Catalyst

by Jody Wallace

  Making up her mind, she kicked Casada again before she ran to Wil, who was already boarding the lift. “All the way to the top,” she said loudly, and clicked the switch for the floor next to the top. “My stellarship is on the landing pad.”

  The lift clanged shut and hauled them swiftly through the layers of the mountain network. When it halted, they emerged into another of the narrow tunnels. This one had two ladders side by side.

  “One of these is to the next floor with the landing bays and one’s to an escape tunnel,” Su explained. Too bad she couldn’t remember which was which. She sniffed the air under each one and picked the one that seemed dirtier. Pumpkin, rather than disappearing, expressed his wish to be carried in a mostly cleaned out satchel strapped to Wil’s back.

  They climbed straight up for at least a floor and then the ladder angled. Soon it angled into a ramp, which leveled into a natural fissure that had no lighting. She’d chosen correctly. The odor of bristler butthole confirmed it.

  She donned her goggles and activated the headlamp so they could see to squeeze the rest of the way into the bristler den. The crevice was far too narrow for adult bristlebacks, although occasionally young ones evaded the natural baffle and wound up on the ramp, squalling for their mothers. The tunnel staff checked every so often during birthing season since they didn’t want to be blamed for letting any babies die. Consequences when and if SPA found out varied from fines to prison time to the animal-killer just disappearing.

  Today, as promised by Scrapper, there were no bristlers or young in the den, just her giant, bearded, anxious vice president of box construction, or whatever title he’d chosen for himself today. He’d been loyal to her since the very beginning, since the accident and the fallout afterward, so he got whatever title he wanted.

  “I thought there was an active litter.” Scrapper waved his hand toward a mound of leaves, fur, and detritus in the corner of the small cave. Crunched up animal bones, dried blood, and sticks cluttered the rest of the floor. “No signs of babies, but the mama and her last year’s litter were plenty agitated. Like something had disturbed the nest.”

  Still buried in Wil’s satchel, Pumpkin sneezed, but Scrapper didn’t notice. Bristlers were pack animals, with a matriarch at the head. The bristlebacks from the tunnel would have been males or juveniles, since adult females stuck close to dens during this season.

  “Her pack may have had a rough day yesterday,” Su said, thinking of Casada and his guns “Scrapper, this is Wil. I found him in the trash.”

  “That’s my favorite introduction of all time.” Wil stuck out his fist for a tap as if he socialized with Trash Planet pickers on a regular basis. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You’re not the voice I heard.” Scrapper frowned but tapped Wil’s fist anyway. “You don’t look like a picker. And you’re not a girl.”

  “No,” Wil agreed. “I’m a dance teacher.”

  Surprising Su, for she’d assumed the cat would be mute in front of her staff and make Wil’s situation tough to explain, Pumpkin popped his head over Wil’s shoulder and spoke directly to Scrapper. “I’m not a girl, either.”

  Scrapper looked at Pumpkin for a long, long moment. What would he do? Her employee was a man of many words and few thoughts, but he was as dependable as Trash Planet machinery. He was like the uncle she wished she’d had instead of the uncle she did have.

  “So which one is the felon?” Scrapper asked at last.

  “The cat,” Wil and Su said at the same time.

  “Your laws do not include such as I,” Pumpkin said archly. The cat and his damn semantics would be hells in any justice chamber. “Thus I am not a felon.”

  “The crew’s not going to believe this.” Scrapper tugged off his knit cap, revealing a receding hairline no standard nanobots could conquer, and twisted the hat in his hands. “A talking cat.”

  Pumpkin leaned over Wil’s shoulder toward Su. “This one is also clean. Have you surrounded yourself with similar humans, Sulari Abfall?”

  “How should I know?” The cat’s definition of clean was not something she understood.

  “Why can you talk?” Scrapper asked. “Are you a science experiment? Like in the holos?” Trash Planet, via the Gizem Station cybbie feed, had access to all sorts of entertainment holos. Talking animals were an eternally popular trope. As were cooking shows, of all things. Most people in the Rim didn’t have access to anything besides protein bars.

