Eclectic Amateur

Inspired by John Michael Greer’s challenge to write a future history short story free of Alien Space Bats.

(Part 1. A work in progress…)

“Goddammit!”
The curse reached Doug a half-second before the smell of ozone did.  “What now, Dad?” he asked, looking up from the strap he had been tightening to fasten the logs on the flatbed to the radio shed.
“Power supply.  We’re off the air.  Looks like we’re done bonding for the day.”
Doug sighed.  Logs had to be RFID-tagged, and crypto-bonded with a secure electronic signature provided by the Timber Exchange if you wanted to sell to the Japanese, most of Europe, or the Manchurians, and those were the buyers who paid best.  His family was one of the few in West Yooper with the equipment to do it, so they had steady work bonding logs from other foresters in the State lands and taking a cut of the bonding premium after delivery.  But, the Exchange depended on real-time bandwidth to generate the signatures — and without their radio tower, they were cut off from the Mesh.
“What now, Dad?”  Hopefully not cleaning the stables…
“Got to have a working power supply.  If we don’t get back in operation soon, the backlog will be a bitch, eh?”  He rubbed his chin.  “Nothing to do but take a look at it back at the shop and see if there’s any hope of repairing it.  At least we’ve got a full load on the flatbed.”
They disconnected the power supply from the radio gear and stowed it under the truck’s bench..  “You think Grandpa can fix it?”, Doug asked as they started back towards the farmhouse.
“Maybe.  It’s pretty fried.  I swear this Brazilian crap gets cheaper every year.  Depends what else when wrong when the caps blew, soo desu?  But it’s worth a try.”
“We could just pick up a new one in Bessemer.”
Doug’s father fixed him with a cold stare.  “What part of ‘not one penny to Cheesehead taxes’ was unclear, son?”
Doug shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  Bessemer was across the border with Wisconsin, but had decades ago been Yooper territory.  It was old history to Doug, but some old-timers were still upset about loosing the Gogebic county to Wisconsin (or the “People’s Republic of Madison” they sometimes called it, for reasons Doug had never understood).  It had been a small war, compared to the terrible destruction that had engulfed the former United States and much of the rest of the world in the first part of the 21st century — really, not much more than a few drones, some technicals driving around and snipers in the woods.  But it had been enough for casualties on both sides.  His great-uncle’s family had all died in the burning of White Pine.
His father’s face softened, and had a hint of a smirk.  “Besides, you wouldn’t have time to look up that cute little redhead from the music festival anyway.”  Doug blushed hard; he did have an ulterior motive for suggesting Bessemer, but that hadn’t been it.  Her name had been Heather, and they had met at the Porkies music festival and dance.  He blushed a bit harder, remembering, and hoped his father did not know what had gone on behind the dance hall…
“If I can’t work some magic on it, you can take this piece-of-paska power supply to your Grandfather in ‘Nagon.  If there’s anyone in the county who can revive it, it’ll be him.  If he can’t, Houghton should have a replacement.”
That was enough to interrupt Doug’s memory of Heather dancing.  Houghton would be even better than Bessemer for his plan, if he could get some time to himself.  “Didn’t think you’d want to leave home for so long, with mom so close.”
“I don’t, not even with Meg handy as a midwife.  So that’s why you’re going to go.  I know you’re not as baby-crazy as your sisters.”
It was true.  Doug was convinced that every baby sucked some extra brain cells from his sisters, who would go nuts cooing and cuddling and fussing over the new one.  Sure, they were cute once they got past the wrinkled lizard stage, and eventually they got to be fun to play with, but the appeal of an newborn was lost on him.  “By myself?”
“Why not?  You’re fifteen now, and responsible enough.  I think you can handle it.  Is there some reason you shouldn’t?”
“No sir!”
“Thought so.  Well, here we are.  Get the gate, will you?”

Doug hopped out, unlatched the gate, and swung it open.  The big old diesel rumbled through, and Doug shut them in.  The ‘Welcome To Twin Springs’ sign was peeling, and he vaguely wondered why no one had repainted it.  There must be some child or wrinkle who wasn’t good for heavy work but could be trusted with a steady hand and a paintbrush… but he wasn’t going to bring it up in case it was mistaken for volunteering.  Dad had a habit of misinterpreting simple observations that way.  The hedge enclosing their little hamlet was looking ragged too, but pruning the thorny mess would come later in the fall.
He heard the piercing cry “Dougiiiie!” a split second before a flying tackle almost knocked him off-balance.  Staggering a half-step back, he reached down to grab the small figure now hanging from his waist and lift her upside-down.  “Jessiiiie!  That’s completely unfair, sneaking up behind me like that.”
“I did not sneak,” Jessica said, with wounded five-year-old dignity.  “I was right here when Dad drove in.  You just weren’t paying attention.”
“Oh, fine.  I guess I don’t have to dangle you ‘till your brains fall out, then.”
“I’d tell Mom!”
“Not with your brains fallen out, you wouldn’t.”
“You’re mean.”
“Meanest big brother in the whole wide world.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and Doug carefully set her back on the ground.  “I hafta get eggs now.  Bye!”  Jessica ran away, towards the cluster of buildings that were their farmstead, pigtails and bare feet flying.
Doug walked after her at a slower pace, making a stop at the horse barn to check on water and feed.  As he passed by the shop, he could hear his father’s voice on the phone: “… nope, both of the caps on that side are fried.  One doesn’t look it, but it’s still not holding a charge…. OK, I’ll send it tomorrow with Doug.  Thanks, Dad.”
Doug poked his head inside the shop door.  “I heard you talking with Grandpa.  So, I’m going for real?”
His dad sighed.  “Yes, for real.  You can hitch up Jim and Jerry in the morning and take the two-seater.”

(To be continued in Part 2…)