Adam shrugs and enters the destination into his ship’s autopilot. “After all the stories I heard about this planet growing up, I can’t believe this is all that’s left.”
“Every origin planet ends up like this,” Daizy says. “Most of them are worse.”
“How do you know that?”
She crosses her arms and snorts. “I told you, I’m a scrapper. I’ve been everywhere.”
“Well, I’m a scrapper too,” he says. “I know things.”
Daizy looks over at Adam, smiling dopily and sipping his day-old beer, and wonders about letting her guard down, even around somebody as clueless as the ape-person seated next to her.
“We used to move around a lot, when I was a kid,” she finally says. “Wherever my parents heard there was a good score, that’s where we’d go.”
“I get that,” Adam says. “I barely got to know my parents, but yours sound a lot like my grandpa… pretty cool, I mean.”
“Yeah, sure,” she says.
Adam parks in a sprawling lot on the edge of the city, and they disembark into a wasteland full of rusty, timeworn ships. The wind mercilessly whips the dry dirt into the air, making it difficult to see or breathe.
“At least it’s warm,” Adam says, covering his mouth.
“That’s one of the side effects of sucking a planet dry,” Daizy tells him.
He walks to the meter and presses his thumb to the display. “These prices are insane. You think thirty minutes will cover it?”
Daizy glares at him, and he throws his hands up. She tromps across the lot and glances down the street. Crude buildings constructed out of recycled plastic make up the bulk of the neighborhood. A few dented metal vehicles putt past over the rocky pavement, but most of the Earthlings navigate the crumbling maze on foot, lazily avoiding the plastic-bag tumbleweed as they trudge along the dusty sidewalks with the weary gait of the dispossessed. An old, sun-baked woman gives Daizy a strange look as she shuffles past, dragging a chattering kid covered in dust. When the little girl notices Daizy, she stops talking and holds her fingers up in a ‘V.’
“I have to find some new clothes,” Daizy moans, peeling Adam’s dirty shirt away from her skin.
Adam is still grumbling about the price of parking as she leads him across the street and down a thin alley between two makeshift apartment buildings. Clothes crisscross the sky, drying in the stale air, and sweaty people lean out of windows above, lazily staring at the awkward pair as they wander the paths below.
“Where are we going?” Adam asks.
“We need to find the market,” Daizy says. “Somebody there will know where we can sell that thing.”
Adam sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Rat farts, I’m not getting any reception.”
“You won’t be able to,” she tells him. “There’s too much half-operational chit floating around in orbit. The planet is one big dead zone.”
“Hmph.” He holds his phone in the air and stubbornly continues searching for a signal.
Before long, Daizy starts to detect a low, distant rumble in the air. The sound grows louder, echoing between the multi-colored buildings as the two make their way deeper through the plastic alleys toward the center of the city. When they finally reach the source of the noise, they emerge from the passageway into a crowded outdoor marketplace.
“Oh man, it reeks!” Adam says, waving his hand in front of his face.
“I forgot about that,” Daizy says. “I don’t know how…” She squeezes her nostrils and tries not to breathe with her mouth.
Tucked between the bright walls of the surrounding buildings is a bustling bazaar packed with stalls and storefronts selling a seemingly endless array of foods, scrap, and other goods from Earth and beyond. Throngs of native and alien customers congest the walkways, their fierce negotiations producing a steady, garbled roar.
If there is a way to effectively navigate the mob, Daizy fails to decipher it before being swept away by the living tide. Craning her neck back, she sees Adam being dragged along behind her, and she yells over the din of the crowd, “Look for a pawn shop!”
“How will I know when I see it?” Adam shouts back.
Daizy shakes her head and motions toward a row of stores built into the bottom level of the surrounding buildings. As they’re pulled through the market, they pass restaurants leaking mouthwatering greasy-fat aromas, a small-parts shop advertising luxury space mats at prices no sane person would ever pay, a convenience store with a neon sign offering a suspiciously low rate on organ loans, an illicit regurge café, and countless other alternately tantalizing and off-putting storefronts.
