Solutions: The Dilemma of Hopelessness - James Gerard (novel books to read txt) 📗

out from under the restraints, “we have to leave now.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Just security precautions.  Would you like to join me for dinner?”

 

“No…no, I had a big lunch.  I might as well resign myself to my quarters.  At what time will you be boarding the ship?”

 

“We’re scheduled for nine in the morning.”

 

“Do me a favor Justin, will you please make sure to wake me up at that time if I should happen to sleep in?”

 

“No problem.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

 

“Gentlemen,” one of the sentries announced.

 

Charles found his way through the maze to his quarters.  He reached into his pocket for the communication device as thoughts drifted back to the observation lounge.  Looking out a portal, however, he could see a lingering, solid mass of clouds stretching all the way up the east coast: Even if I could pinpoint her location, could she be of any help now?

 

In a way he hoped they had discovered his true intentions.  It would put an end to the misery that had plagued the mission from the outset of its conception, might lead to an opportunity of escape from what was turning out to be a maddening masquerade of a plot.

 

As far as he was concerned they could replace Timothy, send their handpicked representative on the mission if that was what she had been planning from the beginning.  “Hell,” he muttered, “cancel the mission as far as I’m concerned.  Do whatever she wants.”

 

Charles then calmly thought, I’ll kill him if they don’t.  Yeah, make sure he never affects anyone again.  I’ll kill her.  I’ll kill them all.

 

With those thoughts torturing his mind, Charles turned off the lights and floated into the sleeping pouch, wrapped and zippered up his body and fatigue in the warmth of its hold.  With the distant stars keeping him company, he closed his eyes but spent a restless night through the artificial nothingness surrounding him.

Zero

Soil scattered and bounced about the inner wall of the wheel.  The grains of sand ricocheted into Timothy’s face as the bin was slammed into its slot.  “Great,” he whispered, "how dare I create such chaos in a perfect system.”  Figuring he would be scolded if someone should happen to glide in and witness the result of aggression, he flung his arms to a panel posted on the axle support and stabbed a button.

 

Fascination ensued as clumps and grains of black, loamy soil was captured by the instant presence of gravity. They were slammed to the floor by the force bringing them down.  But the grains that attempted to escape the grip of repression landed about the bin in a messy fashion.

 

“Don’t screw it up,” he said aloud.  An arm flung to the left and seized the vacuum hose.  The sucking action began.  The escaped particles were quickly consumedand held prisoner in the belly of the machine.

 

Timothy scanned the entire area, including the vent, figuring they were going to check there too.  Another button was stabbed stopping the wheel’s rotation.  He slipped the feet from under the restraints and glided into the hallway.  Bright lights filled the area with guiding illumination.  Maneuvering past the apple tree rooted in a bin, he clumsily glided to one of the storage rooms down the hallway.

 

Muddled thoughts contemplated the months at the station.  The daily commands of the computer that prompted him as to when and what and how and why a task must be carried out a specific way reverberated in the memory with echoes of annoyance.  Maybe it was his imagination, but he could have sworn the artificial brain took pleasure in pushing him around.  And if that was not enough to test his resolve in maintaining a smile on the face, the various workers watching and hovering overhead, constantly scrutinizing every performance down to miniscule details, transformed every task into an ordeal.  “Don’t screw it up,” he mumbled.

 

Timothy could not understand why the workers had become so touchy around him, especially when he gave the performance of a lifetime, one deserving of some national good-feel award.

 

He could not forget how everyone had been so nice to him upon arrival, and figured that Charles had convinced them to do so.  Gradually, he encountered bites of sarcasm, was snapped at for not performing up to their professional standards, and snickered at everytime an error occurred in any procedure.  He believed it might have had something to do with the stress of the weightless environment most of them were not acclimated to, but he had been told that such stresses affects only one out of a hundred.  He also considered they might have acted out in frustration; their patience constantly tested.  But in the end, he concluded, they simply were stuck in their pride and took every opportunity to belittle him.

 

The lights of the storage room flashed on.  As he peered over a stack of boxes labeled with a list of contents stowed safely inside, he could comprehend or perhaps accept such negative behavior if he had given them ample reasons to do so.  He knew he had never given them the opportunity.   No scowl, leer, or anything at all for the station’s critics to scrutinize ever came across his face.

 

The station was not like his earthly home in any respects.  At home, he would play the role of normal citizen for short scenes, but then ham it up by adding dramatic flair to the performance.  But the dramatic flairs came in the form of ad-libbed lines, a wrong in a society that more and more demanded conformity and submission.  And like home, taboos existed in space.

 

The desired box came into view.  Carefully, he pulled out a fibrous pad from its hold, then maneuvered back out into the hallway.

