Read The Garbage Chronicles Online
Authors: Brian Herbert
Tags: #Humor & Entertainment, #Humor, #Satire, #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #science fiction, #Humor & Satire
“That wouldn’t be
Winston
Abercrombie?” Javik asked, looking into the king’s black button eyes.
“One and the same,” King Corker replied irritably.
“Earth criminal!” Wizzy exclaimed.
“What is that on your shoulder?” King Corker asked. He spit a ball of phlegm into a brass spittoon. The spittoon rang.
“An embarrassment,” Javik said, reaching for Wizzy.
Wizzy jumped away, hovering in the air. Javik grabbed for him, but the little comet flew just beyond his reach.
“Abercrombie came here to recycle,” Wizzy said, glowing red. “A terrible crime. The Sayerhood came to return him for justice, you know. But they never found him.”
“Wizzy, we don’t care about all that!” Javik barked. “Now come back here!”
But Wizzy flitted away, just beyond Javik’s grasping fingers.
Javik glanced at the king nervously. King Corker’s face was a dark shade of angry reddish purple. He leaned forward on the throne, apparently having difficulty formulating a sentence. Little sentence bursts came out: “That thing . . . is not . . . ” He tugged at the tube of his grain alcohol pack. The tube came off, squirting dark liquid all over him. “Get this off me!” he thundered.
The watermelon men moved quickly to his aid, pulling the backpack off their foundering king. His white lace shirt was a mess, completely soaked in black ooze. Under different circumstances, Javik might have thought this a comical sight. But there was nothing funny about the moment.
“I sense danger from Abercrombie,” Wizzy announced, oblivious to the king’s discomfort and rage. “He hates Earthians now, especially Uncle Rosy. And wants revenge for his failure.”
“Silence!” Javik said.
“But isn’t this your assignment, Captain Toni?” Wizzy asked, his voice an intolerable singsong. “To find any dangerous conditions and report them to Mission Control?”
“This is not the time or the place,” Javik said. He lunged unsuccessfully at Wizzy.
“Enough!” King Corker thundered. “I will not tolerate disruptions!”
“You’d better control that thing,” Prince Pineapple whispered to Javik.
Javik nodded. He inched toward Wizzy.
Undeterred, Wizzy said, “Winston Abercrombie was the AmFed Garbage Thrust Commandant. More than a decade ago—
“You asked me about emotions,” Javik said in a gentle tone, inching closer to Wizzy. The court was ominously silent, making Javik’s words seem loud. “I want you to feel one now,”. he said. “That emotion
is fear “
“Fear?” Wizzy said, moving out of Javik’s range. “What is that?” He glowed red as he searched his memory banks. “Ah, here it is: ‘apprehension concerning one’s physical well-being.’”
Javik lunged for Wizzy while he was thus occupied and caught him. Feeling the intensity of all eyes in the court, Javik said, “I’m sorry.” He stuffed Wizzy into his jacket pocket. “We obtain data from the device . . . but it’s not functioning properly now.” He felt his face flush hot with blood.
Wizzy became silent as Javik zipped his pocket shut.
“Check that thing out,” King Corker said to Prince Pineapple.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Prince Pineapple extended his hand to Javik, “Give it to me,” he said.
“Gladly,” Javik said. He unzipped the pocket and handed Wizzy over. “This thing’s more trouble than it’s worth.”
While Prince Pineapple studied Wizzy, Wizzy glowed bright orange, becoming too hot for the prince’s sensitive fingers.
“Ow!” Prince Pineapple said angrily, letting go of Wizzy. “It’s hot!”
Javik shook his head in dismay.
Wizzy flew around the king’s throne, then became dark blue and returned to alight on Prince Pineapple’s shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Javik said. “He’s not hot now.”
Prince Pineapple looked warily out the side of one eye at the lumpy object on his shoulder. It was rather heavy.
Wizzy did not move or make a sound.
“Now,” King Corker said, looking first at Javik, then at Evans. His eyes flared. “You are here about the gar-bahge, I presume.” Javik noticed the affected pronunciation again. Apparently it was done to make trash sound cultured.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Javik said. “We’re very sorry about it. The President of our American Federation of Freeness has asked me to extend his personal apology.”
