The Box, and the Shiny Red Ball: Part 2 of 3: Part 2 of 3

By Mark A. Fettig

Everything you need to know is sitting inside - open up, and you will see.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 11, 2009
• ISBN: 9781477162972

Mark A. Fettig

Born outside of Seattle, February of 1969, Mark Fettig has traveled the United States extensively, living each day for the stories that only life can create. Utilizing a ‘school of hard knocks’ education, here, within these pages, his words…lie.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

_____________________________

ABREAST WITH THE MARSUPIANS

(The ninth full turn of a lune, 4134, in the colony of Marsula)

Four years and three months had passed since Sachula and Habidsut’s freeze. The surface of Marsula was barren, aside from the hints various remnants of life had left here and there, All of this was alive up until that meteor shower hit some thirty thousand years ago… one suited man explained to another, pointing to the remnants of a home’s foundation.

"We’re not going to ever need to worry about this kind of loss again, will we?"

"We’ll never stop this kind of tragedy from happening…"

"At least we’ll survive."

Back at the shelter, the rest of the crew from the Derthian colony was getting restless, I know a week can pass—several days each way isn’t it? a decorated officer mulled, "Did you just say we are now three weeks past due on that vessel?"

Communication with home court has been down for almost a week, too. a clerk quietly parroted.

Unaware of the fate of the planet, the officer stepped to a telescope, and began to stare through, How many days has it been that way? he asked the clerk, stepping back for a direct look into his eyes.

A day and a half—one solid cloud… at night, it glows orange.

Makes a man wonder about the what-ifs, doesn’t it?

"What-ifs? Oh ya, I think those are asked like this what if we don’t get some food?"

Are we low on food, too?

According to the weights and volumes accounting, we may run out mid-week.

When was the last update?

The head cook just posted it to the Archive this morning…

A sarcastic smile was all the officer could reveal, but his thoughts were on the people here, more so than back on Derth. Thinking back to the screenings, most of the inhabitants had been chosen because of their experience, and with the consideration of the distance, most had arrived as they had been living on Derth—as married couples (it was G.O.D.’s attempt towards easing the stress of leaving a loved one behind).

In a private chamber, the tension between two had begun to rise, "This is all your fault—if we’d stayed home, we wouldn’t be dying here . . ." the woman scorned.

Nobody’s going to die here… ! her man objected.

Hope kept falling deeper into the self-destructive realms of despair, and eventually, a quiet became the assumption of a calmness not yet reached…

Early one morning, a loud eruption of enthusiasm awoke the camp, All colonists report—we got a shipment in during the night. The clerk announced.

The vessel was large, and has been deployed unmanned. An orderly announced as the officer arrived.

Its role was normally used as a means to carry food and medical supplies to the expedition, and then, it would be transformed into a shuttle to transport the miraculous gas back home.

According to the depth that the landing gear had sunk to, this one is overloaded.

All hands to the dock! We have fresh supplies! the announcement blared once again.

Without hesitation, each of the staff members quickly made their way to the landing area, and when the electronic release was pressed, the buzzer sounded, and then, all four sides dropped to the ground. OOHS and OHHH’s went through the group at first, and then the questions flew.

What the hell is all of this junk? asked Belting Astruber, an engineer of sorts for the astronomical nanometrological team.

The officer, dressed now in casual attire, raised a hand to summon silence, before stepping in, and then back out from the inside of the transport, "This isn’t our usual shipment…"

He was holding a small computing devise, known to most as an ‘e-messenger’. The e-messenger was equipped with the technology to analyze the size of the group it was informing, and then, using holographic fog for a screen, it would then display either text, or a simulated physical being, while broadcasting the messages held within. After pushing a switch, he then set the messenger down on the ground and stepped back.

Up came the fog, and then Dr. Phurbish’s apparition appeared in the mist. The broadcast announcement began with a bleak and solemn, Hello. and then, as soon as he started his speech, it was as if it was for nothing more than to explain the grim status of things back home.

"You are, at this time, being forewarned. You will be on your own for a period of time still unknown to us.

