Space Junk

by Andrew Bixler

  Admiral Glipp stops writing and sets down his stylus. He looks up at Zok, intertwines his stone fingers, and sighs gratingly. “What the fish is wrong with these people, Zok?”

  “I don’t, uh…”

  The admiral turns his head to peer past the room’s bare walls and out its sprawling window at the star-speckled space surrounding them. “Is the universe purposely defying our will? I can’t begin to fathom… What could have caused this? Traxis and Zorma were both set to come out of this as good as any of us. All they had to do was get here without blowing themselves up. For fish’s sake, what more did they want?”

  “I think that is just it, sir,” Zok says. “They wanted more.”

  “Ha,” Admiral Glipp laughs, humorlessly. “What happened, anyway?”

  “No one is sure, exactly,” Zok says. “But based on a preliminary investigation, it seems that there arose a small disagreement. The Zormans apparently stumbled upon the element out on one of their dump planets, of all places, during an unusually intense junk storm. When the Traxans found out, they decided, citing centuries of rotten luck and the fact that the dump planet happens to be located in a historically disputed sector, that they should be the ones to deliver it. The argument escalated to blows.” Zok shrugs. “Both of their armies have been reduced to scrap.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Admiral Glipp says. “What of the element?”

  “We’re optimistic,” Zok says. “It has survived bigger wars than this. Although…” He glances down at his hands and rubs his fingers together. “I’ve been wondering, is it so important that the element be recovered? Can it really be worth all of this? Worlds are being torn apart. This pursuit has now cost us more over the past year than all other objectives combined.”

  “Zok…” Admiral Glipp’s cold, dry stare tells the vice admiral he overstepped. “Let me ask you a question. Do you know what the element does? Do you have any idea what it’s capable of, or what will happen if it falls into the wrong hands?”

  Zok ponders the question for a moment. “No, I guess I don’t.”

  “Neither do I,” the admiral says. “We don’t know if this thing will blow up the economy, the universe, or what. It could have the power to kill millions, billions, possibly trillions of people. We just don’t know. We have no idea what kind of nightmare some psychopath might rain down on all of us good, honest folk. It is our sworn duty to keep such a thing from happening.”

  “You are absolutely right, sir,” Zok says.

  “That’s why we need to be exceedingly careful. This thing is bigger than all of us.”

  Zok nods, meekly. “I apologize for questioning your judgment.”

  “Apology accepted. I just hope we can reach the element before anyone else does. What are our chances?”

  “Tensions escalated in an empty sector along a popular trade route not far from here. If we are quick, we should be there before lunch.”

  “Good, good.” Admiral Glipp nods, his stone joints grinding as he shifts in his chair.

  “I’ve already put together a team. They are prepared to depart as soon as I give the order.”

  “No. I want you to take care of it personally. We need someone out there who can be trusted to get this thing wrapped up. Although it is of the utmost importance, you were right – this mission is draining our resources. We need to get on the other side of it as soon as we can.”

  “Of course, sir,” Zok says. “It should prove to be a relatively simple matter, assuming all goes smoothly.”

  “It had better. I am holding you, Zok, personally responsible for delivering an uneventful resolution. The success of this mission means your success and vice versa. The two are now intertwined like a fine mesh, each dependant on the other for survival.”

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  “What I’m telling you is, don’t fish up,” the admiral growls.

  Zok tugs on his collar and nods, haltingly. “I have just one more question, sir. In the event that it proves necessary, what level of force am I permitted to use?”

  Without hesitation, Admiral Glipp answers, “Total. Do whatever it takes. Try to keep casualties to a minimum, if possible. Use your best judgment.”

  “I will not let you down, sir.” Zok feels a pang of pride and stiffly salutes the admiral.

  “I sincerely hope not. Will there be anything else, Vice Admiral?”

  “No sir,” Zok says. “I have the situation under control.”

  The admiral lifts his stylus and shifts his attention back to the papers on his desk. “Good, now get the fish out of my office.”

  As Zok marches across the base and into the hangar, he forces his nerves down into the pit of his stomach. Though a routine mission, he can’t seem to shake his apprehension.

