The Garbage Chronicles

by Brian Herbert

  While Javik loaded his survival pack, Rebo looked back at the Moha. The Moha was not moving now, having withdrawn its tentacles.

  Poor ugly, lonely fellow, Rebo thought. On the cliff trail beyond the Moha, there was no sign of the strawberry people. Rebo wondered if they had seen the Moha lift them over its back.

  That will be the stuff of legends, Rebo thought. They’ll say we were magicians, of course.

  Although it amused Rebo to think of himself as the subject of a legend, he knew it was not an important thing. Namaba was the thing of most consequence to him now, but she no longer wanted anything to do with him. Hearing Javik and Namaba laughing together behind him, Rebo thought sadly, Perhaps the suns sparkle for them.

  Beyond the white cliffs and across the denuded meadow-land, Wizzy remained in the underground compartment he had dug with his last spurts of strength. As Wizzy awoke now, he had no idea how long he had been asleep. It might have been a million years. Or only a million deci-seconds. It occurred to him that time was virtually meaningless so far beneath the surface. No suns marked the passing of days, and there was no variation in the temperature. Without visible cycles of life and death, happiness and sadness were muted.

  Wizzy felt only one reality: He was buried and forgotten.

  So it was in this cold and lonely place that Wizzy stirred and opened his cat’s eye. In the white glow light of his rested body, he surveyed the specks of dirt along the ceiling of the tiny chamber. The specks looked very large to him, since they were exceedingly close. He studied them in minute detail, noting a most unusual crystalline shape.

  Insoluble silicon, he thought. With aluminum, oxygen, hydrogen, iron, calcium, magnesium, potassium.. .so much in such a small space!

  Wizzy may have stared at this speck of soil for only a few moments. Or perhaps it occupied him for the better part of a thousand years. Eventually he did look away, for one can only stare at something like that for so long before losing interest.

  He stretched and yawned, then stretched again. “Oh my!” he exclaimed. “I wonder what has happened above?”

  Wizzy envisioned Javik and the others long dead now, among many skeletons bleached white on the surface and visited often by the suns, the wind, and the rain.

  He cried out at this thought. The sob of a millennium nearly overwhelmed him. But Wizzy held his tears, fearing even mercuric moisture might harm him. Soon his sadness passed.

  Then it occurred to him that he could call upon his data banks to see how long he had been buried. So Wizzy glowed bright red, filling his little space with a warm glow. Let me see, he thought. How many millions of years was it? His microminiature magical circuits brought forth the startling answer.

  “Thirty-eight hours!” Wizzy said, bellowing so loudly that it made his tympanic sensors ring. “Can it be?”

  He verified the data. It was correct.

  Wizzy moved around a little bit in the cramped quarters, trying to find the most comfortable position. For a while, he lay upside down, then on each side, then again on his bottom. No position seemed particularly satisfactory.

  He spent some time wondering what to do next. Then he realized that he had been burrowing into the soil overhead. Pieces of dry dirt were being displaced in this unconscious maneuver, moving down along the sides of his lumpy body and piling up beneath him.

  He stopped moving, afraid to twitch for fear of breaking through into Bottomless Bog. How long have I been doing this? he wondered. How far am I from the bog?

  Then he remembered how close he had been to the shore when he fell in, and recalled the straight dropoff he had bounced into just before hitting bottom. Maybe he was no longer directly beneath the bog. Possibly it was a natural survival instinct that had moved him, causing him to burrow laterally just enough to get under dry land. If that had happened, he only needed to rise straight up to freedom. Wizzy knew up from down, being able to sense the pull of gravity.

  But what if I’m beneath a curved portion of the bog bottom? he wondered. There was only one way to find out. If he became wet again, he could burrow back down and go to sleep for another thirty-eight hours.

  Now Wizzy made a conscious effort at burrowing upward. He moved slowly at first, afraid that he would break through the bog at any moment. After traveling a good two meters, Wizzy became confident and increased his speed. This led to another increase seconds later. Soon Wizzy was a molten orange fireball, rising upward at a high rate of speed. Encountering rocks in his path, he dodged the larger ones. The smaller stones embedded themselves in his malleable skin.

