by Dana Kelly
“Then you know why!” Ellylle yelled.
“There’d be decades of war,” said Reggie. “Millions would die. Trees would die, too!”
“Of course, they would! I will never understand you fleshlings and your fear of death.” Ellylle began to relax again. “It’ll take some time, and there will be growing pains, but with this, the four of us are going to restart the galaxy. Under my leadership, all people everywhere will return to a state of balance with the natural world.”
“The four of us?” asked Lomomu.
“Yes, and if we’re going to do this, I’d like to keep Old Siberian on indefinite open retainer. That means we go where I want, when I want, and no questions asked.” She looked at Reggie. “Let’s say a million credits a month. Does that sound reasonable?”
Reggie’s throat bobbed. “Can we get that in writing?”
“Gentlemen,” said Zella. “Ah need a moment with ye both.”
“Take all the time you need,” said Ellylle. She returned her attention to the radiant gemstone
Reggie and Lomomu followed Zella out into the passageway. She spun around to face them. “Ye cannae be tempted by her siren’s song, Cap’n! She’s pure skyrockets!”
“But her money’s not,” said Lomomu. “Besides, you said it yourself—she’s delusional. What’s the risk?”
“Were that true, she’d nae be fit tae conduct business, and all that money yer fawnin over’s goin right back into her coffers.” Zella narrowed her gaze. “Ah said skyrockets. Ah never said delusional. Thaur’s a difference. A delusional mind edits reality tae fit the dream. Skyrockets explode. Ye get me?”
“I get you, but hear me out,” said Reggie. “Ellylle believes that stone she’s holding is a world seed. Technically, it’s impossible to disprove, so let’s humor her for a million a month. We can do that.”
“Impossible tae disprove? Ye take a hammer, an ye crack it open,” said Zella. “That’ll disprove it fast enough!”
“Look, okay—maybe,” said Reggie. “I’m just saying it takes a special kind of faith to come all the way out here to get the object of your obsession. On top of that, she truly believes she can reformat an entire planet with that thing, which could take centuries for all she knows.” He glanced at Lomomu. “Like you said, what’s the risk?”
Zella shook her head, incredulous. “Ye’re as daft as she is! Imagine she’s tellin the truth. Whether it’s called Nyx or Killseed or Radgybottom, imagine whit happens tae Earth if it actually consumes every inorganic thing!”
“It’s probably just a piece of cut onyx,” said Reggie. “If it’s not, we’ll just crack it open with a hammer before it goes too far.”
Zella crossed her arms. “Ye know damn well it’s more ‘an a piece of cut onyx. It’s somethin.”
“Maybe it’s a new tech stone,” said Lomomu. “Really high end.”
“An how d’ye figure that?” Zella paused, raising her index finger. “Wait. I thenk I know. It was the guardians, right? Dead brilliant giveaway, that. Or maybe ye deduced it was a tech stone by how it was kept fir a thousand years in a magical beach ball located in the heart of an alien metropolis fifty thousand light years off the galactic plane!” She looked annoyed. “Lomomu, thenk it through.”
“Hey, be nice,” said Reggie. “And keep it down, will you?”
“She killed seven of her own tae get it,” said Zella. “That stone does somethin.”
Reggie took her by the hands. “Okay, I see your point. You’re probably right, and maybe that stone does something, maybe even what Ellylle thinks it does.” He smiled warmly. “Let’s say that’s true, and we say no, she’ll just hire someone else to fly her around. But if it’s true and she hires us…”
“We’ll be there to raise that hammer and save the day,” said Lomomu. “Imagine us, savin’ Earth.”
Zella groaned and yanked her hands away. “Damn it, Cap’n.”
Reggie grinned. “I’ll tell Ellylle the good news.”
Chapter 4
Night Drive
Twilight cloaked the skyscraper’s mirrored glass, crowned in black and fading from purple velvet into a splash of dying fire. Double doors drifted closed at Orin’s back, and he paused a moment to retrieve a folded square of holopaper from his blue jeans pocket. The headline read, “Prime Minister Carver Needs You!” Below that, “Join Prime Minister’s Carver’s Campaign Team, and you can make a brighter future for Rhyondans everywhere! Re-election means real change! Humans OK!”
