The Garbage Chronicles

by Brian Herbert

Jeheezus! Javik thought.

  “Who cares?” someone behind Javik said. “Let him roast.”

  I care, Javik thought. But should I? Maybe this is as good a way to go as any.

  He watched the giant auto carriers exchange places, rolling by one another efficiently and rapidly. Javik was surprised at how mobile the big units were. Within moments each carrier was set up at the opposite track. Two cars rocketed down the ramps now, hitting the tracks side by side.

  “You see that, Earthian?” the avocado man asked. “You can’t go too fast or too slow. Too fast and the parallel car nails you from behind. Even if you get away, there’s no glory in it. Too slow and another enemy car is on your track, coming right up your ass.”

  “Over here,” a Corker said. “We need another pilot. He’d better . . . ” The ensuing words were drowned out in crowd noises and an explosion on the track.

  “Darn!” someone said. “There went another one.”

  “They’re beating the hell out of us today.”

  “Glad I don’t have to go out there.”

  Two beefy Corkers pulled and pushed Javik to a table attended by a very round orange man. Without a word, the orange man pushed a blue and black jumpsuit and a helmet across the table toward Javik.

  Javik slipped the suit on over his Space Patrol outfit. The suit was a couple of sizes too big. The helmet fit poorly too, being designed for bulbous-headed humanoids. He heard radio chatter across built-in earphones.

  He was about to ask for better-fitting headgear when a Corker shoved him roughly, saying, “This way.” Javik was escorted to the Manno auto carrier, a massive warship standing in a bright pool of light. The blue and black carrier was long and three-tiered, with a hodgepodge of fighter cars on all levels. Each car had a large-caliber gun mounted on the roof, with machine guns on the front and rear fenders.

  Javik was taken up a side walkway and assigned to a dented and bullet-riddled squareback on the lower level. A large black Corkian numeral “5” was on the door. Since the door was welded shut, Javik had to remove his helmet and pull himself in through the open driver’s window. He slid into a torn black vinyl bucket seat. The seat squeaked as his weight settled into it. This placed him in a black-barred cage. Javik knew he would roast there if he lost. Nervously, he fingered the strap of the helmet on his lap.

  Outside, a cheerful public address announcer called out action for the spectators. His voice was throaty.

  It smelled of oil in the car. The instrumentation looked primitive to Javik, with rudimentary gauges for speed, tach, and other mechanical functions. A black pole suspended from the roof to his right had three white buttons on it, marked clearly: “top,” “rear” and “front.” The guns, he thought.

  Locating the fuel gauge, he saw it waver. What does this thing run on? he wondered. Probably alcohol of some sort. He did not detect a telltale odor. After figuring out the braking and acceleration system, he rested his foot on the accelerator pedal.

  A Corker leaned in the window and told Javik to press the “start” button. Javik moved away to keep dark fluid on the fellow’s mouth and chin from dripping on him. “Watch for the green light on the track,” the Corker said. “Then hit ‘takeoff.’”

  Javik touched the starter button and heard the engine roar to life like a rudely awakened beast. The headlights flashed on automatically. The car rumbled roughly and hesitatingly at first, then began to smooth out. As Javik looked down the black stripe on the car’s hood, he felt the change in the engine’s rhythm. Another car was in front of him, and beyond that a traffic signal flashed red.

  “You’re coming up, Manno,” a weak voice reported from Javik’s left. Glancing in that direction, Javik saw an old and wrinkled lettuce man slave. The man’s, body was light green and white, with white eyebrows and a crown of white fuzz. There was no neck: the body was the head and vice versa.

  Javik nodded. He gunned the engine. Noticing a shoulder harness for the first time, he pulled it across his chest and snapped it into place.

  “They race and fight on Earth highways like this?” the old slave asked. “Just like the promoters say?”

  “I guess so. This sure as hell is exaggerated, though. We don’t mount guns on cars back home. They’re carried in glove compartments.” He thought of the autocar signboards by which Earth drivers could exchange epithets. Feeling tense, Javik decided not to mention this. He used a sleeve to wipe perspiration from his forehead.

  The slave grunted.