“Ooh, look at those space mats,” Adam shouts.
Daizy finally spots the pawn shop, and she pushes through the mass of people out into a dark alcove. When Adam gets close, she grabs his arm and yanks him toward the deserted building.
“How do you know this is the place?” he asks her.
Daizy juts her thumb up, fully aware of the connotation, at a winking yellow smiley face sticking out its tongue on the wall above them. Adam looks at the sign and shrugs.
“It’s the USU logo,” Daizy says. “The Universal Scrapper’s Union?”
“Ohh, right,” Adam says, unconvincingly.
“You can’t have not seen it,” she says. “That stupid face is plastered all over Ferd’s. Please tell me you’ve been paying your dues, if only for the healthcare.”
He nods, fiddling with the corner of the cube in his pocket. “Oh yeah… no, sure.”
“Come on.” She grabs his arm and pulls him into the dark store.
The air inside is even hotter and thicker than outside, with a strong musty undertone, like of an old attic drawer. The walls and shelves are lined with action figures, comic books, ship customizing kits, and other nerdy scrap. Wacky voices and dramatic music blare from screens mounted in the upper corners of the room.
“Let’s hurry so we can get out of here,” Daizy tells Adam.
“How may I help you dudes?” A native human with a wide stomach and long, scraggly facial hair smiles at them from behind a glass counter at the far end of the room.
“Whoa…” Adam darts past Daizy toward a rack stacked with videotapes near the counter. “Look at all these. I’ve never seen this kind of selection.”
“Oh yeah, kch, kch, kch, we got it all, man,” the clerk says, as he stuffs his face with tree-nut butter flavored Moon-Cheez Ballz.
“We’re not here to feed your addiction,” Daizy says.
“What’s this one?” Adam asks, snatching an unmarked tape from the shelf.
“Oh, that’s Waxwork,” the clerk tells him.
“Waxwork!” Adam cries. “I’ve been looking for this one.”
“If you like that,” the clerk says, wiping his Cheez-caked hands on his grody t-shirt, “I got plenty more.” He bends down and hauls a big box up onto the counter.
“Ugh,” Daizy groans, whipping her tail back and forth in frustration. She impatiently half-listens as Adam rummages through the box, pausing every few seconds to detail the circumstances surrounding his first viewing of some archaic movie or TV show.
“I was six years old the first time my grandpa showed me this one,” he says. “Such and such is one of my all-time favorites. I can’t believe you have blah, blah, blah. It took me ten years to track down a copy of some dumb thing…”
“I’ve got a ton of stuff for download, too,” the clerk says.
“Oh, no-o,” Daizy whines, bracing herself against the counter.
“You like sitcoms?” the clerk asks. “A friend of mine just brought in a bunch of real rare stuff. I even managed to snag the complete original run of Roseanne.”
“I’m not a big Roseanne guy,” Adam says. “That whole last season is a shipwreck.”
“I’m not talking about the reboot.”
Adam looks up at the clerk like he said something offensive. “Yeah, I know, season nine.”
“Blasphemy,” the cler
k says. “The ninth season is a masterstroke of misdirection, culminating on a down but optimistic note that echoes the bittersweet tone which defined so much of the series. It’s a parody of final seasons, feigning a descent into the same shark-infested waters as so many shows before it, and then completely subverting that expectation with a world-upending conclusion that leaves us to contemplate the meaning of our own lives, effectively blurring the line between fiction and reality.”
Adam is quiet for a moment, and finally says, “Yeah well, whatever does it for you.”
“You’re getting me worked up.” Wiping the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead, the clerk asks, “Are you into Pants Team Pink? I got almost every episode. I’m still trying to track down a few of the early ones.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Adam says. “You got any more horror movies?”
Daizy rolls her eyes and groans, but neither of the dolts at the counter seem to notice.
