by Jody Wallace
Su couldn’t think of any local critters fitting that description, but she also had no idea how far Pumpkin could travel when he disappeared.
“Not ship rats, I hope,” Tama said. “Their meat would make you so sick. You’re a mammal, right? Like humans.”
Pumpkin’s tail tip twitched. “I am nothing like humans.”
“Our DNA is closer than you think. Our point of origin is believed to be the same planet. Long, long before the War, of course. Unless you’re…not a cat?”
“I’m a cat,” Pumpkin conceded. “I’m just better.”
Su’s understanding of Tama’s past was that she had attended a fancy university to study biology but had been sacked after some big scandal. It was one of the few things Tama did not maintain her good humor about, so the kid should understand why Su didn’t want to talk about what a dung heap her uncle was.
Wil folded his used slurp carefully into a small square. “I feel foolish asking what to do with my trash on Trash Planet but…”
“Chuck bag.” Su indicated the thin sack on the back of the seat. She added her own garbage, too. “We recycle everything.”
Soon, they raced out of the mountain range that bisected the districts and entered the flat lands. There was ample landing space for scows, runabouts, freighters, and the occasional corpse of a gen ship, for any recycler successful enough to tow or snag a one-to-one contract. The power of the union gave smaller pickers like herself access to trash from all over the Rim, but everyone strove for those one-to-ones.
As they drove through the junked skeletons—the parts of ships nobody had recycled yet—Wil and Pumpkin gazed at the landscape with curiosity. They passed through Nyong’s plot, which had a number of frameworks.
“These are generation ships?” Pumpkin asked, his front paws propped on the door. “How many are there? Why did they crash here?”
“Didn’t crash. They got towed. Eventually whoever brought them here will finish selling off the metals and other parts,” Su explained. “That’s half of the reason I want a tow package. The DICs you can make if you score a whole carcass are outstanding.” Trash Planet was not blessed with endless flat lands, so the plains had to be used to the fullest. Everything got reused, recycled, expanded, and compounded.
“If you think this is a lot, you should see how many are near Hazmat District,” Tama said. “Kilometer after kilometer.”
“That’s not even counting the sky pile,” Scrapper added. “There’s a mess of them in orbit, just waiting for someone to bring them down. We take all the trash here. Though a lot of it ends up in the wastelands. That’s the part of the planet where you can’t live.”
“Hazer Union and Endeavor Union have the most dealings in the sky pile,” Tama said. Those were two of the wealthiest groups with the best ships. Su didn’t regret that she’d turned down her chance to be part of that, because she was going to upgrade the Moll and grab it for herself. “Not our union. We only have access to the ones on the ground.”
“So a space port isn’t required for coming and going,” Wil observed. “A ship of any size could conceivably land anywhere…or take off from anywhere.”
Already planning his departure. “If it’s level enough, yeah, but if you want a Q-ship, they’re gonna be at the ports. People with Q-ships have little reason to be out in the districts.”
“They don’t shop, they only drop. They don’t need upcycled ship parts,” Tama said “They’re full gloss already. They can buy new.”
It was true. Trash Planet wasn’t frequented by Q-ships unless they were owned by delivery services or the large waste management corporations from other parts of the Rim. Qs tended to land at Gizem or Al’ Amal, and those who needed to come here on personal business and couldn’t book with a trash ship had to travel the slow way, at sub-light speeds. A lot of their business was mail order or off-world, and the buyer paid delivery prices.
They did host the occasional collector or preservationist, and, of course, the good folks from SPA, but with the work being hard and the unions being dominant, they didn’t even see much of the criminal element. Pirates didn’t want to steal old and broken things, and there wasn’t much to cheat anyone out of.
Jakes interested in an easy DIC went somewhere the pickings weren’t so slim. Like Wil and Pumpkin, they favored Gizem Station and hoped their con didn’t get exposed.
“They’re missing out. Trash Planet components are better,” Scrapper proclaimed. “Last longer, don’t break, nothing like that newfangled crap.”
