The Handyman

A Starshatter story

It was early morning and the sun grinned at him, peaking from behind a nearby hilltop.

Packing the tent and then cleaning up his camp was a routine, which the Handyman now found as easy as breathing. After making sure to pick up even the smallest bit of trash, he mounted his motorbike and reached for the key. His work glove froze midway, because in the morning light, he noticed something up the slope.

A dead, lightning struck tree; its rotten trunk was leaning dangerously to one side. One more storm, mayhap a strong gust of wind and it would inevitably tumble down. If this wandering road became blocked, then all nearby villages could be at risk of being cut off from essential aid. Neither hamlet had the specialized equipment or owned a big enough vehicle necessary to move the trunk.

“It can't be helped.” - Boomed the man's voice and his words became one with the dance of branches and the whispering wind.

He patted the fuel tank of his Rikuo Type 97 motorcycle and dismounted the trusty vehicle. One could not be a “road king” if they could not freely use the road. If the tree was as rotten as he assumed, then it'd be no more than an hour of work, maybe two. Packing a long megasteel rope, a hand winch, and his chainsaw, the Handyman climbed up the hill.

It took him a few minutes to explore the small meadow he found on the hilltop. There were a bunch of rocks and many, healthy trees, one of which he used to secure the dead trunk with his rope. He tapped the deceased tree a few times with his bare knuckles, before reaching for the hand scanner and flipping its activation switch.

The handheld device was about as big as a long flashlight, and powered by accumulator batteries. Its small screen sported top of the line 64bit graphics, and all metrics were displayed in different colors. Instead of tapping the tree and using his own sensors, his feel to determine where the rot was, the Nikon-made gadget did this for him. Granted, it was a bit slower and probably didn't tell him everything which his finely tuned and skilled senses would, but it was far safer this way.

His motorsaw was an older model, and, just like the sidecar motorcycle, fueled by syntholene. He took a couple more minutes to set it up; removing the saw's sheath, checking the chain and the blades, making sure there was enough oil. With a loud burr the saw came to life, a thin puff of nigh visible smoke coming out from its exhaust. He squeezed the gas a few times and began sawing those parts of the tree which would cause it to topple the safer way.

The Handyman was still young, but remembered well how gasoline smelled.

Syntholene achieved the same or even greater results, but with almost no pollution to speak of. The new fuel released water vapor and a minute amount of soot when burning. Moreover, the way it was produced didn't require any drilling or potentially dangerous transport of oil. This water-like liquid was a byproduct of recycling hydrocarbons and each of the newly-built across the country Recyclotron devices could efficiently refine tons of syntholene.

“Trash into fuel...” - The Handyman mumbled to himself during the short cool-down break he gave his vintage Stihl chainsaw after one full hour of work.

This tree, even though rotten, it was quite thick and tall. To safely topple it, he need do more than one simple cut and be quite careful or he could end up forest food. Even though he had an extra layer of safety by tying the tree to a rock, things could easily go south.

Just as the second hour was ticking out, the combination of careful sawing and slowly winching the rope achieved a most satisfying result. With a loud crack, the rotten tree trunk toppled down and landed almost exactly where he wanted. After the dust had settled, the Handyman carried his tools back to the motorcycle, cleaned and stashed them, before climbing up the hill once more.

With an extra effort which took him about half an hour, he secured the large trunk with a number of stones. That would be more than enough to keep the tree at bay while someone came and chopped it for firewood. Tapping his clothing and gloves free of dirt, the Handyman ran down the slope with a huge grin on his face.

Finally, he was able to mount his motorcycle and start its engine in peace.

His headgear included a lightweight wartime helmet and a pair of old-school aviator goggles with leather straps. Instead of buying some super expensive handwear, his hands were protected by his trusty work gloves. Made from a combination of cowhide, thermoplastic, and vacfoam, these were quite rugged. He had another pair for wintertime, but now being early spring, these would keep him warm.

