“Uh, excuse me,” he said, stepping into the path of an anxious-looking woman with a head that instantly made him think of bananas. The woman darted around him, her expression turning to one of absolute terror before she was lost in the crowds.
“Hey. Hi. Sorry, can I…?” he asked another passer-by. The look this one gave him was far more aggressive than frightened, then he, too, was swallowed by the throngs.
Cal tried a few more times to get someone’s attention.
“Hey there!”
“Sorry to bother you…
“Look, don’t run, OK? I’m not going to… Wait, come back!”
He grabbed at thin air in frustration, like he could somehow choke the life right out of it. Then, once he’d realized this was making everyone give him an even wider berth, he stopped.
With a grunt of effort, Cal heaved himself onto the billboard map and clambered all the way to the top. Wobbling unsteadily, he looked out over the heads of the city’s pedestrians, clapped his hands several times, then cupped them around his mouth.
“Attention, please!” he called. Most people pointedly ignored him, but a few looked his way. “Can anyone tell me how I can get Up There? Is there, like, a cab service, or, I don’t know, an elevator or…?”
Something struck him in the center of the chest with a faint whump. It didn’t hit him hard, and it didn’t hurt, but it somehow stuck there, a few inches below his neck. It was the size and shape of a hockey puck, with a blinking green light right in the middle.
“What fresh Hell is this now?” Cal muttered, and then the device began to vibrate.
Something like an electric shock snapped him to attention and made his whole body go rigid. He felt his muscles contract uncomfortably, but it didn’t hurt, exactly. What did hurt, however, was when he toppled backwards like a fallen tree, and cracked his head on the sidewalk.
He tried to say something – “Ow,” probably – but his teeth were clamped together, his throat was tight, and there was a fluttering darkness rapidly creeping in from the corners of the sky. Cal saw the clouds go from gray to black. He saw a figure, all in white, step over him.
And then, he saw nothing at all.
* * *
Cal sat up with a start, a gasp, and a jumble of incomprehensible vowels tumbling from his mouth. He was in a perfectly white, almost featureless room, and had been asleep at a long white table made of some sort of space plastic, to which both his hands were currently chained. His chair was at one end of the table, while a female alien with a long, beak-like nose and beady, cynical eyes, sat at the other end, watching him. Unlike Cal, she appeared to be free to come and go as she pleased.
The fake ID sat almost directly between them on the tabletop. There was a jug of water and an empty glass beside it. Cal smacked his dry lips together. A drink would be good, right about now. It might help with the drum solo currently pounding inside his skull.
“The Jolter has that effect,” said the woman. Her voice was as clipped and officious as her face suggested.
Cal frowned. “Huh?”
“You’re thirsty. Everyone is always thirsty.”
“Oh. Yeah. Can I get a drink?”
“Yes. But not yet,” said the woman. She shuffled a small stack of what looked like index cards. “Tell me, Mr Muntch, have you been Down Here long?”
It took Cal a few seconds to remember that he was the Mr Muntch she was referring to. “Hmm? Oh, uh, no, not really.”
The woman nodded curtly. “Uh-huh,” she said, clicking her tongue against her teeth.
Cal could vaguely recall his skull smashing against the ground. That wasn’t the spot where his headache was stemming from, so he guessed any damage he’d sustained had healed up. He tried to reach back there to feel for any bumps, but the chain restraints were too short to get his hands high enough. It wouldn’t occur to him until several hours later that he could just have lowered his head.
“What is this about…?” Cal spotted a name badge on the woman’s pristinely white suit. “Uh… Cellophane?”
“It’s pronounced ‘Kellofeen,’” the woman corrected in a sort of dull monotone that suggested she had to say that exact phrase a hundred times a day. “And this was originally about you causing a public disturbance, but that was before we uncovered a much more serious matter.”
“Oh,” said Cal. He locked and loaded one of his more charming smiles. “Huh. Really? Did you? Interesting. I can’t imagine what that might be.”