  A Corker guard on the ground below yelled at them: “Cut the chatter! Pay attention to the games!” The guard purchased a new alcohol backpack from a passing vendor, paying for it with discarded Earth candy bar wrappers.

  “It’s Manno against Wommo!” the public address man announced. Javik heard sucking sounds over the speaker system and surmised the announcer was a Corker.

  Waves of ovation, roars, and catcalls rolled through the stands.

  Javik touched an unmarked console button to see what it was. Nothing happened. He checked several other buttons with the same result.

  “Disconnected,” the old slave said.

  “What a heap,” Javik said. He smelled exhaust from the car just ahead. Then the other car roared down the ramp and into combat, leaving a puff of black smoke across Javik’s vision. When the smoke began to clear, Javik saw the car explode in a distant ball of blue flame. An orange capsule shot up, then sprouted a parachute.

  “Haven’t seen a Manno victory all day,” the slave said.

  Inhuman games, Javik thought, seeing the traffic signal flash red. Men against women, playing on the conditioned rivalries between Earth sexes,

  He snapped on his loose-fitting plastic crash helmet. Over the built-in earphones he heard nervous chatter as the Manno fighter car pilots communicated with the carrier’ s control tower.

  “Okay, Ladykiller Five,” the control tower said. “You’re up next.”

  Javik was daydreaming, recalling some of his more memorable pleasure dome visits.

  “Ladykiller Five, you there?”

  Five, Javik thought, drifting back to awareness.” That’s me. “Here,” he said into a microphone in front of his mouth.

  “Blow that Wommo fighter car away, buddy.”

  “Right,” Javik shook his head in disgust. This is an. important mission? he thought. I’d rather be ridin’ a garbage shuttle.

  “Watch your blind spots, Ladykiller Five,” the tower said. “Keep the other car in front of you all the time. Or rocket ahead to a Manno safe zone. That’s a blue and black wall at the side. You can hide behind it, then pop out and blast the Wommo car when it passes.”

  “Don’t we get any practice?” Javik asked.

  Sardonic laughter filled the earphones. Then: “You’ve discovered the gun buttons?”

  “Yeah.” Seeing the traffic signal flash yellow, Javik held a finger close to the “takeoff” button. Not too fast, he thought. His heart began to beat faster.

  “You aim the gun bar by rotating, pushing, and pulling it.”

  The traffic signal flashed green.

  Javik hit the “takeoff” button and felt the accelerator under his foot depress. The car roared ahead, thumping as it bounced off the ramp to the pavement. G-forces threw him against the bucket seat. The helmet strap pulled at his chin. He grimaced from the stress.

  This piece of shit moves out! he thought. But the car felt loose under him. Something rattled in the rear.

  Peripherally, he watched a pink and black Wommo car on the track to his left. It dropped back.

  Javik tapped the accelerator to free it from takeoff mode. His car slowed, drawing even with the other car. He could see the pilot, a bulbous-headed Wommo humanoid in a pink and black jumpsuit. She glanced at him nervously. Very young, he thought. Maybe only a kid. He adjusted his helmet with one hand.

  Machine-gun fire peppered the hood and broke his windshield.

  No more lapses, he thought, grabbing the gun bar. It was cool. She means business.


  A voice crackled across his earphones. “Fire on her, Ladykiller Five. What are you waiting for?”

  He pulled all three triggers at once, and saw the red and yellow flash of his guns on the front fenders. Wrong way, he thought, turning the bar. He saw the fender guns turn toward the Wommo car. Noticing the guns on his car’s right side raising higher than his car body, Javik felt a small sense of relief. The maneuver permitted his guns to fire over the car without the embarrassment of self-destruction.

  The lanes were merging into one, and Javik hit the brake pedal. A bullet whistled by his nose, lodging with a thud in the parachute pack overhead. His fighter car slowed, but not enough. I’m ahead of her, he thought. She’s experienced!

  Javik’s car hit the single lane first. Turning the wheel, his car spun into gravel on the shoulder. Then he swung across the lane and went into a weaving, elusive pattern. He heard the staccato rat-a-tat rhythm of machine-gun fire from the pursuing fighter car. At the loud boom of a big gun, he felt numb. Nothing hit.