  A thin, invisible force field serves as the back wall of the hangar, shielding the cavernous room from the vacuum outside. On the inside sits a row of fighters, fueled and waiting to depart, their captains smoking and otherwise mulling about. One of them tosses a cigarette through the force field, and it drifts out into space.

  “Attention!” Zok commands, and his team promptly assembles. “You are about to embark on a highly classified and highly important mission. Due to its… secretive nature, I will be leading you myself. While I don’t anticipate any complications, you should be prepared for anything and everything. The fate of the universe rests with us. Now let’s,” he pauses, searching for a fitting declaration, “get out of here.”

  Adam can already make out the unmistakable glint of ships swarming Ferd’s in the distance. What was once a tiny shack on a deserted moon orbiting a dead planet, with some goofy name Adam can no longer remember, has transformed into the biggest trading post in this or any neighboring galaxy. While he enjoys certain perks afforded only to those who are close, personal friends with the owner of such an establishment, he simultaneously curses the increased traffic.

  As he makes his approach, he pulls to the end of a long line posted outside a security checkpoint and stares off into the vast, mesmerizing nothingness. After a long while, a light on his dash blinks, and a frowning security officer appears on his ship’s window.

  “Name and license,” the officer says.

  “Adam Jones, A-J-9-0-0-0,” Adam says.

  “All right, tap the screen to authorize a charge to your account of ten USC, or .0000000000000000000000000000023 buttcoin,” the officer instructs.

  “Buttcoin?” Adam says.

  “The name was changed by consensus.”

  “No, no…” Adam waves his hands at the screen. “That’s not right. I get free parking.”

  The officer, visibly losing his patience, turns and fiddles with something off-screen. “All right, I see it now. Adam Jones. Go on in. You should be able to find a space in lot seven.”

  Adam maneuvers through the airlock chamber, throws his signal on, and carefully nudges into traffic. Lot seven, he quickly discovers, is at the far, far back end of the dome.

  On his way there, he spots a fake-wood-paneled junker with its lights on, and he pulls around to wait for it to take off. The junker idles, and idles, finally lifts a few feet off the ground, and then lowers back down.

  Adam angrily snatches his handset, switches to his ship’s loudspeaker and shouts, “Just pull out! What the fish are you waiting for?”

  The driver of the junker, a round hairy human in a dirty tank top, leans out the window and shouts, “I’m tryin’ to park, you fishin’ ackle. Fish off!”

  Adam sticks his thumb out the window, profanely, and moves on. He finally finds a space toward the outer edges of the lot and squeezes his ship in between an old rotted junker that looks like it’s been there since the place opened and a glowing green Chevy Malibu.

  The sprawling warehouse is a vague light in the distance as he deboards and begins the long march across the parking lot. His muscles start to feel sore after only a few steps – a result of his low-gravity lifestyle. The lot outside Ferd’s is packed with custom ships, and
he pauses occasionally to admire some of the more unusual ones: a dragonfly with a segmented abdomen and big compound eyes for windows, an old-style metallic invasion saucer, a giant baked potato topped with sour cream and chives.

  The foot traffic increases as he nears the entrance to the sprawling complex, and he’s forced to duck and dodge through a sea of sweaty alien bodies. When he whips the door open, a billow of hot, thick air nearly knocks him out. The warehouse is a concrete box, built for utility and packed with grungy scrappers lugging boxes and waiting in long lines to hawk their scrap to dispassionate dealers stationed behind tall caged windows. Everywhere, customers and employees are shouting and threatening; they all walk away unsatisfied, as is the nature of the trade.

  Amidst the chaos, Adam spots his bleary-eyed friend waving to him, and he inadvertently cuts to the front of a long line.

  “Hey, why’s he get to go ahead?” rasps a thin woman with furry antlers and skin like tree bark.

  “Yeah, that’s not cool, man,” a tri-clops with long dreadlocks complains.

  “I can wait,” Adam says, as he approaches the cage.

  “Nah, forget about it,” Ferd says, running a hand through his notted brown hair. “These guys are always in here giving me chit.”

