Star Splinter

by J G Cressey

  Cal ended his jog in his quarters. His room was small and charmless with no viewing window and a big hole in the wall where the entertainment system had once been. What the room lacked in charm, however, it made up for in comfort with a large bunk and a fully functioning cleanse cube. Pulling off his clothes, he threw them down the wash chute—which he still wasn’t entirely sure was operational—then entered the cube, which automatically sealed shut behind him. After a long steam and an even longer vapor shower, he waited for the warm air jets to dry him then left the cube feeling pleasantly refreshed. Hitting a button next to his bunk, a shelf ejected, revealing new underwear, a crisp pair of dark gray combat trousers, and an immaculate white t-shirt. The stock counter next to the shelf showed two hundred and twelve identical sets of clothing still available, plenty of time yet to check the wash chute was operational.

  Having had nothing but the filthy clothes on their backs, they had all raided the stores back at the Big Game Headquarters and had found more than enough in the way of suitable clothing. Cal had been particularly lucky in his search after prying open a jammed locker down in one of Big Blue’s cargo holds and discovering an old Corrian Explorer combat jacket. The jacket was considered a classic, and its dark brown leather bore enough scuff marks to suggest a history of action. Cal loved the jacket; it was rugged, fitted him perfectly, and possessed none of the gimmicks of its modern counterparts like body temperature control or locator devices.

  Pulling on his boots, Cal followed his nose and headed for breakfast. The smell of something truly astonishing was wafting through the corridors, and by the time he reached its source, his stomach was rumbling. Big Blue’s kitchen was huge, but Jumper had set up a table near to the stove, enabling him to chat with the rest of the gang while he cooked. As he approached, Cal could see that Viktor and Melinda were already sitting at the table, staring at the flames as they danced around Jumper’s wok. Melinda, who didn’t require food as sustenance, was doing an excellent job at impersonating a ravenous human.

  “Morning,” Cal said as he moved towards the stove. “As always, my friend, breakfast looks and smells divine.”

  Jumper smiled. “That compliment might just earn you an extra portion of Seke mushrooms.”

  “Very nice. And what’s in there?” he asked, laying a hand on Jumper’s back as he leaned over the stove to peek at the sizzling contents of the other pans.

  “Silverside boar bacon. We have the planet Slion to thank for that particular delight. Supposedly, it’s the very stuff that gave the vegetarian movement a wobble a few generations back. I read it somewhere, George Tennekay’s book I think, Food Trends Through the Centuries or something, wasn’t it?’

  Viktor looked up, twiddling his fork. “Sure, Jumper…sounds right,” he said, looking and sounding a little confused.

  Tearing himself from the stove, Cal took a seat next to the boy. “No sign of Eddy and Toker? It’s not like them to miss out on one of your meals, Jumper.”

  “I was wondering about those two myself,” Jumper replied, wiping his hands on his spotlessly clean apron and strolling over to the kitchen’s comm unit. “I’m usually having to fend off their greedy fingers with the carving knife by now,” he continued while peering at the comm’s locator screen. “That’s weird…”

  Cal shot him a questioning look.

  “The locater’s showing them both in my quarters,” Jumper said as he activated the comm. “You kids’ll miss out on the boar bacon if you don’t get your arses in gear. You better not be messing up my room.”

  No reply.

  “Maybe the comm’s broken,” Viktor suggested. “Couldn’t we just start without them?”

  Jumper stared at the silent comm then at Viktor. “You know the rules, kid. No one starts until we’re all sat at the table.”

  Cal sighed. The only time he ever saw Jumper get annoyed was when someone interrupted his meal preparations. It was also one of the rare times that he saw his old friend apply any rules.

  Jumper turned his ear to the silent comm for another few seconds then shook his head. “Guess I’ll have to go down and drag them here myself. Melinda,” he said, turning to the synthetic woman, “Would you be so kind as to stir my mushrooms while I’m gone?”

  Giving no vocal answer, Melinda stood and elegantly glided over to the wok to begin stirring its contents in a slow, precise motion.

