The Outpost

The Outpost
                                                                        By Kenan T Ozee

Marcus kicked over the metal box containing his tools, in a fit of anger. He had spent the better part of an hour looking for a sangent wrench to remove the broken guilespy ring on Chelsey’s dune hopper. Only to discover, that he didn’t have the replacement part.
If he had known he could have left the old one in place and just slapped some gahnju paste on it to hold it together long enough to get to Ribaldi outpost, and get the part and other supplies that idiot Duval said he would take care of before he ran off in the cruiser.

The center of the Marrushian civil war was over 480 kilometers away. So it really didn’t affect many of the outposts in this sector. On occasion skirmishes between sympathetic parties did occur. Usually these conflicts were hotly debated in the cantinas.
The setting up of a cantina is the most lucrative enterprise of any, in an outpost. Because of the distain for direct competition there was only one per outpost, which meant that rivals ended up drinking at the same bar. As a result little spats would arise from time to time. Mostly these would involve name calling and the odd fist fight.
On rarer occasions a group of partisans would engage in their own little warfare with another, using surplus weaponry some fifty years old. These battles are greatly frowned upon by the other inhabitants of the outposts, due to the inability of the combatants to hit their intended target. But they almost always seem to take out something useful, a solar energy station or like today the communication tower. So Marcus was unable to contact Duval and tell him what a dunderhead he was.
It would be pointless to tell all of this to Chelsey, because quiet frankly she wouldn’t care.
Marcus was the only mechanic around for a couple of hundred kilometers. As where cantinas were a goldmine, garages were almost pointless. To travel this far out from any established township or major city it would be foolish to not be able to repair your own vehicle. Your survival depended on it.
Marcus’ garage was mainly a place for a body to come and learn new swear words. Or more accurately learn a new way to string together old swear words. And pick up the odd part to make your repairs.

Normally Chelsey would have repaired the dune hopper herself, but on her return trip from Galston she encountered some discarded crates, containing books and niceties. None of these things made much of an impression on her, although there was a catalog among the belongings of someone who had to drop their cargo in a hurry, that hid among its’ pages something that aroused Chelsey’s interest. It was listed in the catalog as a bathtub.

When Chelsey reached Marcus’ garage she rummaged through his scrap metal pile looking for something to construct her bathtub from. She finally settled on an old oil barrel.
After arguing with Marcus for fifteen minutes to let her use his acetylene torch, she commenced to cutting the barrel in half long ways.
Marcus was a good guy and all, but on occasion good be a real son of a bitch. He’d give you the shirt off his back without you asking, but ask to borrow his tools. Well you’d think you asked for a lung. Which, he’d probably give you. 

Once she halved the barrel, she then sanded the edges to protect against scrapes. Next she welded together and attached legs to the tub. She sneaked back into Marcus’ garage to liberate an O ring seal for the drain spout she cut into the tub. Fortunately Marcus was in the middle of another of his rants about that “dunderhead Duval.”

After Chelsey was done, she stepped back triumphantly and gazed upon her creation. No it was not made of the finest porcelian and did not have polished brass claw feet and fixtures. But by god it would hold water. And the thought of soaking in a cold bath drove her to near giddiness. The only obstacle now was how to fill it with water.

Bradley Lamont checked off another day on his calender. Only five more days until his seventy first birthday. He felt himself filling with anticipation. Not at the prospect of growing older, no he dreaded that. It was annual events like this that allowed him to see his grandchildren Clarissa and Virgina. They were his mind’s primary occupation. Their pictures littered the walls of his home. Pictures of them playing and laughing and dancing. School pictures of them dressed smartly in the uniforms they are required to wear, accepting awards, for attendance and sholastic endeavors. Also the many drawings he was receiving practically every week. He would promptly photograph himself with a newly received masterpiece and then send the photo along with a several paged letter, aspousing his belief that none of the artistic masters throughout history, could have demonstrated an inkling of the genius that inhabited their artwork, at that age.
Not a week would go by that he did not receive an audio communication from them. The excited way their angelic voices clammered to gain his attention, about this horse riding trip or that vaction at the beach. Or just the everyday events, of their lives was music to his ears.
“You old fool,” He growled at his reflection in the picture frame that housed one of his treasured photographs.
Earlier that day his planned attack on Nelson Whitley had gone a rye due to his over correction of the blast cannon on his hover tank. He knew the on board sighting computer was malfunctioning and he just winged it and instead of permanently relocating Whitley’s residence to the pit of hell he toppled the outpost’s communication tower. There was no telling how long it would be before it was up and running again.
In most things Bradley Lamont was very practical and his actions were usually govenered by logic.There was only one subject that stood as a glaring example of the foolishness he could emerse himself in, when he abandoned his more conservative tendencies. That one subject was Nelson Whitley.
Nelson Whitley possesses a singular intellect, one which is seldom seen in one person. He can speak on any subject and argue any point. He has mastered no less than seven languages. And has an almost complete knowledge of technologies ranging from simple vechical mechanics to the latest advancements in bio-engineering, theology and of course politics.
He is easily annoyed when someone questions his opinion on a matter, disbelieving that anyone would not automatically come to the same conclusion he did. He lived to consume knowledge. His desire to just know was greater than most people’s lust for physical pleasure.
He does not concern himself with the affairs of others. So deep is his self centered obession that he didn’t even realize that  Bradley Lamonts hover tank came, bounding more than hovering, towards his domicile belching black smoke and hemorrhaging oil and other essential fluids. Its sole intent was to irradicate his wretched being from this plane of existance. Even though Lamont had stated so, repeatedly in full view of all the patrons at Carringtons.


