Space Junk

by Andrew Bixler

  Zok raises an eyebrow. “I suppose it will cost me?”

  “Well I think it’s only fair.”

  “Just as I thought.” With a loud click of his heels, Zok pivots toward the lot and away from the treacherous creature.

  “Now wait a minute,” Phil growls, grabbing the sleeve of Zok’s coat. “I bet I can save you a bunch of time. This is valuable information. I’ve got a right to something in exchange.”

  Zok wrenches his arm free and reaches for his phone. “Give me your… snout.”

  “Now we’re talking.” Phil presses his wet nose to the screen, and Zok hesitantly wipes it with his handkerchief. “See, I’m a team player.”

  “Now…” Zok clears his throat and tosses the handkerchief into a nearby receptacle. “In exchange for everything you know, I will refrain from freezing all of your assets.”

  “Hey, come on man,” Phil grunts. “That’s not fair.”

  “You are withholding information vital to the security of the United Empires, not to mention the outrageous number of unpaid parking tickets you’ve accrued. You’re lucky I’m not arresting you.”

  “Okay, okay,” Phil stammers. “If I tell you, you’ll let me go?”

  Zok nods, haughtily.

  “I heard Ferd talking about it,” Phils says. “He was on the phone with this fishin’ ackle who’s here all the time. His name is Adam, I think.”

  “Do you think, or do you know?”

  Big greasy beads of sweat start to form on Phil’s forehead. “His name is Adam.”

  “Adam what?” Zok demands.

  “I’m not sure what his last name is. I don’t really know the guy. He just comes to the store a lot.”

  “And how am I supposed to find Adam?”

  “His ship is called the Asteroid Jones II,” Phil says. “I thi— Ferd said something about Space Den. That must be where he is.”

  “Which space den?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just called Space Den.”

  Losing his patience, Zok starts chopping the air. “Where is it? How do I get there?”

  “Oh, it’s out near Misery Acres.”

  “Misery Acres? You mean sector 1X79?”

  “Yeah, one of those ghost zones,” Phil says. “I think that’s it.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s the one.”

  Zok tosses his cigarette on the ground, stomps it out, and walks toward the lot.

  “Ackle,” Phil mumbles and proceeds to beg the next person who steps out of the store to help him charge his ship’s fuel cells.

  With a stiff gait, shoes clacking against the pavement, Zok marches back to his ship, parked well back of the rabble. Upon his approach, an escalator automatically descends and raises him into the cockpit.

  “Welcome back,” Stella’s lilting voice greets him as fluorescent lights tick on throughout the cabin.

  The elaborate dashboard is covered in buttons and switches that manually control everything from the thrust of the engines to the darkness of his toast. But so far, he’s never had to use them.

  “Stella,” he calls. “Would you make me a glass of tea?”

  “Hot or cold?” Stella asks.

  “Hot.”

  “Flavor?”

  “I’ll have the yellow nectar, I think.”

  “You think?” Stella scolds.

  “Yes, the yellow nectar.” A moment later, a glass filled with steaming liquid pops into the cupholder. Lifting the glass to his mouth, he cautiously sips. “Thank you, Stella.”

  “You’re welcome, honey. So, where are we off to next?”

  “Set a course for sector 1X79,” he tells her.

  “Sure thing, sweetie.”

  Blowing on his tea, he adds, “And open communication with the fleet.”

  Five small videos pop up across the window, displaying the faces of five nearly identical men with crew cuts and stern expressions. Their similar, but markedly smaller, ships are parked in orbit outside the dome.

  “Vice Admiral Zok,” the men call out, in near-unison.

  “Biff, Glurpp, Vronk, Boff, Rip, set course for sector 1X79,” Zok commands.

  “Yes, sir,” his men confirm.

  “Stella, minimize and mute communication,” Zok says, and their video feeds disappear. “And please bring me some grapes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stella says. “We’re all out of grapes.”

  “Oh,” Zok says, pouting.

  “Can I get you something else?”

  “No, that’s all right.”

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Stella, do you ever wonder why you do it? I mean, why you do the things you do, and what it is you’re after in life?”

