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

semblance of life and warmth within the automated world.  The trees helped repress the loneliness of existence that off and on escaped the dark cravats of the mind and consumed the thoughts with hopelessness.  The cold and monotonous artificial intelligence that was the friend could never do that.

 

“I wish I didn’t have to wear this suit,” he said as the soil stained gloves removed the walls and prevented the fingers from feeling the richness of the soil and the life within the trunks and limbs and leaves.  And though the mask could take in the smells, he felt the aromas diminished as they passed through the filters.  “Oh well.”

 

For the rest of the day Timothy worked and lounged around the garden and took the time to carefully tend to the trees’ needs.  It was no bother at all.

 

Lift Off

With restraints holding all motion suspended, Timothy gazed at the familiar stars.  Same view, he thought.  Unchanging.  Is the ship moving at all?  It was as if time only slipped by and not the ship itself.

 

How much time had slipped by was unknown.  Timothy knew it had been years, but how many, he could only guess, for some time ago strips of electrical tape were utilized to hide the digital readouts from sight.  Of course, he realized, the method was crude but at the time it was the only logical solution.

 

He had scanned schematics to look at a myriad of lines and boxes and dots trying to understand the entity that ruled over his existence.  Pulse points were located.  The guts of the terminals were exposed.  Wires were snipped to sever the ties of time from the friend. The friend would scream.  For some reason it objected to the death of readouts that it had no use for—a non-priority problem really.

 

Timothy even contemplated letting the friend carry on its tantrum over the severed ties.  He figured to just deal with its continuous scream, but when that strategy had been applied, he discovered the friend had ceased the spin of the gardens’ wheels and switched off the lights that nourished the inhabitants within.

 

If he did not know better, he could have sworn the friend was using coercive tactics in order to maintain absolute control over the world it ruled.

 

Timothy could not understand why the friend reacted so aggressively since it used internal mechanisms to keep track of the time.  Maybe it was much smarter—no, more cunning—than what I had given it credit for.

 

Still, he did not need to know what time it was.  Time was a teaser, always contradicting the thoughts concerning how fast its hands actually swept around its face.

 

More importantly, time just did not have any meaning.  Like concepts of gravitational phenomenon, understanding it meant nothing.  As far as he was concerned it could be four o’clock in the afternoon or ten o’clock in the evening or nine-thirty in the morning.

 

Besides, he had been aware that his diurnal clock, rewound each time beams of light showered the body upon awaking, made the necessary decisions and adjustments as to when to sleep, consume the salt awakened food, and visit the toilet.  No sunrise or sunset as the source to measure time, nor any cold winters or hot summers or mild springs and falls.  Timothy reasoned that only the gardens’ inhabitants cared about the artificial seasons which to him faded into one another as the environmental controls provided and maintained the optimal conditions for their seasonal growth.

 

Timothy was well aware that the signs of passing time could not forever be removed from sight, but thanks to the absence of gravity, it could be disguised.  With that thought in mind he removed the restraints and grabbed supports to either side, and then glided over to the bathroom sink.

 

A cabinet door opened and revealed the mirror within.

 

Timothy had seldom taken the time to examine the image within its frame since the reflection did not truly reflect the changes.  But now, with the passing of time, he figured some changes should be apparent.

 

With feet anchored under restraints, body exposed to the mirror, his eyes scanned the reflection of the bloated torso.  Wonder if I’ve lost any weight? he thought.

 

Eyes then stared at the bloated face.  Wonder how wrinkled it is?  Wonder if it’s any more repulsive?

 

He chuckled in response to hair still growing like grass unevenly trimmed from shearing scissors cutting the strands in no particular length.  A hand disturbed the crop.  “There it is,” he whispered as hints of gray discoloring the scalp line could be seen.  The sight also flashed images of thinning and falling strands transported to the drain of the shower stall—no doubt from the friend’s torment.

 

He reasoned there just had to be a way to disable the friend completely, but at the same time he knew that no matter what was done or what could be done, the friend gave him no choice but to desperately cling to it for survival.

 

As usual, the best way to pacify it was by following its orders: Repair this, replace that, check the system.  And as much as his well-being depended on obeying those demands, the weariness of the tasks at times was overwhelming.

 

Knowing there was work to perform, Timothy paused in the air.  “Later,” he said as he rotated around and glided back to the living room.

 

Resting limp under the restraints, Timothy stared at the stars.  “The heavens,” he whispered.

 

Reddish eyes suddenly squinted and focused about the gaps between endless bodies, as if he expected a lightning bolt to penetrate the ship and strike him down.  That would make no sense, he realized.