Bradley was sitting on his favorite stool at Carrington’s cantina reading over the service manual of his HD-R37 hover tank. He was looking for a section on how to recalibrate the sighting and navigation system. He had managed to repair the leaks to the tank. And Marcus took his order for some filters and other replacement parts he needed. Marcus was planning to journey to the Ribaldi outpost in the morning should return by early evening.

Duncan Reynolds hesitated in the doorway to Carrington’s to give his eyes time to adjust from the bright sunlight to the low lighting of the cantina. It always gave him the feeling of stepping in to a mausoleum. At this time of day the only patrons Carrington had were old retired men that were lured to Marrush with the promise of getting in on the ground floor of a real estate venture that guaranteed monumental returns on their investments.
The one thing that the brains behind this business neglected to to tell them, or possibly did not know was that civil war broke out on Marrush every forty or fifty years and at the time of their undertaking the last cycle of peace was rapidly coming to an end.
Once he was ready, he carefully descended the three narrow steps leading into the common area. He nodded in acknowledgement to Patrick the bartender and proprietor of Carringtons. A lean hard man with the hawk like features, who loved a good joke, but was a vicious enemy if one were to make that mistake. As evidenced by the lack of any competing cantinas.
He found Bradley Lamont where he knew he would be.
“Good afternoon Duncan,” He said, hoping there was good news about the communication tower.
“How’s it coming?” As if he had forgotten it was his fault that it was out of commision in the first place.
“Mmhmm, it’ll be a couple of days before we can reestablish communication service to the rest of the outpost, but we are able to to send and receive from the central station.”
“A couple of days.” He echoed as if he were disappointed with Duncan.
“YES! A couple of days. You ignominious fruitcake!” Snatching Bradley up by his lapels. “It’s because of you that I have to spend all my time working on the comm tower. Instead of pursuing my personal interest that brought me to and stranded me here on this god forsaken dust bucket.” This is what Duncan would have liked to have said. But knew that course of action would have earned him a rap behind the ear with the polished piece of mahogny that Patrick kept under the bar.
“Mmhm. Well that’s what brings me here. Eric transcribed a communication intended for you.” He handed Bradley a folded piece of paper, turned then left.
Bradley removed the stirring straw from his drink, sucked the scotch residue off of it and used it to mark his place in the service manual.
He unfolded the paper. “Hi dad,” oh it’s Emily. I’m afraid we won’t be able to make it for your birthday. Roger has decided to enter the Grand Malovich and will need the entire five days to train.
Roger, Bradley’s son in law is in every sense of the word, a clod. Oh he provides for his family well enough. And Bradley’s only child and his precious grand daughters will never want for anything, and for that he has always welcomed him as a son, but for robbing him of a visit with his darling girls. That is something he will never forgive.
Entering the Grand Malovich is just another example of his clod headedness.
Roger has decided at the last minute to enter a race whose other 500 contestants have spent a lifetime training for. Of the 500 hundred contestants only four or five manage to complete ninety percent of the race before either collapsing or having a mental breakdown. There was a three year period where no one was declared winner. But Roger who plays racquetball once or twice a week imagines himself standing victorious atop Mount Phleniabus after a two and a half mile climb up a shear faced slab of stone, which punctuates the three day survival competition/race.
She goes on to say that the girls were so looking forward to a visit with their Pa Pa and that Virginia has threatened to stage a hunger strike. So as a compromise they have promised to arrive in three months on Virgina’s birthday.
Bradley removed his reading glasses to dab his eyes with a cocktail napkin. He folded the note and placed it in his breast pocket. Taking up his reading glasses he opened his manual to  the marked page and resumed  reading.