  Looking in his rearview mirror, Javik turned his guns and tried to zero in on the other car. A bazooka shot from his big gun hit the track to one side of the enemy car, not close enough to do any damage. He moved the bar a little and fired the big gun again. This one was a direct hit.

  In his mirror he saw the Wommo car explode in a pink ball of flame. He heard the whoosh of the pilot’s cage as it ejected. A distant, throaty voice announced the event over the loudspeaker.

  Javik breathed a sigh of relief.

  But then an urgent voice crackled across his earphones: “Get out of there, Ladykiller Five! Punch it!”

  In his rearview mirror, Javik saw another Wommo fighter car approaching fast. Its headlights grew larger and brighter as it neared.

  He floored the accelerator pedal. His car jumped ahead. Then he pressed the bazooka button. The shot missed, exploding off the track.

  A blue and black Manno pit area came into view on his left. He took the exit at full speed, then hit the brakes. The car squealed and shimmied. Then a deceleration hook beneath Javik’s fighter car grabbed catchers on the pavement, throwing him against his shoulder harness. The car slowed and stopped.

  Dozens of smiling humanoid Mannos ran to Javik’s car and pulled him out.

  “Nice going!” they said in their monotone voices, patting him on the back. “You kept us from being shut out today!”

  Javik was speechless. He wanted to be far away from there.

  They lifted him and carried him on their shoulders, chattering all the while in their dull voices about it being party time. The stench of unwashed, decaying bodies was almost unbearable to Javik. Cold night air blew across his face, and for the first time he realized he had been perspiring.

  I’m a hero, Javik thought, unenthused. Whoopee.

  CHAPTER 9

  Two objects can be the same and

  different at the same moment.

  If you doubt this, compare an

  apple and an orange.

  One of the Timeless Truths

  Earlier, after Prince Pineapple watched the pear men guards escort Javik and Evans out of the king’s court, he turned to face King Corker.

  “That will be all,” King Corker said. He rose and padded out via his side door.

  Prince Pineapple remained where he was. Holding Wizzy up to eye level, he said, “I hope your captain does well.”

  “Eh?” Wizzy said, lifting the lid of his cat’s eye to peer through the clear agate dome on top of his body.

  “I was hoping that your captain does well. Tonight. In the games.”

  “What do I care?”

  “I just thought—”

  “Pipe down, will ya? I’m so tired I can hardly keep my peeper open! A growing comet needs his rest, you know.”

  This remark surprised the prince, for he had no idea up to that time that Wizzy was anything other than a talking mechanical device. But the prince said nothing of this, remarking instead in a gracious tone, “Of course. You can explain all that to me later in my apartment. It is quiet there, a place where you can rest.”

  Wizzy did not respond.

  Prince Pineapple felt Wizzy shudder on his palm. Then Wizzy emitted a gentle snort. Soon he was fast asleep, snoring and wheezing.

  Prince Pineapple snuggled Wizzy against his belly and thought of the day’s strange events. He considered discarding Wizzy somewhere outside, but decided against this. The king must not be alerted in any way, he thought. I make my move tonight—Wizzy or no Wizzy.

  Deep in thought, the prince carried Wizzy out of the castle and along the narrow trail that led to his apartment near Sacred Pond. Low Vesuvius shrubs lined the trail, with occasional roots across the path that he had to step over. Cork’s three synchronized suns were dropping quickly below the level of the horizon, casting yellow-orange tones against a swirling cloud layer to the west.

  He climbed a low hill, from the top of which he could see Sacred Pond. The scroll bubble was barely visible, giving off low light in a fog mist at the center of the pond. Giraffe-necked trail lights flickered on as the suns disappeared from view. Prince Pineapple shivered, and for the first time became aware of Wizzy’s warmth against his stomach. Wizzy glowed faintly red in the diminishing daylight. Unknown to the prince, Wizzy was in the midst of a data retrieving dream.

  Wizzy’s an odd gadget, Prince Pineapple thought.

  Wizzy whistled like a teapot, then chuckled in his sleep.

  The Sacred Scroll of Cork, Prince Pineapple thought, watching the bubble appear brighter as the abyss of night enveloped it. I must try for it tonight. While Wizzy is asleep.

