by Jim Laughter
“So you’re the computer expert,” the duty officer said as he read Stan’s papers. Stan cringed at the statement. There were days when he wished no one knew his specialty.
“Yes, sir,” Stan replied noncommittally. The duty officer looked up and eyed him critically.
“Relax son. I’m not about to stick you with fixing our busted gizmos.”
Stan breathed a sigh of relief.
“You’re here to help with the investigation of this disaster, and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Are you familiar with any of the new cross-reference mapping computers?”
“Yes, sir,” Stan replied. “I helped with the initial testing of the design.”
“Good. We need an operator that can make that thing sit up and bark,” the major replied. “Our previous expert was on detached duty to the mothership when it got hit.”
“I understand, sir.”
“You’ll find your new unit in the cabin below the bridge,” the major went on. “The section supervisor can fill you in on the rest.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stan said again as he stood up.
“One more thing,” the major said. “We’ve got a good crew onboard this ship. They’re all a little tense right now. Many of us lost friends.”
“I understand, sir,” Stan replied. “I lost one too.”
∞∞∞
The sun was shining brightly when Delmar first stepped into the dusty street. Horses and early combustion carriages passed by, adding their distinctive crack and rattle to his first venture outside. Another primitive aircraft sputtered overhead on its way to the nearby airpark. He’d heard Doctor Murphy complaining to his daughter about something called a skyflyer. He wondered if this was an example of that craft.
Since his duty uniform had been too badly damaged to wear, Doctor Murphy borrowed a set of old clothes from his son-in-law. They fit Delmar reasonably well, but felt course compared to clothes he couldn’t quite remember. Somehow they reminded Delmar of some sort of theme park he’d visited. He mentioned it to the doctor.
“A theme park? What’s a theme park?”
“All I remember is that it’s a place where we dressed up and pretended to be people we aren’t,” Delmar said.
“Well, you’ve got that part right, Del,” Doctor Murphy said with a chuckle. “Everybody around here pretends to be something they’re not.”
After giving Delmar some simple instructions to help him understand a few of the local ordinances, the doctor turned Delmar loose to explore the town while he went on his house calls. Delmar found everything fascinating as he walked down the crude wooden walkway. Everywhere he looked, he saw men dressed similarly to himself. Many wore sharp metal jingly things on the heels of their boots which Delmar somehow knew were for goading the horses they rode.
Turning into one shop, Delmar discovered a man stripped to his waist pounding on a piece of hot iron he held in a pair of thick tongs. The man had wide massive shoulders and enormous biceps and forearms. He was completely covered by both sweat and soot.
“What can I do for you, boy?” the man asked gruffly as he thrust the iron back into a crude blast furnace.
“Just looking around,” Delmar said. “This is my first time in town.”
“Thought so to look at you.” the man replied. “Never seen you around here before.”
He pulled the red-hot iron back out of the furnace and began to pound on it again with a heavy hammer. Since further conversation was impossible, Delmar stepped back out of the shop and ambled on down the street.
Coming to a building with a star on the door, Delmar had another memory flash into his mind. It was of a different star that had eight points instead of five. He shook his head and read the sign above the door which told him that this was the office of the local sheriff. Another memory of a rough voice saying that word came to mind and Delmar decided to go inside.
As Delmar entered, an older man wearing a metal badge on his chest and a large pistol on his side looked up from where he was cleaning his nails with a rather wicked-looking knife.
“What do you need, stranger?” the man asked, slipping the knife back into a leather scabbard.
“This is the office of the sheriff, right?”
“That’s what it says on the sign,” the man remarked. “It sure isn’t the beauty shop.”
Just then Delmar spied a poster with a couple of crude pictures on it. Moving closer, he examined them and another memory floated to the surface. It was an image of two rough looking characters as they threw Delmar’s body to the ground from some sort of pack animal. One of them said something about no one finding the body here and then the memory faded.
“I think I know these men.”
“You do?” the sheriff said, getting up. “I’ve been after those two for months. They always seem to escape and I can’t get a good lead on where their hideout is.”
“Well, I think I remember seeing their faces when they beat me up and dumped me somewhere,” Delmar reported. “Maybe it was the place where Doctor Murphy said those prospectors found me.”
“You must be that young fellow Doc’s been nursing back to health,” the sheriff said. “For a while he didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“So he told me.”
Delmar reached across the old desk and shook the sheriff’s hand.
“My name is Del Erdinata.”
“You remember anything else about those two, Del?”
“No, not really,” Delmar said. “Doctor Murphy suspects they must have knocked me out and robbed me somewhere. Apparently, they thought they had killed me and tried to get rid of my body.”
“Sure sounds like their style,” the sheriff agreed. “Well, if you remember anything else, you let me know.”
“Yes, sir,” Delmar replied.
“If I’m not here, just leave a message down at the barber shop,” the sheriff continued. “Tell them it’s for Sheriff Stoddard.”
Delmar’s nerves jumped at the mention of the name. There was something very familiar about it, but he couldn’t quite remember what. He nodded his acknowledgement and headed back out onto the sunlight.