They reached a crossroads and hooked a right toward the factory and barracks on a bumpy dirt track. Nothing was marked. Lack of signage lowered the efficiency of raids. You had to know where you were going in order to get anywhere on Trash Planet. Their property was several kilometers from the junkers, but they did have ample landing space for buyers and for Su’s dream of towing things. The sturdy garbage scow and the runabout Scrapper was trying to restore were all alone in the unfilled space, with the land vehicles in the garage safe from storms.
Su had been watching Wil out of the corner of her eye most of this time. He hadn’t spoken much but she could tell he was absorbing every detail.
“We’re here,” she told him unnecessarily, since the off-roader slowed to a stop in the gravel parking lot. What did he think of the low grey buildings, the warehouses, the surrounding scrub brush? The electric fences around the perimeter that were more for bristlebacks and tardipedes than other unions, who tended to fly in from above? What did he think of the scrap piles in the distance, the smoke rising from the factory, the stunted excuse for a cybbie tower, and the lack of glitz and flash and bang?
Had he ever been anywhere like this in his fancy life?
How fast was he wanting to catch a ride on that Q-ship after seeing the place she called home?
Chapter 8
When Su led them into what she called the showroom, Wil had to stop and stare. Rows upon rows of tall, industrial shelves housed stacks of every kind of container he’d seen in his life and more he’d never noticed. From hazmat containers to retinal safes, from collapsible crates to trinket boxes, Su and her employees had the ability to rebuild and restore many more types of containers than he’d imagined.
Su in particular seemed proud of what they called the fabricator, a giant contraption in another part of the factory she claimed was the only one of its kind on the planet. It disassembled and melted down plastene to its base components and then fashioned custom containers in any shape according to client desires.
“Our models cost more than original plastene fabrication, but with ours, you know we didn’t waste any raw materials. No miners were harmed, blah blah blah.” She showed him the tiny hidden symbol embossed somewhere on everything manufactured or repaired on Trash Planet, along with her factory stamp. “Ever noticed one of these on something?”
“I can’t say I have.” It embarrassed him that he’d owned completely new items or been so unobservant he’d never noticed maker stamps. “Are you the only source of recycled items in the Rim?”
“Hardly,” she said with a laugh. “We’re just the only entire planet that… What in Oberon are you doing, cat?”
Wil turned to follow her line of sight. Pumpkin’s fuzzy orange butt and tail disappeared into a square plastene container a moment before he popped back up to stare at them over the edge, his pupils two black, dilated circles of excitement.
“So…many…boxes.” He jumped out of the plastene container and raced across the floor to a much smaller box made of thin brown material. He was too big for it, his sides overflowing as he squeezed himself in. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Su stuck her hands on her hips. “I didn’t hide anything from you. Do not rip that box. It’s valuable. Made out of a plant pulp substance called cardboard.”
Wil recalled her telling that guy on the ship, Garza, that she had no paper, books, or wood. Paper books were a rarity in the Rim, belonging to collectors, museums, and extremely wealthy peop
le. He’d never used any of his DICs to buy books when everything he needed for research was holo or digital.
“I love it. It’s mine,” Pumpkin said.
“It’s our floor model,” Su told him, striding over to glare down at the cat. Pumpkin managed to squirm around in the small box until he was belly up, his tail and back paws hanging over the side. While Wil had known him to enjoy a nice, enclosed space, he’d never seen the cat behave this way. “Do you have any idea how much people would pay for that?”
“Millllllions,” Pumpkin said, drawing the word out like a trill. “But you can’t sell it. It’s mine.”
“What is happening here?” A woman trotted into the showroom, rushing to Su’s side. She was short, round, muscular, and dressed in clean white garb that looked like nothing Wil had seen on this planet so far. “What is this about a cat? Is that a cat? A cat is in my box?”
“Oh my dog, it’s my box,” Pumpkin said. His tail lashed in a way Wil wondered if the women knew was threatening.
The woman stumbled to a stop with a gasp, and Su grabbed her before she hit the floor. “Talks. Tama wasn’t lying.”
