“There they go,” Beer says, as the Ears pass overhead. “I wonder where they’re headed.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” The One says, bringing his ship about.
The kids trail the Ears from a safe distance, pulling into traffic alongside a group of wacky racers in order to camouflage their pursuit.
“Incognito mode, everybody,” Horton reminds them.
Beer’s tank’s turrets fold down and retract, and Pants’s bright pink kitten pulls in its limbs to assume a slightly less conspicuous crouching position. Once they’re on course, The One engages his ship’s autopilot and snatches a bag of pork flavored ration-rinds from the cupboard.
“Pants Team Pink is on the move, you guys,” Pants giddily announces. To whom she’s speaking, The One is never sure. “Stay tuned to find out what far out place we wind up next!”
A wave of anxious anticipation fills Adam’s chest as he steps into the dingy lobby, its crushed velvet walls flickering under dim candlelight.
From across the room, a tiny woman with dark, curly hair enthusiastically greets him, “Mr. Jones!” Sliding from around the counter, she scuttles toward him and squeezes his hand. Her face and hands show the deep wrinkles of age, but her grip is still strong. “I have a spot all set for you.”
“Thanks, Ms. Chibois,” Adam says. “But today I had something a little more… spacious in mind.”
“Ooh,” Ms. Chibois coos. “Has Mr. Jones come into some money?”
“Yes, yes he has. And he’ll take the best space in the house.”
“Ooh, you got it.” She plucks a basket from the counter and says, “PHONE. Customers pay for quiet.”
“All right, but will you let me know if I get any calls?” Adam reluctantly slips his Personal Holographic Omnidirectional Network Extractor from his pocket and places it in the basket.
“Yes, yes,” Ms. Chibois says.
She takes his arm and gently guides him past the tiny room he typically occupies with the other spaceheads – a muggy cubicle full of sweaty, strung out bodies packed together shoulder to shoulder like grimy sardines – through a curtain behind the counter, down a narrow hallway, and into a sprawling suite. Dark couches occupied by sleeping, twitchy patrons, line the center of the room, and long rugs stitched with intricate alien designs cover the floors. Candles burn inside low-hanging glass vases along the walls, emitting a soft glow and flowery perfume that hangs thick in the balmy air but fails to mask the sour-sweet scent of space.
Ms. Chibois brings Adam to a low wooden platform behind a sheer drape and, pointing, instructs, “Shoes.”
Adam sits on the edge of the bed and removes his high tops, stretching his toes on the soft rug as Ms. Chibois places a brick of space and a long wood pipe next to a fluttering lamp on the bedside table.
“Sweet dreams,” she says as she turns and scurries away.
Adam unwraps the little red cube of space, places it into the metal bowl at the end of the pipe, and squishes it down with his thumb. Propping himself on his elbow, he holds the end of the pipe over the lamp and puffs. A dense cloud of fuchsia smoke billows from his lips, and he lays his head back on the pillow.
As he traces patterns of ornate plaster peeking from beneath a thick layer of crimson soot, the ceiling begins to soften and blur, transforming into a dense layer of smoke. Soon, little slits of light blue form between the dark clouds as the storm passes, and the ceiling dissolves into sky.
Adam sits up, squinting against the blazing sun at the rolling green hills that surround him. A warm breeze ripples through the long tufts of lush grass in invisible, stretching waves, and as he runs his fingers through the soft blades, he feels a peculiar comfort wash over and through him. A ladybug lands on his hand, and he watches as it make its way up his arm, unfolds its ruby shell, and melts into sky.
With the wind tousling his hair and flowing cool over his skin, he jumps up and sprints barefoot over the tall grass. He skids on the soles of his feet down the side of one hill and deftly bounds up the next. Clouds of dirt trail him as he leaps across the bright borderless valley, laughing at the thrill and relishing the ache in his legs and the cool sweat on his forehead, foreign and exhilarating. At the peak of his ecstasy, his eye catches something far off in the distance, and he loses his footing. Little insects skate through the air around him as he lazily tumbles down against the soft earth. When the ground stops spinning, he props himself on his elbows and scans the horizon, compelling the clouds to wrinkle and the hills to wobble.
