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

through his heart, but if God had been listening, Timothy figured he just didn’t care what he had to say.

 

He sprang back to the window.  Hand seized the supports.  Eyes peered over the heavens.

 

“I’m not a damn robot,” shouted Timothy, “who you’ve programmed to live up to every one of your demands and expectations and absolute rules.”  A fist punched the window.  Torn skin transferred a spot of blood on the surface.

 

“I’m not anti-religious or an anti-worshiper—I’m really not.

 

Timothy raised the damaged knuckles to the mouth.  Lips wiped clean the blood.  Mind contemplated the countless arguments with those fanatics who believe that the quality of life, as spelled out by God and the citizenry, demanded compliance when dealing with fellow humans.

 

Timothy again looked to the ceiling.  “Right!  Then why is it citizens sometimes pass by, sit next to, work around tens or hundreds or thousands of others a day and not one of them is ever offended when greetings aren’t exchanged between each and every one of them?  If the quality of life demands interaction, then how can this be?  And of course there are enemies.  Separate gods are prayed to.  Arbitrary boundaries between nations are set.  Yeah, getting along is so important.”

 

He felt the words fell on deaf ears.  Eyes looked to the window, to the reflection staring back.  “Gee Timmy, then you ask where you are.  You’re in Hell.”

 

Eyes darted about the corners of the room again.  “I guess you aren’t going to answer.”  He laughed.  “Maybe you’re some contrived figure a sociopath conjured up to instill fear and maintain control over victims.”

 

Eyes stared at the stars.  “Or better yet,” he whispered, “whoever it is I’m going to meet out here has been to Earth before.  Maybe one of their educators brought students here long ago on a field trip to construct religion as a tool of control.”

 

Eyes looked to the ceiling.  “Still no answer, huh?”

 

Timothy hoped God would have at least given him the smallest of signs that he did exist, but still nothing was heard or seen.

 

A hand throbbed.  Knuckles stung as bony fingers extended towards a hand support.  Wondering just how much damage was inflicted, he redirected the hand into the doctor.  “Doctor, hand, pain.”

 

Lights flashed as pressure pinned the hand in place.  He could feel tingling sensations running the length of the arm from the touch of a pad wiping over and soothing the damaged area.  Tired eyes awaited the diagnosis.

 

Abrasions, the doctor flashed.  Slight strain to the ligament attachments of the metacarpus.  Do you require pain medication?

 

“No,” answered Timothy.  “I’ll just bury the pain until it heals.”

 

He turned to the friend who had held the image of the distant sun burning on the screen: “System, camera, exterior, off.”  The monitor went dark.

 

No longer in the mood to sit lazily before the window, he forced himself to face the tasks of the day.

 

With the good hand, he reached into the dark chambers of the doctor to remove and dump the encrusted matter it had stored for so many months.  The next chore took him to a closet in the hallway where a box of light bulbs waited.  The sore hand held the box loosely while the good hand guided him to the electric company.

 

Metal screeched as floor panels were pried open to expose the computers lurking beneath.

 

“Indicator lights,” he whispered.  “Friend, why do you care about indicator lights?  So they burn out.”

 

The computer hummed as he hovered over it.

 

Timothy picked one of the small bulbs from the box to examine it, but because the surface was clouded he could not tell by what means made the bulb shine.

 

“You’re the one that lets me know when they need to be replaced.”

 

Suddenly, he froze in the air.  “What do the lights indicate?  Movement.”

 

“Johnson,” he whispered, “are you there?”

 

 Eyelids shut tight.  Thoughts focused on watchful stares, but none could be felt.

 

“They are movement sensors. The cameras are just a ploy.”  Eyes looked at camera twelve.  “Of course.  That’s why you didn’t have me replace it.  They’re just here to throw me off track. The cameras in the apartment and bedroom and gardens and everywhere else are useless.  But why?”

 

Timothy could not make sense of it.  The trip on the shuttle to the ISS was real, he believed.  The force of the launch was felt.  But the eyes of others aren’t felt.

 

“Of course I’m in space,” he said.  “This is stupid.  Even if these are motion detectors, what good does it do to know where I am at any particular time?  You see what you’ve done to me friend,” he shouted, “I’m a space whacko.”

 

After all the dead lights had been replaced to the friend’s satisfaction, Timothy glided down to the basement.

 

As he scooped out piles of solid waste from the sewage tank, he all of a sudden realized something.  He noticed the putrid smell that once prompted wretched vomiting when he first trained around it at the station, now had no effect on him whatsoever.  He laughed.  “Yep,” he whispered, “once in a while you have to stop and smell the roses.”

 

After transferring the sludge to a bin, he floated about with a rag in hand to capture any escaped particles of matter that may have evaded the flow of the friend’s vent.

 

Funny, he thought.  Except for that slipped cable on the computer controlling the vents and other minor problems, you’ve actually been a model of reliability friend.  Just like Robert said you’d be.

 

With one last look around, Timothy slipped the dirty rag into the hold of a pocket and towed the bin of sludge up to the east garden.

 

“How are you guys doing today?”

 

A gloved finger reached out to the wheel and halted its spin.

 

“I’ve got two things for your guys.”

 

A gloved hand took hold of a water nozzle and attached it to the intake valve of the wheel.  “Time for some fresh water.”

 

As the water slowly flooded the wheel’s rim, Timothy spread alternating blankets of pasty sludge over beds of shredded leaves and twigs and stems and cores and roots and peels and stalks in the holds of bins.