He glanced at the fake ID and ratcheted the smile up another few notches. “I mean, how serious are we talking, exactly?”
“Very serious,” said Cellophane, and her expression definitely backed that up. “The most serious crime of all.”
Cal gulped. “Murder?” he asked. “No, wait. It’s not genocide, is it? Because that wasn’t my fault.”
“Worse!” Cellophane spat.
“Worse than genocide?” Cal thought for a moment, but came up blank. “Double genocide?”
“You are unemployed, Mr Muntch.”
Cal blinked. “Sorry?”
Cellophane leapt to her feet and slammed both hands on the table with a sharp, sudden bang that echoed around the starkly bare room. “Unemployed, sir! You are not in employment!”
She glared at him with such ferocity he was sure he shrunk a full inch and a half. “Uh, yeah. I guess. Is that a problem? I mean, you know, compared to genocide?”
Cellophane continued her glaring for several lingering seconds, then lowered herself back into her chair. “This is a city of full employment, Mr Muntch. Full. Employment. We are proud of that fact, and we do not tolerate shirkers or malingerers Down Here. Everyone in the city works. Everyone contributes. Everyone plays their part.”
“Gotcha,” said Cal. “It’s just, like I say, I haven’t been here long.”
“According to our records, Mr Muntch, you have lived here for several years.”
Cal’s eyes crept to the ID card. “Ha! Really? Has it been that long? Wow. Time flies, doesn’t it?” He shrugged. “Well, you got me. I’ll go out and find myself a job right away. If you could just…” He held up the chains and rattled them encouragingly. Along the table Cellophane stared at him and shuffled her cards.
“I have taken your education and experience into account, and matched you with some available opportunities,” she said. “As you have neither education nor experience, these opportunities are limited. However, I’m sure you’ll agree, any one of them is better than the alternative.”
“What’s the alternative?” Cal asked.
“Death, Mr Muntch. The alternative is death.”
Cal sighed. Yep. This definitely was not turning out to be one of his better days.
“OK, then let’s hear them. What have you got?” Cal asked.
Cellophane’s eyes flicked to the first card. “A position has opened up in the Mines of Poktar.”
Cal leaned back in surprise. “Oh! Huh. OK. That sounds… interesting. What does it involve? Like, walking into the wind, trapped in an invisible box, or whatever?”
Cellophane gazed impassively back at him. “It involves digging holes in the ground.”
“What? Oh, the Mines of Poktar? Sorry, totally misheard. God, no, not that one. What else do you have?”
She flicked to the next card. Her nostrils flared and her lips thinned in distaste. “Late night attendant at Schmargart’s strip club.”
Cal raised his eyebrows. “I’m listening.”
“Duties would include serving drinks, taking tickets, and mopping… organic fluids from the protective glass screens surrounding—”
“Nope! Next.”
That card went to the back of the stack. Cellophane read the next one. “Ship valeter.”
“Ship valeter?” said Cal. “As in…?”
“As in someone who valets ships,” Cellophane replied. “Duties include cleaning inside and outside of vehicles, dealing with customers, and the safe disposal of chemical liquids. Must have good at
tention to detail, and own sponge.” She looked Cal up and down, silently appraising how likely he was to possess either of these qualities. “Do you have your own sponge, Mr Muntch?”
“Are you kidding me? You know what people call me? They call me ‘the Spongeinator’. I don’t have a sponge, no. I have a hundred sponges.”
“Why?”
Cal hadn’t been prepared for that. “Why?” he snorted. He licked his dry lips. “Why what?”
“Why do you have a hundred sponges?” Cellophane asked. “That seems like too many.”
“Well… that may be. To me, it seems like not enough!” Cal said, fully committing to the sponge thing. “More sponges, I say! Sponges for everyone!”
“We could provide you with a sponge, if required,” Cellophane said.
Cal nodded and quietly cleared his throat. “OK. Yes. That would be helpful. Thanks.”
Cellophane set the other cards down on the table, retaining only the top one. She began to tap on the desktop beside her. As she did, symbols illuminated briefly beneath her fingertips. Her eyes darted back and forth between the card and the table, as her fingers continued to drum out the increasingly lengthy series of keystrokes.
