Nobody Reads This Page - "Healthcare Conundrum”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

“Assassination: Murder by sudden or secret attack often for political reasons; the act or an instance of assassinating someone (such as a prominent political leader) or public figure. Also, a treacherous destruction of a person’s reputation.”

 

In my rural neighborhood south of the Lake Erie shoreline, no one would ever be said to have fallen to the nefarious act of an assassination. None of my neighbors are notable enough to carry that specific term to the grave. If any of them were to suffer mortal wounds and drop in their tracks, it would be with a description markedly simpler in nature. One that denotes a moment of finality and loss. Perhaps an exit from the realm of living souls over a gambling debt, or a tryst with a married spouse. Even a loud debate over philosophical differences, a drunken episode of misadventure, or the canon of a religious dogma. But certainly not as a toppled celebrity or captain of industry. On the crumbling streets in my community of mobile homes, there are no icons. No gilded citizens dripping with fame and fortune. No world travelers. No egghead scholars or influence peddlers.

 

Those of us on this patch of swampy, Ohio soil are geographically and socially invisible. Not valued by anyone except our kin.

 

Yet when I first heard that the CEO of United Healthcare had been shot down, I felt a personal connection that rattled my senses. Brian Thompson, a man of 50 years who held the status of a controller over this familiar company, was in effect, my provider for health insurance.

 

Like many Americans, I struggled to receive necessary procedures while using benefits provided by my employer. As a salaried manager for an independent Giant Eagle location, my coverage came through the UFCW, known formally the United Food & Commercial Workers International Union. Generally, this protection served my needs well. And made sure that employees under my supervision were represented fairly. But when my family doctor deemed a colonoscopy procedure necessary, due to chronological age and others in my bloodline who had been affected, they balked. The hospital visit was denied. When I called a claims administrator in Cleveland to discuss this refusal directly, a woman on the line literally laughed out loud.

 

“Don’t lie to us about bleeding or anything of the sort. It won’t matter! We aren’t going to pay!”

 

I was stunned by the futility of our conversation. But my uneasiness could not be matched by the silent rage that manifested when I related the incident at my next visit to a clinic in Madison. My regular physician went wide-eyed, and red.

 

“This is so common! I took years of schooling to become a medical professional, and in the end, decisions about care get made by an insurance adjuster, instead!”

 

I tried to ease this dilemma by positing that use of a basic procedure to check for cancer would be less expensive by far than treating the actual affliction. Yet this obvious bit of logic fell flat in the exam room. My healer explained that ultimately, it all came down to numbers on a balance sheet.

 

“Statistically, they figure you are more likely to be clean and clear. That provides a foundation for their reluctance to authorize tests. It is a game of probabilities!”

 

When I became unemployed after a business sale in 2016, the available options through COBRA and the Affordable Care Act were muddled. I ended up being unable to afford coverage, but also coming into the crosshairs of a government fine for not purchasing a plan. The result sent me into a tailspin. I burned through retirement funds, with a penalty being paid for that withdrawal, just to keep a roof over my head. Eventually, I landed on Social Security Disability, and through that status, became eligible for Medicare.

 

When it came time to choose a Part C supplement plan, I had little knowledge about the decision. Friends and members of our brood had varying opinions that offered little insight. So, I finally chose United Healthcare, the provider used by my parents who lived out of state. They were a large firm, known well and familiar to all of the professionals on my treatment team. The colonoscopy that had been treated as controversial and unnecessary, suddenly became routine. I had the procedure and was told that my visit came at a fortuitous moment.

 

I was literally on the brink of developing colon cancer, with 21 polyps that needed to be removed.

 

Accepting a form of government-run healthcare, with a corporate partner, was satisfying in practical terms. Yet it made me experience intellectual vertigo, in view of my own Libertarian bent. I could not escape the thought that I had joined the ranks of socialism. When I posed this rowdy thought to a conservative friend and adviser, she squawked like a soaked hen.

 

“NOT TRUE! NOT TRUE! I WOULD NEVER LET MYSELF BE USED IN A SCHEME LIKE THAT! BITE YOUR TONGUE, MISTER!”

 

After this initial foray into public care, I became numb to the methodology of my own support. Making a small copay every month, and occasionally spending a bit more for special needs along the way, seemed like a fair trade-off for being covered. I paid little attention to the voices of Senator Bernie Sanders or Elizabeth Warren, when they advocated for a detour from private insurance. The mantra of ‘Medicare for all’ did not resonate in my brain. I figured, perhaps with a bit of laziness, that my own condition was unique. Not something that most residents of the nation would seek out for themselves.

 

The assassination of Brian Thompson immediately shattered my mood of willful ignorance, however. As I watched some openly profess sympathy for the alleged shooter, in a language of desperation and vengeance, I turned cold. Many on social media feeds where I was present expressed an open desire to see our entire system of coverage shredded in favor of a national health paradigm. One based on the uniformity of government edicts already used around the civilized world. Some boasted that all of the ills associated with insurance would disappear when the hand of federal authority intervened on their behalf. A claim that sounded optimistic and hopeful, though not necessarily supported by the prevailing evidence. Controlling costs in any environment means rationing care and adjusting guidelines. Those are stubborn facts. I would need more convincing to cement my faith.