“Yes, yes,” the king said impatiently.
“He has authorized me to send cleanup crews.”
“Cleanup crews?” King Corker said, surprised. His eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “What on Cork for?”
“Why, to clean up the garbage . . . to take it away.”
“We don’t want it cleaned up!” the king said, glaring at Prince Pineapple. “Didn’t you explain anything to him?”
“We didn’t discuss the crisis in great detail, Sire. I thought you might prefer—”
“We want more gar-bahge, Earthian!” King Corker howled, directing a scalding glare at Javik. “Is that clear?” He thumped a clenched fist on the arm of his throne. “We want
more!”
“I—I. didn’t expect . . . ” Javik was stammering. “No one thought.. .I mean . . . ” He looked desperately at Evans for support.
She looked away.
“We have a serious shortage of gar-bahge,” Prince Pineapple said, looking at Javik. “In the past there was always enough for all. Our stores were full. There was plenty for Lord Abercrombie. But now, even the royal gar-bahge is threatened.”
“How terrible,” someone in the court said. Then a murmuring followed: “How terrible. How terrible.”
“When can we have more gar-bahge, Earthian?” King Corker asked.
“Uh, I wasn’t authorized to . . . uh, I mean . . . ”
“An
underling”
King Corker muttered. “I do not deal with
underlings.”
“I have an idea,” Javik said. “Why don’t you manufacture new things, then smash the stuff around? You know, make dents, scratches, mangles, and rips.”
King Corker’s eyes widened. “You must be daft, Earthian. Imported gar-bahge is the only thing to have. Can’t you see that?”
“Uh, sure. Then maybe I could arrange for more garbage. I’ll go back to Earth and see.”
“Go back?” King Corker smiled cruelly. “You aren’t going
back,
Earthian. I know of such tricks, you see. You would bring warships.”
“Oh no,” Evans said hurriedly. “We wouldn’t think of that!”
“No,” Javik said. “We’re from the government, and we’re here to help you.”
“One of the three biggest lies in the universe,” King Corker said, recalling a sheet of paper in his royal funny file.
Javik’s mouth opened in shock. He shuffled his feet.
“Your Decision Coin,” King Corker said, looking at Prince Pineapple.
With Wizzy still on his shoulder, the prince fumbled in his pockets. Eventually he produced a large golden coin like the ones used by the watermelon men.
“Give it to the Earthian captain,” King Corker instructed.
Prince Pineapple obeyed, then glanced sidelong at Wizzy.
Wizzy’s cat’s eye dimmed drowsily, so that it was only halfway open.
Javik studied the coin. Despite its size, it was very light in weight. Probably made of an alloy, he surmised. On one side was the bust of a human man’s face bearing a stern, fatherly expression. Javik recognized it as Winston Abercrombie. Around Abercrombie were the smiling faces of Fruit people. The word “yes” was engraved in Corkian below the bust.
“Lord Abercrombie,” Prince Pineapple said in a low tone.
Javik turned the coin over. The other side depicted a cluster of Vegetable faces surrounding a carrot man in a baseball cap. Below that was engraved the word “no.”
“And Brother Carrot,” Prince Pineapple whispered. “The Evil One.”
“Flip it,” King Corker said.
Javik hesitated. “But what . . . ?”
“Flip it!”
Javik shrugged and tossed the coin high in the air. It clanged to the floor and rolled around at his feet.
Prince Pineapple looked at the coin. Then he retrieved it, while Wizzy used magic suction to cling to his shoulder. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, stuffing the coin in his pants pocket. “It decided yes.”
“Our Planet God has spoken,” King Corker said reverently.
Then the court intoned, “Our Planet God has spoken.”
It was a wondrous, charmed moment for everyone except Prince Pineapple and the visitors from afar.
“To the games!” King Corker shouted. Smiling, he looked at Javik and Evans, adding, “One Manno, one Wommo.”
Prince Pineapple looked sadly at the watermelon advisers who stood nearby, recalling a time not so long before when King Corker had listened more to him. Until court politics turned against the prince.
Now I am Number One Adviser in title only,
he thought.
And soon he will take the title. What do I care anyway? This foolishness is not for me.