  “Good…thanks,” Jumper muttered, eyeing Cal and Viktor suspiciously. He pointed an accusing finger at them. “She’s the only one of you that I trust with my food.”

  As he left the room, Cal and Viktor shrugged at each other before leaning back in their seats and allowing their eyes to drift back towards the stove.

  “Really does smell good,” Cal said after a few moments.

  “Yeah…it’s a good smell, Cal.”

  They both nodded and sat for a little while longer, Cal drumming his fingers on the table, Viktor twiddling his fork.

  “You know, Cal,” the boy said eventually, “Melinda will do anything I ask her to.”

  By the time Cal swallowed his sixth ration of bore bacon, Jumper’s voice rang out through the kitchen’s comm unit.

  “Cal, I’m down in my quarters with Toker and Eddy… You better turn off the stove and get down here.”

  Jumper’s voice was calm as always, but Cal detected a hint of uncharacteristic seriousness. Filling their cheeks with one last mouthful each, Cal and Viktor hastily made their way out of the kitchen and over to the lift pods. A minute later, they arrived at the open door of Jumper’s quarters just in time to see a drooling Eddy stumble, arms wide, straight past a giggling Toker and headfirst into a clothes locker. Toker was sitting on Jumper’s bunk, busily attempting to put his right foot behind his head. The left one was already there.

  “Huh,” Cal said for lack of a better expression. “Guess they’re not hungry.”

  Jumper held up an empty glass vial. “Found this in the sink. They must’ve swiped it from my stash.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow. “And yet they still seem to be living.”

  “They must have only used a drop. Then I guess they combined their two brain cells to work out how to dilute it suitably,” Jumper replied as he watched the laughing Toker crouch on the ground and begin rolling head over heels until the wall brought his progress to an abrupt halt. “Luckily, they seem to have got it about right, otherwise we’d definitely have two less crew members by now.”

  “We still might if they keep that up,” Cal said. “We better restrain them until it wears off.”

  Jumper nodded and walked over to his locker to pull out some smart-cord.

  “What’s going on, guys?” Viktor asked. “They drunk or what?”

  “Oh, they’re drunk alright,” Cal said as he moved to restrain Eddy. She was spinning in circles in the center of the room. “But it’s got nothing to do with alcohol. Right now, they’re probably experiencing levels of bliss and love that even the likes of Casanova could never dream of.” Eddy started to giggle uncontrollably whilst pointing up at a blank section of ceiling. “Probably a few hallucinations too.”

  “Cassa who?”

  “Never mind… Our idiot crew members have gone and sampled some of Jumper’s Alvorian bliss formula.”

  “The stuff in bliss darts?”

  “The very same.”

  “Will they be okay?”

  Holding her at arm’s length, Cal looked into Eddy’s eyes. She was desperately attempting to lick his face with the expression of a toddler who’d just spied a toffee apple. “That depends on your definition of fine. If you mean will they go back to how they were before, then yes, Viktor, I think they’ll be fine.”

  “Why don’t we all do some then? Looks like fun.”

  “You’re right, kid, it is fun,” Jumper answered, doing his best to ignore Toker, who was poking at his afro with wonderment in his eyes. “Cal and I both experienced the bliss formula as part of our training on Mars. The after effects, however, really aren’t fun.�
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  “Thought you said they’d be fine,” Viktor said, sounding more disappointed than worried.

  “Eventually, yes… Try and imagine pure, unadulterated bliss, then imagine the complete opposite of that.”

  Viktor screwed up his face.

  “You got it? Now double that, an’ you’ll get an idea of the hangover they’ll be experiencing in a few hours. Trust me, kid, it ain’t pretty,” Jumper explained as he and Cal began tying the writhing, giggling pair to the bunk. “And then, of course, they’ll be having to endure an ear full from me for letting the silverside boar bacon go to waste.”

