Solutions: The Dilemma of Hopelessness by James Gerard (great novels of all time .txt) 📕

Wondering if the computer would demand that the problem be rectified to its satisfaction, he said, “Computer, power, off, camera, twelve.  Irreparable.”

The terminal hesitated then temporarily went blank.  In a matter of seconds it issued the following: Power turned off to camera twelve.  No further repairs necessary.

“I can’t believe it.  You didn’t actually fail did you?”  He would have liked to believe that was the case, but he knew better—it doesn’t make mistakes.

In his attempts to remedy the problem, Timothy had consciously ignored the loud sensations sounding within the stomach.  The growling and grumbling announced it was time for a feast.

Rotating around, he saw a bluish haze emanating from the computer terminal within the medical facility.  The light glowed as a beacon to the desired location.

Gripping the handrails to either side, Timothy stretched his body parallel to the floor, cocked the legs against the terminal, and smoothly kicked off.  The launch was smooth and sprang him forward.

The lights in the hallway sensed a presence and lit the way.  He looked to the left, the right, up, down, checking his position in relationship to obstacles along the way.  And just when he thought the glide was going to be a successful one—bump—a shoulder slammed into a hand grip.  Have to work on that, he mused.

Hands guided the way back into the kitchen facility. Ignoring the recommended food list the health analyzer had spat out in the morning, he whispered, “What am I hungry for?”

Timothy had become accustomed to preparing and cooking food in a non-gravity environment.  The procedure was not unlike cooking at home.  Just a matter of opening up dehydrated slabs of meat, slicing and cubing it, tossing it in a container with packages of rice or potatoes or pasta, powdered gravy, an injection of water, then nuke the contents until the steamy heat transformed the contents inside into a edible concoction.  The only real difference—besides adding the vegetables—had to do with the absence of gravity.

Like the grains of soil, that if not watched by a suspicious eye, sought to escape the gardens’ wheels. Timothy had experienced the same with packages of rice and gravy.  Each required a gentle shake to get them out of the package, while a free hand stood ready to block the path of and corral any escaping granules and grains from bouncing out of the hold of the container.  Then, after all motion had ceased, a gentle pat of the hand returned them to their prescribed position.

With the selection of beef and rice and gravy within the hold of the container, he glided over to the cold storage unit.  “Let’s see,” he whispered as eyes inspected the packaged contents brought on board.  “A pack of carrots, tomatoes, onions, and snow peas.”

He sliced off the ends of the packages, carefully slid the contents into the container as to not disturb the bond that held the red and green and white flesh in clumps.  With all the various flavors and textures secured in the hold, the container burped to secure a seal.  With feet anchored under restraints, Timothy shook the contents into a hodge-podge of undistinguished clumps.  A needle penetrated a small slit exposed on the lid, showering the contents with water.  A little bit of water and a shake.  More water and shake again.  The process continued until the mixture contained enough moisture to awaken the rice and meat and gravy and vegetables from their dehydrated states.

Ready to be nuked, Timothy slid the container into one of the slots of the awaiting microwave and set the power level on low.

Now, he thought, a little bit of relaxation.

Snaking his way out of the kitchen and into the glow of the medical facility, he came to rest on the chair.  The net of belts and straps secured the body snugly onto the seat.  A tap of a button revealed the field of distant stars.

“They’re still there,” he whispered as the feeling of watchful eyes disturbed the peace of the isolation.  “What?  Five more months or so and I’ll be well past your eyes.”

His attention focused on the distant stars, but the possibilities that stirred in the mind were halted by the scream of the timer.

“Wow,” whispered Timothy, “A lot faster than the station’s nukes.”

He quickly darted back to the kitchen facility and cradled the container and a spoon into the chest and glided back to the chair.  As soon as the lid was removed, droplets of steam scattered about, but were captured and removed by the airflow rising to the vents above.

With the gravy serving as a bond between the various bits of food, a heapful of the steamy delight was delivered by a spoon to the mouth.  “Blah,” he noted.  “It needs salt.”

As eyes scanned the stars, the hodge-podge of food slowly disappeared from the container, and thoughts returned to the possibilities that lay ahead.

“Who are you?” he whispered, thinking of the beings that called for the meeting.  “Why out here in the void of space?”

As Timothy mulled over that question, he forced down the last spoonful of the bland meal.

“I guess who you are isn’t important.”  He grinned.  “As long as you understand the message I have for you, it doesn’t matter.”

The weight of the eyelids signaled to both mind and body the need for sleep.  But then he looked to the dirty container and lid and spoon floating above the lap, figured he had better clean up the mess before going to sleep.

He smiled, thought about how easy the task was going to be never having a dishwasher—physical labor washed the dishes by hand always in the past, he remembered.

Imagine that, he thought; with a flip of a switch the container and lid and spoon rotate around while jets of water blast the bits of remnants from their surfaces.  As eyes stared in fascination, an air flow sucked the debris and globules of water down to the reclamation unit below.

Waiting a few minutes for a green light to flash, signaling the eating and serving utensils had been blown dried, they were pulled out of the washer.  The sides and corners and bottom squeaked in response to a finger sliding about to feel for any debris or moisture the machine might have neglected.  “You did good dishwasher.”

