVEN US A CHANCE TO MAKE A QUANTUM LEAP OVER EVERYBODY ELSE ON THIS BIG PIECE OF ROCK!”

 

N’Falah nearly laid flat on his duty panel. He trembled while fiddling with the instruments.

 

“Aye sir! Aye, aye!”

 

Shortly after their verbal spat, the Morningstar III vanished from surveillance protocols. It had traveled far enough to turn invisible to the Pacific sensor array. Silence descended on the hub at Toqua Platte. Then, a rocket blaze curled over the horizon.

 

Goland Pick teetered forward in his swivel chair. A white-hot streak of energy crossed the viewscreen as he stiffened with uncertainty.

 

“Mr. N’Falah, what the hell was that? Did the Martian craft eject something on their way out of orbit?”

 

His technical subordinate battled a momentary rush of confusion.

 

“Our tracking devices show it came from the southern hemisphere, sir. A probe of some kind, sent from the region of... from the region of... Australia.”

 

The arbiter-in-command gasped and swooned in place.

 

“From where? C’mon now, you’ve got to have a better read on the situation! Recheck your displays! We haven’t seen or heard anything from that quadrant for decades. There can’t be much left down under, except for a few lizards, kangaroos, and stray Aboriginals...”

 

The junior technician shrugged and rubbed his eyes.

 

“It looks like a test firing of some sort, sir. Aimed toward the lunar disc. Our moon is at a convenient spot for study at this moment. Maybe they are curious, like us?”

 

Pick waved his palm across the control surface. A series of lighted tiles blinked in succession.

 

“We’ve been blind here for so long, how could they just appear out of the fog? We thought that isolated continent was dead...”

 

N’Falah brushed the dark skin on his forearms, while pondering. Then turned the sensor array to pick up any transmissions from the Australian land mass.

 

“I’m going to guess that this has no correlation to the Morningstar being in orbit, sir. It’s an odd coincidence, though. Things have been different since we realized that the Mars colonies survived and prospered, after the calamity of a century ago.”

 

The arbiter slouched in his seat, and huffed over this predicament.

 

“Prime Keeper Gardino won’t take any of this as happening by chance. He’s a suspicious wonk, always scheming for an advantage over his opponents. I doubt that he has any genuine friends, or allies. It’s a game of darts to that hard-nosed fellow. A matter of hitting targets and reaping the rewards...”

 

Sparkles of spent fuel trailed from the unmanned probe, as it streaked into the vacuum of outer space. No more activity registered on the Calimex monitors. Yet enough damage had been done to their confidence to last for weeks and months to come.

 

Jordan N’Falah began to fall asleep as the crew continued its work. He had pushed hard against his own limits of endurance. Now, it was time to surrender.

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Nineteen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

After her unexpected confrontation with Admiral Corel Nauga, Dr. Becka Stoudt had more questions remaining than answers. The surprising candor of her military opponent was informative, and helped to explain why those in the hierarchy on Mars were insistent upon keeping Professor Baines sidelined. Yet she was still puzzled about how he knew so much of what the university scholar had discovered at Evergreen Estates.

 

For clues, she began to research the origin of Tonka Hidecki’s most infamous creation.

 

Library entries that were accessible through a remote connection had been blacked out, officially. There was no explanation of this action, anywhere. But since the Morningstar III was still in orbit around Planet Earth, she decided to pursue a different and more secretive strategy. One that required using security overrides that were only available to a handful of personnel on the vessel.

 

As they circled the giant, blue orb from above, she began to send lines of code to a central hub used for communication between the Martian colonies, at Hellas Basin. Specifically, she referenced data stores with a connection to the isolated, Terran continent of Australia. This land mass had been virtually invisible during conflicts that erupted after the Great Uprising, a century before. Civilized groups still dotted the landscape, in remnant form, from Perth to Brisbane. Yet they held no interest in being paired with any fractured nation-state on the globe. Their distance from other populated areas had been an asset. One which they declined to surrender, in the modern world.

 

With a bit of computer trickery, Stoudt was able to make a connection through the main access point. She mimicked the username of a DNA match, someone mentioned in historical files submitted by patients at a clinic on the Red Planet. Then employed a fishing strategy to gain entry. Finally, background records began to appear on her monitor in the sick bay nexus. She scrolled through family reports about Hidecki’s bloodline, including the arrival of his grandparents from Japan on the northern coast of Aussie territory. After many pages, she found a description of his treatment device in a journal published by doctors that were part of the national health system. There, was the golden nugget she had been seeking. A sidebar column about the chair, its effects, and capabilities.