“Did you hear me, Prince Pineapple?” the king asked.
“Yes, Sire. But I wonder if . . . ” Prince Pineapple stared at the ground, then looked past the king at the wall.
“What are you trying to say?”
“I just wonder if another course of action might not be appropriate.”
King Corker was displeased. He balled both hands into tight, pudgy fists. “Another course of action?” he said. “You question the Decision Coin?”
“No, but perhaps we did not need to flip it.”
Wizzy released a loud snort. He was sleeping fitfully on Prince Pineapple’s shoulder.
Prince Pineapple hesitated, then said, “The Earthians are our guests, Sire. Emissaries from another planet.”
“So what?”
“I’m not sure they should be enslaved, Your Majesty. There might be repercussions.”
Enslaved?
Javik thought.
In this place?
He sneaked a glance at his service pistol, bolstered on his hip.
“Such as?” King Corker asked. “We already have a shortage of gar-bahge. What could be worse than that?”
Wizzy snorted again
v
then fell into a buzz saw of snoring. He tipped a little on the prince’s shoulder.
Javik shook his head. “That damned Wizzy,” he muttered.
“Stop it!” Prince Pineapple said to Wizzy, giving Wizzy a shove.
Wizzy clung to his perch and snorted again. Then he grew silent.
Prince Pineapple looked at the king, saying, “Enslaving them might destroy our last hopes of getting more gar-bahge. It could
force
Earth to send warships.”
“You argue with me? And with the coin?”
Prince Pineapple bowed nervously. “No, Sire. I am merely advising you. I thought that was my function here.”
I’m pushing it,
he thought.
Shouldn’t do that, especially in public.
“The decision has already been made. There is a declining Earthian population here, with no means of reproduction. We once had eight hundred and fifty thousand of them. How many remain?”
“Less than fifteen thousand, I believe.”
“Closer to ten. The games take their toll. How will we be entertained when the games are over? Answer that one,
Adviser.”
Prince Pineapple hung his head.
“Take them!” King Corker ordered. “Now!”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Prince Pineapple said. He bowed obediently. This time, Wizzy fell off the shoulder.
“Aargh!” Wizzy grunted as he hit the floor. “Can’t anyone take a nap around this place?”
Prince Pineapple retrieved Wizzy, then grabbed Javik’s arm. “Come with me,” he said.
“Like hell!” Javik said. He placed a hand on his holstered service pistol.
“You will be given an opportunity to survive, Earthian,” King Corker said. “They are games of skill.”
“And what are these games?” Javik asked, keeping his hand against his gun handle.
“You will learn soon enough,” King Corker said. He motioned, and six bulky pear man guards surrounded Javik and Evans. A pear man put his hand on Javik’s pistol, but Javik pushed the hand away.
“We’ll take that,” the pear man said. Then two pear men held Javik’s arm while another reached for his gun.
Javik fought back, but was pushed to the floor. “Evans!” he yelled.
But Evans remained motionless. “It’s no use,” she said.
Javik was nearly squashed under a mass of Fruit flesh. He lost the gun. Struggling to his feet afterward, Javik glared around. King Corker was staring at him with cold, black button eyes.
“They are Earth games,” the king said. “You should find them familiar.”
Lord Abercrombie’s fleshy half was tired, and he decided to go to bed early. Wearily, he rose from the black satin cushions of his throne and floated out of the main chamber.
He went down one box-lined passageway, made a left, then took another left. Soon he stood in the doorway of the Servicing cavern. He saw the blue linguistics meckie being worked on by two black and white repair technician meckies.
“I want that science program and anything else you have on geology, magnetics, astronomy, and disaster control,” Lord Abercrombie said in a loud voice.
The repair technicians stopped working and listened while Lord Abercrombie spoke.
He continued, “Program the whole works into that yellow meckie in the corner.”
“Yes, Lord,” one of the repair technicians said.
“And tell it to report to me first thing in the morning.”
Lord Abercrombie turned and went to his bedroom chamber.