"There is no need to bring you back. Our atmosphere has changed so drastically in the past two seasons that you would die upon taking your first breath. Our thoughts are now with you, but your lives depend upon your own ability to survive. It is very important that you continue your quest, because you may be our only hope, when it comes to preserving the human race.

"As a gesture of good will, we have provided you with a secondary method for survival if you should so decide to use it. Here, inside this containment device, are some pods that will support you in a frozen state of being.

"The hope is that, if life returns here, they may discover your existence through our recordings, but if all is destroyed, you will need to wait until they evolve into sky scanners. Because they most surely will, you should consider a design of some kind, in order to attract their attention.

For a final well wishing, we have also enclosed data about every possible situation and solution we know of for the purpose of helping you survive. Take all that we have given you for the best and when one of us are able, we will rescue the other.

The group, now at a loss of words over this terrible news, stood quietly awaiting the words from their lead officer to pour out.

. . . But nothing much had been left to the wonderment. Standing there silently, he looked at each face, noting the vulnerabilities in each of their eyes. As a few began to turn away, he snapped from his shock, and regained control, if for nothing more, than to give it up…

"Wait just a second everybody. I know my title is known to you all, but I do have a name—and even though I wasn’t born to it, I’m known back home as, Defrig Frink . . . if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d prefer to be called by it from now on."

What about your title? a sentry asked.

His thoughts were scattered about within his rattled mind, leaving him searching for the right way to proceed, There is no longer a post for such a title to be held.

He couldn’t help but to think about it how can I ask them all to accept this as their new reality? His instinctual judgment wanted to defend his rank is it just a test put on by the Order? Either way, they would all need to come to grips with this new reality.

If what was said were true, Marsula must be made habitable as soon as possible. The clerk offered up.

Defrig nodded his head, and walked back to the group, Everyone—come to a stand at attention, I need to speak with you for a brief moment…

Mumblings and shuffling came with the gathering. As soon as they were in position, he began, "I know that you were all brought here with the assumption that you would be here for only two years. I too want to be back home, at least, the home I left…

"If any of you here thinks that he or she would rather not live without knowing their friends will be alive back home, you may choose to die here, or you can choose to be frozen.

With these thoughts in mind, take what sleep you can this evening and in the morning, staff leader Bask and I will have put together the first order of business for the colony under these new circumstances, any questions?

. . . Many questions went unasked, as the news had worn them all. That night, as would be expected, the crew was in shock over what they’d just come to know. Bedtime eyes were open behind closed lids, as the images of what had become of ‘back home’ were being played upon the screens provided.

The following morning, all the group’s members would be barely listening as Bask went over the whats and whys of the new plans, explaining the details of the information in too great a depth for the weariness that was upon them all.

As he spoke, it appeared to Defrig that Bask didn’t have the abandonment concerning Derth that so many there seemed to feel, but with a large family back home, Bask had been chosen indirectly. In all reality though, Bask was only there because there were plenty of others to fill his shoes back home.

Defrig thought of the concerns Bask ignored—if he had known what the future had held, he would have at least shown his people how to best be prepared for its coming… from the sound of his strong voice, Bask wouldn’t have done or said anything as long as he was protected.

Looking off to the side, Bask noticed Defrig’s attendance, Here’s Defrig, now—he has a plan, and afterwards, will be answering your questions.

And as he stood up, he greeted the crowd, but today it all seemed different—he sounded distraught as he spoke, "We have all been burdened with an immense responsibility, as it pertains to the future of ourselves and the race of which we are. We now must look at ourselves as the only ones capable of ensuring our survival. If there is anyone who would not like to take part in this, you may be excused through the methods provided… if, on the other hand, you think that you’re being here now will greatly improve the chances of our survival then by all means, stay with the group and help us to build an atmosphere here."

"As you are now informed, you’ll need to decide whether or not to try out his solution. The decision isn’t simple—either you will be placed within the ‘freezer’ pods, or carry on with the new project in the hope of survival… a decision that now, either way, looks dismal when compared to the hope the original mission had given us. Now, with the future of mankind upon our shoulders, it seems there is only one true decision to be made.

