The Garbage Chronicles

by Brian Herbert

  “You asked me about emotions,” Javik said in a gentle tone, inching closer to Wizzy. The court was ominously silent, making Javik’s words seem loud. “I want you to feel one now,”. he said. “That emotion is fear “

  “Fear?” Wizzy said, moving out of Javik’s range. “What is that?” He glowed red as he searched his memory banks. “Ah, here it is: ‘apprehension concerning one’s physical well-being.’”

  Javik lunged for Wizzy while he was thus occupied and caught him. Feeling the intensity of all eyes in the court, Javik said, “I’m sorry.” He stuffed Wizzy into his jacket pocket. “We obtain data from the device . . . but it’s not functioning properly now.” He felt his face flush hot with blood.

  Wizzy became silent as Javik zipped his pocket shut.

  “Check that thing out,” King Corker said to Prince Pineapple.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Prince Pineapple extended his hand to Javik, “Give it to me,” he said.

  “Gladly,” Javik said. He unzipped the pocket and handed Wizzy over. “This thing’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

  While Prince Pineapple studied Wizzy, Wizzy glowed bright orange, becoming too hot for the prince’s sensitive fingers.

  “Ow!” Prince Pineapple said angrily, letting go of Wizzy. “It’s hot!”

  Javik shook his head in dismay.

  Wizzy flew around the king’s throne, then became dark blue and returned to alight on Prince Pineapple’s shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” Javik said. “He’s not hot now.”

  Prince Pineapple looked warily out the side of one eye at the lumpy object on his shoulder. It was rather heavy.

  Wizzy did not move or make a sound.

  “Now,” King Corker said, looking first at Javik, then at Evans. His eyes flared. “You are here about the gar-bahge, I presume.” Javik noticed the affected pronunciation again. Apparently it was done to make trash sound cultured.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Javik said. “We’re very sorry about it. The President of our American Federation of Freeness has asked me to extend his personal apology.”

  “Yes, yes,” the king said impatiently.

  “He has authorized me to send cleanup crews.”

  “Cleanup crews?” King Corker said, surprised. His eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “What on Cork for?”

  “Why, to clean up the garbage . . . to take it away.”

  “We don’t want it cleaned up!” the king said, glaring at Prince Pineapple. “Didn’t you explain anything to him?”

  “We didn’t discuss the crisis in great detail, Sire. I thought you might prefer—”

  “We want more gar-bahge, Earthian!” King Corker howled, directing a scalding glare at Javik. “Is that clear?” He thumped a clenched fist on the arm of his throne. “We want more!”

  “I—I. didn’t expect . . . ” Javik was stammering. “No one thought.. .I mean . . . ” He looked desperately at Evans for support.

  She looked away.

  “We have a serious shortage of gar-bahge,” Prince Pineapple said, looking at Javik. “In the past there was always enough for all. Our stores were full. There was plenty for Lord Abercrombie. But now, even the royal gar-bahge is threatened.”

  “How terrible,” someone in the court said. Then a murmuring followed: “How terrible. How terrible.”

  “When can we have more gar-bahge, Earthian?” King Corker asked.

  “Uh, I wasn’t authorized to . . . uh, I mean . . . ”

  “An underling” King Corker muttered. “I do not deal with underlings.”

  “I have an idea,” Javik said. “Why don’t you manufacture new things, then smash the stuff around? You know, make dents, scratches, mangles, and rips.”

  King Corker’s eyes widened. “You must be daft, Earthian. Imported gar-bahge is the only thing to have. Can’t you see that?”

  “Uh, sure. Then maybe I could arrange for more garbage. I’ll go back to Earth and see.”

  “Go back?” King Corker smiled cruelly. “You aren’t going back, Earthian. I know of such tricks, you see. You would bring warships.”

  “Oh no,” Evans said hurriedly. “We wouldn’t think of that!”

  “No,” Javik said. “We’re from the government, and we’re here to help you.”

  “One of the three biggest lies in the universe,” King Corker said, recalling a sheet of paper in his royal funny file.

  Javik’s mouth opened in shock. He shuffled his feet.