 

He popped the nozzle off the wheel, injected all the bins with the right amount of moisture to begin the cooking process.

 

Eyeing a purple orb floating freely about one of the compartments, Timothy noted, “Looks like you’re ready for picking.”

 

The plum appeared succulent.  It was ready to be devoured.  Saliva beaded forth from the corner of the mouth.  It’s worth a headache.

 

The mask and gloves came off.  Timothy glided into the wheel.  A naked finger tapped a button.  The wheel spun.

 

Gently, a hand reached out and picked the plum from the air.  Lips puckered in response to the taste of the tart yet sweet flavor of the flesh and skin.  Droplets of juice dribbled down the chin as the pit was spat out.  “Wow was that good,” he said of the savory delight.

 

“Mind if I have another?”  A hand carefully picked another purple plum from the tree.  The sudden weight of the body prodded him to sit upon the soft and soggy soil.

 

“Ahh,” he whispered as naked fingers ran deep into the bin.  He had forgotten just how good it felt to have rich and loamy soil sift through fingers.  The feel of droplets of water, purified, released by the leaves, dripped off the leaves and trickled down the face.

 

He looked to the tree bathed in lights of red and blue.  “You and the nectarine tree are my favorite ones you know.  Sure, the apple and orange trees are okay, but too often I bite into the apples and they’re mushy, and the oranges too bitter.  You’re always just right.”  Timothy paused.  A reflective glimpse sparked in the eyes.  “I expect a good bit of tartness, and that’s what you deliver.”

 

Though he still thought it silly to expect the trees to respond and understand, he had long come to think of them as the only living things he could relate to in the automated world.

 

“You know,” he continued, “unlike the friend and the entertainment system, when I talk with you, you seem to sincerely respond.”  Timothy smiled.  “No scripts or precise language or predetermined responses or Charles’ stupid program.”

 

All of a sudden dizziness disoriented the thoughts and nausea stirred within the stomach.  Whew.  Either the methane is getting to me or the lack of fluids.

 

Hands managed to clutch the sides of the compartment as the momentum came to a sudden halt.  Timothy guided himself out of the wheel and into a sudden burst of light in the hallway.

 

Deep breaths were sucked in until thoughts ceased spinning and stomach stopped aching.

 

*                                       *                                      *

 

Another growing season had passed.  With yellow and purplish skin glossing, signaling the nectarine orbs were ready for storage, Timothy gathered them into a bin and off to the kitchen.

 

Using a newly honed knife, the pits were removed and the fruit cut into bite sized pieces.  The pieces were then portioned into specially made bags coated with some sort of preservative.  The compressor, as efficient as always, sucked out the air and the bags were sealed for storage.  After clenaing up, Timothy transferred the bags to the refrigerator.

 

“To the compost heap,” he whispered having noted the condition of packages of food rotting in the bin next to the flesh of the plums.

 

He had intended to eat the fruits and vegetables, but more often the packages became clutter.  They accumulated over the months—maybe even years—only to be exiled back to the organic cycle of life.

 

"Spinach, looks good, but I’m not going to eat it.  To the heap.  Broccoli.  Five…ten…sixteen packages.  To the heap.  Carrots?  Ah save.  Peas?  Save.  Tomatoes?  Save.  Greens?  Naw.  Them and everything else to the heap.”

 

He turned the attention to the potato bin.  Four.  Still look good, he noted as fingers groped a package of the white clumps of flesh.  The next harvest should be ready soon.

 

With the mouth of the mulcher agape, the knife sliced and unsealed bag after bag of moldy food and scraped the contents towards the blades ready to shred the rotting flesh in bits.  The flesh was sucked into the mulcher by a strong stream of air and reduced to future fertilizer for the trees and plants consumption.

 

“Yep, you potatoes are just about ready,” he said while eying a spud dug up from beneath the soil.  Eyes also noticed and ogled a row of green, leafy flesh in another compartment.  “Spinach too.”

 

Gloved hands fumbled about the bin attempting to dislodge it from its slot, but instead Timothy decided to leave the bin in place. I’m tired of this, he thought.

 

He maneuvered over to the gardener.  “Display, schematic, compost heap.”

 

The diagram flashed on the screen and revealed its secrets: In the absence of insects, birds, and animals, the compost provides the optimum conditions for recycling the plants’ nutrients at a rapid pace.

 

“But I’m an animal,” Timothy informed the gardener.  “I process the fruit and vegetables and meats and grains through digestion.”

 

Eyes continued to scan the information: The sludge created from the waste matter provides additional bacteria and nitrogen….”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m only part of the recycling process.  I’ll tell you what gardener, I doubt, really doubt that I’m not going to eat the spinach.  So, how ‘bout I just uproot the spinach plants, bury the remains in the soil, and then plant the seeds into it.  If it fails to do the job, I’ll make sure to do the compost heaps the next time.  Okay?”

 

The gardener did not respond.

 

“Okay then.  I’ll take your silence as an approval."

 

He removed the bin and started the job.  It should work, he thought.  After all, the soil has moisture and heat.  The material should be able to decompose.  “Besides,” he whispered, “if it fails it’s only this one time.”

 

With the west garden secured, Timothy checked in with the friend to see if there was anything else to do, but the chores for the day had been completed.

 

Bored, he floated about the ship and stopped now and then to ask the friend to pull up a schematic of one of the systems