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

The flow of breath stopped.  Thoughts focused on what he could have sworn were the feel of watchful stares upon him.

 

Soil ricocheted about the wheel as the naked hand was yanked out of the bed of soil.

 

Eyes looked to the camera above, but stares were not lurking from behind the eye.  Ears concentrated on the sounds of the ship, but could not detect any unfamiliar sounds creeping about.

 

All of a sudden the feel of watchful eyes vanished.  The attention turned back to the wheel’s inhabitants.  “I’m losing it guys,” he whispered.  “I’m really losing it.”

 

The work was finished in the west garden.  Timothy took hold of the bin of tomatoes and glided over to their neighbors housed across the hall.

 

The wheel stopped.  The walls came down.

 

Eyes stared at a scant clump of leaves clinging to the apple tree—the only sign of life.  He knew he had tried everything to restore its vitality: A lifeline of nourishing water eased its ailments for a while.  A new bin with a fresh bed of nutrient and mineral enriched soil seemed to help.  Consultations with the gardener provided hope, however, for all the efforts its yield continued to fall.  A couple of pounds or so one harvest, half its normal yield the next.  Twelve pound the following harvest, to a couple of pounds the last one.

 

“I suppose your time is up,” he whispered.

 

Hands wrapped around the base of the tree to yank it out and end its misery, but the heart decided it did not deserve a gory ending to a fruitful life.

 

“I have plenty of food,” he said to the fallen friend.  “I’ll leave you here.”

 

Silence.

 

The wheel spun.  A hand reached out for the tomatoes and held the bin snug during the silent drift to the kitchen.

 

“The botanist said it had a productive life of ten to twelve years,” he whispered to the tomatoes while spraying them with cleansing droplets of water.  “I don’t understand,” he said as the sharpened blade diced the ripened flesh.  “You weren’t supposed to go away just yet.”

 

Hands picked the sealed bags of red chunks from the air and settled them in the refrigerator.  Timothy searched about the other fruits and vegetables hoping to find one last portion of apple, but all were gone.

 

Maybe ten years has already passed by? he thought.  Oh well, no time for grief.  Hands guided the way back to the living room.

 

Eyes scanned the clipboard noticing the same old chores the friend had ordered for the day, as well as the new problems needing correction.

 

But sleep consumed the thoughts.  The bedroom called out to offer to comfort numb senses, however Timothy realized sleep only prolonged the torture.  He drifted to a familiar storage room.  Another box of filters was towed to the electric company.

 

There was no escaping the collective humming of generators, even if the humming was much softer.  The one that had broken down stirred no more.  Looking at the three remaining ones he wondered when they too would pass.

 

“Dust everywhere,” he whispered.

 

From vent to vent he drifted.  Soiled pads quickly filled an empty box.

 

He drifted up the hallway and into the bedroom.  Eyelids started to drop as eyes looked down upon the bed.  “No.  Work.”

 

After the box of grimy filters was swooshed to the darkness of the trashcan, he scooped mounds of black sludge from the holding tank and into a bin.  Once full, one hand towed it through the air while the other managed to pull the body and the bin along.

 

The wheel stopped.  A cabinet opened.  “Here you go guys, fresh batteries for your lights.”

 

Attention turned to the mulcher.  Hands sloppily layered four small bins with shredded bits and slimy paste.  Two depleted bins were yanked from the holds.  Two fresh ones slipped into the wheel to carry on the cycle of life.  The contents of the used ones were mixed about the soil of the four compartments.

 

The wheel’s rotation started.

 

“Home stretch,” he said amidst the whirring sound.

 

Timothy could feel the last ounce of energy draining from the body.  As fast as he could, the other two fresh bins were towed to the west garden and secured in the wheel.  The contents of the used ones were tossed back into the mulcher.

 

Time for a break, he concluded.  The chair awaited.

 

Wasting no time, Timothy loosely secured the restraints across the body.  Empty eyes stared at the distant stars.  Their collective light filtered through the window, lightly touched the face.

 

The friend screamed.

 

“I’m just taking a break,” he whispered.