Under his dark blue, one-piece jumpsuit, the Handyman wore a comfy shirt and pants combo. The brown, extra durable pair of work boots had megasteel toe caps and thick soles reinforced with real rubber. His belt, made by a local craftsman from tanned boar hide, was where he carried an assortment of tools when on the job. These and many other gadgets were stashed in his sidecar, which people began calling the “Kurumajo” or factory on wheels.

He could fix pretty much anything the villagers needed him to. Once he opened the mini-workshop and set everything up, it was only a matter of time until their hand tools, tractors, cars, bikes, and even olden home appliances were as shiny as new.

“Come on old friend, let us say hello to the road.” - The man lovingly addressed his motorcycle, shifted it into gear and released the brake.

With a rhythmic grumble, the Rikuo's well-maintained 1300cc engine made sure that its three tires met the road. No excessive feats of speed were necessary; the Handyman traveled across this part of Japan with no predetermined destination or time table. His only goal was to make sure that no matter how distant the village, people had everything in working order.

After the devastation of 1969's alien invasion, he perhaps looked for a way not only to help, but leave the ruins of Osaka. They needed more construction workers, builders, and specialized electricians, not simple handymen like himself. He was always good at maintaining civilization, not building or in this case, rebuilding it. The cacophony of a huge city being rebuilt was not good for his mental health, the doctors assured him.

He slowed down and took the turn, which revealed a small valley dotted with traditional Japanese village homes, rice fields, and a piggery. Though from up here everything looked like a picturesque idyll, the Handyman could almost feel they had need of his services. But first, he had to refill both his machine's tank and his own since there was a discernible void in his belly.

In the countryside before the invasion, there were multiple and quite convenient road stops. These were nearly everywhere and even on the two sides of the road! However, the invaders bombed everything in sight, paying particular attention to Japan's highly developed road infrastructure. Though they managed to repair most of the main roads, no one had the time or resources to rebuild these road stops.

Travelers like the Handyman had to camp in the forests, which had overgrown after some years of neglect. Instead of cozy convenience shops, he'd be lucky if some entrepreneur built a simple vending machine shed beside the road. If he was really fortunate that'd be a repurposed, refurbished ruin, with real walls and a door. People oftentimes left canned food, meds, and even old clothes in these places.

Not today.

His motorcycle made another turn down the mountain road and he saw a shed. Made from the simplest of materials; its roof was thin sheet metal, and the pillars, wood. Underneath blinked with their happy 16bit displays and even older, electric letters, three vending machines.

He parked his Rikuo and shut the engine off since there was a sign “Out of Syntho” dangling above a pair of white barrels. The kanji looked half eaten by the weather, meaning this place often saw hard winter storms. Rubble made from crushed concrete debris covered everything, yet it was losing the battle against spring mud. Nevertheless, the road shed still appeared well-taken care of, clean and orderly.

Like most places in post invasion Japan, this was a self-serving station. There were either coin deposit boxes or even “high-tech” metal-can-with-a-hole devices. The three vending machines also accepted Japanese paper money, but not the new Minarchy credit chits. That required retooling, and most people who owned these old machines couldn't afford it. He even saw a note written in a number of foreign languages, where someone was saying sorry for not being able to provide sufficiently convenient service.

People understood well what the implications of a global invasion from outer space were. In fact, so many had traveled from all over the planet, some even came from the outer colonies to help with the reconstruction. Everyone knew well what his or her place was, how they could best aid their fellow Terrans.

The Handyman smiled and reached for his pocket – this was his place.

Hand full of Yen coins, he wondered for a few minutes, before making his choice. A can of hot potato and corn soup from the drink machine, a beef cheese-burger from the second, and a dessert peach custard sandwich from the third. Everything was fresh and tasty; no matter the rust dots here and there the vending machines were immaculate.

He sat on the back of his bike and enjoyed the burger and soup first. Then, after he took a few minutes rest, took a taste of his dessert. Made with delicious peach jam with small pieces of fruit and freshly made custard, it was so good that he almost went for another one. Instead, the Handyman did a few light stretches, deposited the food wrappers in their designated for recycling bins, and mounted his bike.