Something emerges from between the grassy waves at the edge of the world, a tiny black squiggle in the bright sky. Adam keeps his eyes fixed on the background, and the shadow advances, climbing over a dozen hills in fast motion, until it’s hovering directly in front of his face. He gapes at its strange appearance – a tiny frame with vague boundaries wrapped in ethereal pink goop, a penciled-in smile, and black beady eyes that look like they’re about to spill out of its wobbly, ill-defined head.
“Misterrr Jooonesss,” the thing drawls. It reaches its hand toward Adam and reveals a small black creature within its pearly palm. The black, eyeless blob produces high-pitched cries from a formless, undulating maw.
Adam scoops the blob from the being’s paw, holds it close to his face, and listens.
“Adddammm Jonesss,” the blob says.
“How do you know my name?” Adam asks it.
“Whattt… youuu… abouttt…” Its words are broken and laced with static. “Listennn…” Adam lifts the thing closer. “Where… youuu… areee…”
Adam glances around the bright landscape surrounding him. “I’m in some kind of naturey place, with a lot of grass and sunshine. I can’t remember where it is exactly.” He scratches his head. “Oh wait, I remember, I was at Space Den… Aw, chit!”
“Youuu… youuu… oddd… chittt…” the blob moans.
“I don’t understand.” He clears his throat so he can enunciate better, “What-are-you-trying-to-tell-me?”
“Listennn… Earsss… cubeee…” the blob says. “Woulddd… ittt… can’ttt… there’sss… goinggg… dooo… hearrr?”
“I can hear you,” Adam says.
“Chittt… Youuu… hearrr… gettt… thereee… Earsss… you…” it says.
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Adam tells it.
“Want… you… there… don’ttt… whereee… youuu… areee…”
“But I’m already here,” Adam says.
“GAAHHH… trieddd… warnnn…” It releases a guttural hack and turns silent.
Adam places the blob back into the smiling pink creature’s wiggling paw, and it scurries away over the hills.
He momentarily tries to make sense of the events, but like in a dream, this place seems to possess its own logic. His thoughts dispersing like ripples on a pond, he lies back on the grass, and his body sinks down into the soft earth, growing comfortable, then numb, and finally melting away into the landscape.
Now he is the wispy grass and the cool breeze, the azure sky and the light and heat of the sun. His wings flap and guide him through the air as the birds and the bugs. When he breathes, the world sighs. It turns as he turns; or he turns as it turns. When he looks toward the horizon, he sees himself staring back.
After a long while, through a subtle, almost unnoticeable shift in conciousness, Adam becomes Adam again. He wakes in a groggy haze, head pounding, and blankly stares across the room as the velvet walls and dank atmosphere rearrange themselves in his head.
Pressing his fingers against his temples, he sits and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He can barely see, his eyes straining to adjust to the light as he wrestles his shoes on. The once sweet scent of space in the air now smells stale and musty. He stands, checks his pockets for his keys, and tries to regain his balance as he wobbles across the room, tripping over couches draped in catatonic alien bodies. Bracing himself between the walls of the cramped hallway, he pushes the curtain aside, and stumbles into the lobby.
Before he can reach the front door, he hears Ms. Chibois yelling, “Hey, hey, you didn’t pay.”
Adam tiredly turns, nods, and obliges her by pressing his thumb onto the counter. Ms. Chibois pats his hand, and as he crawls out the door he can hear her shouting after him, “See you next time, Mr. Jones! Come back soon!”
“You gotta be fishin’ kiddin’ me,” the pig man growls, slamming his pink, meaty trotter onto the counter. “I’m in here every day, workin’ my tail off, payin’ your salary.”
Ferd stares out from behind his cage, unperturbed. “Do we have to go through this again, Phil? You are in here every day, but paying my salary? You wouldn’t spend a crit to save your life. Meanwhile, all you bring me is trash. Look at this chit.” He pushes a few little pieces of scrap across the counter. “You can take the offer or get the fish out.”
“This is bull,” Phil grumbles, his wide, flat ears twitching with rage.