 

“Dr. Hidecki learned through months and years of clinical trials that his device could not only offer relief for those suffering from brain maladies, but also, retrieve memories through a backwards process of scanning brain matter and creating a map profile. Certain electronic signals were found to be associated with various reactive episodes in the cranium. Much like tapping a knee to measure the reflex, he was able coax patients into retelling embarrassing, childhood memories, as an example of extrasensory suggestion. Once this capability had been documented, however, he grew anxious about how the technology might be used outside of his laboratory. There was much interest among government agencies throughout the allied nations, about adapting it for their own purposes. His program of research ended at that point...”

 

Stoudt held her breath while reading through the last paragraph. Each word was a struggle to digest, intellectually.

 

“Physicians in Europe had been busy attempting to reproduce Hidecki’s experiments. Their peers in the United States experienced better luck working with what he had already created. But the timeline was interrupted by global war. Rumors of a prototype chair being taken to colonies on Mars persisted for the past 100 years, but remain unconfirmed. After the blockade of Australia, and an eventual depletion of inhabitants across the world, this story was left to languish in obscurity. The doctor’s fantastic creation is now a footnote for those who rummage through the legacy of lost civilizations...”

 

A rebellious mood welled up in her chest. She howled vocally, for no one to hear.

 

“YOU STOLE HIS MACHINE! YOU BASTARDS STOLE HIS MACHINE AND TURNED IT FROM A SCALPEL INTO A SCIMITAR!”

 

Her skin had turned pale and cold. But before she could exit her medical department, Hornell Block appeared in the doorway. His gruff demeanor indicated that some sort of update had been issued about their plans, from authorities in the continuum.

 

Dramatically, he covered the golden military badge on his chest.

 

“Becka, I’m here in a private, unofficial capacity. I hope you will respect that I came to you as a comrade from the crew, not a ranked superior...”

 

The doctor lifted her right eyebrow in an arc of puzzlement.

 

“Unofficial? I don’t get it. What’s disturbed your calm about following the chain-of-command?”

 

The top-level officer had to exhale forcefully, before offering an explanation.

 

“I received a surveillance report from my security agent, earlier this morning. It documents unusual, backchannel activity on the streaming network, from this vessel. That is something our benefactors at home might easily notice, should they be paying attention...”

 

Stoudt pursed her lips, and whistled innocently.

 

“Yes, so, did you locate an origin point?”

 

Her military counterpart lowered his eyes and nodded.

 

“Becka, you’re smarter than this! No one on this craft has clearance to poke around in classified material. Not even a lead physician like yourself. We all operate under guidelines set by the high council and its servants...”

 

The doctor laughed and gestured as if submitting to an arrest.

 

“So, what’s the punishment? You want to lock me up in our brig? That’d go over well with all the patients on this ward. Not to mention my own supervisors in the care network. But, do whatever you think is right!”

 

Commander Block tightened his muscles, and growled like a Martian dust storm.

 

“Gawdamm it, take me seriously, will you? I had the feed masked, that makes me an accomplice! Not to mention implicating our surveillance head. I wanted time to find out what you were doing. This morning, Admiral Nauga formally ordered the Morningstar to stand down from our primary mission, and jet back to the dock for a transfer of Kelly Strafe and Judson Baines to his custody. If his peers saw your clandestine research being conducted, there might be armed officers waiting when we arrive. Think of that if you don’t care about anything else. I can’t drag my feet, the orders have been given!”

 

Stoudt was emotionally rattled, yet stood firm on her conviction to do no harm.

 

“I can’t hand them over. They’re not well, neither of them are fit for incarceration or a trial, or whatever the hell they are planning! It’s my career to heal the sick. If I give that up, then my position here has no value. And I will have no soul! So, you’ve got two options, friend. Lock me up, or let me get back to work!”

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Eighteen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

Dr. Becka Stoudt stayed busy throughout her week of duty shifts, as lead physician on the Morningstar III. But once this supervisory routine had been completed, she was grateful to enjoy a day off in between blocks on the calendar. While lounging with a glass of Venusian extract, a crude wine made by explorers who first circled the inner planets in vessels powered by versions of the Gibidan impeller. She had focused on her two most notable patients to the point of feeling exhausted. Now, at least for a brief moment, she could relax and recharge. But before the potent beverage was half ingested, a notification chirp sounded from her com-link. The color indicated was bright red, which signified a priority call. Something that made her sit up straight and press the device firmly to her ear.