 

Still, I was undeniably one who had benefitted from the existence of such a plan. Medicare was medically and metaphorically, my savior. Without it, I would have succumbed to the disease that felled both my father, and a cousin who was on that side of our family.

 

Pondering that the CEO of my health insurer perished in such a violent way has left a yield of raw and befuddling emotions. It will take time to process this event, and the aftermath. But for now, I will simply be grateful for the coverage I have. Something I attribute to the embrace of a loving creator.

 

However flawed, my United Healthcare membership is eminently preferable to cancer.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Snow Beer”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 "There's no beer like snow beer!" - T.C.L.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had been a resident of Evergreen Estates for so long that most of his neighbors considered him to be a fixture in the community. Someone who, even if socially detached and reclusive, was on friendly terms with almost everyone. Even the religious zealot and agitator Linn Speck begrudgingly gave him a nod when passing, at the wheel of his ratty Japanese sedan. Their intense dislike for each other was founded on having dissimilar outlooks upon the experience of being awake and alive. One thought that each breath came only through obedience and servitude to proscribed moral discipline. The other simply drank beer and whiskey on his porch, while giving thanks in tones of humility.

 

The boozing retiree was simple in expressing his gratitude.

 

“Here’s a toast to whatever! I’m just glad to have the fridge and cupboard stocked up!”

 

They had not actually spoken to each other in several years. Yet each accepted the other as part of the trailer-park continuum. It was the sort of détente that once kept America and the old Soviet Union from blasting each other into cosmic bits with nuclear weapons. Not noble or grounded in goodwill, perhaps, but practical and effective.

 

Lincoln had long ago established a household routine that was shaped by his dependence on beverage alcohol. He would rise early in the morning, relieve himself quickly due to having fallen asleep drunk, and then make coffee. Morning news from a Cleveland TV station usually accompanied this routine, or if in season, reports about the local NFL franchise provided by a sports-radio outlet. Then, he would putter through household chores, and attempt to type out some sort of creative document, through an evocation of keyboard magic.

 

The result, positive or negative, typically set his mood for the rest of the day.

 

Somewhere in the afternoon, dictated by the season and length of daytime hours, he would adjourn to his front porch. This inset cubicle was about eight-feet, square. An open side that faced the street made his presence visible to other residents of the park. Many waved cheerfully while passing. Others simply averted their eyes in a show of disinterest. Yet everyone contributed emotional energy in some fashion.

 

For the old hermit, it was a daily affirmation. One which he needed to stay centered and on balance.

 

The only note of discord in this experience would come during winter months. As Lincoln pursued his regimen of revitalization, he would inevitably post photographs on social media. Stupid and innocuous images of his progressing inebriation, with mounds of snow piled around an improvised throne, a wooden bench made from scrap lumber. He took particular pride in positioning cans and bottles of beer in this white wealth of frostiness. And that defiant act would unleash comments that were sometimes abrasive and always confrontational.

 

Bertrand Biel, an associate from decades earlier who lived in the Finger Lakes Region of New York, would ping his cell phone with jabs of a barbed nature.

 

“What the hell, Link? Anybody with common sense has a mug of hot cocoa when in temperatures like we are feeling, right now. Maybe even coffee, tea or a carry-out, restaurant bowl of soup! But not you! Shit, your insides must be quivering! Swilling down cold suds while out in the elements? What’s wrong with your brain? Has your gray matter turned to a pulpy mush, like cornmeal? You’re a dumbass, dude! A complete dumbass!”

 

The arthritic loner hadn’t kept in touch with Bertrand for decades. So, his messages always had a particular amount of impact. He would shake off the vibe though, like a dog shedding rainwater. And then reply with a photo of Miller High Life or some other working-class brew snuggled in a blanket of nasty precipitation.

 

“I like to guzzle and watch the snow come down! That’s the good side of retirement, I got nothing to do and nowhere to go!”

 

His Empire State contact would typically become enraged by this reaction of indifference.

 

“It just ain’t natural, Link! C’mon now, you know I’m right! Your brittle bones must be aching. What is it, about 20 degrees out there right now? I’d rather be inside with a hot toddy and a fire in my wood stove! You’re a nut! No wonder you don’t have any friends! They must snicker when passing the end of your driveway. It’s a gawdamm shame!”

 

Eventually, Lincoln would grow tired of being pilloried. Yet his fatigue never spilled over into anger or resentment. When he reacted, it was with a metaphorical shrug.

 

His current defense rested on sharing kinship with others along their truncated, rural boulevard.

 

“Maybe they do, who knows? But this week, two different neighbors helped shovel me out. I got down to the corner store in between bursts of the white dread. That let me stack up a few 30-racks of High Life, and some beef smokies. I was grateful...”

 

Bertrand must have been hopping up and down in front of his sofa. The tone of his texts sharpened considerably.