LT Gaider Jess, a man seen as a respected member in the program, sat back to soak in an imaginary moment of silence, while his thoughts went out to his colleagues back home. Back when the urgency of this mission came up, it happened so spontaneously, that he’d suspected there was something seriously wrong with their future, and something very ugly that was slated for the future of them all.

He did, however, have a brilliant idea to speed the mission up, and a way to help guarantee their survival. The idea was that different people could choose to take part at different times, and by doing so, resources could be spared.

If we all stay here like we are, we will be damned to failure. We are too many for what little is provided, and with no more supplies available from Derth, how will we be fed… what will be of the project if we accomplish nothing aside from starvation… who will we call upon to carry the torch?

Many nods were passed around the group. Defrig then asked for further input if he was able, so continuing on as if he’d merely taken a breath, LT looked around at the others, and again began to fill the ears that now lay tuned upon him.

If we take turns, we will have a chance. I don’t believe there is time to teach each other what the other knows, so, depending upon the necessities ahead, the best people for each task will need be thawed in a specific order. After catching the next in line up with the current status of the biosphere, the previous two will then need to be prepared for hibernation. Only then can I believe that we might have a chance, but it will be a very solemn and lonely world while we progress.

That’s insanely stupendous! cheered Defrig, If we look at this project like, let’s say, a project, we may all live to reap the efforts of our labors—simply ingenious!

Clapping was the next noise to fill the room. A solute was then offered to LT from the group and cheers of joy were thrown to the sky.

LT was one of only two members who had volunteered for his duties here. He’d simply done so because he wanted to have solitude from society. He’d seen the program on his news display only briefly, and knowing how much he would enjoy being so far away from all the crowded streets of home, it just seemed like the thing to do at the time. Now it was permanent though, and that made a difference in the mindset of his emotional state of being.

Defrig, unaware of his mental state, had unwittingly took a stand for LT’s proposal, just like the rest had done, If life on Derth has really ended, we will all be needed, in order to make a world here, if for nothing more than for the sake of survival, it is also for the sake of the human race.

"LT has touched upon a valuable note though. Because there are so many married couples here, I think it would be best for all of us who doesn’t have a partner to be paired now, and then we’ll need to decide who is the most qualified for the first task at hand."

We would like to take fourth watch. came a voice from the back.

We will be the first if we may, volunteered another man’s wife, Our specific duties here are as cooks, but we are also gardeners, which would be most beneficial when it comes to setting up the biosphere with the most productive oxygen producers; besides, we have no other talents, and later on, after the sphere is setup, there will be nothing for us to do aside from sitting here, bored to death.

. . . And so it was decided, they would be the first, and each couple was then set in place according to the next tasks at hand, and so on.

After each couple was bid farewell for the time, they were then prepared and sent to rest. Each time someone was frozen, the desolation became more immense as the reality of the events to come began to fall in place.

Soon, only a single couple was left behind to make their new world thrive. That remaining two then set out to build up the Marsulan space station’s oxygen production capabilities. The hope was to provide enough food and oxygen to keep a regular cycle of life going indefinitely. If all went right, the new plan would create breathable air, which could then be released into the outside atmosphere.

The First set of volunteers were able to increase the outside oxygen levels from .00025% to .00029%, still a long ways from the level needed to sustain normal life on the outside. The second set of volunteers added some more, but the size of the biosphere was way too small to be a big help fast—in order for it to really be noticeable, there would need to be an increase of 50% in its size, but the materials wouldn’t be provide-able over a normal human’s lifespan.

Since this was deemed impossible, when considering all they lacked, the second two fell to the destructive realm of frustration in the aspects where letdowns played, and, not to mention the fact that they were alone with one another—of course the situation created the fuel for one too many disagreements between themselves.