 

Admiral Corel Nauga was on the other end of this virtual connection.

 

“Doctor! I’m pleased to hear that you’ve got Judson Baines in your care. I expect that he will be fit for travel, very soon.”

 

Stoudt frowned at the rough tone of his voice. But she maintained a sense of decorum. Her casual dress betrayed being momentarily out-of-the-loop.

 

“He’s dehydrated and bruised. The landing on our flight deck was not exactly a textbook exercise. The Digger shuttle had reached its limit of endurance, I was told...”

 

The top-level officer snorted at her candid assessment.

 

“We’ll take good care of him here at the space dock. You need not worry about that. I’ve assigned our best emergency team to be ready for his arrival...”

 

The medical pro tugged at her synthetic-wool sweatshirt collar.

 

“I am not ready to release him to your custody, sir. He needs a few days to recover from being exposed to extreme weather, and the bumpy ride back to our home base...”

 

Nauga brought his right fist down on the primal console at Texas City.

 

“NONSENSE! YOU’LL RELEASE HIM IMMEDIATELY, PER MY ORDERS! ANYTHING HE NEEDS CAN BE TAKEN CARE OF HERE ON MARS!”

 

Dr. Stoudt put aside the half-glass of alcohol. Suddenly, her taste for refreshment had vanished.

 

“Admiral, I make the decisions about patients on this ward. That’s written into your procedures. Look it up if you doubt my opinion. I’m not a soldier, and I don’t answer to anyone in the chain of command, regardless of their rank...”

 

Her superior was fuming, and nearly cross-eyed with rage.

 

“IS THAT HOW YOU WANT TO DO THIS, BECKA? SHOULD I GO TO THE HIGH COUNCIL? IT’S AN OPTION I WOULD PREFER TO AVOID!”

 

The professional healer sighed loudly. She had grown tired of such petty battles over metaphorical acres of turf.

 

“Corel, we’ve both been in the service for many years. You’ve earned your stripes and stars, and I’ve earned respect from my peers. We know our responsibilities. I have to protect every individual that enters the sick bay, here. It’s my creed, my oath, and also, the charge given to me by our governing bodies. Anything less would sacrifice my ethics. And scuttle my career...”

 

Admiral Nauga laughed nervously. He smoothed the fabric of his minimalist uniform.

 

“I’d never question your faith, doctor. I know how seriously you take your role. But I need you to allow Kelly Strafe and Judson Baines to be transported home. We will see that they receive the attention that they urgently need. There will be no excuses!”

 

Stoudt reached for her glass once again. She needed a sip of wine before concluding her thoughts.

 

“The Hidecki Wellness Chair, that’s it, right? You’ll give them both a run-through and hope for the best...”

 

Her philosophical opponent nodded and whispered while smiling.

 

“Duty makes it easy, or difficult. The choice is yours. Either way, those two will come back to us, and be restored. The plan has already been set in motion. Heads that tower above mine made the call. For you and me, it’s simply a matter of following our directives.”

 

His medical contact nearly hissed through her teeth.

 

“You’ve already damaged the lieutenant, intellectually. I’ve prescribed sedatives to ease the confusion in her brain. She will need rest and therapy, things that will take weeks or months. As for the university scholar, there is nothing wrong with his mind. But a session of shock treatments will tip the scales. Is that what you want?”

 

Nauga was frustrated and out of patience. So, he decided to speak plainly.

 

“Becka, when our forebears came to the Red Planet, it was on a mission to escape the wreckage mankind had made. Our species knew how to travel between worlds in the solar system, and gaze into the heavens. But we couldn’t outgrow our lust for power and conquest. The Great Uprising was an act of suicide. Those who got out before that calamity came to fruition provided the seeds for a new civilization. Our civilization! They made it possible for future generations to do better. Our stability, our continuity, our discipline, all come from that sacrifice. Your wounded seeker-of-truth doesn’t understand how fragile our ecosystem is, even today. If he comes here to preach his gospel of absolutes, to raise questions about who and what and where things occurred as we rose from the ashes, then it might put all of this into peril. We don’t need people to ask questions. We need them to accept the answers already given...”