“Hey, no one’s forcing you,” Ferd says. “I think I’ll survive without… what is this anyway, a broken pair of sunglasses?”
“They’re VR goggles, I think,” Phil says. “They got metal in ‘em!”
“Yeah well, in this condition you’re lucky I’m offering you anything.”
“Come on, man,” Phil moans. “Gimme a break. I need at least enough to get home.”
“So it’s once again my fault that you didn’t plan ahead?” Ferd throws the goggles down on the counter. “Why am I responsible for every empty fuel cell and stupid decision in the universe? I’m running a business. Bring me something I can sell and we’ll talk. Until then…”
“That’s a hundred crits worth of… stuff, easy,” Phil says.
“Even you don’t believe that. I shouldn’t be offering you the ten!”
Phil’s pudgy face twists with rage, and he smacks his hoofed paw against Ferd’s cage, drawing the attention of the other customers.
“Hey!” Ferd points his comparatively puny finger through the metal enclosure. “Watch it, Phil. I’ll chop you up and open a barbecue joint. Now that might actually be worth something.”
“GRR, GRR, GREEE,” Phil unleashes a string of hostile squeals and finally caves. “Gimme the crits.” He presses his wet snout onto the counter and stomps through the lobby bemoaning his treatment. “Ackle is ripping me off!”
“Next,” Ferd calls, and a guy dressed in neat black and white UE military garb steps toward the cage. “Oh, chit… what is it now?”
“Greetings,” the Ear says. “I am looking for the owner of this establishment, a Mr. Ferd Haddad.”
“This is fishin’ bullchit!” Phil shouts from behind the Ear.
Ferd sighs. “You’re talking to him.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the Ear says. “My name is Zok. I am vice admiral of the United—”
“I see the uniform,” Ferd says. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble. I’ve got all my paperwork in order, and I’m not breaking any laws. This isn’t even UE jurisdiction.”
“I realize that,” Zok says. “And I’m not here to harass you. I am a collector of oddities, and I thought, based on your reputation, that you might be able to help me locate a particular item.”
“Well, we got it all.” Ferd waves an arm over the warehouse behind him. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“It’s a curious item,” Zok says, “a sort of trinket – a cube, no bigger than the size of my palm, solid black.”
Ferd is forced to call upon every ounce of his decades of experience dealing in rare merchandise to keep his body from betraying his over-piqued interest. “Oh yeah? Hmm, that’s pretty vague. Can you tell me anything else about it?”
“Um, that’s all the information I have.” The Ear scratches his chin and casually glances around the room. “Have you come across anything which might fit the description?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure.” Ferd shrugs and, feigning disinterest, glances past the Ear at the growing line of customers. “But a lot of scrap comes through these doors, as you can see.” He motions toward the stocked shelves all around them. “Something like that could come and go without me ever noticing. In any case, I haven’t seen it myself.”
“Would you mind checking with your employees?” the Ear asks. “I promise it will be worth your while if you manage to locate it for me.” He holds his hands behind his back and calmly but insistently stares at Ferd from across the counter.
Ferd turns toward the warehouse and shouts, “Hey, Kelvin.”
“I appreciate it,” the Ear says.
“Everything that comes in those doors goes through one of us,” Ferd says.
Kelvin approaches the cage wiping his crimson fingers on a greasy rag.
“This gentleman is looking for some kind of black cube,” Ferd says. “You seen anything like that?” For a fraction of a second, he and Kelvin exchange a knowing glance.
Kelvin throws his rag over his shoulder, pushes his glasses up, and looks at the Ear. “Nope, nothing like that.”
“Well there you have it,” Ferd says.
The Ear purses his lips and glares at them. “Okay. But if you do come across it…” He retrieves a stylus and slip of smart paper from his jacket and jots something onto it. “Be sure to contact me directly.” And with a swift turn on his heel, he clomps through the lobby and out the front door.
Ferd glances down at the screen name printed on the paper – ‘VABadZok.’ “Yeah, I’ll be in touch,” he grumbles, as he crumples it and tosses it in the trash. “I’ll be back in a space minute,” he tells the next customers, a couple dopey-looking ICA drones in short-sleeved dress shirts and ties.