  Wizzy exploded out of the soil into the clear, cerulean blue sky above Cork. Three suns undimmed by clouds warmed his body. He rose a thousand meters above the planet, then did a series of joyous loops, trailing white smoke behind him.

  It’s wonderful here! he thought. A great time to be alive!

  Recalling the map on the Sacred Scroll of Cork, Wizzy flew over the barren land that once had been a meadow. The planet has changed in a short time, he thought. There are no flowers on this portion.

  Fresh doubts struck him concerning how long he had been entombed. He felt strong now, perhaps too strong for having been asleep only thirty-eight hours. Maybe my data banks have been damaged, he thought. And I’ve been asleep for a long time.

  In the distance, Wizzy saw a high white cliff. He flew toward it. After a while, he noticed that the cliff did not seem to be drawing nearer. He increased his speed.

  A short time later he burst through the magical barrier and hit the face of the cliff. His momentum and bulk broke away large pieces of shale, and he tumbled to the ground among them.

  Wizzy felt embarrassed as he emerged from the rubble, although certainly no one had witnessed his faux pas. He alighted on a flat piece of shale to think.

  Something colorful on the ground caught his eye. It was black with yellow polka dots—a strip of cloth. A thought struck him, but he dismissed it immediately. It couldn’t be that!

  He moved closer to it.

  The ribbon from Namaba’s mane! he realized. It looked fresh and nearly new. It hadn’t been there long.

  On the cliff just overhead, Wizzy saw a three-dot trail marking. They’ve been this way, he thought. Recently.

  Reaching the cavernous Dimensional Tunnel room, a nude, dirty, and thoroughly disheartened Lord Abercrombie tried to compose himself. Shivering in front of a wall mirror, he saw that his body was completely flesh, without a single magical void. I may as well make the best of it, he thought, seeing the reflection of his packed train of trunks in the mirror. I can’t stay on this planet. The galactic wind howled behind him.

  Wanting to freshen up for his Dimensional Tunnel trip, Lord Abercrombie mentoed his wardrobe ring and took a dry shower. The ring played its cheerful tune. It was a novelty for him to see electrolyzed dirt falling off the side of his fleshy body which had not been there only a short time before.

  “It’s fresh-up time!” Lord Abercrombie sang, following the tune played by the ring. “It’s fresh-up time!”

  He began to feel better.

  At his next mento command, a bright yellow caftan with black braiding on the arms and neck stitched itself around his body, followed by white satin slippers and a full thistle crown. His powers were diminished now, but at least he looked more regal than before. He turned before the mirror, admiring each angle.

  Petulantly, he decided to change the outfit.

  At his mento command, the old outfit disappeared in a poof and everything except the standard-issue thistle crown changed. His caftan became bright purple with slender gold stripes. Gold slippers adorned his feet.

  He turned in front of the mirror and decided that this looked very nice. But improvements could be made. So he changed the outfit. Then he changed again. A dazzling array of colorful caftans and slippers flashed in front of the mirror as Lord Abercrombie put on a one-man fashion show.

  But none of them suited him to perfection. An inexplicable element was missing each time. So
Lord Abercrombie made a ferocious, pouting face in the mirror and leaned towards the glass with his hands on his hips.

  “None of these outfits will do for my trip!” he shouted. “None will do at all!”

  The glassplex mirror became hazy. Then it rippled. Seeing his reflection distorting in the mirror, Lord Abercrombie stepped back, alarmed. Distant, cackling laughter echoed inside his skull. It grew louder. He threw his hands over his ears, but this did no good.

  “Stop it!” he screamed.

  His caftan, slippers, and thistle crown disintegrated in a small explosion that startled him. He had not mentoed this. Then the wardrobe ring slipped from his finger and flew across the cavern, disappearing into the blackness of the Dimensional Tunnel.

