Space Junk

by Andrew Bixler

  “We got it off the loan agreement for his ship,” Dave says.

  “Well this has been a fine waste of time,” Zok grumbles.

  Digging inside his pocket, Steve emerges with a handful of mixed nuts and asks, “So what do we do now?”

  “We wait,” Pi tells them. “Adam Jones will call, eventually. And when he does, we’ll have him right where we want him.”

  “Oh great,” Zok says. “Our only bargaining chip is a senile old man who wouldn’t know black gold if it hit him on his balding head.”

  Silas, spinning in his chair, shouts, “Hey, I’m not senile! And I do so know what the black gold looks like. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Maybe he knows more than we think,” Pi suggests. “He couldn’t possibly be as dumb as he looks.”

  “What about this thing?” Dave grabs the metal gadget from Silas’s lap.

  “Don’t touch that!” Silas says. “You’ll break it.” Noticing Zok suddenly, his face scrunches. “Hey, I know those colors. You’re with the UE. Holding me like this is illegal. Why aren’t you arresting these people?”

  Zok waves a hand through the air, dismissively. “They’re outside my jurisdiction.”

  “You might be onto something, Dave,” Pi says, eliciting a smile from the rotund debt collector. “What is that thing, anyway?” she asks, pointing at the box.

  “It’s a complex piece of machinery that none of you could possibly begin to understand.” As Silas strains to see what’s happening behind him, his chair nearly tips over.

  “Hey, I think I turned it on,” Dave says. “But it’s not doing anything.”

  Pi turns Silas’s chair around and runs her hands over his chest. “How does it work?”

  “Lady, if anyone could get me to squeal, it’d be you,” Silas says. “But I’m not saying another word.”

  Turning the old man’s head toward the hulking security guard standing by the door, she says, “Make this easy on yourself, and tell us what the machine does.”

  “I…” Silas looks at Zilch and frowns, “can’t do it.”

  Pi nods, prompting Zilch to stomp over and free one of Silas’s arms. The guard slides the old man’s sleeve up and lightly squeezes a roll of hanging skin.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to tell us, while you’re still in one piece?” she asks.

  Wincing, Silas shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head. At Pi’s command, Zilch squeezes the wrinkly roll of fat, and the old man howls.

  “This is barbaric,” Zok says, turning away. “It would be more merciful to shoot him.”

  “The UE’s answer to everything,” Steve scoffs, scarfing a handful of nuts.

  Zilch squeezes a little tighter and Silas screams, “All right, all right, I’ll tell you!”

  “Chit, we were just getting started.” She nods and Zilch releases Silas’s bruised flesh.

  “Adam will understand,” the old man says. “He knows how averse I am to discomfort.”

  “Now tell us what that machine does,” Pi demands.

  “It can detect the black gold,” he grumbles.

  She steps toward him, searching his face for deceit, but he appears to be telling the truth. “You built a black gold radar? But how can that be?”

  “There’s a diagram in Ponce Raleigh’s notebook. Anybody could build one, with the right scrap.”

  “Fish,” she curses herself. “I never look at the pictures. So that’s how you found the black gold.”

  “Not exactly,” he says. “I didn’t even know the fishing thing worked until Adam showed up. You have to get sort of close.”

  “Ha,” Zok barks. “Then it’s useless.”

  “I disagree,” Pi says. “The old man has brought us a more useful item than we could have possibly hoped for. Do any of you have any clue what the black gold looks like?”

  The three men glance at each other and collectively shrug.

  “When Adam Jones comes to save his poor old grandpa, he could try to pull one over on us,” Pi explains. “With this device we can be sure that what he brings us is the real black gold.”

  The debt collectors’ expressions gradually shift from utterly confused to cautiously enthused. Even Zok grudgingly nods approval.

  But as they discuss their next move, a loud gurgling causes them to turn their attention back toward Silas.

  “My stomach’s eating itself over here,” he says. “You still need me. It won’t do you any good if I starve to death.”

  Pi considers his pathetic plea, and laughs. “You may be right, old man. You’re in no danger, for now.”

