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

yawned.

 

After maneuvering back to the bedroom, onto the bed, a hand securely wrapped restraints atop the body.

 

With a bottle of replacement fluid emptied into the system, a finger tapped the activator button.  The wheel gradually spun.  The weight of the body pushed deep into the cushion of the bed.  The lights turned off.  Eyelids shut.

 

Timothy lay there smiling, relishing the events of the day.

 

*                               *                             *

 

The alarm aroused Timothy from the relaxing slumber.  Legs and arm stretched and back arched allowing tingling sensations to soothe the muscles.

 

“Another day,” he yawned.  “Maybe another carefree one at that.”

 

Timothy was surprised over the friend having only screamed twice in recent memory.  He had wondered if somehow it damaged itself permanently during that prolonged scream some time ago, or if it was a grateful gesture on its part for restoring its voice?  Of course not.

 

After the morning ritual of drinking and rowing, Timothy searched for chores to perform.

 

The attention turned to the bedroom wall.  He eyed the needle hovering above the red warning strip inside the small gauge.  The orangish fluid in the portable urinal tank needed a flushing.

 

Hands squeezed the clamps and popped free the tank from a small pump.  “Whew,” he uttered as the nose caught a whiff of gaseous odors escaping from the tube.  “Time for a new one.”

 

An arm wrapped around the weightless tank.  A finger hooked and secured the clouded tube for its descent to the basement.

 

“Now pump,” he stated to the outflow port clinging to the sewage system, “do your job.”

 

While the tank slurped up the acrid mess to the darkness of the sewer, Timothy floated over to the trashcan and slipped the tube into the waiting compartment.  A finger tapped a button and the tube was swooshed down into darkness.

 

“I have to see,” he whispered.

 

The tray was slipped out.  Riches sparkled within.  “Diamonds are forever, right!”

 

After the portable tank released all its contents of nutrients and minerals for the needs of the trees and plants, Timothy took hold of it and ascended to the apartment.

 

Shooting through the bedroom, a foot carelessly hit the edge of the doorway, knocking the body out of control.  The body smacked and bounced off a wall in the hallway.  The abrupt motion of a free hand seizing the hold of a handrail caused the other to release the portable urinal.  It bounced haphazardly about the hallway.

 

“Damn,” he uttered as he observed the container threatening valves and gauges and conduits about the water storage tank.  He pushed forward, darted past the terrariums, and intercepted the container.  Hands cradled it into the chest, and then one had to reach out and halt the momentum before crashing into a conduit lying above.  “Touchdown!” he exclaimed.  “Hey, this would make a good game.”

 

Hands groped about the feet, knees, hips, shoulders, and neck to feel for any soreness sustained from the flopping about, but all was well.

 

“Tube, urinal, portable, one,” he rattled off, and then laughed at the utterance.  “Oh my God, I sound like a robot.”

 

Timothy floated back to the bedroom and attached the tank back to its secure snug on the wall.  Eyes then peered at the cabinet holding empty bottles.  Fingers wrapped around the caddy holding each of them in slotted grips, and then toted them to the east garden.

 

Like loading up a syringe, a grainy mixture of potassium and sodium and calcium was pulled down from a top container into the bottles by a sucking action.  Timothy watched closely as measured portions blended in with fresh water injected into the bottles.

 

“Next,” he wondered aloud.  “What else can I possibly do?”

 

Back to a storage room he darted.

 

Even though the friend did not command him to do so, Timothy figured he would replace fibrous filters all about the ship.  He took hold of a box of clean ones, as well as an empty box to discard the soiled ones.

 

From experience, Timothy learned that except for dust shaken loose form the abrasive movements of various electrical and mechanical components, a crumb here and there of escaping bits of food, the filter in the apartment required the least amount of attention and maintenance.  He figured, however, he could avoid some stress from the friend if it ever decided to scream on a daily basis again.

 

A hand pulled the filter from the flow of the vent above the living room chair.  “Nope,” he whispered.  “You’re still fine.”

 

Next, Timothy glided to the east garden knowing the filters in the gardens, filled with particles of soil and bits of twigs and leaves and roots and cores and peels, needed the most attention.

 

“Careful now,” he whispered.  Fingers pinched one side so as not to disturb the matter embedded in the fibers, then set it in the confines of the box.

 

He checked other vents dispersed throughout the home.  After a while any filter needing a change had been replaced.

 

“What to do now?” he whispered aloud.  “Let’s see how the apple tree is doing today.”

 

“Hey,” he uttered after observing the leafed figure, “you’ve been looking much better lately.”

 

The attention turned to the orange tree.  A gentle squeeze of the orbs through the gloved hand determined the time for the succulent fruits to be harvested.  “Not quite yet.”

 

He left his friends to bask in the warmth of the red and blue haze, and floated back to the apartment.

 

What’s next? he thought.  I changed the batteries yesterday.  No vegetables are ready to be harvested.  I know, seek out and destroy any escaped droplets.