 

“What did I say before? You’re a dumbass! And those hicks must be pretty dumb as well, to help you out just so you can sit there and freeze! I’ll bet you piss your pants! And probably get the flu or COVID or something worse! What an idiot! I can’t believe we were ever friends! You actually went to college in Pittsburgh? Fuck, how was that possible? You’re amazing dude, just amazing!”

 

The quiet iconoclast had reached a personal limit of endurance. He switched his cellular device to silent mode. Notifications continued to register in a noiseless stream of indignation.

 

“Have a good one, Buddy Biel. I’m about to get blitzed. It’s time for some lubrication!”

 

A half-bottle of Jack Daniel’s was waiting, just inside of the front door. He procured it from a shelf in his entertainment center. Then, twisted off the cap and tilted the container upright until its brown contents set his throat on fire. His eyes watered slightly, in the aftermath.

 

“Thanks be to you, Tennessee Jack! I needed that burn!”

 

Now, the world surrounding his mobile home appeared blurry, and pale. A bleak landscape of washed-out colors and dormant nature. Soon, he would fall asleep in his spot. So, with effort, he crawled back inside the prefabricated hovel. In passing, he placed the phone on an arm of his recliner before heading off to bed. Sentences offered in capital letters still crowded the rectangular screen. But he couldn’t see them clearly. By feeling his way along the hall, he reached the front bedroom. And his worn mattress, layered with threadbare comforters. Then, oblivion engulfed him mercifully.

 

Another solar cycle at the junkyard oasis had come to an end. Now, he was ready to find absolution, and rest.

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Friendly Flannel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

The holiday season typically evokes gentle memories from past years. Most often, of Christmas celebrations or other family gatherings where a spirit of kinship made me feel emotionally warm and included. But most recently, as snow began to fall in my rural neighborhood and Thanksgiving arrived, I flashed on a personal recollection that did not involve such familiar rituals, directly. Instead, this historical footnote was connected to a gift given benevolently by friends, as I was sorting out my life in the Finger Lakes community of Ithaca, New York.

 

I had lived in that lively burgh for five years, because my father’s ministry brought him to the Church of Christ on North Cayuga Street. After serving an apprenticeship at the local cable television provider, through Cornell University, I drifted both emotionally and philosophically. Parishioners and members of the family tried to offer guidance and encouragement as I languished in futility. Yet with a teenaged perspective on reality, I did not think clearly or with much conviction. I went to concerts, drank with cohorts from Channel 13, drew illustrations and wrote lyrics, while eschewing any actual forward motion.

 

I had a jones for Rock stardom, which was both ridiculous and common among my peers.

 

Eventually, the clock ran out on this unsustainable lifestyle. I recorded a vinyl single with bandmates from Corning and Elmira, including a brother of designer Tommy Hilfiger, but it failed to produce a lasting artistic partnership. Or a dependable income. Chums from that failed project continued to keep me focused on irrational dreams of grandeur. And I willingly slipped into that vast sea of self-delusion. When by chance, one of my motorcycle stories was published in the summer of 1983, by a national magazine based in California, it came as a bonus prize. I still thought that with enough time invested, there would be a rollicking reward for my efforts to develop a persona worthy of taking to the stage.

 

Around May, my father announced that our brood was being relocated, to a new faith community in northeastern Ohio. A place with which I was totally unfamiliar, despite being a native of Columbus. This unexpected report sent me reeling. When my younger brother pilfered and ruined a studio cassette of live takes, which had been recorded as I was working on the 45-RPM offering with Absolute Zero, that provided the spark for my exit.

 

I was 21 years old by then, unemployed, broke, and socially awkward. But somehow, I found mature friends outside of the city who were willing to give me temporary status as a household guest. I had no means of support, and was unskilled at navigating the world beyond my own ecosystem. Moreover, I had begun to flirt with the idea of stardom and death as a noble concept. To negate the child I was, a product of Appalachian culture and religious dogma, seemed oddly appealing. I wanted to find myself, somewhere, anywhere. This notion that I could escape the image in my mirror was of course, a fool’s errand. But I scribbled out versions of my future self. Punk, New Wave, even Country. Biker, Boozer, or any sort of imaginary creation. I wanted to die and be reborn as something better than a bumbling novice with a Japanese guitar. Playing roles, like an actor, piqued my interest.

 

I used to tell people who would listen that, “It is so boring to only be one person!”

 

As the season changed to fall and then winter, I sometimes lived with a friend-of-a-girlfriend, while alternately staying under a bridge in our community. Someone who indulged my art and naïve perceptions. As we grew closer, I spoke of marriage and pooling our fortunes. She was a decade older, had a young son, and was more skilled at enduring the pitfalls of an urban existence. We drank gallons of wine, smoked weed, and babbled about Andy Warhol and his flock of like-minded malcontents. At some point, she had known members of the 70’s group, Orleans. And even seen Janis Joplin perform a show. Meanwhile, our neighbors downstairs seemed to be selling drugs. I saw expensive cars of all sorts pull up to the curb, exchange greetings through gapped windows, and then disappear with no obvious cause in effect.