  She nods, and Zilch wheels Silas out the door amidst a stream of loud, semi-intelligible complaints.

  “Fill him with prawns and put him to bed,” she instructs. “I’ll try Adam again.”

  She taps at her phone, and it rings, and rings.

  “This is Adam…” the message starts

  Pi groans. “Ahoy, this is The Foreman, again. Your grandfather is still alive and well. But that can change. Bring us the black gold, or the old man will suffer the consequences. Call me back when you get this. It’s The Foreman.”

  “—ticulous reconstruction took place over the following century,” the nauseatingly cheerful virtual woman in the center of the room parrots for the fourth time in the past hour. “The job was a massive undertaking, providing a much-needed jolt to the economy by temporarily employing tens of skilled laborers.” The camera pans over a dilapidated, weed-infested room which gradually morphs into the waiting room as it looks today. “With the help of taxpayers like you, this magnificent monument to ancient human achievement will stand for millenia—”

  “Adam Jones!” a voice calls.

  Daizy turns in her plastic seat and sees a man in a suit standing in the doorway, scanning the room. She leans toward Adam, asleep in the chair next to her, and elbows him. Shoving her hand away, he turns over and snores louder.

  “Is there an Adam Jones here?” the man asks.

  “Guhh,” Daizy groans. She stomps on Adam’s foot, and he tumbles out of his seat, limbs thrashing.

  “What the fish did you do that for?” he shouts.

  “Wait a space second!” Daizy yells at the suit. “He’s right here.”

  Adam stands, rubbing his head and tells her, “You’re too rough.”

  Daizy shoves him toward the door, and the suit thrusts a small screen at his chest. “Press your finger in the box.”

  “Hey!” A meaty, red-faced man in a stained sleeveless shirt wrenches himself from his molded chair and stomps toward the door. “I was here way before them.”

  “We thank you for your patience, sir,” the suit says, directing Daizy and Adam into the hall. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “That’s what they told me yesterday,” the guy shouts.

  “You snooze, you… win, in this case,” Adam says.

  The suit closes the door to the waiting room, muffling the obscenities spewing from inside, and marches down the hall. “Try to keep up.”

  Daizy and Adam shuffle close behind, gazing at the paintings of primitive humans lining the walls as they’re led through a maze of bright corridors. Slipping past rows of loud offices and scurrying suits, they arrive at a small alcove.

  The suit looks the pair up and down with a nervous smirk. “The Big Guy doesn’t typically meet with people of your… sort. But for some reason, when he saw your name he asked me to free up a few minutes in his busy schedule.”

  “You mean The Big Guy knows who I am?” Adam beams. “You here that? I’m a celebrity.”

  “Yes, well,” the suit says, “watch what you say, and don’t touch anything.”

  “I’m about to tell this guy exactly what I think of this chithole planet,” Daizy says.

  “Wait a second.” Evidently having sobered up from his nap, Adam tells her, “This is my planet. I know how to handle this. Just let me do the talking.”

  She wants to argue but fails to muster the energy and tired
ly slugs him in the arm instead.

  The suit leads them inside the spacious office and, glaring suspiciously, steps out through another door concealed in the wall. A large wood desk sits at the back of the room, surrounded by cases full of ancient-looking relics and framed by tall windows that overlook the polluted river.

  “Check it out,” Adam says, peeling a white fluff of hair off its display stand and placing it on his head. “I’m…” he leans down and squints to read the information card, “James Madison.” He straightens his back and, making a goofy face, says, “I can only tell a lie!”

  “Put that back,” Daizy scolds, as part of the wall swings out and voices spill into the room.

  Adam rips the hairpiece from his head and clumsily tosses it back on its stand.

  “Tell him I’m not going anywhere,” a harsh cyberganic voice roars from the next room. “I’ve been The Big Guy for three hundred years, and I’ll be The Big Guy for three hundred more!”

  The floor shakes as a repulsive human-machine hybrid stomps through the door, its torso swaying atop a pair of crude robotic legs, half of its head and its right eye obscured by cybernetic implants. All that remains of its organic body is a quivering mass of soft flesh – globular mounds of pink fat threatening to burst the seams of its ill-fitting suit.