“We’ll wait!” one of them shouts.
“Waiting – if there’s one thing we know how to do…” the other one says.
A few of Ferd’s employees stop what they’re doing and look up as he charges through the warehouse and snatches his phone off his desk. He selects Adam from his contact list and impatiently waits as it rings about a dozen times. Finally, and bewilderingly, the face of a familiar, smiling woman appears on the screen.
“Oh, hey Ms. C?” Ferd says.
“Hello Ferd,” Ms. Chibois says. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. When are you going to come visit me?”
“Soon, I promise,” Ferd says. “But right now I’m looking for Adam. Can you put him on the phone?”
“Hold on a moment.” Ms. Chibois disappears, and the image twists and stutters as she travels through the dark building.
“Hello?” Adam’s face flashes across the screen for an instant.
“Adam,” Ferd says. “Adam?” He holds the phone close and shouts, “Adam Jones!”
“How do you know my name?” Adam’s voice replies.
“What the fish are you talking about?” Ferd slaps his forehead. “I should have guessed Space Den would be the first place you’d go. Listen, I realize you’re wasted, but some top Ear was just in here asking about that cube. I don’t know what it is, but I think you might’ve stumbled onto something big. You need to get out of there as soon as you can. Sober up, get someplace quiet, and don’t tell anybody where you are.”
“Min some kin’ a naturey place with lotta grassss and ‘unshine,” Adam slurs. “I can’t ‘member where it is exly. Oh waittt, I ‘member I wast Space Den. Aww chittt.”
“Fish, you are high,” Ferd says. “You know you can OD on that chit, right? Maybe not physically…”
“I don’t unstand,” Adam says. “What are youuu try to say?”
Ferd rubs his temples, carefully selecting his next words. “Listen to me. The Ears are looking for you. I would come get you myself, but I’m working. There’s too much going on here. Do you hear what I’m saying? You need to leave right now!”
“I can hear you,” Adam says.
“Chit, if you really can hear me, get out of there!” Ferd shouts. “The Ears are after you.”
“I don’t what you want me do,” Adam says.
“I want you to
get the fish out of there! I don’t think they know where you are, so you should have a little time.”
“But I’m ‘ready here,” Adam says.
“GAH,” Ferd groans. “I tried to warn you.” He ends the call and stomps back to his cage.
When he gets to the counter, the debt collectors are gone. “That’s something,” he mumbles to himself and, waving toward the line, shouts, “Next!”
Vice Admiral Zok steps out of Ferd’s into the stale, recycled air of the life-supporting dome, reaches into the coat of his spotless uniform, and emerges with a polished silver case. The case clicks open with the press of a small latch to reveal a neat row of hand rolled cigarettes. He plucks out one of the white cylinders, places it between his lips, and reaches for his burnished lighter, embossed with the letters ‘VAZ.’ Half of the cigarette turns to ash as he inhales deep and blows a cloud of red smoke up at the starry night sky.
While he’s pondering his next move, something behind him produces a guttural, “Grmphhh.”
Zok turns to search for the source of the noise and hastily attempts to stuff his lighter and cigarette case back into his coat pocket.
“Can I bum one of those?” A tall, pink humanoid with wide, veiny ears and a long snout clomps toward him.
Hesitantly, Zok lights another cigarette and holds it out to the creature.
“Phil.” Extending his meaty paw, Phil lifts the cigarette to his mouth and produces a series of repulsive sucking noises as he inhales. He holds out his filthy hoof. Zok glances at it and turns away. “I know where you can find that thing.”
“Excuse me?” Zok glares at the grotesque figure, thick streams of mucus dripping from its steaming nostrils, its bloated belly protruding from underneath a soiled t-shirt.
“I heard what you said in there.” Phil points back at Ferd’s, and his jowly mouth forms a predatory grin. “Ferd was lying to you.”
“Oh, he was?” Zok says. “And how would you happen to know that?”
“Never mind how,” Phil says. “I got the information you’re looking for. You want it or not?”
Space Junk Page 5