Space Junk

by Andrew Bixler

  “Oh great,” Ferd groans, breathing out a cloud of neon green vapor.

  Phil waddles across the lot, his pink belly bulging out from underneath a tattered gray t-shirt. “Got a spot right out front,” he squeals. “You closed today?”

  Ferd waits for his best customer to stomp closer before answering, “Nope, we’re open, as always.”

  “Well, where the fish is everybody?” Phil growls.

  “Fish if I know. Every one of my tow ships is busy, but the store is deserted. What is going on out there?”

  “Hey, can I bum one of those?” Phil asks.

  Ferd hesitates and then reluctantly plucks out another cigarette.

  Phil grabs it with his thick hoof and raises it to his glistening maw. “What is this?”

  “Zorman tobacco – the last carton,” Ferd says, taking another slow drag, mindful to savor the flavor, “for a while, at least.”

  Phil eagerly inhales, producing a string of wet sucking noises, and says, “This is the most expensive thing I ever smoked.”

  “So what kind of chit did you bring me today?” Ferd asks.

  Phil beams and holds up a doll with pink pigtails and a bright pink dress. He squeezes the doll’s stomach, and in a perky, high-pitched voice, it says, “We’re going on an adventure, you guys!”

  Ferd glances at the doll and shrugs. “I’ll give you five credits.”

  “Five crits?!” Phil squeals. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Hey, it’s just a doll, and it’s missing the tag. They make a billion of these things every day. What do you want from me?”

  “This isn’t just any doll,” Phil argues. “This is a first edition ‘Pants’ doll.”

  Ferd is unmoved. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Where the fish have you been? Pants Team Pink is the hottest thing out right now, and this is the rarest doll. It’s one of the originals, from Earth. You can’t find them anywhere. But I happen to know a guy.”

  Ferd takes a closer look at the doll. “I guess that sounds familiar, now that you mention it. I think I buy ad space from them. There are so many shows now, I can’t keep up. I could do ten credits on it.”

  “Ten crits?!”

  As Phil howls, Ferd notices a small craft sailing toward the dome. But it never reaches the airlock. “Another ackle just passing through. Where are all my customers?”

  “Maybe they joined Pants Team Pink,” Phil suggests.

  “I’m serious. Do you have any idea how much it costs just to keep the lights on? I’d be better off closing for the day.”

  The front door of the building swings open, and one of Ferd’s young, seasonal employees steps out, tapping at her phone. Ferd glares at her as she leans against the side of the building and lights a cigarette.

  “Now everyone is on break?” he asks, with a twinge of anger.

  “Nobody’s in there,” Darlene, a wispy girl with big almond eyes and a bright yellow complexion, tells him. “There’s nothing to do.”

  “There’s always something to do…” Ferd says, starting into his cleaning and leaning spiel, but he quickly loses the will. “Eh, you’re right.”

  Another ship joins the one hovering outside the dome, and he curses it under his breath.

  “OH. MY. SPACE GOD.” Darlene cries. “Is that a talking Pants?” She runs toward Phil and snatches the doll out of his hand.

  “The treasure belongs to Pants Team Pink!” the doll cries.

  “You’ve heard of that before?” Ferd asks.

  “Uh, yeah…” Darlene rolls her eyes. “This is so brule. I’m going to meet up with them later. Which reminds me, do you think I could get off a little early?”

  “Wait a second,” Ferd holds up his hands. “Who’s ‘them’?”

  “Uh, Pants Team Pink,” Darlene says.

  “I thought we were talking about a show. Is this some kind of cult?”

  “It’s not a cult,” she claims. “Listen, if you have to ask, you’ll never know.”

  “Well, whatever,” Ferd says. “We probably will close early at this rate.”

  “Hey, here come some customers,” Phil says.

  Outside, a huge swarm of ships sails up, their headlights shining bright in the night sky.

  “It’s about time,” Ferd says.

  But rather than enter the dome, the ships stream past and pull up alongside the other loiterers. Seeing them all anchored out there for free, Ferd gets the sinking feeling that this could be the parking revolt he’s always known was coming.

