Space Junk

by Andrew Bixler

  “What’s that?” Adam asks, pulling on a faded t-shirt and a pair of brown cargo shorts.

  “It’s considered a sacred text by a certain reclusive sect of masochistic aliens,” Ferd explains. “They believe it contains the answers to the most eternal and confounding mysteries of the universe. I’ve never seen a first edition before.”

  Adam glances at the book’s cover, something called I May Be Wrong but I Doubt It, and shrugs.

  Ferd takes a glass tablet out of his pocket, taps its face, and turns it around. When Adam sees what the last copy of the book sold for, his mouth drops open, and he involuntarily begins drooling as his brain struggles to comprehend the information.

  “Come on, Kelvin can take over from here,” Ferd says, guiding Adam off the ship. “I’ve already transferred a bunch of credits to your account. The rest will appear in a few hours, once everything is sorted. Why don’t you come in and spread some of that new wealth?”

  As they walk back through Ferd’s warehouse, Adam permits himself to gaze at the shelves, packed with what, up until a moment ago, had been prohibitively expensive merchandise: designer spacesuits, state-of-the-art firearms, fancy appliances, plush furniture, rare physical media, ship parts, drugs, tip and strip pens, and a myriad of other legal and illegal goods from around the universe.

  Ferd steps behind one of the caged windows along the wall and says, “So, if you could have anything you ever wanted, what would it be?”

  “Hmph,” Adam snorts. “I never thought about it before. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” He rubs his chin. “I’ll need to get the fuel cells charged, of course, and the water tanks need filling… and food, I guess.”

  As Adam is thinking, a familiar pink customer pushes in front of him and growls at Ferd, “C’mon, help me out. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t trust you to pay me back next year,” Ferd says. “I already told you, it’s not my responsibility to keep your ship fueled. Go bother somebody else for a change, will you?” With a defeated snort, the pink guy clomps away through the store, and Ferd turns back toward Adam. “Kelvin is already taking care of the fuel and water. What do you want to eat?”

  “I might as well buy in bulk,” Adam thinks out loud. “Give me… six months worth of rations.”

  “You really don’t know how to spend money, do you?” Ferd says.

  “I’ve never had any. How would I know what to do with it?” He scrolls through a list of alien foodstuffs on a screen built into the counter. “But maybe you’re right. I can afford to live a little. Make the rations teriyaki flavor.”

  Ferd walks off shaking his head and returns with a brown box covered in alien scribbles. “Six months’ rations. And I know how you like movies, so I’m even going to throw in an educational film – Soylent Green.”

  “Ha,” Adam mock-laughs. “You’re so funny, Ferd.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeahs, what else you want?” Ferd asks.

  “Give me ten cases of Ol’ Guard,” Adam says, “five pouches of Cronian tobacco, a big pack of Sugman’s…”

  “Sugman’s, huh?” Ferd reaches back and smacks a brick of gum on the counter. “You’re the only one who buys this stuff. I don’t know why I keep stocking it. It tastes like soup mix.”

  “Speaking of movies, you got anything new?” Adam asks.

  “Yes, always.”

  Ferd opens another list on the screen, and Adam scrolls through it, ticking off a few titles he doesn’t already have. When he’s done, he yanks his TV remote from his back pocket, plugs it into the counter, and a red light on the face of the glass cuboid blinks to indicate the download.

  As he ponders the rest of his shopping list, Kelvin approaches. The bespectacled demonoid hands something to Ferd and walks away shrugging. Ferd sets the object on the counter, and Adam immediately recognizes it as the black cube he found amongst the rest of the scrap.

  “Here’s something weird,” Ferd says.

  “Yeah, what the fish is it?” Adam asks.

  “I don’t know, and neither does Kelvin.”

  “Look how black it is,” Adam observes. “It’s like, more black.”

  Ferd grabs a scan gun from underneath the counter and waves it over the object.

  “What does it say?” Adam asks.

  “Not much,” Ferd says. “It’s not in the system, which is weird. That means nothing like it has ever come through any of the major trade posts.”