 

Dr. Stoudt crossed her legs, and cradled the wine glass in one hand.

 

“Admiral, you’ve lost me with your cryptic word-salad. What is it that you’re trying so hard not to say?”

 

The military officer closed his eyes and bowed gracefully, over the control panel.

 

“Baines wanted to be an archaeologist for long enough to dig up the bones of his great-grandfather. But he managed to uncover much more than just the skeleton of an old drunk. Those journals provide a handwritten account of our darkest hour as human beings. A time when the MAGA defense set our world on fire. Their rebellion unleased a kind of evil we’d not faced in generations. The response from national leaders was quick, and decisive. And maybe, inexcusably brutal. Even overblown and unnecessary. Those facts could be debated for centuries to come...”

 

The veteran doctor stroked her cheek while pondering. She had reddened with surprise.

 

“Inexcusably brutal? Overblown and unnecessary? What the hell, man! What did he dredge up in those notebooks from the trailer park in old Ohio?”

 

Nauga leaned forward until his face filled the viewscreen completely. He spoke as if trying not to be heard by anyone outside of their cramped cubicles.

 

“Those who cooperated took Larman transports to our Martian colonies. They built what we have today. Those who didn’t accept the plan went to detention camps throughout the middle of North America. They disappeared, visually and politically. And in terms of history. If you open their tombs, and let their ghosts wail for a redress of grievances, then you might finally bring down everything that our ancestors built. Think of that cost, Becka! Is it worth being right, in the end? Is it worth telling truths that were better left buried and dead with forgotten sins of antiquity? Is it worth knowing that you just lit the fuse of a political powder-keg?”

 

For the first time, both participants in the long-distance conversation fell silent. There was nothing more to say.

 

Guilt and consequence had proved to be eternal.

“Return Mission, Second Assignment, Part Seventeen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

Chief Medical Officer Becka Stoudt now had two priority cases in her sick bay aboard the Morningstar III. A sidelined officer, Lieutenant Kelly Strafe, and Dr. Judson Baines, who had been pulled from the wreckage of his Digger shuttle on their flight deck. Both were special for opposite reasons. The professional soldier had been mentally realigned, with technology used by the Space Force to revive her career as an obedient defender. Something that was controversial, and yet undeniably effective. The university professor was a civilian, and scholar. Someone that did not fall under the authority of military procedures. But his importance as a researcher and archivist had the high council on Mars oddly concerned. Continuity and cooperation were twin pillars of life in the planetary colonies. Anything or anyone that might threaten the regular order of their society was considered to be suspect.

 

The managing physician felt bound by her creed to protect both of these patients from the consequences of political decisions. As she monitored their life signs, words from the original Greek text of the Hippocratic Oath echoed inside of her head.

 

“I swear by Apollo Healer, by Asciepius, by Hygieia, by Panacea, and by all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will carry out, according to my ability and judgment, this oath and this indenture. To hold my teacher in this art equal to my own parents; to make him partner in my livelihood; when he is in need of money to share mine with him; to consider his family as my own brothers, and to teach them this art, if they want to learn it, without fee or indenture; to impart precept, oral instruction, and all other instruction to my own sons, the sons of my teacher, and to indentured pupils who have taken the Healer’s oath, but to nobody else. I will use those dietary regimens which will benefit my patients according to my greatest ability and judgment, and will do no harm or injustice to them...”

 

Commander Hornell Block entered the primary cubicle of their care-ward without making any attempt to excuse the brusque manner of his appearance. He wore a standard uniform for duty, made of synthetic fibers dyed in a minimalist pattern of stripes that signified his rank. He did not seem patient. Yet his facial expression remained calm.

 

“Doctor, I had a call from Admiral Nauga this morning. He asked me to do two things, neither of which should present any difficulty. The first is to see that Ms. Strafe returns to her position as second-in-command of this ship. She is a valued component in our system. I need her at my side. The command structure needs her participating and at the ready for any challenge.”

 

Dr. Stoudt snorted at his insistent tone.

 

“When she is ready, sir. Not a moment before...”

 

Her superior on the vessel paused for a moment, and then continued his declaration.

 

“Added to that responsibility is my order to transport our guest from the graduate school back to New Cleveland, immediately. There is a team of specialists waiting to assess his condition, and offer treatment, as needed.”