  Cal looked at Viktor and did his best to stifle a grin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MAGNET CITY

  Randal Meeks strode briskly along a wide, pristine corridor. To his right, a long window offered a far-reaching view of the Golden Hall, a lavish, mile-long casino filled exclusively with the richest and most attractive of people. Meeks didn’t so much as glance. He’d seen the view countless times, and it only served to remind him what he didn’t have. He wasn’t poor by any means, but he wasn’t filthy rich either. Not that wealth would matter for much longer. The twittering fools could bury their heads as deep into their piles of gold and diamonds as they liked, but sooner or later, they’d have to face up to the facts. Earth was gone, long-range communications were down, and if it wasn’t already, the Federation would soon be in tatters.

  Meeks came to a neat stop in front of an ornate, gold-trimmed door that marked the end of the corridor, pressed a shiny silver button and looked expectantly up towards the spot he knew the camera to be.

  “Damn it, Meeks. As always, your timing stinks.”

  Meeks smoothed his slick, black hair—a habit of his whenever he was annoyed—then looked down at the comm with a sigh. “This is precisely the time you asked me to arrive,” he replied in a bored tone to match his expression. The door slid open, and he entered a lavish office. Surveying the room, he saw his boss, Aaron Hogmeyer, standing at its rear, pouring himself a drink.

  “You brought the figures?” Hogmeyer asked gruffly.

  “Have I ever not brought the figures?”

  The reply earned Meeks a look that suggested the man might stride around his huge, empty desk and throw a gold-ringed fist at his nose. Meeks wasn’t worried. His boss was a big man with a small fuse, but talented accountants with such disregard for the rules were hard to come by. Meeks knew it was this fact, and this fact only, that prevented him from being marched to the nearest airlock. Hogmeyer held the look for a moment longer then gulped noisily at his drink. Meeks didn’t bother hiding his disgust at the sight. He could barely look at the man. That unsightly belly protruding in a round, pregnant bulge was replicated on a smaller scale at chin level. A weird bulk considering his arms and legs were so long and shapeless. Then there were those greasy threads of hair stretched desperately over his glistening baldness.

  As Hogmeyer poured another drink, Meeks turned to stare out of the pulse, blast, and fire-proof smart-glass that made up the front end of the office. Even the sight of the multitudes of gambling fools was better than looking at his boss. If it weren’t for the people, Meeks had to admit the casino made quite a sight: a mile of marble and gold filled with gambling stations and elegant cocktail bars. Even more impressive was the seemingly endless array of translucent, single-person tube lifts that snaked their way up to the silver and gold pleasure pods, which filled the vast ceiling like big, floating eggs. Meeks sniffed, feeling something close to appreciation as he took in the sight. Yes, a real shame about the people. From this height, they looked and sounded like nothing more than a swarm of mindless birds.

  Hearing Hogmeyer pour yet another drink, Meeks smoothed his hair and continued to stare at the view. Despite his loathing of the big man, he had to admit that he’d done well. It was hard to imagine that the lavish space had once been the interior of a huge mining ship. Someone else’s huge mining ship. As Hogmeyer told it, he’d scammed the ship and the enormous stack of gold it was transporting from a hapless crew of traders. His boss recounted an impressive story of his genius, but Meeks was inclined to believe the other story, the one that Hogmeyer had so violently attempted to quash. It told of how the big man had in fact crashed his little cruiser into the mining ship’s flight window while on the run from debt collectors. Apparently, he’d had gambling debts up to his fat neck and, after five days on the run, had fallen asleep at the controls of his little ship, allowing it to drift into a shipping lane. The little cruiser had wedged itself in the massive mining ship’s cockpit and killed the crew instantly.

  Whatever the truth may be, his boss had acquired the ship and claimed it as his own. Then, remaining a gambler at heart, had taken a big risk and used every piece of the gold that it contained to transform its vast cargo hold into a casino capable of travelling to all the richest colonies. He’d named the casino “The Golden Hall” and had refurbished it accordingly, decorating everything from the floors to the dice with real gold. He’d also remained loyal to his little ship by revamping it and suspending it high above the crowds to serve as his office. Granting access to only the very richest, most attractive of people, Hogmeyer had become a tycoon practically overnight. But he hadn’t stopped there, not by a long shot. He’d bought more ships, then more still, refurbishing each and every one and attaching them to the original cargo ship. This expansion process had continued until he’d created what could only be described as a vast, metal city drifting through space.