  “Your Decision Coin,” King Corker said, looking at Prince Pineapple.

  With Wizzy still on his shoulder, the prince fumbled in his pockets. Eventually he produced a large golden coin like the ones used by the watermelon men.

  “Give it to the Earthian captain,” King Corker instructed.

  Prince Pineapple obeyed, then glanced sidelong at Wizzy.

  Wizzy’s cat’s eye dimmed drowsily, so that it was only halfway open.

  Javik studied the coin. Despite its size, it was very light in weight. Probably made of an alloy, he surmised. On one side was the bust of a human man’s face bearing a stern, fatherly expression. Javik recognized it as Winston Abercrombie. Around Abercrombie were the smiling faces of Fruit people. The word “yes” was engraved in Corkian below the bust.

  “Lord Abercrombie,” Prince Pineapple said in a low tone.

  Javik turned the coin over. The other side depicted a cluster of Vegetable faces surrounding a carrot man in a baseball cap. Below that was engraved the word “no.”

  “And Brother Carrot,” Prince Pineapple whispered. “The Evil One.”

  “Flip it,” King Corker said.

  Javik hesitated. “But what . . . ?”

  “Flip it!”

  Javik shrugged and tossed the coin high in the air. It clanged to the floor and rolled around at his feet.

  Prince Pineapple looked at the coin. Then he retrieved it, while Wizzy used magic suction to cling to his shoulder. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, stuffing the coin in his pants pocket. “It decided yes.”

  “Our Planet God has spoken,” King Corker said reverently.

  Then the court intoned, “Our Planet God has spoken.”

  It was a wondrous, charmed moment for everyone except Prince Pineapple and the visitors from afar.

  “To the games!” King Corker shouted. Smiling, he looked at Javik and Evans, adding, “One Manno, one Wommo.”

  Prince Pineapple looked sadly at the watermelon advisers who stood nearby, recalling a time not so long before when King Corker had listened more to him. Until court politics turned against the prince. Now I am Number One Adviser in title only, he thought. And soon he will take the title. What do I care anyway? This foolishness is not for me.

  “Did you hear me, Prince Pineapple?” the king asked.

  “Yes, Sire. But I wonder if . . . ” Prince Pineapple stared at the ground, then looked past the king at the wall.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I just wonder if another course of action might not be appropriate.”

  King Corker was displeased. He balled both hands into tight, pudgy fists. “Another course of action?” he said. “You question the Decision Coin?”

  “No, but perhaps we did not need to flip it.”

  Wizzy released a loud snort. He was sleeping fitfully on Prince Pineapple’s shoulder.

  Prince Pineapple hesitated, then said, “The Earthians are our guests, Sire. Emissaries from another planet.”

  “So what?”

  “I’m not sure they should be enslaved, Your Majesty. There might be repercussions.”

  Enslaved? Javik thought. In this place? He sneaked a glance at his service pistol, bolstered on his hip.

  “Such as?” King Corker asked. “We already have a shortage of gar-bahge. What could be worse than that?”

  Wizzy snorted againv then fell into a buzz saw of snoring. He tipped a little on the prince’s shoulder.

  Javik shook his head. “That damned Wizzy,” he muttered.
/>   “Stop it!” Prince Pineapple said to Wizzy, giving Wizzy a shove.

  Wizzy clung to his perch and snorted again. Then he grew silent.

  Prince Pineapple looked at the king, saying, “Enslaving them might destroy our last hopes of getting more gar-bahge. It could force Earth to send warships.”

  “You argue with me? And with the coin?”

  Prince Pineapple bowed nervously. “No, Sire. I am merely advising you. I thought that was my function here.” I’m pushing it, he thought. Shouldn’t do that, especially in public.

  “The decision has already been made. There is a declining Earthian population here, with no means of reproduction. We once had eight hundred and fifty thousand of them. How many remain?”

  “Less than fifteen thousand, I believe.”

  “Closer to ten. The games take their toll. How will we be entertained when the games are over? Answer that one, Adviser.”

  Prince Pineapple hung his head.