  “No more than you are,” Pumpkin said, which was more of an answer than he’d given her. The little shit. “I hunted such a long time for a human I could trust, and they appear to be all over this planet.”

  Trust? Did the cat equate clean with honest and trustworthy or just someone he could mindread and manipulate? How could he tell who was trustworthy? To think that she and Wil had this undefinable cleanliness in common—along with Scrapper—baffled her.

  But she did have an honest and trustworthy staff. Her people had come running when she’d called for help. She would come running for them and would never put profits over their wellbeing. That was family. Unlike the union militia, which was a waste of fucking dues. She’d lodge a grievance, but one of Garza’s ass kissers was the head of the complaint committee.

  “You’ve met two so-called clean people on Trash Planet,” Su said, thinking of how she could punish Garza for cheating her of her hard-earned right to be defended from interlopers. “Just two. I wouldn’t say clean people are all over.”

  “They tend to flock.” Pumpkin yawned, showing white, sharp teeth.

  Scrapper waved his hand toward the orange feline. “I guess this is why you’re in trouble, Wil?”

  Wil quirked an eyebrow. “You’re very astute, Individual Scrapper.”

  “Just Scrapper.” He unrolled his hat back onto his head. “You look familiar.”

  “I get that a lot,” Wil said, but he didn’t elaborate.

  Scrapper grinned, showing his missing front tooth. “We do like him, boss. And a dance teacher? Haven’t danced in a half-life. Not since—”

  “Another time,” she said, cutting him off. Wil watched them with blatant interest. Her life story would delay their escape from Casada, and it was information Wil didn’t need. It was information she’d just as soon forget. “We should go.”

  “Agreed.” Pumpkin ducked back into Wil’s satchel. “The horned beast is returning. I’m not able to deter it, and it has reason to seek vengeance. Please take me to safety.”

  They didn’t need a push to understand the wisdom of avoiding an angry mama bristleback. They clambered up and out of the jumbled den into the grey afternoon. The off-roader was parked nearby, armored just as heavily as her poor, deceased truck. If they’d tried to fly the garbage scow and land close to here, it would have been faster but so much more noticeable.

  The mountainside was too forested to see whether Casada’s ships were patrolling the sky in this area. What they needed right now was a surprise hailer that would ground the airships and limit ground travel. They clambered into the off-roader just in time to see the mama bristleback lope into the clearing near the cave with her juveniles in tow.

  “Oh…my,” Wil said under his breath, staring at the monster through one of the windows. She was half again as big as the largest juvenile. Bristlers birthed huge litters, though not all survived to maturity since they started life very small and helpless. If you saw a pink, hairless, big-eyed bristleback baby, you’d never guess it grew into such a fearsome beast.

  “Some of them have wounds from the big fight,” Scrapper told them. From the passenger’s side of the front seat, Tama waved her hand. Su, Wil, and Pumpkin were in the back. She assumed Metro and Dasburt were in the cargo area, heavily armed.

  “What fight?” Su asked. A mama bristler could maybe take the off-roader, so they spun out of the clearing quickly. A few juveniles gave chase, but the mama hung in front of the den, snorting and scraping the ground with her huge claws. Beasties had to be tough to survive Trash Planet wea
ther.

  “The gringo’s men and the bristlers.” Tama’s face drew into a frown of disapproval. “Those wastoids killed four of them.”

  “Four?” Su said. It was not easy to kill a bristleback, even with an EE-rifle. No wonder Casada’s men had been too distracted to search the mountain tunnels all night.

  “A damn shame,” Tama said. “One was female.”

  “They probably didn’t know they’re protected by SPA,” Su said. One did not kill bristlebacks when one could be filmed or found out. And when one roasted bristlebacks because anything was better than endless protein bars, one did not invite the neighbors to feast—one kept all the sweet, red meat quietly for oneself.

  Besides, one also knew that tardipedes were easier hunting and weren’t even close to endangered.

  “Who cares?” Tama’s dark eyes took on a mischievous glint. “I take my job as a mandated species reporter seriously. I already called my SPA supervisor about it. So, who are you and why do you have a cat?”