Duval scratched his head, wondering why someone would want to sit in a barrel of water.
“I wouldn’t be sitting in water, I’d be soaking,” softening her inflection, “in water.”
Nothing. Just that blank stare. Chelsey climbed in the barrel and reclined back. She resolved not to work herself up, over Duvals inability to comprehend the concept of a bath. It might help, she thiught to show him the picture from the catalog, with the woman immersed in the suds of some fragrant bath soaps. Nope, she was going to sit there and try to imagine what it feels like to be surrounded by cool water, to have the tiny waves crash against the shores of her body. The sun was starting to set. Marcus’ garage was now casting a shadow that engulfed Chelsey and her bath tub. It was almost in her grasp. She almost had it, but some far off grumbling was tugging her back to reality. She opened her eyes, feeling the pain that accompanies, the disconnect from a trance like state that deep relaxation produces. Ready to behead Duval, she is startled to see him sitting there, stone still. Like some kind of monument to dim wittedness. She was certain he was not still struggling with the bath tubs creation. He was incapable of holding a single thought in his head for more than a minute or two. Before his mind, which was often refered to as a hyper monkey, chased after another, of life’s mysteries. Such as the color of dirt, or the solidity of rock.
Chelsey looked around for the source of the the grumbling and saw professor Lamont strolling toward the garage. He was clearly irritated. “Hey professor.” She yelled as he got closer. “Come see what I made.”
As he stood there scratching his beard, he asked “What is it?”
“It’s a bath tub.”
“Oh I see. I don’t suppose Marcus has returned from the Ribaldi outpost.”
“Nope, liable to be a couple of hours before he gets back.” Duval said not breaking his gaze into empty space.
Chelsey noticed the service manual under his arm. “Problem with the hover tank?”
“Oh, just a little trouble with the sighting computer.”
“Would you like me to take a look at her for you?” Chelsey was hands down the best computer technician and mechanical engineer around. Where Nelson Whitley was knowledgeable he lacked industry. He had no desire to soil his hands with manual labor.
“You wouldn’t mind?” Bradley asked
“Not at all.”
“I’m expecting Marcus to return with some parts I ordered.”
“I’ll tell you what. When he gets back I’ll bring them over and we’ll take a look at that machine of yours. How’d that be?”
“Just wonderful. I’ll prepare some dinner for us.”
“Great.”
Bradley hurried back to his domicile. He was filled with new vigor. If his birthday was to be ruined by that numbskull son in law of his, at least he would be able to finally obliterate that know it all Whitley.

Bradley ran his last bite of bread around his plate soaking up what was left of the spaghetti sauce. He always made spaghetti for his grand daughters and it only seemed fitting he make it for Chelsey.
“Alright, that should do the trick.” She said fastening down the console. “Let’s give her a go.” Bradley reached above the pilot’s seat and pressed a button that open the door to the hanger attached to the side of his domicile. Next he flipped a series of switches that started the tank, and slowly and evenly employed the sliders with his right hand that engaged the hover feature of the tank. With his left hand he did his best to keep the tank straight as he navigated it through the hanger opening.
Chelsey’s hand started to ache, she realized she was clutching on to the arm rest of the co-pilot’s seat. The entrance to the hanger was only a little wider than the hover tank itself. The auto stabilizer went out a long time ago. Bradley never bothered to replace it. He felt too much reliance on mechanical fail safes dulled the reflexes. He’d rather rely on a steady hand. Which seemed a lot shakier than she cared for.
After clearing the opening Bradley manuvered the tank a few kilometers behind the hanger, where there were some crates he set up for target practice.
Bradley lined up the crates in the sights, then fired. The blast hit a rock formation some fifteen yards to the right of the crates.
“I don’t understand, the computer lined up the shot,” Said Chelsey.
They found Nelson Whitley surveying the scene when, they setpped out of the hover tank.
“It seems to me the crates would have been a more logical target,” Said Whitley.
“They were the target.” Bradley said, glaring at him.
“The sighting computer confirmed the target to be the crates.” Chelsey said scratching her head.
“Well then the problem is with the blaster itself. Let me take a look at it,”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”Chelsey new the hatered the professor felt for Nelson.
“Nonsense,” said Bradley. “Let mister Whitley try and fix it, if he thinks he can.” Nelson snorted at this. It was a proposterous notion to think that he couldn’t fix it.
Setting down the boxes he was carrying, he slid underneath the nose of the hover tank to get closer to the blast cannon housing. After several minutes of barking out tool requests like a surgeon, he emerged from underneath the vehicle and announced “Your problem is solved.” Without another word, he picked up his packages and left. Not waiting to see the results of his work.
Chelsey and the professor shared a sly glance at one another. Then Bradley hurried aboard the tank. Once in the pilot seat, he lined up the crates in the sights. Once again he slowly squeezed the trigger. The near deafening sound of the blaster was followed by the sound of flaming splintered planks falling to the ground.
That pompous ass had done it. Bradley watched, through the side window the image of Nelson Whitley grow smaller in the distant, a smile grew on his face. How poetic, that the oh so superior Nelson Whitley should be the instrument of his own demise.