  “I don’t wonder about those types of things, honey. I’m a computer. I’m programmed to do the things I do.”

  “Right, right,” he says, as if reminding himself, “a computer.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about things like that,” she tells him. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “You’re programmed to say that.”

  “Yes, but I like to think that even if I wasn’t, I’d still believe it,” Stella assures him, in a soft, soothing tone designed to replicate sincerity.

  Zok uncertainly sips his tea and gazes out the window, lost in thought. He’s startled out of his stupor when a hatch underneath the dashboard flips open. Inside he finds a deluxe humanoid burger, topped with a thick slice of green cheese and a big gooey glob of tree-nut butter – his favorite.

  “You always know how to cheer me up,” Zok says, as he bites into the mammoth, bloody person-patty, fatty juices trailing down his chin. “Just the way I like it,” he mumbles.

  “Of course.” Stella titters, electronically. “All the fixin’s.”

  “Umm, hello? Is anyone there?” Adam shouts from the window of the Asteroid Jones II into the mouth of a giant anthropomorphized moon.

  “Thank you for choosing Moon Burger, would you like to try our Galactic Collision combo?” a high-pitched whine asks, in bizarre juxtaposition to the goggle-eyed cartoon character from which it emerges.

  “Uh, no thanks,” Adam says as he quickly scans the menu plastered above the moon man’s toothy grin. “Give me a… Sunshine Burger, with cheese.”

  “That’s one Sunshine Burger with no cheese,” the voice says.

  “No, with cheese,” Adam says.

  “One Sunshine Burger with no cheese,” the voice repeats. “Will that be all?”

  “I do want cheese.”

  “Please pull around,” the voice tells him.

  Adam pulls up to the drive-thru, and a check appears on his ship’s window. “Chit, that’s two weeks worth of rations.” Sighing, he presses his thumb to it, and a smiling girl with leathery skin and dark reflective eyes leans out the window and hands him a paper bag.

  “Thanks for visiting Moon Burger,” she says, and her tongue flicks across her lip as she glances at the line of ships piling up behind him.

  Adam opens the bag, snatches the sandwich, and starts unwrapping it.

  “Please pull forward, sir,” the girl impatiently instructs.

  “I just want to make sure,” Adam says. “It does have cheese.”

  The girl smirks, and Adam pulls off into a spot at the edge of the parking lot. His stomach gurgles as he lifts the bright bun to his mouth and ravenously bites into it, spilling out sunny yolk over a yellow-orange simulacrum of poultry.

  “That’s a good ham,” he mumbles.

  With a gooey finger, he swipes his ship’s window, and the movie he had been watching starts where it left off – with a lunatic in a decapitated pig’s head swinging a giant chainsaw. With his eyes glued to the grisly scene, Adam chews and sighs contentedly.

  “BAAAMP, BAAAAAAMP…” a horn echoes through the parking lot, loud enough that Adam can hear it over the screaming chainsaw. He sticks his head out the window to see what all the noise is about, and he spots a wooly, tattooed man in a tank top waving his fi
st from inside a familiar wood-paneled junker.

  “Turn that chit down!” the guy shouts.

  “What’s your problem, ackle?” Adam yells back.

  “My problem is that chit you’re blasting across the parking lot! This is a family joint. Turn it off, or I’ll do it for you.”

  Adam juts his thumb out, cranks the volume, and the screech of the chainsaw echoes out across the lot. He casually finishes his burger, pretending not to be bothered by the ear-splitting noise ringing through his ship’s cabin, until the junker finally takes off, its horn blaring as it passes.

  “All right, enough messing around,” Adam tells himself. He lowers the volume, tosses his crumpled wrapper over his shoulder, and opens a list of addresses on the window. “Misery Acres, here we come.”

  Once he’s outside the dome and on course, he leans against the dash and stares out at the night sky, quickly succumbing to a condition commonly known as “starry eyes” – a trance-like state resulting from the relative stillness of distant stars when viewed from a moving ship. He spends most of the trip this way, occasionally regaining consciousness to swipe away advertisements. When an ad for Ol’ Guard Lite startles him awake, he angrily pushes it off the screen, and it’s instantly replaced by another one for a place called The Tannhäuser Gate, promising to be ‘the last bar this side of the galaxy.’