  “You must be Mr. Jones,” The Big Guy says, in his grating artificial drawl. “Please, have a seat.” He waves a thick arm toward the couch as he struggles to fit his awkward body into a sagging leather chair behind the desk.

  “It’s an honor, sir,” Adam says. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”

  “Nonsense,” The Big Guy says, his human eye manically darting around the room. “I always have time for a man of your esteem.”

  “Uh, thanks…” Adam says, glancing back at Daizy with a confused look. “The reason we’re here—”

  The Big Guy cuts him off. “Oh, I know the reason, and I’m more than sympathetic to your cause. Believe me, I hate the UE as much as anyone.”

  “Um, right on,” Adam says.

  “I can’t offer you much in the way of military assistance.” Specks of spittle spray from his mouth with each word. “My resources are fairly limited, thanks in large part to UE meddling. But you’ll be safe as long as you’re on Earth.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Adam says, scratching his head. “Who am I safe from?”

  “Surely you are aware that the United Empires have put out a universe-wide bounty on your head.” The Big Guy scowls and leans across his desk, forcing his jittery eye on the couch. “You’re wanted for theft of government property. Their entire surveillance force is out looking for you as we speak.”

  “Oh, right,” Adam says.

  “I don’t know what you stole to get the Ears so riled up – seriously, they wouldn’t tell me.” He looses a metallic chortle. “How am I supposed to find something if I don’t know what it is? Anyway, the enemy of my enemy, and so on. If there’s anything I can do to help…”

  “Uh, thanks for your support?” Adam says. “Actually, there is something you might be able to help us with.”

  “Please,” The Big Guy says, “name it.”

  “We were downtown earlier, perusing the scrap market – it’s a great market. You’ve got a really great planet here.”

  The Big Guy smiles and nods, approvingly.

  “Anyway,” Adam continues, “while we were visiting one of your fine establishments, one of those… I guess they’re called sweepers—”

  There’s a knock at the door, and the suit steps back into the room. He leans over The Big Guy’s cluttered desk and sets a steaming mug down atop a familiar-looking cup holder, sloshing tea over its dark edges. When Daizy sees the cube, she immediately averts her eyes to avoid attracting attention. Adam notices it too, she gathers, as evidenced by his slack-jawed stare.

  “Can I get you two anything to drink?” The Big Guy asks.

  Daizy shakes her head, elbowing Adam in the ribs and breaking him from his stupor.

  “Oh yeah,” Adam says. “I’ll take an Ol’ Guard, if you got it.”

  “Of course.” The Big Guy snaps his fingers, and the suit scurries out of the room. “So what did the sweepers take from you? I hope it’s not whatever the Ears are after, or we might have to fight over it.” He leans back in his chair, straining its hinges, and produces a rusty laugh.

  “What?” Adam shouts. “No, no, no… no.”

  “Well, what is it?” The Big Guy asks. “I’ll have a team start searching for it.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Adam nervously taps his finger against his leg, and Daizy makes a mental note to play him in space poker if they ever get out of this. “One of them woke me up, that’s all. I just wanted to let somebody know, so it could be reprogrammed, or something.”

  “Fish!” The Big Guy slams his metal fist on his desk, causing the cube and everything else on the aged wood surface to rattle. “I swear, those things are more trouble than they’re worth. These days all they bring back is trash anyway. Thank you for bringing this issue to my attention. I’ll get somebody on it immediately.”

  The suit returns and hands Adam a can of Ol’ Guard, which Adam proceeds to greedily slurp and dribble onto the couch.

  “I want you to get somebody to fix those sweepers,” The Big Guy barks at the suit. “They’re out of control, waking people up, bringing me junk. Do you have any idea how much money we’re losing sorting through all of that… chit? And why am I just hearing about this now, from a tourist?”

  “I’ll get right on it, sir,” the suit says, briefly turning back to glare at Daizy and Adam on his way out.