 

Timothy slowly rotated the chair around to the monitor and scanned the blurry lettering.

 

“It can’t be.”

 

Objected detected, the friend flashed.  Stand by.

 

Hands tossed the restraints off the body.  “Is it time?”

 

Stand by.

 

“Fire the engines already,” he screamed.  “What are you waiting for?”

 

Fists pounded on the terminal.  “Look, the engine hasn’t been used at all.”

 

Face hugged the window.  Eyes probed the void.

 

“Where are they?  Friend, display, object.”

 

The friend did not respond.

 

“No, not display.”  Thoughts rushed about the mind trying to pinpoint the command.  “Think!”

 

He rattled off: “Friend activate camera exterior.”

 

The friend still ignored the request, and then flashed: Spacecraft.  Probable.  Stand by.

 

“Spacecraft!” Timothy hollered, “Then stop the ship.  It’s time to deliver the message.”

 

Stand by.

 

“I will not stand by.”  A fist slammed onto the terminal.  “What is wrong with you?  It’s them.”

 

Too excited to just stand by, Timothy shot to the ceiling and shoved the attic’s hatch open.  “Oh please let this work.”

 

He approached the panel.  “Friend activate cameras exterior.”

 

The terminal came alive.  “Yeah!  Camera one pan forward.”  He scanned the monitor with eyes shuffling from side to side, up and down the screen, searching for just a glimpse of the spacecraft.

 

“Where is it?”  Hands shook the terminal.  “Camera one scan field object focus.”

 

Pinpoints of light alternated between sharp and blurry as the friend’s eye searched for the object.

 

“Come on friend—do something already.  Maybe they’re behind or off to the side,” Timothy reasoned.  He rattled off new commands: “Camera four scan field object focus.”

 

“There it is,” he shouted.  Heartbeats accelerated.  “Camera four magnify.”  The eye closed in on the object.  “Camera four magnify, magnify, magnify.”  Timothy noticed what appeared to be markings on the object, but it was still too far away for the friend’s eye to decipher.

 

He shot down to the living room.

 

Stand by, the friend continued to flash.

 

“Stop the ship,” he commanded.  “Friend fire engines retro.”

 

No response.

 

“You’re up to no good—stop it!”

 

Stand by.

 

“What can I do?  Think!  What can I do?”  Pounding fists provided a furious pace between the walls.

 

Anchoring feet under restraints, Timothy started to yank at and rip the power conduit from the friend, but he knew it was useless.  “I have to cut the power off from the whole ship.”

 

Excitement ran wild.  He shot to the electric company and crashed into the friend.

 

“Friend display schematic reactor nuclear.”

 

Eyes darted about the technical verbiage as a hand tugged the crop of hair.  “Yes, yes.  I can turn off systems, but—not the reactor.  The umbilical conduit?”  He eyed the thick tube above.  “If I sever it—no!  If I do that I won’t be able to exit the ship.”

 

Knuckles turned white as fists clenched tighter.  Screams echoed about the vast expanse of the electric company.

 

Then an idea popped into the mind.  He darted back to the living room and shot up to the attic.

 

“Robert said you won’t let me out unless repair is needed to the exterior.  Okay then, the exterior needs repairing.  Camera four pan right.  Stop,” he uttered.  A dark spot loomed in the shadows.

 

The friend held an image of an apparent open wound in its sights.

 

Timothy sucked in a deep flow of air, and then slowly released the depleted air.  “Camera, four, pan, down.  Stop, focus, analyze.”

 

Lights flashed.  Timothy cringed as he could see the friend hooking up the pathway of the fault tolerant network.

 

“Oh please let this work,” he whispered.  Hands clasped together.  “Friend, repair.”

 

Flashes pulsed faster.  Insignificant damage.

 

“Friend, danger, repair.”

 

Insignificant damage, the friend continued to flash.

 

“Friend, danger, repair.”

 

The screen split.  Another eye swung its attention to the spot. 

 

Insignificant damage.

 

Then why the second and third opinions you dumb machine: “Friend, danger, repair.”

 

Insignificant damage.

 

“Friend, damage, danger, repair.”