 

“Hell?  No, not Hell,” he pondered aloud, “even though she considered me the Devil.  Naw,” he laughed.  “There were some fun times back there.  I doubt the Devil can feel happiness."  He took a glance at the friend.  “And besides, if I were him I would’ve enjoyed the torment—no, I’d be the tormentor.  Perhaps a purgatory of sorts?  A waiting room perhaps?” he reasoned.  “That would explain why the stars don’t seem to be getting any closer.  And certainly not Heaven.  I don’t remember passing through any gates of purl glinting from the light of God.  And no Saint Peter to welcome me to or shun me from the haven of Love.  No winged angels frolicking about.  No fluffy clouds.”

 

Then, for that matter, he thought, there are no signs of imps and demons prodding the decomposed flesh of sinners with piercing points of pitchforks.  No eerie red of brimstone glowing hot can be seen.  No scorching the decomposed flesh of rotting corpses.  No pungent odor of sulfur brewing with the stench of putrid sinners.  No pleas from tormented souls screaming an eternity of agony.  No Devil.

 

The chair spun around to the terminal.  “Maybe I’m looking in the wrong spot?  Friend, activate, system, exterior, camera, two.”

 

The monitor flashed the view of the stars hanging above the horizon line that was the tapered joint of the aft section.

 

“Pan, right.”  The sheltered eye moved, but nothing desirable was seen.  “Stop, pan, left.”  Only lights, a two dimensional image of depthless souls twinkling from afar stared back at him in the monitor.

 

“Camera, two, off.”  Static sizzled on the screen.  “Camera, fourteen, on.  Ah,” he whispered as the camera’s eye revealed a bright light standing forth amid the field of twinkling bodies.

 

“Are you back there?” he asked as the sun shone its position in relationship to the planet where he once eked out a meager existence.

 

“I’ll skip making the sign of the cross,” Timothy whispered, “since I’m probably in shouting distance of you.”

 

The thoughts focused on the things one might ask if God were to grant an individual the time for a personal question and answer session.

 

“Okay,” he spoke up, “from what I know. You created me in your image, right?  And I take that to mean that I not only sort of look like you in a generalized fashion, but I also have a brain which thinks sort of like you do.”  He paused in silence almost expecting to hear a voice responding with a boom of thunder, but none could be heard.

 

“Okay,” he continued, “if so, then from the beginning I was subject to all things that could go wrong with a body and a mind.”  Hands tossed the restraints off the body and seized the supports.  The hands raised the body off the chair and clenched fists began to pound the walls.  Rapid punching set a furious pace from wall to wall.

 

“If that’s the case, then why will I finally be judged by whether I believe in you and your son Jesus?  I mean this blind faith thing is sort of confusing.  I mean your son just didn’t walk into town and asked to be nailed to a cross; he had to go to the cities themselves to witness the things that were going on that you didn’t like.  And, he was rewarded for it by going up to be with you. So, when I see Saint Peter on that fateful day, why can’t I just say that now I believe in you and your son because now I see that you really do exist?

 

“And the deal that if I don’t obey your ten commandments—which by the way, I’ll give you credit, do make sense—you will damn me to eternal suffering?’

 

Fists started to punch the walls faster and faster.  Pounding heart beat within the chest.  Jaw clenched and teeth grinded.

 

“But you see, if you created me to screw up in the first place, wouldn’t that include a disbelief in you?  I mean how can I be damned for that?  Do you yourself have a god to believe in?  And if you don’t, do you feel you should be damned?”  The eyes darted between the monitor and ceiling.  “After all, am I your self-image or not?”

 

Air rushed through the passageway of inflamed nostrils.  Lungs filled and held the air in an attempt to suffocate the tension within.  Expired air then wheezed out of the nostrils, but the tension remained.  Timothy could still feel it clinging to the mind.

 

Eyes looked to the ceiling.  “Let me put it this way: Is the reason you damn me when I don’t the display the faith in you is because you sent your only son to live amongst us and you believe he was murdered?  That you respond and have continued to respond out of grief and anger over the loss of your only son?

 

“Or are you blaming me for his death?  Are you seeking eternal vengeance against me because I don’t display absolute obedience to you?  Is that why you require me to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness?  And when I don’t behave exactly the way you want me to you’ll shun me and make sure that my soul ends up in Hell?  Well, pal; I got some advice for you that I’ve heard over and over again: Deal with it.  Get over it.  Pop down some personality pills and move on.”

 

Timothy bounced over to the door. Eyes peered through the bedroom, down the darkened hallway expecting to see the ominous face of an old man with a flowing white beard.  Or, perhaps, a glowing image of a human body. Only darkness stared back.  There was no revealing sign such as a lightning bolt shooting straight