A little further down the street, Delmar found the newspaper office. The current edition was in the process of being printed when he stepped inside. A cacophony of noise assaulted Delmar’s ears and a young man operating the crude printing press waved an ink-stained hand at him. Delmar waved back and went over to a stack of papers. After a minute, the press stopped and the young man came over, wiping his hands on a shop rag.
“Interested in some of the old issues?”
“Is that what these are?”
“Yes,” the young man replied. “You can have any you want. We only use them as waste to wipe up spilled ink.”
“Thank you,” Delmar said, taking several different editions.
Maybe I can get a clue about where and who I’m from these.
Excusing himself, he left the newspaper office and started walking back toward Doctor Murphy’s office. Just as he came to an uncovered part of the boardwalk, another skyflyer circled overhead.
Delmar looked up and suddenly the words Cabbage Patch flashed into his mind. Making a mental note to write it down and tell the doctor, Delmar hastened back to the doctor’s office.
Chapter Eight
With one keystroke, Melissa Boren stopped the text from moving across the screen and leaned back in her chair. A glance at her wall clock confirmed that she still had two hours until lunch.
Ever since her suspension, she’d been consigned to home schooling. At first, it was a relief not to face the hostility of the faculty. Everywhere she went at school, it seemed as if she was a marked person. Even school staff members whom she didn’t know had come up to her on almost any pretense to criticize her.
At first she’d been terribly offended by the actions of these adults. Then she noticed the similarity of all the statements made to her. T
he insincere delivery of the criticism on the part of some of the staff and faculty was also curious. It finally dawned on the teenager that not all of the adults agreed with what was clearly a directed effort by someone to harass and discredit her.
After twisting the kinks out of her neck, Melissa bent back over the keyboard of her homemade computer and resumed the lesson. It was a friend of her mother that had introduced the Borens to the accredited program available through the computer net. It only took the submission of the necessary paperwork with the school district to grant the Borens permission to home school.
Her father grumbled about the district maintaining Melissa as a registered student even though she was no longer attending public school classes. He suspected that her name was worth several thousand credits of government allocation money to the district. The payment of the small fee to access the computer net (Melissa was glad that she was now legally registered on the net) opened the door for Melissa to do her schooling at home.
Melissa read through the lesson material and advanced to the section check test. It only took her a matter of minutes to finish the test and receive her score. Sure beats waiting for days to find out how you did on an exam, Melissa thought. Recording her score in a notebook, Melissa entered the access code to go on to the next subject.
∞∞∞
Duty aboard the cruiser for Stan fell into a predictable routine after a few days. Contrary to the fears Stan had about working in the ship computer section, the tension of the crew brought them together instead of driving them apart. They shared both grief and anger about the tragedy and it fueled their efforts to discover the cause of the debacle.
Each piece of equipment was systematically cataloged into Stan’s computer. Using its cross-referencing capability, they were able to form a three dimensional model of the debris field. Then they added in the original structural specifications of the mothership. By factoring in the location and vectors of each piece, the computer was able to reconstruct the destruction of the mothership.
The fleet commander stood by and watched Stan run the computer simulation through an early reconstruction. Although there were still gaps in the image, they were able to watch the holograph of the mothership disintegrate under attack.
Still to be added to the record was each of the individual picket and scout ships that were trapped inside the mothership landing bays. Finally, the partial image finished running its course and Stan froze the playback.
“Good work,” the fleet commander said to the computer team. “Keep it up and let me know when your next update is ready.”
“Yes, sir,” the section supervisor said for all of them.
As soon as the commander had gone, Stan shut off the image projector and turned back to his console. Soon more data began to stream in as the tagging and retrieval of wreckage continued.
Hours later, the shift finally drew near its end. Stan had become a little bleary-eyed, but he continued to input data.
“Here’s the last batch,” another trooper said and brought over a stack of data disks.
“Thanks, I think,” Stan said.
He took the stack and set in down next to his console. One by one, Stan inserted each disk into the reader. A few keystrokes started the computer scanning the data and adding it to the vast database already collected. While he worked, he could see the pictures and descriptions race across the monitor screen at his station.
Something flash across the screen that caught Stan’s attention. Stopping the data stream, he backed the images up and went through them in normal time. Among the pictures of burnt and twisted metal, there were now images of the gristly remains of many dead troopers. Stan steeled himself and continued to scan the data. Finally, he found the image he’d glimpsed earlier.
There on his screen was the image of a piece of wreckage recovered many days ago. It was a piece of hull plate approximately thirty-two inches wide and four feet long. Tear and scrap marks were obvious along the ragged edges. Across the piece of wreckage were the words Cabbage Patch in cursive writing.
Stan sat stunned for several minutes before another trooper came up and put a hand on his shoulder. Stan jumped at the touch and set the computer back to normal operation.
“Found your friend, didn’t you?” the trooper asked.
Stan nodded. The other trooper noticed a tear escape from Stan’s eye and left him to his private grief.
