Space Team: Sting of the Mustard Mines

by Barry J. Hutchison

  “Going to stop talking now,” he wheezed, once the ordeal was over.

  “Good. Because I was about to rip out your tongue,” said the chalky-white figure in a scratchy whisper that lingered in the ears a little longer than felt comfortable. “Forcibly.”

  Cal couldn’t help himself. “Is there another way to rip out a tongue?” he wondered, then he quickly clamped his mouth shut and indicated with a shake of his head that he’d finished talking.

  “Who are you?” Loren asked. “Where are the others? What have you done with them?”

  “We are the Harvesters,” said the figure in front of Loren. “You have been Harvested on behalf of the great Manacle, Enslaver of Worlds.”

  The voice was oddly feminine, and Cal realized this one was built a little differently than the guy in front of him. She was a little taller, but slighter across the shoulders. Her skull curved down at the back, almost in the shape of a shark’s fin, whereas the male Harvester’s head angled upward in a sort of mirror image of the female’s.

  “You may express your gratitude now,” the male Harvester told Cal.

  “Our gratitude? For what?” Cal asked.

  “For your Harvesting.”

  “Oh,” said Cal. He considered this. “No. No, I think I’m fine.”

  The man raised a finger.

  “Wait! Not so fast there. What I meant to say was, ‘Yay! Whoo! Good times!’”

  “That is enough,” the male Harvester hissed.

  “Was that OK?” Cal asked. “I didn’t go overboard? Between you and me, I was worried it might’ve come across as a little sarcastic.”

  The fingertip was placed against his chest this time, through a gap between the buttons of his shirt, and Cal suddenly knew what a cardiac arrest felt like. The pain was different to the one that had filled his head, but no less immense. His muscles constricted, arching his spine and forcing a throaty ejection of garbled syllables through his clenched teeth.

  “Cal, stop!” Loren pleaded, once the Harvester had stepped clear. “Please.”

  Cal’s breath returned in a series of shallow sips. Drool dangled from his lips like strands of clear spaghetti. He raised his head and waited several seconds for his vision to return.

  “OK, fine,” he said, the words coming out slurred. “Since you asked so nicely.”

  “Where are our friends?” Loren asked. It was the female who answered her. Sort of.

  “They are not your concern,” she said. “Your only concern now is how you may devote yourselves to the great Manacle.”

  “Is there, like, a list of options?” Cal wondered.

  The male Harvester sighed and raised a finger again.

  “Wait, no. It’s a serious question, hear me out!” Cal yelped. “She said our only concern is how we may devote ourselves to Manacle.”

  “The great Manacle,” the female corrected.

  “Well, I mean, I’ve never met the guy, so I wouldn’t like to comment,” Cal said. “That feels like quite a subjective judgment call without—”

  The finger drew closer.

  “Know what? I’m going to take your word for it,” he said, eyeing the digit. “I’m just wondering if there are different ways of serving the great Manacle. You know, like a menu of options? I don’t want to volunteer to wax his crack-hair, or something, then later find out I could’ve just been doing some light ironing.”

  The male Harvester turned to the female. “May I kill him?”

  “You may not,” she told him. “We are behind on quota as it is. He is strong. He will be useful.”

  Cal grinned at the male. “Sorry, pal. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

  “May I finger him?”

  “You may.”

  Cal’s face fell. “Wait, can he what?”

  The Harvester pressed his fingertip against Cal’s throat. Cal barely had time to eject a whispered, “Oh, thank God,” before the pain erupted again, twisting his insides and rioting across his nerve-endings.

  It passed, just as before, leaving Cal in a vaguely vegetable-like state for a bunch of seconds or minutes. He couldn’t tell which.

  “That was unpleasant,” he mumbled.

  “I can make it continue,” the male Harvester said in his scratchy whisper. He stepped in closer, and Cal saw his eyes blinking deep in the nasal cavities. “I can finger you, and finger you, and finger you until there is nothing left of your insides.”

  Cal puffed out his cheeks. “Well, I mean, it sounds like a hell of a first date. And I can’t say I’m not tempted, but I think I’ll pass.”