  His brain reverberated with laughter. Red and white striped crew socks appeared on his feet, then disappeared. Next, a royal purple ascot wrapped itself around his neck, pulling itself tighter and tighter as the laughter continued.

  “Guggg!” he said, gagging.

  Now the ascot disappeared, leaving behind a red burn mark on Lord Abercrombie’s neck. He rubbed it.

  The laughing voices receded. All became quiet, with the exception of a slight, whistling wind from the Dimensional Tunnel.

  “I didn’t want to keep that ring anyway!” he exclaimed, laughing nervously. This became two short laughs. Then two longer laughs and a confident chuckle. Soon he was howling, with his nude body bent over in mirth.

  “A-ha. A-ha-ha. Aha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” His glee bounced off the cavern walls and entered the Dimensional Tunnel, ending up who knows where.

  Lord Abercrombie thought of his laughter reverberating across the universe. This struck him as so funny that he laughed even harder.

  “Well!” he finally said. “This has been a good joke on me!”

  He scampered into the outer passageway, intending to find something recycled to wear and a meckie to accompany him on the trip.

  Before setting out that morning, Javik and the others found that they could again recharge. No one understood what had happened the day before, when Prince Pineapple and Javik had almost been sucked into the ground. They theorized that it had been a peculiarity of the meadow.

  Everyone, even Prince Pineapple, said goodbye to the Moha and thanked him for being so helpful. Shortly after they set out for their final assault on the Magician’s Chamber and the Dimensional Tunnel, Rebo ran back to pat the Moha again. There was no response from the potato creature other than a graceful waving of its tentacles, so no one was certain how much intelligence it had.

  “I really liked that guy,” Rebo said as he rejoined the group.

  They turned uptrail, moving into agate country, with sparse and gnarled noble fir trees dotting the way. In all directions they saw massive slabs and hills of translucent, ochre-colored stone. Morning sunlight permeated the agate rocks, making them appear liquid.

  Soon they reached a one-story oriental gazebo that had a wooden wall on the side facing the trail. The other side of the structure opened in a half circle. Eight neat stacks of dark brown fabric were spaced evenly around this half circle, under the shelter of the roof.

  Javik found a sign on the inside of the wall, written in three languages, each of which he recognized with the aid of his language mixer pendant. “Interesting,” he said. “It’s in English, Morovian, and Corker.”

  The others gathered around and verified this.

  Reading one of the versions, this is what Javik saw:

  THESE ARE THE EIGHT FOLDING PATHS.

  SELECT A PATH.

  PUSH IT OPEN.

  IT WILL UNFOLD BEFORE YOU

  WALK ON IT.

  No one knew which trail to select, so each unfolded two paths. They flip-flopped open into the distance like the binding displays of an encyclopedia salesman. When all were open, they found that one had three-dot markings every few hundred meters. The others were unmarked.

  They set out along this path, with Prince Pineapple forging into the lead. “The Magician’s Chamber is close,” he said. “I know it.”

  Soon the path became a dirt trail. As they reached dirt, the cloth path folded up behind them, returning to the gazebo. On both sides they watched the other paths flop back as well.

  After only a few more steps, Prince Pineapple was forced to stop suddenly, for a large wooden sign painted with white letters had sprung up in his path. This was printed in the three languages of the group.

  “‘Go back!’” Prince Pineapple said, reading the Corkian version. “‘Wrong way!’” He scratched his head.

  After a moment of thoughtful silence, Javik said, “I don’t believe it, Prince. Go around.”

  Prince Pineapple agreed. “An Abercrombie trick,” he said. He started around the sign.

  But the sign moved to block his path.

  Javik tried to go around the other way, but the sign split into two neat halves, with a wooden portion blocking both him and the prince.

  Namaba and Rebo made attempts top. But now the sign split into four pieces, with one in front of each of them.

  “Do not be alarmed,” an omnipresent voice said. “I am attempting to help you.”

  “Who said that?” Javik asked, startled.

  The quartet backed away from the sign pieces, gathering together a short distance back.

  The sign pieces drew themselves together again.