 

A rag was pulled from a pocket.  Eyes scanned the walls and tanks searching for those hiding in the corners and in the dark recesses.  All about the ship his hand stabbed the droplets and transferred the liquid mess to the rag.

 

After hours of soaring from one section to another, the rag, soaked with captured foes, was immediately imprisoned in the darkness of the hamper.

 

Thoughts of relaxation finally blanketed the mind.  The living room chair awaited the body.  Timothy sat there quietly and gazed at the twinkling stars.

 

A movie, he thought.  “Friend, display, list, movies.  Transfer, monitor, living room.”

 

He scanned the listings.

 

For hours Timothy laughed and grimaced and winced at the various movies and thoroughly enjoyed the entertainment playing out before the eyes.  But, eventually, fatigue ended the night of fun as it prompted eyes to close and the mind to fall asleep before the eyes of stars twinkling from afar.

Abort! Abort!

 As Timothy lay quiet on the bed, the straps withholding the body from the reality that waited, he suddenly realized just how fast time had passed by.  The revelation did not come to mind by the unmasking of the friend’s digital readouts, or a tap of a calculation key, but rather from breakdowns throughout the home.  The ship started to show its age.

 

Months ago he began to encounter an overwhelming litany of daily routines and chores and maintenance and repairs.  Each day he would wake up and discover that through the night small problems had triggered large problems that triggered larger problems.

 

Storage rooms, cluttered with broken promises, began to resemble tombs for dead computers and faded monitors, mausoleums for torn and tattered cables and failed pumps.  Other rooms began to resemble asylums for brittle bins, cracked pipes, faulty gauges, twisted valves, windless humidifiers and unfeeling sensors.

 

Hands tossed the restraints off the body.  Rising to the knees, Timothy thought about how Robert’s assurance that the ship would outlast the mission was credible enough at the time, but now he knew it was an empty promise.  The words amounted to nothing more than boastful pride.

 

Timothy also contemplated that Robert had not told the truth about the ship for self-serving reasons.  Or, he thought, maybe he was told to make sure I wouldn’t worry about anything.  Then Senator Richards sends a communiqué telling me not to screw it up?  That makes sense.  While one hand gently strokes, the other slaps you in the face.  Sure, make it hard to figure out what’s really going on.

 

Replacement fluid was slurped through the straw.  Timothy boarded the boat.  He just could never understand why policy makers act the way they do.  Like when they tell the citizenry that some land is so barren and toxic that a rapid reclamation project was immediately called for, yet, that while some of the land was indeed contaminated, vast tracts of it was rich and fertile.

 

Timothy once read from a particular book about man’s deceptive ways and believed that was the reason he always seemed to be fighting something or someone.  That on an unconscious level he rejected the prevailing attitude that government is absolute truth.  That loyalty demanded repression of any suspicious thoughts that could lead to societal embarrassment.  But why was that author allowed to contradict the government?  After all, the image of those that ruled the Republic must not be tarnished in any way.

 

In some respects he could not argue with that, for the electronic media always reported just how terrible it was to live in nations whose citizens were oppressed, nations where all freedoms were stripped away, and nations where laws were enacted to make sure that the hand of government kept a tight grip on the reign of power.

 

But then again, he could not understand why they even maintained open relationships with those nations if such oppression existed.  Somehow that is okay, he thought, but when a citizen dares to speak bad about the government, watch the fingers point and listen to the voices shout out hatred at that person.  “Timothy,” he whispered, “that’s why they wanted to put you in a mental center you idiot.”

 

Another cycle of purging and replacing fluids, of oars propelling him to nowhere came to an end.  The lights flickered as the bedroom came to a stop and led to the realization of a generator dying.  The mere thought cast shadows over the moment.

 

Maybe the hands of the clock swept through a full rotation long ago?  Every time that thought prodded Timothy to confirm this fact, the hand would tremble toward the tape only to be jerked back as fear of an aimless drift gripped the mind.

 

“I hear you,” he said as screams of ‘system check’ penetrated the thoughts.  A finger slid open the bedroom door.  Reality awaited his attention.

 

Eyes glanced at the stars twinkling from afar, then diverted to the shrieking sound of the friend.

 

“Friend, transfer, clipboard.”

 

The friend did not respond.

 

“I said,” raising the voice, “friend, transfer, clipboard.”

 

Weary eyes scanned the list.  Well, if you ever retrieve this pile of junk I don’t think you’ll like what you’ll find, thought Timothy.

 

Off to the west garden.

 

“Not bad, but obviously slower. But you’re growing,” he noted while observing one string of greenish orbs suspended on vines.

 

“Looks like you’re ready,” he whispered.

 

Gloved hand gently twisted the orbs of tomatoes off the vine and secured them to the hold of a waiting bin.  With one glove removed, a naked hand dug its way into the soil and felt for bits of mulched material that had yet to decompose.  No need to start a compost heap just yet.

 

Though the experiment with adding the material directly to the soil was somewhat a success, he soon realized that heaps were needed to rid the refuse that piled up and just about overflowed the separation tank.

 

Hands suddenly froze in place.  An excited heart beat within.