Glancing skyward for an instant, he thought, Please let me get this, and he closed his eyes.
From behind him, a woman urged, “Excuse me!”
“Sorry,” Orin replied, and he stepped aside. A slim ocelini in a business suit hurried past, her sapphire mane bobbing with each footfall. Orin’s heart sank; he recognized her as the very woman he had just interviewed with. “Sorry!” he called out.
If the ocelini had heard him, she gave no indication.
“Perfect timing,” he grumbled, and he shook his head. Drawing a deep breath, he shouldered his backpack and walked toward the boulevard. Soon after, a taxi pulled up, and he climbed inside. He selected “Home” from the destination presets, “Nature Sounds” from his playlists, and fastened his seatbelt. The vehicle glided along luminous byways that threaded the soaring skyline, while rivers of sky cars flowed slowly overhead.
Orin pulled a wrinkled notebook from his pack. He leafed through it, comparing his notes to the Galactic History textbook on his phone, though he found it difficult to focus. With a sigh, he stowed his notebook and instead spent his time replaying the interview in his mind. Absently, he listened to the storm as it played, and he tapped the armrest as the taxi raced quietly along.
In time, the vehicle interrupted his playlist with a gentle chime, and a woman’s garbled voice announced something unintelligible. Orin tapped the dash, and the voice restarted. “You have arrived at your destination. Thank you for choosing OmniVoy’s Collegiate Commuter Fleet. Have a great day!”
He murmured, “You too.” After packing his bag, he exited, and the tiny vehicle sped away. In front of him stood a block of dormitory towers, connected by a network of pedestrian bridges. Chipped concrete and hairline fissures dressed the façade, along with two stories of colorful graffiti. Nearby, people huddled around trash fires. Their shadows danced erratically upon the surrounding walls and sidewalks.
His gaze found the parking pods under a nearby tower, and he approached the barred entry gate. It clicked after reading his gene key, and he stepped inside. Unhurried, he descended the commuter ramp before him. “Hey Albert,” he muttered.
An aged man sat within a security booth and returned the greeting. “Hey Orin!” He offered a friendly smile. “Sorry about the smell.”
“Smell?” Orin regarded Albert curiously. “I don’t smell anything.”
“You will. It’s subtle at first, but it builds, and it sticks in your nose.” He glanced along a row of parking pods, toward the lifts. “There’s a group of transient protos camping out on the basement level. Marshelle said she’d help me ask them to leave, but she’s got the whole campus to worry about, so who knows when that’s going to happen, and I’m not about to confront them alone.”
“Protos?”
Albert nodded. “You know…” He whispered, “Protolinis.”
Orin shook his head. “Sounds like a pasta dish.”
Hanging his head low, Albert quietly added, “No, I mean… the cave-dwellers. Rhyon’s natives?”
“Oh, the felinins!” said Orin. “It sucks how the ocelinis treat us, but it’s bullshit how they treat their own.”
“You got that right,” said Albert.
“Oh.” Orin winced. “There’s the smell. If you don’t feel like waiting, I can keep you company if you like.”
“Thanks anyway, but it could put you in danger.”
Crossing his arms, Orin asserted, “I’m a pretty big guy. You might be surprised at how many fights I’ve intimidated m
y way out of.”
Albert chuckled. “What about the fights where you weren’t able to do that? How many of those did you lose?”
“None.” Orin stood proudly.
With good humor, Albert asked, “How many fights have you been in?”
Orin laughed. “None.”
“I’ll wait for Marshelle.” Albert leaned back in his chair. “See you around, kid.”
“See you around.”
Orin headed deeper into the lot. He soon reached his parking pod and the covered vehicle within. Dim lighting disguised empty and rusted tool drawers that vanished almost seamlessly into the walls. A malfunctioning view screen presently hiccupped through jittered scenes of picturesque landscapes. With a wistful smile, he leaned across the hood and lingered there awhile, running his hand along the polyester shroud. “I’ll miss you.”.
