Both Sides of My Mind

BOTH SIDES OF MY MIND

Published by David F. & Marci L. Norman at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 David F. Norman

davidn@grzz.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

The Kid -- Hardtimes

In-law To Outlaw: The Story Of Matt Warner

Transition

Does Your Store Need A Junkyard Dog?

The Druglords Of Cyrus V

Five Hundred Years Ain't Really All That Long!

Warning!

The Johnson County War Against The Red Sash Gang

Coward's Curse

Walk In His Shoes

Just Desserts

Wild Bunch Treasure: Fact Or Myth?

World's Greatest Detective

Epitaph

Wiping Your Ass For Morons

Playing Video Poker To Win

Be Careful What You Wish For!

Foreword by the Author

Way back before it became a fashionable to use the condition rather broadly referred to as Attention Deficit Disorder or ADD as an excuse for all sorts of mis-behavior, I had ADD. In school it caused me problems, being bored out of my gourd, pun intended. Often considered a brilliant child, I was a very poor student. I grew up with everyone wondering why I couldn't keep a job, stay in one place, maintain persistent interests,; in short wondering why I couldn't just be like everyone else.

Sometimes I wondered why I couldn't be like everyone else. But then my ADD kicked in and I was off on another job or interest, or place to see, so I never spent a lot of time worrying about it. As time went on and I grew up sometime in my fifties, I began to really appreciate my differentness.

Somewhere during my middle years, I realized that my personal condition was definitely not a disorder but that what I was blessed with was an ADD-ENHANCED brain.

Until I could get my racing brain around a new subject, my learning curve was flat, right at the bottom of the scale. Then there would be one of those astounding leaps of logic and I would get it. At that point, those who had been ahead of me on the curve suddenly fell far behind. This cost me a lot of jobs.

I have never worked for anybody other than myself during my whole life for more than two years. The real reason this was so was because I did not want to work for anyone else, even when I thought I did. I realized that I HAD to go my own way and do my own things; nobody else in the job market would put up with me, even if I really tried.

The best thing about this realization was that I COULD go my own way and make it just fine. I began writing when I was in my thirties, and did well at it as long as I could write about what I wanted to write about. But by the time the 1980's rolled around, I was bored with it and pretty much quit selling technical articles and books. From that point on, I wrote for myself, never worrying about selling the work, and never finishing a lot of it.

If you have ever owned or been owned by a Border Collie or Jack Russell Terrier, you know that if they don't have something to do, they will find something to do – not always things you approve of. Over the last few years, I have run out of most things I have to do, and some things that I used to could do (good Southern expression), and I go find some mischief to do. I write.

These stories and articles have been written over nearly two decades. Some that read them might think they should have been left where they lay in the bottom of a file on a computer somewhere. I disagree.

As I have put together and updated this eclectic collection, I think they all serve a purpose. Some were written to entertain. Others were written just to scratch an ADD itch. Some are intended to impart some hard-earned knowledge that cost me a hell of a lot more than you will pay for this book. Others keep alive a time in our history that still fascinates most Americans – the Old West. Some were written tongue in cheek and others in a fit of earnestness. I will leave it to the reader to decide which is which.

The Kid – Hardtimes could be called a futuristic Western. It's funny how human nature never changes. In-Law to Outlaw is about one of the men who rode with Butch Cassidy. Transition is what could happen if you wake with a terrible headache and that is the best part of your day. If you are in the retail business in these interesting times, Does Your Store Need a Junkyard Dog? The Druglords of Cyrus V want to steal a whole planet. You know how when you dream, subjective time is much longer than objective time, Five Hundred Years Ain't Really All That Long! Warning, computers want to you to be safe and well-controlled. Nate Champion stopped the Johnson County War against the Red Sash Gang. You have heard it said that a coward dies a thousand deaths; a brave man dies but once. Sanchez lives a Coward's Curse. To find out what living on the street is really like, Walk in His Shoes. Everyone appreciates it when a really bad man gets his Just Desserts. Is the Wild Bunch Treasure still waiting for someone to find it? Sometimes being the World's Greatest Detective just isn't enough. The saddest Epitaph is one for a man who nobody ever really knew. Wiping Your Ass for Morons, is a raunchy non-partisan poke at politicians and bureaucrats. This is a metaphor and I apologize to any real morons I might offend. If you like to visit casinos, Playing Video Poker to win can save you some money. Always Be Careful What You Wish For; you just might get it.

Chapter 1 -- The Kid – Hardtimes

The Rogers Drive

Travel between the stars became easy with the Rogers Irrelevant Drive; the expense and trouble occurred when trying to land on any planet or planetoid or anywhere else for that matter. Those who didn't understand such things couldn't understand why a ship that could travel light years in moments couldn't land when it got there.

Oh, some could alright. But these vessels were very expensive to build and to maintain.

A standard Rogers Drive ship was little more than an airtight cabin containing basic life support systems and an astrogational computer. The usual source of power was batteries charged by light cells. In most cases, the outside surface of the craft consisted of light cells interrupted by the stubby knobs utilized by the Rogers Drive. Throw in a small gyro to orient the craft as desired and a fuel cell or two for emergency power and practically any millionaire could afford his own starship. After a few years of amateur astrogation, courts, such as they were, everywhere in the known and occupied galaxy were choked with litigation regarding these jalopies, as they came to be called.