  “Leave him,” the female barked. The male immediately stepped back, but kept his nostrils firmly fixed on Cal. “You do not get to choose how you serve the great Manacle, Enslaver of Worlds,” the woman continued. “Only how loyally. Those who submit to servitude will be rewarded.”

  “With what?” Cal asked.

  “With further servitude,” the female explained. “Those who fail to devote themselves to serving the great Manacle will face his glorious wrath. So, it has been written, thus it shall be done.”

  “Shizz, is this some kind of religious thing?” Cal asked. “Are you guys space Mormons? You’re not going to have us going door to door giving out pamphlets, are you? If so, I’ll take the punishment.”

  “This is Moktar,” the woman said, ignoring him. “Your new home.”

  “Moktar? You mean…” Loren began, glancing around at the rocky walls of the cave. “The Mustard Mines?”

  The female Harvester gave a weird sort of head twitch that seemed to be their equivalent of a curt nod. “You will work here. You will grow old here. You will die here in the mines,” she said. “Your path has been set. Your Harvesting is complete.”

  “Wait, the Mustard Mines? What the fonk are the Mustard Mines?” Cal asked. “You don’t mean, like, mustard mustard?”

  The others looked at him blankly.

  “You know, yellow stuff. Comes in bottles. Goes great on hot dogs? You don’t mean that kind of mustard?”

  “What other kind of mustard is there?” the male Harvester asked. It was hard to read his expression, but he sounded a little nonplussed by Cal’s question.

  “You seriously mean mustard mustard? Like, actual mustard mustard?” said Cal. He looked from one Harvester to the other, then over at Loren. “They can’t mean mustard mustard. People don’t mine mustard mustard.”

  Loren frowned. “Well, where else would it come from?”

  Cal opened his mouth to reply, then realized he had no fonking clue where mustard came from. “I don’t know. Trees?” he said, having a wild stab at it. “Not mines, though. It can’t come from fonking mines.”

  A thought struck him. “Wait. Hold on. I get it,” he said. “It’s not mustard mustard. It’s space mustard. I guess that could come from mines. It probably does, in fact. That’s the kind of weird, twisted shizz you people get up to out here, isn’t it?”

  He cleared his throat and nodded encouragingly at the Harvesters. “OK, I’ll buy it. Continue.”

  From somewhere in the shadows came the clank of a familiar footstep. Cal laughed. He couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t particularly loud, and nobody really noticed at first, but it was a laugh, all the same.

  “In fact, I’m going to stop you right there,” Cal said, before either Harvester could speak again. There was another clank, and Cal saw the relief wash across Loren’s face, too. He winked at her, before continuing. “See, lovely has all this has been, and much as I’ve enjoyed all the fingering and whatnot, I’m afraid we’re going to have to draw it to a close.”

  The Harvesters exchanged glances. At least, their nostrils turned to point at one another, so Cal assumed that’s what was going on. “Explain,” demanded the male.

  “We’re leaving,” said Loren. The footsteps clanked closer. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “I think what my friend there is trying to say,” Cal continued. “Is that you can take your fonking Mustard
Mines and your Manacle—who isn’t great, actually, and sounds like a total shizznod—and you can stick them all the way up your ass.”

  The male Harvester drew in a breath, but Cal kept talking. “And I don’t mean some collective metaphorical ass,” he explained. “I mean you can each, individually, stick those things up your actual physical ass, have them surgically removed, then pass them on to your friends so they can repeat the process.” He grinned at them as Mech emerged from the shadows. “Of course, on the other hand, you’ll probably both be dead before you get the chance. Hey, Mech.”

  “Cal. Loren,” said Mech. “Good to see you both.”

  “Not as good as it is to see you,” Loren said.

  “I know, right?” said Cal. “I mean, who ever thought I’d be pleased to see Mech? Not me. Has this been a day of surprises or what?”

  “Are Miz and Splurt, OK?” Loren asked.

  “They’re fine,” Mech confirmed. “Garunk, too. They’re all in one piece.”