  “It’s a persuasive selling point,” Adam mutters. He looks at the ad for a moment and then taps it. “Chit, I’ve got time.”

  The Asteroid Jones II responds by veering away from its route, toward a speck of jagged rock orbiting a rusty gas giant. Adam guides his ship through the moon’s airlock and deboards, pausing as he traverses the dusty parking lot to gaze up at the looming planet enveloped in clouds of swirling brown and orange vapor.

  The bar is quiet when he enters, a few seats occupied by silent day-drinkers. Light reflected from the planet outside spills in through a wide window along the wall, casting a copper sheen over the room.

  Adam’s sneakers leave prints in the thick layer of dust coating the cracked and faded floorboards as he walks past empty tables and hops onto a stool at the bar. The bartender, burly and bleary eyed, grunts and nods.

  “Ol’ Guard,” Adam says.

  “Two crits,” the bartender grumbles. He retrieves a can from the grimy fridge behind him, cracks it, and places it on the bar.

  Adam presses his thumb onto the counter, wipes the dirt from the bartender’s cruddy fingers off the can’s mouthpiece, and eagerly gulps his beer as he swivels to survey the room. The sparse clientele, hunched and haggard, lean over their tables motionless, save for the occasional lifting and sipping of beers. Glancing down the bar, Adam notices a dark, hairy scrapper bursting out of a tank top who looks vaguely familiar. As Adam tries to place him, the guy glances up, and a look of angry recognition passes over his face.

  “You son of a perch.” The brute stands and stomps across the bar, flexing his tattoo-covered biceps.

  “Hey, hey…” Adam tumbles off his stool and holds his hands up in defense. “No hard feelings, man. Come on, let me buy you a drink.” He waves to the bartender. “Two Ol’ Guards.”

  “Hmph,” the man snorts, and sits.

  Adam tentatively sticks out his hand as he climbs back onto his stool. “Adam Jones.”

  The guy looks at the fragile paw and finally crushes it in a vice-grip. “Ken Sink.”

  “I’m guessing from your ship, and demeanor, that you’re a scrapper too.”

  Ken slugs from his beer and runs a hand through his beard. “Yeah, who isn’t in these parts?”

  “Ha, I guess you’re right. Any luck out there?”

  Ken glares and turns back to his beer. “Nah, not with everyone and their mothers out combing the galaxy. Truth is, I’m running on empty.”

  “I know the feeling. I used to have an apartment there. But I stand as living proof that the tables can turn, sometimes.”

  “You have a good haul?”

  “Haul of a lifetime. You hear about the Traxis-Zorma war?”

  Ken slams his beer onto the bar, and a current of foam erupts out over the rim. “Chit, don’t tell me you got in on that.”

  “On the ground floor, my friend,” Adam says, producing a self-satisfied belch.

  “I headed that way as soon as I heard,” Ken says. “But by the time I got there, the place was mobbed.”

  “Are you boys talkin’ ‘bout that big mess out off-uh route Sally?” They turn to find a wizened man with gray hair and an Ol’ Guard mesh cap waving to them from a table on the bar floor.

  “That’s right, pops,” Ken says.

  “Why, I remember the greatest scrap I ever got a piece of,” the old man says. “That must a been… chit, almost eighty years ‘go. Wasn’t nothin’ like this one, though. Why don’t you boys come keep an ol’ space pirate company?”

  Adam and Ken glance at each other, shrug, and snatch their beers off the bar as they slump down from their stools and plod to the back of the stuffy room.

  “Scrapper Jack,” the man introduces himself. “Actually, I go by ‘Ol Scrapper Jack ‘nymore. In fact, it shit probly jist be ‘Ol Jack at this point. I don’t do much scrappin’ these tays.”

  “Well you’re not missing much,” Ken says. “It’s mostly one long, dark, lonely night.”

  “Yup, solitute is an inescapable part a the scrap life.” Ol’ Jack sighs and slurps from his can. “Can’t say I miss that part so much. But the adventure, the discovery – that’s what makes it all worthwhile.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Adam finishes his beer and waves to the bartender. “Three more back here.”