 

Insignificant damage.  The lights pulsed faster and flashed: Stand by.

 

“That’s it.  Not too sure of yourself are you?”

 

Irreparable, the friend flashed.

 

“Repairable.”

 

Irreparable.

 

“Repairable.”

 

Irreparable.

 

“Friend, damage, danger, repair!”

 

The monitor split into four.  The friend brought in two more opinions.

 

“Repairable.”

 

Stand by.

 

Fingers crossed.  Eyes stared intently at the images before him.

 

The pulses stopped.  The friend flashed: Manual check required.  Rover in position.

 

“Yes,” he jubilantly shouted.  “The spacesuit?”  Eyes flitted about for a hidden cabinet.  “The apartment.”

 

Shoulder and arm and leg brushed the rim of the hatch as he launched the body down to the living room.  An arm pushed off the doctor to ricochet the momentum to the right.

 

A hand latched onto a handle of a cabinet and grappled with the stiff spacesuit held firmly inside.  Legs kicked through the pants and to the boots.  Hands wrestled with suspenders in securing the leg assembly.  Arms stretched up.  Hands fought their way to the gloves.  Fingers snapped the connectors in place.

 

“Hang on friend,” he shouted.

 

Hands seized the glinting helmet from the grip of the cabinet and twisted it into a locking position.

 

“Damn!  Where’s the survival pack?”  Gloved hands clasped the helmet.  “The airlock.”

 

Rapid breaths puffed out hot air.  Unable to see through the steamy visor, gloved hands guided him safely up to and through the hatch.  Gloved fingers groped the airlock’s panel.  The finger stabbed the button.  The door popped open.

 

The survival pack was yanked off its hinges.  A trembling hand shoved the electrical cable and the oxygen tube into their ports.  A cool flow of air swirled abou and, dissipated the film of fog from the visor.

 

The door sealed.  The suit puffed and expanded as the air wheezed out from the chamber.  A hand reached out and a finger stabbed the button.  The hatch opened.  The rover was exposed.  It suspended over the opening.

 

“Wow,” he whispered in a moment of awe.  Eyes and senses were overcome by the three dimension and panoramic view of stars surrounding the ship.  Reality seized the moment.  A gloved finger tapped a button.  The thrusters ignited.

 

If I remember right, he thought, slow and steady to the right.

 

A gloved hand wrapped around and squeezed the control stick.  Eyes squinted and peered over the heavens for the alien’s ship amidst the background of twinkling lights.  The rover aimed to where the ship should be upon the last sighting.

 

“Come on.  Where are you?”  Eyes continued to scan the panoramic view.  A speck was spotted.  “There!”

 

The hand choked the stick tighter.  Beating heart sped up the breathing.  Eyes locked in on the target.

 

“Activate guidance control.”  A switch was flipped.

 

A blip appeared on the screen.  The engine’s burn time was calculated to attain the necessary velocity to land dead center on the ship’s body.  The control was slammed forward.  The thrusters fired.

 

“Ahhhh!”  The rover turned to the spot on the ship the friend had eyed.  The friend was in control.

 

The stick was jerked backwards.  “When Robert took me out to show me the ship from a distance, he did something to make the rover do what he wanted it to do.  What exactly did he do?”

 

Thoughts frantically played the scene over and over as thoughts of the alien’s ship cruising away sent panic to the mind.  Eyes looked at the assembly of squares and switched on a panel to the left of guidance control.  A gloved hand hovered over the panel ready to pounce.

 

Thoughts replayed the image of a moving hand—“Think.  The sequence.”

 

An image of Robert’s hand came up from the memory.  “This one—no!”  The jaw clenched.  “Follow Robert’s hand: This one, then that one, turn off this switch, and activate this one.”

 

Again Timothy guided the stick to the right.  Slow and steady—stop.  Eyes locked in on the fleeing ship.  The guidance system was reactivated.  Control forward.  The thrusters fired.  The rover shot ahead.  “Yeah!” he shouted as eyes glanced at the display panel.  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three….”

 

Anticipation raged.  The thrusters died.  Worried the target would be out of reach Timothy frantically flailed the arms about