  “Ha! Eat that, you fonk!” Cal said, laughing in the male Harvester’s face. “And for the record, I don’t think you’re beautiful. I think you look like a rectal prolapse with teeth. And not even nice teeth.”

  Cal shot Mech a sideways look. “Now, Mech!”

  Mech didn’t move.

  “What are you waiting for, big guy? Annihilate these fonks, and let’s get out of here.”

  “Sorry, man,” said Mech. “No can do.”

  “Huh?” said Cal, frowning.

  “What are you saying?” asked Loren.

  The female Harvester gestured to the prisoners. “Take them to their stations,” she instructed. “They will begin their servitude.”

  Mech stomped over to Cal. His metal jaw curved into an awkward smile. “It ain’t my fault,” he said. “They stuck me with a control implant. I ain’t got no choice.”

  A metal hand pressed against Cal’s chest. There was a hiss as the restraints holding Cal in place disengaged.

  “Wait…” Cal began. “What’s happening now?”

  “This is,” said Mech. “And again, I’m sorry.”

  Mech’s fist came out of nowhere. It jackhammered into Cal’s face, slamming his head back against the wall and shattering his nose.

  “Now, don’t thry to thell me you dithdn’t enthoy…” Cal spluttered, then blood ran down the back of his throat, saliva dribbled from his lips, and unconsciousness rushed up to embrace him, once more.

  Thirteen

  “Hey! Tobey Maguire! You’re not going to believe what happened,” Cal shouted into the darkness. “Mech’s working with the bad guys! I mean, not on purpose, but still. What a shizznod.”

  He marched on into the gloom of his subconscious, toward where a single lamp stood on a table, the bare bulb creating a little island of light in the sea of black.

  “And you’ll never guess where space mustard comes from,” Cal continued. “Seriously, I could give you a hundred guesses and you’d never be able to…”

  His voice faded into a confused silence when he saw the note on the table. It had been folded in half and stood upright beside the lamp like a tiny paper tent. A single word had been written on the outside in ornate, curly script.

  Cal.

  Cal picked the note up and glanced around. “Tobey Maguire? You here? I’m not in the mood for Hide and Seek today, buddy,” he said. He unfolded the note. “Well, maybe one game, but…”

  For the second time in as many minutes, he found his voice trailing off as he saw the words on the paper. He lowered himself into the rickety wooden chair that had appeared by the table and began to read.

  Dear Cal, the letter began, and as Cal read, the disembodied voice of Tobey Maguire seemed to whisper to him from every direction at once.

  I hope you are well. Although, as you only come to see me when you’ve been blown up, beaten unconscious, or killed, that’s probably unlikely.

  There was a smiley face at the end of the sentence, but Cal didn’t share the sentiment. He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next.

  Before I go any further, I want to make it clear that being your imaginary friend and/or spirit guide and/or prolonged psychological breakdown* (*delete as applicable) has been a tremendous honor. It has been my proudest achievement to date, not including the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Award I won for Spider-Man. Technically, I had to share that with Kirsten Dunst, though, so it’s not quite the same. That said, we all know who did most of the heavy lifting on the movie, so I’m not convinced it should’ve been a joint award in the first place.

  There was another paragraph after that one, but it had been heavily scored out. Cal skipped on to the next part.

  But, I digress, it said.

  Despite how much I’ve enjoyed living on in your subconscious, I have recently found myself becoming increasingly lonely. Yes, I did get to meet Lionel Richie and a racist squirrel a while back, but I think that may have been a dream. Or it might not have been. I honestly don’t know anymore.

  God, this is harder than I thought, whispered Tobey Maguire in time with his words on the page.

  Cal sniffed, swallowed, then forced himself to continue.

  I’ve been unhappy for a while now, but I took solace in the fact that it was this or nothing. The real me—the real Tobey Maguire—was dead, and while it wasn’t always ideal, your brain was a sort of safe haven, where I could continue to exist.

  Except… now I’m not dead. At least, I don’t think so. You killed President Sinclair. You saved the Earth from being torn apart by bugs.

  You saved me, Cal. You saved everyone.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have options. Like, pre-Spider-Man-3 options. Real options. You’ve given me those options, Cal. You’ve given me the freedom to choose.