 

It was a reckless streak of gambling that could not last. And it didn’t. She eventually hopped on a plane with her kid, headed back to the Pacific coast.

 

At some point in that heady experience, my primary benefactors had noticed that I had little in the way of clothes. A few T-shirts, two pairs of blue jeans, and a leather jacket. They must have guessed that wandering the streets of town with temperatures falling precipitously would be a challenging experience. Their remedy was simple, and welcome. From a closet in their farmhouse, a flannel garment of uncertain vintage appeared. It had a few moth holes, and was missing a button or two, along the front. Yet this frayed artifact kept me insulated, as I bounced from one venue to another, chasing ghosts.

 

When the end of my experiment finally arrived, during a frosty week in December, I wore it all the way back to Geauga County, near Lake Erie. My co-host from the TV crew provided transportation. I drank Jack Daniel’s and burned through Camel cigarettes, all the way to my origin point, the Midwestern land of Buckeye heritage. A place that I never, ever, wanted to see again. The flannel shirt was still draped over my angular shoulders as I went to work at a wholesale warehouse, in Cleveland. I wore it every day. Even on weekends when I was free from this gainful routine.

 

In modern times, I cannot name any of the Christmas presents offered during that healing moment of resurrection. I remember little, day-to-day. Other than a cold-turkey withdrawal from my whiskey habit, and puffing on smokes to stay vigilant in rebuilding the existence that I had so cheerfully destroyed. Eventually, I was discharged during a probationary period, by the employer where I first landed. A subsequent stop involved joining a remodel crew at a department store near my home. This swap meant I earned less money, but also used less fuel every day, and was able to interact with fellow employees from where I lived. A reasonable exchange, in the long run.

 

Around two years later I stopped wearing the gifted item, in favor of a sweatshirt colored with a bold swath of orange. One that showed pride in the local NFL franchise, founded by Coach Paul Brown. The flannel garment was relegated to hanging in a free-standing, metal enclosure. A movable clothes-press, bought at Sears & Roebuck many years before.

 

In a sense, it had come full-circle. Just as I had also returned to the purer self of yonder days.

 

Now, with winds whipping across the lake, and winter wrath providing a blustery retort to the campfire celebrations that went before, I find myself huddled at the keyboard. Memories are strong when distractions are few. But the mood inspired by my keepsake from New York will linger, for an eternity, to come.

 

That gift of love, in principle, still endures.

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Thirty”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

The public arrest of Dr. Judson Baines in front of students at the Percival Lowell Institute created a scandal throughout the Mars colonies like no one had ever seen. Protests erupted almost immediately. Members of the peacekeeping battalions at Texas City and elsewhere were caught off guard. In the history of their species on the Red Planet, such events had never transpired before. Civility was a foundational part of their culture. Citizens were non-violent, vegan, and socialized universally as components that formed a greater whole. Too much individuality was frowned upon as being selfish. Only by cooperating had they been able to survive on a world where a lack of free oxygen and dramatic temperature changes were the norm.

 

Now, habits of Old Earth were returning.

 

In the research center at Argyre Planitia, ReTrainer Fargo Bolden was protected by distance from this upheaval. Yet every day, he sensed that their civilization had been shaken to its core. Reports of sympathizers gathering with the university crowd echoed regularly. Members of the high council met secretly, to discuss alternatives. Their protectors in the military also plotted and planned, fearing a repeat of the chaos that sent humanity fleeing from its origin point. But for the isolated, medical technician, such concerns were barely noticeable against the backdrop of his personal dilemma. Fargo was still plagued by the riddle of his failure with the Hidecki Wellness Chair.

 

What had gone wrong with his mental realignment of the professional scholar from New Cleveland?

 

Once he and the team had strapped Baines into their device, for a second round of treatment, he quizzed the unwilling patient about what had gone awry.

 

“Doctor, we are both dedicated to serving others. I heal those who are in need, and you uplift them through education. We both do our best to better others. So, I will ask you directly, about what happened to cause my machine to fail during your previous session. I have retrofitted spares from our inventory of laboratory bits and pieces, and every test shows that it is in perfect working order. But that doesn’t explain your ability to resist. Tell me now, before I wipe away your defiance. Give me cause to have a change of heart about running you through this dreadful process!”

 

Baines did not react as the physician expected. He laughed out loud, and slapped the arms of his chair.

 

“Does it matter now?”

 

Fargo Bolden clenched his right fist. His other hand hovered above the control panel, behind a plexiglass safety shield.

 

“It matters because I am a researcher, like you. We both hunger for information. I need to understand my error. Tell me, so that I may do better in the future!”

 

The bearded geek smiled with amusement. He knew that a true confession would sound like nonsense.

 

“Your future? Fuck your future! On Planet Earth, I rummaged through the remains of a mobile-home community. I’m sure you are not familiar with what that antiquated term describes. But suffice it to say, the development was a place populated by those who were in need of affordable housing. Trailers were situated in rows, on streets named for various kinds of trees that were native to the region. Specifically, the middle swath of a continent called North America...”