“Can I get a drink now?” Cal asked.
“Not yet.”
She continued tapping.
Cal eyed the jug of water. Condensation clung coquettishly to the outside of the curved glass, teasing him. God, it looked good.
“It’s just… I’m really thirsty.”
Cellophane’s typing faltered, then stopped. She looked from the card to her keypad and back again a few times, then fixed Cal with a somber stare as she held down a single button – presumably the backspace – for several seconds.
“Not yet,” she said again, then she very deliberately returned her eyes to the card and went back to tapping.
A number of minutes later – fewer than ten, but more than five, Cal reckoned – Cellophane stopped typing. There was a snarky-sounding bleep from the tabletop, and the woman made a tutting sound with her nose.
“They require an aptitude test,” she announced.
“An aptitude test? For using a sponge?” said Cal.
Cellophane nodded. “I’ve arranged for you to take the test within the hour. If all goes well, that should be the last you ever see of me. If it doesn’t… Well, let’s just hope that isn’t the case.”
“OK, sounds like a plan,” said Cal. “Now, can I get some water?”
Cellophane placed her card on the table with a click and reached for the jug. “I’m afraid this is for me, Mr Muntch,” she said, pouring herself a glass. “But you’re going to work at a ship wash. Soon, you’ll have all the water you could ever need.”
* * *
A little over three hours later, Cal sat back at the same white table in the same white room, held in place by the same metal chains as last time.
“Well, Mr Muntch,” said Cellophane, as she slowly tore one of her cards in two. “That didn’t go well, did it?”
The aptitude test had started well enough. Tanso, the owner, had been impressed at how quickly Cal had grasped the main thrust of the business – ‘make dirty ships clean’ – and, Cal liked to believe, was suitably dazzled by his sponge-wrangling skills.
Cal, for his part, quite liked Tanso and the other guys on the crew. Most of them were native Parlooqs, and their meticulous slowness made the speed of Cal’s sponge-work appear almost supernaturally fast by comparison. They were a pretty fun bunch, though, as long as you weren’t in any kind of rush, and that had been the problem.
It was the third customer that had done it. He was short, but wide, and wore a suit that practically had, ‘Ooh, someone’s doing well for themselves,’ emblazoned across all four tailored sleeves.
He’d flown down in something that looked like a pond-skater, with long thin legs that somehow managed to sparkle in the weak, cloud-filtered light. As far as size went, it was considerably smaller than the Untitled, but could probably have held five or so people at a push, as long as none of them valued their own personal space too highly.
Cal knew absolutely nothing about the ship’s performance, but its insect-like legs and chunky curves immediately won him round. This was the ship he was going to steal, he knew. If it couldn’t get him to Loren, it could at least get him Up There, and from there he could make plans to get off-planet.
The problem started when the customer opened his mouth. The Parlooqs always did an excellent job, but they did it slowly. Tanso had even turned it into a gimmick - ‘Ships cleaned while U wait a long time!’ – and the first couple of customers had known exactly what to expect.
When the guy in the suit started first shouting instructions, then firing insults at the Parlooqs, Cal had tried to ignore it. He’d filled his bucket, soaked his sponge, and set to work.
But they were nice guys. Too nice to have to listen to the things being shouted at them from the waiting area. Cal had felt the shame and embarrassment radiating off them in waves as they’d tried to fight against generations of evolution and hurry up. They just didn’t have it in them, though, and after listening to one too many bellowed slurs, Cal had force-fed the guy his sponge.
Tanso had not been as understanding as Cal had hoped, given the fact the customer had been abusing his staff. Midway through the next clean, another hockey puck sized device had landed on Cal’s back. He’d snapped to attention as electricity had jolted through him, and then found himself back here, as if the whole episode at the car wash had been a dream.