Eventually, the couple reached the point of which total chaos ruled their every day. As it seemed, they were soon unable to accomplish anything aside from an argument. At first, it was over things like, who would do the specialty work, or who would do this, and eventually it evolved enough to involve the would nots, too!

After seven and a half years passed by, the couple decided that the project might be too much for them to handle, so on the next day, they thawed another team before returning to their own box.

The newly revived couple was also overwhelmed at what lay ahead, Is it just me, or are there a severe lacks of changes from the last couple? the wife had asked.

Little did they know, they wouldn’t last very long either, and soon faced their own obstacles—as the years went by—day, after day after day—one day, the woman snapped. She’d miscarried three times, and each time had proven worse than the last.

I am not going through it again. She insisted.

What choice do we have? her husband asked while twirling a stem in a cup of warm water.

I want to wait for help—in case there is to be another complication. With the way things have gone so far, I feel that this lack for a hospital nearby might prove fatal, besides—kids aren’t really an option yet, anyway.

. . . And so, since they had what could only be called a ‘family emergency’ they too would change places with the next in line, It looks like it’s going to be LT Gaider’s box, according to my list.

LT, and another man just like himself. They had met at a place long ago, where many men like them went, when two men like they were wanted to be together.

Once the thaw had come, and the other two became set, the two men went about life in as normal a fashion as they could—but in their own minds, the two believed that someone would be there to rescue the others, and wanted nothing more, than to live their lives out alone, in the solitude Marsula had provided.

After setting their sights, they began the longest reign, and when one outlived the other, the last of the two eventually pushed it too far, leaving no one to thaw the next party. Seemingly asleep in their hibernating state of being, the others are said to be there still, waiting, wanting… watching—still…

CHAPTER 2

_____________________________

FED-UP

In the summer of the year, 1987, a young man had defied his father’s wishes by trying to make something out of his life. After only four years of training, he was ready to come home for the second time since he’d left.

Spring classes had just given way to a graduation ceremony, but just last week, Michael Disburn had discretely graduated top honors from three separate departments within his military postings.

His family had been self employed, dirt-poor rednecks, and while Michael had been away, they’d evolved enough to understand the world of indoor plumbing—if they could have figured out how to keep it running during the cold winter months, their life would have been complete.

To Michael (after seeing how others lived) he felt as if his family lived more like the colored folks he’d been taught he was better than. As he laughed at his instilled prejudice, it was a black man named James who had been the one to show him his new-found respect for the term bad-ass nigger.

After a round with him the word’s use was almost retired from his vocabulary—once he’d realized the power of respect from two different directions, and ten different ways as James had punched him once with each fist—right before cleaning off the bar with the honky slide as James had called it.

. . . Michael had just walked in to have a drink, and as he had commenced right off in telling a joke about color, he’d not waited for the bathroom to clear.

Loud and busy bars were one thing—this one was fairly quiet. By the time he’d realized his joke had gone sour, it was when he turned to respond to a deep, educated yet resounding voice asking, Can you guess what that word makes me do when I hear it?

Bam, and then, Blam! and after a hard slam, it was when he came to a rest at the wall’s edge when James decided to tell his own joke, Do you know what the world’s toughest redneck does before telling a joke about a black man?

Michael had waited for the response, but, when it didn’t come, he looked over his shoulder at James.

That’s right. James replied, "He looks around so as to make sure he’s not about to get his ass kicked by a punch line!"

James was in his covert ops training class, and as Michael had been friendly to his face, he’d not known of his home life. But because James and the drill sergeant had been buddies, Michael’s record concerning color had almost become a concern, given some not so new military standards.

Instead of pressing the issue, the drill sergeant had asked James to lay-off when it came to Michael, "He is so out of the now, that we consider him to be a relic."

"A relic? James had asked, He’s nothing but a racist redneck!"

"The redneck has lost his rights to the world in which he was raised—the new world requires money to survive, and his family holds a Gold Certificate showing the right to a tax-free deed—that’s how they make it."

"How does that make a difference?" James had asked.

"The property they lived on was paid for with gold, not dollars; as long as the property is kept in the hands of the original bloodline, the money they make on that property remains non-taxable.