  “So, what’s it worth?” Adam asks, rubbing his hands together.

  “I don’t know. There’s no way of knowing, that I know of. It’s probably just some alien trinket.”

  “It’s worthless, then?”

  “No,” Ferd says. “Well, maybe.”

  “It’s heavier than it looks.” Adam holds the cube up against the light, and the bulb’s brightness appears to dampen. “What should I do with it?”

  “It’s not in the system,” Ferd reiterates. “We’d have to get lucky and find someone who knows something about it. Normally I’m the person to come to for that sort of thing.”

  “Hmph…” Adam squints closely at the object. “I think I might know somebody.”

  By the time he finishes shopping, the Asteroid Jones II has been emptied of scrap and filled with all the items he requested. Not only that, but Kelvin restored a state of tidiness to the ship’s interior that hasn’t existed since its maiden voyage; he even put away the groceries.

  “Chit, I had it just the way I like it.” Adam tosses his receipt on the floor, plops into his captain’s chair, and scrolls through a list of addresses.

  As he taps at the window, he glances at the mysterious cuboid resting on the dash. “You’re very strange, and soon we’re going to figure out exactly what you are. But before we get into all that…”

  Anchored over a remote sector crowded with scavenging junkers and littered with the remnants of two ancient, once mighty empires, a small fleet of UE ships stagnantly awaits orders as Vice Admiral Zok gazes out at the vast debris field, pondering the immensity of the task before him – a prospect akin to locating an invisible Martian in a planet-sized diner.

  “Vice Admiral Zok, sir.” A young officer calls over an encrypted video feed. “Sir?”

  “What is it, Glurpp?” Zok asks.

  “Awaiting your orders, sir. Should we start sweeping?”

  As Zok considers his next command, a clunky little craft putts past the window, and he tells Glurpp, “Stand by for further instructions.”

  Clearing his throat with an authoritative hack, he switches to the public feed. “Pardon me,” he hails the passing junker, but receives no reply. “Sir or madam, in the dented red… ship,” he tries again, but the junker remains silent, likely for fear of consequence, he suddenly realizes. “You are not in any trouble. I’m just looking for help.”

  “What’yuh want?” a deep voice grumbles, and the image of a scraggly, disheveled old scrapper appears on the window.

  Zok forces a smile. “I wonder if you would tell me where I might sell a load of scrap around here?”

  “Yer scrappin’?” the old man asks, skeptically. “I never hert a Ears scrappin’ afore.”

  “What can I say? Not even a vice admiral of the United Empires could pass up an opportunity like this.”

  “Hmm, well I could understand that,” the scrapper says. “I guess erryboty’s intitle’t tuh make a extra buck. Even Ears gotta eat, I s’pose. Ther’s a bunch a small joints ‘rount –little outposts here and ther. But I think Fert’s is probly what yer lookin’ fer. Ther the biggest thing goin’ out here. I got the co-ortinates here somewheres. I’ll sent ‘em tuh yuh.”

  A few moments later, the route to Ferd’s appears on the window of Zok’s ship. “You’ve been immensely helpful,” he says.

  “No problem,” the scrapper says. “Now I’m off tuh fine’t some a the rich stuff myself. Good luck tuh yuh.” The feed cuts off, and the little red junker scoots away.

  Zok scans the coordinates, momentarily
considers the route, and switches back to his fleet’s channel.

  “—pointless if you ask me,” Boff says.

  “I’m with you,” Biff adds. “I don’t know what we’re doing out here.”

  “Attention,” Zok cuts in, and the conversation comes to an abrupt end. “It seems there isn’t much we can do here. We’re going to have to get—” he says, pausing to shudder, “—creative. I’ve sent you the coordinates for our next destination. Prepare to… go.”

  “Yes, sir,” his men chant.

  Zok mutes his feed and calls out, “Stella?”

  “Yes love,” his ship’s voice coos. “What can I do for you?”

  “Get me Admiral Glipp.”

  Soon the admiral’s craggy scowl appears on the window. “How’s it going out there, Zok? Are you on your way back?”

