Solutions: The Dilemma of Hopelessness, James Gerard [free children's ebooks online .txt] 📗

remained.  “So it’s in the mood to fight.”

 

Timothy played along, said to the hall monitor, “Hey, that’s not very nice of you.”

 

Before the hall monitor could respond, Timothy slammed one of the doors into the quasi-sentry, knocking the rifle to the floor.

 

The sentry lunged for the rifle as Timothy rushed in.  Just as the sentry grabbed the butt of the rifle, Timothy stomped on and pinned his arm to the floor.

 

He bent down and wrestled away the rifle from the sentry’s grip, and planted the barrel dead center onto his forehead.  Enjoying the sheer terror on the state sanctioned sadist’s face, Timothy smiled.  “Where is she?”

 

“Who?” the sentry muttered.

 

Something caught Timothy’s attention.  Eyes darted about the stark hallway.  It’s changed, he thought.  Looks more like the public school they banished me to.  “I want to see the teachers,” he screamed.

 

As if anticipating the end of his life was at hand, the man trembled.  “If you want to see them you have to go to the office first.”

 

“Don’t worry,” said Timothy, “I’m only doing this for your own good you know.  Let’s call it a suspension.”  He raised the butt of the rifle high into the air intending to smack the man in the head, but then realized he was nothing more than a victim himself and turned towards the office.  “There.”

 

He was trying to feel guilty about the pleasure occupying the thoughts, but guilt had been set aside, for the rage of memories was now overtaking any semblance of morality that ruled his behavior.  “Besides,” he whispered while staring at the office door, “it’s a fantasy.  No one will be hurt.”

 

Heels clicked as boots trodded down the dimly lit hallway, past doors of solid wood.  A cool breeze swept over his face.

 

He stood in front of the office door.  With a swift kick the door burst open.

 

“You, at the desk, I want to see the teachers.”

 

“It’s you!” a woman shuttered, the secretary whose face had faded over time.  She tossed her hands to the air.  “Um Principal Smith, could you come out here please.”

 

Timothy heard the principal bark out “What is it?” from behind a closed door.  Stepping out of the office he noticed Timothy.  “I thought you would have been locked away by now.”

 

“I bet you did.  Then again, you never were good at judging people you gutless wretch.”

 

Timothy eyed the principal’s expensive black suit, the gray silk tie hanging over a custom fitted white shirt.  “My God, I see you’re still dressing to impress.”

 

“What do you want?” the principal asked smugly.

 

“I’d like to see some of my teachers if you don’t mind.”

 

“They’re busy.”

 

“With what?”

 

“It seems the precious little idiots are miserably failing in their studies.  They need to be drilled in certain subject areas.”

 

“Maybe it’s the teachers that are failing.  Did you ever think of that you union puppet?”

 

“Impossible!” the principal pridefully uttered.  “Teachers teach, students learn.  It is not our fault if they fail in their responsibility to learn what is taught.”

 

“Well gosh.  Who died and made you God?”

 

“They are here to learn; period.  And for them to learn we must maintain absolute control.  We are not here to mother them.”

 

“You don’t get it, do you?”

 

“What do you know?” the principal asked.  He looked at Timothy with apparent contempt.

 

“I’ve been behind the scenes.  I’ve seen for myself the bickering and back stabbing that goes on in the teacher’s lounge.  I’ve heard their hatred toward students who do not respond to their commands exactly and immediately.  When are you going to start being accountable for your actions?”

 

“Accountable?  Us?  Accountable?”  The principal laughed.  “We have in our possession state sanctioned teaching certificates.  That’s all the accountability we need.”

 

“So that’s why citizen groups fail whenever they try to lobby aggressively for initiatives that would change the education system, expose most of you for the incompetent fools you are—you run to the state for protection.”

 

“Why don’t you return to the septic tank you crawled out of.”

 

Timothy aimed the barrel of the rifle directly at the principal’s head.  “You could’ve given me a break, expelled me like the others did.  You didn’t have to use me as an example to scare others into submission—you didn’t have to kick me when I was down.”

 

“Again, we do not mother students.”

 

A young boy suddenly bolted from the principal’s office.  The principal grabbed him.

 

Timothy’s jaw clenched tight.  “Let him go.”

 

The boy was released.  “I’ll finish with you later.”

 

“Whoever said monsters are not real?” said Timothy.  “Tell me: Do you feel like a big man when you hurt us?”

 

“Call the police,” the principal barked at the secretary.

 

“Do you videotape the beatings for the teachers’ enjoyment?”

 

“Call them now.”

 

“What’s the matter, can’t handle me all by yourself now?”  Are you afraid?”

 

The principal sucked in a deep breath.  “The police will take care of you.”

 

“Here, I’ll put down the rifle.  Just me and you.”

 

“I…I have work to do.”

 

Timothy reached down and grabbed the rifle.  He readied the butt to slam it smack into his face.  “No,” he screamed.  He dropped the rifle.  “Get out of my head.”

 

Hands ripped the visor off the face and threw it into the monitor.  Glass shattered.  Electricity sparked from the monitor’s guts.

 

“Stop!  Computer, program, stop!”  The system fell silent.  “Who am I kidding,” mumbled Timothy.  “Computer, erase, program, number, seven.”

 

Though the computer responded by wiping out the program from its memory, it could not erase the memory haunting the mind.

 

“System check.  System check.  System check….”

 

“Yeah, I know,” he whispered.  “I messed up again.”

 

He stopped the wheel, removed the virtual reality netting off the body, detached the broken monitor from the terminal, and made his way to one of the storage rooms.

