3- For Real This Time
I remember deciding to run away, but for real this time.
“Tylus! Tylus you’re late, your dad is already outside!”
I rubbed my eyes and looked up at the paint chipping off the ceiling. “Coming, Ma!” I shouted back. I quickly pulled on my work pants and boots and looked outside—Dad was wearing a t-shirt so it can’t be that cold. I rushed down the stairs, but before I leapt outside—“Mom, what day is it today?”
“The sixth. Now hurry up and get out there!”
Her answer was correct but not exactly what I was after.
“Dad!” I called as I ran to him.
“Son, come help me with this, will you?” He was working on the tractor again.
“Dad, I have a question for you.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, not looking away from his work. “Hand me the wrench there, please.”
“What day is it today?”
“The sixth.”
“But is it a Monday? Friday? For the life of me I can’t remember.”
He chuckled, “Son, the days start to blur together. I think it’s a Thursday today—no, it was Thursday a few days ago, I remember your brother saying something—anyway, hold this still, would you please?”
I grabbed the wrench handle while he knelt under the tractor. “Dad, I feel like the days don’t matter. Nothing exciting happens. I can wake up and not know what day it is but know exactly how my day is going to go.”
He looked up at me and frowned. “Son, I know what you’re thinking. I know you’re still worried you’re going to be stuck farming forever and you won’t have any adventures or see any of the things you read about in those books. But, my boy, there’s virtue to a simple life.”
“There’s no fun in a simple life.”
“There’s no fun in a lot of things you have to do. Since when is life about fun? Did your mother teach you that? I certainly didn’t teach you that. You been talking to those friends of yours? Who said you could have friends?” we laughed together.
“Dad, you know what I mean, though, right? Can I get off-world even once? What if I went to another system in the Koslov Union, like Rostov or Androv?”
“Ha! Rostov and Androv eh? What do you know about them?”—he held up his hand—“No no no, don’t answer that, I know you know more than I do. But how are you going to get there, hm? We can’t afford to send you to space as a tourist and I certainly don’t want you to get a job to pay your way through the stars. The harvest is just a few weeks away and this tractor is getting old and I’ve been saving up to replace her repulsor-lifts. We just can’t afford it right now. Do you understand, son? Besides the money, it’s just not safe out there. The second you get off world there’s a whole new culture, a new set of dangers. Learn to love the land, Tylus. She will love you back and keep your belly full and the lights on and you can thank God for that every day of your life.”
I scowled and held my tongue. I wanted to protest but I didn’t want to hurt my Dad’s feelings. When I was silent for too long, my Dad came out from under the tractor, stood up and put a hand on my shoulder. “One day, Son, I would love for you to see the stars. But first I would love for you to love the farm. Can you at least agree with that?”
“I guess…” I shrugged. He bundled me up in a big bear hug.
“Thanks, son. Now, your turn, get down there and give that bolt a crank or two, let me know how it looks.”
It was there, under the tractor, twisting a bolt, wondering what day it was, that I decided I would run away for real.
* * *
This was not going to be easy. The more I thought about it the more challenges came to mind. I didn’t even notice Old Man Mackerel as he was passing by.
“Hey-o, Tylus, how are things today?” he asked in his typical greeting.
I startled: “Oh, Hey Mr. Mackerel.”
“What have you been chewing on, young man? You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”
“Nothing, Mr. Mackerel, just another day. The harvest is soon.”
He leaned on the fence. “True, true. I bet you’re busy. Still have time to read?”
I sighed. “Less and less these days, it feels like. I don’t know why I bother.”
“What is the latest? Tell me about what you’re reading.”
“I’m reading the book you lent me about the Conference of Unincorporated Systems.”
“Are you now? Lots to read about there. What caught your eye?”
“There’s this system—the Rabizond, they call it. It seems like an experiment in Anarchy—no one controls it, or at least it sounds like different factions are always fighting for control of it.”
“A den of thieves if ever there was one, eh? Do you know how the Rabizond came to be?”
“The book didn’t say.” I pretended to be more interested in shoveling than in Mr. Mackerel.
“Ohhh, didn’t it now. Well, the Rabizond was colonized by three different factions near simultaneously. The Rabizond was prime real estate, you see, nice warm sun, one good temperate planet. All three landings happened on different parts of the planet, totally unaware of each other, until they started seeing each other’s satellites. That was the beginning of conflict, and no one at home cared enough to fight it out. The Rabizond became lawless and you know what happens when there’s no law, don’t you Mr. Worran?”
“We make up our own.”
“The boy can learn! I’m glad you remember that. And when we make up our own laws, well, ‘might makes right’ and ‘majority rules’ becomes the law of the land. No system, no philosophical underpinnings, just anarchy.”
“Why doesn’t anyone go and impose order?”
“Why would they? You have how many generations of people living in that system who grew up in Anarchy. They might hate each other but they would all hate an outside power even more. It would be a costly fight.”
“Why does it have to be a fight?”
“You tell me, what do you propose, Mr. Worran? What enlightened methods would you use?”
“I would explain to them the benefits of joining me.”
“Explain to whom, pray tell?”
I stammered as I fumbled for a response: “The…the leaders?”
“So you roll up to the Rabizond, naught but the shirt on your back, leader I presume of some great nation, and you ask to speak to…”
“The leaders,” I said confidently. “Yes, I would ask to speak to anyone in control at the time.”
“How many leaders do you think there are in the Rabizond?”
“One per planet, right? Like us.”
“Wrong, my boy, very wrong. There’s leaders of militias and drug lords and phony politicians and rebel movements and independence movements and maybe six different unification movements. And you want to sit at the same table with all of them?”
“Wouldn’t that be possible?”
“Well, suppose it is. You think you will be taken seriously or kindly by the leader of a Unification movement as he sits next to the leader of an Independence movement? You would at best be laughed at, at worst be accused of foul play.”
I scowled. “Well surely there’s people thinking about how to do this.”
“Ohhh, no doubt, no doubt. But you know what’s easier than negotiating?”
“What?”
Mr. Mackerel made a gun with his fingers and pretended to fire, making a shooting noise. “Violence is the clearest and most extreme negotiating position. Accept my demands or die. That’s the choice. It gets at our primal roots, and we can’t help but react. Some of us can’t help but reach for it as a first resort.”
“Mr. Mackerel—”
“Keep reading, Mr. Worran. Let me know when you’re done, I’ve got another book on the Jandreus Confederacy you might like. You might want to reread some of your history given what we’ve talked about. I ought to continue home.”
“Ok Mr. Mackerel.” I waved and said goodbye, and Mr. Mackerel resumed his walk down the road.
* * *
That night, I opened a notebook and started planning. I needed to get from here to the city—Landers City, the capital city of our planet. Landers was too far away to walk—especially since once they realized I was gone they would hop on a tractor and chase after me. I needed a ride. I know supply trucks came out of the city in the morning and returned in the evening—maybe I could hitch? But would they even stop for me, much less let me on? I’d been saving money here and there, a coin found or a rare gift on a special occasion. Maybe I could offer the money to a supply truck driver to get a lift into the city. I would need food enough for the day but once I got my way into the spaceport and got a job working on a ship, I would be provided for, right? I thought that was how that worked, anyway. The key was predicting what time the tractors would come by, and finding an excuse to be out there and out of the way. If I was lucky, I could get into the spaceport before sundown. If I didn’t manage that, I would surely freeze on the streets. This was the best plan I would get, though, and I was determined to make it work. I just needed to stop one of those trucks…
(originally published 5/23/22)