I’ve heard about that—I thought they only got a break on the property taxes.

"Michael’s family owns one of the last five, one-hundred acre plots where the government still honors the century and a half old agreement—I don’t have the clearance to open the files, but the Disburn family has the only special attachments to their note."

James was not your average man, and if he had been raised black, he probably would have understood a little differently; but then again, he might have sent Michael all the way through the wall, too. As Michael thought about the black eye’s he still had, he laughed at the thought that a black guy had given them—it had always taken on a strange ring.

. . . Mickey, as his father called him, had rented a car nicer than his folks had ever owned, but while traveling the two miles down the rock-dirt road, a piece of chad had gotten stuck between one of the tread slots with its arrow-like point working its way inward, until a soft hiss could be heard in between the downward rolls.

Psst! Pssst! Pssst! Psssssst!

As he rounded the bend towards his family compound, he pulled over just past the family’s fender-bender tree, (as his grandpa had called it so many times).

Even Michael had seen the tree move a time or two,  . . . Jumped right in front me. he’d said, swearing on a name or two at times. Icy winters, and a bar right up the road had allowed the tree to be too conveniently placed—if they would have just cut it down, the money his family had spent on fenders over the last fifty years could have been spent on some other senseless waste, like newer clothes—or a washer and dryer, maybe?

Who in the God-damned hell is on my road? Michael’s father had called when the Taurus door was slammed.

Michael’s father knew good and well who it was, but he sent a rifled blast through the hole-rattled mailboxes just because he could.

Michael called out some peaceful words, but they were followed by, You cantankerous son of a…

Ka-blam! his father had replied once more—this time the bullet had come closer.

The rocks on the road were still flying through the air, when he heard his father yell out again.

Watch what you call my momma, boy! He warned.

As hard as it was for Michael to accept, his father had adapted his demeanor to fit a country version of the Homer Simpson character; only Michael wasn’t a Bart by any means.

. . . Firing through the trees, Michael sent another ray of sunshine into the privy’s darkened hole, hoping like hell that his father was shooting from inside of the family’s outdoor services unit.

His father was, and he was cursing at him again—but it was only because the bullet had sent a splash from the liquid mire below his throne—pieces of week old crap—and his father had dropped his whiskey bottle in an attempt to somehow outrun the next two rounds; three shots was the calling card of his son.

"When did you learn to shoot?" his father asked.

You ain’t even supposed to have a gun Dad, remember your parole? Michael said, ignoring his father’s new found respect.

. . . His father was your typical Friday night hunter, and as the decoy had looked real, he’d run it down with the truck, drunkenly.

Felony Poaching. The Judge had groveled.

He’d shot at the Game Warden too; the whole event was caught on tape… his father had plea-bargained, using some old family dirt in one of his quieter courtroom stints.

This time, I made sure they released the rights to display the video—the term was less than a year on a five year sentence, in exchange for public display on a Good cop—bad guy show, and no guns ever again. his father chimed not so proudly now, Did you get your ass kicked, boy?

The true account with James would get altered…

Well I hope she was worth it. The reply became.

As far as the law went, they only came up every once in a while, and that was usually only after a fight… or a good wreck. Until his father had lost his gun privileges, they came up more often than not to check out a lost tourist complaint, You still bullshitting them Northerners.

Sending’em off on a wild goose chase down my favorite hill—that’s about the only fun I ever get to have.

Fun is fun, but not telling them there’s a lake where the old bridge used to be—isn’t much fun for them, I’d guess."

I don’t go take their fish… his father would always say in his defense.

"That lake wouldn’t even be there if the people up north didn’t buy the power that the damn thing creates… them fish put there with that money—those tourists have just as much right to’em as you do!"

I wouldn’t have to drive all of the damned way around it to get nowhere, neither—do you know how poor it keeps us?

The law had told him that same thing almost every time, but after the latest complaint by an angry tourist, things got serious for Michael’s father, It ‘peered he had his self too big a boat for that undersized SUV.