CHAPTER 8
Some thoughts are never spoken. These are among the most important
Quotations From Uncle Rosy,
page 18
Javik and Evans were separated when they left the king’s court. Four pear men pushed and dragged Javik down a long, dimly lit corridor. The walls, ceiling, and floor were polished agate stone in varying shades of amber and brown. Javik slipped twice on the smooth floor, then took shorter, more careful steps. A hunger pang shot through his midsection.
Reaching a wide spot in the corridor, they stopped. One of the pear men slid open a rectangular metal lid on the floor, revealing a dark compartment below. Javik heard the dull whir and thud of machinery. He smelled rubber.
“In here,” the pear man said.
Javik struggled, but the bottom-heavy Fruits were stronger than they looked. They forced him through the opening.
Javik fell a short distance after they let go, slamming his head and shoulder against a hard rubber surface. Realizing that the surface was moving slowly, he guessed he was on a conveyor. Machinery whirred loudly, and now the rubber smell was very strong. Faint illumination from the hatch opening faded. Looking up, Javik saw the lid slide back over the opening, leaving only a thin halo of light there. Soon he lost sight of the halo as the conveyor carried him away.
Another odor touched his nostrils next, a repulsive odor. “It stinks in here!” he mumbled. He shuddered at the realization of what it was.
Decaying flesh,
he thought, recalling a number of burial details on which he had served. And he recalled the odor of the creature in the Davis Droids.
Crouching in the darkness, Javik tried to think of his next move. The holster on his hip was light, evidence that it was empty. The rubber floor stopped now, falling silent. He heard a thunderous crowd roar above, and felt the floor shake.
Something rustled nearby, behind and to the left.
Javik whirled to face that direction, clenching his fists and extending them.
Then he heard other rustlings, from other directions. “Manno,” he thought someone said, from his left.
Then he heard it again, a clear monotone: “Manno.”
Javik recalled the King’s words:
“One Manno, one Wommo.
”
The sounds drew closer, and the disgusting odors became intolerably strong.
Javik crawled to his right, then sensed breathing on that side. They were all around him. Terrified, Javik curled into a defensive, fetal ball.
“Manno!” they yelled in monotones.
“Manno!”
“Kill the Wommos!”
Javik twitched at each utterance, expecting to feel humanoid hands on him at any moment. His body was rigid, and he felt the tautness of his arm, leg, and chest muscles. His heart was like a sledge inside: Boom-da-dee-boom! Boom-da-dee-boom!
“Get back!” Javik yelled. “Stay away from me!”
“Manno?” a raspy voice asked. “You are Manno?”
Slimy hands pawed at Javik in the darkness. He pushed them away, but they returned: wet fingers caressing his face and body. The fingers of many creatures, pressing all around.
Javik lashed out with his feet and felt his boots strike home against flesh and bones. The creatures fell back but returned, like an encroaching sea which could be stalled but never defeated.
A narrow band of light hit the side of Javik’s face from above. Then the band of light widened. Looking up, Javik squinted as a lid slid open, clanging metallically. He heard thunderous crowd noises outside.
“One more pilot,” a tenor voice said from above. Faces covered the opening. “Get the new Earthian. The one with no wounds.”
Before Javik could react, a lariat snapped down and slipped expertly under his armpits. The lariat tightened around his body and pulled him to the surface. Javik thrashed at the rope as he was pulled up and out of the hole. He felt a sharp shoulder pain as he was dumped roughly on the ground.
A Corker removed the lariat, smiling at Javik with moist, purple lips.
Rising to one knee, Javik found himself on one end of a great stadium filled with cheering Fruit people. It was night, and the stadium was ringed with bright floodlights. The other end of the stadium was open, with two parallel strips of floodlighted gray concrete extending into the distance. Far down the track, Javik noticed that the lanes narrowed to one. The Fruit spectators were colorful and demonstrative, waving their arms excitedly and hurling empty grain alcohol packs in all directions. Vendors hawking new packs worked the aisles.
Javik took a deep breath. He was hungry and tired, with the burning eyes and drifting consciousness of a person in need of sleep. A fine, stinging dust blew across his face. He felt a sneeze coming on. “Ah . . . ah . . . ”It did not come. Having no tissue handy, Javik depressed one nostril to blow phlegm on the ground. He repeated the procedure with the other nostril.