“You may not approach,” Pumpkin told the woman. His paws rested against his chest, curled into deceptive softness.
“Pumpkin, this is our lead fabricator Joann. Joann is in charge of programming our plastene fabricator and has been learning to recycle paper to create boxes. Joann, this is a talking genius cat and his friend Wil.” Su indicated Wil with a wave of her hand. “They’re in a spot of trouble with some people from Gizem Station, and I’m sure you heard about the truck.”
“Ay-yi-yi.” Joann sank to the floor of the show room and pressed a hand to her forehead. “I shouldn’t have drank so much alky last night.”
“Oh, is that what I’m smelling?” Pumpkin snarked.
Pumpkin was well familiar with the scent of the Rim’s most popular intoxicating beverage in all its forms, what with the alky that flowed through the clientele of the casinos. But what was the cat’s problem? Was this lady not what Pumpkin considered clean? Wil gathered it had something to do with having a moral center and a willingness to cater to a certain orange cat. But he couldn’t deny that Pumpkin’s instincts, or whatever they were, had never been wrong.
That didn’t mean Pumpkin never made the wrong decisions. But he could tell if a person was trustworthy, and most people…were not.
“Be nice,” he told Pumpkin anyway. For whatever good it would do. “We’re guests here.”
Pumpkin flicked a lazy ear. “I am only here because you are here. Thus you are the guest.”
“You’re certainly not a resident,” Su pointed out. She helped Joann to her feet. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to keep talking in front of everyone. Not if you don’t want the whole Rim to know. I trust my staff to do their jobs and have my back, but you’re not part of our job, cat.”
“Oh, she won’t tell anyone I can talk. Will you…Joann Carnie Wilbanks?” Pumpkin asked.
“Her name’s not…” Su looked from a pale-faced Joann to the cat and then to Wil. “Does he do this a lot?”
“Noooo,” Wil said, completely baffled. He’d never, after a year, expected Pumpkin to talk to anyone, and now he was talking to Su and everyone Su employed. It was as if the cat had been waiting for the right moment to spring his sentience on the unsuspecting Rim. “What are you thinking, Pumpkin? You went a whole year expounding on the need for secrecy.”
“I won’t tell,” Joann said in a squeaky voice.
“Are you pushing her?” Wil accused. It annoyed the Q out of him when Pumpkin pushed people for his own amusement. And, moreover, a push wouldn’t last forever. If this Joann was a talker, she’d soon spread Pumpkin’s uniqueness across the galaxy.
Pumpkin’s tail quit whipping back and forth. “Nope. No push.”
Wil and Pumpkin’s future depended on keeping Pumpkin’s abilities a secret. Whether they intended to make more DICs or just live in peace, it all hinged on nobody realizing Pumpkin could talk…and more.
And when he’d started thinking in terms of a future with the cat in it, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps when he’d woken up from certain death and realized how huge of an effort Pumpkin must have made to keep him alive. He could have scampered off and found himself another set of opposable thumbs.
“I wouldn’t have done that,” Pumpkin said out loud, and Wil realized the cat was listening inside his head. Pumpkin mostly gave him privacy, but he could still slip in when Wil was tired or not expecting it. “You’re mine, too. I protect what is mine. Like this box.”
“Do other people belong to you?” Su asked. It wasn’t a question Pumpkin had ever deigned to consider with Wil before.
“Let’s just say a lot of lives depend on my ability to procure money,” Pumpkin said. With a last stretch that bent the sides of the box so much that Joann whimpered, Pumpkin rolled to his feet and flounced away from the cardboard. The precious floor model was no longer pristine.
The importance of the money was similar to what Pumpkin had told Wil, but never before had the cat hinted at other lives. “Cat lives or human lives?”
But Pumpkin was done talking and continued his inspection of the showroom, sniffing and examining everything he could reach.
Su put her hands on her hips. “As long as we’re watching him, he won’t disappear?” she confirmed with Wil.
“Far as I know.” Early in their relationship, he’d tried very hard not to let the cat out of his sight, but even without special abilities, Pumpkin could disappear like…
Like he just had, behind some boxes.