  “Hmph, maybe not,” Phil says.

  “What the fish is going on?” Ferd grumbles. He angrily throws his cigarette to the ground, and as he stomps it out, one of the ships explodes. “Did I do that?”

  “Fish and chit!” Phil grunts.

  Another ball of light flashes the sky, and even Darlene looks up from her phone to gaze at the fireworks.

  “You got a dogfight right on your doorstep,” Phil says. “I wonder who they are, and what they’re fighting over.”

  “Who knows?” Ferd says. “But it looks like they settled it already.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Darlene says, pointing.

  From the other end of the sky a second fleet, even bigger than the first and comprised primarily of what appear to be military warships, sails toward the dome.

  “Should we be worried?” Phil asks. “What if they hit us?”

  “Mmmm,” Ferd groans. “The dome is supposed to be fire-proof.”

  “Supposed to be?” Phil wails.

  “I’ve never had the opportunity to test it,” Ferd says.

  “Please, Space God,” Darlene prays. “Don’t let me die at work.”

  A couple more of Ferd’s employees step outside, looking panicky, and he tries to think of something reassuring to tell them. “There’s a pretty good chance they’ll miss us. Put it this way – I’d rather be in here than out there.”

  “Why did I come here today?” Phil asks.

  “You’re here every day,” Ferd says. “Besides, I think it might be over.”

  But as he says it, a beam of light streaks through the dark, and another ship bursts into white flame. A moment later, the sky is ablaze with criss-crossing fire, and a hushed dread overtakes the lot as ships start popping like ancient flashbulbs.

  Word of the war quickly spreads among Ferd’s employees, and they begin streaming outside. “Whoa, what’s happening?” one of them asks.

  “We’re about to be blown to space dust, that’s what,” Phil shrieks.

  “Chut up,” Ferd says, elbowing the swine in his spareribs. He turns toward his terrified staff and tells them, “Don’t worry, we’re all going to be fine.”

  A stray burst of fire narrowly misses the dome, and his crew falls into hysterics, crying and crumpling onto the sidewalk.

  Looking into his phone, one of Ferd’s new hires, Bort, says, “Dad? I just called to tell you I was right. This job is going to kill me.”

  “Everybody calm down,” Ferd says. “We’re going to get through this.” He looks up just as a stray projectile collides with the dome and bounces off, causing the air to vibrate and ring. “There, you see?” he says, pressing his hands over his ears. “It’ll hold.”

  Evidently unconvinced, his employees sob and clutch at each other. Phil tries to hug Ferd, and Ferd pushes him away.

  “I’m s-scared,” Phil stammers.

  “Pull yourself together, pig man,” Ferd says. “I’ve got an idea.”

  He runs inside, through the lobby, and into the back of the shop, where on the break room table, underneath a mound of fast food wrappers and condiments, he locates his phone. Snatching the little sheet of glass, and taking a brief detour to grab an Ol’ Guard, he races back outside, where he steps over shaking bodies sprawled across the sidewalk and points his phone up at the still-raging battle.

  “What are you doing?” Phil asks.

  “I’m streaming this,” Ferd says, cracking his beer with his f
ree hand.

  “How’s that going to help?”

  “It’ll be great advertising for the store.”

  “Advertising?” Phil huffs, stomping his hooves on the sidewalk. “We’re about to be killed!”

  “In that case, it won’t be much help,” Ferd says, swigging his beer. “You got a better idea?” But as he starts to record, the explosions begin to taper off. “Now they stop?”

  The ships grow still, and Ferd’s employees breathe a collective sigh. But their relief is short-lived as the night sky begins to wobble and shift all around them. A bright flash begins a torrential hail of light streaking through the dark, as if the stars themselves were revolting. As everyone in the parking lot squints up in terror at the bright anomaly, Ferd looses a wet beer belch, and the sky explodes.

  “What do you think?” Dave asks between loud slurps of his beer.

  “Guhhh?” Super Dave moans.

  Without taking his eyes off the window, Steve says, “It’s going to be close.”