 

The technician turned impatient while listening. He rubbed his eyes and cursed silently.

 

“GET TO THE POINT, MAN! WHAT MADE MY MACHINE GO BONKERS?”

 

Baines shrugged and stretched his limbs, like a cat.

 

“The reason I wanted to visit that rural oasis was because someone in my bloodline lived there, a century ago. I couldn’t avoid a bit of self-interest there. I wanted to make an archeological dig on the property. As it happened, things were overgrown, but still intact. I found much more than expected. There were so many artifacts that I couldn’t bring everything back in a Digger shuttle. I scanned documents and took photos and videos. Yet somehow, I knew that there was more to learn. I wanted to experience the life that my ancestor had enjoyed...”

 

Fargo shook with anger. He shouted while fiddling with dials on his console.

 

“THE POINT, SIR! WHAT’S THE BLASTED POINT OF YOUR STORY?”

 

His subject sighed heavily, before offering a conclusion. He was scruffy and still attired in hospital garb from his first exam at the facility.

 

“My great-grandfather was considered to be a sage among his peers. But he was also an alcoholic. A drunkard, you know? I sampled some of the whiskey left in his cupboard. Then, had a vision of some kind. An apparition from beyond the veil? Or just my own naïve consciousness being tweaked by crude liquor? I’ll never be sure. She called herself Esmeralda. A woman who had known my progenitor. Her suicide was the stuff of legend, among residents of that park...”

 

ReTrainer Fargo reddened with disbelief. He had been cheated and hoodwinked.

 

“THAT’S IT? YOU GOT TIPSY AND SAW A GHOST?”

 

Baines shook his head, and sat upright.

 

“Esmeralda Jonovic was a militia leader. Her troopers helped to spur what would become the Great Uprising. They were MAGA disciples, an odd sort of political discipline that evolved during the last age of dominance for the national government in power. She was hunted down by federal agents from Washington, the center of authority. Her exit came with a hand grenade, an implement used by ground forces in battle. She would not allow them to take her, alive. She was mentioned in the handwritten journals that I found. Her gun stash was rumored to include rifles from the American Civil War...”

 

The realignment specialist lowered his head. He trembled with disappointment.

 

“So, you had a taste of aged spirits, and saw a dead woman with a firearms fixation? That’s what blew apart the Hidecki creation?”

 

His captive shrugged and affirmed the simplistic assessment.

 

“You trust in science, right? So do I, in things that are tangible. I believe what I can see and hear, and taste. Faith and clairvoyance don’t mean anything. They are shadows to me, puffs of smoke and breaths of wind. Reflections of light in a pool of water. Still, maybe I haven’t traveled far enough beyond the veil to really know what is real, and what isn’t. Science is constantly evolving, as we learn and hypothesize, and critique ourselves. What I beheld at Evergreen Estates appeared to be pure energy. The distilled essence of a life force, perhaps. When you tapped into my brain with this damned machine, she came to my aid. It was her vision that overloaded your circuits. At first, I thought it must have been a reaction to the temple pods, swirling. But you’re supercharging brain waves, right? Channeling that vibe, reversing it on itself. If another source of vitality got in that stream, and redirected it, or magnified the quantity, then maybe your miracle work would be trashed. Like shining an electric torch into a mirror. The glare could make you go blind. Just as it caused your cerebral contraption to fail...”

 

Fargo stopped the treatment regimen, immediately. For the first time, his unique patient was making sense. His appetite for a revelation had been satisfied, at last.

 

“THAT’S IT, PROFESSOR! THAT’S THE KEY TO SOLVING MY RIDDLE!”

 

 

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

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

The construct of life on Mars was wholly different from what residents of Old Earth had experienced, a century before. Weapons were brandished rarely, and only when authorities needed to combat chaos. The pace of life in sealed colonies was steady and unhurried. Cooperation was key in making sure that the human species survived. Selfish emotions such as greed and ambition had been bred out of the bloodline. They were all viewed as equals differing only in responsibilities and skills.

 

Voyager craft such as the Morningstar III carried no offensive capabilities. Their missions were to explore and study, not seek conquest among the outer planets, and beyond.

 

So, when Kelly Strafe and Dr. Judson Baines were ultimately released from their medical caregivers, formulating a plan on how to handle the situation with diplomacy was a daunting challenge. For the displaced lieutenant, a return to service and obedience among the ranks was logical. Yet with the university professor, there was less certainty of his future actions. The high council had little faith that he could be restrained, intellectually. Only their philosophical bent made an intervention difficult to ponder.

 

Jailing an opponent was unthinkable. Any sort of direct force used would evoke the sins of their progenitors, and upset the population. Yet to allow dissent to grow, out in the open, was a frightening notion. Some measure of restraint had to be imposed, however gently.

 

As Baines stood before his lectern at the Percival Lowell Institute, there was much applause to welcome him home. The community of thinkers was elated to see him returned, in good spirits. But throughout the assembly hall, agents from the Space Force had been deployed, to keep watch. None of them were in uniform. Instead, their presence was a clandestine gathering. One designed to observe and report back, to Admiral Corel Nauga and his colleagues.