“Let’s have our medic check you out.” Su gestured for Wil to follow and set off at what he was learning was her customary rapid clip. Joann hurried after her. “If he disappears, we won’t have to argue with his hairy butt anymore.”
They reached a door that led to a corridor instead of another large room. Everything was utilitarian but also practical and lacking in useless glitz. Casinos grew a bit fatiguing after a year of scamming them.
“I’m programming in a new design. I’ll talk to you later.” Joann bustled off into the fabrication room.
“You going to ask her about that name Pumpkin called her?” Wil said.
“We’ve all got something to hide.” Su cast him a knowing glance. “Wilbur Suggs.”
“Not hiding that—it’s just not my name anymore.” Dance had been his ticket to escape the mines, and even his family had been in favor of him punching it. “What are you hiding?”
“Robot leg,” she said with a straight face.
But he’d sensed the tension and the anger in her when Scrapper had mentioned forgiving her uncle. He hadn’t needed to mindread to understand that her uncle was somehow responsible for her scars. Why would anyone need to pardon that?
The corridor led eventually to a medical office where a dark-skinned man hummed as he tended a mobile greenhouse of exotic plants. The man, like Joann, was in clean, white clothing, not grey coveralls. His close-cropped hair seemed out of place among the wilder, rougher people Wil had seen since his arrival.
“Javier!” Su said with a lilt in her voice Wil hadn’t heard before. “I have a patient for you.”
The man turned, revealing a face as wrinkled as a crumpled leotard.
“Are you finally going to let me take away that awful scar?” the man asked, blinking at them both. Wil hadn’t met many people who wore their age so openly. He’d never thought about nanobots being such a privilege before, but Su didn’t seem all that unhappy without any.
“It’s not awful, and you know why I keep it,” Su said, but her voice didn’t adopt that angry tinge it had when she’d snapped at Scrapper. “I’m not the patient.”
“Who is?” Javier looked at Wil.
“Well, I found a guy in the trash,” Su said, a joke she seemed happy to tell again and again. If it pleased her, Wil supposed he could tolerate it. “He’d been in temp cryo and traveled from Gizem, and he’s cryo-cr
ashed once. Who knows what happened to him before he got knocked out?”
“Nothing permanent,” Wil said. Casada’s underlings had used psionic pain inducers on him, which only caused damage in one’s memories. He had no doubt they would have escalated to burns and breaks, but Casada had flown into a rage and ordered Wil into cryo.
The elderly man held out both hands and approached Wil. “Let me look at you.”
Wil glanced at Su uncertainly and she nodded encouragement. He allowed the doctor—he assumed Javier was a doctor—to take his grimy hands in his warm, clean ones and inspect him as carefully as the stage manager eyeballing the starting lineup for a production. Javier blinked repeatedly, and Wil realized his eyes were switching colors, the pupils changing shape as well.
His eyes were…not real eyes. AI implants?
“If you can also check him for trackers,” Su said. “I found one in his heiney, but there could always be more. You’ll do a better job than my gogs.”
Wil hadn’t thought of that. Would be just like Casada to cut him open more than once while he was unconscious. Javier took his time inspecting Wil, and if there was another tracker, he hoped the doc could remove it more gently than Su had.
“There are no foreign objects,” Javier finally pronounced. If they didn’t have much money, how had Javier come by such high-tech eyeballs? Then again, Su did have that fancy leg. Were the two things connected? “Are you a professional dancer?”
“I am,” Wil said. Had Javier’s eyeballs told him that or did the old man recognize him?
“How did you know that?” Su asked before Wil could.
Javier’s wrinkles flattened into a small smile. “I know a lot of things. Regardless, Wil needs to be fed, watered, and bathed, and he is low on some essential vitamins and minerals. I have just the potion for that, but you can see to bathing him yourself.”
Wil had been to doctors and medics numerous times in his life, usually for nanobot updates. None had diagnosed him by holding his hands and staring at him. None had offered him a potion.