“Sure, I just got some new ones.” The clerk taps a display built into the counter and starts listing off titles –
“C.H.U.D.…”
“Got it,” Adam says.
“Fright Night…”
“Got it.”
“Brain Damage…
“Got it.”
“It’s Pat…”
"Ughuhuh…" Adam shudders.
“Come on.” Daizy punches his arm. “We don’t have time for this.”
“All right, all right,” Adam says. “I’ll just take Waxwork.” He presses his thumb to the counter, and the clerk bags his movie. “And I’ll definitely be back soon.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Daizy asks him.
“Oh, yeah.” Adam yanks the cube out of his pocket and holds it up. “I’m trying to find a buyer.”
The clerk squints at the object, and shrugs. “What is it?”
Grinning like a chidiot, Adam scoffs and winks at Daizy. “You ever heard of black gold?”
The clerk looks at him skeptically. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, what do you think it’s worth?” Adam asks.
“If it actually was black gold,” the clerk says, plucking the object from Adam’s hand. “I don’t believe it is, but if it was, it’d be the most valuable object in the universe.” He holds out the cube and drops it back into Adam’s hand in a manner that somehow seems condescending.
“Do you know anybody who would be interested in an item of such inconceivable desirability?” Adam asks.
“The only person I know who might be able to afford something like that is The Mighty Big Guy,” the clerk says. “He’s the richest person on Earth, and he does like oddities. ‘The rarer the better,’ he always says.” He sighs and shakes his head. “But I wouldn’t waste his time on fool’s black gold if I were you. There’s no telling what he might do.”
“Yeah well, I’ll take my chances,” Adam says. “Where do we find this Big Guy?”
“He stays in the big white building on the river, just east of here,” the clerk says. “You can’t miss it. But I really think you should reconsider.”
“Thanks for the movie.” Adam waves the tape and heads for the door.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the clerk says as he grabs another handful of Moon-Cheez Ballz and turns toward the screen above the counter to watch a bunch of weirdos bumbling around a desert island.
Daizy follows Adam out of the musty store, and they rejoin the procession of shoppers shuffling along the sidewalk.
“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” Adam says, stepping in rhythm with the crowd.
“Yeah, that’s real good.” Daizy surveys the nearby shops and, spotting a pair of designer shoes in one of the windows, grumbles, “Come on.”
Pushing her way through the crowd, she scrambles toward the bright, inviting storefront, and steps inside. It’s like waking from some horrible, stupid nightmare. Racks of clean, colorful clothing, soft soothing music, and a mercifully pleasant perfume combine to overwhelm her senses.
“I’m going to wait out here,” Adam calls to her. “That smell gives me a headache.”
Daizy closes her eyes, exhales a deep sigh of relief, and waves him away. “Yeah okay, do whatever you want…”
Zok takes a long drag off his cigarette and exhales a thick cloud of red smoke over the window, momentarily obscuring his view of the filthy pedestrian masses navigating the parking lot below.
“Can you believe this?” the short, round ICA employee named Dave asks, stuffing his mouth with grilled prawns. “These are the biggest shrimp I’ve ever seen.”
“A guy could get used to this,” the skinny one called Steve says. “Zok, come get in on this. There’s plenty to go around.”
“Not if you paid me,” Zok says, as he paces over the dark floorboards of their shared quarters.
The room is an opulent fishing shack furnished with soft leather couches, a spacious galley stocked with a small fortune’s worth of imported seafood, and a wide holo-screen nestled over what at first glance appears to be a real fireplace; though upon closer inspection, the flame isn’t quite convincing. Nevertheless, there are universe-class chefs on call, capable of preparing meals from “ten thousand galaxies,” and entire floors dedicated to every type of entertainment one could imagine – gambling, hunting, gaming, drinking, dumping, stunting, sexing. Zok has even caught rumblings of a hidden network of illicit activity taking place somewhere behind the scenes, where the most depraved fantasies are fulfilled, like mind-crapping.