 

Not yet accustomed to moving about smoothly in a non-gravity environment, he stumbled through the air on the way back to the terrarium.  At heart, Timothy understood the blame did not rest solely on those that demanded his exile to the various treatment and personality centers where he had been subjected to the synaptic inhibitors, to the contrary.  As much as the thought was an irking invasion to logic, he had always felt controlled by a cloud of gloom that constantly hovered above him, casting a shroud of responsibility and acceptance for the negative behavior—though for some reason, he knew all too well, others could never see it.

 

Timothy shot into the terrarium.  The momentum led his straight to a hand support waiting at the side of a vent.  Careful not to dislodge the grains of dirt caught in the recesses, he eased the soiled filter from the mouth of the duct then let it suspend freely as he slipped the fresh one over the gaping mouth.  “There, they won’t have anything to complain about now.”  Carefully, the soiled filter was compacted into a tight ball and delivered to the bottom deck of the forward module.

 

The lights flashed on to highlight the path descending to the solid waste bin within the bottom deck’s hold.  Hide the truth, he thought while the evidence was slurped into the belly of the machine.

 

All of a sudden he remembered what had stirred the anger that lurked just beyond the forefront of the mind.  It was the communiqué sent by Senator Richards that spun anger throughout the thoughts.

 

On the way back up to the terrarium he remembered how she impressed him so with the way she conducted herself during the meeting along with Doctor Johnson so many months ago.  He never did believe the news accounts describing her as an understanding, compassionate, and warm individual, but that was exactly how she appeared.  Then, the communiqué knocked the reality of her political savvy back into the forefront of his beliefs.  The words, the behavior, amounted to so much rhetoric and trickery.

 

Back in the hallway, he wrapped a hand around the base of the apple tree and effortlessly guided it into the terrarium and its wheel.  “Who is she to tell me not to mess it up,” he said to the tree.  “Great,” he chuckled, “I’m talking to it like it understands.”

 

With slippers anchored securely under foot restraints, a hand gripping an edge of the bin, Timothy was about to slam the tree into its home but suddenly stopped.  A thought popped in the mind.  He looked to the tree.  Its leaves remained listless as he gently slipped the bin into the slot, then carefully removed the side panels.

 

How can I screw up delivering a simple message? he thought.  I’ll deliver a message.

 

With the force delivered by a single finger, the clamps snapped into place, thereby securing the bed of bins holding the apple tree and others snugly in their new home.

 

Timothy picked the panels from the air, ran the mouth of the vacuum tube over their surfaces to suck in clumps of moist and sticky soil clinging onto the surfaces, and then stored them away to slots in the storage bin.

 

I’ve done everything they’ve asked of me, he thought, and still it’s not enough.  He smiled.  It’s like they’re taking all of this so seriously.  With that thought in mind, a finger nudged the axle support, sent him drifting backwards to eye the garden of his creation.

 

The sight of the nectarine tree hanging upside down, the orange and plum trees suspended on their sides, and the apple tree standing tall in its cubicle brought a smile to the face.  Like the second hand of a clock slowly sweeping the face, he carefully sent his body rotating around while thinking that concepts of up and down and sideways were now only displaced perceptions in the vacuum of space.

 

A gentle nudge off the wall sent him floating ahead towards the wheel.  Slippers slipped under the restraints, and with the hook of a finger, moved each wedge shaped walls to the wheel and secured the trees in the comfort of their homes.  The motor hummed and the inertial weights clanked as the activator button sent the wheel spinning.  Red and blue lights showered the trees with their vital source of energy.

 

Before he secured the vacuum to its hold, he ran the tube about his hands and face and hair to remove any remnants left from the act of aggression.

 

Timothy examined the terrarium.  Convinced there was no trace of unauthorized debris floating freely about, he flew to the door and flipped off the beams of white light.

 

Suspended silent, listening to the sounds of air whirling about the terrarium, created comfort within the mind.  A sigh broke the silence at the sight of red and blue beams emanating through hundreds of holes in perforated walls.

 

With the preparations complete, Timothy maneuvered into the sudden glow of the hallway.  With one hand wrapped around a support, the other gently slid the door shut allowing the trees to begin to fulfill their function in privacy.  His thoughts then wandered to the ship.  The thoughts begged the need for a tour of the ship that was now his home.

 

Though it was not the intentions for him to perform a close inspection of the ship, Timothy, nevertheless, figured he had better.  He felt it was worth it in order to avoid their wrath.  Oh yes, he contemplated, a lecture would be heard if anything should happen to be out of place or loose.

 

He drifted through the hallway rattling doors, touching the clamps of water outlet pipes as they offered support on the way above the water