A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  Zagarat shook his head, biting his lip as his eyes glistened with tears. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all paid for and that’s all that matters.”

  “Oh, Zagarat,” Margarat sighed. “Why would you do something so absolutely insane?”

  “Because I love you.”

  Margarat smiled, although it never reached her eyes. “You are so much like your father. He’d do anything for the people he loved, no matter the cost.” She looked away wistfully. “Did you know that damn fool once travelled all the way to Bylar Prime just to pick me some Qaitar Pemroses? It took him two days to get there, ten hours to hand-pick the most beautiful Pemroses he could find, and two months’ salary to pay for it all. But he didn’t care. He said it was worth it just to see me smile.” She shook her head, smiling as she sniffled back the memories. “Cole men are such idiots.”

  “Yep,” said Zagarat, smiling just as sullenly. “We’re asses.”

  Margarat began to convulse and Zagarat stiffened, fearing it was another one of her “episodes.” But then he heard her mellifluous laugh and immediately relaxed.

  “Oh, Zagarat,” said Margarat, her hand over her belly. “You could always make me laugh.” She gestured weakly with her left hand. “Come here.” When he did, Margarat cradled his face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead. “I love you, you foolish sentient male.”

  “Right back at you, you old crone.”

  She held his face in her hands a moment longer, gazing deeply into his eyes. “You know,” she said gravely. “If I knew you were going to do this, I would have…”

  “I know,” said Zagarat, preempting any mention of the word suicide. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. Besides, it’s too late to turn back now.”

  She tapped him gently on the cheek. “You’re a good son.” She eased herself back in the chair. “Now, go pack your things. You have a new assignment in the morning.”

  “Aw, Ma,” said Zagarat, channeling his ten year old self. “Do I really have to go?”

  “Yes,” said Margarat. “I promised you would. And you wouldn’t want me to go back on my word, would you?” She blinked innocently at him, her voice growing weaker. “I mean, at my age, all I have left is my word. So, if you don’t go, well, that might just break my heart. And I don’t know if my poor little heart can handle that kind of disappointment. After all, I am a dying old woman.” She coughed. “A feeble, dying old woman,” she said, adding a couple more pitiful-sounding coughs.

  Zagarat’s eyes narrowed. “You really are an evil old crone, you know that?”

  Margarat’s eyes seemed to dance with glee. “Don’t you forget it. Now, go and get ready.”

  Zagarat sighed the deflated sigh of the defeated. “Yes, ma’am.” His chin drooped down to his chest as he turned and moped away.

  “And stop worrying. It’s a simple tech assignment. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Zagarat stopped mid-stride, the devil and angel on his shoulders slapping their foreheads in dismay. He could nearly hear Clemona, the Armedian Goddess of Irony, laughing off in the distance. Ironically, she often appeared in non-ironic situations just to be ironic.

  “Yes,” said Zag. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  he Waretz Depot was the transit hub for all intersystem and transystem flights on and off of Leranda Prime. It was just outside Metero City proper, approximately 80 clicks to be imprecise. The magcab came to an abrupt stop just outside Terminal 482A.

  Zagarat glanced down at the viewscreen. The price was 180 credits followed by a space for the tip. And that was the part that always baffled Zag. It wasn’t just the amount, which was always confusing. Was he supposed to leave ten percent? Fifteen? Twenty? He never knew. But the mere notion of a gratuity always bothered Zag. After all, no one ever tipped him for doing his job. But if you didn’t tip a magcabbie, you were considered scum. And if you didn’t tip well in a restaurant, next time that foam on top of your steak might not be molecular gastronomy, but molecular gastric acid. The whole thing seemed like a tacit conspiracy by greedy, fatuous owners who refused to pay their employees a fair share, thus placing the onus on the customers to pay the difference. (This message brought to you by the Society of Sentients Who Hate Tipping. All rights reserved.)

  Zagarat added a twenty percent gratuity then exited the cab. Evidently, the magcab driver was happy with the tip because he volunteered to load their baggage onto a motorized scooter, securing them in place with a magnetic strip.