Some of the court cases involved estates left in tangles when a jalopy left relevant space for the unknown and never returned. The tales of Orion's Triangle or the Sargasso Cluster abounded in those early days. The truth was usually far simpler.

Until a lot of space had been covered and charted, too many inexperienced astrogators simply became relevant inside a large body -- or too damn close to it for survival. Small, make that minute, firing of the Rogers Drive could be used to place the jalopy in orbit or even land it on a planetary mass. The problem was not one of efficiency but of control. Theoretically, the Rogers Drive could make a ship powered by it become relevant at any chosen spot regardless of the relative velocity of the chosen spot. Unfortunately, the process was very difficult to fine tune.

If a jalopy pilot decided to go to Cerebus IV to prospect in the platinum fields, he normally would make arrangements by mail -- all starships carried electronic mail in their computer's memory banks -- to leave his jalopy in a high orbit and be transported by shuttle to the planet's surface. If, however, he developed a problem with his life support system and had to put into another port, he would be rescued if at all possible, but he was expected to pay the bill. If he didn't have credit or valuta acceptable to his rescuers, he was in a world of shit.

Under common law, his prize jalopy became his ticket to the surface. Far too often, the only means of support he could find in his new home was tantamount to slave labor. You might ask why didn't the Galactic Federation put an end to this sort of exploitation. The answer is simple. There wasn't and ain't no such animal!

A very close parallel can be drawn between the American West, Africa, and Australia in the 18th and 19th centuries and the frontiers of space. Any connection between local governments and any type of International or Inter-global Law was and is only a dream of lawyers. Only the hardy thrive or even survive on any frontier and so it is in space.

Unfortunately, the hardy ain't always scrupulous. In gentler times and places, many of these sturdy folk would be hanged or worse. Out Here, you do what you must to survive and try to do it without making too many enemies.

One offshoot of the rescue business was that jalopies in good used condition could be had cheaply FOB wherever they happened to be in orbit. Many a young man dreamed of bumming a ride to one of these exotic worlds to buy his own starship and go aroaming. Discovery of an unexploited mineral source was every space miner's dream. Strike it rich and the miner could own and develop his own planet. Other roamers made their fortunes servicing those who could use and afford their skills. One of these young men was born with the name of Samuel Fowler. His business cards read, Have Tools, Will Travel. Simply put, he was a space-going high tech Handyman. Out Here, he is called The Kid.

Hardtimes

Sam holstered his pistol. The man on the ground lay still but blood still leaked from the hole in his chest. A quick glance at the white faces around him told the Kid he had nothing more to fear. It even seemed there was relief showing on a few faces. Except one.

You didn't have to kill him. He was just kidding around with me. I've known him for years. His brothers will see you dead.

With this last the speaker, a pretty young woman perhaps still in her teens, turned and fled. The Kid stood there with his mouth open. A grizzled old man walked up close to him.

Come on, son, the old man said gently. He didn't give you a choice unless you would rather be lying there yourself. She will get over it, but she told you right about his brothers. They are a wild mean bunch and they stick together. They will be coming for you. Right now you look like you could use a drink.

I really didn't want to kill him. But it was obvious he was hurting the girl and I just wanted him to stop. He didn't have to turn it into a duel. He tossed his drink down and poured another.

The old man leaned close to him. Everyone else in the saloon seemed content to keep their distance from the pair, so the old man's next words were for the Kid's ears alone.

The bastard needed killing. He and his brothers have run roughshod over everyone here since they came 5 years ago. When they came up with a signed bill of sale to Logan's claim, nobody could prove anything, but the talk was they had killed Logan and his woman.. Nobody here really believed Logan had left to prospect in the Northern Reaches. But while nobody has heard anything from them, no bodies were ever found.. Yes sir, he needed killing and so do his brothers, Matt and Clay. If I wuz you, I would light a shuck out of here, pronto.

The Kid smiled. He hadn't heard that expression since he had been Out Here. Actually, the frontier worlds adopting the frontier language of three centuries before was not all that surprising. Most of the men who came to the stars were romantics who chased the same dreams as their counterparts from times past. Microfilms of old Western novels and holograms of old shit-kicker movies were very hot trade items Out Here.

Isn't there any law here? he asked. Don't you people have any protection from that kind of asshole?

The old man just raised an eyebrow and turned and spat on the sawdust floor.

You want law? I'll give you law. As mayor of this settlement, I hereby appoint you as Chief of Police.

Before the astonished Kid could bring himself to react, the old man had produced a shiny badge and pinned it on his vest. The Kid reached to remove it as a protest formed on his lips.

The old man reached up and placed his hand over the Kid's. "Now hold on. I happen to know you don't have any way to leave until the ore shuttle comes in a couple of days. We have been looking for someone to deal with the Caines and I am authorized to pay thirty grams of rough glowmonds to anyone who can encourage the Caines to emigrate or whatever. You only are getting five grams for repairing the shuttle beacon, am I right? You could do us a favor and get modestly rich at the same time.