 

After the adulation had abated, there was a benediction offered by a universalist theologian. A tradition held over from yonder days on the blue ball that had been their origin point. Then, the professional nerd sorted through pages in one of his great-grandfather’s handwritten notebooks.

 

“I come here today still carrying the images of North America, and what our ancestors called Ohio, in my head. I want to read a passage from T.C. Lincoln, the sire who would bring my own family history into being. What he said 100 years ago is relevant, even now. Because he described events that we’ve been taught as gospel truth. Listen to his words, and open your minds to the possibility that what we have come to think was chiseled in stone may, after all, be nothing more than a crass fabrication...”

 

There were audible gasps around the chamber. But he did not hesitate to continue. He read from the document with much passion.

 

“When the Great Uprising started, I felt sick at my stomach. We’d been having marches in the neighborhood for years, since the January insurrection first happened, in Washington. I figured that things might get crazy, or should I say, crazier still. But when there were raids after dark, to extract some of our citizens from their trailers, I started to wonder. They got Aimes Hefti and a few of his militia goons, which didn’t make me flinch. Those dicks weren’t missed at all. Nobody really liked them, except maybe for Linn Speck and his chubby bride, Haki. They jumped on a Larman transport though, to escape before government troops arrived. What changed my mind was seeing others get yanked through their front doors, people who were just into the social lifestyle up on our township square. Those who went to prayer meetings and such. I never had much use for that kind of thing, Tennessee whiskey is more my style. I feel closer to God with a good drunk making my soul sag! But, to each, their own.”

 

Puzzlement could be seen on faces throughout the auditorium. So, Baines let a silent interlude elapse, between sections of the yellowed journal. But his zeal did not subside.

 

“What chapped my ass was realizing that they had set up camps all across the Midwest. Really crude prisoner-of-war type installations. I couldn’t believe it at first, but rumors grew louder and then we started to see photographs that were smuggled in by undercover couriers. People chained up like dogs. There was a mandate from Congress, to form a new bureau of federal police. They were armed and organized like military brigades. Everything was justified by the excesses of the MAGA defense. I don’t know, it seemed reasonable at first, as I’ve already said. Yet when they started busting down doors, and dragging neighbors away, it gave me a chill. I realized that my ass might be next. And I never liked any of those wannabe, Confederate fucks!”

 

The scruffy scholar closed his great-grandfather’s notebook, and stood with his head bowed. Finally, he gestured across the gathering of students and spectators.

 

“That’s the story. That’s how you and I and everyone we know ended up on the Red Planet. Our forebears wanted to get away from the law. They wanted to run anywhere that was safe. But in that era, there was no safety, anywhere. The best bet was hopping on a ship, headed to Mars. There were thousands at first, then hundreds of thousands, and even millions. All zooming around the cosmos!”

 

The meeting hall was a noiseless void. Participants wrung their hands and fretted about what they had heard. At last, Baines offered his conclusion.

 

“We have been lied to throughout our entire existence on this red rock in space. The MAGA defense was culpable, but the reaction of authorities in that day overstepped the boundaries of rational thought. They imprisoned innocent folk without charges. They kicked down democratic guidelines in favor of expediency. They acted in the manner of a totalitarian regime. Their sins made them no better than their enemies. And now, we have to face that revelation. We are the children of their misdeeds. Our success is founded upon their criminality...”

 

The witnesses present at this academic spectacle were stunned. Suddenly, agents of Admiral Nauga sprang into action.

 

“Arrest this rogue! Arrest him now! He has defied the principles of our social order!”

 

Horror was visited upon the gathering as lethal weapons were displayed. It was a first for many in attendance, who had never seen such implements carried with impunity.

 

Dr. Judson Baines stood his ground as a scion of educational fortitude.

 

“Do what you want, but remember, what has been said cannot be unspoken. Your ears know the truth. Your eyes have seen the light. And this moment of edification can never be erased!”

 

 

 

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

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

After the failed realignment via Hidecki’s infamous chair, Dr. Judson Baines was in no mood to cooperate with any of the Mars authorities. He held on tightly to the secret of being visited by Esmeralda Jonovic, in her otherworldly form. This refusal to reveal what occurred was his right under the colonial constitution. A privilege that could not be usurped by any figure in the planetary hierarchy.

 

But as Lieutenant Kelly Strafe began to recover from her own session in the treatment device, doctors at the Argyre Planitia research center focused on using her as an informant. Something she would never have agreed to do, directly. As her mental faculties were revived, they allowed her to visit with the university professor in a private setting. A place where both could be monitored by clandestine means.

 

Their conversation seemed sure to be informative, and perhaps, even shocking.

 

When Strafe arrived, she was still dressed in the casual clothing of a medical patient. Her longish hair was messy and unbrushed. She trembled slightly, from spells of vertigo. Yet had regained the sharpness of a trained intellect.

 

Both of them had grown more unkempt during their separate ordeals.