  No one from the line argues.

  “Hey, thanks for calling,” Adam says, grabbing Ferd’s hand underneath the cage.

  “You know I’m always happy to help out a friend.” Ferd grins. “I haven’t seen you for weeks. What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

  “I’ve been out there scrapping in the usual spots.” Adam shrugs. “But it’s dry, man.”

  “You look like you need a break, and maybe a few crits. Let’s see if ol’ Ferd can’t steer you right. What did you bring me?” He anxiously plucks at the air with his fingers.

  “It was a good thing you called when you did…” Adam pauses to empty his pockets, and he performs a frantic pat-down. “Rat farts! It’s back at the ship.” His body slumps at the thought of walking back across the parking lot. “I even left it on the passenger seat so I wouldn’t forget.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ferd says. “I’ll send someone out for it. Hand me your keys. What lot are you in?”

  Adam tosses his heavy keyring onto the counter. “Seven.”

  “Seven?” Ferd laughs. “The guard must like you. What does your ship look like again?”

  “It’s a patchwork, gray, with the words ‘Asteroid Jones II’ painted across the side.”

  Ferd gives Adam a smirk and, snatching a pen from behind his ear, jots down the information and hands the paper to a dispassionate young employee.

  “Move it, you’re holding up the line,” a voice growls, and Adam is shoved aside by a hefty pink humanoid with a runny snout and wide, flat ears.

  “Let me handle this,” Ferd says.

  As Ferd and the scrapper argue, Adam peers around the room at the other clientele, a bunch of angry, depressed aliens from around the galaxy and beyond. They wait in line half the day to trade in their hard-earned scrap for a couple of lousy crits – just enough to make it back tomorrow.

  “Poor suckers,” Adam whispers under his breath.

  The pink guy finishes his business and grunts ferociously as he pushes past Adam and stomps across the lobby. Ferd shakes his head, and finds someone to take his place at the window. He leads Adam behind the counter and into the warehouse, and they snake their way through a giant maze of shelving units packed with scrap and out the back door, where the Asteroid Jones II is already waiting.

  Adam digs in his pocket, pulls out two misshapen cigarettes, and lights one for each of them.

  Ferd nods at the ship. “There she is.”

  Adam draws deep on his cigarette and blows out a puff of purple smoke. “She does look good in the starlight.”

  A man with a dark red complexion, whose name Adam recalls as being something like Kervin, approaches and shoves a digital clipboard at Adam’s chest. “That’s for everything on the seat.” Three black horns jutting from his forehead seem to twist as he impatiently pushes up on the nosepiece of his thick-rimmed black glasses.

  “Fifty credits?” Adam moans. “I thought the market was up!”

  “It is,” Ferd says. “But you have to bring me something. Give me that thing.” He snatches the tablet. “Look at this – some trashed comics, a couple of old console parts I might be able to salvage, and a Benny Hill episode I already have. Granted, the PQ on the one you brought in is better, and that’s the reason the offer is as high as it is.”

  “I could have sworn there was more.” Adam laughs and takes another drag. “I guess I was just being optimistic.” He presses his thumb to the screen, and the horned man turns and races away.

  “Forget about it,” Ferd says. “I might have something else for you.” He tosses his cigarette on the ground and stamps it out. “One of my regulars came in this morning with news that Traxis and Zorma just scrapped each other. I guess they had an argument and it got overblown – pun intended, and rehearsed.” He grins and waits for Adam to force out a feeble laugh. “The guy says he witnessed it happen. He’s not somebody I’d normally be inclined to believe, but if it’s true it means there’s a gold mine out there – whole sectors of the most valuable scrap this side of the universe. If you’re interested, I’ll give you the coordinates, you grab what you can, and we’ll split the profit down the middle.”

  Adam glares at Ferd, skeptically. “Don’t mess with me, man. You’re talking about a dream-scrap, a once in a lifetime kind of thing. If it’s legit, why are you telling me about it? Why not send your own guys out there and keep it all for yourself?”