 

Stoudt hardened her gaze, and stood with the stiffness of a sentry on watch.

 

“Let me guess, they’ve got one of Mr. Hidecki’s high-voltage marvels waiting to spin his brain cells into a compliant mush?”

 

Commander Block gasped at being addressed so directly. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.

 

“Becka, I know you’re not a conscript. So, I’ll allow you to speak freely. But keep in mind that the other people on Mars are just like you. They function according to the same standards. They hold the same sort of ethical beliefs.”

 

The physician shook her head like a child refusing an unpalatable vegetable.

 

“You’re a bad bullshitter, Hornell! They’ll strap him into a Wellness Chair, and rearrange his cerebral matter. That’s the plan, correct? Another misuse of our technology?”

 

The Morningstar chief clenched his fists.

 

“Take care with your accusations, friend. What we say here is monitored remotely. If necessary, it might be used in a future proceeding...”

 

Dr. Stoudt laughed out loud. She was not intimidated by this quiet threat.

 

“I’m beholden to the Space Force with regard to health issues, Hornell. That’s my purpose in being a member of the crew. I make judgments about the fitness of your officers every day. Whether they are able to complete their routines, or not. That’s my charge, handed down from the same individuals that tell you where to go and what to do on their behalf. So, don’t bother with the puffery of thumping your chest. It doesn’t impress me a bit. I made a promise to heal those in need, when I first donned this white coat. And another promise to the leadership of our planet, when I took the assignment on this craft. Do you need to hear it again? Stay in your lane! And I’ll stay in mine!”

 

Block felt his hands trembling. His mind was seething with rage, yet he did not betray this mood with any outward indications.

 

“I’ll say it again, Admiral Nauga wants Strafe back on duty, and Baines returned to our homeworld. Those are not requests, they are orders from the planetary brass! Your job, and mine, is to make those things happen. I’ll let you run your diagnostic tests, and take measurements, or whatever is necessary. But the end result has already been determined. Don’t doubt that there will be severe consequences if we fail. Both of our careers rest on getting these things done!”

 

Stoudt brushed strands of graying hair out of her eyes. Suddenly, she was very fatigued.

 

“I’ll keep you up to date, Hornell. My medical log has all the details, read it if you like...”

 

Her colleague nodded and turned toward the entry port. Once he had slipped outside, into the hallway, he slammed his right fist into the mylar wall.

 

“GAWDAMM THAT WOMAN! GAWDAMM THE ADMIRAL! GAWDAMM THE HIGH COUNCIL! AND GAWDAMM THAT CLASSROOM GEEK, HE’S STIRRED UP MORE SHIT THAN HE’LL EVER KNOW!”

“Return Mission, Second Assignment - Part Sixteen”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

After the eruption of unrest and war during Planet Earth’s calamitous period known as the Great Uprising, things were changed forever. The North American continent was nearly emptied of its population. Political alliances were shattered. Technological advancement was stalled. Social evolution turned backwards. And, the environment suffered damage that a century of recovery could not erase.

 

Cyclical storms became commonplace in this new paradigm of human existence.

 

As climate woes were manifested, it became normal for the entire region to suffer bouts of extreme weather, on a monthly basis. These regular rhythms were augmented by the natural progression of seasons. Life for those who survived was difficult. Their homes and communities were constantly threatened by moments of uncertainty. Yet as during eons of planetary history, living creatures prospered despite such hardships.

 

Dr. Judson Baines was new to this reality. But like those who had gone before, he had the sort of human ingenuity that made outlasting these challenges possible.

 

After being washed offshore, the Digger shuttle was tossed upon the waves like a buoy, lost in the raging waters. Alarms sounded from the instruments. Great crashes of debris made the outer hull ring with each strike. There was little visibility through the forward windscreen, or viewports. Sensors indicated that the craft was spinning wildly.

 

Having been battered and bruised, the university professor hung in his safety web, while manning the controls. Then, it occurred to him that the C-drive had been disabled by land drones sent from Calimex. With that threat eliminated, suddenly, he had another option to rescue himself, and the transport. After keying in an access code, he tapped at the dash with nimble fingers.

 

A high-pitched whine resonated through the vessel. He could feel the crystal generators coming online, as intended. With a forceful blast, the tiny ship shot upward. Cresting the turbulent, lake surface with ease. Daylight returned as it burst out of the spray. Finally, with its untrained navigator at the helm, the high-tech mule gained altitude. With every pulse of the Cloitanium reserves, it gained velocity and purpose.