“I think it’s an Earthian,” a Corker on his left said. Javik did not look in that direction.
“Different from the others,” observed another.
“Cleaner looking.”
Javik focused on two large auto carriers parked in pools of light at the near end of each concrete strip. One carrier was pink and black, the other blue and black. Cars painted in the same manner as their respective carriers roared down ramps from each carrier simultaneously, one from each carrier, then streaked side by side along the track—a pink and black car on one strip, a blue and black car on the other. He saw the cars vie for position as the lanes merged to one. The blue car shot in front at the junction, then went into a weaving pattern. Lances of flame shot from the front of the trailing pink car. Gunfire peppered the air.
“Damn,” someone said.
The blue car exploded in a high ball of blue flame. Javik stood up to see the car crash off the track against a low rock wall. A glowing orange capsule shot straight up from the crash scene. Then a white parachute opened over the capsule, guiding it back to Cork. Still glowing orange, the capsule drifted closer to Javik. He saw that it was a cage, with shimmering, orange-hot bars. Inside, the dead Manno pilot was stretched straight out and spinning slowly, like a pig on a spit.
What the hell?
Javik thought.
“You saw it folks!” the public address man announced. “Another Manno loss!”
Pink balloons fluttered over the Wommo auto carrier to celebrate the victory. The Wommo fighter car pilot slowed her car at the other end of the track, then took an exit ramp to the left into a pink and black pit area.
“Never get in front,” a Corker guard said to Javik. “You’ve gotta lay back.”
“Listen to him good, Manno,” an avocado man said, looking at Javik with seedy, dark green eyes. He nudged Javik’s sore shoulder, causing Javik to grimace.
“He’ll learn fast,” the Corker said. “If he doesn’t want to be a toastie.”
Jeheezus!
Javik thought.
“Who cares?” someone behind Javik said. “Let him roast.”
I care,
Javik thought.
But should I? Maybe this is as good a way to go as any.
He watched the giant auto carriers exchange places, rolling by one another efficiently and rapidly. Javik was surprised at how mobile the big units were. Within moments each carrier was set up at the opposite track. Two cars rocketed down the ramps now, hitting the tracks side by side.
“You see that, Earthian?” the avocado man asked. “You can’t go too fast or too slow. Too fast and the parallel car nails you from behind. Even if you get away, there’s no glory in it. Too slow and another enemy car is on your track, coming right up your ass.”
“Over here,” a Corker said. “We need another pilot. He’d better . . . ” The ensuing words were drowned out in crowd noises and an explosion on the track.
“Darn!” someone said. “There went another one.”
“They’re beating the hell out of us today.”
“Glad I don’t have to go out there.”
Two beefy Corkers pulled and pushed Javik to a table attended by a very round orange man. Without a word, the orange man pushed a blue and black jumpsuit and a helmet across the table toward Javik.
Javik slipped the suit on over his Space Patrol outfit. The suit was a couple of sizes too big. The helmet fit poorly too, being designed for bulbous-headed humanoids. He heard radio chatter across built-in earphones.
He was about to ask for better-fitting headgear when a Corker shoved him roughly, saying, “This way.” Javik was escorted to the Manno auto carrier, a massive warship standing in a bright pool of light. The blue and black carrier was long and three-tiered, with a hodgepodge of fighter cars on all levels. Each car had a large-caliber gun mounted on the roof, with machine guns on the front and rear fenders.
Javik was taken up a side walkway and assigned to a dented and bullet-riddled squareback on the lower level. A large black Corkian numeral “5” was on the door. Since the door was welded shut, Javik had to remove his helmet and pull himself in through the open driver’s window. He slid into a torn black vinyl bucket seat. The seat squeaked as his weight settled into it. This placed him in a black-barred cage. Javik knew he would roast there if he lost. Nervously, he fingered the strap of the helmet on his lap.
Outside, a cheerful public address announcer called out action for the spectators. His voice was throaty.
It smelled of oil in the car. The instrumentation looked primitive to Javik, with rudimentary gauges for speed, tach, and other mechanical functions. A black pole suspended from the roof to his right had three white buttons on it, marked clearly: “top,” “rear” and “front.”
The guns,
he thought.