  The van’s fuel gauge hit empty a long way back, and Ferd’s is still a long way off.

  “We shouldn’t have stopped at Moon Burger,” Dave says.

  “That was your idea,” Steve reminds his dimwitted partner.

  A red emergency symbol appears on the window, and the fuel alarm begins to wail as the ship plunges through the dark vacuum.

  “You seem unusually tense right now,” Dave says.

  “That’s because I don’t want to get stuck out here,” Steve barks. “The only reason you’re not losing your chit too is because you’ve been drinking all day.”

  Dave glances at the Ol’ Guard in his hand and lifts it to his mouth. “I can’t argue with that.”

  Steve pushes the accelerator as far as it will go, and the ship’s hull groans as they hurtle full speed toward the bright rock. Soon, Ferd’s sprawling warehouse and its wide asphalt parking lot come into view, dark blemishes on the moon’s pocked surface.

  “I think we’re going to make it,” Steve shouts over the screeching alarm.

  But as they close in on the moon’s airlock, the engine cuts out. The lights in the cabin flicker off and back on as the backup power kicks in, and the ship forcefully decelerates to a slow drift.

  “Chit,” Steve says, slumping against the dash.

  “Why’d you stop?” Dave asks.

  Steve turns toward the passenger seat, stone-faced. “Because the fuel cells are dead.”

  “Hmm…” Dave glances around the cockpit. “But the lights are still on. The backup must be working.”

  “It’s working. But we don’t have enough power to move.”

  “Oh no!” With a look of terror, Dave grasps at his neck. “We’re going to run out of oxygen. I can already feel my lungs collapsing.”

  “The life support system won’t give out for days.”

  “Oh,” Dave says. “Good.”

  “But we’ll have to get a tow.” Shoving aside a heap of crumpled beer cans, Steve grabs his phone from the dash and uses it to send their coordinates to the nearby moon. “Says it’s going to be three to five hours.”

  “Three to five hours?” Dave moans, pressing his finger against the window. “But it’s right there.”

  “They must be booked.”

  “Well,” Dave says, straightening. “If this mission has taught me anything, it’s resilience. There’s only one thing to do at a time like this.” He reaches into the fridge and tosses Steve an Ol’ Guard.

  As they drift past Ferd’s, few ships come or go, and Steve suddenly realizes that the whole sector is practically deserted. Something about the dearth of traffic strikes him as almost eerie, but before he can probe the mystery any further, he’s distracted by Dave reaching across the dash.

  “I bet we could trade this thing for promotions,” Dave says, snatching the black gold. “I’d love to order Trant around for a change.”

  “It would almost be worth it just to see the look on his face.” Steve slurps his beer, grinning at the thought. “But I’m sure we could figure out a less costly way of making his life miserable.”

  “I can think of about a dozen off the top of my head.”

  “It still hasn’t sunken in,” Steve says, unable to take his eyes off the cube. “The most valuable object in the universe… We’re going to be able to do anything we want!”

  “You wouldn’t know it to look at the thing.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Steve grabs the cube from Dave’s hand and examines it more closely, as if some undiscovered facet might reveal itself. “It’s hard to believe it’s the real deal. It looks pretty unremarkable, for what that’s worth.”

  “Apparently it’s worth a lot.” Dave sucks the last drip of beer from his can and reaches into the fridge for another. “Although, a lifetime’s worth of evidence would suggest otherwise.”

  “I could finally buy my own planet,” Steve says. “I’ll call it ‘Steveland.’”

  “I think you can do better than that.”

  “You’re right, that’s no good. What about ‘Steveania?’”

  “I’ve always wanted one of those huge luxury ships,” Dave says. “You know, the ones from the commercials – ‘If it’s not a Spacehog, it ain’t ship.’”

  “I’ve got it! I’ll call it ‘Scrapper’s Delight.’”

  “Uh, I think that’s already taken.”

  “Oh yeah… In any case, all this pain in the ack working is finally about to pay off.”

  “I know that’s right,” Dave says, toasting the air.