While securing the container and lid and spoon to a cabinet, fumes from a foul odor lingering about the room caught the attention.  “Phew!  Time to get me cleaned up.”

Days had passed since the last bathing.  Timothy could feel a film of grimy oil covering the body.  Careful not to spin out of control, the slippers were slipped off.  The soiled pants and shirt and undergarments were peeled off, then placed in the hold of a bin.

Once inside the stall, Timothy tugged and pulled at the shower door making sure the seal was secure.  A flip of a switch began a current of warm air flowing up from beneath.  With feet securely tucked under restraints, he gripped the nozzle allowing water and droplets of steam to saturate the attached sponge.

“Ahh,” he sighed as the hot and soapy sponge glided over hair and face, neck and shoulders, back and chest and stomach.  “This feels so good,” he said through the soapy bubbles all about the mouth.  The roaming sponge massaged each and every muscle, attacked the grime that had built up in the last few days.

A click signaled the onset of the rinse cycle.

Retracing the path, the steamy sponge again glided over all parts of the body removing the film of now grimy soap and any tension that had held the muscles captive.

“Yes,” he whispered.  Body went limp.  Arms drifted freely to the ceiling of the stall.  The warmth from the air flowed.   The currents tickled the body with fingers of delight.  The air wrapped the body in a sheath of comfort, blow-dried the moisture from tingling skin and exiled all but relaxation down to the reclamation unit below.

He drifted naked to the hygiene unit where feet were slipped under the snug fit of the footholds.  An electric toothbrush lathered the teeth with peppermint paste.  The vibrating bristles massaged the gums, removed the film of slime that had covered the teeth.   He squished water about the mouth, spat the filth through a bubbled opening of the hand washing unit, where it was carried off by an airstream and swooshed into and through the drain to the reclamation unit.

“Hair,” he whispered as the mirror reflected a like image of blades of grass rising stiff from the scalp.  He started to reach for a comb attached to a cabinet, for a dab of gel as well, but stopped.  He smiled at the reflection.  “Who’s going to judge me up here?”

Drifting into the sleeping chamber, Timothy could not remember how long it had been since such a good and relaxing feeling was in control of both mind and body.  Maybe the feeling was the result of the freedom to simply drift about naked and freely?  No matter, he reasoned.  He desired for the feeling to last—it was too good to waste on sleep.  But the serenity of the mind and body led to thoughts of a warm and deep slumber.

Lying naked upon a cushion of warmth, sinking deeper and deeper into the bed as the chamber spun faster and faster, he completed the liquid replacement procedure and then activated a switch to the entertainment unit.

What to watch? he thought.  “Hello.”  The scrolling list stopped.  “I don’t remember this one.”

Timothy snatched the virtual gear out of its clamp and attached the stimulation and movement activator net to various points of the body, and slipped the headset over the face.

“Computer, load, program, seven.”

“Timothy,” a voice called.

Eyes darted to the side, towards a person approaching.  “I’ll be damned.  Charles?”

“How are you doing Timothy?”

“Wow, the image is so real.”

“Yes it is.”

“Turtles ate lunch at the library.”

“What?”

“I said ‘turtles ate lunch at the library.’”

“I know what you said, but why did you say it?”

“How can you be interacting spontaneously?”

“It’s an advanced system.”

Timothy raised his eyebrows.  “It isn’t scripted?”

“Not this one.”

“How is it done?”

“It’s a bit too complexed to explain.  But simply, the system is tied into your memories and the ship’s global network—you’re actually interacting with the computer.”

“Then you’re the computer?”

“No,” said Charles.  “I was conjured up in your memories.”

Timothy moved his eyes from side to side and up and down.  Though most of the buildings, the neighborhood in general were somewhat fuzzy, there was one structure he clearly recognized and remembered.

He examined the one story, red brick building stretching half the length of a city block.  He could see the rectangular windows, trimmed in white, which marked the boundaries between individual classrooms.  And the venetian blinds were closed in order to block the view of the interior, keeping secret the events unfolding inside.

There were the reds steps and black handrails leading up to green doors.  To the side of the school were lines of hedges spaced out about every thirty feet or so that he and his friends used as hurdles while racing from one end of the school to the other.

Suddenly, his eyes were jerked around, looked at the street leading to his immediate neighborhood.  “What are the limits?  I mean can I go to my house?”

“If you want.”

Timothy took a single step towards the street, but stopped.  “There’s nothing there,” he whispered.  The attention turned back to Charles.  “But why here?  Why the school?”

Charles shrugged his shoulders.  “They’re your memories.”

Timothy smiled.  He looked at the school.  “Are there limits?”

No response.

“Charles, where did you go?”  Eyes scanned the surrounding area, but he was nowhere in sight.

Timothy laughed as mere thoughts walked him up the steps.

“Excuse me,” he yelled through the heavily fortified doors, “I need to see…I need to see the Reverend Mother.”

The door creaked open.  The barrel of a rifle was shoved in his face.

“Holy cow,” Timothy gasped.  “Hey computer, you’re supposed to be reading my memories.”

He expected the computer to make an adjustment, but the rifle