  “Not quite, sir. We have thus far been unable to locate the element.”

  The admiral roughly exhales, and a cloud of dust briefly obscurs the feed. “That’s not what I want to hear, Zok.”

  “I am remiss to report that we miscalculated the immense… scale of the task, sir,” Zok says. “We are going to require more time.”

  “The longer it takes us to find this thing, the greater the chances of it falling into enemy hands,” the admiral grumbles. “And do you know where the blame will land? First it’ll fall on me. But these shoulders are sturdy. They’ll hold up under the pressure. How strong are your shoulders, eh Zok?”

  “I have no intention of letting that happen, sir,” Zok says. “But the fact remains that it would take the entire UE army a month to comb through this mess.”

  “What do you suggest?” the Admiral asks.

  “There is a popular trading post nearby. I propose that we start there. The odds are in our favor that some know-nothing scrapper has already found and sold the element. I am optimistic that we will locate it before anyone discovers what it is; it isn’t altogether obvious.”

  The admiral leans back, and his eyelids grind shut. “I don’t like the way this is headed, Zok. There are too many unknowns. Someone will eventually figure out what they have, and it won’t be long before everyone in the fishing universe is looking for it.”

  “You are right, sir, of course,” Zok says. “I will take care of it.” He snaps to attention and salutes the screen.

  “I hope you do, for all our sakes.” The admiral looks at Zok with a nervous expression and clears his throat. “Now I have something serious I want to discuss.” He grinds his hand against his neck and grins nervously. “Do you think I have a chance with Stella?”

  “Stella, my ship?”

  “I’m sure you already know she’s got a beautiful body,” the admiral says. “But it’s more than that. I’ve spent some time in her recently, and I’ve never met anyone so full of life. I can’t stop thinking about her. You must know her intimately by now. Be honest with me. Do I have a shot?”

  “Uhh, I really don’t know, sir,” Zok says. “She has never said anything.”

  “Hmph, you’ll put in a good word for me, though?” the admiral asks.

  “Um yes,” Zok says, “of course, sir.”

  “Thanks, Zok. Good luck with the whole… thing.” He turns and stares off into space, tapping his fingers together, and his feed cuts out.

  Zok leans against the dashboard and glares mistrustfully at the vehicles congregated outside his window, knowing that any one of them might already be carrying the element.

  “Stella,” Zok says. “Were you listening to what the admiral was saying?”

  “Yes,” Stella says. “He is very concerned about this mission.”

  “Yes, but did you hear the other thing?” Zok asks.

  “I heard him admit to having a crush on me. Is that what you mean?”

  “Well, yeah…” Zok looks down at his hands. “So, do you feel the same way?”

  “Do I have feelings for the admiral? Ew, no way. He’s too rigid for me, and he gets dust all over my floors. But don’t tell him I said that.”

  “Oh no, of course not.” Zok smiles and feels himself blushing.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.” Regaining his composure, he dramatically points out the window. “Now, set course for Ferd’s.”

  Stella recalibrates her trajectory, and as she navigates the debris field, Zok hardly notices the small gang of odd hand-built junkers assembled below.

  Ships from all over the universe – huge cargo freighters, trading vessels, houseboats, cartoon characters, and the piecemeal junkers of every amateur scrapper who ever harbored dreams of making it rich – pepper the space surrounding what’s left of the Traxan and Zorman armies. Thousands of them, their blue-tinted thrusters dotting the black sky, alternately arrive, depart, and otherwise meander through the debris, picking up everything in their paths. A few of them have broken down here and there, their owners climbing weightless along their hulls and clumsily undertaking repairs through the gloved fingers of their spacesuits.

  Just so, The One prods inside a sesame seed bun, gently turning the handle of his screwdriver. “There,” he says into his helmet. “It was just a loose pickle. She’s all set now.”

  “It’s about time,” Beer’s voice answers.

  “Yeah well, what luck have you guys had?” The One asks.

  “None,” Horton says. “There’s way too much scrap to wade through.”

  “I found something!” Pants announces.