  “I’ll take it from here,” said Fletcher cheerfully, slipping the driver a credslip. He then helped Margarat onto the scooter. “Here you go, beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” said Margarat, pinching Fletcher’s buttock.

  “Ma, would you please stop being so…” Zag cradled his head in his hands. “Never mind.”

  “Don’t mind him,” said Margarat, tapping Fletcher’s hand. “He’s a South Lerandan prude, like his father. I’m from the north and much more adventurous.”

  “Good to know,” said Fletcher with a wink. He turned the scooter and headed inside. Zagarat shouldered his bag and scrambled after them.

  “May I say you look absolutely ravishing today, Mags?” said Fletcher as they made their way through the concourse.

  “You may,” said Margarat, holding her head high.

  Zagarat chuckled.

  “What?” said Fletcher, glancing over his shoulder.

  “It’s nothing,” said Zagarat. “I just always found that saying funny. Ravishing comes from the word ravish. And to ravish means to rape or obtain through violent means. So, when you say ravishing you actually mean…” He looked up and saw Fletcher and Margarat staring at him, their expressions purposefully blank. “Rape… a… ble.”

  They shook their heads and continued on.

  “What?” said Zagarat, throwing his hands into the air. “I’m just saying it’s kind of interesting the way we use words without really thinking about their true meaning.”

  Margarat glanced over her shoulder at Fletcher. “Don’t mind him. He watches too much of that Captain Dieback cartoon.”

  “It’s the educational Adventures of Captain Didact and his sidekick Pedantic Boy. And it’s not a cartoon. It’s a metavid on sentient life told through the abstruse prism of animation.”

  “He means cartoon,” said Margarat.

  “It’s not a cartoon. It’s a pithy commentary on the sentient condition.”

  “Cartoon,” she repeated, causing Fletcher to smirk.

  “It’s not a…” Zagarat opened his PCD then raised his arm so that Fletcher could see the screen clearly. “Here, let me show you.”

  A vidscreen shimmered to life.

  DUM-DA-DA-DUM

  On the screen, a biped sentient of indeterminate race appeared, dressed in black tights, crimson boots, a white mask across his eyes, and a cerulean cape that billowed in the breeze.

  IT IS TIME FOR THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN DIDACT

  A young Lassen boy, dressed all in white, landed beside him.

  AND HIS SIDEKICK, said the boy nasally, PEDANTIC BOY

  IN THIS WEEK’S EPISODE: DEATH BECOMES HER?

  The scene transitioned to a wedding on the coast of Mejama, the southernmost continent of Preylor V. A Quilar priest stood before a lovely young couple. Behind them, one hundred or so friends and family watched as the couple took their vows.

  “Voos,” said the bride, staring adoringly into her beloved’s eyes. “I knew from the first moment I saw you that we were destined to be together. Now here, before all of our friends and family members, I vow to be with you for all eternity.”

  “Hold it right there, fellow sentient.”

  A caped man landed before the couple, his arms akimbo.

  “Who are you?” asked the groom.

  “It is I, Captain Didact.”

  “And his sidekick,” said a young man, landing beside him. “Pedantic Boy.”

  “What are you doing here?” asked the bride.

  “Illuminating
your dark ignorance, fellow sentient,” said Captain Didact. “You see, fatalism and predetermination are appealing to mere mortals because it links us to something numinous and eternal. But it is a fallacy. We are all alone in this verse. There is no God. There is no higher being. There is nothing guiding us but our only selfish desires. You chose this man because his brawn and brains imply that he will be an apt provider. While you chose this woman because her wide hips intimate fertility. That is all.”

  “And not only that,” added Pedantic Boy. “But statistically, it is unlikely that you will stay together for more than five fiscal years let alone…” He scoffed. “An eternity.”

  “Now, now,” said Captain Didact. “Our job isn’t to mock ignorance, faithful chum of mine. It is to eradicate it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Now, let us go, friend of a friend. There is more ignorance afoot.”

  The scene changed to a small backyard where a Lerandan mother, father, and son stood over a wooden grave marker.