  “Clean,” Pumpkin said. “She’s clean. The two in the back are clean. Why could I find no one clean besides Wil? This is a travesty.”

  Wil sighed. “Perhaps because you were looking on Gizem Station. I’m Wil Tango, and I have a talking cat. Or he has me.” Wil opened the satchel and Pumpkin freed himself from it, hopping onto the seatback between Tama and Su. His orange fur gleamed like gold in a trash heap. “The gringo you keep mentioning is from Gizem, and he wants the cat for himself.”

  “Obviously,” Tama said, gaze pinned on Pumpkin like she was about to break into the Stars of Glory chorus. “I’m going to freak out now.”

  She buried her face in the nap pillow and screamed. Scrapper patted her on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Tama. You aren’t mandated to report this.”

  “Please do not,” Pumpkin said. “Do not tell anyone outside this group about me.”

  “What about the others?” Scrapper asked, meeting Su’s gaze in the rearview mirror. The off-roader careened through the forest and soon reached the winding overpass road. This time of day, everyone would be picking the freighter or in the factories, so there was little traffic. “They’ll wanna know.”

  “Case by case basis.” Pumpkin hopped into the front seat and started rubbing his head on Tama, who was still screaming into the pillow. “Stop it. That hurts my ears.”

  “Sorry,” she choked, gasping herself into silence. “Can I…”

  “Yes, please.”

  Tama straightened and Pumpkin stepped into her lap so she could pet him. The expression on her young face blissed out like she’d just scored a caseload of unused fuel cells in a pick job.

  Wil leaned closer to Su. His shoulder bumped hers, and she thought of the way he’d caught her at the bottom of the ladder. The way he’d enjoyed her surprise—but also enjoyed their closeness. He hadn’t said anything about leaving a lover behind in Gizem Station. “I don’t want to put you and your people in danger. Do you have a secure way I can access the cybbie at your factory?”

  “Yeah, of course.” Since Trash Planet had no central government, everyone and their unions handled their own utilities, including cyberspace. No central hub controlled access or spied on communications, and all unions contributed to common needs like road management. That didn’t mean other unions wouldn’t hack and attack, but ragtag survivors were easier to outsmart than, say, a fascist planetwide government.

  “I’ll see about reimbursing your damages,” Wil said gravely. “And find a way to book passage on a Q-ship to the other side of the Rim as soon as possible. Just have to decide where to go. How many space ports are on the planet?”

  “A lot of ports, but I assumed that plan you told Casada was a wash job,” Su said. “You can’t just run. A Gizem Station casino boss is going to have a long reach.”

  He gave one of those sideways nods that implied that he agreed and disagreed at the same time. “Still my best course of action.”

  Did she want him to leave so soon? She’d barely plumbed the mystery of the box she’d opened. Not just the cat part of it. The man part. Why was Wil so mild-mannered and refined yet willing to jump in front of her when someone pointed at EE-rifle at them? Why could he run straight up a wall? Why was he willing to cheat a casino but not a garbage picker?

  Why did the cat choose this man? Why did she want to choose this man?

  “Are you really going to rat Casada out to Zev?” she asked. “That could solve your problem.”

  “Not from your factory. That would make you too vulnerable. It’s not fair for you to get dragged into this.” Ironically, he echoed the thoughts she’d been having. Did he also secretly want to stay the way she wanted him to? “I don’t want Casada telling Zev about Pumpkin to save his own hide.”

  “Fair point,” she agreed. “Keep Zev out of it, and let’s handle it ourselves. I wasn’t looking for a fight with an off-worlder, but now I need to kick Casada’s ass. It’s personal. That jackhole ruined my truck.”

  “And killed some endangered species,” Tama added from the front seat.

  “And blocked up the tunnel,” Scrapper said. “We didn’t get our delivery of plastene.”

  “I find him troublesome,” Pumpkin added. “If these good people wish to take him out of the equation, I’d like to aid them. Humans are not an endangered species.”

  “Pumpkin, are you kidding me?” Wil said. “I appreciate the support, but I don’t want to kick his ass. I want to avoid his ass. Kicking his ass just makes him angrier.”