  After a few more beers, Dave passes out in his seat, and Steve sneaks to the back to retrieve the last ration from the cupboard. Unfortunately, it’s the one ‘plain-style’ included in every variety case. As he’s choking down the chalky gruel, he notices a small but growing glint of light in the distance.

  “Hey,” Steve says, shaking Dave awake. “I think this is the tow ship.”

  “Finally,” Dave says, rubbing his eyes. “I was having the best dream about—”

  “The Foreman.”

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  Steve points at the impossibly nice, blacker-than-space clipper ship hovering outside the window, and Dave’s mouth drops. The Foreman’s disfigured visage appears on the glass, somehow even more beguiling than it had been before half it was torn off.

  “Guhhh,” Super Dave whines, trembling.

  “Ahoy!” The Foreman says, her right eye obscured by her makeshift eyepatch. “It looks like you boys are experiencing a little trouble. It’s a good thing I found you. There’s no telling who you might run into out here.”

  “Hi!” Dave says, waving.

  Steve elbows his grinning partner. “Chut up.” Turning to The Foreman, he asks, “What do you want?”

  “I want to help you, of course,” she says. “And it will hardly cost you a thing.”

  “What’s your price?” Steve asks.

  “Oh, I think you know the price.” She throws her head back and lets out a grating mechanical laugh.

  “The black gold is going to cost you more than a tow,” Steve says.

  “Don’t be so hasty.” She peers through the screen with her twinkling eye. “I’m also considering allowing you to keep your pathetic lives. How about that for a deal?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Steve says. “We don’t need your help. We already got somebody coming for us, with a much more intimidating ship than yours,” he lies. “But we appreciate the offer.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” she says.

  A small fleet of dark warships pulls up alongside her, and before long there’s an army of ramshackle, for-hire junkers at her stern, stretching back like dead pixels burnt into the night sky.

  “Da-ave…” she coos. "I really don’t want to hurt you. You understand the situation. Talk some sense into your chidiot partner, there. You know what’s going to happen if you don’t give me what I want.”

  “The black gold is ours,” Steve says.

>   Ignoring him, she says, “Once this is all over, we’ll have the opportunity to get to know each other much more… intimately.” She bites her bottom lip, and Steve can sense Dave’s resolve weakening.

  “I’ve never gotten a better offer in my life,” Dave mumbles nervously. He pauses for a moment. “Throw in a couple suites at Scrapper’s Delight and you got a deal.”

  The Foreman waves her hand, as if literally brushing their concerns aside. “Fine, it’s yours.”

  “Really? All right!” Dave cheers.

  “Hey, that’s not bad,” Steve says. “Nice work, Dave!”

  “Good, we’re all happy,” The Foreman says. “I’ll have you towed to Ferd’s, and then…” she trails off. “Oh no… what’s he doing here?”

  Not far from them, a familiar junker weaves through the scrapper army at breakneck speed. The heap emerges from the tangle of ships and careens toward the defenseless van with no indication of slowing. Waving the universal sign for ‘don’t hit us, you chidiot,’ Steve and Dave brace for impact. But at the last possible instant, the junker swerves and comes to an abrupt stop in front of their ship.

  “Ughh,” Steve groans when he sees the red paint on the junker’s hull. “It’s the Asteroid Jones.”

  Adam Jones’s image appears on the window, dumb as ever. “I don’t want to get involved with whatever you’ve got going on here,” he says. “But I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

  “Hey, we traded you fair and square,” Steve tells him. “It’s not like you didn’t get anything out of the deal.”

  “Listen, Dave, Daizy gave you the black gold. But it wasn’t hers to give. You can reinstate my debt. I don’t care.”

  “I’m Steve.” He rolls his eyes. “And it’s too late for that now. You should know as well as anyone; our claim to the black gold is protected under the oldest of the universal laws – finders keepers.”

  “The black gold no longer belongs to you, Adam Jones,” The Foreman says. “Leave now and you might still survive this.”

  “Oh great,” Adam grumbles.

  She smiles, hideously, her metallic jaw glinting. “That was a fine trick you played on me.”