  The One presses a button on his helmet, and Pants appears in his visor holding a small black rectangle with a long rubber chord on one end and a jagged blade of metal on the other.

  “That’s just an electric razor,” Horton tells her. “It’s how people shaved before laser razors were invented.”

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Beer says. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

  The One mutes the voices in his helmet and climbs back through his ship’s airlock. The plain metal cabin bears little resemblance to its meat and bun exterior. The living room is lined with cupboards full of snacks, and along the back wall rests an industrial-size refrigerator he scrapped from an abandoned UE cruise ship last summer.

  Stripping out of his mustard-yellow spacesuit and into a light t-shirt and sweatpants, The One digs inside the freezer for a ration-pop and slumps into his cracked leather chair in the cockpit. As he sucks on his neon blue treat, he presses a button on the dashboard, and the feeds of his arguing friends stretch out across the window.

  “—pack it in,” Horton’s voice crackles from the ship’s speakers, his video feed dark as always. “There’s more than a good chance that someone has already found the element.”

  “You mean the adventure is already over?” Pants pouts and dramatically folds her arms.

  “It was over before it started,” Beer says.

  “Wait a minute, that’s it?” The One complains. “We’re giving up already? I’d expect Beer to quit this early, but not you guys.”

  “What do you suggest we do?” Horton asks.

  “We can’t search forever,” Beer says. “And that’s exactly how long it would take to sort through all this… chit.”

  Pants reaches across her ship’s dashboard and shakes the camera to get her friends’ attention. “Hey, maybe we’re not looking right. Maybe there’s a better way.”

  The One tosses his blue-stained ration stick onto the dashboard, opens a cupboard behind his head, and emerges with a plastic bag full of leftovers from his last outing. He lays the contents out in front of him and, peeling a crusty knife off the edge of the dash, he spreads a gooey gob of purple space jelly onto a slice of white Plunder Bread.

  “So, what’s this better way, Pants?” Beer asks.

  “I don’t know,” Pants says, jutting her thumb at the camera. “I’m just coming up with ideas. You guys are the ones who always know everything.”

  “Maybe we could track down whichever ship the thing was on when it blowed up,” The One suggests, mumbling t
hrough a mouthful of glop. “That way we could narrow it down.”

  “That’s actually not a bad idea,” Horton says. “But that’s not information the Ears would just announce to the whole universe.”

  The One takes another bite of his sandwich and watches a group of Ears pass by overhead in their familiar black and white patrol ships.

  “We know the Traxans were in possession of the element when the war broke out,” Horton goes on. “That cuts the work in half, but there’s still way too much space to cover.”

  Outside, Beer’s tank ship emerges from the rubble, followed closely by Horton’s sliver of black metal and Pants’s grinning kitten.

  “Horton’s right,” Beer says.

  “Wait a second…” The One throws his sandwhich down and cranes his neck to peer after the Ears.

  “Come on, I’m sick of this place,” Beer whines. “We’re just wasting time. Anyway, you were The One who was complaining about coming out here in the first place.”

  “Like you have anything better to do. Anyway, I have a plan.” The One shrinks their feeds and pulls his ship around. “Did you guys see those Ears a second ago?”

  “It’s no surprise,” Horton says. “The element was on its way to UE headquarters. They’re probably out here looking for it.”

  “Exactly,” The One says. “The Ears are about to do our work for us.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Horton says, actually sounding slightly impressed.

  “Think of what?” Pants asks.

  A look of understanding passes over Beer’s face, and he explains, “If anybody can find the element, it’s the Ears. If we’re lucky, they’ll lead us right to it. Good idea for a change, The One.”

  “All we have to do is wait.” The One puts his feet up on the dash, and with his eyes on the Ears, he washes down the last bite of his sandwich with a carton of cake batter flavored multi-milk.

  As the Ears wade through the rubble, the scrappers give them a wide berth, no doubt for fear of being on the receiving end of one of the UE’s many restrictive, arbitrary, and ever-changing space regulations. After only a brief search, the gleaming military cruisers alter their course, sailing back toward The One and his friends.