  “Take them!” King Corker ordered. “Now!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Prince Pineapple said. He bowed obediently. This time, Wizzy fell off the shoulder.

  “Aargh!” Wizzy grunted as he hit the floor. “Can’t anyone take a nap around this place?”

  Prince Pineapple retrieved Wizzy, then grabbed Javik’s arm. “Come with me,” he said.

  “Like hell!” Javik said. He placed a hand on his holstered service pistol.

  “You will be given an opportunity to survive, Earthian,” King Corker said. “They are games of skill.”

  “And what are these games?” Javik asked, keeping his hand against his gun handle.

  “You will learn soon enough,” King Corker said. He motioned, and six bulky pear man guards surrounded Javik and Evans. A pear man put his hand on Javik’s pistol, but Javik pushed the hand away.

  “We’ll take that,” the pear man said. Then two pear men held Javik’s arm while another reached for his gun.

  Javik fought back, but was pushed to the floor. “Evans!” he yelled.

  But Evans remained motionless. “It’s no use,” she said.

  Javik was nearly squashed under a mass of Fruit flesh. He lost the gun. Struggling to his feet afterward, Javik glared around. King Corker was staring at him with cold, black button eyes.

  “They are Earth games,” the king said. “You should find them familiar.”

  Lord Abercrombie’s fleshy half was tired, and he decided to go to bed early. Wearily, he rose from the black satin cushions of his throne and floated out of the main chamber.

  He went down one box-lined passageway, made a left, then took another left. Soon he stood in the doorway of the Servicing cavern. He saw the blue linguistics meckie being worked on by two black and white repair technician meckies.

  “I want that science program and anything else you have on geology, magnetics, astronomy, and disaster control,” Lord Abercrombie said in a loud voice.

  The repair technicians stopped working and listened while Lord Abercrombie spoke.

  He continued, “Program the whole works into that yellow meckie in the corner.”

  “Yes, Lord,” one of the repair technicians said.

  “And tell it to report to me first thing in the morning.”

  Lord Abercrombie turned and went to his bedroom chamber.

  CHAPTER 8

  Some thoughts are never spoken. These are among the most important

  Quotations From Uncle Rosy, page 18

  Javik and Evans were separated when they left the king’s court. Four pear men pushed and dragged Javik down a long, dimly lit corridor. The walls, ceiling, and floor were polished agate stone in varying shades of amber and brown. Javik slipped twice on the smooth floor, then took shorter, more careful steps. A hunger pang shot through his midsection.

  Reaching a wide spot in the corridor, they stopped. One of the pear men slid open a rectangular metal lid on the floor, revealing a dark compartment below. Javik heard the dull whir and thud of machinery. He smelled rubber.

  “In here,” the pear man said.

  Javik struggled, but the bottom-heavy Fruits were stronger than they looked. They forced him through the opening.

  Javik fell a short distance after they let go, slamming his head and shoulder against a hard rubber surface. Realizing that the surface was moving slowly, he guessed he was on a conveyor. Machinery whirred loudly, and now the rubber smell was very strong. Faint illumination from the hatch opening faded. Looking up, Javik saw the lid slide back over the opening, leaving only a thin halo of light there. Soon he lost sight of the halo as the conveyor carried him away.

  Another odor touched his nostrils next, a repulsive odor. “It stinks in here!” he mumbled. He shuddered at the realization of what it was. Decaying flesh, he thought, recalling a number of burial details on which he had served. And he recalled the odor of the creature in the Davis Droids.

  Crouching in the darkness, Javik tried to think of his next move. The holster on his hip was light, evidence that it was empty. The rubber floor stopped now, falling silent. He heard a thunderous crowd roar above, and felt the floor shake.

  Something rustled nearby, behind and to the left.

  Javik whirled to face that direction, clenching his fists and extending them.

  Then he heard other rustlings, from other directions. “Manno,” he thought someone said, from his left.

  Then he heard it again, a clear monotone: “Manno.”

  Javik recalled the King’s words: “One Manno, one Wommo.”

  The sounds drew closer, and the disgusting odors became intolerably strong.