"He lost his truck, his trailer and his boat… ?" Michael had asked in total belief.

If it hadn’t pulled the boat under with it, that poor man wouldn’t have had to walk the ten miles back up to the main highway. his father said before hacking up a laugh.

That’s not what got you in trouble.

"Naw, it was that rifle I used to run off the man’s rented thief."

You mean that attorney? Is he still the prosecutor over in Benton?

Bout three days a week—ya—it’s at least two counties away.

You shot the man’s side mirror out—what in the hell?

"I know it—if I hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have gotten so danged mad."

Do ya think? Michael asked, knowing most times, he didn’t.

. . . To know a little more; the Disburn family had been involved in the area since the early 1800’s. Michael’s great, great grandfather was one of a few people to have the privilege of knowing of the world’s greatest secret, but he’d also held to his price for his shut-mouth.

And although Michael’s family had been open with the dinnertime discussions where every aspect of their boring, yet fluorescent mountain life was concerned, Michael had never been included in much of anything other than what was currently on the table.

There was a reason though—Michael had been aware of many events of his family tree’s secret to success, but they’d not done much in his lifetime, or their own, to show for much as far as he could see, but, until he’d gone off to boot camp, he really hadn’t cared all that much, Hell, they are my family… he’d said whenever an embarrassment came along to cause the need for an apology.

Did you hear about the nigger family that moved in down the road a piece? his father popped out of nowhere.

Michael sat frozen at the hearing of that word. All of his time growing up, he’d never even known a black man to set foot in their small town. Prejudiced by birth, and, while he’d heard too many stories, his enlistment had shown him plenty who would fight without others like their own nearby.

Michael thought of an old friend, and all it took was the familiar whistle—two quick chirps, and then a longer one about equal to the first two combined. As he saw his dog come running along, it was barking furiously, and running with the wind behind him, and stopping late as usual…

Need a hand up Mickey?

Thanks. Where’s momma? Michael asked, wiping the clay dust from his jeans.

She’s up at Lilly’s still.

Lilly’s?

The family still? his father snapped, She’s getting the shine for tomorrow night’s party—Lilly has quite a bit of luck with the blackberries you know?

Who drinks shine these days Michael wondered—if he’d known the simplicity within the numbers, he might not have felt so shameful for being from such roots as he was.

Special Forces were never one of the family’s chosen careers, but Michael had watched too much TV to sit out the world in a small town’s life.

To the drill sergeant, Disburn was just another name, as far as Michael knew, that is, so Michael would think of the son of a bitch as an asshole first—SOB second… if only his father could have pulled some strings, Michael could have skipped a step or so he’d thought a time or two.

War will take away your anger towards him. A man had explained, "When the drill sergeant’s evil gets proven to be the administration of a master—towards your survival."

How many would die if they’d been allowed to skip a step or two before going off to fight; how many had for the same reasons, he wondered, dreaming of a far different end to his chores.

While standing still within his thoughts, the family Rott took off up the road.

His run had a happy bounce to it, Looks like something familiar might have caught his attention.

That dog hears your momma coming. He gets that way for her you know—knows the sound of her driving, I guess. he said, lighting a homegrown cigarette, called a joint in most circles.

Michael had never even taken a puff, but as he had to take a polygraph, the residue found within his spinal fluids told a different story… that he’d been around it since his birth—it was in his blood, but not in his system

. . . How proud his momma was as she gleamed. And in between cussing out his father for the interruptions, she was a well-mannered woman.

When it came to loving her son, she had never dreamed he’d get as involved with such a valiant affair as he had, Momma didn’t get the shine yet, shit bucket! his mother yelled in response to his continued interruptions—talking to him as he was acting—like a child waiting for his candy.

. . . And finally, too thought Michael—he was ready to ask about it, just to get him to shut-up.

And as she’d yelled it loud enough, he seemed to forget his anger, If she’d just take her rightful place without the B.S. his father said, looking towards Michael with a wink, "Sorry they’re not cleaned yet, but I didn’t want to do