  “Don’t worry, Honny,” said the mother. “Chubs is in a better place.”

  “Not so fast there, fellow sentient,” said a familiar voice.

  “Look,” said Honny, pointing up into the sky. “It’s Captain Didact.”

  “That’s right, young man,” said Captain Didact, alighting beside the grave marker. “And I am here to save you from a life of ignorance and disappointment. You see, your dog is dead and you will never, ever see him again. Unless you were to dig up his decaying body.”

  “That’s right,” said Pedantic Boy. “And your grandmother isn’t waiting for you in some numinous heaven. She is six feet underground, slowly rotting back into the ground.”

  There was a loud snort as Honny pulled his sleeve across his nose. “Thanks, Captain Didact,” whimpered Honny, his eyes glistening with newfound tears.

  “You’re welcome,” said Captain Didact. “And remember…”

  Captain Didact and Pedantic Boy turned to the camera.

  IGNORANCE IS BLISS BECAUSE KNOWLEDGE IS DOUR.

  Zagarat looked up at Fletcher, his eyes full of hope. Unfortunately, that hope was summarily dashed when Fletcher activated the scooter and led Margarat away without uttering a word. “What?” said Zag defensively, trailing after them. “It’s good.”

  That was the problem with art. Some sents were just too ignorant to understand its true genius. But Zag understood it. He knew that vid was sunning awesome no matter what anyone else, especially critics, had to say about it.

  “Would you like a drink before we leave?” asked Fletcher as they made their way through the concourse. “The bartender at Terminal WEEEE makes a mean Armedian Sunrise.”

  “I would love a…”

  “Actually,” Zagarat interjected. “Alcohol can have adverse effects on your medication.”

  “Spoil sport,” Margarat muttered under her voice.

  “Don’t worry,” said Fletcher. “I’ll slip you one when he’s not looking.” He glanced back at Zag. “I’m just kidding.” He then whispered in Margarat’s ear, “I’m not.”

  Zagarat opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything pithy, or even rindy for that matter, Fletcher opened his arms wide. “And here is your chariot. The Aurora May.”

  The so-called chariot was like no ship Zag had ever seen in his life. It looked like an enormous asteroid, faceted with glistening deusteel plates that didn’t seem to reflect light but rather refract it into a wide spectrum of colors, all dependent on your point of view. From one angle, the ship looked silver. From another, gunmetal. From yet another, ebon black. Another, a prism of variegated colors dancing across a golden canvas.

  There was no obvious front or back to the ship. There were no viewports. There were no cannons. No external radars. Nothing.

  “That’s ugly as sin,” said Zagarat.

  “What is wrong with you?” said Fletcher, admonishingly. He turned towards the ship. “He didn’t mean it, baby. You look beautiful.” He took a step forward then paused, as if waiting for something to happen. “Oh, now you’ve done it. You hurt her feelings. Say you’re sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” said Zagarat.

  “For calling her ugly.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes,” said Fletcher. “Now, say it.”

  Zag sighed. “Fine. I’m sorry I called your ship ugly.”

  “Not to me. Apologize to her.” Fletcher leaned in close and whispered, “She won’t let us on unless you apologize. Now, say you’re sorry.”

  “To the ship?” asked Zagarat. “You want me to apologize to the ship?” Fletcher nodded. “All right. Fine. I’m sorry. You happy?”

  “Not like that,” said Fletcher. “Say it like you mean it.”

  Zagarat sighed again. He looked up at the ship then back at over at Fletcher, who motioned for him to get on with it. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” he said, feigning sincerity.

  The sibilant sound of air decompressing filled the air as a metal facet slowly lowered to the ground. “Thank you,” said Fletcher. “Now, let me show you around the ship.”

  The metallic facet closed behind them and another sibilant hiss filled the air. The lights in the room turned from red to green as a plastiglass door opened before them.

  “Whoa,” said Zagarat as Fletcher led them down a hallway.

  The hallway was twenty feet wide and nearly thirty feet high. But that wasn’t what amazed Zagarat. What amazed him were the walls. Or, more precisely, the images on the walls.