  Not wanting to deprive his deep pockets of the credits of poorer or indeed less attractive people, Hogmeyer had constructed suitable gambling establishments for each and every class. In fact, he’d even gone as far as to section off the entire city according to class from the gold and silver sectors for the rich and famous right down to the tin and copper taverns for the ugly, sickly scum. Everyone had been catered to. Meeks had always thought it ironic that it had been those lower classes who’d ultimately coined the city’s name: Magnet City. Despite its origin, however, Hogmeyer had embraced the name, finding the word magnet entirely fitting for a city as attractive as his. In actuality, the name had been born from the difficulty of escaping the place once you were stuck there, something of which Hogmeyer seemed oblivious, or perhaps he simply didn’t give a shit. Meeks had never been brave enough to broach the subject.

  Bored of waiting for his boss to finish drinking, Meeks pulled a small, white cube from his pocket and placed it carefully in the center of the desk. As he stepped back, a stream of bright light burst forth from the cube, forming a large hologram.

  “Bloody hell, Meeks, how many times do I have tell you? Keep those damned graphs out of my view.” Approaching the desk, Hogmeyer pulled a control wand from his back pocket and struck the cube, sending it and its holographic projection spinning away.

  “My apologies, sir, I was under the illusion that you had some interest in how your little empire was performing.”

  “I pay you for summaries, you dull little man—quick facts and conclusions—not to bore me with your bloody graphs.”

  “Very well,” Meeks said, resisting the urge to touch his hair. “Obviously, it’s impossible for me to know exact rates while long-range communications are down, but with the instructions you’ve given the city banks and your pawn brokers, profits are the highest they’ve ever been.”

  Hogmeyer nodded and walked back to his mini bar with a hint of a smile. “Of course they are. That’s what happens when you get the opportunity to set your own rates, your own rules. Might as well take advantage while the system is down, eh?”

  And what if the system never comes back up? What will your numbers on the screen mean then? Meeks feigned his agreement with a nod.

  “Of course, it also helps when your competition gets blown to smithereens,” Hogmeyer continued. Throwing a couple of ice cubes into a glass, he filled it almost to the brim with a thick, red liquid. “Alvorian port, Meeks?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.�
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  The big man tossed a fist full of ice cubes into a second glass and accompanied them with a dribble of the red liquid.

  “Your generosity knows no bounds,” Meeks said, walking forward to take the glass and holding it up to the light to view the short measure.

  Ignoring the comment, Hogmeyer moved back to his desk and settled himself into a large, leather, spring-backed chair. Lifting his long legs, he slammed his gold-capped, stegosaurus skin boots down on the desk and stared out at his beloved casino. “I tell you, Meeks, whoever or whatever destroyed Earth and its damned pleasure moon did me a serious favor.”

  Idiotic fool. Meeks had never known a man who could be so bright and so dim simultaneously. Surely, he could see the long term ramifications of the situation. Surely, he could see that chaos was looming. Wealth, customers, power…soon, it will all be turned on its head. How the hell could he not see it? “Yes, a big favor indeed, sir. We’ve even had to turn punters away for lack of room.”

  Hogmeyer’s head snapped up. “What?” he barked, port-infused spittle taking flight. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “What would be the point? We simply don’t have the capacity for more customers.”

  “So we bloody increase capacity, buy more ships, expand, damn it. There’s no excuse for turning away profit bringers, you understand me, Meeks?”

  Blind fool. Unperturbed by his boss’ sudden rage, Meeks drained his measly measure of port and calmly set the glass down. “Loud and clear, sir.” Silently, he cursed. Who was he kidding? He was burying his head in the sand just as much as his fat boss, just as much as the hoard of gambling fools below. After all, he was still working for this idiot, he was still residing in this ridiculous drifting city. But where the hell else would he go? What would he do? There was no running or hiding from this disaster. Its ripples would have spread far and wide by now.