  “Hey, I’m just looking out for a friend.” Ferd shrugs. “Besides, all I’ve got are huge bulk transporters. I’m not the only one who knows about this, and you can bet more scrappers are finding out every space minute. Your ship’s not big, but it’s fast. If you hurry, you might be able to beat the mob.”

  “We’re talking a lot of scrap,” Adam says. “It’s going to take me a long time to sort through it by myself.”

  “I’m a little bit ahead of you.” Ferd motions toward the underside of Adam’s ship. “I figured you’d go along, so I had Kelvin install something sort of experimental. You’ll be the first person in the universe to test out Ferd’s Patented Space Net, patent-pending. I got the idea from ‘The Old Man and the Lisa.’ You’ll have to be careful to keep it from getting caught on the big stuff, but I’m sure a seasoned scrapper like yourself won’t have any trouble. There’s only one control – let it out and reel it back in. If you get there early enough there should be more of the good stuff than you’ll know what to do with. Sort out the best and toss the rest. I had Kelvin charge your fuel cells, on the house, and put the coordinates in your address book, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding the place.”

  “Hmph, well all right then.” Adam tosses his cigarette on the ground and starts walking toward his ship.

  “Wait a second,” Ferd says. “You don’t have any questions?”

  “Oh…” Adam stops to think for a moment, glancing out at the static stars. “Yeah, you got Leprechaun?”

  A few minutes later, the Asteroid Jones II lifts off, and Adam cheerfully juts his thumb out the window as gory, rhyming appeals for gold echo through the parking lot.

  “BARUUU,” Beer trumpets over the team’s private chat as his miniature warship, a heavily armored multi-level tank, plows through a thick layer of scrap and leaves the polluted atmosphere of his home planet.

  The occupants of the chat are listed in the corner of his ship’s window:

  BeerCheese69

  princessfluffypants

  theonetrueking

  Tim_Horton

  “Hey, I can’t find you guys,” Beer complains from his glowing cockpit.

  “We’re over the pole,” Pants says, her bright pink pigtails bobbing as she smiles and waves through her video feed.

  “Hey Beer,” theonetrueking, greets hi
m. “Mom said to make sure you packed extra underwear.”

  “Yeah, okay thanks,” Beer says, shrinking his brother’s feed with an agitated swipe.

  As his warship nears the planet’s pole, three motionless obstructions appear, deformed silhouettes hovering above the horizon.

  “The team’s all here!” Pants gleefully announces from her pink kitten, with its sprawled limbs and cartoon face wide-eyed and grinning.

  “Yeah!” Beer enthusiastically concurs. “And I’ve got big news.”

  “Oooh, this is so exciting,” Pants squeals. “We’re finally going on a mission, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, a mission to find Beer some underwear,” theonetrueking cracks.

  “Chut up, One,” Beer says.

  “It’s not One, it’s The One.”

  “Fine, chut up, The One,” Beer amends. “Are you there, Horton?”

  “I’m here.” A blank square resides where Horton’s video feed would be if he ever used one. Even at this distance Beer can just barely make out his friend’s thin boomerang against the black sky.

  “Yeah, yeah, we’re all here,” The One says. “I for one vote we get some food.”

  “You just ate,” Beer complains. “This is supposed to be a meeting.”

  “Hey, we can eat at a meeting,” The One says. “Where does it say we can’t? Is it in the Garbage Gang charter?”

  “We’re not called the Garbage Gang,” Beer says.

  “I think we should be called Pants Team Pink,” Pants declares.

  “Ughh,” Horton moans.

  “I was thinking something more like the Loot Lurkers,” Beer says.

  “I like that!” Pants cries.

  “Pllppp,” The One blows a raspberry. “How about the Ack Kickers?”

  “That’s stupid,” Beer says.

  “You can kiss my ack.” The One turns his wide rear toward the camera and smacks it.

  “Are we actually going to do something today?” Horton asks.

  “Yeah, school’s about to start,” Pants says. “We have to do something amazing before we go back. And I just want to add that Ferd’s is the best place to pawn, sell, or trade. There isn’t another shop on this side of the universe that compares with Ferd’s selection and payouts. If you can take anyone’s word, it’s Ferd!”