∞∞∞
Totally unaware that his name was just being added to the list of dead from the attack on the destroyed mothership, Delmar Eagleman strode down the dusty lane. His goal that morning was the local airpark to which he felt strangely drawn.
Numerous people on horseback and a few horseless carriages passed the young man as he walked the mile to his objective. When he reached the gate leading to the simple airpark, Delmar spotted the sheriff riding his way.
“How are you today, Mr. Erdinata?” Sheriff Stoddard asked, bringing his horse to a stop next to the young man.
“Pretty good,” Delmar said. “But just call me Del.”
“Any more memories come back, Del?”
“Only a little,” Delmar answered. “I seem to remember those men and some sort of rocky canyon.”
“That could be any of a dozen canyons around here,” Sheriff Stoddard said. “You just keep thinking about it. It will all come back sooner or later.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if I remember anything,” Delmar assured him.
“Are you going to see those new skyflyers?” the Sheriff asked, glancing over his shoulder at the airpark.
“Yes sir. There’s something about flying that keeps nagging at me.”
“Have fun,” the Sheriff said with a smile. “But don’t get injured again.”
“Not a chance. I don’t intend to get laid up again.”
The Sheriff nodded at him and then nudged his horse into motion. Delmar watched him ride away and then resumed his walk to the airpark.
Walking along the field, Delmar found himself surrounded by all sorts of bamboo and fabric flying machines. He was amazed at the variety, and frankly some looked like they’d never leave the ground. A couple of the craft were already buzzing around the sky and looked like nothing more than powered box kites.
A yell from one side of the field caught Delmar’s attention and he turned to see a number of men starting up one of the skyflyers. While one man spun the propeller, several others held onto various parts of the craft.
The combustion engine coughed to life with a rattling roar. Those holding onto the wings and tails of the craft tightened their grip. At a signal from the pilot, the men let go and the flyer lumbered out onto the field.
While he watched, the pilot advanced the throttle, sending the craft bouncing down the grassy runway. After going a hundred yards or so, it sprang into the air and began to gain altitude. While he watched, it circled the field and Delmar found himself smiling at the thought of flying.
Delmar watched the rickety skyflyer circle the field for a few minutes and then decided to go see what was going on in the crude hangers lining the field. Most were closed off with tarps or large doors, but Delmar saw a few that had different types of aircraft in them. In one, he saw a bi-wing craft still under construction. He noted that all of the pieces were present, but assembly was still required.
Just as he was about to move on, a high-pitched voice called out from somewhere inside the fuselage of the craft.
“Hey! You there! Hand me that large spanner on the workbench.”
Delmar thought for a moment, shrugged, and then crossed the hanger to the workbench. Scanning its cluttered surface, he found the spanner and carried it back to the craft.
A dirty but delicate hand extended through an opening and Delmar placed the tool into the open palm. The hand, spanner in its grip, slipped back inside the fuselage and Delmar could hear what sounded like a woman muttering as she worked on something.
“There,” the voice said to no one in particular. �
��That should hold it.”
Before Delmar could respond, a woman’s head popped out of the opening in the fuselage.
“You still here? Thanks for the help.”
“Glad to,” Delmar said. “May I ask what you’re doing?”
“Just trying to get this flying birdcage put together,” the woman answered. “Can’t seem to get any of the other pilots or mechanics to help. They don’t think a woman should fly.”
“I don’t agree,” Delmar answered as a bit of a memory surfaced. “I think I remember several women flying.”
The woman looked him up and down.
“You’re a strange bird,” she said. “I’ve never seen you around here before. My name is Abigail Henke.”
She offered him her dirty hand.
“You can call me Abby.”
“Glad to meet you, Abby,” Delmar said as he shook her delicate hand. “My name is Del Erdinata.”
∞∞∞
With a sigh of exasperation, Melissa stared at the instructions on the computer screen. This literature lesson had already tried her patience and now it was pushing her limits.
IN ONE HUNDRED WORDS OR LESS, EXPLAIN THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE CULTURAL IMPACT THAT COMPUTERS HAVE MADE IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE AXIA IN THE LAST THOUSAND YEARS.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Melissa cried aloud at the computer screen. “It would take at least a book to even begin to explain that!”
Melissa’s patience snapped and she reached for her keyboard.
THIS ASSIGNMENT IS TOTALLY UNREASONABLE, she typed angrily. IT’S NEITHER A FAIR QUESTION NOR AN ANSWERABLE ONE SHORT OF WRITING AN ENTIRE BOOK! I REFUSE TO ALLOW A DUMB COMPUTER PROGRAM TO PLAY WITH MY MIND AND TORTURE ME WITH IDIOTIC QUESTIONS DESIGNED TO LOWER THE STUDENT TO THE INTELLIGENCE OF A ROCK!
Melissa read her angry response and felt satisfaction for the first time that day. Unexpectedly, the screen blanked out and lettering began to appear where her response had been only moments ago. The bold font displayed on her machine was one her computer was incapable of making.
IS THAT ANY WAY FOR A YOUNG LADY TO ACT, MELISSA?
Melissa reached for the keys.