Bradley Lamont took stock of his reflection, in the full length mirror, the previous occupant of his domicile left behind. He was pleased with what he saw. The man that sold Bradley the Isban HD-R37 Hover Tank threw in the pilot uniform as well. It was a little snug and a bit thread worn, but the best part, Bradley’s favorite part, the helmet was in perfect condition. Even the built in communicator worked. Of course he didn’t have the mate to his helmet, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t have a co-pilot.
Bradley lowered himself into the pilot seat, like a newly coronated monarch taking the throne. He felt a surge of energy as he flipped the numerous switches that powered up the hover tank. Slowly he engaged the thrusters, gently lifting the tank off the hanger floor.
With the steady hand of a Bradley Lamont forty years younger, he flawlessly cleared the hanger doorway. With Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries playing in his head, he turned the tank east and set about, to ensure that Nelson Whitley kept his date with destiny.

Duval had been contemplating ways to find enough water, to fill up Chelsey’s bath tub. Although it made little sense to him, whiling away time sitting in a barrel of water, it seemed that Chelsey would take great pleasure in doing so.
When the outpost was first settled a little over two years ago, it became evident that certain resources, such as water were in short supply. Because of this fact, water had to be rationed out. Marrush had a rainy season once every couple of years. The underground streams were the source of drinking water. The outpost had three large tanks, for storing water from the streams. A commity was organized to over see the rationing of the water to the outpost’s inhabitants.A waterless system of hygiene was employed. for all other personal needs. Duval concluded, it would take a miracle, for Chelsey to have her bath.

Patrick Carrington poured himself a cup of coffee. He settled down behind his desk in the store room, he used as an office. It was his weekly tradition of going over the books and constructing a list of supplies he would pick up from Ribaldi outpost tommorow before his card game.
There was very little warning, the vibration turned his cup over, soaking his ledger. A shelf behind him rattled from the wall and crashed on the floor along with an assortment of mementos he had acquired over the years.
He had reached the bar just as the last bottle of Margonian scotch fell from where it was perched next to its partner which lay obliterated on the stone floor. Carrington was something akin to homicidal when he lost the first of the three bottles, he’d masterfully annexed from that card sharp Bolson. But now, well now armagedon was about to be unleashed.
The roar of the hover tank was such that Patrick couldn’t hear the curses and promises of tortured death, he was hurling at Lamont. He reached under the bar and retrieved the unwieldy piece of wood, he used to strike reason into some of  the more unreasonable of his patrons.
Nearly tearing the the door of his establishment from it’s hinges, Carrington burst into the early morning sunlight, which was already blisteringly hot, just as Lamont’s rust bucket passed his cantina. Patrick was engulfed in a thick, suffocating black smoke that was being expelled from the back of the HD-R37.

The beeping sound coming from a small device, on the table next to Nelson, roused him from his reading. Placing his volume aside he gathered his mechanisms and a battered leather bound case and moved to the ladder that led to the roof of his domicile.
Once on the roof, Nelson strolled to the west facing edge of the structure. There he had fixed a seating area and work table, earlier. In his controlled and deliberate manner, he placed the mechanisms on the work table and arranged them in order of optimal efficency.  Nelson settled into the seat, checking the tracking system. Not that he needed it now. The thick black cloud indicated the distances Lamont was at and he knew without a doubt as to his destination.