Eventually, he made his way up the elevator to the twelfth floor. He crossed a covered bridge to the hall that led to his dorm room. With weighted footfalls, he approached its entrance. An overhead strip light turned from orange to green as he approached, and the door slid open. Stepping inside, he dropped his backpack on the couch and glanced at the stairs leading up to his bedroom. He took a moment to set the windows to “Starry Lakefront” and went to the kitchen to prepare a bowl of asada-flavored ramen.
After eating and giving a few hours to his homework, games, and shows, he turned out the downstairs lights and sat before his illuminated fish tank. He slid back its glass lid and tapped a canister of food upon the tank’s black plastic frame. Tiny flakes drifted here and there, catching the attention of a small school of neon tetras. He gazed awhile as they darted here and there, streaks of florescent red and blue.
After his fish were done eating, he checked on the water filter and switched off the tank’s overhead light. Orin made his way upstairs and tossed his hoodie over the back of a desk chair. By rote, he checked his alarms, set his phone upon its charger, and activated its floating clock. He stripped to his boxers and slid under the sheets.
◆◆◆
Orin’s phone buzzed. Sleepily, he lifted it from its charge plate, just in time to miss the call. It displayed “Torsha Madagan” under a picture of two eggs cooking in a skillet. He smiled and called her back.
Over the thumping electronic music at her location, “Are you awake?” came garbled through the phone.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” he replied. “Where are you?”
“Nostromo’s,” said Torsha. “Can you come get me?”
“Sure.” He smiled as he yawned. “Be right there.”
“You’re the best,” she cheered, and she hung up.
Curling up from his bed, Orin slipped into a fresh pair of socks and climbed into a heavy shirt. He hopped clumsily into the same pair of blue jeans. As he pulled on his boots, he placed another call.
“What is it?” mumbled a voice on the other end.
“Hey, Mike. You awake?”
The phone displayed “Miguel Santos” and his still portrait. He sounded sleepy. “It’s 4:43 in the morning.”
“I’m taking a sunrise drive, and I was hoping you could join me,” said Orin.
Mike sounded annoyed. “Where?”
“Van Alder.”
“Where in Van Alder?” asked Mike, and he yawned.
“Nostromo’s,” said Orin.
Mike grunted slightly as he shifted. “I hate that place.”
“I know,” said Orin. “I remember.”
“Isn’t it closed by now?”
“Not Nostromo’s. It’s open round the clock,” said Orin.
“Wonderful.” Mike drew a deep breath. “Orin, if you know I hate that place, then why did you think I’d say yes?”
“Because it’s a nice drive, and we’ll only be there long enough to pick up Torsha.”
“You should’ve opened with that,” Mike groaned. “Why don’t you tell her to call a cab like everyone else? You’re not her personal chauffer. She lives in the area. She could be home in twenty minutes.”
“You know I’m not going to do that. Besides, I already said yes.”
“I have class today,” grumbled Mike.
Orin laughed, “No you don’t! You never take Friday classes.”
“I was thinking about adding one.”
“Six weeks into the semester? Come on, Mike. Come with me! It’ll be good to see Torsha again. See if Nimbus can come. How long has it been since the four of us did anything together?”
“Not long enough,” he mumbled into his pillow. “I need sleep.”
Orin’s tone softened. “Look, Mike, I have to surrender the truck. I can’t afford the payments anymore, and today’s the drop-dead date. This is my last ride.” A lengthy pause followed. “You still there?”
“Well, that sucks.”
“Believe me, I know.”
After a moment, Mike answered, “All right, I’ll come. Nimbus is recharging, so I don’t know if he’ll be able to make it, but I’ll ask him.”
“Thank you. I’ll pick you up at the Red Raptor.”
“Sounds good.”
Orin donned his orange jacket, slid his phone into a sleeve pocket and hurried out the door. He descended to the parking level and soon reached his pod. Upon arriving, he spotted a child-sized figure, barely visible under his truck. He squatted low to get a better look. “Hey there,” he said. “You might want to move.”
Slim and decidedly caracal-like in appearance, the tatterdemalion felinin curled against the vehicle’s reactor. “No,” it purred. “Warm here.”