 

“Juddy! You look like a mountain man. Unshaven and beastly! But I get it, they’ve put you through the program, just like me. It’s akin to having brain freeze from eating ice cream too quickly. But the sensation lasts for days or weeks...”

 

Her cohort from the school at New Cleveland was amused by this description.

 

“That’s right on target, actually! The sensor pods made my skull ache. It felt like getting hit with a baseball. Or a meteor frag circling Jupiter. Those things fly around when you’re doing reconnaissance missions, at one of its moon stations. Despite the helmets those grunts use to keep atmosphere available, and guard against impact. When you get hit, there’s a resonance factor involved. It stims your gray matter!”

 

The inactive lieutenant smiled and kissed him gently on the forehead.

 

“So, what happened with the chair? I heard that there was a power drop or something...”

 

Baines looked around with suspicion. He could not see anything that appeared out of order in the small cubicle. But sensed that their privacy might have been compromised.

 

“Yo calda pree. Nodaman ko quarte. Quarte werta. Quarte no fala dee!”

 

Strafe was puzzled at first. Then, she realized that he had spoken in an alien dialect that evolved from contract workers who were assigned to a distant camp on the Jovian satellite Callisto. They used it as a sort of code to keep in touch while subverting the military chain-of-command.

 

“Okay, you had me guessing there for a minute. Quarte ja fala?”

 

Her scholarly friend nodded and leaned back in his requisitioned settee.

 

“There must be bugs all over this room. Otherwise, they’d never have allowed you to visit so soon after my release. We are probably on an audio/video stream, right now!”

 

The sidelined soldier went wide-eyed with disbelief.

 

“BUGGING DEVICES? THAT’S AGAINST THE MARTIAN PRINCIPLES, JUDDY! YOU KNOW BETTER! THAT’S A TRICK FROM THE DAYS OF OUR SPECIES BACK ON EARTH!”

 

Baines scratched his reddish facial hair. His beard had grown long enough that it actually itched.

 

“Sitting in that mind trap has changed my perspective. How long did it take before you could hold an independent thought, after your session?”

 

Strafe shuddered when recalling the memory of her own realignment.

 

“Weeks maybe, I don’t really know. I drifted through a dreamscape, for a long time. There were people from my past, characters from stories I had read, all jumbled together...”

 

Her geek counterpart nodded again.

 

“The Hidecki machine taps into cycles of cranial activity. It’s a marvel of sorts. The original intent was to cure mental illness. And it worked wonderfully, according to the journals of that day. People who were violent, impulsive, and dangerous were pacified. It was a gift to individuals who had suffered for years. But then, the chair got imported to our colonies, here at home. I don’t know what spurred the thought that it could serve to straighten out rebels and dissenters. And dammit... now I’ve said too much! Yo calda pree! No tonda Hidecki!”

 

The lieutenant cocked her head to one side. She was silent for a moment, listening intently. Then, whispered low enough that her voice barely made a sound.

 

“Never mind, Juddy. I get your vibe. So long as you can remember what happened, then they weren’t able to erase your thoughts...”

 

Baines sat up straight, and squared his shoulders.

 

“I haven’t taught classes in almost a year. But there’s a symposium at the Percival Lowell Institute. I heard one of the aides discussing it in a corridor on the Morningstar III. That’s my cue to jump back into the continuum. I’ve got plenty to offer. Scans of my great-grandfather’s notebooks, artifacts retrieved from the Evergreen Estates site in North America, and my own anecdotes about the wellness device.”

 

The noted archivist was certain that every word he uttered would be relayed to ReTrainer Fargo Bolden, Admiral Nauga, and the Martian high council. Yet he decided that being spied upon would help rattle the cage into which he had been paced. His declaration was an act of defiance. One which he hoped might arouse the authorities and motivate them to reveal their strategies.

 

Kelly Strafe put her arms around his midsection. She purred gently, while pondering.

 

“Won’t they just put you back in that thing, again? It’s a hellish way to lose yourself. It empties everything, all your personality, your free will, your soul...”

 

Her mate from the university nodded again. He did not know what would result from willingly being pegged as an outsider. But cherished that label as a badge of honor.

 

“Maybe? I have no idea. They could erase everything, and dump me as a husk of flesh. Yet I think that would leave them curious about why the Hidecki creation failed. There’d still be loose ends left, untied. I know as a scientist that those kinds of riddles don’t sit well. Answers fit the bill. Theories and conclusions, even speculations. Anything! But not just an empty vessel. That doesn’t work for anybody. It won’t form the basis for a hypothesis. That’s the currency of a thinker, regardless of their discipline.”

 

The lieutenant put her head across his lap. She had turned decidedly pale. Tears welled in her eyes.

 

“I don’t want you to sit in that chair, ever again! The people that use it are criminals! I hate them all! That piece of garbage should be destroyed for all eternity!”