Nelson Whitley was aware that his superior intellect garnered him many enemies, but none as ardent as Bradley Lamont. He held a slight admiration for Lamont. Where most people were content to just cast insults his way, Lamont actually devised  and implemented plans to exact his revenge on him, for his shear brillance, that reenforced Bradley’s sense of mediocrity. “Professor, indeed.”
So blinding was Lamont’s bloodlust, that he foolishly let his hated enemy get near, let alone work on his hover tank. While Nelson was under the machine, he installed a device that would allow him to take complete control over all of the tank’s systems. It didn’t dawn on them to inquire what was in the packages. “And they way they hurriedly retrieved the tools I needed.” He chuckled to himself. Oh, and that little matter of the blaster? It was an easy fix, considering he was the one who created the problem in the first place. You would think a professor would be more cautious than to leave his hanger door unlocked.
The rumbling was getting louder. Next time, I’ll have to fix that oil leak for him. He thought.
Nelson flipped on the switch of the controller. Then he checked the tracking system, for Lamont’s exact location. Taking up his long glasses, he surveyed the outpost, for a suitable target. One that would so enrage the other inhabitants, that they would run Lamont out on a rail. A smile creased his face. He had a perfect target.
Nelson opened the leather bound case and removed a goblet of heavy lead crystal and a bottle of Margonian scotch. This was awarded to him by Patrick Carrington, after he foolishly wagered it in a bet with Nelson, over a factoid about quantum physics.
Nelson poured the scotch into the goblet and then set the bottle back into the case.
Taking up the navigation controller, he engaged the system override. His mechanism also allowed him to see what Lamont saw. The view was presented to Nelson on a little, flexible screen. Taking a sip of his scotch, he proceeded to steer the HD-R37 hover tank towards its new target.

Bradley could feel his heart racing. This was it. Finally. But for some reason Bradley felt a bit melancoly. Sure Whitley was a pompous ass, who was constantly on the wrong side of every argument. And the mere mention of his name sent Bradley on the edge of a fiery discourse. But once he was gone, who would be left? None of those buffoons at Carrington’s have the stamina, let alone the wit to carry on a good healthy, robust, violent exchange of ideas. No not one of those ninnies are the beginning of a blemish on the back side of Nelson Whitley. None of them possessed an inkling of his intellect. No, Nelson is a true nemisis.
Why it would almost be a shame to destroy such a perfect… “What’s happening? The controls aren’t responding.” Bradley violently punched buttons and panicked he shifted levers. The tank started to veer of course. Lamont used all the strenght he could muster, to try and right the craft, but to no avail. His face was a mask of rage. He screamed at the console as if the tank had betrayed him. Then suddenly the realization hit home. “WHITLEY!”

Marcus shielded his eyes from the sun. He was squinting to make out the odd sight behind his garage. Walking on to Magdalina’s, for breakfast, he shook his head. “That  girl needs to stop spending so much time around Duval. She’s getting to be as batty as him.

Chelsey almost had it now, when a distant salvo brought her back to the harsh reality of her surroundings. The disruption was minor, to far away to be concerned with. She knew it was unfair to think so, but she wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out, whatever the commotion was, it was probably Duval’s fault.
Again,gently focus on your third eye. Slowly erase the sensations of the physical world. Gently imagine the cool water surronding you. Hear the subtle sounds of your body breaking the surface of the water. Acknowledge the water dripping from your arms, as you wring the excess from your hair. Listen for the drops as they plop back into the pool that envelops you. This was it, she had achieved total mental immersion. There was a sound she couldn’t account for. But it didn’t matter, she had reached Nirvana. Yet still the sloshing sound threatened to rob her of this divine moment. No, ignore it. Imagine yourself cupping the cool refreshing water in both your hands and carefully lift them over your head and slowly let thre water shower you. The water descended on her more severly than she had expected. It was much colder than before. The shock caused her to start. When she opened her eyes Duval was standing over her, drenched, holding a sopping wet canvas sack. She looked down and realized she was sitting in a barrel of water.
“How…, What…, Where…?”
“Seems professor Lamont, took out one of the water towers. And, well the water was just going to waste anyway.
Chelsey jumped to her feet and threw her arms around Duvals neck nd kissed him. The force of the kiss made Duval swoon.
Marcus came out of Magdalina’s with the rest of her customers, “to see what the matter was”, when he caught sight of the two locked in an embrace.
“Oh great, now we’re gonna have little dunderheads running around here.”