 

Baines veered toward the sky, while running a diagnostic check. There were creaks and cracks resounding as he throttled up, toward the speed necessary for escape. Soon, vibrations shook the craft with ominous frequency. Yet he knew that lingering in the mayhem of winter would only increase his risk of perishing, alone. His once chance of breaking free, from gravity, and the woes of environmental chaos, would come with a bold, brave leap into outer space. He cursed as his battered vessel pierced the clouds overhead, and aimed itself toward oblivion, in a life-or-death gamble with everything on the table.

 

In orbit, the Morningstar III had been performing perfunctory chores, like re-mapping areas of the surface, and cataloging conditions in real time. The crew was somewhat bored. Even Commander Hornell Block battled a sense of ennui, while planning steps to be taken, once they had settled in as temporary residents of the global neighborhood. But when the errant, Digger shuttle appeared from a swath of gray and white, his attention sharpened immediately.

 

“Lieutenant Reale! Hail that craft on all channels! Is it one of ours? Specifically, the one we left behind on our last mission?”

 

His second-in-command nodded excitedly.

 

“The homing signal matches what you’ve got in our database, sir. It looks to have been through some sort of impact trauma!”

 

Block pounded his right fist on the communications arm.

 

“Digger! This is the Morningstar! Are you in distress? We have stabilized our position, and the flight deck is ready to receive cargo. Lock in on our coordinates, and prepare to be accepted...”

 

Static filled the air. There was no confirmation that their appeal had been heard.

 

Reale sat smartly in her seat at the navigation board. She repeated the plea while programming a recovery sequence that would alert their crash team in the event of a failed landing attempt.

 

“Digger shuttle! This is the Morningstar! We have observed damage to the outer skin of your ship. There is no time to link up for a traditional entry at the flight deck. Pilot your transporter by manual controls. We will do our best to align with your intended vector. Do you understand? Please reply!”

 

The C-drive emissions had turned to a whisper. With much chagrin, Block realized that the lifeboat was coasting on inertia. For whatever reason, it had run out of reactive fuel.

 

“Lieutenant, I don’t think he can answer us, his engines have gone dead. Maybe his battery backup, as well. We’ve got to tractor him into the reception bay. Open the flight deck, and let it rip!”

 

His junior aide was wide-eyed with disbelief.

 

“You want him to bounce into our tail sector, sir? That’ll be a messy situation! What if his shuttle doesn’t survive?”

 

Block cursed and gestured defiantly.

 

“GAWDAMM IT, HE’S COME THIS FAR! SOMETHING MUST BE WRONG, MAYBE THE STORMS WERE TOO WILD, OR HE KNEW THE SHIP WASN’T GOING TO LAST IT OUT. WHATEVER THE CASE, WE’VE GOT TO MATCH HIS INTENSITY. THAT EGGHEAD SON-OF-A-BITCH IS PLAYING ROULETTE, SO WE’LL JOIN HIS GAME, AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS! OPEN THE HATCHES, AND LET HIM INSIDE! IF HE’S WILLING TO TAKE THIS CHANCE, THEN SO AM I!”

 

Baines was in the dark, both metaphorically, and literally. He had exhausted the energy reserves of his metallic beast. There was no response from the helm. As a last breath of oxygen ebbed through his lips, he remembered a prayer sometimes recited by his estranged friend, Kelly Strafe. Swooning at the dashboard, he repeated it while slipping into unconsciousness.

 

“Eternal Father, strong to save

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave

Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep

Its own appointed limits keep

Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee

For those in peril on the sea!

God, Who dost still the restless foam

Protect the ones we love at home

Provide that they should always be

By thine own grace both safe and free

O Father, hear us when we pray

For those we love so far away.”

 

Reale watched her monitor as the Digger slammed into a web of synthetic restraints that had been stretched across the flight deck. Sparks and smoke filled the cargo bay as it was sealed off, automatically. Then, silence followed the uncontrolled re-entry. The wandering ship had been blistered and scarred from its reckless journey. Now, it had come to rest on one side. With the nose cone compressed against an interior wall.

 

Commander Block covered his face and groaned. The onboard instruments had all flatlined. Every sensor registered a quantity of zero. His responsibility to lead a welcome party, or conduct a funeral, was now at hand.