 

After replacing the monitor and cleaning up the glass to the computer’s satisfaction, Timothy again started the sleeping chamber’s rotation.  The chamber was at its full rotational speed.  He threw to the side the stimulation and movement activator net and rolled over onto his side.  Laying there quiet with the world shut off from sight, thoughts of a once peaceful slumber was now disturbed by tossing and turning throughout the night.

 

*                            *                            *

 

The alarm screamed.

 

“I don’t want to get up yet,” mumbled Timothy, but the alarm buzzed and buzzed.  Morning after morning it would continue to disturb the peace until it was obeyed; its command fulfilled.  Rise and complete the morning regimen of forcing down the fluids and rowing the boat to nowhere.

 

Hands groped about and squeezed the hand supports.  He stumbled in the air on the way to the medical facility to look over the fuzzy list of the breakfast menu the computer had spat out.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Timothy informed the analyzer.

 

He managed to restrain himself onto the chair as the computer shrieked its demand: “System check.  System check.  System check….”

 

“Yeah, I know,” he softly whispered while the clipboard was pulled from its slot.  Eyes stared at the screen.  “Computer, why do you bother me when everything is fine?”

 

No response.

 

Why the computer acted the way it did, he just could not understand.  There had to be a reason for its behavior, he believed.  But what?

 

The memory of Robert’s assurance stirred in the mind, but the promises made were mere words compared to the reality of the situation.  ‘Just go along with the computer,’ he would say.  But Timothy wished for more control over the decision making.

 

“Computer, display, systems, heading.”

 

The headings flashed onto the monitor and slowly scrolled by.

 

“Computer, stop.  Highlight, network, global.”

 

The computer abided by the request.

 

“I think ‘computer’ is too flattering of a name for you.  You will now be called…you will now be called t-o-r-m-e-n-t-o-r from this day forward.”

 

The title looked right to the eyes and rolled off the tongue easily enough.  Tormentor implied someone who enjoyed inflicting pain with enormous gratification, and he thought that certainly described the computer.

 

The renaming process continued: Sleeping chamber became the bedroom.  Health analyzer became the doctor.  Medical facility was changed to living room.  Hand washing and hygiene units combined into bathroom sink.  Mid deck was renamed apartment.  Bottom deck to basement.  Flight deck changed to attic.

 

The list continued to scroll by.  Fingers tapped the delete key removing “facility” off of “kitchen.”  “Cold storage unit” retitled “refrigerator,” “dry storage locker” to “food locker,” and every other label that sounded too formal and sterile—too computerized—was altered.

 

With no maintenance duties to perform as usual, Timothy stumbled through the air on the way to the east garden.

 

The chore had become a routine of litany: Put on the garden suit, collect soil samples from the bins, note the physical appearances of the fruits and vegetables, and feed the data to the gardener.  However, as much as he thought it a tedious task, he could not deny that he actually looked forward to tending to their needs.

 

No changes required at this time, the gardener flashed.

 

“Well then," said Timothy, “no maintenance to perform.  The gardens are fine.  No harvesting to do.  What to do, what to do?”

 

Like a ray of sunshine bursting through gloomy and stormy skies, a smile suddenly beamed from ear to ear.  He had thought about it for a while, but the duties were always to the ship first.  Now, remembering the experience with camera twelve, was the time to have a little bit of fun.

 

That is high, he noted entering the electric company, observed the arched ceiling spanning some forty-five feet above.  That spot there.

 

Hands released their grip from the rails.  A gentle nudge of the feet off the wall slowly sent him ascending towards the spot.

 

“I have to be more careful,” he uttered in response to a leg brushing against the main umbilical conduit between him and the target.

 

“No, don’t do that,” he whispered, realizing that if he obeyed the impulse to throw arms forward in a spear-like manner it would wobble the ascent.

 

Just before the crown of the head butted the center of the target, an arm shot forth and stopped the momentum.  “Not bad,” noted Timothy.

 

Body rotated to reverse the direction.  With feet set to the ceiling, Timothy aimed at the doorway below.  The angle was steep—maybe too steep.  However, he believed there was just enough clearance to avoid brushing the umbilical conduit and still hit the black access panel lying beneath the doorway.

 

“Target is locked.  Countdown begin.  Three, two, one, ignition.”   Legs kicked with a mighty burst of power.  The left leg evaded the umbilical cord that impeded the path.  “Watch out,” he shouted as the target was hit dead center.  Arms pushed off the spot. Tthe body ricocheted between the umbilical cord and floorboards.  With arms springing, the momentum continued all the way to the door of the bedroom.

 

For hours Timothy darted from the apartment to the electric company, twisting and turning, tumbling along the way, but still hitting specific targets he concentrated on.  Finally, believing the intricacies of weightless gliding were mastered, eyes locked on to the next target.

 

“There, right there,” he whispered while eyes leered at the tormentor some one hundred and fifty feet away, lurking in the back of the electric company.  “Right in the center.  If I don’t hit that spot exactly,” he shouted, “I will rename you…I will rename you ‘friend’ my private pain-in-the-neck.”

 

“This is a matter of pride you know,” he whispered.  “Win; retain the minutest semblance of self-respect.  Lose, succumb to your power.”

 

He carefully planted his feet flatly against the upper frame of the bedroom door using the support of the handrails on either side to set the spring in the knees.

 

“As simple as that,” he reminded himself.  “Just start off with the feet flat on the doorway, body parallel to the floor, and then smoothly push off.  Five, four, three, two, one, zero, ignition....”

 

"Lift off," he shouted while ands released the hand supports and cocked legs sprang straight sending his missile of a body straight towards the guts of the tormentor.

 

“Steady,” he whispered.  “That’s it, don’t make no sudden movements.  Just glide ever so carefully to the spot.”

 

The water tank passing to the left, locker doors to the right verified a straight and steady course, and the checkerboard pattern of red and black access panels passing underneath