Locating the fuel gauge, he saw it waver.
What does this thing run on?
he wondered.
Probably alcohol of some sort.
He did not detect a telltale odor. After figuring out the braking and acceleration system, he rested his foot on the accelerator pedal.
A Corker leaned in the window and told Javik to press the “start” button. Javik moved away to keep dark fluid on the fellow’s mouth and chin from dripping on him. “Watch for the green light on the track,” the Corker said. “Then hit ‘takeoff.’”
Javik touched the starter button and heard the engine roar to life like a rudely awakened beast. The headlights flashed on automatically. The car rumbled roughly and hesitatingly at first, then began to smooth out. As Javik looked down the black stripe on the car’s hood, he felt the change in the engine’s rhythm. Another car was in front of him, and beyond that a traffic signal flashed red.
“You’re coming up, Manno,” a weak voice reported from Javik’s left. Glancing in that direction, Javik saw an old and wrinkled lettuce man slave. The man’s, body was light green and white, with white eyebrows and a crown of white fuzz. There was no neck: the body was the head and vice versa.
Javik nodded. He gunned the engine. Noticing a shoulder harness for the first time, he pulled it across his chest and snapped it into place.
“They race and fight on Earth highways like this?” the old slave asked. “Just like the promoters say?”
“I guess so. This sure as hell is exaggerated, though. We don’t mount guns on cars back home. They’re carried in glove compartments.” He thought of the autocar signboards by which Earth drivers could exchange epithets. Feeling tense, Javik decided not to mention this. He used a sleeve to wipe perspiration from his forehead.
The slave grunted.
A Corker guard on the ground below yelled at them: “Cut the chatter! Pay attention to the games!” The guard purchased a new alcohol backpack from a passing vendor, paying for it with discarded Earth candy bar wrappers.
“It’s Manno against Wommo!” the public address man announced. Javik heard sucking sounds over the speaker system and surmised the announcer was a Corker.
Waves of ovation, roars, and catcalls rolled through the stands.
Javik touched an unmarked console button to see what it was. Nothing happened. He checked several other buttons with the same result.
“Disconnected,” the old slave said.
“What a heap,” Javik said. He smelled exhaust from the car just ahead. Then the other car roared down the ramp and into combat, leaving a puff of black smoke across Javik’s vision. When the smoke began to clear, Javik saw the car explode in a distant ball of blue flame. An orange capsule shot up, then sprouted a parachute.
“Haven’t seen a Manno victory all day,” the slave said.
Inhuman games,
Javik thought, seeing the traffic signal flash red.
Men against women, playing on the conditioned rivalries between Earth sexes,
He snapped on his loose-fitting plastic crash helmet. Over the built-in earphones he heard nervous chatter as the Manno fighter car pilots communicated with the carrier’ s control tower.
“Okay, Ladykiller Five,” the control tower said. “You’re up next.”
Javik was daydreaming, recalling some of his more memorable pleasure dome visits.
“Ladykiller Five, you there?”
Five,
Javik thought, drifting back to awareness.
” That’s me.
“Here,” he said into a microphone in front of his mouth.
“Blow that Wommo fighter car away, buddy.”
“Right,” Javik shook his head in disgust.
This is an. important mission?
he thought.
I’d rather be ridin’ a garbage shuttle.
“Watch your blind spots, Ladykiller Five,” the tower said. “Keep the other car in front of you all the time. Or rocket ahead to a Manno safe zone. That’s a blue and black wall at the side. You can hide behind it, then pop out and blast the Wommo car when it passes.”
“Don’t we get any practice?” Javik asked.
Sardonic laughter filled the earphones. Then: “You’ve discovered the gun buttons?”
“Yeah.” Seeing the traffic signal flash yellow, Javik held a finger close to the “takeoff” button.
Not too fast,
he thought. His heart began to beat faster.
“You aim the gun bar by rotating, pushing, and pulling it.”
The traffic signal flashed green.
Javik hit the “takeoff” button and felt the accelerator under his foot depress. The car roared ahead, thumping as it bounced off the ramp to the pavement. G-forces threw him against the bucket seat. The helmet strap pulled at his chin. He grimaced from the stress.