  “The whole fishing planet would fall apart if I wasn’t here to babysit,” The Big Guy complains.

  “Yeah, that’s a… thing,” Adam says. “So, what’s with all the cool stuff in here?” As he points around the room, his eyes compulsively dart back to the cube.

  Lifting his mug and taking a loud sip, The Big Guy says, “I’m glad you asked.” He jerks to his feet and mechanically plods to the nearest display case, turning his back on the black gold cup holder reverse-glowing on his desk. “These precious objects are all that’s left of Earth’s distant past. Together they represent the history of our planet. The sweepers salvaged most of it after the last great war. But that was a long time ago, when there were still many items of value and significance to be recovered.” He turns to look at Adam, busy staring at the cube. “Are you and your frumpy feline companion interested in that sort of thing?”

  Daizy looks down at the disgusting rags Adam gave her to wear, and she slouches back against the couch cushions.

  Adam suddenly slams his beer on the table, stands, and marches across the room. “Listen, Guy…” He stares up into the cyborg’s twitching eye. “I don’t give two chits who you are, or how much cool stuff you have. I don’t like you speaking that way to my lady friend.” He points back at her and she nervously sits up. “I might not have been to every galaxy in the universe, but I’ve seen enough of it to know how special she is. Where does a disgusting, bloated fish like you get the space balls to judge anyone? I want you to apologize.”

  The Big Guy clenches his jaw and glares down at Adam’s comparatively puny frame.

  Daizy jumps up from the couch, waving her hands. “It’s all right,” she says. “He didn’t mean anything by it. That goes for both of you.”

  “I’m sorry,” The Big Guy says, with at least feigned sincerity. “It was rude of me, and I take it back.”

  “Apology accepted,” Daizy says. “Are we good?”

  The Big Guy smacks Adam on the shoulder and tells him, “I like you, kid. You remind me of a younger, dopier me.”

  “Come on, Daizy,” Adam says. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait, what about…” Daizy stares at him and nods her head toward the desk.

  “Just forget it,” Adam says, moving toward the door.

  “Hold on a second,” The Big Guy calls after them. He li
fts his mug, grabs the cube from his desk, and tosses it to Adam. “I noticed you looking at that thing, and well, I know it’s not much, but… no hard feelings?”

  “Where’s Zok?” Dave asks between pulls on a virtual slot machine.

  “Aw, he’s up in his room waiting for Adam Jones to call,” Steve says. “The guy has no idea how to relax and have a good time.” His machine flashes and rings, and a bunch of holographic gold coins tumble out. “Ha!”

  “Maybe he’s got the right idea,” Dave says. “I don’t know if we can trust The Foreman.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Steve says. “But she’s after the black gold. In order to get it, she’ll have to find Adam Jones. She’s doing our work for us. In the meantime, why not have a little fun?”

  A curvy woman in a tight-fitting black corset approaches and places her hand on Dave’s shoulder. “Can I get you boys another drink?”

  Dave smiles, struggling to keep his eyes off her ample chest. “I’ll take an Ol’ Guard.”

  “Make that two,” Steve tells her cleavage.

  “Coming right up, boys,” she says.

  She leans down to collect their empties, and her body flickers out. In her place stands a bulging, woolly man in a denim jumpsuit. He squints at his wrist, taps it a couple times, and morphs back into the waitress. As she saunters away, she glances back at Dave and winks.

  Dave’s machine, having been neglected for a few seconds, starts shouting things like, “Keep playing!” and, “You’re bound to win sooner or later!”

  “Do we even need Adam Jones?” Dave asks. “We have his grandfather. Can’t we just take the money from the old man?”

  “I already tried that,” Steve says, pulling the virtual lever in front of him. “He’s broke. His only asset is some worthless rock out in Misery Acres.”

  Dave’s machine asks for more crits and he jumps down from his stool. “I’m bored with this. Let’s do something else.”

  As if sensing his departure, his machine says, “I always knew you were a loser.”

  “You’re right,” Steve says. “But I’m sick of all this tourist chit. There has to be some real action around here somewhere.”