  “Many months ago,” the voice said, “Lord Abercrombie sent his meckies to the gazebo. They switched the paths around. You need to move over two paths to your left.”

  “You are not Lord Abercrombie?” Prince Pineapple asked, one eyebrow lifted inquisitively.

  “Certainly not. I am a magician’s helper, left here aeons ago to watch over the area. This is a galactic park, you know. I’m sort of a park ranger, you might say.”

  “You are invisible?” Namaba asked.

  “No more than you, dear. I am the beautiful rock to your left.”

  Namaba looked down and saw two medium-sized agates on the ground. She touched one. “Is this you?” she asked. The rock was smooth and sun-warmed.

  “Certainly not! That is a common agate. I, on the other hand, am a history stone—a repository of all the legends and data concerning this quadrant of the starfield. Now Abercrombie is washed up, rejected by the Realm of Magic.”

  They gathered around the stone and looked down at it. This rock looked no different from any other in the vicinity. It was about the size of Javik’s hand, yellow ochre in color.

  Prince Pineapple felt a rush of excitement at the thought of Lord Abercrombie being rejected by the Realm of Magic. For the first time the prince consciously considered the possibility of stepping into Abercrombie’s place. Before this he had felt only generalized anger, a desire to throw Abercrombie out. Now he felt something entirely different. He wanted to be lord.

  They were right about me, Prince Pineapple thought, looking at each of the others. They saw it in my eyes.

  Javik looked at him.

  Prince Pineapple looked at the talking agate and asked, “How do we know we can trust you?”

  The agate laughed, its voice seeming to come from all around. “You don’t. But then, what choices do you have?”

  Javik lifted the stone and stood up with it. “I could toss you in a ravine,” Javik said. “There’s one just over there.” He nodded to indicate direction.

  “I could place barriers in your way to prevent it,” the agate said. “I’ll tell you what, though. If you want to take this trail, go right ahead.”

  “You won’t stop us?” Prince Pineapple asked.

  “No. But do you really think that would be wise, Prince Pineapple? Do you, Namaba?”

  “It knows our names!” Namaba said, surprised. She looked around.

  “Someone around here knows our languages, too,” Rebo said.

  “This could all be Lord Abercrombie’s doing,” Prince Pineapple said. “We’ve all recharged. He knows everything about us now from the connection.”
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  Namaba wrinkled her hair-framed face into a frown. “I think my yenta is working again,” she said. “It tells me we should trust the agate.”

  “You’re certain?” Javik asked. He leaned over and put the stone back where he had found it. “We don’t have much to go on,” he said, rubbing his tongue across his lower lip. The lip was chapped.

  “I think I agree,” Rebo said. “This agate might have threatened us, or tried to bluff us with its magic. It didn’t do either of those things.”

  “Do you mind if we continue on this trail a little ways?” Namaba asked, leaning over the agate, “and then make our own decision?”

  The sign disappeared. There was no response other than this.

  Namaba loped ahead to where the sign had been, then passed beyond. “Let’s take the other trail,” she said.

  All agreed, and they set off across a field of rock. Here they encountered occasional long-stemmed yellow flowers that had six round petals apiece. Javik picked a flower and used a piece of twine to secure it to Namaba’s mane. “This will replace the ribbon you lost,” he said.

  Glowing bright pink with a yellow tail, Wizzy skirted the base of the white cliff, following the three-dot trail markings. He flew above the blue lake, which narrowed to a ribbon of water, then paused at the beginning of the precipice trail. From there he passed the cliff dwellings of the strawberry people. Three of them ran out to watch him as he flew by.

  Wizzy was a good deal larger now than he had been, and his translucent tail extended a good five meters behind his nucleus. This must have been quite a sight for the outcast strawberry people, especially following so closely on the heels of the episode with Javik’s party.

  Wizzy left the strawberry people in the wink of a cat’s eye. He swooped low over the Moha now, passing through the opening in the cliffs. This agitated the Moha, and it waved its tentacles wildly. One tentacle passed harmlessly through Wizzy’s gaseous tail.