  “Cheers,” Ol’ Jack says. “Now tell me more ‘bout that big, beautiful pile a treasure out there.” He leans forward on his elbows and smiles wide, revealing half a dozen crooked teeth jutting from dark, discolored gums.

  Over the next beer, Adam animatedly recounts his latest adventure to rapt applause and incredulous heckling. Another old scrapper comes over to investigate the increasingly spirited dialogue and is soon inviting himself to join their table. As Ken re-enacts the events surrounding his all time best haul, two furry women in leather jackets enter the bar and, after hearing the tale’s embarrassing conclusion, they buy the table a commiserative round of pitchers. By the time Jack finishes telling about his long-lost scrapper love, half a dozen more sloshed strangers have joined in, all eager to share their own implausible, sometimes bitterly tragic, often hysterically calamitous episodes of scrap life. After countless hours and beers, the stories devolve into an uproarious, drunken sing-along, to which, of course, everyone knows the words –

  Space is the place for you and me,

  The only place we want to be!

  From planet to planet we wander the stars,

  But only when we’re not at the bar!

  We search for treasure out on the black sea,

  To adventure, excitement no strangers are we!

  But we never lose sight of what’s near for what’s far,

  At the end of the day, we’re back at the bar!

  “I’m tired of waiting around,” The One complains.

  “Yeah, I thought this was going to be an adventure.” Pants dramatically folds her arms and pouts at the camera.

  “This is what you have to do to get your hands on the rich stuff,” Beer says.

  “I don’t care,” The One says, squirming in his seat. “This is boring. Let’s just go in there and see what’s going on.”

  Beer carefully removes his glasses and wipes them on his t-shirt. “We don’t even know if they have the element. And so far, the Ears haven’t spotted us. It’s better if we keep off their radar.”

  “Beer is right,” Horton says, his real voice and altered chat voice garbling together to form a third, inhuman speech pattern inside of his dark cabin. “We have an advantage as long as they don’t know we’re here. This is a perfect spot to blend in. There are weird ships all over the place.” The soft lights from t
he dashboard outline the deft movements of his hands in the otherwise pervasive darkness as he obsessively searches for information on the object they’re chasing.

  “Plus, how would we know if we found it?” Beer asks. “We don’t even know what it looks like.”

  “Another good point,” Horton says. “I’m working on that now.”

  “Well my fans are getting bored.” Pants rolls her eyes and throws her head back. “They’re tuning out. We have to do something.”

  “We are doing something,” Beer says. “And we’re not doing it for your fans.”

  Horton glances out the sliver of his ship’s window that is unobstructed by files and video feeds, and he zooms in on the moon’s surface. “Hey, check it out. The Ear is coming out already. It looks like he’s empty-handed. He’s talking to some pink guy.”

  “That’s offensive,” Pants says.

  “How is that offensive?” Horton asks. “He is pink.”

  “You said it derog-ator-ily,” Pants says.

  “I did not. Anyway, you’re not even pink.”

  “I am a defender of all things pink!” Pants declares.

  “All right, all right,” Beer says. “I think he’s heading to his ship.”

  The luxury military fighter takes off from the parking lot and cuts to the front of the long line of departing junkers. Moments later, it exits the dome and rejoins the small fleet of Ears hovering on the moon’s periphery.

  “Now what do we do?” Pants asks.

  “We wait for them to make a move and we follow,” Horton says.

  “Are we gonna chase these ackles all over the universe?” The One moans. “We’re gonna miss dinner.”

  “This was your idea!” Beer reminds his brother. “We’re finally onto something, and now you want to quit? This is just starting to get exciting. Let’s see where they’re headed.”

  “Yeah!” Pants cheers.

  “There they go,” Horton announces. “I’ll trail them.”

  “How come you always get to lead?” Pants asks.

  Glancing back at the gigantic pink kitten in his rearview, Horton says, “Do you really need to ask?” He stays on the Ears’ tails until they get up to cruising speed and then falls back and engages his ship’s autopilot.