Orin sighed. “You need to move.”
It smiled sleepily. “Later.”
“No, now,” Orin insisted.
It pointed a lengthy claw his way. “You take transit. Warm here.”
Wearing a stern expression, Orin stated, “This isn’t a debate. You have until the count of three to vacate. One… Two…”
It stepped into view and hissed, “Mean! You mean!”
“It’s my truck, not your home!”
Lowering its golden eyes, the creature whispered, “Warm like home.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I can only imagine what you’re going through, but…” A pang of sympathy crossed Orin’s face. “Look, you can stay in my pod until I get back, okay?”
“Pod not warm,” it breathed, and it slinked away.
Orin opened his mouth to call after it, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. His shoulders sank somewhat, and he returned his attention to his truck. Carefully, he pulled off the polyester cover and folded it neatly. He stored it in his toolbox and paused to regard his vehicle.
Aggressively large and matte black, it had tall wheel wells and a sleek, extended cabin accessible from two massive doors and a small passenger-side door. A chrome roll bar butted up against the back window, where a set of covered flood lights perched. From the truck’s door handles and hood latches, pinpoint lamps cast cones of blue light. Mounted to the grill, a hazy blue glow seeped continuously from the truck’s logo plate.
With a bittersweet sigh, Orin opened the driver’s side door and climbed inside. The engine started with a reverberant growl, and the reverse alarm sounded as he backed up. A moment later, he rumbled past rows of parking pods.
Upon reaching the gate, Albert waved, and Orin rolled down his window. Albert said, “Don’t usually see you this close to the end of my shift. Getting an early start?”
“Rescuing a friend,” Orin replied.
“That’s nice of you.” Albert glanced toward the lifts before returning his attention to Orin. “Sorry to ask, but there’s still one of those protos loose in the parking garage. Their smell is much less when they’re alone, and it makes them tricky to find. Don’t suppose you spotted it on the way out, did you?”
“No, sir. No felinins that I saw.”
“You sure?” He leaned back in his chair. “Truck like that has to have a mighty warm reactor, perfect for a wayward proto on a cold autumn night, like tonight.”
“I’m sure,” Orin replied.
Warmly, Albert laughed. “All right, then. You have a good morning, now.”
“You too,” said Orin, and he exited the garage.
Driving around the block, he reached the crowded food court at the heart of the dormitory towers. Like ivy, neon signs climbed the nearby walls. Tiny pillows of steam and smoke rose from a dozen carts, attended by their cooks. At the opposite end, the community’s most impoverished gathered at a rundown breakfast bar, waiting for it to open.
He parked and slipped through the crowd, headed for the crimson doors of the Red Raptor. The savory scent of pork, bacon and egg dumplings wafted from within, teasing his senses. Sidestepping a man sound asleep on a bench, he nearly bumped into Mike.
Wearing a smile, Mike held up a stacked pair of Red Raptor boxes and a cardboard beverage caddy. Steam rolled in wisps from two plastic lids. “What took you so long?” Black, close-cropped hair outlined his tawny-brown skin.
“There was a felinin camped out under my truck.”
He passed Orin the drinks. “What did you do?”
Orin shook his head. “I convinced it to leave. I guess I should’ve told it where to find the nearest homeless shelter, but I didn’t think of that until I was on the road.”
“Shelters are off limits to them,” replied Mike.
“Why?”
“Urban Ministry downgraded them to ‘minor intelligence’ status. Now, hundreds of thousands of the poor creatures are suddenly homeless, and winter’s only a couple months away.”
“The hell with the Urban Ministry,” snapped Orin. “All those bastards care about is scratching each other’s backs! Is there anything Falcon can do?”
Mike glanced away. “Not unless they petition for citizenship.”
“On Monday, I’ll talk to someone in the Civil Rights Club. Maybe they’ve got some ideas.”
Taking a moment to adjust his jacket, Mike regarded Orin curiously. “Not that I’m complaining, but since when did you start caring so much about felinins?”
Orin shrugged. “Since tonight, I guess.”
Mike teased. “There’s hope for you yet, my friend.”