  “Sorry. I wanna kick his ass,” Su said.

  “Mama Junk is mad,” Tama said with a giggle.

  “I mean, the truck.” Su threw up her hands, nearly swatting Wil in the face. “The truck! With all that gloss loot. And the dolly.”

  “I hated that dolly.” Tama, her youngest employee, had been drawn to Trash Planet because she was a preservationist at heart, not because she’d been born here like Su and Scrapper. “Broken farking wheel.”

  Scrapper clicked his disapproval. He’d adopted a paternal role with Tama, and the young woman endured it with good humor like she did everything except cruelty toward animals and people waking her up too early in the morning. “Watch your mouth, young lady. I’m almost done with the Hail Buster, and we’ll have a better truck. I can trade for the parts. We don’t need DICs.”

  “The DICs were for the Moll,” Su reminded them. The enormity of what it meant to help Wil and Pumpkin throbbed against her temples like a migraine. It was truly hitting home now that she was on her way home. “For the tow package upgrade.”

  “Your uncle would give us all the money we need to upgrade if we switch to Hazer Union,” Scrapper suggested, not for the first time in twenty years. More lately, though. What was his deal?

  “He might not,” Tama responded. “Remember the fabrication machine, when we were out of that decontaminant fluid? And he wouldn’t provide it?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Scrapper navigated the off-roader down the last of the mountain ridges. The twists and turns of the road threatened to upset Su’s stomach to match the throbbing in her temples. “Still think you should apologize, Su. Family is important. Especially when you need to flush your fabrication machine or upgrade your garbage scow.”

  “Apologize for what?” she said, her temper fraying. “Nearly dying in Factory D when he hired subpar contractors and sent me to… No. No. I am not talking about this. It was his fault. Told him nobody from Tank Union could be trusted.” How had this conversation gone from “let’s kick a scumbag’s ass” to “holding grudges is bad for the box factory”?

  Wil placed a hand on her knee. Her real knee. He didn’t insert himself into an argument that he knew nothing about, but the hand on her leg let her know where he stood—beside her. As if any argument she had, he would stand in that same place.

  “What’s she talking about?” Tama asked, craning around to look at Wil and Su. “Why does she need to apologize?”

  “Before your time, sweet cheeks,” Scrapper said
gruffly. “Why don’t you radio ahead to the factory and tell them thirty minutes?”

  Su tore her gaze from Wil’s hand placed so innocently on her leg and glowered at the back of Scrapper’s head. The fancy prosthetic she’d been outfitted with after the accident had granted her some physical advantages, but it could never replace her real leg.

  Money could only buy robot legs and garbage scows. It couldn’t buy forgiving and forgetting. And money could buy a new truck, but would it guarantee safety for Wil and Pumpkin? Would it cushion her and her crew from repercussions after Wil and Pumpkin left?

  She had worked so hard to strike out on her own, build up the factory from nothing, create a new family from ashes, and to lose it because she did the right thing when she found a man in the trash…

  Calm down, said the cat in her head.

  She didn’t want to cooperate, but hunger took precedence over reliving the old nightmare or dreaming up a new one. “Is there anything to eat in here? Wil and I are starving.”

  Tama rustled in a cooler bag and handed them some slurps and protein bars. Finest fare the Obsidian Rim had to offer. Not many planets or space stations were conducive for farming, so the folks who couldn’t grow their own, which was most everyone, relied on processed nutrients. Trash Planet might harbor a few edible creatures, but agriculture was limited to greenhouses, which in turn were limited to hail-proof structures. The unions with a higher number of organics recyclers had the best greenhouses. Native plants weren’t fit for human consumption, and native animals quite liked the plants—rendering most of those animals also unfit for consumption. A vicious cycle.

  “What about you?” Tama asked Pumpkin.

  “I already ate.” Pumpkin twisted in Tama’s lap until Su could see his face. His eyes were nearly closed as if he were drowsy, but she knew he was awake enough to poke around in her head. “Some sort of sweet pink rat. This planet has its advantages.”