  It occurred to the prince that Wizzy might be dangerous to him, sent by Lord Abercrombie to prevent him from learning the secrets of the Magician’s Chamber. Abercrombie had the secret and wanted to keep it for himself. Or Wizzy might be an agent of the king: an elaborate setup.

  I must be on guard, he thought.

  Later that evening, Prince Pineapple sat in a rocking chair in the darkened bay window of his apartment, looking down on the black murkiness of Sacred Pond. The scroll bubble was not visible from here, being completely enshrouded by fog. In the yellow light of a giraffe-necked trail light below, he saw sheets of wind-driven rain pounding the waters along the shore. At the edges of the lamp’s upside-down bowl of light, curls of thick fog drifted like ghosts agitated by the light.

  He glanced at a gold and brown pillow which lay on the floor in a slice of light coming in from the bedroom. The pillow was imitation Persian, with just the proper combination of rips and worn threads to make it very valuable. Wizzy was asleep there, his lumpy body swelling and subsiding with each breath he took.

  Prince Pineapple turned to look back out the window. Like a blanket over the pond, he thought. The fog rolls in each night like a blanket.

  He envisioned the Sacred Scroll of Cork sleeping peacefully at the center of the pond, untouched by Fruit hands. His pulse quickened, and he felt hot pineapple juice rushing through the veins of his neck. His head throbbed.

  He closed his eyes in an attempt to reduce his juice pressure. This is not the way I want to go, Prince Pineapple thought, thinking of the recurring nightmares he had of dying from a burst juice vein. “Keep calm,” Lord Abercrombie tells us in our dreams. “Let a Decision Coin reduce the pressure . . . reduce the pressure . . . reduce the pressure . . . ”

  Touching a finger to one side of his temple, he felt the throbbing subside. He grew calmer, dropping his arm to his lap.

  I’d better go now, he thought, watching the rain. Doesn’t look like the weather will break.

  The prince rose and tiptoed past Wizzy. But in his haste, one of Prince Pineapple’s feet caught on a tuft of carpet. He fell roughly, causing a lot of noise. He swore under his breath.

  Wizzy stirred. His lumpy body stretched one way, then the other. This was a molecular transformation possible only in the Realm of Magic. Any scientist will tell you that cold stone is not pliable.


  “Can’t you keep quiet?” Wizzy asked angrily. He tipped his cat’s eye toward Prince Pineapple.

  The prince was struggling to his feet, cursing himself for his stupidity. “A thousand pardons,” he said.

  “None of which are accepted,” Wizzy said. “I feel terrible . . . aches in every chem-bond of my body.” He sniffled, then felt something strange taking over his respiratory system. “Ahh!” he said, breathing in deeply. “Ahh . . . ahh . . . ahh-choo!”

  Shaking his head sadly, Prince Pineapple muttered, “He’ll never go back to sleep now.”

  “What did I just do?’ Wizzy asked.

  “Huh? Oh. You sneezed.”

  “Sneezed?” Wizzy glowed red, searching his data banks. “I have a cold?”

  “Perhaps.” The prince leaned against a wall.

  “Do you have anything to treat such a condition?”

  “Aspirin. But you have no mouth. Besides, you’re a mechanical being, not at all similar to me or to a human being.”

  “You’re laboring under a misapprehension,” Wizzy said, changing to a deep shade of blue. “Use a knife to scrape powder from the aspirin tablet. Sprinkle me with it.”

  Prince Pineapple left the room for a moment, returning with a knife and an aspirin tablet. He did as Wizzy requested, kneeling over him and scraping fine white powder over his dome.

  Wizzy glowed orange and became molten, thus absorbing the aspirin into his magical system. “Thank you,” he said, cooling down and changing color again.

  “Go back to sleep,” Prince Pineapple said.

  “With all the commotion around here? Are you kidding?”

  “I’ll be quiet. I think the sleep would do you good.” He straightened and folded his arms across his chest, looking down at Wizzy.

  “Since when are you my guardian? Everyone’s always telling me what to do.”

  “I was only . . . ” Prince Pineapple paused in mid-sentence. He sighed. “Well, I think I’ll take a nap anyway.” He returned to the bay window rocker, pulled a knitted blanket off the chair back, and slid into the chair. He covered himself and closed his eyes.