“It could have gone better,” Cal agreed. “I don’t know what came over me. But, to be fair, the guy was a total shizznod, and deserved everything he got.” He shifted uncomfortably. “However, I’m afraid I’m unable to return your sponge at the present time. Sorry about that.”
Cellophane exhaled through her long nose. “Do you wish to die, Mr Muntch? Is that your goal?”
“What? No,” said Cal. “It was just a misunderstanding, that’s all. Can I try again?”
“No. No, you can’t,” said Cellophane. She opened her hands, then clasped them together, signifying the conversation had reached its end, and that Cal’s life wouldn’t be far behind.
“There must be something I can do. There’s got to be another job. What about one of those other ones you mentioned? I can do one of them.”
“Gone,” said Cellophane. “All gone.”
“There has to be something,” Cal said. He smiled the best smile he could manage. “Right?”
Cellophane rolled her tongue around in her mouth, as if trying to wrestle it into submission. Finally, she tapped the hidden keyboard in her table. Cal tried prodding around on his end of the table, in case he had one, too. He didn’t.
“Oh. It seems you might be in luck, Mr Muntch. Following an… unfortunate incident in the workplace, a position has, in fact, become available.”
“Great! I’ll take it, whatever it is. Miner. Jizz-mopper. I’ll do it. Is there an aptitude test?”
“Not for this.”
“Even better! When do I start?”
Tap. Tap-tap.
“Tomorrow morning. I’ll just need to take a few details, like your address.”
Cal hesitated. “My address?”
“Yes,” said Cellophane. She lowered her head and peered at him, as if over a pair of invisible spectacles. “You do have an address, Mr Muntch?”
“Not currently,” said Cal. “I’m kind of between apartments at the moment. You know how it is.”
“No. I don’t.”
Tap-tap. Tap.
“In luck again, Mr Muntch. The position offers optional accommodation. Shared, of course, and in the Stagnates, but better than nothing.” Her head tilted slightly left to right, as she weighed this up. “Although, perhaps only just.”
“It’s a tempting offer,” Cal admitted. “You know, since it’d mean I wouldn’t have to die, or anything.” He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Deal. I’ll take it.”
�
��Excellent,” said Cellophane. She began tapping again. Cal waited until she was finished, this time, rather than interrupt.
“One question,” he said. “What’s the job?”
The desktop let out its overly-critical ding again. Cellophane steepled her fingers in front of her, and leaned forwards onto her elbows.
“Tell me, Mr Muntch,” she said. “Are you familiar with ‘Nana Joan’s’?”
CHAPTER NINE
Loren checked the controls, watched the stars streaking across the screen for a few seconds, then checked the controls again. She was trying not to think too much about Cal and the others. This was being made more difficult by Splurt, who had taken the form of Cal, and was sitting in his chair, glaring at her accusingly, while drumming his fingers on his arm rests.
“Look, I had to, OK?” Loren said, for the fifth or sixth time since they’d left Parloo. “He’ll understand. They’ll all understand.”
Splurt/Cal continued to drum his fingers.
“And it’s not like I’m abandoning them. Once I speak to Dash – once I sort this out – we’ll go back for them. This time tomorrow, we’ll all be laughing about this. Trust me.”
“I’m not convinced he’s buying it, ma’am,” intoned Kevin.
Loren glanced back over her shoulder. Splurt glared at her through Cal’s eyes.
“Yeah. I think you’re right,” said Loren. She looked up. “You believe me, though. Right, Kevin?”
“Well, that isn’t really my place to say.”
Loren shrugged, then checked the controls. “OK.”
“But I will say if you want me to.”
“It’s fine.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you, anyway,” Kevin informed her. “Here’s what I think, since you asked.”
“I didn’t. Well, I did, but I changed my mind.”
“Well, let’s pretend that you didn’t change your mind. Here’s what I think. I think you most probably intend to go back for them. I think you have every intention of attending to matters with the Symmorium, then returning to Parloo to retrieve the others.”
Loren turned to Splurt and gave a satisfied nod. “Thank you, Kevin. See?”
Space Team: The Guns of Nana Joan Page 10