  Javik crawled to his right, then sensed breathing on that side. They were all around him. Terrified, Javik curled into a defensive, fetal ball.

  “Manno!” they yelled in monotones.

  “Manno!”

  “Kill the Wommos!”

  Javik twitched at each utterance, expecting to feel humanoid hands on him at any moment. His body was rigid, and he felt the tautness of his arm, leg, and chest muscles. His heart was like a sledge inside: Boom-da-dee-boom! Boom-da-dee-boom!

  “Get back!” Javik yelled. “Stay away from me!”

  “Manno?” a raspy voice asked. “You are Manno?”

  Slimy hands pawed at Javik in the darkness. He pushed them away, but they returned: wet fingers caressing his face and body. The fingers of many creatures, pressing all around.

  Javik lashed out with his feet and felt his boots strike home against flesh and bones. The creatures fell back but returned, like an encroaching sea which could be stalled but never defeated.

  A narrow band of light hit the side of Javik’s face from above. Then the band of light widened. Looking up, Javik squinted as a lid slid open, clanging metallically. He heard thunderous crowd noises outside.

  “One more pilot,” a tenor voice said from above. Faces covered the opening. “Get the new Earthian. The one with no wounds.”

  Before Javik could react, a lariat snapped down and slipped expertly under his armpits. The lariat tightened around his body and pulled him to the surface. Javik thrashed at the rope as he was pulled up and out of the hole. He felt a sharp shoulder pain as he was dumped roughly on the ground.

  A Corker removed the lariat, smiling at Javik with moist, purple lips.

  Rising to one knee, Javik found himself on one end of a great stadium filled with cheering Fruit people. It was night, and the stadium was ringed with bright floodlights. The other end of the stadium was open, with two parallel strips of floodlighted gray concrete extending into the distance. Far down the track, Javik noticed that the lanes narrowed to one. The Fruit spectators were colorful and demonstrative, waving their arms excitedly and hurling empty grain alcohol packs in all directions. Vendors hawking new packs worked the aisles.

  Javik took a deep breath. He was hungry and tired, with the burning eyes and drifting consciousness of a person in need of sleep. A fine, stinging dust blew across his face. He felt a sneeze coming on. “Ah . . . ah . . . �
��It did not come. Having no tissue handy, Javik depressed one nostril to blow phlegm on the ground. He repeated the procedure with the other nostril.

  “I think it’s an Earthian,” a Corker on his left said. Javik did not look in that direction.

  “Different from the others,” observed another.

  “Cleaner looking.”

  Javik focused on two large auto carriers parked in pools of light at the near end of each concrete strip. One carrier was pink and black, the other blue and black. Cars painted in the same manner as their respective carriers roared down ramps from each carrier simultaneously, one from each carrier, then streaked side by side along the track—a pink and black car on one strip, a blue and black car on the other. He saw the cars vie for position as the lanes merged to one. The blue car shot in front at the junction, then went into a weaving pattern. Lances of flame shot from the front of the trailing pink car. Gunfire peppered the air.

  “Damn,” someone said.

  The blue car exploded in a high ball of blue flame. Javik stood up to see the car crash off the track against a low rock wall. A glowing orange capsule shot straight up from the crash scene. Then a white parachute opened over the capsule, guiding it back to Cork. Still glowing orange, the capsule drifted closer to Javik. He saw that it was a cage, with shimmering, orange-hot bars. Inside, the dead Manno pilot was stretched straight out and spinning slowly, like a pig on a spit.

  What the hell? Javik thought.

  “You saw it folks!” the public address man announced. “Another Manno loss!”

  Pink balloons fluttered over the Wommo auto carrier to celebrate the victory. The Wommo fighter car pilot slowed her car at the other end of the track, then took an exit ramp to the left into a pink and black pit area.

  “Never get in front,” a Corker guard said to Javik. “You’ve gotta lay back.”

  “Listen to him good, Manno,” an avocado man said, looking at Javik with seedy, dark green eyes. He nudged Javik’s sore shoulder, causing Javik to grimace.

  “He’ll learn fast,” the Corker said. “If he doesn’t want to be a toastie.”