  And I choose to go. I choose to move on. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe there’s nothing waiting for me out there, but I choose to find out.

  I do not do this out of malice. Far from it. I hold no grudge against you, Cal. Quite the opposite. Granted, in many ways, I was a prisoner inside your head, and maybe it’s the Stockholm Syndrome talking, but I will never be anything but grateful for our time together.

  I love you, Cal Carver, like I’m sure you love me, too.

  Cal gave a non-committal sort of shrug, then continued.

  But the time has come for us to go our separate ways. We had something beautiful once, but all good things must come to an end, and this ‘good thing’ is no exception.

  Take care of yourself, you crazy fonk. And, if you ever wind up back on Earth, be sure to come look me up. The banoffee pies are on me.

  Your friend,

  “Former Hollywood actor, Tobey Maguire,” Cal read aloud.

  Inhaling deeply, he lowered the paper and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. It was only then that he spotted the photograph sitting on the table. It was a selfie Tobey Maguire had taken of them both on the night they’d watched both Amazing Spider-Man movies on DVD and spent the whole time criticizing Andrew Garfield’s performance.

  Cal had an arm around the much smaller Tobey Maguire’s shoulders, and both of them looked relaxed and happy as they pulled faces at the camera.

  Tobey Maguire had placed the photograph in a brightly-colored frame he’d decorated with seashells. Fonk knew where he’d gotten those from.

  At the bottom of the frame was a single word. It was written in glittery silver in the same ornate script as the note.

  Friendship.

  Cal gripped the frame in both hands. A single tear splashed against Tobey Maguire’s face. Cal tenderly wiped it away with his thumb. Unfortunately, this resulted in the photograph ink smudging badly, turning Tobey Maguire’s face into a blurry smear of black and brown.

  “Fonk,” Cal muttered. He tried wiping his thumb back in the opposite direction, in the hope Tobey Maguire’s face would magically reappear. If anything, it just made it worse.

  “Oh, Tobey Maguire, why did you have to go?” Cal said, stifling a sob. “
There was so much I wanted to say. So much I wanted to tell you. Like…”

  He gazed wistfully off into the darkness.

  He ran his tongue across his lips.

  “Actually, no. Turns out there wasn’t.”

  Cal sat the picture down beside the note. He adjusted them both a few times, as if searching for the perfect placement.

  Then, once he’d found it, he gave a nod of satisfaction. “Good night, sweet prince,” he whispered, then he leaned forward, turned off the lamp, and the island of light sank into the ocean of black.

  Cal blinked.

  “Bulbs!” he said, ejecting the word loudly and clearly, as if he was trying to make himself heard at the back of a large, noisy room.

  He caught the tail end of the word himself, and was wondering why the fonk he’d just shouted, ‘bulbs,’ when something solid slammed into his stomach as a shape exploded into life beside him. He’d barely had a chance to register that pain before a head smashed into his chin.

  “Ow! Jesus. Cut it out!” he protested.

  The shape in front of him turned and looked back over her shoulder.

  “Cal! Where are we?” Loren demanded. Her eyes were glazed and the blue skin of her cheek was a flare of angry purple.

  It took Cal a moment to figure out the answer to that question. “We’re… Uh, we’re in bed,” he said.

  “What?”

  Cal rocked a little on the thin mattress beneath them. “We’re in bed. Together. Me and you.”

  Loren raised herself up on one arm and looked at the mattress below them. There was a thin, scratchy blanket between them and the actual mattress itself.

  “We’re on bed together, we’re not in bed together,” she pointed out. The room spun dizzyingly, forcing her to lie down again. The curve of her back was just inches from Cal’s front. For all their time together, he didn’t think they’d ever been quite this close. Or, not without something trying to kill them, at least.

  “In, on. Same difference,” Cal said.

  “No, it’s not the same. We’re on a bed together, not in bed together. It’s not the same.”

  “It’s kind of the same,” Cal said. He ran his fingers through his hair. “So,” he began, trying to remember… well, anything, really. “Did we…?”