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

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

 

After his session in the Hidecki Wellness chair, Judson Baines was physically and mentally exhausted. Yet oddly, he felt cleansed. Having endured the strain of this abusive treatment gave him a new benchmark for his own endurance. He had proven to be an unfit subject for realignment, something that marked him as a willing outsider. Yet because of his position as a university scholar, this badge of infamy only deepened his appeal as an intellectual prodigy. Students sought his advice as they wrestled with the concepts that formed a foundation for their own privileged existence. As descendants of pioneers who traveled from Old Earth, they knew little of what had transpired before the exodus of their progenitors. Now, they began to question truths that had been held for a century, and more, while pondering his unique, personal experience.

 

Meanwhile, ReTrainer Fargo Bolden was called to testify before the high council. His explanation first resonated as wordy and effusive, but kept members listening with much interest. Then, he spoke in a more colloquial way about what had happened when his machine failed in its mission. This approach served better to edify his critics, and justify the outcome.

 

Bogram Fortuna sat at the head of their table. He wore the ceremonial garb of an attendant on the Larman transports that had first brought human beings to the Red Planet. And followed their minimalist guidelines when addressing the group. This adaptation of bygone customs was a nod to their common heritage, but also a signal that no one was to be placed above any other. He was not a ruler of their collective, but simply, a moderator and servant. One to lead discussions and supervise the passage of resolutions, when voted upon by equals.

 

“We’ve reviewed your documents, sir. There still are gaps in our understanding, though. Could you explain what caused the wellness device to break down when being operated in a fashion that you describe as normal?”

 

Fargo sighed heavily, and nodded. He had not slept well for the past three days.

 

“In a word, no. No, I can’t! The wellness device is calibrated to interact with human physiology, without causing side effects or harm. My peers have adjusted the parameters through many hours of study and assessment over the years it has been used. We’ve gotten it fine-tuned for all purposes. But something Professor Baines experienced seems to have upset that paradigm, and caused the halt in treatment. Without interviewing him thoroughly, we can’t be sure of its nature...”

 

Fortuna raised his eyebrows.

 

“You haven’t checked on him since the session ended?”

 

The head ReTrainer frowned and covered his face with one hand.

 

“I’ve been prevented by an attending physician from the Morningstar III. His doctor has lobbied my superiors about health issues as a result of the chair being employed. It’s truly distressing to have her run interference, when I am in the middle of sorting out details. Is there anything you can do to stop that irritating woman from standing in my way?”

 

The council chief hesitated briefly, before offering an answer. He wanted to speak with the utmost level of diplomacy.

 

“Mr. Bolden, we all stay in our lane. That’s how this society functions so well. Aggressive behavior is counterproductive. We don’t look fondly upon career goals, or winning awards. Results matter most. Dr. Becka Stoudt has convinced her associates that a rest period is needed. I’ll go along with that, until she signs off on his condition...”

 

Fargo snorted loudly. He did not attempt to hide his displeasure.

 

“I thought that when he and Lieutenant Strafe were handed off to us, that was it! This situation is untenable. Am I in charge of caring for those two individuals, or not? Let’s have your decision. I don’t want to waste energy arguing over what I can’t control!”

 

Fortuna was leathery and gaunt from many trips between the outer worlds, seeking cooperation. His skill as a negotiator was renowned throughout the solar system. Yet now, he felt impatient. The challenge to his oversight was clear, He did not relish the thought of being judged by his own counterpart in the medical profession.

 

“I’ll say it again, stay in your lane! There’s more than technology at work here, the high council is concerned with student uprisings that are brewing in the university branch at New Cleveland. We want order and comity above all else. Dissenters are a distraction we can’t tolerate. Do you understand? Every brick that went into building our system matters. Each component, each layer of mortar, is in its place. If you move one piece, you move all the others...”

 

The ReTrailer laughed hard enough that he spewed spit on the conference table.

 

“That’s cryptic nonsense, don’t you see? As Bogram of the council, your opinions steer this ship of state. All it would take is a snap of your fingers to get Baines released to my care, once again. Do it, and I’ll have your answers without delay. It’s a matter of what he saw in his head, and what he felt while in the wellness chair...”

 

Fortuna cringed as his neck muscles grew painfully tense. Other members of the council stared at him intently, for guidance. He could feel the energy of their shared concern.

 

“I’ll need to have a private conversation with Dr. Stoudt. That means going onboard her vessel, which would require the cooperation of Commander Hornell Block. His craft is in drydock at the moment, being resupplied and upgraded. That means a note of approval from Admiral Nauga would have to be obtained. None of that will happen until the professor has a chance to confide in his primary caregiver. Does that make any sense? This is considerably more complicated than just having me snap my fingers! It’s a choreographed dance of partners!”

 

Fargo groaned audibly. He did not like hearing excuses. But the chain-of-command, in every sector of their civilization, was a construct of consequence. He knew well that those boundaries had to be respected.

 

“Fair enough then, I’ll wait for your call. When I can interview Baines directly, then you’ll get answers about why the Hidecki marvel failed on this occasion. Until that happens, I’m just as much in the dark as everyone else!”

 

Bogram Fortuna waved his hand in a gesture of gratitude.

 

“Very well. Friends, this session of the council is formally dismissed!”