“Ughuhuh…” he shudders and pushes the thought away. He isn’t interested in any of those things. His sole concern is the safe recovery of the element.
“You really should try it, Zok,” Dave mutters between bites. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
As Zok looks upon the grotesque pair, the door to the suite bursts open, and The Foreman saunters in, hips swaying. “Ahoy! Are you boys having a good time?”
Steve and Dave mime approval, unable to speak through gullets crammed with crustacean.
Zok nods, his arms folded over his chest. “What news?”
Pi glides toward him and places her hand on top of his. “Relax, the wheels are in motion.”
“Well they’re not spinning fast enough,” he says.
“It won’t be long. Take a cue from your compatriots over there.” She nods at the bloated buffoons on the couch. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“I want to know what’s happening,” Zok demands. “Have your men located Silas Jones? I won’t be left out of the loop.”
“When I know something, you’ll know something.” She lightly runs her cool finger along his arm. “Until then, the best thing for you to do is relax.”
Under the weight of the mission and Pi’s soothing words, Zok drops his guard, slightly, and sighs.
“That’s a good start,” she says, forcefully rubbing his shoulders. “Now go get yourself a drink.”
He reluctantly plods to the bar in the corner of the room, glances over the bottles, and selects a dark decanter coated in a permanent layer of grime, its label unreadable and almost completely worn away. The smell of rotted pine trees wafts from the bottle as he carefully pours a thimbleful of the liquid into its cap. He turns to find the others staring at him, and he raises his tiny glass. “To black gold.” He throws his head back and dribbles the liquid into his mouth, wincing as it goes down burning.
“That’s the… spirit,” Pi says. “Why don’t we head downstairs and throw the space dice?”
Zok looks down at his empty cap and feels a twinge of anxiety in his chest at the thought of even a brief departure from his duties.
“We’ll get you another drink at the table,” Pi says.
He hesitantly sets the cap down and steels himself for fun as Steve and Dave stuff their mouths and pockets full of prawns. The four of them glance at each, awkwardly, as they stagger out of the room and climb into the elevator. The only sounds as the box glides across the
sprawling complex are the wet chomping noises produced by the two shameless chidiots gorging themselves in the corner.
When the doors open, they all step out onto a raucous floor full of sweaty bodies and blinking lights. Zok glances around the room, nervously. The combination of alcohol and computerized sound effects starts his head spinning.
“Shall we find a table?” Pi suggests.
“We’re going to go hit the space slots,” Steve says.
“Yeah, I have a good feeling,” Dave adds, stuffing another wet prawn into his mouth.
Pi wraps her arm around Zok’s and leads him across the busy floor, through hordes of tourists and waitresses dressed in semi-robotic, curiously erotic shells. She stops one of them, whispers in her ear, and proceeds to guide Zok to a long table surrounded by a dozen rowdy, drunken aliens.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “Your play is comped.”
She takes his hand and presses his thumb into a box on the table’s raised ledge, and the dealer, an impassive eastern-universal woman in a dark suit and tie, slides him a tray of chips. As he tries to make sense of the game, the waitress appears with a glass of thick black gunk for Pi, along with a thimble of blue liquid.
“What is it?” Zok asks, but Pi just smiles.
Across from them, a humanoid with a wrinkly hide and a long trunk wobbles against the table and tosses the dice, inadvertently dipping the end of his tie into his drink.
“Blecch,” the dealer announces.
“Ack,” the shooter moans, tripping over himself and sloshing his glass.
“New shooter,” the dealer announces, pushing the dice in front of Zok.
“I’ll place your bet,” Pi says. “Relax.” She pokes him lightly in the ribs, and Zok can’t help but crack a smirk.
He hesitantly picks up the twenty-sided dice, and the other players watch in anticipation as he tosses them. One die catches the ledge of the table and bounces back in, and the other flies out of the pit, striking the backside of an elegant woman whose skin shimmers even brighter than the cascade of giant stones around her neck.
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