  Zag had seen vivid wallpaper before, but never like this. It was like walking along a beach on Bylar Prime. On his left, wave after wave crashed upon the shore, a resounding plangent accompanying every break of the waves. On his right, an enormous sun blazed off in the distance. It was so bright that Zagarat had to actually shield his eyes from its oppressive rays. Below his feet, vivid sand shifted with every step he took.

  “Pretty nice, huh?” said Fletcher, like a proud papa. “I’ve gone for a shoreline motif for this level, although I’m not sure about the waves. They make me want to pee. Which reminds me, the bathroom is right over there.”

  “What kind of ship is this?” asked Zagarat, lost in awe.

  “Have you heard of the Magi Starline Express 4200?” Zagarat nodded. “Well, this ship is nothing like it. Now, your quarters will be here and here. Oh, hello, Devon.”

  The man named Devon stood in the middle of the hallway, mumbling to himself as he gingerly tapped his fingertips together. He was dressed in a bejeweled nightcap, a matching bloodwood red robe with gold filigree, and Armedian hare slippers. He looked to be the same race as Fletcher, only with slightly darker skin. “Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.”

  “Is something wrong?” asked Fletcher.

  Devon looked up. “Oh, good. I’ve finally found you. Yes, I think we may have a problem. As you know, I make it a habit to weigh all of my comestibles as well as the extruded result, as every sentient should, and I think I’ve found a problem. On an average week, I consume 8.4846554 pounds of food, excluding beverages and the like, but I extrude 7.225489 pounds in that very same time. You know, of course, what that means?”

  “That you’re constipated?”

  “How dare you,” said Devon. “I am as regular as the day on Bylar Prime. No, that means there is a discrepancy of 1.2591664 pounds. Now granted, gastric acid will dissolve 8.9 percent of said comestibles, but that still leaves 1.1471005904 pounds unaccounted for. And that can mean only one thing.”

  “That you’re constipated?”

  Devon threw his arms into the air. “It’s like talking to a twelve year old. No, it means something or someone is stealing my poo. I’d like your permission to scan my abdomen for wormholes with an atroppy ray. If not, then vivisection will do.”

  “Well,” said Fletcher. “The answer to that would be no.”

  Devon propped his hands on his hips. “Why not?”

  “Because I said so,” said Fletcher. “A
nd if that isn’t reason enough for you, then my colleague here will now give you a more scientific reason why you can’t.”

  Zagarat’s head jerked up. “I’m sorry. What now?”

  “And who is he?” Devon demanded, never once looking over at Zag.

  “Why, he’s Zagarat Cole. You do know who Zagarat Cole is, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” said Devon. “Everyone knows Zagarat Cole.”

  “Exactly,” said Fletcher. “And he’ll now tell you why you can’t.”

  Zagarat leaned in close to Fletcher. “What the suns are you doing?” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Relax,” said Fletcher out of the corner of his mouth. “Just make something up. And make it convincing.”

  “Why should I make something up? You make something up.”

  “Because I’m gonna need you to be quick on your toes on this assignment and this’ll be good practice. Now, do it. Make something up.”

  Devon poked his head in between the two of them. “Is this a new way of talking?” he said, trying to talk out of both corners of his mouth simultaneously. “Because I must tell you, if it is, I’m not a fan.”

  Fletcher continued to smile brightly at Devon, even as he elbowed Zagarat lightly in the ribcage. “Just say something.”

  “Um,” said Zagarat, wracking his brain for an improv file. “Um.” Devon stepped back, crossing his arms across his chest. “The reason you can’t do any of those things is because…” His eyes danced about. “Because that’s what the pandimensional aliens would want you to do.”

  Devon turned, acknowledging Zag’s existence for the first time. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” said Zagarat carefully. “It’s possible that pandimensional aliens placed a wormhole in your stomach in the hopes that you’d cut open your abdomen and release them into our dimension. Or, conversely, that you’d scan your abdomen with an atroppy ray. Because we all know what happens when an atroppy ray scans a wormhole.”