The mechanical clock showed it was around noon when his motorcycle finally rolled down the wandering road and into the village below. He passed a big wooden sign which had “Smiling Mountain” masterfully carved on it in Kanji.

The polyplastic head of a mascot, and a second later the entire cute thing, grinned at him from behind the sign. This one resembled a rocky mountain complete with snowy hat, blue, lake-like eyes and held a pine tree. This Yama-kun, even had a cape of sort, which was made from good vacfoam and represented the mountain's colorful, summer flowers. It was designed before the invasion, because the quality of material betrayed the involvement of a big factory, and definitely not homemade craftsmanship.

Slowing down almost to a crawl, he eventually parked next to the first house.

The bike's fuel gauge showed an almost empty tank and he decided to stretch his legs for a bit. After all, that village was not overly big and each farmer's home built conveniently close to their neighbor's.

Thatched roofs, wooden beams, and traditional bamboo walls plastered with a mixture of clay & straw. Everything appeared to be maintained well; there were no damages seen anywhere on the home and its roof was brand new. However, his trained eye noticed something out of order and he scratched his neck. He canted his head and before approaching the home itself, examined the small rice tractor parked nearby. Wrapped in pieces of old tents, he needed not his scanner to smell the rust hidden underneath.

“Heeey, is there anyone here? I am sorry to intrude, but I am looking for fuel and lodging.”

It took a couple of minutes, but someone emerged from the home and she wasn't alone. The young mother carried her child on her back and appeared tired, deep bags under her otherwise beautiful eyes.

“Greetings. I am Nara and this is our small farm.” - She said a bit timid and her voice sounded even more tired than she looked - “We don't have a hostel in this village, but you can stay in our home. I can prepare the guest room for you... sir?”

He smiled and bowed, one hand tapping the tools he now carried on his belt:

“Name is Makoto, but people call me Mako or simply Handyman-san. I fix all things mechanical for a living and this,” - he nodded towards his Rikuo's sidecar - “is my Kurumajo.”

The woman walked closer; her eyes livened the second he said what his line of work was.

“Workshop on wheels! You can... cough... really repair... cough... anything?!” - She mumbled, coughed and licked her parched lips, sweat dripping from her forehead.

The Handyman made one cautious step forwards since her face suddenly became pale. Before the lady could stumble, he gently offered her a hand, which she accepted gladly. He helped her to sit at a stone bench nearby, which was flanked by a beautiful herb and flower garden.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No, please, don't worry madam. May I ask, where is your husband?”

“Out in the fields, over there.”

Her callus covered hand pointed in the far distance, where the Handyman previously saw the piggery.

“Lady Nara, what happened here and why aren't any tractors, any machines in the field?”

“Well, most of them are old but before last winter came, a few worked still. Then, it was December, I think, something exploded behind the next hill. In a minute, almost all electric was gone...”

She stopped to calm her crying baby down and continued only after the boy fell asleep.

“Our neighbor is a mechanic, but he is old and quite sick... we are all sick. Without his equipment, the village doctor can't understand what is going on. He can't even synthesize a simple fever medicine!”

The Handyman raised an eyebrow and flipped the on switch of his scanner. While its invisible rays examined both mother and son, he asked:

“Which home is the doctor's? I'll make sure to repair his gear first! In the mean-time,” - he finished the thorough scan and stood up - “the doc could probably prescribe something herbal, after he checks this scan-data.”

Her eyes watered, but she wiped them and again pointed to where the village doctor lived. The house wasn't that far away, but he decided to use what fuel was left in the tank and go there as quickly as possible. Portable as it was, repairing medical equipment would definitely require the help of his Kurumajo.

“Take care, madam. I assure you, everything will be back to normal soon!” - Shouted he with his best and most reassuring tone, walking towards his motorcycle with a brisk pace.

It was better that the distraught young mother did not know that she and her babe, probably everyone living here were suffering from radiation sickness...

The Handyman episode 2